Go West Young Man!

32 Days and 5,536 Miles On My Vintage Motorcycle

Getting up second means getting up last when there are only two of you. Justin was busy packing when I dug my bare feet into the chilly moon dust we had pitched our tent on. Riding half way into Sequoia had been painfully difficult the night before, as the frigid mountain air ate away at our exposed skin. Circumstances are a strange thing. I thought of the absurdity of dehydrating to death in a desert, basking in the glow of some southern Arizona city. The morning after we nearly froze trying to enter Sequoia was so tepid we easily forgot how dangerous the Sierra could be under the right (or wrong) circumstances. I was quickly reminded though, when a brown bear lumbering through the heavy woods locked eyes with me for a moment.

In Sequoia Park proper we had the park nearly to ourselves. This late in the season, especially on bikes, there is no want for easy parking or lines of cars to navigate around. Off the bike and on unsteady legs we climbed over the railing surrounding the General Sherman. Justin and I snapped a quick picture of ourselves at the base of the largest tree on the planet.

We met this guy on a BSA thumper. He wasn't too chatty; BSA owners are prissy, just like their bikes. Helmet laws be damned, you have to take advantage of clean air in California when you get the chance. We risked busting our domes and let the pure Sierra air blow through our wigs.


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