HOUSTON, DO YOU COPY?

Adios, Grapeland-Zone, and on to Houston.  We decided to go with speed rather than back country and hooked up with I-45 at Huntsville.  This only served to remind us why we stay with the blue highways.  Nothing but billboards, chain retail and food outlets, and terminal boredom on the interstates.  After a couple of hours of tedium, Houston loomed on the horizon.

Having long endured L.A.’s freeways, anything else should be a cinch.  NOT.  Houston’s worst can compete with any city’s.  Spaghetti intersections, disappearing lanes, inadequate signage, combined with a strangely tongue-tied Gertrude made for some salty-comment moments.  When we’re in the boonies, Gertrude chirps up constantly with “keep left,” “bear right,” and the like at the most obvious of choices.  But in Houston, running hot and heavy with choices and no signs . . . silence.  Not one clue on navigating the snake pit other than to “stay on I-45 for seventeen miles.”  Great, except that the signage for I-45 at the various intersections was non-existent.  Another bone to pick with TomTom. 

By dint of terrific swearing, we got through the heart/black hole of the city and came out the south side, heading for League City and the Space Center RV Park.  The freight was $35 a night, which is way on the high side for us, but this place was worth it.  Spotless bathrooms and showers, and exercise room, a laundry with all new machines at $1.00 a load, a clean pool, and grass-lined concrete pads, and cable tv.  All that and within scootin distance of the Johnson Space Center.  Highly recommended.  We stayed two nights, and spent the first afternoon in the pool (me) and the laundry (Loni).  Hey, I offered!  With the heat running in the mid 90’s and the humidity at 98, that pool was great.

Next morning we unloaded the scoot, helmeted  up, and took off for the JSC.  Stopped at the parking entrance and got waived on through;  scoots pay no fee!  Only a few thousand more places like this and it will have paid for itself.  The JSP is actually a combination of a non-profit visitor’s center called “Space Center Houston,” and the adjacent JSC.  After parking, we realized we had brought the wrong cable lock and couldn’t lock the helmets, so we faked it with what we had to make it look like they were locked.  Guess it worked, or no one was interested, as they were there when we finished the day.  And a full day it was.  Plan on all day if you have even a remote interest in the space program. 

After buying tickets we milled about until the doors opened and then made a beeline, as recommended, for the tram tour, as it generally loads up later in the day with long lines.  Plus, we would be outside in the morning instead of the hotter afternoon.  The highlights for us were threefold: the original Mission Control room for the Gemini and Apollo missions, and many early shuttle flights; the astronaut training facilities; and a real Saturn 5 rocket with all its stages.  The Mission Control room no longer is used as there is an adjacent room now with modern equipment.  But it was a gas seeing the real deal looking just like the mockup in “Apollo 13,” complete with all the ancient, tiny computer screens at the control desks.

The training facility had mockups of all types of space vehicles and equipment, all in one huge, long room. The public could view them, and any training going on, from a glass-enclosed gallery that ran the length of the room.  Nothing much was going on when we were there except lunch was being made by a few techs at a table on the floor.  They had models of parts of the Space Station

and of escape hatches

and whatever

The Saturn 5 is in its own giant enclosure and is truly impressive.  This isn’t a mockup, but rather a refurbished/reconstructed authentic article.  These pics don’t do justice to its incredible size:  

Back at Space Center Houston, there are IMAX movies chronicling the Space Station, launches, etc., all worthwhile; interactive exhibits and demos like this mockup of the living quarters on the Space Station and this one of zero gravity; play activities for kids (some of which have dubious relationship to the space program, such as paint ball), a nifty space/sci-fi through the movies exhibit, and a moon rock gallery where you can risk all sorts of virus exposure from prior visitors by touching an actual moon rock.

Yes, I did.

