#nicasio

午後から時間ができたのでnicasioで朽木方面へサイクリングに行ってきました。

少しは雪が残っているだろうなぁ程度に思っていたのですが、ほとんど使われていない旧道はまだまだ雪が残ってました

Dangerous Dave and The Tech Titan were tittering like little schoolgirls when they wandered off toward the little Rancho Nicasio market. I’m keeping my balance by grasping the wrought iron gate in front of the little white church. I’m in a mental state somewhere between euphoria and PTSD having just survived Dangerous Dave’s unbridled four-wheeled assault on Lucas Valley Road. Or maybe I actually died and I need to pass through the gate, then through the church to heaven?

I feel alive, so I’m probably still alive. Whatever that means.

To his credit, Flood is a really really good driver. Given the money and opportunity as a young man, he probably could have made it as a professional rally driver, so I shouldn’t be such a pussy about riding in the back seat. But my sense of self preservation takes over when someone else is at the wheel. If I’m driving, game on. Someone else at the wheel? Settle down son!

My equilibrium is returning now, so I wander over toward the little market and go inside. Oddly there’s nobody inside, but the back door is open and there’s a bluesy and soulful song being played on the piano in the bar adjacent to the market. The back door looks off limits to the general public (employees only) but I decide fuck it, I’m going through anyway.

I turn the corner, Dangerous Dave and The Tech Titan are leaning against the wood and leather barstools while at the piano, the shopkeeper from Southern Alabama (who I met last time through) is singing and playing piano, and if I’m perfectly honest, he is extraordinary. Most of the time, when someone sits down to belt out a tune for you spontaneously, it sounds like Mary Rottencrotch and Her Nose Flute Symphony. Mr Shopkeeper has a barrel chested timbre in his southern voice and an almost supernatural ability to find the melodies and harmonies to his own piano accompaniment.

Mr. Shopkeeper's ten fingers come slamming down simultaneously on the keys for a big triumphant finish to his song and all three of us give a roaring round of applause. Mr. Shopkeeper spins around toward us “Howdy boys! Thank You, Thank You.”

The Tech Titan: Guys, I want you to meet Mike. Mike is the manager of Rancho Nicasio, and in a former life he was a hit songwriter for Huey Lewis and the News!

Mike: Well it seems like I’ve met all of y’all in here from time to time, but I had no idea you knew each other.

Mike’s looking at me.

Mike: Did you find the albino buck yet?

Me: No sir. Next trip.

Mike: How about the book?

Me: No sir, I’m trying to order it from somewhere other than Amazon.

Mike: Ha! Well good luck or die tryin’. You boys sticking around this afternoon for the band? Got live music all day!

I shrug my shoulders, I’m not sure what The Tech Titan has planned for the day.

The Tech Titan: You guys want to grab some breakfast in Point Reyes Station, kill some time in the Tesla and then come back for some afternoon tunes?

Me: I’m in.

Flood: I’m in.

The sun is beating down in Nicasio. It’s not even 10am yet, but the heat is sweltering. I’m not sure if jeans and boots were the right call today.

There’s a cyclist - triathlete to be specific - about my age getting his bike off of the car and preparing to ride. We chat. He’s from the city and comes up to Nicasio because the area is great for riding. “It’s gorgeous here, the roads have nice bike lanes and it’s just inspiring.”

I agree, but I warn him that there’s a swarm of other cyclists heading this way from Lucas Valley Road and he’d better get a move on if he wants to stay ahead of the mob. I can see he’s keen to steer clear of the other cyclists and with the click of a bicycle cleat and the loud hollow whir of the freewheel pawls resonating from the carbon fibre wheels, my new cyclist friend is gone. Nicasio is once again empty. I figure I’ve got about 10 minutes before the cycling mob arrives so I duck into the only open door, the little convenience store next to the post office.

“Good morning” I say cheerfully to the shopkeeper. “Well that remains to be seen sir” comes the reply delivered with pithy sarcasm. I’m guessing that 50% of the people who walk through the door would take such a reply as an insult and walk right back out. I’m giggling on the inside. I already like this guy. The shopkeeper is a heavy fellow with a thick salt-and-pepper moustache and goatee and a deep southern accent.

“Great accent” I say “Where ya’ from?”

“Southern Alabama.”

“Southern Alabama?”

“Yes sir”

“I’ve got to be honest with you, I don’t know anything about Southern Alabama” I say as I reach for the fresh chocolate chocolate-chip muffin and a banana.

“Do you like to read?” He quizzes me.

“Sure, yes.”

He tears a corner off of his yellow notepad, scribbles something down and hands it to me.

I read the note. “A Confederacy of Dunces” I read back to him quizzically.

“Read that book, and it will tell you everything you need to know about Southern Alabama” he says assuredly.

“Well okay then”

“Where ya headed?” he asks.

I tell him I’m heading out to Point Reyes to do some photography

“Photography? There’s an albino buck living on Point Reyes, you should see if you can find it. I hear he lives out near Limantour Beach”

I must have the “deer in the headlight” look in my eyes, but I’m trying to act like I know what he’s talking about. Limantour Beach? What the fuck is that?

