I slept on my sheepskin pelt in the desert just outside Edwards Air Force Base. The fat, blue halo of light to the south warned of my proximity to Los Angeles and all of its preternatural happenings. Morning sun transversed the lower sky and a fence post shadow crossed my face. I went from sleep to riding in about three minutes.
The rubber seemed to barely meet the road through Bakersfield, with only a brief stop at the cemetery to pay my respects to G. Ware - the second time I'd done so on my bike, which I was proud of. I cut through the cluttered oil fields and even freed myself of my helmet on the deep switchbacks of Hwy. 41. Morro Rock rose out of the sea and I met my Grandpa at his camper on the coast.
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