Tag Archives: road

Coming Soonish

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Unless I decide to write something else.

Hey, you know what would be cool? I’d be cool if I was driving along somewhere, or more likely sitting in a bar with my laptop, and someone said, “Hey, are you that Homeless Tour guy?”

That would be cool. It’d be like being a rock star, except without all the money and chicks.

The real reason I’m posting right now is to warn both of you out there that I’m going to be messing with the site for a bit tonight and probably into the morning as well, so at times it may just fly apart. I’ve decided I need a better header. It’ll still have the name of the blog up there, but in some yet-to-be-dertermined artsy style. More important, it will have a short explanation for new visitors about just what it is they’re getting into.

As long as I’m sitting here bleary-eyed and weary-fingered, I just want to say thanks to all y’all for posting so many comments. It’s funny, some things I write I expect to get lots of comments, and nothing. Then, out of the blue, wham! Comment-o-rama. If you haven’t been pulling your weight in the comment department, it’s not to late to start. You know who you are.

But hey, if you just like lurking, that’s fine, too. Just don’t let it turn into stalking.

Addendum: Anyone know where I can find a font that looks like a typewriter that hasn’t been cleaned in 30 years, so there are blotches of ink everywhere?

Additional Addendum: This additional addendum is to call your attention to the additional addendum (labeled Additional Addendum) in the post “Great Googly-Moogly”. I wouldn’t want all that typing to go to waste.

You can see the progress I’m making on the header – the idea in my head far exceeds my ability to execute. The image is a PNG with an alpha channel, and I haven’t tried looking at it with any Windows browsers yet. If you could take a moment and let me know how it looks on yours, I’d be grateful. That Flowery font was just a placeholder, but now it’s kind of growing on me. You can see that the typewriter part is far too clean. I had the & cradling the H really nicely in a previous version, but the I made the & bigger so it could drop out of the dark blue area and break up that line. We’ll see how it goes.

Thanks!

A Lap Around The Lake

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It was a very good decision. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the squirrels were behaving normally. I headed north from Zephyr Cove and around the lade counterclockwise, a trip of about 80 miles all told. Not really that much of note happened, I passed the Ponderosa (Home of TV’s Bonanza! Yee-haw!) I passed a ski resort that with a sign that said “Open From Top To Bottom” – I know there’s still snow up here but I have to be a little skeptical.

On the California side the views aren’t as spectacular, but there are more houses right on the water – some of them pretty damn amazing. Emerald Bay was indeed beautiful. I stopped to look around and take some pics. Soon after I pulled out of the vista point, I found myself on one of the most spectacular 200 meters of road I’ve ever seen. The road went along a ridge surrounded by water on every side (map). There was no way to stop – the edge of the pavement was the edge of the world. Sky above, water below, some forest in between, and a ribbon of asphalt seemingly suspended in space. At the end the road dove into some nice switchbacks.

I passed a bar with a homemade giant beer mug for its sign, but I didn’t get a picture. Sorry about that. I bet they had a blast making it.

It is also remarkable how patient the drivers are on those roads. People may be going slowly, but the person behind will hang back a polite distance and putt along with the rest of the crowd.

At the end I pulled into Sam’s Place, but that’s another entry.

Thanks!

Tahoe

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Location: Leza and Mark’s place (map) (photos)
Miles: 1726.5

I was moving, traveling through the hot California air, tunes playing, momentum taking me up and out of Silicon Valley and into the mountains. Stopping was out of the question. Still, there’s that big, poorly shielded (and getting less well-shielded as time passes) fusion reactor up there in the sky, bathing us all in dangerous radiation. Having managed to retain a tiny bit of wisdom from my radiation damage two days previous, I knew that sunscreen was in order.

No problem. I have a convertible, and I know that the sun is not my friend. I have sunscreen out the wazoo. I open the little console between the seats to grab a tube and an important reciept I had in there starts to fly out. I catch it before it takes wing, shove it under my leg for safety and fish out the lotion tube. Alas, it’s a poorly designed tube (can’t put it down with the top off – who thinks of things like that?) so I decide to choose skin cancer for a few more minutes rather than risk crashing. I set the tube in my lap.

