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

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.

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…

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.

A few highlights from the trip (mostly related to food):

Harris Ranch

When I worked for the food bank, I was able to get Harris Ranch to donate five gallons of soup for fundraiser, but this was our first stop on the ride out. The breakfast is great; I highly recommend the bacon (they’re very generous with it).

Parkfield (the earthquake capital of the world)

I don’t know if we saw more than three people in the town, but I have to bring Kim back to the inn for an overnight stay. It’s a beautiful area, and evidently the place to experience an earthquake (whatever that means).

San Miguel Mission

We only rode by, but it’s gorgeous.

Fosters Freeze

Okay, I now realize that we have Fosters Freeze in Fresno…

Indian Valley

A perfect route for the motorcycle—we saw less than 10 cars in an hour and a half (and the roads are nice and winding). I learned two lessons from this leg of the trip:

1. An insect that is trapped inside of a leather riding jacket and capable of biting, will.
2. On a motorcycle, with a gas tank capable of holding no more than five gallons (and I have large tanks), it’s very important to know the approximate distance to the next gas station, and to fill up before venturing onto back-country routes.

Baptism at the beach

One of my favorite parts of the annual trip.

Woodstocks Pizza

Next time you find yourself in San Luis Obispo, I recommend making your way to Woodstocks. Just don’t judge it by the decor (and read the carvings on the table before sitting down with your children).

Camp chili

I made a lot (see picture below), and it was damn good.

El Chorro Regional Regional Park

This is where we stayed; it was perfect for our group, and provided several recreational areas. My personal favorite was the dog park.

I could keep going. There were so many great experiences squeezed into a short trip—I’m ready for next year! For those interested in exploring some of these places on your own, I’ve mapped the route I took on the Harley.

And with a new (used, that is) Harley, I’ll be lucky if I find any of these, at least in combination. Parts and service of decent quality are accessible, but they seem exorbitant in price.

But maybe I’m a little quick to judge:

Last weekend I discovered that one of my gas tanks was leaking due to a weakness around its upper mounting bolt. I took the tank off the bike and rinsed it out, but struggled to find anyone who would work on it (evidently, welding on a gas tank is dangerous). Alas, my boss pointed me in the direction of a local radiator repair shop, and they agreed to fix the leak.

I dropped the tank off at 8:00 a.m. on Tuesday morning. I was warned that efforts would be made to preserve the paint, but that no guarantees could be made. I waited to hear just how much this would cost me: worst-case scenario, I was told, would be $75. Okay, so I can get the work cheap, but in what time frame? I picked it up at 4:30 p.m. that same day.

I can’t say yet whether or not the quality is what I hoped, as the tank still has to dry before I can re-assemble the motorcycle and fill it with gasoline, but the shop preserved the paint job, and even cleaned the rest of the tank in the process (the leaking gasoline had mixed with dirt to form a greasy sludge on the bottom). They also soldered over the effected area, smoothing it out and making it much more presentable that what I brought to them.

The shop is inconspicuously located downtown; I wonder how such reliability, timeliness and affordability affects their business?

The bike is in great shape, but John pointed out a small gas leak before he sold it to me. He gave me a new seal to repair what looked to be the cause, and shortly after getting the bike home, I drained the tanks and in no time was good to go.

Or so I thought.

I fired ‘er up and let it run for a few minutes; no leaks, so I took it around the block.

Drip.

Drip.

Argh…

Realizing that the leak was actually coming from the inside of the tank (then dripping down to the petcock, so it appeared to be leaking there), I set out to remove the tanks and get a closer look.

The short story is that I got the tanks off, found the leak (from a crack around the rear mounting bolt), found many people afraid to weld on it (gas and flame…um…don’t mix?), but lucked out when a local radiator repair shop agreed to fix it. Now, all is well. I’ll post more as the work continues.