Hanging out in Pescadero for over 100 years.

25 members came on today’s ride. We rode 107 miles. We consumed myriad eggs and slices of bacon.

The ride left the clubhouse right at 10, and we took a quick spin up Bernal Hill, site of dirt hill climb races up until 1909. It being all of five minutes from the start of the ride, we didn’t stop but rather looped around and came right back down again. We continued up what was supposed to be Hill 57, though I’ve been informed that perhaps there was another part of the mountain that was more properly the site of previous races.

Our next stop was Holy Cross Cemetery down in Colma to pay our respects to Patrick McCarthy, early member and mayor of San Francisco from 1910 to 1912. Unfortunately, we didn’t know his exact whereabouts on the grounds, so we stopped and paid our respects at a central location. After a few sweltering photographs, we headed south.

We continued on toward the Pulgas Water Temple, but we’d been overrun by cyclists. The road was closed for the day, so we turned tail and ran for Alice’s. There was quite a crowd, and we took a few minutes to get a drink and chat.

The next leg was a bit more trouble. We lost a few members to a wrong turn, but we all gathered up again at Duarte’s in Pescadero for lunch. After lunch, we stopped for a picture in front of the flagpole in front of the Pescadero post office, the finish line of the enduro races the club used to hold from San Francisco down the peninsula back before the roads were paved. We did some refueling, and made our way back to our bikes.

One last run north up the coast and back into the city where Red Fred was kind enough to open his house to us and show us some of his goodies. He has quite the collection of Indians. After wearing out our welcome, a few of us took a quick lap around Urbano Drive, which used to be the Ingleside Track back in the day, then headed back to the club.

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Sunrise

CHAPTER I
It was a dark and stormy night somewhere. In San Francisco, it was cool and clear before the dawn some 1,979 years and 3 days after the death of Jesus of Nazareth. All over the city, motorcycle enthusiasts woke to the sound of various alarms, wondering why on earth they would be going off at such an awful hour. Gradually, they rubbed their eyes, threw on leather pants if not underwear, and made their way to 2194 Folsom Street.

In the pine hall of the San Francisco Motorcycle Club, a tide was gathering. The life force of coffee beans— plucked, roasted, and ground to a powder— was being absorbed by those in attendance, in need of the vitality of the small plant to make their existence bearable. After some admonishment of those in attendance and some inscribing of the day’s record, they exited, intent on their goal, nothing in the way. But the local constabulary would disagree.

CHAPTER II
As the caffeinated band made their way out of familiar territory, a representative of the constable stopped them in their tracks. “To whence journey you?” he inquired. “To the Golden Gate of the city,” replied the leader. “Be on your way, heathen,” was his answer, and the group continued on.

After recruiting further members at the local tavern, the group continued out into the darkness.

CHAPTER III
In the town of Mill Valley, the group stopped, and met with other travelers from around the lands. Lusty stories were told, drinks were imbibed, and friendships reinvigorated.

“Away then!” the call went out. “To the summit!” came the reply. They mounted their motorcycles and sped north, higher and higher up the mountain. They were slowed by the inky darkness, and the tight purse strings of those in charge of keeping clear the roads, but certainly not by fear.

As they flew up the hill, rivalries were played out on the small stage of the roadway. Riders battled for position, intent on besting their brethren. Gravel flew and engines roared, but once at the peak, those battles subdued, and laughter was heard across the parking lot. The weak and infirmed followed. When they too, at last crested the summit, they were embraced upon their own small victory of survival against the wicked mountain.

Groups huddled against the cold and dark, lighting small fires and sharing strong drink, waiting for the dawn to come.

CHAPTER IV
After some wait, it did, bright and beautiful, illuminating the landscape and striking fear into the hearts of those gathered. Slowly, they returned to their motorcycles, and fled back into the safety of their beds. Only a select group of a score returned to the pine halls of the San Francisco Motorcycle Club. There, they were greeted with the sound of sizzling pork and the smell of hearty toast from the far east. Those in attendance tell tales of the great work of Stephan. They will tell you that without his sacrifice, many would have perished of hunger.

Restored, rejuvenated, and freshly intoxicated, those that remained returned home and steeled themselves against the specter of the next journey.

To this day, if you ask the captain of his version of events, he will only mutter, “It was a good ride. Nice weather and we all got home safely. Many thanks to Stephan for the food. See you guys on Thursday.”

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