JOURNEY ON AN ATMOSPHERIC RIVER

 Atmospheric riverboat come carry me away,

In a cozy little cabin where I’ll feel your drift and sway.

I’ll snuggle in and ride along for day after long day,

If only, atmospheric riverboat, you’ll carry me away.

 

I’ll peer out of the porthole as we wind down toward the sea

And watch the deer and dove and fox find shelter in the lee.

I’ll snack on kippers, chips and cheese and sip hot cups of tea

And only rise and leave my room to go outside and piddle.

 

Sheltered in your tiny walls, safe from wind and rain,

Forgetting with that cold front comes a damned arthritic pain,

‘Cause thoughts of springtime blooms and sun will occupy my brain,

Serenaded by the chorus of the steady, falling rain.

 

Oh! I’m sure that sometime soon I’ll feel like Noah on the ark,

‘Neath the daytime cloudscape or during nighttime’s dark.

Trusting you will find a mountain peak on which to park.

But then, you are a riverboat, and not so much an ark.

 

So atmospheric riverboat, I must ride you to the end:

Alone inside my quarters with no one to call my friend.

I’ll sail through all the ups and downs and ‘round each hidden bend,

Holding hope beyond all hope the storm will somehow end.

 

Dear atmospheric riverboat, of thee I once did sing,

Until I thought more fully ‘bout your damp and raucous sling

And the lasting loneliness that your company will bring.

So, atmospheric riverboat, let’s forget the whole damned thing.

 

Now you go on your wintery way of bluster and debris.

Cross the Mayacamas but do kindly leave me be.

Blow and pour and blow some more until you are but wee.

And know, you cold old bastard, I doth thumb my nose at thee.

 

On further thought, I’ve made the choice to not climb on this year.

I’ll snuggle in at home and stroke my puppy’s snout and ear;

And read a book, caress my love and taste a cup of cheer; 

Comfortably beside a fire, just sitting on my butt.

 

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

THE BROTHERHOOD OF RAINY DAY RIDERS

THERE’S A BROTHERHOOD of riders (closed circuit to “Fishy” and “Demenshea:” make that “sisterhood” or “personhood”) who ride in the rain – stronger than the bond between those of us who simply ride. Here’s proof: On a sunny day, the wave you afford any oncoming rider may be met with a wave in return. But, then again, it may not. On a rainy day, we’re all too eager to greet one another. Suddenly, we’re all in this together, battling the same elements.


MOM’S BEEN IN AND OUT of the hospital as of late for various ailments natural to one who is looking at ninety. Three weeks ago, the late night punches she received in her chest, followed by the hot pain radiating down her left arm would signal anyone that something cardiac was going on. Mom, of late in an independent living home, looked at the illuminated digital clock next to her bed and seeing it was well past 11:00, decided to wait until morning to pull the cord for help. A mid-morning call the next day precipitated two or three 100-mile trips up and back for me without complaint. She needed her son.

Yesterday she complained she was “hallucinogenating,” her word, not mine. Concern was that it might be a result of the medications from the earlier ordeal. Or, it could be a result of her sad and on-going macular degeneration. Those eliminated, a test was ordered to see if there may be some sort of lower GI infection.


I SCOOTED NORTH on the BMW, clothed for fifty-five to sixty degree temps. My timing was such that if I went straight to “the home,” I’d find myself crashing lunch. I’ll do anything to avoid “crashing lunch” at “the home”, so I waylaid myself at my favorite Chico area greasy spoon – the Kalico Kitchen – with an omelet, coffee and a chat with Chris, the waitress who talks much younger than I suspect she is.

Departing the Kitchen, I noted that a screw and nut holding the crash bar to the frame on my GSA had fallen off. Lunch was still probably underway at “the home,” so I ventured over to Ozzie’s BMW to see about finding a replacement. “A part fell off my bike,” I announced to the young man at the counter. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Yeah,” I continued. “I felt like I was on a British bike.” Laughs (undeserved, by the way) all around. Ozzie, the Dean of BMW shop owners in the entire country, I again suspect, entered. He helped his help find the part and waved off any payment for either the part or the installation.

