“Maybe it’s time I make that motorcycle trip I’ve been dreaming about.” I told myself. Along the way, I soaked myself in California’s resplendent landscape while meeting a few of its outlandish residents.

O my friends, what a year it was. 2020 began with a plague known as the coronavirus or COVID-19. The world was rife with fear, uncertainty and doubt. And anger. So much anger. America seemed like a land of contradictions and beliefs in absurd conspiracy theories. It made me excited for a front row seat to the spectacle.

New Year new me

I became a US citizen in January. In March, a week before most states enforced stay-at-home orders I got my crisp, virgin US Passport. The Supreme Leader of the land, the reality-tv star we elected king, promised us that the virus would go away during warmer times.

The States were in their dying days of democracy. A huge chunk of the population believed wearing masks and staying indoors was an infringement on their rights and freedoms by their local state governments. Their behavior confused me.

The plague persisted. Summer came.

I’ve lived in the city too long. The bubble’s radius reduced with the state’s lockdown orders. I found myself feeling great heart ache for those in solitary confinement or with life sentences for minor misdemeanors. I get great energy among people. Heavy metal concerts, technology conferences, New York’s East Village and public transit. I missed those giant, disease-carrying, hordes that are my fellow human beings .

It was then that I planned a ride from Los Angeles to Big Sur. It was a good chance to see the majestic California landscape. I grew up in India reading and hearing a lot about the state’s rugged coastline, the fog soaked mountainous coast, the towering redwood forests and unforgiving deserts. And I could meet some of my fellow Americans on the way.

My motorcycle was a 2011 Triumph Bonneville. A classic British iron horse. The tank had a dual tone cream and chocolate brown paint job. Modified for a long distance ride with a comfortable seat and a windshield, I packed a few clothes, roadside wrenches and I was on my way.

Meet the neighbors

Day 1 - https://goo.gl/maps/WyjKFbGt7FEuLyv8A

I lift my helmet visor to sniff in the air. A hint of ripe fruit, few tones of earthy mulch and what seems to be a dash of skunk. This is the Central Coast that I’ve heard so much about. The place California boasts supplies America its food.

I arrived at Arroyo Grande, a coastal California town about a northbound three hour drive from Los Angeles. The town is my base for the next three days. The town is adorned with patches of strawberry fields and fields of kale.

I’m lodging at a multi-tenant Airbnb. The hostess, greets me and introduces me to two other lodgers, sitting on the patio.

My lodging at this AirBnb ranchette in Arroyo Grande

I quickly join them after shedding my gear in my room.

“I was ready to move to Australia for the free healthcare. But they closed their borders” says Barry, a retired environmental engineer. He’s in his sixties, with a thin combover of snow-white hair and cautiously smiling beady blue eyes.

Seems like a reasonable idea. I’d probably do the same in his place.

“Trump’s COVID response is terrible. He’s sinking. He’s such a New York conman” says Jake, an American of Chinese-Vietnamese origin from Atlanta with a thick Georgia accent to match. He then tells me about a recent Black Lives Matter protest by the nearby US 101 highway.

They offer me a plate of steamed sausages and french beans

“Country is going to shit. Protests everywhere. Why do these people have to block the highway? Why can’t they just protest in parks instead of government buildings? I bet they have been spreading the virus.” Jake speculates. “Tell me, do you think all lives matter?” he questions me.

“Care to elaborate?” I request hoping to entertain myself by hearing more about his racist crackpot theories.

“I don’t think all lives matter. I think many of these people at these protests are criminals looking to make the most of the coronavirus situation. The police and Feds ought to handle the situation” Barry states confidently.

He seems to have been quietly listening to the talkative Jake but talk about the protests has stirred him up.

I’m taken aback by the contradictory nature of their beliefs but I play along.

“They’re crisis actors”, says Jake.

“They must be antifa. I’ve heard a lot about antifa gangs in Portland and they seem to be coming to California.” Hilda the hostess adds in her whispery voice. She’s in her fifties, sharp face with protruding cheekbones and wiry salt and pepper hair.

I ask for some salt.

“They’re kooks. That’s what they are.” goes Barry.

O my friends, what is it about so many of my American comrades that there’s no trust in the scientific process, fear of change, and a love for entertainers? California itself has elected two actors in the past as Governor. One went on to become president of the country.

I bite into a soggy sausage and saltless string beans.

Stranger in a strange land

Day 2 - https://goo.gl/maps/ZHeJWA6H1DfTY6cb9

I wake up to a damp, chilly morning. This particular week, clouds have descended on the town, a Pacific coast summer special. I plan on riding the east-west highways. Barely 10 miles on the short CA 227 to San Luis Obispo, the clouds have given way to a meadow with cows grazing, and a fenced patch with rows of grape vines adjacent to it. Rocky hills in the background, a neverending shade of blue sky that immediately makes you think, “I’m glad I’m alive to see this.”

Stop at the side of CA-227 towards San Luis Obispo

I fill up my tank at the last major town Atascadero. A bony, young woman steps into the gas station mart. She looks a little jumpy. I wonder if she’s on meth.

She compliments, “Nice bike. Lovely old school paintwork”

Another man walks in. He’s tattooed all over including some on his face. He’s mumbling to himself. Everyone is wearing their masks and maintaining a good distance from each other. Payday loans and Bail Bond companies advertise on nearby billboards.

