There’s a semi-plausible explanation involved— just in case—for those in the corporate flow chart who ingest and secrete pure semi-plausibility. But in reality, I took off at 9:00 on a perfectly serviceable Monday morning for the same reason you would: to preserve some semblance of sanity. Recharge the batteries. Preserve fragile circuits. Fend off the dark, acrid stink of creative burnout. You get the idea.
A street ride would have had the opposite effect, the since the Trail 70 is in pieces, I aimed the 800GS long-term glutton for punishment south on San Francisquito Canyon Road. After a quick left turn past the tiny burg of Elizabeth Lake, California – parked directly on the San Andreas Fault – I have this particular trail all to myself. Armed with a fresh set of TKC80 quasi-knobbies, the BMW is much more behaved than the last time I scared the fecal matter out of myself in every other corner on stock Bridgestones. Thank God and Continental for small favors.
Three miles in and it’s still only the BMW and I. No dust. Just a few rocks and ruts to keep us honest. My prefrontal cortex is infinitely grateful for the break; ducking through gaps in mesquite instead of idling sport ubiquity vehicles on the Hollywood Freeway. After another ten, sunshine is poking through the mental inversion layer that seemed so impenetrable at 8:45 this morning. On top of that, I learned some things. For instance, new off-road pants will always autograph that one undefended section of red-hot exhaust pipe with an indelible blob of molten nylon. Tank bags are always in the wrong place first time out. I really need stiffer fork springs. I learn at least a dozen little lessons like that every time I come out here. Which means I’ll be back next week—in the interest of science of course—to see how those changes work. It works for me. Two hours of trail therapy and I feel better already. I think I’m on to something here. Maybe I’ll be back tomorrow