South of Sunnyside

Kim and I took the Harley out for a short ride to Centerville. On our way back, we passed by the Frosty King in Sanger, which either offers a decent bargain on DRINKS, or one hell of a markup.

Either way, we’ll consider this a sign fail.

Since I had the day off, I decided to wager another hour or so of my time in hopes of finally registering my Harley. On my last visit, I was told that a CHP officer is available on Fridays, and that I needed his sign-off on my registration papers (it’s a long, convoluted story).

I figured the line would be shorter before lunch than after, and while I was right, the receptionist was surprised I hadn’t made an appointment with the officer; that wasn’t advised, or even given as an option before. Fortunately, the officer wasn’t as busy as she thought—he was leaning against a cubicle wall, just chattin’.

The officer took a quick glance at my paperwork and said it was good to go, meaning that I should have been able to complete the process on my last visit. He pulled a ticket for me, and I sat for 40 minutes waiting for my number to be called.

I still claim that this has been the most ridiculous process I’ve ever encountered, and I’m not confident that it’s over—there’s still plenty of paperwork that could be lost—but at least I have a license plate.

Last summer I learned that my mother had sold her Harley (yes, she had a Harley). Upon uttering that I would have potentially been interested in buying it, she mentioned that her husband, John, had also put his up for sale. She sent pictures. I saved money. In November, Kim and I drove 1,800 (each way) to pick it up.

The bike is registered as a 1973, but the engine is a rebuilt 1984 Shovelhead FLH. John’s life has consisted almost entirely of tearing down and rebuilding engines, cars, lawnmowers, trucks, Harleys—you get the idea. This was his baby, and despite a bit of dirt from sitting in the garage (he’s suffered a herniated disc for over a year and couldn’t ride it), it was clean, and ready to ride. He signed over the title, and Kim and I loaded it in the back of her truck.

The bike has a clean title, but because the engine was rebuilt, there are no identifying numbers on it. When I took it to the DMV for registration, the inspecting officer couldn’t verify the VIN, and deferred me to California Highway Patrol for investigation.

I began calling the number furnished by the DMV that day, leaving a message for Officer Clay, the only VIN officer in Fresno County (as I later discovered). I continued to leave messages over the next six months, never receiving a returned phone call; I didn’t hesitate to ride during this time, despite the fact that my temporary tags expired after only 30 days.

In preparation for my ride to the coast over July 4, I started calling other offices, desperation apparent in my voice. I finally received the advice I needed: contact Officer Clay’s staff sergeant. The staff sergeant answered my call, and within 30 seconds he was able to transfer me to Officer Clay (who just happened to be available at the time…). I finally had an appointment.

On July 1, I scrambled to get to CHP in time, but once I arrived I was told Officer Clay wasn’t available. Instead, two men in jeans and flannel shirts accepted my paperwork and began inspecting the bike. An hour later, they explained that a state-issued identification number would be fastened to the engine, and that I could now return to the DMV to finalize registration.

The next day (the day before my trip), I sat at the DMV for another hour, only to discover that the two men who performed the inspection hadn’t completed the paperwork. After yelling at the clerk, and subsequently apologizing, I received an extension for my temporary tags (though, only after asking what would happen if I were pulled over without a completed registration).

Hopefully next week I can get back to the CHP, then back to the DMV…

I’ve often heard Fresno touted as a hub for day trips to other destinations: Yosemite; L.A. and the Bay Area; Pismo Beach and the Central Coast. While the main artery heading north or south (HWY 99) isn’t exactly scenic, the side roads heading east and west can be.

As we describe our city to others, it’s not just the proximity to other locations that should be highlighted; the routes to those locations might just be the best part. I offer an example:

This weekend about half of our church gathered at a campground in San Luis Obispo. Kim couldn’t come until after work on Thursday, so a friend and I decided to ride our motorcycles up earlier that day. We set out shortly after sunrise, with a plan to travel the back roads.

HWY 41 isn’t very exciting, so we turned off in Lemoore to head west on HWY 198. The warm colors of the fields highlighted by the morning sun, against a greyish-blue mountain range and overcast sky, were dramatic and beautiful.

We stopped for breakfast at Harris Ranch, and then continued west for a few miles past Coalinga, deciding to “test” a road that had no name and didn’t show up on my Google map (it was on a printed map, however). We climbed for about 10 miles up a winding road, averaging about 15 MPH, overlooking valleys and rolling hills from about 3,400 feet up. And the then pavement ended.

For the seven-mile descent we braved dirt and gravel, only to land in a valley just north of Parkfield, the earthquake capital of the world. We crossed over the San Andreas fault, pulled into town (population 18), and stopped at the inn. Nothing was open, but a passing resident stopped to take our picture in front of the water tower.

From Parkfield we took a different road west to San Miguel; I’ll have to return here just to visit the mission. We took HWY 101 down to Paso Robles, stopped for malts at Fosters Freeze, then headed further west to catch the PCH into San Luis Obispo. All in all, the trip was right at 200 miles, with gorgeous views and almost no traffic.