SOMETHING TO ADDRESS

Outside of whining about my bad knees from time to time, 

I steer clear of discussing personal health here. 

This’ll be an exception:

 

 

 

So I took the little red rooster (my Royal Enfield) on a delightful ride Tuesday – 60 miles through foothills, redwoods and vineyards. Green hillsides dotted with poppies; deep forests smelling of moist, rich duff; dry roads perfect for a little sightseeing; fresh air.

 

     Then about 2:00 AM on Wednesday, then again at 4:00, then again, in the awake-hours-morning a couple of times, I had another spate of those – for lack of a better term – arrythmias. Felt like a constricted something-er-other (or, at least there was some real pushing going on) and a little light-headedness or dizziness and, after three to five minutes of reclined rest, back to normal – until some next one comes along. 

     I’ll experience these being distributed through a few hours once every 10 to 12 weeks, then nothing. After each little event there are only shadows of the incident but, it’s always in the back of my thinking. 

 

Speaking of that thinking, I got to thinking how unfortunate it would be should one of these occur while riding at sixty-five-plus miles per hour on US 101 or out on some back road with no cell service. So, today, I began thinking about marketing the bikes: Both that sweet little 411cc Enfield which I absolutely adore, and the more substantial and visceral 850cc Moto Guzzi traveling companion. 

     Before I got too deep into that hole, I decided to do a bit more research. Hell! The Church of the Open Road was built upon sharing motorcycle adventures, wasn’t it? 

     As it turns out, when it comes to things cardio, of the seven or eight do-s and don’t-s listed with a number of reputable sites like the Mayo Clinic and the Cleveland Clinic, and as elucidated by my Kaiser doc, I seem to be doing okay with all but two: eating enough fresh fruit and vegetables and keeping it to only one or two drinks. As much as I have declared I’m going to cut way down on the wine, whiskey and song – okay, maybe not the song –  lately, I’ve been plowing through the better part of a whole bottle of cabernet or zin or some nice red blend every evening. EEE-Yikes! 

     Enough already!

Either that stops, I’ve decided, or I sell the bikes. 

     Big test on the horizon: Shortly, Candi will be out of the house playing bunco. (I wonder if Joe Friday or Bill Gannon will show up.) I have a small beef filet and baked potato – and some veges, dang it! – on tap for myself. A nice Cab is being eyeballed. Can I hold myself to one or two glasses?

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

SONOMA COUNTY IS OPEN FOR BUSINESS…

…time for a visit…

Over the past week, Sonoma County has survived the biggest wildfire in its history.  The county is open for business.  While, tragically, several homes were lost and a winery or two, in essence, with evacuation notices now rescinded, power has been restored, businesses in Geyserville (we ate last night at Catelli’s – try the chicken piccata), Healdsburg (heading down to the local, independent bookstore later today), Windsor (nice BMW/Moto Guzzi/MV Agusta/Royal Enfield shop) and points south are all open.  (As of November 2, CA 128 across the Mayacamas Mountains is still subject to closure.)

All of our favored wineries are up and running, including Dry Creek’s Passalacqua (always by appointment only), Frick (one man – seven acres), Healdsburg’s Idlewild (just off the square) and Gustafson (also out on Stewart’s Point / Skaggs Springs Road – beautiful view!) and Russian River’s Flowers (out past the historic Hop Kiln.) These folks depend on visitors and want to counter media reports that the entire area was reduced to ashes.  Come visit!  

Our fair city of Cloverdale was spared everything but a few days of smoke and no power.  The raging fire started to our east and roared in a southwesterly direction leaving us unscathed.  However, with golden, crisp hills to our north and east and the way our weather patterns are changing, it is only a matter of time before a blaze ignites under just the wrong circumstances and evacuation orders send us streaming out of town with our go-bags.

This will NOT be the exclusive fault of PG&E.  This will be the cumulative effect of living in a society that demands infrastructure and service but winces at having to pay for it.  The electric grid is part of and should be considered part of the “public square.”  Like roads, police protection, park land, fire service and schools, electrical service cannot operate to serve the citizenry if first, the company has to satisfy investors.  (I have a little PG&E stock, so I’m one of ‘em.) The power grid has to transition toward public ownership.  [And as far as executive salaries and bonuses go, they most certainly provide a tone-deaf image, but in total they represent a tiny fraction of the costs associated with solving the problem.]

