The first trip had finished by putting three motorcycles into a storage unit south of Seattle. This one began by taking them out again, five weeks later.
We flew up from Texas on the twenty-third of October, 2021, collected the bikes, and were in Astoria by that evening — which compares favourably with the two days it had taken to clear Texas the first time. The Oregon coast took three days and produced, on the second morning, the closest call in the club's short history: a black bear that came down a hillside at a flat run and crossed the road perhaps a yard in front of Ray's front wheel.
In San Francisco the trip changed character. Aimee, Tiffany and Robin flew in to join us, which meant two pillion passengers and — since Robin was not yet persuaded about the back of a motorcycle — a rented car that became the support vehicle for the rest of the week. From there it was the Golden Gate, Pigeon Point, Bixby Creek, the elephant seals at Piedras Blancas, and as much of Route 1 as was open: a landslide had shut the road in Big Sur, so one four-hundred-mile day includes a long stretch ridden twice and an inland detour to get around it.
Venice Beach, then Hollywood, then south to San Diego. On the last morning we rode down to the Mexican border before turning east — having kissed the Canadian border outside Vancouver six weeks earlier, it seemed only right to finish the job. From there it was the desert to Las Vegas, where the motorcycles went into Aimee's uncle Joel's garage and we flew home on the second of November.
Two trips, two borders, and nobody hit a bear.
