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california dreamin’
If Utopia exists, chances are it’s in California and set against the mythically beautiful seascape of Highway 1. Natasha Dragun channels her inner Easy Rider on a motorcycle pilgrimage along one of the world’s most spectacular stretches of coastal road.
“It never rains in California,” Shawn says again, shaking his peroxide-blonde head. “I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe it.” It’s my second day in the U.S. state and I’ve trudged through puddles and fought with umbrellas since I arrived. I’ve been told that central California, where we’re headed, averages around 285 sunny days a year. I’m yet to see a single ray.
I’ve lived in monsoonal countries for a large part of my life. Rain does not bother me. Well, it hasn’t bothered me before because I’ve been ferried around in air-conditioned taxis. Today, and for the next week, I’m on a motorbike. Rain matters.
Shawn and I are part of a 22-strong entourage of motorcyclists making our way north from Los Angeles to San Francisco via Yosemite National Park along California’s Highway 1, also known as the Pacific Coast Highway and one of the most legendary stretches of bitumen in the world. The road twists and turns all the way from Southern California to the town of Leggett in the north, but the most captivating stretch is the 1,200-kilometre-long section that we’re about to tackle.
Shawn and I are also the only people sharing a bike – the last time I attempted solo speeds of more than 70 kilometres per hour on two wheels, I ended up in a Thai hospital. I’m still scarred from the incident, so Shawn has kindly offered to chauffeur me on a three-wheeled beast known as a Honda Goldwing Trike. Everyone else is on sexy, glimmering Harley-Davidsons, but I take comfort in the fact that my chariot has a stereo and heated seats, which may prove very comforting in this weather.
On day one, we rumble out of the Hotel Erwin, right on Venice Beach, and instantly have half the LA captivated: there’s nothing like the roar of 22 Harley motors revving in unison to draw a crowd.
Officially, we won’t be on Highway 1 until after lunch. This stretch of road is known as the I-10 and it’s probably the least interesting scenery we’ll experience on the trip. After passing through Malibu and leaving the suburbs of LA behind, we wind up through a mountain pass that leads back down to the beach at Santa Barbara. Even through a layer of fog, Santa Barbara makes an impression as a lovely, laid-back town, nestled between a long curve of palm-lined sand and the Santa Ynez Mountains. On Stearns Wharf, jutting into the Pacific, we devour huge bowls of fortifying clam chowder and Cobb salads at Longboard’s Grill. Clinging onto a brawny biker for hours on end has a strange way of invigorating one’s appetite.
After Santa Barbara, we’re on Highway 1. This is the sort of road you see in ads and movies, the sort that just begs to be explored on a motorcycle. There are stretches of windswept sand, hairpin turns and dramatic cliffs that drop into a frothing ocean. And just when I begin to compare it to the Great Ocean Road in my Australian home state, Victoria, we carve our way through soft green farmland wreathed in mist. It’s not surprising that beatniks, surfers, environmentalists, gourmands and thrill-seekers flock here in equal measure, creating an interesting pilgrimage route of sorts.
We stop briefly for buttery shortbread cookies and tea in Solvang – a bizarre Danish theme park of a town with a large number of bakeries and a café built into a windmill – before moving on to San Luis Obispo. As dusk is falling, we check in to the Madonna Inn, quite possibly the most kitsch hotel I’ve ever seen. My room, Sugar & Spice, comes with delightfully camp pastel-pink walls, a sunken lounge area and more brown velvet than I know what to do with. The only thing missing is a coin-operated vibrating mattress for the bed.
The hotel’s signature restaurant seems too good to be true – the menu lists dishes such as pink shrimp dolce vita, served up in an eye-popping pink dining room replete with ornate golden chandeliers – but we’re shuttled in an old yellow school bus to a nearby winery, where we are treated to a feast of barbeque ribs and jerky, smoked and dried in a barn adjoining the one in which we enjoy dinner.
Day two will see us sleeping in Carmel-by-the-Sea, the pretty-but-posh town where Clint Eastwood was once mayor. But before we get there, we have a millionaire’s mansion and some elephant seals to visit.
At this point on the route, a lot of people make their way to Hearst Castle, one of America’s greatest shrines to excess. If it was a clear day – it’s not – we would have been able to ogle the over-the-top estate created for newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst – a property in which all manner of architectural styles were fused to an almost fairytale end. Or so I hear. “Damn this rain,” mutters Shawn.
We move on to a rather smelly, not to mention noisy, stretch of sand just north of San Simeon. The odour and clamour can be attributed to a colony of huge northern elephant seals that we find chilling out on the beach, the male lions bleating and barking to catch the attention of their female counterparts. When they’re not sleeping, the creatures drag themselves down the sand like giant slugs before diving into the ocean to search for dinner.
