Peenie Wallie

I do my little pre-flight bike inspection and notice that the bolt attaching my left rear turn signal is about to fall onto the parking lot. Somehow, the nut on the underside of the fender has gone missing.

I have a bunch of tools, but not a lot of extra parts lying around. So I check with the maintenance guy (Mike), but he's only got SAE stuff, and I need metric, of course. So he sends me back up the road a few miles to the Mother Earth Hardware Store, or something like that and they have metric nuts, of course. So I go back there and they guy sells me the parts and I go lie down in the parking lot and begin to fix the problem.

I like working on the bike. I dunno why really. I just think that my day job is too cerebral. There's no real job satisfaction if there's not a chance of you getting hurt on the job, I think. My hands are as soft as a woman's. I'm wanting to get some grease under my nails. And I'm out there in the parking lot, laying on the asphalt in my camo pants and leather jacket pretending like I know what I'm doing. And some woman comes up to me, probably following the trail of adrenaline and testosterone and she came up and started talking to me and I'm like...uh oh...here we go again. The last time this happened to me I was in Hoquiam, Washington and that was a mess.

"Has anyone ever told you God loves you unconditionally?" she asks innocently.

"No, but if you hand me that crescent wrench, I'll love you unconditionally,"

Her husband had just passed away and left this poor little God-fearing woman with an enormous Dodge Ram 2500 pickup with a crew cab and an 8' bed and she drives it through the little parking lot like the Queen Mary.

There's a little roach coach in back of the parking lot. I order a torta de carne asada and then my phone starts going nuts. I look at my phone, and I've got about a thousand text messages and somehow someone on the East coast has scheduled me a phone interview in a different time zone for later in the day. One can only guess why.

I never look for work because there are only two outcomes, both of which are miserable. Either you don't find work, which sucks. Or you do find work, which sucks even more because it means you have to go back to work. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Nothing ruins a vacation more than phone calls from the office. I shouldn't have to be dealing with this right now. I just want to go broke quickly, lose everything I have, and then fade into obscurity. Is that too much to ask?

I call the dimwit up to set him straight.

"Didn't I tell you I retired? Do you know what that word means? I'm not working any more. Seriously. Go look outside your window. You see how nice it is out there? Right. Uhh huhhh. Well that's where I am. I'm spending my days outdoors. I'm not working inside any more. I'm not suited for the office environment."

"Well,uh..ok...the thing is that there's this project in Dallas..." he's saying. "it's perfect for you...I can get you a better rate than the last gig....if you can just call in at 2:30 central time"

"Seriously? Are you on crack? What is wrong with you people? Don't you know we're in the middle of a recession? Did you not get the memo? Do you not watch the news? Why do you keep calling me? I told you I retired. And besides, where I'm going, there's no cell coverage. My torta de carne asada is ready. I have to run. Caio."

And I hung up on him. Just like that. Like, seriously...who needs that? G0d d@mmit.

The Sweet Taste of Seed Corn

See, the trick to not working is not to panic. If you can burn though your life's savings without panicking, then you've got it made.

I've been working for 12 months straight and during that time, I think I saved up something like seven dollars and thirty two cents. According to Quicken, anyway. So, I'm sort of drawing down those funds as I wander across the planet, I think. I was never good at math. I'm not sure how much money I have really. Probably it's closer to twenty dollars.

But I'm certainly not looking to go back to work. I mean...seriously. Who wants that? I think that really, we're all just creatures of habit, and we tend to do the same things over and over. We keep repeating the same mistakes because...well I'm not really sure why...it's human nature I think.

I really don't want to go back to work. Ever again. I think I'm through with that phase of my life...the whole..."working for money" type of situation. Yeah. It didn't really work out.

The torta de carne asada was horrible. As was the fish & chips last night. (With ranch? Seriously? WTF?) I don't know what people eat here in the mountains, but I haven't found it yet, obviously. Everything I've had tastes like @ss so far.

I start following Highway 120 east into Yosemite. No GPS, of course. It's toast. And the only he map I have has no scale on it, for whatever reason. Thanks for hanging me out to dry on that one, Golden Gate Cycles. Here's a hint...take the rest of the maps and throw them in the fvcking trash can, so no one else is impeded by the stupidity of the nimrods that had those things printed. They should be hunted down and flogged in the streets like dogs. It's like when women try to make maps and they a) don't put North at the top and then b) often don't bother to indicate which way is north.

