Having survived lunch with Henderson at Eddie Rickenbacker’s, I set out the next day to meet Alice of Arlo Guthrie fame at her eponymous restaurant. Alice is allegedly found at this joint on Skyline Boulevard (Highway 35), about 60 miles south of San Francisco at the intersection of La Honda (Highway 84). Now, sitting at an intersection of two roads named Skyline and La Honda, and me being of the classic Japanese persuasion, I hoped to see a mix of monster-exhausted Godzilla Nissan R32s and some of Soichiro’s finest parked up outside Alice’s modest establishment, but if there were a few classics of any ethnicity, they couldn’t be seen for all the bling and leather fringes. There were a couple of rally cars with stickers and noise, but as one had to agree to give his mate in a hot (?) Beetle a 10-minute start on the 20 mile stage to the next bar, they didn’t hold my attention. There were bicycles there too, with riders in very colorful shirts and tight, bulging shorts. Hmmm...
Alice was nowhere to be seen, but the people were friendly and even the guys wearing Ducati jackets didn’t swagger too far outside the circle of cool. The dude in the do-rag and tatts might have been on the outside edge of acceptable for this crowd, but the burgundy-metallic barn door fairing with disco-ball lights on his Fat Person cruiser marked him as more Wizened One than Wild.
It’s actually a helluva ride if you want to go see Alice. You can pick up Skyline Boulevard from several points, but from San Francisco you head out on Interstate 280, then cut across to Pacifica with a dive down over the hills to the coast road. Almost immediately you’re on Devil’s Slide, where you and/or the road are in imminent danger of slipping into the ocean.
Heading south, there are several options to reconnect with Skyline, but route 92 out of Half Moon Bay seems to work. Past the flower farms and pony-rides, up round the hill on a quick two-lane charge, react quickly when you see the sign to Skyline, make a right and enjoy the ride.
Only half a mile onto Skyline and most visitors will want to stop to admire and photograph the views on either side of this razorback ridge – looking down to the Pacific Ocean on one side, and the lower reaches of San Francisco Bay on the other. Miss that chance and it won’t come again in stereoscope, but there are many more vantage points to see either the Pacific coast or the southern reaches of San Francisco Bay.
Skyline is obviously a popular ride or drive and the road winds and climbs along the ridgeline. There’s one section that runs through a pine forest, with the trees crowding close to the road and blocking out sunlight. Here on a cool February day it gets chilly, even in full riding gear, and the worst of the bumps and ruts are hard to see under the shadow of the trees. The occasional bursts of sunlight are welcome, even if only to show the pockmarked road more clearly.
You come upon Alice’s Restaurant – or the complex of half a dozen buildings around the intersection – quite quickly, even on a Triumph Scrambler. There are lots of bikes parked either side of the road and the occasional family group looks a little out of place as they try to slip by with their bright green transparent drink bottles and fluro-pink sunhats. Oh wait, I’m confusing them with the cyclists…
The staff at Alice’s copes with the influx of hungry, thirsty road warriors with a friendly greeting and directions to take any available table. For the truly desperate, there’s a bar out the back. For those beyond desperation, the washrooms are behind the small gas station next door.
The food is standard American restaurant (café) fare – it’s never going to drop your fat count, but it is filling. I sat for a while to soak in the atmosphere, but when Allen Ginsberg failed to put in an appearance as advertised on a fading Flower Power poster, I decided it wasn’t worth staying for dinner. Besides, any more Coke and fries and I’d be doing more stopping than riding that afternoon.
The Scrambler’s off-road capabilities weren’t fully tested by the bit of gravel beneath my chosen parking spot, or even the drop off the low kerb onto the road. McQueen (Steve, not Humphrey) would’ve been unimpressed by my efforts.
From Alice’s, you can swing right onto La Honda and head back down to the coast and Highway 1, or continue on Skyline Boulevard. Again, the views soon after rejoining Skyline are impressive, with rolling hills down to the distant ocean, but it’s too soon to stop for another Kodak moment (and much too late for Kodak), so I head further down the road, with very little traffic going my way, but quite a lot making the climb to see Alice.