CALLING ROD SERLING

Thursday, June 11 We left Norman on Monday, working our way south again by staying off the interstates and keeping to the rural roads. The only excitement was the Big Squeeze on the Indian Nation Toll Road. The toll booths are along the highway, and there seemed to be three of them at each pay station, one for the electronic pass folks, and the other two . . . well, it certainly wasn’t signed early enough for us to catch their drift. When we first entered, we were at an unmanned single station that simply said 2 axles were this much, and 3 or more axles were more $. Simple enough, but when we came up to the next pay station, the one with three lanes, it said “cars” in lane B and all trucks in lane C. Well, we’re two axles, so we headed for lane B (and promptly got blocked out of any other lane). Couldn’t back up. Ooops. They really meant cars only. The enforcement method was to narrow down the lane with freeway guardrails that squoze in. Yikes. We’re 8’6” wide at the body, and almost 9’3” at the mirrors. The mirrors we could pull in, and did. But the cement curbs also angled in. I crept through, and started hearing the tires on the rear dualies start to rub. We groaned our way through, with the booth guy just shaking his head in wonderment at the idiot Californians. We had one inch clearance on the sides. Ah, but that’s not why we’re calling Rod.

Our stop for the night was the Pat Mayse Lake State Park, just outside Chicola, Texas, virtually on the state line. Strange place, with hardly anyone around, but very nicely situated on this large lake. There were several trailers, but no one in sight. As we were setting up to level, the rangerette drove up and greeted us and said something cryptic about Wally, and that we shouldn’t be afraid as he was harmless and would go back up the tree. She waved and moved on. We hadn’t heard her very well as our engine was still on and we were back by the exhaust. We set up, checked out the pit toilets – no thank you – and settled in for a very quiet night. Some lights did come on at the host hovel, so there was some life. In the morning I stepped out of the rig to check the temperature and YIPE! A grey furball came charging at me with chirping and waiving tail. It jumped at my legs and I started the Macarena, yelling and kicking. It was Wally, the rabid squirrel. That cleared up the mysterious ranger comment, but Wally wasn’t giving up. It kept charging my feet, while I kicked air. I switched to pebbles and rocks, but Wally kept giving me the eye and darting towards me. It didn’t stop until I launched a whole handful of rocks, then disappeared under the coach. I thought it was setting up an ambush for when I got back in the rig, but I didn’t see him again. But, that’s not Serling material, either.

Tuesday, June 9. We checked for Wally, quickly put the leveling ramps away, unhooked and stowed the electric cord, and scampered into the rig. Perhaps we’ll fry the critter on our exhaust if he made a nest for the night. We made our way back to the “main” road, and essentially followed SR19 south to our eventual stop at Grapeland. Loni, of course, got Paul Simon’s “Graceland” running through her head and, maliciously, I am convinced, had to mention it to me so that now I had the same. We were saved from melody madness by one of those “only on a back rural road” moments: a homemade peach ice cream stand. In a corner of a farmer’s field, he had set up his awning and gear and was turning out fresh churned ice cream with his own farm’s peaches right there on the spot. He had this ancient belt-driven churn that he filled with ice and rock salt. Oh, yes, this was GOOD STUFF! We chatted for a while as we slurped away, and he allowed as how he had no desire whatsoever to see California and that there was no way anyone would get him out of Van Zandt County, Texas. OK, bub, keep turning out this ice cream and maybe I’ll move to Van Zandt County.

OK, cue the Twilight Zone music.

Grapeland is a dot in the middle of nowhere. The RV park we were headed for is down a couple of country lanes out of that dot. We’re talking rural, folks. Salmon Lake Park was the destination, billed as “antique buildings create a country town atmosphere.” Well. You enter a gate on a partially paved road and are greeted by derelict buildings strewn about, old vehicles abandoned here and there, not a soul in sight. The “office” is in the owner’s house. I entered and was greeted by two crones ironing laundry and a fiftyish woman straight out of Deliverance standing there chewing. I can hear that banjo and guitar now. They took my money, and vaguely said to just pick whatever site we wanted (there supposedly are 400 of them). No directions, no map, just vaguely over that way. We crept along in the rig, passing more decrepit shacks and then through a strange little western collection that looked like a set for a 1930’s movie, only totally run down. I got the feeling this was a thriving attraction about 40 years ago, but now . . . Anyway, there were scattered trailers over the acreages and hookup posts just set in rows in the open fields here and there, stretching all over the place. We didn’t see a single person, and none of the trailers had cars or trucks with them, and they all had quite long grass growing under them, while everything else was mowed. We’re not in Kansas any more, Toto. We had our choice of hundreds of spots, but the electric outlets looked dodgy at the first few we tried. Finally found one that didn’t look arced, under a tree, so settled in. I took a walk around while Loni cooled off. Silence. No people. Anywhere. I should have felt alone, but kept looking over my shoulder. This place was creepy. We’re at least 3/4 mile from the “office,” and not a soul around as far as we could see. I took some pics of more buildings along an abandoned narrow gauge track, returned to the rig and decided to make sure the doors were all locked.

