TWO & SIX WHEELING

February can be an iffy month for traveling around SoCal.  We can have anything from 80+ degree Santa Ana’s to freezing wind and rain.  Regardless, getting out of the house is a priority.

The Los Angeles Scooter Club annually rides the twisties through the Santa Monica Mountains, and this year there were about 28 scooterists attending on Sunday the 13th.  Loni opted to stay home and bake cookies for the upcoming Lazy Daze Caravan to start the following Tuesday.  Hmmm.  Now I can go just a little faster through the curves.  The meetup spot was over in the San Fernando Valley, where Topanga meets Ventura.  My most direct route was over Topanga Canyon, so I got some warmup for the twisties.  Once everyone arrived, which never is on time, we had a brief safety talk by Scootz Kabootz, aka Justin, our erstwhile organizer.  He covered the basics and emphasized that everyone should ride only at his/her comfort level, and NOT to try to keep up with the faster riders.  There would be plenty of stops for everyone to catch up.  All heads nodded slowly in unison.  Cue the music from “Jaws.” 

En masse, we went back up Topanga to the intersection with Mulholland, and headed West past the Paramount Ranch and Peter Strauss Ranch.  This is ruggedly beautiful country, but we kept moving such that I couldn’t stop and take photos.  At the major intersections, we did stop to allow the slower scoots to catch up.

We continued on out Mulholland and made our first “rest” stop at a pullout area which was frequented by bikers, car clubs, you name it.  Here, I set the portent of doom for the ride.

That’s my scoot with the tall windshield, on the right.  I was carrying a black fanny pack with a long strap, hanging it from the hook on the fairing panel in front of where I sit.  Once we got ready to go, I stood to the left of the scoot as usual, took it off its stand, and swung my right leg through the space between the seat and the front fairing (look at the silver Vespa with the orange helmet to see the gap).  I didn’t see the black strap against the black scoot, and promptly tangled my foot in the strap.  My momentum and weight had already shifted to the right.  Vigorous flailing with my right foot accomplished nothing, and the 344-lb scoot and I both tipped over to the right.  Fortunately, nothing suffered but my dignity and some scratches on the right engine cover, but I am now forever remembered as the guy who fell over while trying to sit down.  Sigh.  This was not a good omen.  (Cue “Jaws” again.)

We took off and eventually hooked up with Westlake Boulevard, where we turned north to head for the lunch spot.  This section of road has some particularly nifty/nasty curves and hairpins, and we leaders-of-the-pack (well, I had to reassert my manly prowess, right?), flew down the mountain to the lunch stop, where about eight of us waited.  And waited.  And waited.

Uh oh.  Not good.  We continue to wait, while Justin heads back to see what’s wrong.  It takes quite while before a bunch more come in with the story.  Three riders down in completely separate incidents on different curves.  One was one of the most experienced riders who admitted that he just went too fast into the curve, couldn’t hold it and plowed off the road into the uphill shrubs.  Good thing he didn’t lose it on the other (cliff) side.  The other two apparently did much the same, but one of them was bad enough off that they had to call AAA to tow off the scoot, while the rider went to the local E.R. to get checked out as he had hit his head.  This is the first ride I’ve been on when anyone went down, let alone three. 

As we’d been there for quite awhile, and the main group was staying a bit longer, I opted to ride out with 4 riders who had come up from San Diego (!) for the ride, and had to get started back.  We finished by riding Potrero Canyon, which has a spectacular drop, over to Cal State Channel Islands, then out to Pacific Coast Highway, and south back home.  A long ride of about 110 miles altogether, but a lot of fun.  Mostly.

The next day Loni and I bailed the rig out from storage, washed and loaded it, and on Tuesday took off for Buena Vista Aquatic Recreation Area up in the Central Valley, near Taft, for a Lazy Daze Caravan.  It’s a beautiful spot, but the weather forecast was doom and gloom, with rain to come down the whole time.  Sunset that night was quite nice.

We were the “host” subgroup this time, so it was up to us to put up the host tent, check everyone in, and generally run the show.  The weather cooperated for erecting the tent, but by Wednesday afternoon we had steady 30mph winds, with much bigger gusts.  We had to run ropes from nearby trees to help keep the tent upright.  Note the inward billow of the tent on the left.

