Pacific City, Oregon

Saturday, April 20, 2000

This was a day of regrets. I regretted having left the camera at home. I regretted having to work part of my weekend. I regretted having talked about any regrets because today was, on the whole, quite nice.

A coworker and I had been discussing a particularly tasty road to the west of my house that promised the kind of sweeping curves that induce an almost religious experience (because running hot through them brings one closer to the afterlife.) I had planned to use that route today but I got a late start. (I'll use that route in another trip report ...I'm not telling just yet.)

I was running late because of some work I had to do that couldn't wait until Monday morning. I'm a software testing engineer and so my schedule is often dictated by development and release cycles that are, in turn, pushed by revenue expectations that are pretty much made up with a dart board, some chicken blood and some beads in Marketing.

To say that my mind was not at all where it should have been would be an understatement.

The Road Most Travelled

My journey began along Hwy 6, a road that is frequented by trucks, motor homes and cops. All three were in abundance today, making the going a little less enjoyable than it might have otherwise been. Hwy 6 has a few nice turns in it and I did my best to experience them by dropping away from whichever obstacle was ahead of me and then increasing velocity until I caught up.

One observation, if I may: The throttle on the ST1100 is not to be used casually! My previous motorcycle had a fraction of the power of that available on STraddle. The corner scenario went something like this. "Wheee!" followed by "Whoa!" followed by "Oh no!" (or something like that) and then finally, "BRAKE, PUSH, LEAN, ROLL ON."

It took the surgeons four hours just to get the smile off my face.

Hwy 6 terminated in Tillamook, a sleepy coastal town. The skies were clear and blue and the local temperature was unseasonably warm. My mood had changed for the better and all of that nonsense at work had receded to hidden corners of my mind.

Almost Paradise

Turning south onto the coastal highway 101, I travelled about 26 miles to the access road for Pacific City, a small town just south of Cloverdale, another small town ...well, you get the idea. As I approached Pacific City I saw the view open up to reveal a sight seldom seen on the Oregon coast: blue sky and visibility to the horizon. It was breath-taking! Again I remembered that I had no camera.

A friend of mine recently told me that I should be very careful when describing the beauty of the Pacific Northwest in these reports. "People might want to move here," he said. "People not unlike yourself?" I asked the transplant from Indiana. He thinks that, now that he's here, no one else should move to Oregon. As a native son, I have to agree. So, perhaps it is just as well that my camera remained safe at home this day because what I saw belonged on the cover of a travel brochure.

When I arrived at the Riverside Restaurant (my checkpoint) I didn't need to look at the sign to know I was in the right place. Several very fine examples of motorcycle (European, Japanese and American) were parked out front. Turns out that several other rally participants had chosen this checkpoint as a lunch stop. I joined them.

After collecting my checkpoint stamp, I ordered a bowl of clam chowder and joined in conversation with the other motorcyclists. One group had just that morning been riding high atop Hebo mountain and had taken the opportunity to ride in (and fall down in) snow. Others were talking about what it takes to get invited to the semi-annual Ironbutt Rally. None of us really knew for sure.

Bidding Pacific City goodbye, I headed north again on Hwy 101 and then vaguely northeast on Hwy 22, an adequately windy road that was surprising devoid of traffic. I hooked up with Hwy 18 and rode past McMinville, joined Hwy 99 and on into Newberg.

Not Again

Having neglected that really super neat road that I mentioned earlier, I decided to ride Hwy 219 back to Beaverton. Then I met the SAAB. The SAAB was full of people. The driver was throwing caution to the wind as he sped along at almost 15 miles per hour below the speed limit. He completely denied me the opportunity of leaning way far over in the 270 degree curve half way up the hill. As we rounded another corner, I saw The Pickup Truck and Trailer. It was going even slower than we were so I found a place to turn around and explored those few curves on the way down. I waved at the nice policeman who was driving up the hill. They HATE that.

Back in Newberg, I proceed on to Dundee (slow) and Tigard (slower) and then finally at a reasonable pace on Hwy 217.

Perhaps my friend has is right; maybe there are too many people moving here. But I don't think I'd want to live any place else. I guess I'll just have to share.

At the end of the day I had to admit -- I had no regrets at all.

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