The sun’s out, there are no pine forests shading the road, plenty of corners and the riding is good. Feeling a little disappointed that I’m not sharing this with my mates, I’m grateful for the waves from oncoming bikers, whether it’s the flick of clutch fingers from an otherwise very busy sportsbike rider, or a low, slow five from the cruiser guys. This seems a uniquely American but nonetheless friendly acknowledgement, the left arm dropped briefly from the bars, palm out and open. If I sometimes managed only a nod in return guys, it’s because your friendliness caught me a little unawares, and of course, I was riding a Triumph, and the Brits can be a bit like that…
Reaching another intersection, I decided to follow the route I’d scribbled up the night before and turned into a quickly narrowing road towards the Big Basin Redwoods State Park. This proved to be eight miles of very slow going, mostly second-gear and I was glad of the Triumph’s low-down torque as it slogged out of one tightening radius hairpin to another. I was even more grateful for its narrowness and responses when a fully-laden pick-up truck appeared on one blind corner doing a slow apex on my small piece of road. He probably didn’t hear me, but he and his mother were roundly insulted as I dived for the last remaining bit of blacktop, momentarily forgetting that pick-up trucks and gun racks are sold as a matching pair in America. Good thing I was having a ride-awareness moment and automatically nudged the Trumpy to the right (not always a given for those of us who drive on the left at home). Then again, the rest of the road was full of truck…
My new best friend the Scrambler and I made it down into the Basin without further incident. The redwoods were truly magnificent and it was cool and quiet amongst the trees. We didn’t pause long though, as there were another eight or nine miles of twisting road back up to route 9 and the town of Boulder Creek, population 4,015. Here I tried to get gas, but was blocked by more damn pick-up trucks abandoned at the pumps while their drivers had loud conversations near the entrance to the store. Hey guys, pay and piss off, your mother’s waiting for you…
Eventually, I got to do battle with the gas pump, but it refused to take my card and in America, even small town America, you get to pay up front for the privilege of pumping your own gas. After two trips inside to get the guy to activate the pump, I eventually slapped 50 bucks on the counter and suggested the Triumph might need one-quarter of that. The attendant was apologetic, and having pumped gas as a kid I remember what it was like dealing with fractious customers, but this reminded me of interactions with the slowest kid in the class. In hindsight, maybe on this occasion I was the slow one…
Back on the road there was more traffic now as we headed down into Santa Cruz to rejoin Highway 1 for the run home to San Francisco. A quick chat at the lights with the rider of a new Harley 1200 Sportster and his lady revealed that he’d almost bought a Triumph. Can’t help thinking he made the wrong call, but nice of him to admire the Scrambler.
We were soon out on the coastal highway, but this was less than the expected good thing, as the wind had got up in the afternoon and it was fairly howling into my face, buffeting the bike and making 65 miles per hour feel like twice that. And there were more than 70 miles to go…
We struggled into Half Moon Bay from the south, having experienced a couple of big twitches as stronger gusts from between the bigger coastal dunes combined with road irregularities to keep me very focused. I decided to abandon the coast road and after a short stop at an accommodating gas station for a sugar hit, I was revisiting the morning ride back up towards Skyline, but this time we went straight on, over the other side of the ridgeline and down to join Interstate 280. The wind wasn’t much better here, but it wasn’t gusting unpredictably and I hunkered down to run with the traffic at well above the posted limit. Not for the first time on this leg of the ride I wished I was on my Thruxton sitting lower into the wind rather than high, wide and handsome on the Scrambler. But it was what it was and we made it back to the 6th Street exit, argued with another gas station attendant because 87-strength brew was never going to be kind enough to the Triumph’s innards, filled it with 91 and bobbed around the block to journey’s end.
Alice was nowhere to be seen, but the people were friendly and even the guys wearing Ducati jackets didn’t swagger too far outside the circle of cool. The dude in the do-rag and tatts might have been on the outside edge of acceptable for this crowd, but the burgundy-metallic barn door fairing with disco-ball lights on his Fat Person cruiser marked him as more Wizened One than Wild.
It’s actually a helluva ride if you want to go see Alice. You can pick up Skyline Boulevard from several points, but from San Francisco you head out on Interstate 280, then cut across to Pacifica with a dive down over the hills to the coast road. Almost immediately you’re on Devil’s Slide, where you and/or the road are in imminent danger of slipping into the ocean.
Heading south, there are several options to reconnect with Skyline, but route 92 out of Half Moon Bay seems to work. Past the flower farms and pony-rides, up round the hill on a quick two-lane charge, react quickly when you see the sign to Skyline, make a right and enjoy the ride.
Only half a mile onto Skyline and most visitors will want to stop to admire and photograph the views on either side of this razorback ridge – looking down to the Pacific Ocean on one side, and the lower reaches of San Francisco Bay on the other. Miss that chance and it won’t come again in stereoscope, but there are many more vantage points to see either the Pacific coast or the southern reaches of San Francisco Bay.
Skyline is obviously a popular ride or drive and the road winds and climbs along the ridgeline. There’s one section that runs through a pine forest, with the trees crowding close to the road and blocking out sunlight. Here on a cool February day it gets chilly, even in full riding gear, and the worst of the bumps and ruts are hard to see under the shadow of the trees. The occasional bursts of sunlight are welcome, even if only to show the pockmarked road more clearly.
You come upon Alice’s Restaurant – or the complex of half a dozen buildings around the intersection – quite quickly, even on a Triumph Scrambler. There are lots of bikes parked either side of the road and the occasional family group looks a little out of place as they try to slip by with their bright green transparent drink bottles and fluro-pink sunhats. Oh wait, I’m confusing them with the cyclists…
The staff at Alice’s copes with the influx of hungry, thirsty road warriors with a friendly greeting and directions to take any available table. For the truly desperate, there’s a bar out the back. For those beyond desperation, the washrooms are behind the small gas station next door.
