A Motorcycle Odyssey: From Southern California to the Olympic Peninsula
Trawlercat Chronicles
“Life is not always a straight path, and upon reflection, it is often the twists and turns that captivate, weaving a rich tapestry of experiences that shape who we are and how we see the world. Each unexpected detour, every winding road, adds depth and color to our journey, revealing lessons and moments of beauty we might never have encountered had we simply marched forward in a predictable line.”
In the predawn stillness of Wednesday, September 7, 2021, I eased my BMW GSA 1250 Adventure motorcycle out of the garage, its Gordo like body gliding silently down the sloped driveway and onto the sidewalk. With a few quick revs of the throttle, I ignited the engine and embarked on a northward journey from Southern California.
After traversing 509 miles of freeways, I arrived in Menlo Park, California—a ride that might sound straightforward in summary, but oh, the details demand a deeper telling.
The journey introduced me to an unexpected delight: the intoxicating aroma of garlic wafting from semi-trailers brimming with the pungent bulbs. These weren’t isolated encounters—I counted nearly a dozen garlic-laden giants rolling along California’s highways.
Edging as close as legally permissible, I flipped open my visor and inhaled in deeply. The scent was so potent it cleared my sinuses and even brought tears to my eyes—an olfactory symphony that rivaled any scenic vista.
Enthralled, I detoured through Gilroy, California, the self-proclaimed Garlic Capital, where the air itself seemed infused with the vegetable’s essence.
Garlic, often mistaken for an herb or a spice, holds a special place in my heart—think of the magic it weaves into every Cuban dish.
Gilroy’s claim to fame isn’t exaggerated; it produces a staggering quantity of the world’s supply, though I’ll refrain from guessing 23 billion pounds annually lest I overstep poetic license.
Did you know smell ties more closely to memory than any other sense? That’s a fact I confirmed later, and on this ride, garlic stirred emotions I hadn’t anticipated.
Weather often dominates a motorcyclist’s tale, but today, those aromatic waves stole the spotlight.
My first stop was Roberto’s home in Menlo Park, a haven nestled among towering redwoods. Roberto, a gracious host with a gentle, nurturing soul, defies the stereotype of the tall, bronzed Latin archetype.
He evokes a Mr. Roarke from Fantasy Island—a figure who, in a lush, secluded retreat, fulfills the dreams of his guests. For me, Roberto opened his home to a handful of riders, setting the stage for a week-long adventure around Washington’s Olympic Peninsula.
As I napped poolside, lulled by the garlic essence still lingering in my senses, I awoke to a serene silence, my sun-kissed skin basking in the warmth. Relaxation enveloped me, a prelude to the journey ahead.
Our plan included exploring the Hoh Rain Forest, a gem of the Olympic Peninsula. While Seattle averages 36 inches of rain yearly, the Hoh accumulates a staggering 14 feet, with fog and mist adding another 30 inches—making it one of Earth’s lushest rainforests.
On Saturday, Roberto would don the mantle of a “Yoda Yeti Master,” a title bestowed by Gpskevin, our ride organizer, who dubs all his leaders “Yodas” in homage to Star Wars. “Much to learn, you still have,” Roberto might quip, a line even trickier to translate into Spanish, a language we both wield alongside English and a third tongue.
Time, as Pink Floyd sang in 1974’s “Time”—a tune I first heard during basic training—slips away unnoticed. “Tired of lying in the sunshine, staying home to watch the rain… And then one day you find ten years have got behind you…”
These lyrics resonate as we prepare to ride through Washington’s rain-soaked wilds, a reminder to seize the day.
By day two, four of us—Roberto, Mike, Dave, and I—pushed 662 miles from Menlo Park to Portland, Oregon. There, Ovi, Motoquest Portland’s store manager, greeted us and joined us for dinner and drinks.
Motoquest offers premium guided adventures worldwide, but we opted for Gpskevin’s budget-friendly rendition, aiming to circumnavigate the Olympic Peninsula via GPS.
We loaded our bikes onto a ferry, following a blue line on our Garmin chips—our “yellow brick road,” sans wicked witches, unlike Dorothy’s quest in The Wizard of Oz.
Day one had already gifted us memories: a visit to Dan and Peggy, a remarkable couple whose home featured an airplane hangar door that folded open with a Frankenstein-esque switch, revealing Washington’s outdoors.
Day three dawned in Enumclaw, Washington, the official start of our Olympic ride. The previous day, Roberto and I prepped his motorcycle and trailer, riding Skyline Highway (California State Route 35)—a redwood-lined crest of the Santa Cruz Mountains that now ranks as my greatest ride ever. I captured it on my GoPro, though sharing it eludes me for now.
We passed through Atherton, a gated enclave of mansions near Facebook and Google, before loading Roberto’s Honda onto his Tacoma and my GSA onto a borrowed jet ski trailer—a snug fit for my beast, less so for his. Mike, with Hulk-like arms and piercing green eyes, rides a KTM, while Dave, a Christopher Reeve doppelgänger who dons Clark Kent attire year-round (not just Halloween), also pilots a KTM.
My wife, Patti, cringes at my profiling, insisting only five souls read this blog—her and me included. I say the riders I’ve met, on Hondas, BMWs, and KTMs, are among the finest folks around.
Rain greeted us as we loaded panniers in Enumclaw, prompting me to duck under a hotel awning. “Hey kid, does it ever stop raining here?” I asked a nearby six-year-old. “How the hell should I know, Mister? I’m only six!” he shot back.
After a first breakfast, the nine of us declared it time for a second at Charlie’s Diner, savoring huckleberry pie baked hourly.
Emerging to a lighter drizzle, we split into two groups, riding toward Mt. Rainier National Park. The ascent was less than spectacular, but the weather ran the gamut—sunny, cloudy, overcast, drizzle, snow—echoing Forrest Gump’s litany of rains, minus the storms.