Nature is sending us a loud and clear message that things have to change.  Under non-profit or state sponsorship, the result will be that utility bills cover not only the production and distribution of electricity, but the true costs of upgrades and maintenance.  And fees will go up.  They have to.  They have to cover the cost of doing business.  And we, as consumers, are gonna have to pay the freight.

Having said all that, if you are not a resident of Sonoma County and would enjoy a respite from the Central Valley’s Tule Fog, the congestion of Bay Area freeways, the incessant rains of the Pacific Northwest – or maybe you’d just like to score a case or two of really good wine, come visit.  

The smoke has cleared.  The harvest is in.  

And Sonoma County is open for business.

© 2019

Church of the Open Road Press

THE REMEDY FOR DLIS*

*daily life irritability syndrome

·      The cat threw up sometime last night and I stepped in it in my bare feet.

·      In clearing leaves from the roof, a section of plastic gutter guard came free and while replacing it, I tore an asphalt shingle back far enough to probably cause a leak.

·      In the process of moving clean glasses from the dishwasher to their rightful shelf, two – not one, but two – ended up busted on the floor.

·      My 12v compressor chose to take the day off, so I had to use a bicycle pump to correct tire pressure.

·      And the more I read about the circumstance, the more it appears that the leader of the Free World may be, clinically speaking, about a half-a-bubble off of plumb.

·      Did I mention the cat throwing up?

It had been a couple of weeks since I’d hopped on Enrico, the Yamaha, for a personal therapy session.  Apparently, it’d been too long.  Little things were bugging me way too much.  And then there’re those perceptions about the President.  A nasty case of Daily Life Irritability Syndrome (DLIS) had me feeling like kids’ book author Judith Viorst’s “Alexander” having a string of “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days.”

This November 30^th was smack dab in the middle of a weeklong predicted dry spell.  Area temps in the Dry Creek / Russian River Valley viticulture region(s) were slated to be in the low sixties.  Roads would be dry.  Traffic would be sparse.  Chores could wait.

Dutcher Creek Road heads south out of town, paralleling US 101 for a few miles.  Then it angles west-southwest, undulating and turning and rising and falling on a five-mile strip of refreshed pavement.  The low sun of late autumn rests just above a westerly ridgeline even though it’s only 1:30 in the afternoon.  The vineyards at Fritz Winery, http://www.fritzwinery.com/ where not shadowed by that ridge, seem aflame as their leaves prepare to fall.  And Enrico is just getting warmed up.

Down to Dry Creek Road, I enjoy a couple of sweeping miles before heading south on West Dry Creek Road, a delightful barely single-lane stretch of pavement that hugs the hillside and affords glorious views of the vineyards and farm houses.  Fans of Perry Mason would probably like to know that the late Raymond Burr’s winery is out this way.  His Emmy is on display in the tasting room.  Check out this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t3x82MQyfuU

Hooking onto Westside Road just west of Healdsburg, I motor past the Armida Winery – voted best tasting room by some group – the winery where my daughter cut her teeth making a delightful Zin named “Poizin.” http://www.armida.com/ Don’t let that scare you!  Good stuff.

Out that way we (Enrico and me) pass the historic Felta School, cross an equally historic steel bridge over the Russian River, bob this way and that on some really secondary secondary roads, dancing through shaded sections and sunny ones to find Eastside Road and head back toward Healdsburg.  That low sun lights the broad expanse of the Russian River Valley like Technicolor.  Enrico hums along deftly handling the curves and rises.   

Suddenly, about an hour in, I realize that I’ve shed any concerns about cats, roofs, glassware, and compressors and, almost, any news or views coming out of DC.

I make a quick stop at Big John’s Market in Healdsburg, http://bigjohnsmarket.com/ a delightful full service grocery with a wide selection of organic produce, locally baked artisan breads, more micro-brews than anyone could ever taste through, wine, of course, lots of it, and all manner of foodstuffs you can’t find anywhere else.  Their meat department is extensive and fully staffed. My favorite friendly butcher helps me pick out a slab of Coho and a beef filet for tonight’s repast.

Fifteen miles to home, but I already know my case of Daily Life Irritability Syndrome had been pushed to the deep recesses of my mind.  Dismounting, I pat Enrico on his shiny black tank and say, “Thanks!”  Everything’s gonna be okay.

Are you, too, suffering from symptoms of DLIS?  Ask your doctor if a late autumn ride on a motorcycle through the loveliest of environs might be right for you.

