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Everyone has a Mt. Tam story. When you find yourself on this mountain, somehow you find your self on this mountain. This time, I found someone else.
I proposed to my wife on this summit following one of the many annual Easter morning motorcycle rides, but that ain't the story. The story happened over a year before that:
After several gravity and beer-fueled races at Bernal Hill Speedway, I convinced my new girly-girlfriend to drive up to Olema for a late lunch. She consented, with fleeting apprehension. I loaded the 'milk truck' in the wayback of the '63 Wagonaire and we were off.
http://images.yelp.com/photo?id=8z2LWXFPgUf1QmAP1vdoVw&s=l
The entire way up Mt. Tam, she looked so beautiful in the strobing sunlight...so put together, so pretty. I was accustomed to dating 'artist/boho-types' and wondered about her mettle. Would she put up with my adrenaline junkie/creative fits?
From Mt. Tam, we headed north on Ridgecrest to the sinewy Fairfax-Bolinas Rd., the site of many a m/c 'coasty race', where riding skill trumps engine displacement. Shut off the motors and GO! It took only 15 minutes and 6 miles to fall head over heels and about 1200 feet in elevation.
http://www.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=42.716829,58.359375&q=mt.+tamalpais,+marin,+CA&ie=UTF8&ll=37.936007,-122.67334&spn=0.0417,0.056992&t=h&om=1
I took my turn in the Oh-Gee (ornerus gravitas) milktruck, asking her to follow in the old, gold Studebaker. She gladly obliged. This serpentine road tested my skills, forcing stategic use of both lanes to stay on course. I took a certain pride in pulling away form her. Unfortunately, it also annihilated by 'drag brake' pad.
'When's it my turn?' inquired the hottie in the choco-brown skirt and Ferragamos.
'You sure you want a go?!' asked the guy with the ethical dilemma.
'Just load it up, Squeemish.' she commanded, rolling up her sleeves.
All the way up the mountain I urged her to reconsider, to no avail.
We unloaded the instrument of wholesome destruction. I gave her some pointers (actually warnings to dissuade her) and climbed in the wagon, intent on running interference for any potential oncoming traffic. We began our descent. I had one eye on the road and one in the rearview mirror. We both accelerated gently with gravity's urging.
In short order, I was compelled by my own screeching tires to keep both eyes on the road ahead, trusting to her sense of caution. As I rounded a switchback, I glanced into the mirror and saw the SIDE of the coaster, in a full, opposite-lock, 4-wheel drift, closing in on my lowered tailgate. I mashed the throttle to put a 'safety cushion' between us. My tires howled as I spun the steering wheel turn after turn.
In the rear view mirror, she continued to close in on me. The coaster slid through an off-camber corner where my buddy had stacked his Ducati SS replica last Easter. She slid around it with a shower of sparks from the screws that used to hold the brake pad, all the while never crossing the centerline. On the last straight, I punched it to give her plenty of room to stop. She passed me and ground to a stop in a sweeping fishtail. A guy fishing in the roadside lagoon looked like he'd seen a UFO.
'Wooooo-Hoo!' exclaimed the young lady brushing the sawdust off her skirt, 'How'd I do?!'
Speechless, I loaded the milk truck into the 'Gold Brick' and headed north on the 1 to the Olema Farmhouse. I scarfed down one dozen oysters and started saving for a ring. read more