The town I spent the night in has no gas station. So, I'm heading into this massive park, and I'm not clear if there are any more gas stations.

And now the fear seeps in around the windows. See, a motorcycle can sense fear like a woman. And, once the fear finds you...once it really knows you and gets into your bones, you are already dead. The bike will fling you into the brambles or into a tree in the blink of an eye. I mean, you have to have your head on straight when you go into a hairpin hanging off one side of your bike going twice the posted speed limit. You can't wonder if you're going to make it and start acting "squirreley". That isn't how it works. You have to know, or the bike will skull fvck you and spread your spleen across the pavement.

Luckily, I find a little store in the Yosemite Lakes area and fill up with gas. I also fill up my little Coleman fuel bottle that I smuggled out to San Francisco in my carry-on luggage. Somehow, the geniuses at the TSA missed it. So, now I have about 1 quart of gas in my Givi case. Probably the only time in my life I've ever carried extra gas on my of my own volition. But, running out of gas in the Punta Prieta desert will do that to you, I guess.

I've been slowly climbing along Highway 120. They mark the elevation with road signs, for whatever reason. I think the highest I got was about 5,000 feet, and now I'm descending into Yosemite valley. No real plan, of course. Only to get into the park and head for the valley, whatever that means.

Eventually, I stumble onto one of the park entrances. I only have to pay $10 since I'm on the bike, I guess. So I roll through the park Eventually, I start dropping down into this valley and, oddly, it looks like the park caught on fire at some point in the past. Not clear when. But it looks a lot like the parts of Yellowstone that burned. Only, I was never aware that Yosemite caught on fire.

So, yeah...driving down into the valley, through this torched forest. And now, I see the smoke and haze from another fire. (This land burned a long time ago, I would guess.) But there's this new fire actively burning in the park that caused them to close Highway 140 yesterday. But it's open now, I'm told.

A squirrel is crossing the road, but he can't make up his mind. I dunno why they do this. Probably, if they're trying to dodge a hawk, it's a brilliant strategy to keep changing directions 30 times a second. But with a motorcycle, not so much. He changes directions several times and finally darts beneath my tires at the last second. Why? I dunno. Will says that's what they mean when they say "acting squirreley". Probably he's right.

I get down into the valley and it's really pretty wild. I mean, the scale is impossible to describe. I mean, you're driving down this silly little road and, beside you, El Capitan rises straight into the stratosphere. How high is it? I have no clue. I would guess thousands of feet high. I try to imagine myself at the top of it. Impossible. Insanity.

From above, this just looks like a small little park. But down here in the ground, it seems to go on in all directions forever. I drive around and shoot a bunch of worthless photos that I'm sure will suck in a big way. I mean...like who am I, right? To come out here and capture anything different than every other tourist. Or from the real photographers...they're all carrying around the Canon EOS 5D Mark II's with little carbon fibre tripods and L-series lenses. And I'm just sort of snapping a few shots and moving on. Because, seriously...who wants to fvck with a tripod? Not me. Gay. Gay. Gay.

I mean, I'm here to take photos, but I'm here to ride the bike also. I mean, I'm not going to be hiking into any waterfalls holding hands with some guy I just met. That's not going to happen. I'm sure that it would be smart to get off of the bike and walk around some, but I'm not really sure I like that. I like staying close to the bike. We've become pretty good friends. I don't want it to get jealous or anything because I'm off chasing butterflies down some gay trail. Not like that.

I find a little store in Yosemite Valley run by government dimwits, plodding along so slowly you just can't imagine. It's like exhibit A in what's wrong with government. Like, if you've never seen a government-run retail store, you should see this one in Yosemite. Lines like a mile long and the nimrods are wrapping up everything slowly, diligently, in tissue paper lest it break...they're wrapping up bumper stickers and patches you sow on a jacket...things that wouldn't break in a trillion years. It this were the private sector, people would be fired. But not here. Not in the governmental beauracracy of Yosemite. The lines just grow and grow until people walk out without paying and no one cares to even stop them because what difference does it make, anyway?

Finally, the dimwit sells me some Yosemite stickers for the bike, some jerky and trail mix and Gatorade. I like having some food on the bike in case I end up starving and can't find a place to eat. It seems like a reasonable thing to do.

