Elk road

Hello! I'm back. Sorry for the brief hiatus. I spent it working and taking a little road trip. You don't want to hear any more about zbufs, so let's talk about how it feels to ride along the PCH on the back of a sporty Italian motorcycle.

It feels good. Also cold. And maybe certain parts of me fell asleep in uncomfortable ways around hour five, but not to worry—the spectacular views eased the pain. There are still a few shots left in my camera, but I'll try to post sunset photos later. I swear Hwy. 1 is the prettiest slab of cement you can drive in America.

The Boy, being gadget-minded, got a super cool helmet communication system (add that to your buzzword arsenal) so we could listen to music and talk to each other during the epic ride. In addition to being extremely handy and possibly sanity-saving, it had the special bonus feature of coming with the most hilarious, Britishest instructions ever. If they were here, I'd quote them, but you'll just have to trust me. Priceless.

We left the city after a late brunch, figuring the drive would take about four hours. But that didn't include several stops to adjust the communication system wiring in my helmet, stretch our legs, and drink cocoa in a Laundromat across from a store called Candy & Kites. Candy and kites!! If I were in grade school, I'd have passed out from happiness. It was actually kind of exciting, anyway, even though I'll be 30 soon enough and I'm really very mature.

The courtesy of motorcycle culture was neat to experience. There's the one-handed biker-to-biker salute immortalized in song and on T-shirts; plus the unprecedented willingness of car drivers to pull over and let bikers pass. Almost every car did—instantly. I've never gotten that kind of respect while trying to get Gibson past a crawling Hummer full of coast-peepers.

It wasn't too cold in San Francisco, but the highway wind picked up around 5 p.m. Then we rode into a fog bank and the temperature dropped like an anvil. Our destination was the little town of Elk, highly recommended by the well-traveled Miss Mobtown and National Geographic. After a final half hour marked by lots of shivering and a sharp decrease in witty banter on the Autocom, we finally pulled in at Greenwood Pier.

The inn was exactly what you'd want it to be, complete with flighty and eccentric owners: She of the breathy hippie voice, he of the hobbit-like stature and long pointy fingernails. The jets weren't working in the hot tub, but it was hot enough to soothe, and our room had a real fireplace (The Boy proved his inferno-building mettle with flying colors) and enough space for a dozen or so people.

Their restaurant was dismal, its saving graces only that it was bad enough to be funny and we were too tired to care. But in the morning, they brought us tea and scones in a cute wire basket. Then we wandered down to Queenie's Roadhouse Cafe, now officially my favorite diner in the world next to O'Rourke's, for a spectacular breakfast.

Diner food on the road is like the rice and beans you cook when you're camping. You've put in enough time and sweat to reach the point where eating feels like an earned privilege, so it always tastes like nectar. Even so, Queenie's takes top honors.

Then we sped back along Rte. 128, a beautiful sweeping road through the woods, before deciding we'd had enough moto magic for one weekend and would like to feel our legs again and take a nap.

Hwy. 101 is no coastal wonderland, but sometimes it's just the right direct route home.