Chapter 10: The Beaches of Los Angeles County

I headed southwest after reaching St. George. With few roads in this part of the country, I stuck to Interstate 1-5, watching my rearview mirror for semis and RVs overtaking me. Traffic at that hour was lighter, and drivers were more attentive.

I made it to Las Vegas, the city that never sleeps, and the saying held true for once. Traffic thickened north of the city, and I stayed sharp as the pace picked up. I had to stay attentive as cars changed lanes without warning, forcing quick reactions. Whether they didn’t see me or didn’t care, it was close. Police were busy watching for offenders, and I kept to the right lane, gripping the handlebars tighter and staying near the speed limit.

I didn’t stop for fuel until I cleared the city. I had no interest in stopping in Las Vegas, I just wanted to get through it. I pulled in to a 24-hour station that billed itself as the last stop before the state line, topped the tank off and paid cash. Gas prices in the California desert were insane, and I had no intention of paying them.

I stopped for breakfast and a break in Barstow, California. It had been a while, and the traffic was wearing on me. I kept an eye on gamblers heading back to Los Angeles from Las Vegas, as many weren’t paying attention, likely distracted by their wins or losses. Breakfast was simple; McDonald’s. The stop gave me time to check my gazetteer and map a route to the coast that would avoid most of the heavy traffic in and around Los Angeles.

My route let me bypass Los Angeles entirely. I stayed on Interstate 15 to Victorville, then switched to state highways to Oxnard. I planned to return to the same beachside motel where I’d stayed before after a full day in the saddle. I reached the beach where I’d first called Ginny four hundred fifty miles, two days, and three fuel stops later. I planned to stay a couple of days, then head south to San Diego after hearing Cletus rave about the city and its beaches, I wanted to see it for myself.

It was still early, and I doubted that the motel would let me check in, so I rode to the food truck where I’d eaten the last time I was there when I called Ginny and confronted her betrayal. It felt like I’d never left; most of the crew was the same. I was welcomed as part of the beach crowd once again, and the motorcycle only added to my coolness.

I stayed a couple of hours getting to know my new friends while waiting to check in. Most of them had regular jobs where they worked at night and gathered on the beach to socialize during the day. It was no different from stopping for a drink at a local tavern, only the tavern was the food truck here, with the beach where you could surf if you wanted to.

It was part of California’s beach culture, and I was being initiated like a fraternity pledge. Several of my new acquaintances even offered to teach me to surf, as only then would I be considered a true brother of the beach, they joked.

I grabbed a couple of fish tacos to go and headed to the motel when it was time. Check-in was easy, and I decided to stay for a week. The woman at the desk was glad to hear it and offered plenty of suggestions for things to do. She said that the best people to learn to surf from were the crew at the food truck as they’d grown up there and knew the beaches and surf better than anyone.

I sat outside my room, watching the sun sink into the Pacific that evening. It was magnificent, and I knew that I’d never tire of it. I nearly nodded off afterward, as long hours on the road and the thrill of being back had taken their toll, and I was ready for an early night.

I slept in the next morning until the housekeeping staff woke me. I headed to the office for breakfast suggestions after a quick shower. Options locally were limited. I could ride fifteen minutes down the coast to Malibu, but the restaurants were pricey, almost as much as my room, and likely staffed by snobby servers. There was also a good chance of running into celebrities. The office lady once saw a famous actress with her dogs, and paparazzi often lingered outside. That was a definite turn-off. I didn’t want my photo published, and I certainly didn’t need Ramos spotting me and have me eliminated.

The woman at the counter also suggested heading inland, where a few small towns nearby offered plenty of meal options. That sounded safer, so I followed her advice. Consulting my gazetteer, I found the route and soon arrived at the local McDonald’s in Camarillo. The trip was scenic, with enough curves and elevation changes to keep it interesting; a genuinely fun ride.

I returned to the beach where several new friends from the previous afternoon were already staking out prime spots. I asked for advice on beachwear as my cowboy clothes made me stick out. They decided that I needed shorts and a shirt to protect my pale skin. One of the women offered to take me to a local shop so that I could get outfitted without looking like a tourist. Another suggested sunscreen; sunburn was a real risk even in the off-season. There apparently was nothing worse than spending the day at the beach only to come home sunburned.