Stockton to Medford

I almost forgot to mention this yesterday... well, to be accurate, I did forget to mention this yesterday, so I'll mention it now.  The Nighthawk turned 30!  30,000 smiles on the clock and they're all mine.  MINE, I'm telling you!  Shamefully it took me almost two years to accumulate the last 10,000 -- something I aim to fix once I'm established enough to take proper road trips again.  Onward to 40,000!  Hey, it's a Honda.I just flew in from Stockton and (say it with me) "Boy, aren't my arms tired!"  The ride from Stockton to about Red Bluff was a struggle as valley winds from both sides (often at the same time and always of random magnitude) pushed me around like a wind surfer.  My ordeal was like getting a Richard Simmons workout without the story and the crying.  Needless to say I was very happy to reach higher ground and the shelter of rock formations on one side or the other.

The CHP gave me a scare.  I was about to pass a Winnebago when it started signaling (and moving) left.  I immediately backed off the throttle to give it room and was nearly rammed by a Highway Patrol car.  Car 54, WHY are you?  The 'bego made its move, the CHP car came around on the right and Officer Friendly gave me this kind of shrug as if to say, "Sorry, I'm just a civil servant."  Ticketing the other driver would have been a nice touch, but the nice policeman had heard on the radio that a Krispy Kreme "oven fresh" light had been turned on somewhere. "Charlie Foxtrot 359 in progress; domestic glazing. A man with spoons and knives. See the baker. "

There were several things I thought to do to the officer and his car but most of them are felonies. I let him go with a warning. Have I mentioned that I've only received one ticket in 20-mumble years of driving? The key phrase here is: "Never convicted."  Arrests and arraignments don't count and, besides, those records have been sealed. Never underestimate the power of a parakeet, some lip balm, two baby aardvarks, a raspberry granola bar, the presiding judge and a Polaroid camera. Need I say more? Case dismissed.

On a more pleasant and constructive note, I got to experience some way-out scenery as I climbed to 3,000 feet around Lake Shasta.  There is a bridge along I-5 that crosses the lake and from my perch I was so distracted by the view that I momentarily forgot what I was doing.  The water is a magnificent deep blue: the kind of blue that water is supposed to be but never is.  Fantastic!  (or Formula 409). If I had majored in National Geographic at school, I could tell you about the various forms of flora and fauna that are strewn about the landscape.  But many of you suspect, and some of you know, that I majored in Lunch.  I saw some trees and some birds and... stuff (and things).And, speaking of lunch, I took mine at a nearby rest stop to take in the view, pet some passing poodles and talk with Winnebago drivers about their manners.

Later I stopped in Weed briefly for no other reason than to say, "Hey, check out the Weed," and "Nice Weed." "Officer, those teenagers over in the pool are swimming in Weed!"  See, it doesn't take much to amuse me.  Give me a rubber band and a paper clip and I'm set for hours.

Finally, I crossed the border into Oregon.  Ahhh... my dear Oregon.  The Mother Land. Matriarch of Municipal Myopia.  And then I remembered the following:

• I can no longer pump my own gas.
• I can drink water from the tap.
• If I don't like the street lights in my neighborhood, I can amend the State Constitution by referendum.
• With the right note, my doctor can help me die.  (I'm a Kaiser baby, so it goes without saying.)

It's all good.

More Oregon Adventure with Allen on Day 3, when available.  Until then, Shasta la Vista, Baby!