The food is standard American restaurant (café) fare – it’s never going to drop your fat count, but it is filling. I sat for a while to soak in the atmosphere, but when Allen Ginsberg failed to put in an appearance as advertised on a fading Flower Power poster, I decided it wasn’t worth staying for dinner. Besides, any more Coke and fries and I’d be doing more stopping than riding that afternoon.
The Scrambler’s off-road capabilities weren’t fully tested by the bit of gravel beneath my chosen parking spot, or even the drop off the low kerb onto the road. McQueen (Steve, not Humphrey) would’ve been unimpressed by my efforts.
From Alice’s, you can swing right onto La Honda and head back down to the coast and Highway 1, or continue on Skyline Boulevard. Again, the views soon after rejoining Skyline are impressive, with rolling hills down to the distant ocean, but it’s too soon to stop for another Kodak moment (and much too late for Kodak), so I head further down the road, with very little traffic going my way, but quite a lot making the climb to see Alice.
The sun’s out, there are no pine forests shading the road, plenty of corners and the riding is good. Feeling a little disappointed that I’m not sharing this with my mates, I’m grateful for the waves from oncoming bikers, whether it’s the flick of clutch fingers from an otherwise very busy sportsbike rider, or a low, slow five from the cruiser guys. This seems a uniquely American but nonetheless friendly acknowledgement, the left arm dropped briefly from the bars, palm out and open. If I sometimes managed only a nod in return guys, it’s because your friendliness caught me a little unawares, and of course, I was riding a Triumph, and the Brits can be a bit like that…
Reaching another intersection, I decided to follow the route I’d scribbled up the night before and turned into a quickly narrowing road towards the Big Basin Redwoods State Park. This proved to be eight miles of very slow going, mostly second-gear and I was glad of the Triumph’s low-down torque as it slogged out of one tightening radius hairpin to another. I was even more grateful for its narrowness and responses when a fully-laden pick-up truck appeared on one blind corner doing a slow apex on my small piece of road. He probably didn’t hear me, but he and his mother were roundly insulted as I dived for the last remaining bit of blacktop, momentarily forgetting that pick-up trucks and gun racks are sold as a matching pair in America. Good thing I was having a ride-awareness moment and automatically nudged the Trumpy to the right (not always a given for those of us who drive on the left at home). Then again, the rest of the road was full of truck…
My new best friend the Scrambler and I made it down into the Basin without further incident. The redwoods were truly magnificent and it was cool and quiet amongst the trees. We didn’t pause long though, as there were another eight or nine miles of twisting road back up to route 9 and the town of Boulder Creek, population 4,015. Here I tried to get gas, but was blocked by more damn pick-up trucks abandoned at the pumps while their drivers had loud conversations near the entrance to the store. Hey guys, pay and piss off, your mother’s waiting for you…
Eventually, I got to do battle with the gas pump, but it refused to take my card and in America, even small town America, you get to pay up front for the privilege of pumping your own gas. After two trips inside to get the guy to activate the pump, I eventually slapped 50 bucks on the counter and suggested the Triumph might need one-quarter of that. The attendant was apologetic, and having pumped gas as a kid I remember what it was like dealing with fractious customers, but this reminded me of interactions with the slowest kid in the class. In hindsight, maybe on this occasion I was the slow one…
Back on the road there was more traffic now as we headed down into Santa Cruz to rejoin Highway 1 for the run home to San Francisco. A quick chat at the lights with the rider of a new Harley 1200 Sportster and his lady revealed that he’d almost bought a Triumph. Can’t help thinking he made the wrong call, but nice of him to admire the Scrambler.
We were soon out on the coastal highway, but this was less than the expected good thing, as the wind had got up in the afternoon and it was fairly howling into my face, buffeting the bike and making 65 miles per hour feel like twice that. And there were more than 70 miles to go…
We struggled into Half Moon Bay from the south, having experienced a couple of big twitches as stronger gusts from between the bigger coastal dunes combined with road irregularities to keep me very focused. I decided to abandon the coast road and after a short stop at an accommodating gas station for a sugar hit, I was revisiting the morning ride back up towards Skyline, but this time we went straight on, over the other side of the ridgeline and down to join Interstate 280. The wind wasn’t much better here, but it wasn’t gusting unpredictably and I hunkered down to run with the traffic at well above the posted limit. Not for the first time on this leg of the ride I wished I was on my Thruxton sitting lower into the wind rather than high, wide and handsome on the Scrambler. But it was what it was and we made it back to the 6th Street exit, argued with another gas station attendant because 87-strength brew was never going to be kind enough to the Triumph’s innards, filled it with 91 and bobbed around the block to journey’s end.
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