I arrived at “the home” just as lunch was winding down – a statement that assumes anything ever winds up enough to ever have to wind down at “the home.” My good and reliable in-town brother was already on scene. He was ready to cart Mom off to the lab for the tests, and since Mom never has owned a motorcycle helmet or leathers, after a few phone calls to clarify the situation, confirm next steps and resolve one of those inevitable snafus, I was rocketing south toward home.  Brother told me he "had" this one.


BY THIS TIME, a rather warm and gentle rain began to fall. Acting on a tip I learned from the kind folks at Santa Rosa BMW, I slipped my REI Gore-Tex layer underneath my BMW Santiago three-quarter length (My Goodness! That is a wonderful jacket!) and headed south on State Routes 99, 149 and 70. A fellow on some bad looking American Iron, waiting in the suicide lane for a chance to turn left raised a hand as I passed. Two riders on KLRs waved a bit further on. I’m assuming the rider on the GSX-R north of Marysville was young, but he offered a low five. All in all, on my hundred mile return journey in the rain, I may have passed a dozen or more folks foolish as myself to be riding in the rain. None denied me a greeting. None.

I try to plan one or two rainy trips in the winter months just to practice for those conditions when I’m out on a road trip. I hadn’t done so yet this year – the weather’s been too nice (Damn!). Tomorrow, a continuation of today’s storm is forecast.

I won’t be here at the computer. I might be "scootin'" up north, checking on Mom.

Resources:

The Kalico Kitchen – http://kalicokitchenofchico.homestead.com/index.html

Ozzie’s BMW Center (Chico, CA) – http://ozziesbmwcenter.com/

Santa Rosa BMW – http://www.santarosabmw.com/

The Oakmont – http://www.holidaytouch.com/Our-Communities/the-oakmont.aspx

© 2012
Church of the Open Road Press

RIDING IN THE OFF-SEASON

Landscapes and Cloudscapes and Smells, Oh My!

- Dorothy Gale

(not really)

Cloudscape reflections

OCTOBER ROLLS AROUND and many riders begin to mothball their motorcycles in preparation for the long cold months that separate the now from spring. This may be a greater phenomena in places other than California. Still, when that first big cyclonic storms creeps in, blotting out the sun and blanketing the us in cool grayness, it’s easy to let the bike simply sit idle.

Misty on Greenwood Road

YESTERDAY WAS THE FIRST GRAY DAY of the season. It was also an opportunity. I tossed a layer on and covered that layer with leather for the first time in months, and headed out.

Autumn dusk

 The lighting on an overcast day is something special. Initially, the up-close trees and the distant mountains seem muted and dull. But, in reality, their colors just occupy a different realm of the spectrum.

There really is no gray in nature, only the natural hues that evolve and change with an increasing absence of light.

North Cascades in October

Especially interesting are colors and textures afforded by the topography of the cloudscape’s underbelly. Whisking along beneath them, the band of areal moisture looks like an inverted sea. Which, in essence, it is.

Ocean and sky along 101

Clouds are oceans of water droplets trapped above a layer of warmth radiating from the earth. Just as the ocean’s color moods change based on the light from the sun and the light reflected from the shore, so, too, the cloud’s change – adding a new layer of depth and fantasy to the land sky interface.

I ENJOY A CLOUDY DAY. Riding along, I am not running into shade and out into bright blinding sun. I am seeing more things more vividly because my eyes are not constantly adjusting to changing light.

Also, the ambient moisture makes me more aware of a broad palette of aromas: The fermentation of long dry grasses;

Storm over Goose Lake: Nothing new for the barn

The sweet stench livestock huddled against a wire fence;

The low ribbon of pine or cedar smoke from a late-season camper’s morning fire;

Early snow on the ridge

The decomposition of the forest floor’s duff;

Even the diesel exhaust from the logger who just passed.