I roll around a bit and end up at Glacier Point, where Jim told me to go. Very cool road leading up to it. Probably the best road I've found in the park. Very twisty and dangerous and lots of hairpins and, going into one, I come sailing by this car...just blow right by them across a double yellow going into a hairpin and now I've got to cross back into my lane going into the hairpin and when I do, my tires slip just a little on the yellow paint and for a second I think I'm going down but the tires grab again once they get off of the paint and it makes me wonder what the U(k) static friction coefficient of the paint is. Obviously not as good as the asphalt.

On the way out, I stop to shoot some photos of the bike by this ridiculously large tree that has been cut down for whatever reason. I get some shots and then I think..."I wonder how old that tree was" and I glance at the rings. Someone has counted the growth rings and written it on the stump - the tree is 336 years old, and started growing in 1675. Pretty wild.

I'm burning daylight though. Time to head to Mariposa, where I'll pick up a package from Circle 7 Outfitting and Provisions. They're shipping me some gear so that I won't always have to resort to wearing cotton, as I nearly froze to death in Alaska. I have a package that was shipped to me FedEx to a hotel in Mariposa, and I've got to show up there and claim it at some point. Of course, I don't have a reservation there, so I'm sure it will confuse the sh1t out of the little dimwits.

So I roll out of Yosemite on highway 140, following the Merced downriver, basically. It's just a little squiggle on my map, but I'm slowly learning that the thinner the line, the better the ride. I mean, this isn't rocket science. Pirsig clearly spelled this out in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Hey laid this out in the first chapter, I think.

Probably, in coming out here, I just sort of rolled out to Yosemite on the most direct route due to time constraints. But now that I'm here...now that I've rolled through Yosemite valley, now the problem becomes one of optimization.

Now, I need to find the best roads to ride. Like, trust me I'm not hiking 7 miles in to see a waterfall. Not without a gun in my back, anyway.

About 30 miles downstream, I run into Mariposa and find the hotel and I approach the guy at the front deask.

"My name is Rob Kiser. Do y'all have a package for me?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you have a package for me?"

"I no understand," he replies. Clearly, English is not his first language. Or second or third, for that matter.

"I'm expecting a package. From FedEx. It was sent here to this address," I plead.

"You want check in?" he asks.

I'm ready to strangle him. How does this happen. They should give everyone an English test when they come to this country and drown everyone that fails the test. That way, you'd ensure that people that came here spoke fluent English, or they wouldn't even try, for fear of drowning.

"No. A package. From FedEx. Here. In my name. Do you have a package for me?"

Finally, he seems to get it.

"No. No package."

"Are you sure?"

"No package. No. Nothing come for you."

Then, he turns around opens a door, gets my package, and hands it to me. Somehow, this does not seem to him to be incongruous with the fact that he just told me 17 times he didn't have a package for me. This all fits together nicely in his mind, some how.

"Thanks."

"You want check in?" He asks.

"I think I'll pass." And I drive off into the night, now with a big box of new riding gear.

As I roll through Mariposa, I spy a couple of bikers at a little gas station there at the 4-way stop in downtown Mariposa and I just roll up to them, kill the bike, and say "Where you going? Where you been? And this guy, Jay, he's as cool as they come. He doesn't bat an eye. "Been in Yosemite. Going back in now."

"Couldn't get enough huh?" I ask.

"Ran out of time to ride. Got to go back to work," he offers. "How bout you?"

"Well, I just got back from Alaska...came here from San Francisco...rolling around Yosemite checking it out...where's a good road to hit?

"Oh. Dude...you have to hit 49. This road. North."

"Oh yeah. I know where it comes out. It hits 120, right?"

"Yeah. After abut 30 miles of switchbacks it does."

"Beautiful. I was going to go south and come back up 41."

"Nah. You get behind too many people on that park road. It sucks. Take 49."

"My buddy told me to take Cottonwood Road. When I hit 120, what do I do?"

"When you hit 120, you turn right, cross the bridge, and exit at Cherry Oil Road. Also, right there, are some deep pools called Rainbow Pools. You have to stop there and check them out."

"What about Cottonwood Road. Is it cool?"

"Awesome."

"OK. Thanks. My name's Rob. Here's my website. Check out my photos from Alaska if you get a chance. Send me an email and say hello."

"Thanks, Rob. My name's Jay. Have a good ride, man."

And this is it. This is the pearl that Jack Kerouac talked about in his book "On The Road". The pearl has been handed to me. Why on earth would someone want to fvck up something as perfect as this with work? I think I'll change my phone number so those people from work can't find me any more.