March 20 Palm Springs
After another light breakfast of bacon, scrambled egg, sausage, hash browns, pancakes with maple syrup etc, it was time to head out for our next stop, Palm Springs. Once again, while H told me the journey was 190 miles, my GPS insisted it was in fact 220. One thing was agreed, we were heading East and up.
We took the Martin Luther King Jr Freeway out of the city and after about thirty minutes, having passed El Cajon, we joined another road and started the long slow climb up the Granite Hills. Slowly but surely as we climbed, the altitude markers on the side of the road crept up. At 1000ft, the sun was still hot on my face but I detected the first chilling of the air as I breathed it in. Climbing slowly, we reached Los Terrinitos where we turned North on 79 and continued our ascent into the Cuyamaca State Park. The roads here are a dusty, pinky yellow and bordered by Pine oaks, the dry wood that reminds everyone of the ever present danger of fire. People here still have the memory of the terrible conflagrations this area suffered in 2003 and there are warning signs everywhere. Shortly, we came across Lake Cuyamaca and after another climb, at a brisk 4000ft, we reached the town of Julian in time for lunch. Julian is famous for Gold and Apples. Unfortunately, it would appear we were about a century and a half too late to make our fortune although there are still museums where you can see how Gold was panned and try your luck.
Having worked on and off for twenty-odd years in the States, I was pretty familiar with the saying "As American as Momma's Apple Pie..." so, you can imagine my happiness when, as we cruised down Main Street, I saw a bakery called "Mom's Apple Pie". Parking up, we went in and bought a couple of small apple pies with coffee and settled down on a bench in the sun to see what it was all about. Apple, cinnamon, a light pastry..just a perfect way to spend an hour and reflect on the journey so far.
The bikes just did what Harley's do best - start first time and run smoothly. Having put a couple of hundred miles on the Softail, I took stock. As mentioned before, the bike rides low and this is an advantage for riders with shorter inside legs. While it's OK for Rossi or Valentino to stand on tiptoes as they prepare to launch their rockets, those bikes have a centre of gravity somewhere just above the fuel tank and weigh about as much as a box of feathers. We ride Iron. Low centre of gravity but heavy as hell and to be comfortable, you have to be able to put your feet flat on the ground in most normal situations. The Softail, will tick this box for 99% of riders although paradoxically, it might seem a bit small for six footers. By now, the first big difference between the bikes was obvious, fuel consumption. I was getting about 42mpg but H, with all the Electra's fairings, was beating me by at least 10mpg and that starts to add up. Having said that, with petrol at two quid a gallon, it's not really that much of an issue here.
So, after a pleasant break in Julian, we mounted up and headed out of town on 79 beginning the first part of the descent phase of the trip to Aguanga. As we continued the ride, the landscape opened up to scrubland, bordered in the far distace by snowcovered mountains. With every mile, the air breathed warmer and thicker and the sun felt strong on my face. At Anza, a small township, we stopped for a drink of water, my second litre of the day, and a five minute rest. Although we had both been wearing banadanas, I was amused to see H's red face. Nonplussed, he told me to take a look at mine. In the mirror, a red forehead, nose and cheeks were surrounded by babyface white ears and jawline. The sun had burnt right through the banadanas. In common with all males of the species, far too late, we now started slapping on copious amounts of suncream. Heading off again, we followed the 371 for a few miles until we reached the 74, the Pine to Palms Highway. This is a real motorbiking road. Threading its way through the San Barnadino Forest and the Cleveland mountains, it offers everything. Wild straights give way to snaking switchbacks and seemingly impossible bends for a Harley. In fact, the bends just outside Palm Desert finally caused my right foot board to scrape satisfyingly. H, who was about 50 metres behind me heard and saw it as well and I could hear his whoops behind me. For some reason, the experience reminded me of the first time I got my knee down at a track day. About five seconds later, an esquadrilla of Ducati's swept past doing their best to emulate that.
By now, we had left the mountains and dropped down to our first desert environment. As we approached Palm Springs, stopping at the first set of signals, I was reminded of how powerful the V-Twin was as it pumped its heat straight up to join the hot sun which together started an extremely warm and wet sauna effect. However, heat, petrol fumes, Bougainvillea and Oleader all joined to give a heady mix of aromas as we pulled up outside The Shilo Inn, Palm Springs.
Having performed the Rigg Pak rigmarole in direct sun, I was more than ready for a beer. We just dumped our bags and headed straight for the bar. Sitting on the stools, we both looked and felt like extras from Ice Cold In Alex and we we'd only ridden 2 miles in the desert! Now it was time for a shower before heading into town.
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