You’re moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You’ve just crossed over into the . . . Twilight Zone. Do dee do do, do dee do do.

Well, we weren’t axe murdered in the night, and the place was decidedly less creepy the next day, but it still has to be the strangest place we’ve ever stayed. On to Houston and the Johnson Space Center.

FRANCE XII, CHIHULY AND COWBOYS

Friday, June 4.   Part of our reason for coming to Oklahoma in general, and Norman in particular, was to visit Loni’s roommate from our 6 month stay in Tours at Stanford-in-France w-a-a-y back in 1966.  They hadn’t seen or communicated with each other for 42 years until Linda discovered our email through the alumni association and arranged a get-together last Christmas when she and husband Ken came to California for the holidays with their sons.  Once we had decided to visit OK and TX, this was a must-stop.  We got together with Linda, who is chair of the philosophy department at OU, for a tour of Norman and the University.  Both are very nice.  The University is huge, with beautiful brick and stone buildings throughout in the classical English university style.   We went back to their house for dinner and lots of talk.  Gorgeous house with huge rooms.  The ground floor takes advantage of the park-like grounds at the rear, with huge trees, a stream, flowers and grass.  The yard looks like it jumped out of a Kincaid painting.  Ken did a bang-up job with fork-tender steaks, and Linda made scrumptious sides, all topped by one of the best apple pies I’ve ever eaten.  We even had a bottle of Vouvray, the indigenous wine of the Loire Valley area around Tours.  An excellent evening of reminiscing (poor Ken) with great hosts.

Saturday, June 5.   Ken and Linda came out to the park to take us to Oklahoma City, and of course got the grand tour of the rig, which was somewhat less impressive than their house.  First stop in OKC was the land race memorial, a series of huge bronze sculptures representing the wagons and riders that raced into the territory to claim their 160 acres back in the late 1800’s.  These were really impressive, with a sense of speed and power and a few touches of whimsy as well.  The sculptor used his own face as the model for the driver of one of the wagons.

Next stop was the memorial to the bombing victims of the Murreh Federal Building.  This was quite well done, simple yet moving.  Two monolithic walls face each other at the ends of a long reflecting pool, which has replaced the street explosion site of the bomb.  On a grassy knoll to one side, that stretches the length of the pool, are chair structures, one for each victim and inscribed with the name, set in rows that represent each floor of the building where the victims were at the time of the explosion.   In a separate area are large photos and diagrams that show the before, after, and present of the buildings and the surrounding area.

We then went on to the OKC Museum of Art, which features a large display of Dale Chihuly blown glass.  Words can’t describe these pieces, especially the 55 foot high installation at the entrance atrium.   Spectacular is all that comes to mind.  I’ll let these pictures do the talking.

Our penultimate stop was the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum.  This place was incredible.  First, it was huge.  Second, the exhibits were amazingly varied, well put-together and displayed, informative, and fun.  I could have spent days there and not given everything enough attention.  As it was, our 4 hours went by way too quickly and we just tasted as much as we could.  This should be a must-see destination if you’re anywhere near these parts.  Check it out at www.nationalcowboymuseum.org .

Finally, we drove just a few blocks to the County Line Barbeque, which is justly famous in this area.  Massive platters of ribs, brisket, etc., with about a dozen different sides to choose from.  Homemade ice cream and cobbler deserts if you have any stomach left.  I did, but only because I saved a goodly portion of my meal for another day!  I had Memphis style pork ribs (dry rub), while Loni had their glazed pork ribs.  Both were excellent.  We won’t be eating meat for a while.  Thanks, Linda and Ken, for a terrific day.

Sunday, June 7.   After last night’s thunder and lightening display (at 1:00 a.m., passing right overhead), this was a day to lay about, and to do some shopping for food and such.  I needed to get a replacement pair of hiking shorts after I put a hot iron to my favorite pair.  Yes, nylon requires a cool iron.  Hot iron equals instant melting of fabric, which makes a large hole by transferring the former fabric to the base of the iron.  Sigh.  At five o’clock there was a pounding at our door and it was the local ranger gendarme who suggested that if we were staying another night we might want to pay up.  Oops.  We did so with much lame apologizing.  The park is worth the $16/nite (with the $2 senior discount) as it was quiet, reasonably clean, and right on the lake.  We didn’t get a chance to launch the kayak as it was too windy the whole time.  That thing has a high freeboard and doesn’t do well in other than near-calm conditions.