© 2017

Church of the Open Road Press

COFFEE RUN

More on shopping locally, thirty-five miles from home

I live in a place where there are no bad roads.  Even the freeway that cuts through town is palatable: north to the redwoods, south toward the bay.  Secondary roads?  A week ago, I ventured to a tiny grove of redwoods – just a dot on the map.  Yesterday, it rained and I rode west to the coast.  Today?  I was running short of the whole bean coffee I grind each morning for my single cup of Joe.

My first experience with a really nice motorcycle involved an ’83 BMW R65.  Perhaps a bit too small for my lanky frame, I enjoyed the occasional commute from one end to the other of Sonora in Tuolumne County for a haircut.  I chose a barbershop that required a good thirty minutes on skinny and entertaining roads for my once-monthly riding delight. Twists. Canyons. Pines. Granite. And then the shears.

Long ago, it became my practice to shop locally as far from home as possible.  My intent yesterday was to buy coffee, but I ended up taking a route that led me in exactly the opposite direction to a nice little chowder house with a view of a churning sea just off the pier in Point Arena.  Not surprisingly, today, I was still short coffee.  Funny how wanderlust can derail even the simplest of agendas.

Sonoma County, California, it is said, has more soil types than all of France.  Perhaps this is why Sonoma’s main agricultural endeavor seems to be wine grapes.

Travelling along the secondary roads, over ridges and into vales, vineyards appear as rolling waves across the undulating landscape.  Real picturesque.  Generally, we find Pinot Noir and Sauv Blanc to the west, Zins and Cabs in the drier regions east.  But pocketed microclimates married to soil regions borne through the combination of tectonic forces and eons of erosion bear blocks of myriad fruit, each with specific characteristics based upon genetics and locale.  If one likes wine, Sonoma County is heaven.

Likewise, if one likes a range of riding experience, Sonoma County does not disappoint.  Today’s excursion traced the edge of the Alexander Valley, crossed the Mayacamas hills and descended into the northern reaches of a Napa Valley that may not quite deserve the vaunting wine reviews it receives; at least that’s what those of us in Sonoma County believe…

To be sure, there is – or was – more going on in the realm of agriculture in this region than simply viticulture: cattle are grazed, fruit and nut orchards dot the landscape and tiny farms, organic and otherwise, checkerboard the area.  But overall, the acres and acres of grapes, which have displaced perhaps too many of the old time farms, provide a beautiful backdrop for the twisting, rise-and-fall pavement that invites a casual throttle and a relaxed pace.

The ride through northern Sonoma County into neighboring Napa County is a rewarding two-wheeled escapade.  The city of Calistoga is a berg of a few thousand situated at the north end of the Napa Valley.  Though there is an a comprehensive John Deere tractor dealer on the east end of the main drag – bring a grandson or daughter and buy ‘em a green ball cap – the community’s agricultural roots are deeply hidden by a burgeoning tourist trade: mud baths, a quaint downtown, tasting rooms monikered with names famous for stuff other than wine.

Allow and hour or so to stroll the street.  A great bookstore awaits.  A classic California café, as well.  And the Calistoga Roastery: it offers the whole bean coffee that, they claim, “wakes up Napa County.” 

I use this independent business as my excuse to do seventy miles of enchanting pavement.  The roastery sells whole bean and blends whose essence, the day after, reminds me of the pleasantry of the journey – smooth, warm and satisfying.  Plus, at the Calistoga Roastery, a pound of coffee still weighs 16 ounces.

What could be better?

I’ll ask myself this question tomorrow morning over a warm and fragrant cup and conclude: “Not much.”

For the ride and the commerce, I’ll be back in about three weeks, unless I should happen across another roaster while exploring a different thirty-five miles of twists, turns and stunning scenery – somewhere else local.

o0o

Notes:  Info on Calistoga may be accessed at: http://visitcalistoga.com/

Specifically, the Calistoga Roastery’s website is: http://calistogaroastery.com/

o0o

Routes:  Yesterday: north on US 101, west on state route 128; south on state route 1 to Point Arena.  Right on whatever the street is that leads a mile out to the pier.  Chowder house is there.  Try the Manhattan.  Return?  South on state route 1 to Jenner, east tracing the Russian to Monte Rio, Guerneville and Santa Rosa; to 101.

Today:  South on US 101, east on state route 128 at Geyserville to Calistoga.  Left onto the main drag.  Return?  Retrace.

