Highway 1

LA/XC-3 DAYS TWELVE, THIRTEEN, AND FOURTEEN:  L.A./SANTA MONICA, AND THE PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY FROM SANTA MONICA TO CAMBRIA

Day Fourteen mileage:  238.7

Total LA/XC-3 mileage: 3,689.2

Road music:  Joe Walsh (Analog Man); Neil Young (After the Goldrush; Greatest Hits); John Fogerty (The Long Road Home) 

Weather leaving Santa Monica Wednesday morning:  81 degrees and mostly sunny

Weather arriving Cambria Wednesday night:  65 and fair

Three-day state tally: 1 (California)

Gas money to date:  $782.14

Wednesday was easily my most enjoyable driving day of the trip.  Maybe ever.  (Well . . .)  There’s only one road in the U.S. that carries as much romance and aura as Route 66, and that’s the Pacific Coast Highway.  Or PCH.  Or just Highway 1.  (The two roads also share  the fact that they’re almost impossible to stay on; they have this aggravating habit of disappearing and becoming an interstate from time to time.)  You know what I said last post about loving the

beach promenade in Santa Monica, and how I cannot not be happy there?  That goes double for the PCH.  I literally had a _ _ _ _eating grin on my face the whole day driving; fellow-travelers looking in my window must have thought I was touched.  This is my third cross-country road trip — and my third time up (or down) Highway 1 between Santa Monica and San Francisco.  If you ask me, every American should be required to make this drive at least once in his or her life; then try and tell me you don’t love it.  For a long stretch, I even went music-free (!): windows open, moon-roof open, hair flowing in the wind (poetic license).  You have to keep everything open when you drive the PCH.  Have to.  State law.  And, of course, there’s my little fur-ball snoring away in his shotgun seat.  Doesn’t get much better than this.

Somewhat unfortunately, I hit Highway 1 about 3 hours later than I intended.  I so stink at leaving when I’m supposed to.  But, on the plus side, I got everything all organized for my side trip to the Bay area after 5 days “at home” in Santa Monica/L.A., and you all know how excited the Beagle Man gets about being organized.  A fairly significant event occurred as I was revving up the old Pathfinder in front of Loews Santa Monica:  Lady Garmin passed away.  Expired.  Sadly, she will coo “recalculating” no more.  Now I’m not saying we didn’t have our problems

together.  There was the time in Sedona last year that she refused to speak to me in English, only Afrikaans.  And often she’s guilty of TMI — telling me to stay left or stay right when, quite honestly, I don’t really even see another option.  But all in all we shared a lot of good times, and I’m gonna miss her.

So between my late take-off and my defunct GPS, and the fact that I hadn’t gotten around to making a

motel reservation or calculated my next overnight stop, I had a revolutionary idea for the habitually regimented Beagle Man:  I’d go off the grid!  I’d adopt the true, Kerouac-esque on-the-road spirit!  No Garmin, No Res, No Worries — that was my mantra!  Head up Highway 1, and wind up wherever I wind up.  All right, so it wasn’t exactly Lewis and Clark, but it was a little free-wheeling for the Beagle Man Tour.  Now lest some wiseguy says maybe I should try this approach all the time . . . I can’t.  1.  It’s not my nature.  2.  I’ve got places to go, people to see.  3.  Have to be back east in time to teach my writing course at Trinity.

In all fairness, it wasn’t the toughest of days for Garmin-free driving.  If I just kept the Pacific Ocean on my left, I was good to go.  Finally had the chance to stop at Pepperdine in Malibu on my way north.  It had been on my bucket list for LA/XC-1 and 2, but I’d never quite gotten around to it.  The cliff-top campus overlooking the Pacific was all it’s cracked up to be.  Seeing Pepperdine reminded me of what my L.A. friend Ilene said about it on LA/XC-1 when I suggested we go for a visit:  “Why would we do that?”  The fact that, by reputation, it’s one of the most beautiful campuses on earth, with stunning, almost-aerial views of the ocean, meant nothing to her.  Ilene and I have known each other since Hawthorne Elementary School days — we were even boyfriend-girlfriend at some point in junior high, though neither of us remembers which year — but other than our history and a shared high regard for the printed word, we couldn’t have less in common.  She’s never been to a football game, finds the ocean boring, is allergic to dogs, and is an extreme foodie.  Need I say more?  Nonetheless, we had a great time together over a dinner at Stanley’s Restaurant & Bar in Sherman Oaks, in the valley, as they say.

Had a real pleasant surprise on Wednesday night.  I’m not going to pretend I’m a stranger to luxury hotels, but on the Beagle Man Tour, Ricky and I generally lower our standards a few notches to find budget motels that are dog-friendly and have all the required conveniences for a quick stop and efficient turn-around.  When the sun started dipping into

the Pacific, and we were still hotel-less, we turned off the PCH in Cambria, and landed at the Blue Dolphin Inn.  On the ocean.  With a fireplace in the room.  Designer decor.  Deluxe, comfy fluffed-up bed.  Sunset view over Moonstone Beach.  Don’t be getting used to this, Rickster.

RANDOM ROAD NOTES:

•  Just north of L.A. passed Topanga Canyon, which figured heavily in Neil Young’s whacked-out memoir, Waging Heavy Peace

•  Oxnard.  I know why that name has always seemed so weird to me.  It’s pig-Latin.

•  Hey, look at that:  Mussel Shoals.  Wonder if that’s a take-off on Muscle Shoals.  Or vice versa.

•  “Buellton — Home of Split Pea Soup.”  Hmmm . .

•  From what I can see along Highway 1, paddleboarding has taken over the world.  Maybe I should try that instead of surfing; can’t do any worse

•  Tomorrow, when Carol heads out to Montauk, she’ll be looking at one ocean while I’ll be looking at the other

I PLAN TO POST AS CLOSE TO DAILY AS POSSIBLE WHILE RICKY AND I ARE ON THE ROAD.  BUT YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY:  MAN PLANS, GOD LAUGHS.   OH, AND BTW, YOU CAN ALSO FOLLOW ME ON FACEBOOK AND TWITTER