Not long after that I crossed a bridge to discover when I got to the far side that it was a toll bridge. It was a good thing I had stopped at an ATM this morning. I grabbed a couple of bucks from my wallet but while shifting around I came to be sitting on the end of the sunscreen tube. I was unaware of this unhappy little fact for many happy miles. Now I have sunscreen on the wazoo. And on the upholstery. And on the important receipt.

On a happier note, I am now in a very nice place. As you can tell from the photos the scenery is spectacular here, and it is very peaceful. In my room is a microwave and a little fridge already stocked with a few beers. La Dolce Vida indeed. I will be adding to the photos over the next few days. Sunset should be good, looking west over Lake Tahoe.

Thanks!

American Road Myth, part 1

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Note: this episode was the seed for a more-developed treatment published at Piker Press.

I have mentioned a couple of times when I have been in one place too long that I am pining for the road. Some of my favorite moments on this trip so far have behind the wheel – just me, my machine, and my thoughts. And that’s what it comes down to. I think better when I’m alone.

The definition of alone can be squirrely. The old cliché ‘alone in a crowd’ certainly applies – I can wrap myself up in a little introspective ball in a raucous bar and pound away, while if I’m in someone’s house and they’re tiptoeing around trying not to disturb me I find that very distracting.

So here’s a theory – ‘alone’ is a synonym for ‘free’. In a crowded bar, the only time I’m distracted is if all the tables are full and people are waiting to eat dinner. I feel bad for hurting the bar’s and (more important) my server’s income. When I’m in someone’s house, it’s their house, dammit, and they should be able to act however they want in it.

That brings me to the road. It’s the thing I’m looking for out here, and sometimes I feel like I might just find it. The road has always represented freedom, but not, I have come to believe, because it takes you wherever you want to go but because when you’re on it you are nowhere. Lately I have been using the phrase “American Road Myth” to describe the romance our nation holds for the road, from Kerouac to Thelma and Louise to riding off into the sunset. We love the road, we love the freedom, but nowhere in the road myth is the idea of a destination. The road is about self-sufficiency and the unknown. It’s about finding stories, meeting people, but always moving on.

I take back what I just said: there is a destination in the road myth, it’s just not on a map. Paul Simon and an unnamed friend went to look for America, and never left the United States. As far as I know they never found what they were looking for. There is an implied quest for wholeness, for some kind meaning that is at the end of the yellow brick road. To find it, you have to be nowhere. You have to be on the road.

We Americans have created a new religion, an introspective and wistful belief system that few practice but all believe in. Freedom, solitude, the road. Independence and resourcefulness, hardship and thought. Hoppin’ a freight, sleeping under the stars, hitchhiking. Disconnecting. Escaping. For all our collective brashness and bravado, we yearn for the peace of the road and a glimpse of what’s over the rainbow.

If America has a heaven, it’s an all-night truck stop, with Mac in back cooking burgers and passing them up to Sal (you know by the embroidered patch over her respectable breast), who sets it in front of you, fries steaming and glistening, saying “Here ya go, Hon.” You haven’t eaten in 400 miles and the burger is perfect. There’s a trucker two stools down, and he’s flirting with Sal while the jukebox plays an old Hank Williams song you never heard before. Unlike any other heaven, though, this heaven is perfect because you are just passing through. You have a slice of pie, leave your money on the counter, and saddle up to move on to the next town. Sal says goodbye and tells you to come back in next time you’re passing through.

You just might do that.

Copyright © 2004 by Jerry Seeger. All Rights Reserved.

Thanks!

Yosemite

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Location: Mariposa Grove (map of approx. location of parking lot ) (album)
Miles: 1148.1

Groveland on Sunday morning is dead. D-E-A-D dead. Even the breakfast places are closed. I wandered the main drag, hungry and alone, looking for someone to make me some toast. That’s all I wanted, toast. And Eggs. And Potatoes. Maybe some bacon. Mmmm, bacon. And Tea, of course. That’s all I wanted.

I found a place, of course, with all those things, right across the street from where I started. Oh, well, I got to see the town.

