When you are on the road, time is a blur. But not as much for me as this dude I was stuck behind in traffic. (pic related)…

Recently, whenever that was, I went out looking for adventure. Funnily enough, at the same time, adventure, claiming it had a score to settle,went out looking for me. We met somewhere in the middle.

I drove to Cleveland National Forest just to see what was there. Winding roads and a hill. I climbed the hill and snapped a pic…

They call this a “vista”

Feeling my work here had been done, I chose to leave CNF (Cleveland National Forest…I used initials to save a bunch of unnecessary typing. We call this “abbreviating”. Spares my thumbs a lot of work)

I wanted a shower. I plugged Planet Fitness into my GPS (heh heh, this reminds me of a joke I saw outside of a bakery. As a New Year’s thing, they wrote on a sign in chalk,

“We are into Fitness!” Then drew an image of a treat and wrote underneath. ..

“Fitness whole cupcake into my mouth.”

And, I just laughed and laughed! It was great!) and saw that I was only 7.8 miles from one. It was in a town called Lake Elsinore. I was geeked and drove further into the mountains. The road got windy and the air got windy. I had to slow.

I got to a turn and the pavement ended. I was on a dirt path. I pressed on.

It got worse. The EM-50 Phantom Rambler was shaking violently. Deep channels, gouges, and sharp rocks appeared on the path. It was a very narrow, one-laner that was abutted on one side by the sheer rise of the mountain and on the other by a sharp drop off to certain doom. In fact, I was pretty sure that at any moment the “road” would give way under my left tires and send me tumbling down the mountainside.

Years of spring run off had sliced through the road causing it to be, what any other cartographer would call, “impassible”.

But, I had faith in the good people of Garmin (also, no way to turn around and “reverse” was not an option. I had picked my way through carefully). With no alternative , I pressed on some more.

If you can believe it, the road got worse. Then came hope, of sorts. Two dirt bikers motored up behind me.

I stopped to let them pass. Hell, if I did get stuck, and it was looking increasingly likely that that would happen, at least I could send them for help.

They stopped next to the Rambler, flipped up their visors, pulled down their face masks and gawked at me.

“Hey man, what are you doing way back here?” One asked.

“Communing with nature.” I deadpanned.

They went on to inform me that, as far as off-road motorcycle, X-Game, enthusiasts or whatever, go, this trail is like a Triple Black Diamond or something and were genuinely curious how I even got a van back into here.

When I failed to provided a satisfactory answer, they shook their helmeted heads and moved on.

“Punks”, I muttered. And, watched them go.

I was focused on keeping the tires away from the deep crevasses and still trying to hug the mountain wall, all while the “road” rose and fell sharply and unevenly, threatening to puncture my gas tank.

Several minutes later, I passed the dirt bikers. One of them had gotten stuck. I shit you not. An off-road motorcycle, designed for this terrain was stuck. I waved as I slowly rolled by.

I came around a bend and, for about 40 feet, the “road” smoothed and flattened out, relatively speaking. It was enough to allow me to snap a quick pic…

Also, since my fingers were already pried loose from the steering wheel, I called Trixie to let her know this might be ALL for good ol’ T-Moose. A chance to say my goodbyes and give her an idea of where to find my body…stuff like that.

She stayed on the line, and somehow, The EM-50 Phantom Rambler made it down off of the mountain. I was now in a neighborhood of mansions/horse ranches. I wondered exactly how many rich MFs live in California.

I decided I had earned a prize. I went to Wal-Mart but could not decide between a device that allows you to make you own poop and a bottle of Gorilla Snot…

So, I got neither.

In the morning I thought it would be neat to have a sharp contrast to how I began the week, you know, in The Slabs, so I went to Malibu.

I drove the Pacific Coast Highway – it’s nice if you like that sort of thing – and settled in at Duke’s Barefoot Bar.

Shit is right on the water.

I engaged conversation with the couple seated next to me, Rob and Michelle.

She, like so many women named Michelle, was very friendly.

Rob, for whatever reason that I did not uncover, had recently been to The Slabs.

When I asked about things to see and do in California, the first thing he recommended was Big Sur, which is weird because my cousin Jen, when she found out I am in Cali, said the same thing. I mean, it is a big ass state, yet that is the recommendation from both. Weird. I might have to find out what that is all about.

I left Duke’s. My plan was to camp on the beach.  I needed ice. I stopped at the Circle K in Malibu and paid 6 bucks for a bag.

I tell you, there is something about carrying a $6 bag of ice to your car that kind of makes you feel like a big shot. You know, you got that kind of cash to toss around.

I drove north to Mugu Point and parked the EM-50 on the sand. It is along PCH, wedged between the mountains and the ocean.

The salt air, the crashing waves, the spray. Nice enviroment.

The temperature dipped into the fiddies (50s) at night.

In the morning, I drove to Oxnard and couldn’t find a gas station. But, I did find Boskovich Farms. A goddamn radish farm, of all things. (No pics. It’s not interesting enough) who knew such a thing existed.

Trixie on Friday!