THE DIP FROM HELL

We have a love-hate relationship with Gertrude, or “Gertie” as Loni calls her.  You have your choice when programming a route to choose “fastest” or “shortest.”  Fastest uses the freeways or other major arterials, and shortest uses whatever exists as long as the total mileage is as short as possible.  We programmed our destination via shortest.  Cue the ominous music.

Gertrude has strange ideas of what is suitable for passage.  Remember the railroad tracks at the VLAT?  Well, today we proceeded on a US highway, state roads, county roads, and something designated as FM, or, as we later discovered, “farm-to-market” roads.  We declined Gertrude’s expertise when we hit an FM that was nothing more than ruts through a field, and proceeded on by guess and by golly (by now we were off anything that showed up on a AAA map) to . . . (eerie crescendo, please) The Dip From Hell. 

The road we were on ended at a T intersection.  Right at the T, our road suddenly dipped down about 6 feet in depth then climbed back up to the T, all in the space of about 20 feet.  We’re 25 feet long with the scoot rack.  No way we could simply drive straight through that thing.  We stopped, got out, assessed, failed to record the moment on the camera, and backed up.  Swung as far to the right as I could go, then angled down and left across the descent.  Whoa, Nellie.  We were tilted WAY over to the right, which straightened to neutral as the front hit the rise, then reversed WAY over to the left as we angled up the other side.  Yikes!  We had stuff shifting all over the rig, but it stayed upright and climbed out, without bottoming the rear end.  Sometimes this backroads discovery routine is bad for the heart.  I’ve previously cursed the height of the scoot rack, but now I’m thankful that they built it that way.  Guess they knew what they were doing.

We continued on through one tiny hamlet after another.  One of our favorites was Turkey, TX, home of country-Western start Bob Wills, mainly for its neat signage.   We’ve seen a number of these silhouette signs all through the panhandle.  We encountered one sign with an direction arrow to “Cement Cemetery.”  No, not a mausoleum, but, as we soon discovered, the local burial ground for the town of Cement, TX.  Some “towns” were nothing more than a sign and a shack.  In Memphis (TX, not TN), we did a 3 turn around-the-block uey in order to get back to a gas station whose sign, at $2.12/gal, had caught my eye.  Mostly we’ve been paying around $2.50.  We pulled in and only then realized that it was abandoned, with the pumps locked, and the sign a memorabilia of its closing date.  We’ve gotten our best mileage on the long descent from the high plateau of NM, with a couple of tanks over 10mpg.  Our usual is somewhere in the 9’s.

Having made good time despite Gertrude’s machinations, we decided to drive straight through to Norman, OK, and the Thunderbird Lake S.P.   The AAA camping book gave us the wrong directions, but we got it figured out after wasting some gas and got to the Fisherman’s Point campground, one of half a dozen on the huge lake.  Couldn’t level in our first choice site, so moved to another and got settled in under the shade trees.   This is an older park, but quite adequate.  It fills up on the weekend, but has plenty of space otherwise.

Upon unloading, a minor disaster.  We found that the scoot’s windshield had worked its way out of the mountings and had fallen off.  The good news is that the cover on the scoot held it, preventing it from flying off down the roadway.  The bad news is that is was banging against the body of the scoot, resulting in ugly scrape marks on the top left of the shield, and some scratched paint on the scoot.  I’m hoping the shield can be buffed back to clear, but that’ll have to wait until we return.  Fortunately, the fittings themselves did not fall out of the mounting holes, so I was able to reattach it.  To prevent a recurrence (I hope), I used two short bungee cords to act as restraints to help keep the shield posts in the mounting holes.  I suspect no one other than a Vespa owner will know what I’m talking about.  I’ll try to take a picture or two.

OKLAHOMA-TEXAS: WE’RE OFF!