Right, then. On the road. Beautiful day and all that. The speed limit in the park is 35 mph in most places, which makes going pretty slow, but I turned off the music and with the top down I could hear birds singing, so I just rolled along, stopping often to take pictures. The valley really is spectacular, and the trees are big. The signs on the hiking trail giving the distances to various points of interest were complete fiction. At one point I had 0.8 miles to go. I walked for a little while, dragging my sorry butt up a hill, and passed another sign. Distance to go: 0.8 miles. I’m slow, but not that slow.

There were people from all over the world there. There were some French people arguing with each other; when I passed them on the trail I said “excusé moi” (which I later realized was the wrong thing to say), but it sure made them self-conscious. On the way back down I passed two chinese women walking with their little girls. One of the women was talking animatedly to them, at length, and all were obviously having a good time. I understood only one word, but it was used more than once: Cinderella.

On the way back down the hill I took more small roads, and found my way back here, to the enigma that is Oakdale. Geographical schizophrenic. Last time through I spotted a billboard for a hotel that had free DSL and here I am now, DSLing away and watching late night TV. I thought I’d save some money and go to the grocery store for tonight’s vittles, and spent more than I would have in a restaurant. I am eating better food, though.

Sorry, I have to make a call now to make an appointment with a mobility specialist.

Thanks!

Groveland

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Location: Groveland Motel (map)
Miles: 1076.3

I’m sitting on the porch of my little cabin. I can see the moon, and it seems happy enough, happy as a slot car on an oval track. None of that figure-8 nonsense where you bash into another moon and your doors fly off. The highway is reasonably quiet now, but the occasional Harley does raise a ruckus. Overall, there’s not much to interfere with my peace. There’s a cricket chirping nearby, but far enough away that it’s therapeutic; any closer and I’d want to stomp the noisy little bastard.

I suppose, for those of you glued to your seats back home, that I should tell you something about my trip. It was a good drive.

The normally reliable California highway signage let me down, but I dealt with it. Had I studied the map a wee bit more closely I would have known that 280 south became, without announcement, 680 north. Goddamn number bastards. Even numbered highways aren’t even supposed to go north and south anyway. I had been looking for the junction with 680 as the cue to start looking for signs for the wee road I intended to take over the mountains. Goddamn road was long gone before I even realized I was on 680, dammit. [Note – I’m feeling fiesty tonight. There will probably be some more gratuitous dammits.]

One pleasent side effect was that I took a shortcut off the freeway that put me right through downtown Livermore, which looked like a pretty cool place. My fondness for the old downtown was profoundly (and not kindly) affected by the series of housing developments I passed on the outskirts of Livermore that looked like apartment complexes but were actually single family homes. Castles might be a better word for these things. Castles crammed together in a ‘Castle Zone’. Yes, sir, my kind of livin’.

So havig missed my ideal highway, which I will find on the way back to the bay area Monday, I struck West on I-580. Until is was 205, or something like that. Driving through California’s central valley I reflected on the fact that I was passing through the most productive farmland in the world – so productive that the ground water is poisoned by nitrates from the fertilizer.

In the valley is a town called Oakdale. I have appended it’s name – It is now “Oakdale, city of irony”. First, there was the huge sign, which said something like “Dammit! Oakdale is the bomb! Love them oaks!” I may not have that exactly right. What made this sign special was the enormous pile of firewood stacked nearby. I wonder what kind of tree that wood came from.

Second, there was the sign welcoming me to Oakdale. It showed a string of paper people like you cut out in preschool. The sign said something like “Welcome to Oakdale, a community united against drug abuse.” Admirable, I’m sure you’ll agree. 25 feet past that sign was one that said simply “cocktails”, with a picture of a martini. A few feet farther on was Whiskey River Saloon and Cocktail Lounge. Let’s all fight it together.

The trip according to music:
Scotts Valley to Freemont: Fluffy
Freemont to Livermore: X
Livermore to Tracy: Mary’s Danish
Tracy to ranger station: Havana 3am
Ranger station to hotel: Stiff Little Fingers

If you look to the west of Groveland (map), you will see a twisty, twisty road. I followed a stinkin little toyota mile after mile up the road as it crept along. Finally, at the very top of the road, it pulled me over to let me pass. I went through the last few corners and got onto straight road, only to have the goddamn little red car riding my ass. Yearrgh.