© 2016

Church of the Open Road Press

ISHI PISHI WINE

…while up in Redwood country…

About 35 years ago when I left Chico to pursue my career in education elsewhere, my dad began writing a (really bad, sorry Dad) novel centered on a character not unlike his younger son.  The boy had left town to become a sheriff’s deputy in a far-flung northern California county.  At one point, the boy-deputy was investigating some crime or other occurring at a place called Ishi Pishi Falls, a name I was sure Dad had concocted on his own.

The other day, at a grocery store in Garberville, California, a bottle of red boasted fruit from a ranch of exactly that name.  How could Dad’s younger son resist?

o0o

Tasting Note:  Briceland Vineyards sourced fruit for this substantial Bordeaux Blend from a dry farmed hillside above the hamlet of Orleans off CA 96 along the Klamath River – a locale which could legitimately claim to be in a “far flung northern California county.”  We enjoyed this wine with some rustic French bread and a selection of Humboldt County cheeses, but we believe it will pair nicely with grilled lamb, roast duck or a hearty winter's stew.  Better find a second bottle…

© 2016

Church of the Open Road Press

A VISIT TO THE FRICK WINERY

…the way things used to be…

Walling Road laces between vineyards planted on the south-facing hillsides of the Dry Creek Valley.  It’s an easy road to miss.  A mile or so on we pulled off and parked in a gravel area next to a vine that looked to be a century old.  Turned out, it was.  

We stood for a moment, embracing a magnificent winter view and headed toward the diminutive tasting room perhaps thirty yards away.  We noticed someone pruning vines back of the parking area.  Seeing us disembark, he propped his pruners against a vine, wiped his hands on his dungarees and met us at the door.

This would be our introduction to Bill Frick.

Sonoma County is home to more soil types than the whole of France, we’ve been told.  Her Mediterranean climate, rolling hills, lush valleys drained by scenic rivers and streams – along with her redwoods – provide the perfect place for vineyards to flourish.  With those vineyards comes a flourishing wine industry.  It doesn’t take too much imagination to harken back a century or so and find independent farmers setting aside a few acres for grapes with rootstock purloined from the old country.

Now, much of the farmland and orchards have been turned over to wine production and many of the old plots – I’d opine, far too many – have been corporatized: purchased by something big, but disguised as something craft-like.  And perhaps they still are craft operations, but many of the quaint “family” farms are actually owned by names like Gallo, Constellation, and Kendall Jackson.  (Gallo recently purchased a facility in Asti that, 60 years ago, was their biggest jug wine competitor fronted by “a little old winemaker.”)

So it is rare to visit a tasting room staffed by the craftsman himself; rarer still, I suppose, to have him interrupt his fieldwork to accommodate a visit.  “Pruning is one of my favorite pastimes,” Bill Frick said as we apologized for interrupting the chore.  I got the feeling that the winter pruning process is a bit like touching the future.  The results of a day’s efforts are not realized until next year’s vintage is produced, aged and bottled – three to five years from now.

We sidled up to the bar commenting, “This is what it must have been like years ago,” to hear in reply, “This is the way it’s always been for me.”  Always turns out to be four decades.

We had planned on pasta with a hearty homemade marinara and meatballs.  “Not here to taste,” we said.  “We’re on a mission.”  Sharing our menu, we asked, “What might you recommend?”

He had similar plans for his meal this evening pointing us toward his Cinsaut a Rhone varietal.  We sipped.  “Or the Lucia,” a blend, he suggested.  We sipped.

The discussion evolved from tonight’s repast to the delicate microclimates of his 7.7-acre vineyard, the variances in soil and exposure and year-to-year moisture.  We sipped.  He shared a bit about his history and how he and his partner chose this place, along with the sacrifices made in order to see a dream become reality.

In the end, we carted off several samples, the Cinsaut and the Lucia to be consumed with tonight’s pasta; the rest of which are in the little “library” section of our rack.  With each, a tiny toast will be raised to the craftsman who dropped what he was doing in order to share his passion.

By the time we wheeled off the gravel pad, Bill was back out in the vineyard, again engaged in one of his favorite pastimes.

o0o

Notes:  Frick’s website tells Bill’s story better than any post here.  Here’s a link: http://www.frickwinery.com/ Check it out and plan your visit.

Our marinara and meatballs came from Guy Fieri’s More Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, William Morrow, 2009

Directions:  US 101 to Geyserville.  Exit Canyon Road and head west.  One mile, then right on Walling Road.  (Landmark: Pedroncelli Winery – also a nice stop.)  Frick is a mile or so up Walling Road on the right.