(Click on Pics to enlarge)

Sunday, May 31, we get going at 9:45 and traffic is surprisingly heavy for a Sunday a.m.  Took 60 east and eventually merged with I-10, working our way through ugly desert to Parker, AZ.  First sight of the Colorado River is startling as it is so blue and clear looking.  Went north a bit towards Havasu City, following the river with Cottonwoods and numerous parks and rv parks.  AZ has invested heavily in this area.  We stopped at Buckskin Mountain State Park and snagged a spot right across the path from the river.  This is a very nice park, $20/night for E&W, but this area of the river is very heavy on the power boats and jet skis, and the roaring engines are a pain.  95 degrees on arrival, but the AC worked and cooled us right down.  Used the new Progressive Industries power monitor for the first time and got a reading at first of 117v, which dropped to 112v very quickly and stayed there.  Put black tape over the readout so it wouldn’t attract a thief in the night, then chained and locked the sucker.  Scrumptious salmon with sticky rice & green beans for dinner.  Total yum.

Monday, June 1.  6:30, out the door and “power walk” for 40 minutes, then over to the very clean showers, breakfast, and off at 8:30.  Getting better.  Headed southeast to the I-10, which is the only way to continue east, and played with the trucks all the way to Phoenix.  Used Gertrude to guide us through the city and she did so without a hitch.  Picked up US 60 at the SE side of the city, motored uphill to Globe through moderately interesting terrain. At Superior, we fell for a “tourist rest stop” sign (thought we’d stop for lunch), and instead got a detour through the town which was totally depressing, with 75% of the shops boarded up.  No rest area, and the scenery was not conducive to the old appetite.  Kept going on 60 and found ourselves winding through the Salt River Canyon.  this is more like it.  Sheer walls, a nifty bridge, switchback roads --- IOW, rv heaven. 

We’d descend 3,000 fit, then climb right back up again.  Spotted a fire just starting on the opposite ridge (across the river) which a lone helo with water bucket was trying to douse.  Not a chance.  With the winds, this sucker was growing fast as we passed out of view.  At least it was in the middle of nowhere.  We arrived at ShowLow (somebody’s winning hand back in the 1800’s was a deuce of clubs) which is at 6300 feet and blessedly cool.  We found the Fool’s Hollow Lake Recreation area, which is a very nice joint state-fed park built about 10 years ago.  Very very nice, with huge spaces, tall pines, a small lake, and hot showers.  Spent a very nice night under light blanket.  We finally feel we’re on our trip.

Tuesday, June 2.  Cool temps call for oatmeal & coffee, so we indulged and skipped the morning walk.  BAD campers.  We vowed to make it up this evening, but . . . Decided to go on SR260 loop instead of US60, and it was an excellent choice.  Beautiful alpine mountain drive through pine and aspen forests, small lakes, long-distance views, high plateaus.  big oohs and ahs all the way.  We rejoined US60 at Eagar and gradually descended through rolling plains.  OK, it was 50 mile views of nothing.  We are headed for the deliciously named Pie Town. Our “Great Road Trips USA” lauded the rejuvenation of the town’s pie history by a new bakeress who opened the “Pie-O-Neer” cafe.  As luck would have it, or my luck at any rate, they are closed Tuesdays and Wednesdays.  Augh!  The only other place in town (it stretches for all of one sparse block) also advertised their pie-centric menu, so we gave it a try.  Two tiny BLT’s, water, and 2 pie-a-la-modes later, tax and tip, and we were down $30 and thinking Mrs. Smith’s has nothing to worry about.  Her pies are alive and well in Pie Town.  This is why we eat in the rig! 

Next stop was the Very Large Array Telescope, which stretches across 20+ miles of desert.  We had to turn off 60 and go 4 miles to the Array center.  Gertrude had fits, getting lost and trying to get us to turn into the desert, and once insisted we immediately turn onto the railroad tracks we were crossing.  Shut her off before she kills us.  The Array was interesting, with nice displays in the center, and a walking path out to one of the dishes.  There are 27 of them, situated in a big Y shape, with nine to each leg.   They sit on railroad tracks so they can be moved for narrow or wide sky vision.  It was a worthwhile visit as it was on our way, but I wouldn’t make much of a detour to see it.  The day was getting late, so we decided to stay in Socorro NM for the night.  There are no nearby state parks, so we opted for Casey’s RV park, a gravel lot with wispy trees and dodgy neighbors. No walking tonight.  Baths out of order, but they did have good wifi, so we got caught up on emails all evening.

