With not a cloud in the sky, full fuel tanks, caffeinated bloodstreams, and too much confidence, we departed the comforts of highway geared transmissions and passing power. As we entered the Malibu tunnel, I was imagining myself behind the wheel of a Formula 1 car in the Monaco GP. Channeling my inner Senna, I cracked the throttle open just a little more to let the 2-stroke clatter fill the air as we raced to the impending light. The roadside slowly changed from metropolitan buildings, to mega homes, to the last surviving surf bungalows, and finally to vineyards.

I felt my left fairing start to come loose, a problem I thought I had fixed well enough two nights before with JB weld. We pulled over to address a quick fix and share our love of this section of road. A couple wraps of black electrical tape and the ‘Zuki was ready once again.
After a quick stretch and bite in Ventura, we had no other option but to jump onto HWY 101 for Carpentaria. A quick jaunt for most, a leap and bound for our 250’s. As we entered the onramp, Alex gave a large sign of the cross on his chest for me to see. A much needed dose of humor before some white knuckle riding.

An offramp never felt so good. The surface roads through Carpentaria and Sutherland were lush and smooth. The combination of Porsches and work trucks made it seem like most small towns in California these days, a little bit confused as to what kind of town it is. Or was. We started to climb in elevation as we rode the high line above Santa Barbara. We pulled into my good friends Jackson and Dylan’s house where the bikes deserved some much needed rest. Jackson and Dylan are a big reason why I got into motorcycles many years ago. Since we were young, watching them compete in motocross events inspired me to learn the ways of 2 wheelers and I cannot thank them enough for their unintentional influence and friendship.

Sunday morning came and so did our hangovers. A late night of, “we need to ride here, do this, surf that…” is never a poor reason to stay up late with great company. We decided that breakfast at the marina was a good way ease our pain before our ride back. Dylan joined us on his ‘78 Honda CB550. I could have rode behind him for miles listening to the inline 4 cylinder turn air into a carbon dioxide symphony in the key of 7,000 RPM. We thanked Jackson and Dylan for their hospitality and pointed the bikes south. We found ourselves in a part of Ventura stuck in time. Mechanic shops, liquor stores, still standing but covered in dust and vacancy. The freeway just off in the distance. We stopped at a vintage looking 7/11 for something to drink while we sat next to the bikes and talked about our lives as of recent. As we rested by the bikes, a slight melancholy feeling came over me. How much longer will these historic old buildings last before they are bulldozed into condos and high rises only for its occupants to pay absorbent loads to live there.

We flew through Ventura into Oxnard where we hit our first major problem. My bike cut out unexpectedly. After pushing it off the road, my brain went into, “air, fuel, spark” mode. Air, check. Fuel, check. Spark, has to be. Upon inspection, I had burned out my spark plug and lost my transmission filler cap. Alex “McGiver-ed” an empty creamer cup to plug the hole and wrapped electrical tape around the entire transmission to hold it in place.

I screwed in a new spark plug in but now it wasn’t starting. The carb was getting fuel, the floats were not stuck, I couldn’t understand. I decided that a bump start outta do the trick and it thankfully did. We packed up and hit the road before we found something else that needed to be fixed.

We rode through Oxnard without another hiccup. The smell of strawberries soon became sea air and 2-stroke smoke as I defiantly blew through pieces of piston rings as the miles to home shrunk. My mind was scattered between focusing on the road, what could break next on my bike, and the thoughts of life that rattle around my helmet; How could I have done that differently? Why did I think that was a good idea? What was I thinking? You’re a looser.

We soon approached the Malibu tunnel bridge where this trip all began. An overwhelming sense of tranquilly came over me of what this 44-year old, $650 dollar dirt bike just accomplished. I began talking out loud to myself thanking the bike. Even giving it gentle love taps on the tank and congratulating it for not being too much of a pain in the ass. Seconds later, I ran out of gas.

SoCal 250

An Old Ford

Blackwing