© 2016

Church of the Open Road Press

TUSCANY JUST UP THE ROAD

Two Visits to the Terra Sávia Olive Oil Mill and Winery

“How did you find us?”  The woman stepped from the shadows of the steel warehouse.  I was dismounting and removing my yellow Scheuberth that had rendered a hotspot on my forehead.  “How did you find us?”

I’d been exploring off-freeway lanes near my new Sonoma County digs and had taken a westerly turn onto Mountain House Road in Hopland.  “The poppies.”  I pointed to a small stand of bright orange blossoms swaying in a gentle springtime Mendocino County breeze.  Seeds had been broadcast and taken root in the soil at the margin where the asphalt apron at Terra Sávia abuts the roadway.  “I was thinking of getting a shot of my bike with the poppies in the foreground.”

“That’s a beautiful bike,” she said, eyeing my ’07 Breva. 

I stepped into the warehouse rubbing that hotspot and hoping my eyes would readily adjust to the dimly lit interior.  A few pallets of cased goods sat close by next to a table with a bit of clerical equipment, a collection of papers that reminded me of my home office organizational skills.  A well used office chair was tucked up to the table’s edge.   As my eyes made their way from daylight to warehouse light, a few more pallets came into view.  To the left was a tasting bar.

“Like to try some olive oil?  They’re all Italian varietals.”

“Just like the bike,” I said. 

I hated to admit that I didn’t know procedure when it came to tasting olive oils.  Beer?  Yes.  Wine?  Of course.  But olive oil?  A one-ounce portion control pleated white paper cup was placed in front of me.  A small amount of the fist sample was dribbled inside.  The woman began to explain about citrus tones, nutty tones, where to taste and lingering qualities.  Just like wine.  With the second sample, we began to compare and contrast…

Terra Sávia is a wholly organic small operation specializing in estate grown wines – cabs, pinots, merlots and a nice Meritage (rhymes with “heritage”) and a non-oaked Chardonnay; Italian varietal olive oils from trees on the property and wildflower honey from their own stash of bees.

Striking is the olive press imported from the home country.  The machine is active in October as Terra Sávia organics are first crushed daily, to be followed by the fruit of other local area growers.

Wandering through the facility, I see that local artisans display seating and tables, all far too large to be packed home on a motorcycle.  Flat art graces the walls and a classic Porsche begs one to salivate.

Outside, a rustic cabin awaits those wishing to stay for an overnight experience.

I purchased a bottle of Tuscan oil and set to stowing it in the diminutive Joe Rocket seat pack.

“Do you need a bag?” the proprietress asked.  “Is it padded enough?  Moto Guzzi.  Where did you say that bike comes from?”

“About two hundred miles north of the rootstock for your olive trees.”

And the conversation ensued.  Guzzi and BMW tourers know the routine, as do many others, I’m sure…

I didn’t taste wine on my first visit because I don’t do alcohol – not even a sip – if I’m riding a bike that new, cost more than my first house.  But I did return a few days later with family.  I’d been charmed not only by the honest, small operation feel of Terra Sávia, but also by the woman who showed such great interest in the Guzzi.

She recognized me as the fellow from earlier in the week as she poured first the Chard, then the reds.  More conversation.  More of that honest, small operation, down-to-earth, workin’ the land goodness – characteristics missing, sometimes, in the fancy winery spreads further south in the Dry Creek, Sonoma and Napa Valley appellations. 

Folks touring US 101 out of the Bay Area and north of Santa Rosa: this is a stop not to be missed.  (Open Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays.)

o0o

Notes: 

1) The Meritage goes nicely with a grilled peppered New York cooked medium rare.  I drool as I type this.

2) I need to go back and get that picture of the Guzzi amid the poppies.

Resource:  Information about this unique and interesting little place is found at: http://terrasavia.com/

o0o

Terra Savia's statement of philosophy.  One with which many might agree.

Today’s Route:  US 101 South from Eureka, Willets, Ukiah or North form San Francisco, Marin, Santa Rosa, Healdsburg to Hopland.  West on Mountain House Road at the burger joint.  Look for the Terra Sávia sign (and those poppies) on the right.  Return?  Continue on Mountain House Road through the rolling Coast Range Hills of interior Mendocino County intersecting CA 128 in about ten miles.  East will return the rider to US 101 at Cloverdale; west will take the rider through Booneville, along the Navarro River and out to the coast and CA 1.