These aromas would simply warm and rise away on a sunny day. But in the middling days of fall, before – or especially after – a storm, they compose a banquet.

In wait

I DO PUT MY BIKE(S) AWAY for the winter. By this, I mean, I keep the battery tender at hand. But I never replace the oil or put chemicals in the gas to keep it fresh.

I never do much of anything to mothball the bikes because I never know on what November, December or January day, the conditions might be just right for another exploration of the way light plays with both the cloudscape and landscape...

September dawn: Shelter Cove

...while the moisture sweetens the dawn...

October sunset at Old Greenwood (Elk)

...and lingers into dusk.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

RAINY DAY PRACTICE RUN

PHILO-GREENWOOD ROAD, STATE ROUTES 128 , 1 LOOP

Skaggs Springs / Stewarts Point - from a former ride

YESTERDAY, we rode ninety miles from Healdsburg on US 101 to Elk on California 1 via Skaggs Springs Stewarts Point Road.  We detoured through a little berg called Annapolis sticking to roads that sport bike riders might refer to as "Meccas." Each blending riding challenge with stunning views.

Sam's wonderful Bonneville Black

The routes corkscrew in and out of countless canyons and hollows, across rusted steel bridges, atop ridges and through groves of redwood forest. Along the way, we enjoyed a mixed bouquet of silage, wood smoke, honeysuckle, diesel exhaust, must, and salt air.   The eighty degree temperature of the Dry Creek wine growing region dips to 53 on the coast at Gualala and maintains that through Point Arena and Manchester: all the way up to Elk (nee: Greenwood.) What a delightful ride!

Evening view from the cottage

 Today would be different.


FROM MY MORNING VANTAGE POINT on the couch situated in a tiny cottage across Highway 1 from the bluffs and beach, I can see the Pacific and the storms that are to come. The constant rhythm of the waves on the tiny beach provides a subtle symphony for relaxation, contemplation and calm. A second cup of coffee would be nice. The rain, light though it is, curtains the horizon line. The sky and sea are one. The universe seems but various shades of gray.

I venture out to see rainwater beaded up all over the GSA. I swipe the tank with my hand, scan the sky and ponder. Riding in the rain is not a favorite activity. Still, on this layover day at the cozy house in Elk, it is probably a good idea to practice those wet riding skills, especially if a hot shower awaits. I have a rubberized suit that goes over my riding pants and jacket, but a couple of years back, I purchased a BMW “Santiago” jacket from Santa Rosa BMW. It was last years model so I got a break on the price. It came without a waterproof liner – extra at additional cost – but I told the nice lady that I had a rain suit. “Try this,” she said. “If you have a Gore-Tex® shell, put it on under the Santiago. I bet you won’t need your rain suit jacket nor will you miss the liner.”

I DON THE SANTIAGO with my REI liner over a layer of recycled pop bottle (fleece), slip on the rain suit pants and head off. Immediately I realize that it is a misstatement to suggest that everything is gray. The clouds and the sea are muted tones of blue and purple, the coastal hills muted greens and golds; the red barns softened. Riding in this weather, the most brilliant color comes from the owl clover, aster, ice plant and poppy that ribbon the sides of the road.

Note the curving center line to the upper left

I use an anti-fog wax on the face shield of my Shoei helmet, but it doesn’t work worth a damn. The best option is to crack the windscreen a fraction and let the cool outside air vent inward and prevent condensation on the plastic. This chills my cheeks and causes my nose to drip, all of which is part of the multi-sensory nature of the riding experience. But the Touratech wind spoiler diverts most of the rainwater up and over my helmet.

My route takes me east over the Philo-Greenwood Road. The road rises to a ridge top where an apple orchard is completing its bloom, then dips into stream courses supporting stands of redwood. I suspect the origins of this road have something to do with the harvest of those giants. The rain picks up as I scale the west-facing slopes and turns to mist or fog as I descend into the hollows.