Had dinner at the Iron Door, and stayed for the band, the Wingnut Adams Blues Band. They were pretty darn good. I was impressed on the first song when the drummer did the singing. The guitarist was awesome, but the Spinal Tap facial expressions and some of his other histrionics were pretty silly in such a small place. It’s a fine line between showman and dork.

While waiting for the band to start, I was sitting at the bar having my buffalo burger and I managed to kick up a conversation with the guy next to me. OK, he kicked it up. He was taking a break from studying for the bar exam. When I told him what I was up to, it was almost embarrassing how much he gushed at first, but he proved good at asking questions and it occurred to me that I am very fortunate to be able to do my tour. Not many people will ever have the option to do something this dumb.

I’ll get some pics up here pronto, dammit!

Ooo! John! one more thing! There’s a company up here call Zoo-phonics. You could get a job there and move to the middle of nowhere!

Thanks!

Heading Out

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Location: John and Janice’s house
Miles: 900.9

Everything’s packed except the laptop, and I’m ready to head out. Big, big thanks go to John and Janice for putting me up for as long as they did. I’ve had a great time here and I don’t care who knows it.

One trumpet lighter and with Winnebaggo (I had been calling my giant suitcase my mobile home, but John coined this much better name) looking more svelte as I redistributed my load somewhat, I’m feeling footloose and fancy-free. I honestly have no idea where I’m going to stay tonight. Not even what state I’ll be in. Work looms again on Monday, so I’ll have to find an Internet connection by then – most likely at Buggy’s place.

A little parting anecdote about life chez John. Changing the names to protect the innocent would be pretty useless. Yesterday John had a Job interview for a little educational publishing outfit in Santa Cruz. He spent the afternoon boning up on the company and he got all gussied up. Before he left, Janice made sure he had a little portfolio with working pen and paper, and asked him, “Do you have any resumés printed up to hand to people?”

What followed was well over half an hour of formatting, checking, and printing resumés, until John was properly armed to Janice’s satisfaction. John was getting increasingly antsy to leave during this process. Finally, time running short, he got himself together and out the door.

Janice turned to me and said, “He’s never going to make it in time. He should have left half an hour ago – traffic on Friday afternoons is really bad.”

Thanks!

Suicide Squirrel Death Cult

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Location: John and Janice’s house (map)
Miles: 805.3

I got my first inkling of the seamier underside of this quiet town a few days ago while a passenger in John’s car as we headed up the Glenwood cutoff toward Highway 17. It was a peaceful morning; we had a few errands to run – I needed ethernet cables, John had an item to drop by the tailor’s in preparation for his upcoming Polkacide gig. The sun shone down through the branches high overhead. Visibility was excellent, and the day quiet. Not even a Metro was going to sneak up on a woodlands creature on that day.

Yet, inexplicably, as we approached a tree (map) a squirrel leapt out of the foliage directly in the path of the car. John stomped on the brakes, but it was far, far too late. The squirrel vanished out of sight beneath the hood. John looked in the mirrors while I turned around to see the aftermath, but there was no obvious body. Perhaps he had got lucky.

John and I laughed about it, imagining the other squirrels on the side of the road egging that one on, but John must know. He’s been around here too long to not know about the Suicide Squirrel Death Cult. People keep their dark secrets to themselves in small towns.

It was today that the truth became obvious to me. Driving peacefully up Glenwood from the main town (map), two six-packs of beer placed carefully so that the side-to-side forces of the upcoming twisty road would not dislodge them, a squirrel came dashing out from the far side of the road and ran full-tilt to intercept me. I hit the brake, dumping bottles of beer out onto the floor on the passenger side, but as I slowed the squirrel changed course toward me. I cringed as my car passed over the squirrel. Once again, however, when I looked in my rear-view mirror, there was nothing. No squirrel guts, but no squirrel scampering to safety.

“Who trains the squirrels here anyway?” I asked the sky, as if every municipality had a squirrel trainer and the one for Scotts Valley just wasn’t very good. But after my initial innocent outburst, the terrifying truth began to dawn on me.