From here to Monterey we’ll be cruising along the Big Sur – by far the most dramatic stretch of coastline on the route. Departing San Simeon, a switchbacking road skirts sheer cliffs. On one side of the trike, a fierce blue sea extends to the horizon; on the other, there are groves of redwood and blonde headlands scattered with wildflowers.
By the time we reach Carmel-by-the-Sea, I’m as dazed by the dramatic scenery as I am by the cold – which is not to say that a nicely chilled beer in the carpark of our lodgings, La Playa Hotel, is unwelcome. Though I can’t see the ocean, my room does overlook lovely landscaped gardens, replicated in the flowery fabrics used in the hotel’s wallpaper, bedspreads, pillows…
A trip to California would not be complete without visiting Yosemite National Park, one of the first officially recognised wilderness areas in the U.S. and a UNESCO World Heritage Site for good reason. We’re roaring east toward Tenaya Lodge & Cottages, just outside the park’s gates, when the weather takes a turn for the worse. After a brief stop to don wet-weather gear and warm up with coffee and hot chocolate, we’re on the road again, edging our way toward the 3,080-square-kilometre park.
It’s a spectacular entrance that, sadly, few of us can appreciate due to the slippery surface: pine trees cling to the hulking Sierra Nevada range, flecked with orange and red elm and wreathed in cloud. Sinking down in my heated seat, hiding from the rain behind Shawn’s hulking frame, I sip my scalding spiced cider and look around rather smugly at the 21 other bikers battling the elements and, when they think no one else is looking, gazing back at me with envy.
Remarkably, the rain eases as we enter the park and head up to the top of a pass that commands stunning views over the granite-and-pine valley. A rare ray of sunlight glints off a semi-frozen waterfall, illuminating a rock face. It’s a sight I won’t forget in a hurry. Later, Shawn and I spot a baby brown bear playing in the river; it’s the first he’s seen in his many years of bringing tourists to Yosemite.
It’s not until our final day that I’m able to remove my rain jacket and gloves. Leaving the national park, we have 315 kilometres of motorway to conquer before we reach the Golden Gate Bridge and our final destination, San Francisco.
The descent from the Sierra Nevada range to Don Pedro Reservoir is at once hair-raising and thrilling. Shawn and I are on a Harley-Davidson Road King for the last leg of the journey – two wheels, finally! I yelp as we turn a particularly sharp bend and lean so close to the road that we scrape the bike’s pegs and set tarmac flying. But I’m addicted. At the end of the 10-minute downward spiral, I can’t help but ask Shawn if he’ll ferry me back up to the top for another spin.
And just when I think that riding doesn’t get any more exhilarating, I spot the Golden Gate Bridge, its iconic rust-hued towers poking up through low-lying clouds. Traffic almost comes to a standstill as our entourage begins to cross the 2.7-kilometre monument, once the longest suspension bridge in the world and still the nation’s second-longest. All 22 bikes rev and roar as we pass the island of Alcatraz and Golden Gate Park, marking our official arrival in the “fog city.” But today there is no mist or rain – just sunshine, illuminating our route into town. •
Photography by Natasha Dragun and Guenter Kykillus.
getting there
United Airlines operates direct daily flights from Sydney and Melbourne to Los Angeles. 131-777; unitedairlines.com.au
getting around
Whether or not you’re a motorcycle enthusiast, a journey along Highway 1 on two wheels is thrilling. Eaglerider, the largest motorcycle rental and tour company in the world, not only hires out Harley’s and all manner of other bikes but also leads guided motorbike tours, including meals, accommodation and a support van, along some of America’s most legendary roads. eaglerider.com
when to go
Apparently, California is sunny for most of the year. If you want to maximise your rays, visit between June and August. But bring a raincoat just in case.
where to stay
In San Luis Obispo, the Madonna Inn’s 178 themed rooms are among the most interesting you’ll ever sleep in. madonnainn.com
A stroll back from the ocean, La Playa Hotel, Carmel-by-the-Sea offers comfortable rooms overlooking a leafy garden; the bar is very popular. 1-831/624-647; laplayahotel.com
Not far from the entrance to Yosemite National Park, Tenaya Lodge at Yosemite offers huge rooms with spa baths and riverside balconies. 1-801/559-4919; tenayalodge.com
further information
The California Travel & Tourism Commission has a wealth of knowledge on the “golden state.” 61-2/9361-0660; visitcalifornia.com.au
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