The road is wet but not particularly slick. Still, I use caution with the throttle and the brakes. Every action is gentle and gradual. I don’t want any firsthand knowledge about the coefficient of friction and the effects when one exceeds it.


AT A POINT, I am one with the weather, impressed with the subdued nature of a muted, misty world. The rain has pushed the wood smoke and diesel from the air. The honeysuckle is faint. Just as the colors have faded, so the air has become an aromatic meritage – each element indistinguishable, but the resultant blend delicious.

I battle the drippy nose, the cold hands, and the slippery pavement, deciding to ride a little further and explore a little more before turning homeward. My jacket and pants are keeping me dry and the long-gauntleted winter gloves are keeping my warm – critical for both comfort and safety.

California Highways 128 and 1 are Mecca routes. Places like Navarro, Comptche, Little River and Albion take form and then fade in a veil of mist in the rear view mirror. Running along the bluffs, the view to the west extends into the fog and thus, well past infinity. Where the road dips into the mouth of the Russian, Garcia, Navarro or some other river, engineers built switchbacks and twists that, when dry, require judicious jabbing into second gear. When wet? Just keep in mind that coefficient of friction.

With the right attitude and the right gear, the rainy ride is not something to fear. The day is good. But that hot shower back at the cottage in Elk makes it even better.

***

Note:  Thanks to Sam Bilbro for his constant efforts to introduce and reintroduce me to Sonoma County's coastal roads.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

GOLD COUNTRY – MONTEREY COAST LOOP – EPILOGUE: RIDING THROUGH AN APRIL BLIZZARD

Part 4 of a 3-part series.

Sometimes the road just gets to be an obnoxious partner. And no matter how hard you try, you simply can’t seem to find harmony. It happens. And when it does, it doesn’t make sense to push things.

Eric Trow

“Riding Well” column in Rider Magazine, May 2011.

THE SECOND WEEK IN APRIL is considered a pretty “sure thing” as far as riding weather goes. But this year, abundant rains fell in January and March pushing the beginning of spring back a few weeks. As mentioned earlier, the weather gods fooled with our original plan to explore the Redwood country up north. And, Thursday, riding from Monterey to San Francisco seemed like a giant game of cat and mouse, one where the cat came armed with thunder, lightning and huge pellets of rain.

It wasn’t until after my riding partner and I parted north of San Rafael that my luck ran out. Heading east from Napa over the familiar route 121/128 toward Winters, the climb out of the valley carried me under a cloud that was blacker than Simon Legree’s hat.

(c) Missouri University of Science and Technology

Oragraphic precipitation occurs when moist air is pushed up and over ridges of mountains. Figure that for every 1000 feet in elevation gain, the temperature drops about three degrees. Water droplets form around dust particles. Gravity pulls them earthward. But an uplift within the cloud grabs these tiny droplets and yanks them back skyward.

nc-climate.ncsu.edu

On their journey, more droplets attach. They gain weight and begin to fall until again captured by the uplift. As the physics intensify, the drop rises higher into the atmosphere where super-cold air turns it to ice. It falls and rises, gains layers, falls and rises, falls and rises until its mass becomes too great for the rising column of air. At this point, it is a pellet-like hailstone. It breaches the bottom of the cloud mass and falls to earth.


ABOUT THIS TIME, I come tooling along on the BMW. I’m wearing the proper gear for wet weather, but my thick, waterproof gloves fail to keep my digits nimble. And the layer of slushy ball bearings tends to counteract any tractable qualities of my relatively fresh Metzler Tourance tires.