A hundred yards farther on lay the body of another squirrel. This one clearly had lost his bet with the gods of steel and rubber.

Yet there are eerie parallels between the two squirrel encounters, the most sinister being the complete disappearance of the mad rodents. Ghost squirrels? Perhaps it is an auto-matador squirrel club, keeping points among its members, who try to get as close to the car as possible without buying the acorn stash. Perhaps. But if had been something that innocent, then the locals would have been able to talk about it. No, the secret must be darker. It must be the Suicide Squirrel Death Cult.

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Thanks!

A Big Day, part 2: Highway 1

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On the way up to the city, the sky was clear and the air was warm most of the way up. I was hoping for the reverse on the way back down, but I didn’t see the sun until I was almost to Santa Cruz. No matter, it was a great drive.

At the top of the route, the road clings to the side of a cliff as it winds its way down from the city. There was some traffic, but not too much and I really felt the connection between me and the machine I was controlling. It’s not that uncommon that I feel the car shift and move as I apply throttle or brake, but today everything was there; I was finding the right path through the curves, and as I pressed the throttle I could feel the push increase in exact proportion. I was shifting without thinking, and everything felt very smooth.

After the winding road, I got stuck in traffic, which was probably a good thing, as there were police everywhere. Just then “It’s Not a Race” by Gwenmars came on the CD player, and that helped me relax and enjoy the ride. South of Half Moon Bay the traffic disappeared, but for the rest of the trip it was I who pulled over to let others pass. I was cruisin’, the scenery was lush, good tunes were playing, and I was alone with my thoughts.

Rolled into Santa Cruz still unfed, grabbed my computer and headed here.

Thanks!

Plans Taking Shape

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I’ll be here in beautiful Scott’s Valley and environs for a few more days, maybe ten. Then I’ll head over to Tahoe, and from there down to Yosemite to catch Old Faithful and all that stuff. After that I’ll spin through Death Valley on my way to Vegas, then down to San Diego to take care of all the odds and ends I need to close. Then a drive over to New Mexico, dispose of the car, fly to San Angelo, fly to Durham, then from there to Prague.

Plan your parties accordingly!

Nothing is in stone, and you will notice a distinct lack of dates. If the road is friendly and the sun is shining, A visit to Bob is still very much an option.

Thanks!

Big Sur

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View JHT – Big Sur in a larger map

Miles: 518.5
Location: Santa Cruz Diner, Santa Cruz, CA.
Number of RV’s I got stuck behind: 0(!)

The morning was cloudy and came an hour too soon, but the smell of bacon finally pulled me out of hibernation, and it was just what my poor stomach needed after I sent so much wine down my gullet yesterday. After breakfast and a quick game of Scrabble, I said my goodbye-but-hopefully-not-forevers and hit the road, heading north up Highway 1.

By the time I passed the Madonna Inn the sky was clearing and the day was looking promising. I passed a cool-looking cemetary in Morro Bay, just to the north of San Louis Obispo, and I turned around to get some pictures. Many of the fancy graves had occupants named Madonna. Coincidence? Unlikely. I’ll put some pictures up at my Web site and link to them here – as soon as I figure out the best way to do that.

The drive up Big Sur was excellent. There were actually times I was not stuck behind slower-moving traffic and could really drive. When I did come up on a line of cars, I would pull over for a few minutes and let them get ahead again. If the line wasn’t too slow, I would just putt along with them and concentrate on sightseeing instead. Eventually most people will pull off the road to let the Mario Andretti wannabes pass.

Got here with a case of Exploding Bladder Syndrome, so rather than go looking for John and Janice’s house, I stopped here for relief and a bite to eat. Some guy just threw some coins at a waitress – apparently he had tried to leave without paying and was mad because she wouldn’t let him. That’s her story, anyway, and he’s not here anymore to tell this reporter his version.

Thanks!

Day 1 – Happy Birthday to me

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Miles: 315.3
Location: Grover Beach, just south of Pismo Beach in Central California.

I’ll not bore you with the details, but let’s just say moving out of a home you’ve occupied for ten years is like when you’re a kid and the snow is melting, leaving some really good mud to squish way down in, only to discover that you can’t get your boot out. I never knew how many clothes I had, especially since I don’t buy clothes very often at all. Triska’s last legacy.

