Mesmerized in Mendocino

SO PERFECT, IT SHOULD BE OUTLAWED!

Imagine the perfect afternoon. Resting in a comfy chair on top of a verdant cliff overlooking the grand Pacific Ocean. A gentle breeze caresses your forehead as you clutch a glass of fine twelve-year-old Balvenie, wondering what it is you’ve done to deserve all of this. Below, an unspoiled stretch of Northern Californian coast frames a series of sharp rocks, so flawlessly aligned as if created by an AI generator. In front, just above the coastline, the view ahead is cut short by a curtain of rolling fog. Just above it, the soft afternoon sun provides precisely the right amount of warmth, making you cuddle like a cold lizard on a hot rock. Behind your back, surrounded by a grove of Californian old growth, a small and exclusive wooden inn, eight rooms in total, overlooks the estate, like a relaxed, time-worn shepherd overseeing his flock.

The setting was so perfect, in fact, I nearly forgot to mention it came complete with a two-star Michelin restaurant – vying for a third.

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Distinguished Gentlemen! (and Ladies)

MUSTALGIA ON THE SANTA MONICA PIER

There’s a comically oversized guy on a small, beat-up old Lambretta. He says he’s in for the ride. He has a complete set of floodlights attached to the old Italian scooter that would scare Bambie a mile away. It’s not even noon. I can only wonder how he made it so far up the pier. Another one shows up on a Bonneville. He’s dressed up in a full three-piece vintage suit, complete with a matching pocket handkerchief and a well-groomed dandy mustache. It’s Santa Monica, and the Southern California sun is beating down our heads. Nobody seems to mind the inadequacy. A third shows up in a side-cart Bimmer. He, his wife, and the little kid are all in Tigger suits. Somehow, that passes almost as normal. Welcome to the Distinguished Gentlemen Ride, a magnet for the Hipsters, the nostalgics, and the downright eccentric.

With over 500 motorcycles, it’s a weird spectacle of American proportions.

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On a ride to nowhere

LA TO ARIZONA ON A HARLEY

It is 447 miles to Scottsdale, Arizona. We got a full tank of gas half-eaten energy bar. It’s blistering hot, and we’re wearing full riding gear – gloves, helmet, jacket, and boots. Let’s hit it!

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Scouting Malibu on an Indian

FOR SOME, THIS IS  JUST ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE 

“Damn!” I hit the footwell once-again. “This bike wasn’t meant to lean at tight curves.” Yet, here I am, riding the narrow, beautiful roads on the mountains above Malibu, trying to keep up with two FTR naked bikes just ahead of me. It ain’t easy doing it with as big low cruiser, but it’s Cardo’s honor on the line. I twist the throttle all the way and hope for the best…

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Crazy, Pointless, Irresistible

DRIVING THE ULTIMATE JOYRIDE IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

It’s a bike! No. It’s a car! No. It’s…errr, what the hell is this thing?

Had a Martian landed in the middle of Orange County, he probably would have garnered less attention. Seriously, the US capital of Botox, Silicon, and nail jobs just south of LA had seen everything, but nothing like this.
Some would call it an obscene phallic symbol on wheels. Polaris calls it Slingshot.

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Big Sir!

TO THE HIPPIE HIDEAWAY, PASS THROUGH THE US ARMY FIRST

Yep. That’s right. To get to Big Sur – the mother of all Hippie hideaways – you do need to pass through a US army base – Fort Hunter Liggett, to be exact. The big sign at the entrance says that by passing through the gate you agree to a vehicle search (and a body search) at any time and without a warrant. Scary stuff. Still, if you do brave it through, you’d find one of America’s most un-American roads, and a view so striking you’d forget the military warnings.

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