In moments, the landscape turns white and the inside of my helmet fogs up. I crack the Shoei’s face shield a bit and the fog disappears, but I have to use the index finger of my clutch hand to wipe the sleet off the outside. I slow. The fellow in the Ford pickup I’d raced by only a mile or two back, is now just behind me. At the slightest wide spot, I let him pass. He must be laughing. The day before yesterday, I’d taken this at forty-five miles per hour in fourth; today I’m doing fifteen in first and second. There is no place to pull over and wait this thing out; no shelter from the squall. Twenty-five miles ahead is the Putah Creek Café which harbors hot coffee and closed about thirty minutes ago. I press on-ward thinking about the hot-buttered rum I shall concoct once I arrive home. If I arrive home.

As quickly as I entered it, I passed under and through it. The road turns from icy pebbles to wet pavement, then to dry. I’d outrun - well, out-crept - the storm.

Google Images

Just as I start to grin and congratulate myself on the steeliness of my resolve (read: cojones), a young man on a sport-style “rice rocket” blasts toward me. He is wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a full-face helmet. No leather. No mesh. No insulation. No brains? He gives me the requisite low-five – the signature wave of sport bikers – and races into the storm.

Either I’ll read about him in tomorrow’s paper or his resolve is a hell of a lot steelier than my own.

***

RESOURCES:

Eric Trow’s Motorcycle Safety website: www.stayinsafe.com

Rider Magazine is published for folks who tend to keep both wheels on the ground. It is available at newsstands and by subscription: http://www.ridermagazine.com/

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE – CLIMATE CHANGE IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and a winter storm advisory has been posted for the foothills twelve miles east of here. Snow level down to 3,000 feet. Carry chains. Outside, the sky approximates the underside of an antique pewter serving tray. Mottled tarnish. Edward the impulsive black lab mix pup, who regularly finds delight in nipping Jax the Dog’s aging rear ankles, instead lies by my side as I read a winter book atop the quilted bed. The terminally nervous Aussie, Jax the Dog, rests uncomfortably at the foot.

IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and I am thinking I should either activate the furnace against this unseasonable foul blast, or set a log in the fireplace and add some cozy to the environ. Maybe pour a dram of whiskey into a glass and watch the weather advance across the neighborhood and through my back yard. But that would mean disturbing one or both of the dogs. So I continue to read.

IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and from somewhere inside that leadened sky, a roll of thunder reports. Distant. Subtle. Soft. Edward leans closer to my body. He sighs. I look up from my text and realize his eyes are fully shut: his body in still, peaceful slumber next to 'Dad.' Jax the Dog shudders at this first distant report and with the second, springs off the bed seeking shelter where there’s none better to be had. Jax knows what will happen if she’s not on her guard. If she’s not on her guard that thunder will shatter a window and burst through. It will clutch her wriggling, helpless body and drag her to a hell where she will spend eternity protecting her weary old haunches from being nipped by a million or more impulsive little black puppies. It will be worse than a bath.

IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and I stop my reading, rise, move to the computer and compose this entry. Edward disappears. Jax the Dog follows me to my desk and squeezes into the footwell. The rank smell of her nervous panting rises from the floor, past the keyboard and into my nose. Suddenly, there’s a muffled deluge behind me, just through the double-glazed windows. The thunder again claps. Closer now. Louder. Jax the Dog presses my ankles and emits an involuntary whimper. I want to tell her, “It’s all right, Sweetness. All dogs go to heaven,” but her fear constricts my throat and I am silent. I understand, but she doesn’t – and Edward doesn’t care. My shepherd’s shepherd, I run my fingers through thick, soft fur and hope her panting will subside.

IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and normally, on a date as late as this, I’d fancy myself exploring some road or canyon or vista on the motorbike. But Jax the Dog needs me. And really, there is nothing better than being needed.

IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and as soon as I finish this sentence, I’m going to pour that dram of whiskey and watch this storm, all the while cuddling Jax the Dog.