Mr Shopkeeper then begins to explain that legend has it that a herd of deer with albino bucks migrated from Napa Valley and now they’re living on the southeastern side of Point Reyes. He reckons with that on a foggy morning with a long lens I might get a great shot.

Dangerous Dave was keen to take another motorcycle ride with me over the weekend, but I really wanted to explore Point Reyes with a camera. The plan is to set off in the Tahoe, cross the Golden Gate Bridge, then on through Sausalito to Lucas Valley Road. I’ll take LVR in the opposite direction from the motorcycle trip (east to west) to Nicasio, followed by brunch in Point Reyes Station where I’ll hopefully get some tips from the restaurant staff about photo locations on Point Reyes. Then I’ll explore The Point.

The weather is predicted to be warm enough for shorts, but I opt for jeans (Levi 501 button fly baby!), Red Wing Iron Ranger boots and a black t-shirt. That’s sort of “my look.” Being NorCal, I grab a lightweight flannel button up shirt, out of an abundance of caution. It might get a little chilly along the coast.

For the camera rig, I’m keeping it super simple. One camera body, one 50mm lens in a Billingham shoulder bag. The Billingham is khaki and has a certain “Indiana Jones” vibe to it, which I dig. I have a deeply ingrained belief that photographers should “look the part” … without resorting to one of those ridiculous press photographer vests. There’s a tripod in the Tahoe, so I’m covered there.

Okay let’s go.

I don’t care how many times you’ve done it, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge is always awesome. Once across and through the Robin Williams Tunnel, I always feel a sense of release as my nerves relax. Marin County invokes a sense of calm in me unlike any other place on earth. Today, the sun is shining and the sky is a cloudless deep blue. In Marin City I pass the seaplane airport. A bright yellow seaplane is glistening in the sun, and I hastily cut across the lanes of traffic to exit. It’s a gorgeous photograph in the making. To my surprise, the operators of the seaplane port are welcoming when I pull out a camera. So many business owners and land owners become instantly defensive when someone pulls out any camera more imposing than an iPhone. But these guys are in the tourism business, so it makes sense to be nice to curious onlookers. Be nice and we will buy tickets or tell a friend.

Okay, I’ve got a nice pic “in the can” and I’m continuing on to Lucas Valley Road.

With the morning sun at my back, Lucas Valley Road is brighter and more cheery than last time through, which as it turns out is a good thing. There’s some sort of organized bicycle group ride passing through LVR and the road is absolutely clogged with cyclists. Being a cyclist myself, I have extra patience for cycling groups and give them plenty of room. But this is bordering on absurd. It’s like I’m playing frogger. The road is twisty and the sightlines are shit, so every time I cross the yellow center line to pass, I feel like I’m going to get into a head on collision. I settle into taking it slow and eventually make it to Nicasio.

I can feel the vibration of the gigantic Ducati engine buzzing through my palms. The heat from the exhaust is roasting my crotch like it’s some sort of primordial stew. I’ve downshifted one, maybe two gears. The engine is in the power band and ready to eviscerate the road ahead. Dangerous Dave would be proud. I’m not loping along like an old fart. I’m breaking every speeding law in the land. This is exciting.

Even at noon on a bright sunny day, Lucas Valley Road is almost pitch black under the dense canopy of large coastal redwood trees. Through the tinted visor, it’s a bit too dark.

My speed increases as the road becomes more twisty. My pulse, which had initially quickened from the adrenaline, is now slowing as my mind enters a flow state. I’m passing 25mph “Turn Ahead” warning signs at triple the recommended speed. With pinpoint precision I’m placing the front tire within millimeters of the center line dashes and the road perimeter lines. Trees are passing beside me like stars passing outside the window of the Millennium Falcon at light speed. And yet, in this flow state my mind is elsewhere.

I’m watching in amazement as my hands are operating the throttle and brake lever in slow motion. I begin to feel the stubble in my beard working its way into the cheek pads of the helmet. I taste my breath. The pace of the motorcycle increases again. I’m gently guiding the bike around the damp patches in the road while still staying on the racing line through this twisty canyon.

The exhaust is ROARING. The sound echoes off the hillsides.

I begin to ruminate on how much centrifugal force I can apply at the tire/road contact patch before it would give way. A crash in this narrow little canyon of redwood trees would be instantly fatal. Closed casket. The blood would drain from the body like a water balloon hitting the garage door.

I CARE NOT! CHARGE! SOUND THE HORN! FULL SPEED AHEAD CAPTAIN!

I’m accelerating so hard out of the corners that I can feel the front wheel lifting off the ground. The Ducati tries to buck me off as the rear suspension squats under power and struggles to apply 100 foot pounds of torque into a tiny two-square-inch patch of Pirelli rubber. The handlebars shake from side-to-side like a Labrador Retriever playing tug of war with a hank of rope. I am on the edge.

One tiny mistake and I’m stardust. Two sentences in the police blotter and two more in the obituary section.

KEEP. PUSHING. FASTER.

I twist the throttle wide open and just touch 100mph before clamping hard on the brakes. I set up the bike for a blind left hand corner. My Ducati is in my lane, but my head is hanging over the centerline into oncoming traffic. It’s all fine and dandy until a tour bus appears out of the blind corner. I swerve nanoseconds before being decapitated.