The problem was exacerbated when I was told that the boxes I had packed to ship to Prague were too large. They didn’t really seem that large to me, but then no one asked me. Suddenly I had even more crap to take care of – I had already taken three large garbage bags of clothes to Goodwill. The break wasn’t as clean as I wanted it to be, then, as I must go back to take care of a few boxes, and some other junk. If I had stayed another day I could have got more of it done, but I was getting antsy to get out of there.

So, finally, on the road, car loaded with new luggage poorly packed, I almost missed the turn to go north on 5, driving on habit. Yesterday I was imagining that the moment I drove away to be one of euphoria or excitement, but instead I felt nostalgia, melancholy and just plain tired. I couldn’t help but think how much I had liked living in that house, and in San Diego in general. I stopped off at the Chevron on Birmingham and I wondered how much two twelve-packs of Sheaffer would cost these days. Certainly more than $9.10. I was not tempted to drive by the Emmadome multi-sport complex; I just jumped back on the freeway and rejoined the stop-and-go traffic.

LA was LA. I regretted moving out of range of KPBS, but then I found other stations. North of LA, when the scenery becomes spectacular, it was dark, but the drive from there on up was pleasant. Got a little lost finding the house (East Grand is west of Grand, which made me think I was going the wrong way, so I turned around and then I was going the wrong way.)

Got here just in time to have a single Birthday Guinness before it wasn’t my birthday anymore. Bushed, I went to sleep.

So the trip did not have that Hollywood “Vegas, baby! Vegas!” opening scene. It started in a contemplative mood, as a sequel might, which is perhaps more appropriate.

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Thanks!

Tomorrow the adventure begins

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First, the posts will (hopefully) be more interesting as I spin for you the story of life on the road, unfettered by good judgement. Second, the updates will be less frequent. I’ll keep writing stuff, but there may be periods with no updates then all of a sudden, wham, several days worth of fascinating drivel.

Keep the comments going! That way you’re giving the next viewer new things to read even when I’m not around. Remember, this isn’t just about me, it’s about community. (*sniff*)

On another note, moving sucks. Took the second truckload of crap to the dump today. Got a nostalgia twinge when I was throwing away some old dog toys, but I’m ready to be gone.

Thanks!

Nostalgia Trip

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I had the top down, and it was chilly out, but not cold. Traffic was light, making the four lanes seem very wide. Suddenly I was hit with the memory of the first time I had driven up that highway, when I was moving to San Diego.

It was a different convertible then, but the same chill air. I remember I had noticed how the wide, sprawling interchanges made such good use of the terrain to establish their different levels. I remember worrying that I had missed my exit, which was silly because I also noticed how much better-marked the exits are here compared with New Mexico.

Of course, once I got that feeling I started looking for the things that had changed in the last 17 years. I realized that almost every building I saw for the next few miles had not been there on my maiden trip; the first time through that canyon the freeway was all there was, and I have to admit I was quite taken with the bigness of it, the graceful sweep of the curves in the interchanges, and the way it fit into the canyon, occupying the space – consuming it – harmoniously. The road was a giant sculpture for driving on. Some environmentalist I turned out to be that night.

The road is now flanked by shopping centers, and condos crown the tops of the mesas. Miramar hasn’t changed visibly from the road – the military is the only organization in this town more powerful than the developers, and God Bless ’em for that. But the freeway isn’t as free any more; it’s very presence made the rest of the clutter inevitable. What was a graceful and thought-provoking rape of nature has now become part of just another meaningless urban jumble.

Part of the change is in me, as well. I no longer look at all the cars and wonder, “Where the hell are all those people going? Back then, when I was in a more sympathetic mood, especially late at night when, living near the freeway, I would stop and notice on those rare occasions when the noise had stopped – there was an actual gap in traffic leaving a silence so profound you had to comment on it, but not until the cars had started again – I would stop and think about what it meant to be on the road, to be going somewhere, with all the purpose of life that implies.

Now it’s just a big road with lots of cars, often too many, that I use when I have need. Maybe some time away from the big ribbon will restore my awe.

Thanks!