I call these sprawling, suburban pockets, “America Town”. Fast-food chains, shopping malls, gas stations and auto-body shops line the arterial streets. I’ve come across descriptions on the social media platform Reddit, of some of these Central California towns as highly conservative, with widespread meth addiction, and troubling amount of xenophobia and neo-Nazi activity. The recent violence by police and white supremacists against black protestors in the state culminated in the lynching of a black man in Palmdale, another one of these towns,. It’s barely an hour outside Los Angeles. The helmet disguises me as an anonymous visitor from another world.

I set out eastwards into the desert. I start with CA 41, through twists and hairpin bends around the dusty hills. I reach Shandon, a small wine town with a single market place. I’ve decided to get lunch in the town of Pozo.

A local ranger warns, “You can go back to Atascadero or risk the single gas station in Santa Margarita. It’s Sunday and they’re very Christian. It may be closed. Fingers crossed they’re whores for money.”

This is my first desert ride. The August sun blazes. The sky is white. I am in an armored leather jacket and gloves, black jeans and a full-face helmet. Vultures circle the clear sky. The odometer hasn’t given me range anxiety yet but lunch will be granola bars if the town has decided to honor the Sabbath.

Friends, I’m feeling cocky.

Zipping through the lonely winding CA 58 , I reach the town. The Christian god has blessed me with the chance to top off my tank.

Another searing 18 mile ride and I’m at the Pozo Saloon. A couple of bikers are in the line for the bar. Another group of men with their wives are also in line. Some of them have brought their dogs. They are burly and are wearing what looks like cowboy boots and garb. I’ve noticed a lot of ranches on the way and wonder if this is how the locals dress. I’ve only seen cowboys in the movies. Everyone is wearing a mask and maintaining their distance.

They have a spacious picnic area for outdoor dining. A cover band is playing bluesy-rock tunes. The notes hit me in the feels. I miss the religious assembly for a live band. Little groups, some with their kids distanced from each other by picnic tables, are enjoying the music, burgers and cold beers. Everyone has a little twinkle in their eye with welcoming smiles and nods as I pass them to my seat. I sit back alone in their spacious picnic area. I stretch my aching muscles, observing the crowd.

I bite into my burger. Medium-well patty, crunchy bacon, American cheese, jalapenos, tomatoes and crispy fried onions in a bun that’s soaked in the juices.

Big Sur

Day 3 - https://goo.gl/maps/Q6UWSELUsvWMKR4a9

This morning, water droplets drip down the bike. Dense fog clouds the air. I wipe down the seat and check the air pressure on my tires. My teenage dream will be realized today. I have to conquer the glorious Pacific Highway to reach the heavenly land that is Big Sur. The open road, the big sky, the steep mountain twists, rocky beaches camped by elephant seals and various shorebirds. Range anxiety isn’t my problem today. It’s enduring swiftly changing micro-climates from foggy to bone-chilling cross-winds to baking dry heat. I feel like an active participant on this grand stage.

Robert Pirsig’s quote from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance comes to mind, “In a car you’re always in a compartment, and because you’re used to it you don’t realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You’re a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame.

On a cycle the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming.”

The curvy mountain passes force me to summon all my hand-eye coordination and muscles to precisely hit corners without turning into oncoming traffic or risk running out of room at the edge of the mountain. I take pride in having given into my addictions by drinking gas station coffee in the towns Morro Bay, Cambria and Gorda on the way. No time for day dreaming now.

Drinking in the magic mountain air

O friends, what a blessing it is to be a man, isn’t it? Pissing at the side of the road doesn’t bother me the least.

The fog keeps the mountainside verdant and lush. The Pacific’s deep blue tone draws many cars to stop by the side of the road to capture the moment. I break for some time myself. The air’s purity seems to have given me new energy. It feels good not to wear a mask. It feels good to be out of the Los Angeles’ smog-filled, badly planned, urban trash heap. I stare into the far out horizon. I’m content. I wish for every American during these times to have a moment like this. To be one with the land.

The deep unforgiving Pacific in all its splendor

The Supreme Leader of the land, claimed to be a titan of the real-estate industry before he was elected. He wants to give away so much of the country’s gorgeous landscape to his sniveling sycophants. And for what? Knowing American exceptionalism in accounting trickery expect more shoddily built America Towns. You’ll find sales for clothes at $9.99 and cancer-filled, fast food slop at $0.99.

A hundred and thirty miles later I’m at the Big Sur River Inn. The Big Sur park is teeming with tourists. People have followed through on their summer plans. The place is dotted with RVs, tents and crowds with their kayaks and bicycles.

O friends, the plague induced lockdowns have made people yearn human contact, yearn a change of scenery. Business newspapers have talked about a growth in RV and camping gear sales. I’ve also read about increasing evictions and a growing recession.

“Are we going back to hunter-gatherer times?” I wonder. “Wasn’t this country created based on a war against taxation without representation?”

The restaurant at the Inn has a long line. People are maintaining the protocol of staying at six feet apart and masks donned. They do seem to be touching an awful lot of things in the grocery store.

“I wonder if this is all just theater for businesses to pass some bureaucratic compliance checklist. It seems to me like the much hated airport security theater enforced by the TSA has now crept into our everyday lives”, I think to myself.

I bite into my tri-tip sandwich. Sloppy roast beef with melted cheddar, mild dijon mustard, pickles and a tangy sauce. I’m mildly concerned about paying twenty bucks for this.

I make the ride back to base. My back is stiff, hands sore, head throbbing. The wet mist of Arroyo Grande welcomes me again. It is night in America.