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exactly the same effect on people as the sudden rattle of
a large diamondback. Based on bitter experience, I was
reminded that Big Sur is just one shrub away from being
Paradise on earth. And one reptile, I might add.
We swooped north in the late afternoon, which was
cooling off rapidly. Visitors to California who expect
balmy spring and summer weather along the Pacific are
often disappointed, because the climate near the ocean
probably has more in common with coastal Scotland than
with the sunny surf movies of the imagination. You’ll nev-
er see “Gidget Wears Fleece”—because it was suppressed
by the California Tourist Bureau.
On our Harley trip, Barb and I had to swing inland
about 25 miles every few hours, just to get out of the
coastal fog and warm up. But this time we were perfectly
comfortable, swaddled in Gore-Tex behind our sleek wind-
screen. Mark, however, was well chilled and assumed the
posture of one battling hypothermia...or possibly rigor
mortis. Barb and I felt terrible about this, but somehow
completely forgot to ask if he wanted to trade bikes.
We finally turned inland at Carmel Valley Road and
pulled into the Quail Lodge at the end of what had been a
14-hour, 400-mile day, what with lunch and our back-road
photos sessions. We were all a bit weary, but Barb and I
noted we’d hardly given the well-shaped BMW saddle a
second thought. I’d have to rate it a very close second to
my 2009 Buell Ulysses touring seat, which remains the
gold standard for me.
I won’t go into detail on the Quail Gathering now (see
Photo Essay, pg.12), except to mention that I rode the RT
solo on the 120-mile group ride on Friday, which included
three laps around the circuit at Laguna Seca.
As we hit the track, I let the really hardcore sportbike
riders—including Mark—blast off into the distance (as if
I had any other choice), then held back to stay clear of
a cluster of banzai riders who had probably never been
there before so I could swoop around the circuit in rela-
tive solitude. I’d raced there several times in cars late in a
recent century, but never on a bike, and had to reacquaint
myself with the correct line.
Once I figured out where I was going again, I found
the big Beemer to be one of the easiest and most serene
bikes I’ve ridden on a racetrack. Composed, stable and
predictable, it accelerates down the front straight as if
you’ve dropped a bomb that obliterates well-ridden bikes
that have smaller or lesser engines—and does it with
almost embarrassing ease. You want to shout, “Sorry! I
can’t help it!” as you streak by. Or, “Somebody stop me!”ABOVE: The RT’s adjustable windscreen helped keep rider and
passenger cool on the inland parts of the route. The 2011 Har-
ley-Davidson XR1200X was a more visceral traveling companion.