© 2010
The Church of the Open Road Press

APRIL SHOWERS ON YANKEE JIM’S ROAD: FORESTHILL TO COLFAX

BEYOND YANKEE JIM’S – little more than a place name now-a-days – the pavement disappears, replaced by nicely graded and securely packed gravel. Snaking down the wall of a tributary of the North Fork of the American, it’s easy to maintain a moderate speed, if moderate speed is tempered with caution. Blind curves? There are some. Precipices over which one might encounter serious injury? Some of those, too. And although this oft-traveled route deteriorates the further one goes, dropping 2,200 feet in elevation to the rickety, 1920s era suspension bridge at the canyon bottom, this is a delightful tour of vegetative and geologic zones, today made even more interesting by the mid-spring storm.

Foresthill is a mining/lumbering community seated atop the Foresthill Divide. Foresthill Road is a divine 17-mile stretch of pavement providing primary ingress and egress for this mountain community to I-80 west at Auburn. Sport bikers have deemed the route a Mecca and many have sacrificed themselves on the guardrail altars that line sections of the roadway. Makeshift memorials abound. And the CHP valiantly tries to prevent.

Summer and autumn fires race from canyon bottom to ridgeline frequently in this environ, and, on occasion, the Foresthill Road must be closed, effectively sealing the little berg off from the outside. Thus, Yankee Jim’s Road: Foresthill’s emergency escape route. Yankee Jim’s Road courses northerly, twisting into and out of the deep canyon of the North Fork to emerge at Colfax. 18 road miles – about six and a half the way the crow flies.


THE RAIN HAD JUST BECOME SLEET as the descent began. Great white glops flattened against the face shield of my Shoei. Somehow, “Stars and Stripes Forever” had chosen itself for the soundtrack on this ride, when “Stormy Weather,” “Here Comes that Rainy Day,” or any of a number of other tunes would have been more appropriate. Rhythmically, I wipe the helmet face with the index finger of my clutch hand on an even 8 count, at seventy-two beats a minute.

By the time the pavement ran out, the snow had turned to rain. Rain in great, pelting quantity. I use both hands on the handlebars. I crack the face shield open a fraction to prevent fogging. Wouldn’t do to not see a twist in the road. Even if I did survive the plunge, Verison’s “Nation-Wide Coverage” somehow doesn’t mean “here.”

With each convex turn in the road, a limited view of the canyon’s twists, coves and distant reaches appears. Vespers of mist tangle with the new-green oak groves and rich early-spring glades stretching up the slopes. Above, the pewter-gray underbelly of the storm blankets the ridge top. Where the turns are concave, what’s normally a dry draw runs full with tumbling, cascading water. The rush drowns out the purr of the motor and pushes away that damned Sousa march.

I stop at one, parking well within the sightline of any on-coming traffic – there will be none – standing in the downpour, helmet serving as Kevlar-hardened raingear for the head. Looking up the cascade, an angel’s gossamer cloak has been laid against the rugged rocks and soil. Pulses of volume and breaths of wind animate the sheet-white fall and, occasionally the angel’s finger beacons me to stand in her shower and bathe. I decline. I’m already wet. And, when I think about it, cold.

Rock edges rounded smooth, verdant mosses and healthy sword ferns in the cleavage of the mountainside indicate that this water event is nothing new: certainly not unique to this day. What is unique is my riding the big Beemer in these conditions when I don’t have to. When I could be home. Warm. By the fire. Or cooking up a last pot of winter stew.


RIDING IN THE RAIN is something we avoid. It is perceived as dangerous, and at best, it is cold and uncomfortable. Yet, in the depths of the canyon, protected from the elements only by a sixty-dollar rain suit, I am reminded that the basic joys of motorcycling are sensory. And in the rain, the sensory is so much more acute. The symphony of the full cascade. The sweet aroma of moistened duff. The gentle wave of the fern frond and clusters of poppies and lupine patiently closed, awaiting passage of the tempest. Those clouds clinging to the treetops across the way. The low ceiling. The spatter of mud on boot as the front tire splits a puddle. A shaft of sunlight foretelling the end of the storm.

You don’t experience the elements quite this way in a car. Or on the BMW in August.

© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press