The Journey My youthful memories are of reading motorcycle magazines which had  touted the Teutonic R90S as the dominant bike at the Isle of Man. It was the knowing look of the framed factory riders as thier cylinders nearly ground away the dangerous curves  that they were on “the ride of choice”.  I  marveled at the terminal speed these graceful bikes were capable of doing or the unbelievable 1000-mile adventures in a day stories. To me, on this bike, an educated gentlemen could turn the head of that month’s Playboy Bunny longingly to desire a ride on this safe abandon. I imagined that all would see is the bike just as it went into a long sweeper before disappearing into rolling countryside with vigor and purpose. That was my dream state  bike.   Despite my budget waffling from broke to poor student to wage earner, I never gave up on my fabled two-wheeled image. Years passed. I eventually moved to San Francisco for the promise of opportunities and a better future.  I worked graveyard shifts; nights and weekends that helped put my brother and myself through college. Additionally, where I lived car parking was never a serious option. My lifestyle was then always propelled by a trusted toaster tank /5. The city streets had daily dashes to overnight work, early morning college classes, mid afternoon studying in coffee houses staffed by quirky counter culture chess masters and never to be discovered alternative social or musical icons. Additionally, my distance weekend trips to the wine country to visit a friend or to impress my new girl were always done on that chrome and black 75/5. I often spoke about my dream to conquer the west to east points such as Denver or New Orleans. The actual attempts on my fantasy failed because of either poor vacation scheduling or my mother’s strong distress over my general safety.  The grind of the parking the bike in City took its toll. The highly regarded dependability shook loose from its frame and its rings blew black smoke that bellowed from its pipes. I parted with that bike to pay for my final semester of school and a well-earned backpack vacation throughout Europe. Since those hard boiled days, I married the most charming loving woman, rode the rise and fractured fall of the dot com world, the birth of my bold discovering son, started my own business and begun to share the some of new challenges since the World Trade Center tragedy. Despite a multitude of changes, some desires never go away. The prosperity during the boom times lead me to my current near perfect ride, a mint perfect 1983 R100CS. Some say its kind of old school with early 80’s technology but for me it is everything the R90S was plus some. The bike moves me even when it is still and up on its center stand. The rigorous attention to maintenance of any other single object I ever own has never been so thorough. Nor has the promise of untold motorcycle adventures been so close. The ride: In early October, I called up a close friend and riding buddy of mine Mark (who recently bought a near perfect 95 R100GS). Energized by the good fortune (a client finally sent me a large overdue payment) and an open calendar, I pitched a four-day ride during our weekly telephone conversation about upcoming life, jobs, and motorcycles. I suggested a ride to Las Vegas for the Art Of The Motorcycle Exhibit, which included Sierra mountain passes, beautiful resort towns, crossing more than 7 of Nevada’s mountain ranges while riding through canyons, rolling desert crossings, and a victory lap down the world famous strip. I promised to stay of highways best we could and would stick to two lanes when ever possible. Mark has always been my turn to guy for a good day ride cohort, always swapping motorcycle stories or advice as well as has relaxed high adventure in his bones. Before He could waffle on my plan, I told I was in his neighborhood of the Marina district of San Francisco and I was swing around to see him. I arrive a few short minutes later and saw Mark’s black and yellow bike parked outside of his garage door. I knew we where on our way as soon as his head popped out the door with his Gortex pants in hand. It was almost 1p.m. and knew traffic would be picking up across the bridges and freeways.  As Mark continued to pack, he told me of his girlfriend’s enthusiastic endorsement for our ride and his securing the first place to stop in Lake Tahoe. We were across the Bay Bridge by 2:30. After a brief stop in Alameda for my previously packed things and a fuel stop,  we were on our way. Commute traffic had pick up quite a bit and the as we thought to power through to Highway 4 from Antioch. The road was packed with motorists’ headlights to taillight for 10 miles. I led the way as we split the lanes, passed the slow rolling fumes, and thousands of new homes that are filling in the Sacramento-Stockton delta. As we passed hundreds of bored looks and expressionless faces, I knew we were escaping the drudgery for this week’s commuters’ lives.  Once passed Discovery Bay, Highway 4 becomes a two lane unearthing of the California Delta. The rich soil and bridges lead to the base of the Foothills of the Serrias and the Gold Country. At Farmington, the road begins turn into gentle rolling hills with turns and give you an idea about what is to come. The climb up the foothills leads you past Angels Camp, Murphys and Arnold. There are some notable hairpins and sweepers that only hint to why so many people love the Californian foothills and the main bisecting road - Highway 49. The ride had begun with me clear minded but one incident brought me to full attention to my ridding style. For a brief second after being on the road for more than 2 hours, my full attention slipped away from me as I followed and watch Mark’s GS into a tight turn. A fast second passed as I drifted beyond the yellow divider only to look up at a car about fifty feet away from me. I managed to get focused to get back into my lane. My heart and mind began to race as I contemplated for the first time in a long while about my life’s responsibility and the more immediate concern, the road ahead. The moment resided in my thoughts and dreams for the next few nights on the road. We were pushing hard since we got a late start and it was almost dark. The town of Arnold, 3 miles away, was the logical choice for our first real food stop and for me to straighten out my closely held anxiety. We have previously agreed to no chain restaurants if we could help it.  The evening chill reminded us that summer was almost over. We stopped at the local brewery for some good Bean soup and what was to be first of my three rib dinners. Our motorcycles were welcomed into the large parking lot under the pine trees. Locals jammed the restaurant watching New York in the fateful league playoffs. After dinner, we donned our fleece under our ridding gear, spoke to a retired man and his son from Florida who had both lived in Arnold as boys and departed renewed vigor and purpose. Our secured cabin with a hot tub in Tahoe was calling as the mountain chill bit our faces and made our noses run… To be continued