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LA/XC-2 DAYS TWELVE AND THIRTEEN:  PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY; L.A.; SANTA MONICA

Day Twelve mileage: 464

[NOTE: While I’ll continue to tally miles during my stay in L.A.-Santa Monica for the next week, I won’t be posting it daily]

Total LA/XC-2 mileage: 4,087

Weather leaving San Francisco:  58 and overcast

Road Music:  Absolutely nothing but ESPN Radio, the NFL network, and then the Falcons-Broncos game (let’s remember who was riding shotgun with me besides Ricky).

Gas money to date: $808.23

It may be the Golden State, but try telling that to Ricky.  All I know is we drove through Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, and Nevada without a single mishap.  Nada.  We cross the border into Cali, and all hell breaks loose.  First, two seizures in Palo Alto.  Then, around 10 o’clock last night, as I’m pushing through the revolving doors toward the

reception desk in Loews Santa Monica (earmuffs, Robby and Luz), I hear a blood-curdling wail and see part of Ricky’s right rear paw trapped in the door.  OH-MY-GOD!  I thought I had crushed his foot, maybe twisted his knee . . . and who knew what else?  So many people gathered it looked like CSI Santa Monica, but I have to say, the Loews personnel really stepped up.  They dropped everything to come to our aid (their slogan is Loews Loves Pets — and they really, really do!) and to help me assess the situation.  Together we determined the damage wasn’t nearly as bad as it originally looked and sounded — clearly nothing broken — and this morning Dr.

Isaacs, the wonderful vet at the Santa Monica Pet Medical Center, cleared Ricky for action, diagnosing nothing more than an abraded paw pad.  In other words, a boo-boo.  He’s now sporting a slick, purple, heavily padded bandage, and getting even more love from his  Santa Monica admirers than he usually does.  And I’m sporting a black rubber Beagle Freedom Project wristband I got for a $5 donation at the SMPMC.

The last time you saw Ricky and Beagle Man we

were at Pete’s, with Robby, across the street from AT&T Park in San Francisco on Sunday.  (Robby now considers Pete’s the best sports bar ever.)  Monday morning we got up early and hit the road by 9:15.  While this was only 45 minutes behind my target — extraordinarily prompt by Beagle Man standards — it was a fact Robby wouldn’t let go of as it became clearer and clearer that he wouldn’t be back in his room in time for the start of Monday Night Football, which seemed to be his only goal in life.

I had told Robby several days ago we’d be driving from San Fran down to L.A. on the PCH, or Highway 1 (take your pick), and that I’d be taking

my sweet time along the famous 17-Mile-Drive through Pebble Beach and Carmel-by-the-Sea.  Robby knew this decision was non-negotiable, though he made it perfectly clear he would have opted for the 5 in a heartbeat.  (Note the casual and natural way I now say the 5.)

Our reactions to the beauty of the coastal highway through the famed, sun-drenched seaside towns of San Pedro and Monterrey and Big Sur and Calabria and Morro Bay and San Simeon was a study in contrasts:

While driving through the town of Monterrey: Beagle Man:  “This is just ridiculously gorgeous.”  Robby: “I knew I should have taken Roddy White.”

Having lunch on the patio of Lucia Lodge in Big Sur: Beagle Man:  “By far the best view of the Pacific Ocean I’ve ever seen.”  Robby:  “Did you know I absolutely love pasta salad?  Great order.  Want my tomatoes?”

On seeing the beach at San Luis Obispo: Beagle Man:  “I was liking the cliff views, but this sea level view is great, too.”  Robby:  “More water?  Water’s water.  Can we leave this freakin’ PCH, fcol?”

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