ALAS, POOR THYROID, WE HARDLY KNEW YE

More fun and games with the bod. The last PET scan showed atypical cells on the left node of my thryoid. Not all that unusual, many people have them and they are almost always benign. But, given my history (see the Cancer Chronicles), we did a needle biopsy, which was "inconclusive." Bring on the cutters! May 5 found Loni and I at 0-dark:30 (that's 4:45am for you lubbers) at UCLA's admitting room to go through the drills for a 7:30 hemi-or-full thyroidectomy, depending on what they found. The best part, of course, is the always popular hospital gown that never seems to quite cover your butt, even a skinny one like mine. Why that indignity endures is a mystery. Surely there's a better design.

UCLA is a teaching hospital. Fortunately, May is a great month to be a patient. The newbie docs don't arrive until mid-summer, so you get the more experienced interns and residents who have had almost a whole year to practice on less fortunate others. I met three surgeons, none of whom was my Dr. K who promised me he would do the cutting himself (where were his fingers when he was saying that?). Three gas passers at separate times, so each wanted his/her own history. It looked like I was going to have either quite an audience or an awful lot of fingers in my throat. Dr. K was the last to look in, and was the most welcome. If you need head/neck surgery, folks, this is your guy.

This was a full-anaesthesia procedure, so after we confirmed this was not for a lobotomy, the mask went on and I went out. Next I knew I was in the surgical observation ward, gazing goofily around with a sore neck. "Hi," said Loni, so I figured they hadn't killed me. The surroundings were doing their best, however. The SOW is a large hall, with 3-wall alcoves for each bed, and a curtain across the front. That's about it. There's a little t.v on a big arm that had the worst resolution I've seen on any set since an old Muntz in the '50's. Nothing wrong with the sound, though. I could hear without any strain the blast from the guy in the bed across from me who, it would turn out, was partially deaf and addicted to "Greatest Cop Chases," which apparently runs on a continuous basis all day long. I had been looking forward to sampling a private room, as this is the new UCLA hospital, which just opened last year. Not to be. They finally told me, six hours later, the place was "overbooked" and they had no room for me. I'd either have to stay in the ward that night or, if I was up to it, check out. Adios.

The operation removed only the left lobe. While I was out on the table they did a quick pathology analysis of that tissue and found the lumps were not malignant. So they left the right side in and sewed me up. See the nice smiley scar! A week later, the final path report came back and it found a micro-cancer of about 2mm size. This, of course, had been cut out with the left lobe. For now, they don't plan to do anything except to monitor the right side with regular ultrasound to see if anything starts growing there. Hmmm. Nothing like a little uncertainty. Guess that's better than hearing, "It's b-a-a-a-c-k." I'll take it.

Scooter Mania

Anybody remember the "mods" and the "rockers" that duked it out it England in the '60s?

The Mods, or modernists, as they were known, were a sub culture that liked Scooters, ska music, parka jackets and were generally regarded as being the smarter dressed of the two groups.

The Rockers preferred motorcycles and had their own uniform which consisted of a black leather jacket, denim jeans, black leather boots with white socks which were rolled over the tops of the boots. A white scarf was regarded as a great fashion accessory.

Rockers and Mods were often engaged in brawls. BBC News stories from May 1964 stated that mods and rockers were jailed after riots in seaside resort towns on the south coast of England. Fights occurred where territories overlapped or rival factions happened upon each other.

Skip forward to the "oughts," and the dichotomy still exists, although without the attendant animosity. We went on an outing recently with the LA Scooter Club through the hills behind Malibu. First stop was the infamous "Rock Store" in the middle of the mountains, long a hangout destination for bikers. The scoots arrived, more or less en masse, and we slotted in with the hogs and the boy racers. That's us on the left in the lime green and red (pictures courtesy of "Scootz Kapboots", the rally organizer):

The scoots are a cheerful bunch, without the requisite posturing of the bad ass bikers:

After a couple of hours through the canyons and back roads, we met up with a group from Ventura
for a joint ride down the coast on Pacific Coast Highway (Hwy 1) to another biker hangout north of Malibu called Neptune's Net for a late lunch. There, the bikers had already occupied all of the real estate in front of NN on the land side of PCH, so the scoots were obliged to line up on the ocean side in a cross-highway faceoff. Shades of "TheWild One."
No fisticuffs ensued, and the only damage done was to our digestive systems. EVERYthing is fried. After this it was a straight shot for us down PCH to home. The others had to wander considerably further back across the mountains to home.