© 2015

Church of the Open Road Press

TWO DAYS A LONG HAUL TRUCKER

But I’d trade all my tomatoes

For a single yesterday…

Butchered lyrics

from a great travelin’ song

I’d be deadheading a flat rack down the coast on US 101, overnighting about King City, then headin’ out before dawn fueled only by dishwater coffee and a pancake sandwich slathered in imitation maple syrup and a couple of eggs.  And a side of hash browns.  And rye toast.  (If my mother calls, tell her I had the rye toast dry.)  My destination?  Lompoc: Roger Ramjet’s home base back in the 60s.  There, I’ll load up.  The manifest?  Tankards of bulk Chardonnay, strapped down good.  I’ll swing back north through Salinas and Frisco, and across the Gate.  We’ll off load ‘er a couple of hours north, near the southern edge of the Emerald Triangle.  Then I’ll find a neon lit boot-scoot in Healdsburg and throw down a cold one.  That’s the plan, at least.

In preparation, I purchased an iron rod so I could occasionally stop by the side of the road and bounce it off the rig’s tires and a new deck of playing cards to roll up into the sleeve of my t-shirt so it’d look like I was toting a pack of Marlboros, or better yet, Chesterfield straights.  That’s what the long haul truckers do, right?

It’s a two-day run.  One I’ve looked forward to: the freedom of the open road, the whining of the tires on the slab, the rhythmic slap of the wipers streaking across a pitted windshield, sunburned elbow out the window, singin’ “Bobby McGhee.” Truck stops with dyed-red-haired waitresses I’d never see again but who’d refer to me, like a regular, as “honey.” Sweet, blue diesel fumes.  Sleepin’ in the back of the cab with only a musty, moth-eaten army blanket and an AM radio for company.  Maybe I can pen me some lyrics overnight.  You know: about the romance of life out on the four-lane.

Reality often differs from fantasy or the dream world.  While in college and during my first few years of teaching, I did a little trucking to help make ends meet.  My rig this weekend would bring new meaning to the term “little trucking.”

The winemaking daughter lashed six empties onto a five-by-twelve trailer and sent me eight hours south to pick up some raw material she’d secured through a broker.

I didn’t find myself racked out in the sleeper because a Nissan crew cab doesn’t come with one.  Rather, I made arrangements for a night in a motel about half way down and ended up in a room that had been declared “non-smoking” about 48 hours prior to my checking in.  Breakfast, ninety minutes down the road the next morning, was an omelet and some weak coffee and banter with the waitress was pleasant, even a bit flirtatious. 

Barreling down 101 with a trailer, I found it a better plan to maintain some sort of a schedule than to stop for any of the historical or scenic attractions along the way.  Besides, parking with a trailer is a pain.  Therefore, added to my motorcycle bucket list is a comprehensive tour of all of California’s missions using 101 as the main corridor for the ride. 

Forty years after my stint as a casual trucker, I still harbor nightmares of the freight I improperly stacked only to have it collapse and spill and the hours I spent at the end of my shift swabbing out gallons of varnish that didn’t make it to the paint store.  So I was delighted that the folks at the facility from which the bulk was being purchased were able to fill the barrels without having to loosen them from the trailer.

The return trip began shortly before noon and it would be ten o’clock before I would finally shut ‘er down.  Periods of heavy showers through the Bay Area brought out many of the western hemisphere’s amateur drivers.  Just south of Morgan Hill, an empty pickup hot-rodded past me on the left and slipped into the truck lane I was using.  At about 70, he hydroplaned across a flooded section spinning 90 degrees.  I braced myself for a crash.  When his back wheels met traction he rocketed off the freeway and up an embankment about forty feet where he still may be mired in the mud.  One can only hope.

North of San Jose, 101 was clogged because of Friday commute, lousy road conditions, a spate of rain-induced fender benders in the gathering dusk, and the fact that a parallel freeway was closed due to some civil disobedience over a recent grand jury finding elsewhere in the nation.  Then there are those surface street miles in downtown San Francisco where US 101 ceases to be a freeway. 

A stop at the north tower vista point of the Golden Gate Bridge afforded the only scenic shot my camera would take on this little adventure. 

The sixty-eight miles from the south bay to here consumed two hours and forty-five minutes.

By 10:15, I am at home (I am to deliver the goods locally the next morning) sitting in front of a gas flamed fire with a dram of Knob Creek over ice and reflecting on my days as a long haul trucker.  I’d listened to a lot of NPR and other than the omelet, all I’d had to eat was some pie and ice cream at a Denny’s outside of Soledad.  But I'm not hungry.  Just tired.

And satisfied.

© 2014

Church of the Open Road Press