James Burleigh
Well-known member
Well, Fang, after a brief water-in-and-out stop in Paso Robles, Silent led us the back way into Creston. It had been more than an hour since our last stop, and as the vice president of the Bay Area chapter of the Candy-Butt Association, I can tell you I had been in a lot of pain.
But after gulping down some water and shedding my sweater, scarf, and heavy gloves, I was feeling refreshed. So that now, as I followed Silent along the two-lane road the last 10 miles into Creston, with the perforated leather of my FJR-blue Frank Thomas jacket doing the trick to keep me cool, my spirits picked up. Besides, food was near.
I was feeling so completely satisfactory that, as the bike swept through the modest curves of this rural road, I started to belt out through my raised visor a favorite show tune: “I feel pretty! Oh so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and GAAAAAAAAAAY ….” Then, thinking how a song can get stuck in your head and sometimes even escape involuntarily into the three-dimensional world of fellow motorcycle creatures via your out-loud voice, I made a mental note to resist singing that particular refrain in front of the SoCal contingent coming up to meet Silent and me in the stunning, world-famous Central California wine-growing region of Creston, that Camelot of the West.
“Oh so pretty…. Huh?” A car approached us from the opposite direction. “What the f**k?” I struggled to focus on the face of the person behind the wheel. What am I seeing? A car being driven by some huge hideous doll? A person who’s been in a terrible accident and is driving himself to the nearest hospital in spite of his torn-up face?
The vehicle came closer; my eyes widened; the mystery was solved. Behind the steering wheel was a man dressed as a circus clown: big pointy hair colored a green not found in nature; white face with painted perpetual smile; round red nose. (Big shoes? Can a clown drive a car with the big shoes?)
Normally I hate a clown. Doesn’t everybody? But here was proof that I was either back in my Happy Place experiencing Perfect Momentness, or in fact badly dehydrated in spite of the recent water stop, experiencing the mental disorientation that comes with heat exhaustion. Because in spite of my true self, I actually felt benevolence toward the clown. My lips parted; my hand came up: I smiled and waved at the clown.
Soon we turned left onto Webster Road (SR 229), the Road to Camelot, and our hearts soared with anticipation; Creston lay just ahead. I imagined a town with a four-lane boulevard running down the middle, the lanes separated by a concrete median planted with indigenous, drought-resistant plants, highlighted with patches of vibrant wild flowers common to the local meadows. A gaily painted sign would welcome us [better make that a “brightly” painted sign]. The boulevard would be lined with neatly trimmed shops sporting colorful awnings, and restaurants served by sidewalks swept and hosed down every morning. Entering Creston would be like entering a Norman Rockwell painting.
The plan was that we would meet the SoCal contingent at a restaurant called the Long Branch, a name that reminded me of this huge great steakhouse I ate at with some colleagues on a recent business trip to Dallas, Texas. “Hmmm, steaaaaaak….” I felt even prettier and gayer with that thought of steak in my head, and I palpably radiated with benevolence (or was it just the heat in spite of the Cromeit Heat Fix and under-tank insulation?) toward all my fellow humans, whatever their petty foibles. In fact, looking back, Fang, I believe that at that moment I could even have smiled and waved at a mime trapped in an invisible box, or at a man riding a Harley-Davidson in the traditional warm-weather gear of his tribe: flip-flops, shorts, and Hawaiian shirt.
As we neared Creston, no doubt just over the next rise about a mile ahead on this two-lane road with dirt shoulders, we approached a cluster of wooden shanties to either side of us. I reflected that rural poverty is always the worst kind of poverty. And as we neared these few shabby shacks on either side of the road, I was reminded of the time as a child that my parents took us to a famous Ghost Town of the Old West somewhere in Arizona. I had anticipated the visit with great eagerness, expecting to enter a magical, mysterious, even scary place. But when we got there it turned out to be just a bunch of broken-down wooden structures. There wasn’t even a tumbleweed to be seen rocking in the wind in the middle of the dirt road, much less a dead gunfighter sprawled over a threshold in a pool of blood. I was hugely disappointed.
That’s when, ahead of me, Silent raised his right arm. “Oh f**k!” I thought, my mind still in that ghost town, and braced to swerve away from some road junk. Yet there was nothing there. But as we continued, Silent kept his arm crooked up like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, pointing toward his right at one of the ghostly buildings. I looked over to see a faded-red, single-story wooden building. Why was Silent pointing at that building?
Then I spotted the sign on top of the building; it had four-foot tall letters that contained just one word: “EAT.” Immediately afterward I spotted another sign on the same building; it read “Long Branch.”
My mind raced. “Long Branch?!” But that's impossible. Aren’t we supposed to meet and eat at the Long Branch? Yes, but in Creston, not in some shanty-town. WTF?!” I glanced all around. No sign of any FJRs. In fact the only sign of life in this angry-oven heat was a mangy dog crossing the road toward us.
Then the truth hit me with the same punch-to-the-gut effect as the final scene from Planet of the Apes. “Oh my god!— This IS Creston! We’re in Creston. Oh my god, mankind has blown itself up and huge hideous simian beasts on horses have taken over the planet! And they can talk!”