Loni helped out with the duties that afternoon, along with Anita and Sally.  You can figure out the February theme.  Loni and I had volunteered to take care of the coffee table for this outing, so we had lugged the three storage tubs of gear and supplies from last month’s caravan.  It’s not all that difficult, but it has to be set up so that the dawn fanatics can have their java at 6:30!  Fortunately, they long ago figured out a timer system so that you can prepare everything the night before, and it will start brewing by itself at 4:30 or so.  I like the insulated covers over the urns.  These guys either were all in the Navy or were liars, as to a man they praised the brew.

Actually, given the dire predictions, the weather was surprisingly good most of the time.  We only had a couple of brief sprinkle-showers, and the bad winds on Wednesday and Friday afternoon.  Loni is walking on air as a result of her balloon head lifting her off the ground.  She managed (with her incredibly talented partner – not me) to win the 25-team washer toss competition.  She now has a winner’s pin sporting on her cap and only talks about it once or twice a day.  I think it’s the first athletic contest she’s ever won in her life.

As always, we had great food at the potlucks, and Loni went the extra mile again with a seafood salad which she cooked from scratch.  Shrimp, scallops, and calamari (we tossed the mussels) mixed with greens, cherry tomatoes, and other goodies.  Yum.

All in all, a nice, laid-back caravan.  Here’s our “Past Tents” subgroup on the final day, with a couple of early departees missing.

THE OCTOGENARIAN TERRORIST

TSA.  Too Stupid Altogether? 

This was the last day of Mom’s trip to LaLa Land.  We had booked her on a SWA flight leaving at 7:50 a.m.  My niece took the same flight back in early January and even though we got her there almost two hours before departure she barely made the flight.  Then, the lines went outside the building and down the sidewalk for over a hundred yards.  A complete zoo.  So, this time we got up at o-dark-thirty and we were off by 5:21.  No traffic, and we got to the airport in twenty-two minutes.  No lines.  Not a soul outside, and virtually no one inside.  Yawn.  Got Mom checked in, got our “escort” passes so we could accompany her to the gate waiting area, and proceeded to that monument to inefficiency and worthlessness, the TSA “security” check.

Usually, this is just an exercise in frustration.  Why don’t they have even a single sign posted telling people what to do, like take your computer out of the case and put it in a separate bin;  take off your shoes and your belt; yes, traveler, take everything out of your pockets and remove your coat/cardigan/sweatshirt.  Simple instructions, right?  But nowhere to be found.  They prefer to have inexperienced travelers fumble, get nervous, and be able to tell them to go back three times to do it right.  I think it’s really just a power trip combined with managerial incompetence.  I have seen some decent signage at other airports, but not LAX.  And I don’t want to get started on the lack of seating to use to put your shoes back on and get dressed again.

But, I digress.  This is about the octogenarian terrorist.

Mom.

Pushing 88.  Getting a bit frail, and doesn’t hear so hot in noisy environments.  And, with that dyed blond hair, just naturally looking suspicious.

She goes through the machine.  And, god only knows why, but they “can’t get a clear image.”  Huh?  She’s standing right there in slacks and a sweatshirt.  I went through with a t-shirt, denim shirt, and a zip-up vest, and no problem.  So, they have to take her all the way around the TSA area to a plexiglas enclosure where they can do a pat-down.  They allowed Loni to go with her, thank goodness, because Mom just couldn’t understand a word they were saying in that noisy place.  To be fair, the search, Loni tells me, was conducted with care and sensitivity.  Hmph.  Shouldn’t have been done at all.

I, meanwhile, was standing outside the cell fumbling to get my iPod camera working.  I missed the escorting in, but wanted to catch her coming out.  As the door opened, I snapped a picture but another TSA snot comes by and says “Hey, you, don’t take pictures of this facility.”  Really.  A plexiglas box?  In the midst of thousands of people.  Really secret stuff.  The real terrorists have turned us into a nascent police state.

Here’s Mom in the cell, with Loni helping, putting herself back together while the TSA agent dutifully fills out the paperwork on another piece of work accomplished.  I feel so much safer.