Quoting Johnny Cash to myself—“Sometimes you need to know when to hold ‘em, when to fold ‘em, when to speed up and when to slow down”—I surged ahead, leading the Mexico City contingent, Andre and Estella. Their spirited pace quickened after lunch, despite her helmet drooping as if napping pillion-style.
Lunch came at a seafood shack on an island near Aberdeen. “We’re not a restaurant,” the owners protested. “No problema,” I replied in accented Spanish, Roberto grinning Cheshire-like beside me. “We’re from Mexico City, here for your hospitality, rain, and fresh seafood.”
Charmed, they offered a picnic table and warmed smoked seafood chowder, as we piled the counter with calamari, eel grass, and halibut. Our English slipped, prompting, “Your English has improved already!” “Sí, gracias,”
Roberto chirped, name-dropping Brady’s Oysters Seafood and Clams. Later, I rode the world’s longest beach, sand spraying, while others watched, wary of rust.
Rain intensified through Quinault, morphing into a misty veil—nature’s mister, akin to my home pergola’s cooling system, though here it hovered over Quinault Lake, where our rooms (thanks, Yoda Jane) offered stunning views. In 1975, Quinault logged 170.5 inches of rain, a record tracked since 1933’s 169 inches.
Memories blur from Ilwaco, where I slept atop a bunk bed at the Salt Hotel, nursing a bump from smacking my head on the ceiling, startled awake by Dave’s (aka Superman’s) snores—mistaking them for Mt. St. Helens erupting anew.
We’d ridden around that volcano, its May 1980 blast still evident in the landscape, and marveled at moss-draped forests. Packwood offered better lodging—woodsy and serene—though dinner options disappointed.
Elk outnumbered locals, yet stayed elusive. We bypassed microwaved pizza for a saloon meal with Tom, the air devoid of wood-fired aroma. Day three’s highlights included beach riding and seafood, but Wi-Fi woes delayed posts.
By day four, the Quinault Lodge served takeout salmon—six varieties—enjoyed picnic-style overlooking the lake. An out-and-back ride hit wet gravel, thrilling KTM riders while unnerving others.
Breakfast at the Lake Quinault America’s Rainforest Internet Café (internet down, but Maria from Mazatlan shone) coincided with Estella noting it was Mexican Independence Day—September 16, not Cinco de Mayo.
A ride to the Hoh Rain Forest was thwarted by roadwork; Andre and Estella lingered in line while we regrouped at Forks Motel and savored LaPush’s vampire lore, tied to Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight and its 120-inch annual rainfall. Salmon dip and burgers capped the day.
Day five brought us to Sequim, near the John Wayne Marina, prepping for a ferry to Port Townsend. At 6:30 AM, 41 degrees and a 70% rain chance loomed.
Yoda Mike, a “short sleeper,” hunted coffee as I struck out at a short-staffed shop. Tom found the Breakwater in Clallam, opening at 8:00 AM with a view of the Straits of Juan de Fuca.
My Red Devil breakfast—French toast, bacon, eggs, hash browns—fortified us. Aaron, a Connecticut rider on a 1992 Katana, joined us, sharing tales of an 8,000-mile, 30-day trek, including a 14-hour ferry to Newfoundland. He touted the North Cascades—“American Alps” of jaw-dropping beauty—prompting Roberto to pencil them in. Neah Bay’s twisties thrilled, though closed to outsiders, and a Frito-Lay truck chased us Duel-style on windy roads.
Lunch in Port Angeles required COVID shot records; two lacked them, but creative airdrops saved the day for Dungeness crab.
In Sequim, 50-degree freezing rain greeted us. The clerk favored us with second-floor rooms, relegating dog owners downstairs. Tom dubbed ours the “San Andreas Fault Room” for a carpet-bulging crack, joined by a running toilet and an unyielding light.
The HVAC’s hum masked Tom’s snores. At Concrete’s Baker River Wood Works, we skipped meals, lean from prior feasts like The Blue Moose’s in Port Townsend. Estella dreamed of tequila atop her huckleberry cobbler, stashed in a “teachers only” drawer back home.
On the Port Townsend-to-Coupeville ferry, a Vegas escapee touted Whidbey Island’s wine tasting. Deception Pass State Park offered photo ops, and Charlie’s Sasquatch museum—born of his Kawasaki racing days—lifted our spirits amid rain-soaked rides through Oak Harbor and Coupeville. Shelter at Sedro-Woolley’s Double Barrel BBQ reunited us near the North Cascades Highway.
On the final day, we breakfasted at Concrete’s Lonestar—not our beloved 5B’s Bakery, shuttered till 9:00 AM—and rode out under a downpour, chasing the blue GPS line toward the “Olympic American Alps.” Pavement yielded to dirt, unveiling twisties, waterfalls, rapids, and mossy boulders amid shifting weather—sunshine to rain clouds. Nature’s scents stirred my soul to a hallelujah of gratitude. Roberto’s Honda 500X with street tires proved rider skill trumps gear. Concrete, named post-1918 fires for its fireproof ethos, faded in my mirrors.
Lifelong bonds formed with riders from across the U.S. and Mexico, politics and status irrelevant. Mt. St. Helens and Neah Bay topped my week. Frog Toggs rain gear, Alpinestars boots, Klim apparel, and panniers worked flawlessly; my unlinked ride let thoughts roam free. Mile after mile of whoop-de-do’s left me tired but eager for family and Patti’s arrival in the Pacific Northwest.
So, readers beyond my wife and me—drop a note if this tale stirred you. Every ride’s a winner, every ride’s a loser, and the best we can hope for is to keep riding toward the sunshine.
—Trawlercat, September 2021
Trawlercat Chronicles 