Next on part cuatro of “The Road to Creston”—
Huge Hideous Simian Beasts on Harleys Arrive and Take Over all the Good Shaded Parking
Part I Here.
Part II here.
But after gulping down some water and shedding my sweater, scarf, and heavy gloves, I was feeling refreshed. So that now, as I followed Silent along the two-lane road the last 10 miles into Creston, with the perforated leather of my FJR-blue Frank Thomas jacket doing the trick to keep me cool, my spirits picked up. Besides, food was near.
I was feeling so completely satisfactory that, as the bike swept through the modest curves of this rural road, I started to belt out through my raised visor a favorite show tune: “I feel pretty! Oh so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and GAAAAAAAAAAY ….” Then, thinking how a song can get stuck in your head and sometimes even escape involuntarily into the three-dimensional world of fellow motorcycle creatures via your out-loud voice, I made a mental note to resist singing that particular refrain in front of the SoCal contingent coming up to meet Silent and me in the stunning, world-famous Central California wine-growing region of Creston, that Camelot of the West.
“Oh so pretty…. Huh?” A car approached us from the opposite direction. “What the f**k?” I struggled to focus on the face of the person behind the wheel. What am I seeing? A car being driven by some huge hideous doll? A person who’s been in a terrible accident and is driving himself to the nearest hospital in spite of his torn-up face?
The vehicle came closer; my eyes widened; the mystery was solved. Behind the steering wheel was a man dressed as a circus clown: big pointy hair colored a green not found in nature; white face with painted perpetual smile; round red nose. (Big shoes? Can a clown drive a car with the big shoes?)
Normally I hate a clown. Doesn’t everybody? But here was proof that I was either back in my Happy Place experiencing Perfect Momentness, or in fact badly dehydrated in spite of the recent water stop, experiencing the mental disorientation that comes with heat exhaustion. Because in spite of my true self, I actually felt benevolence toward the clown. My lips parted; my hand came up: I smiled and waved at the clown.
Soon we turned left onto Webster Road (SR 229), the Road to Camelot, and our hearts soared with anticipation; Creston lay just ahead. I imagined a town with a four-lane boulevard running down the middle, the lanes separated by a concrete median planted with indigenous, drought-resistant plants, highlighted with patches of vibrant wild flowers common to the local meadows. A gaily painted sign would welcome us [better make that a “brightly” painted sign]. The boulevard would be lined with neatly trimmed shops sporting colorful awnings, and restaurants served by sidewalks swept and hosed down every morning. Entering Creston would be like entering a Norman Rockwell painting.
The plan was that we would meet the SoCal contingent at a restaurant called the Long Branch, a name that reminded me of this huge great steakhouse I ate at with some colleagues on a recent business trip to Dallas, Texas. “Hmmm, steaaaaaak….” I felt even prettier and gayer with that thought of steak in my head, and I palpably radiated with benevolence (or was it just the heat in spite of the Cromeit Heat Fix and under-tank insulation?) toward all my fellow humans, whatever their petty foibles. In fact, looking back, Fang, I believe that at that moment I could even have smiled and waved at a mime trapped in an invisible box, or at a man riding a Harley-Davidson in the traditional warm-weather gear of his tribe: flip-flops, shorts, and Hawaiian shirt.
As we neared Creston, no doubt just over the next rise about a mile ahead on this two-lane road with dirt shoulders, we approached a cluster of wooden shanties to either side of us. I reflected that rural poverty is always the worst kind of poverty. And as we neared these few shabby shacks on either side of the road, I was reminded of the time as a child that my parents took us to a famous Ghost Town of the Old West somewhere in Arizona. I had anticipated the visit with great eagerness, expecting to enter a magical, mysterious, even scary place. But when we got there it turned out to be just a bunch of broken-down wooden structures. There wasn’t even a tumbleweed to be seen rocking in the wind in the middle of the dirt road, much less a dead gunfighter sprawled over a threshold in a pool of blood. I was hugely disappointed.
That’s when, ahead of me, Silent raised his right arm. “Oh f**k!” I thought, my mind still in that ghost town, and braced to swerve away from some road junk. Yet there was nothing there. But as we continued, Silent kept his arm crooked up like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, pointing toward his right at one of the ghostly buildings. I looked over to see a faded-red, single-story wooden building. Why was Silent pointing at that building?
Then I spotted the sign on top of the building; it had four-foot tall letters that contained just one word: “EAT.” Immediately afterward I spotted another sign on the same building; it read “Long Branch.”
My mind raced. “Long Branch?!” But that's impossible. Aren’t we supposed to meet and eat at the Long Branch? Yes, but in Creston, not in some shanty-town. WTF?!” I glanced all around. No sign of any FJRs. In fact the only sign of life in this angry-oven heat was a mangy dog crossing the road toward us.
Then the truth hit me with the same punch-to-the-gut effect as the final scene from Planet of the Apes. “Oh my god!— This IS Creston! We’re in Creston. Oh my god, mankind has blown itself up and huge hideous simian beasts on horses have taken over the planet! And they can talk!”
Next on part cuatro of “The Road to Creston”—
Huge Hideous Simian Beasts on Harleys Arrive and Take Over all the Good Shaded Parking
Part I Here.
Part II here.
Last edited by a moderator:
