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Ride Report for March 30, 2008
By: Elizabeth Fajardo
Together and determined are the two words that best describe the feeling
of the
March 30th Posse ride to Tomales Bay. It was as if the emotion of
Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild” swept into the atmosphere and, along
with the sun, infused us with adrenaline—making every vrrm, vrrm count
even more. Could the spirit of James Bond in “Never Say Never Again”
have resurrected in our midst? I began to recollect my favorite spy as he
conquered the streets (although in a Yamaha), chasing evildoers in total
command, or as his nemesis Barbara Carrera puts it, “Well equipped,” for
the assignment, never losing sight of the prize. Aris made sure as our
leader for this Sunday that we had kept our focus, with Walter not far
behind, for moral support.
Sixteen motorcycles left the California Grill in unison, from San Mateo that
morning. The rest of the group consisted of Jeff and Terry, their son Nick,
Manuel, Lourdes,
Dan P., Phil Smith (Armando), Big Sweaty D, Ed, Pete, Dave F., Bob,
Gerald, Ray Fitch, Rick and myself. Gusts of wind couldn’t sway us. The
cold merely served to energize. We were on a roll. Call it pride. Call it
instinct. Call it an unstoppable goal—or maybe the taste of mouth-
watering oysters on the mind. Whatever it was, no one was about to stop
these bikers. We were on a mission.
As we drove up 19th Avenue, the Stonestown Galleria on our left, I felt
goose bumps
all over my body. Yes, it was due, in part, to the chilly weather. Mostly, I
was thinking of a better time. A happy state when this had been THE open-
air mall to shop at. I had visions of the Emporium during Christmas, when
Santa appeared at the top of the Big “E” at a special ice skating rink, just to
hear my wish list. His elves, dressed in red and green felt costumes,
would reward me with candy –filled grab bags that included vanilla taffy
wrapped candies bearing big red cinnamon-flavored “E” printing. Then
without hesitation Dad would take me up the elevator to a fantasyland on
the rooftop.
I would ride the skyscraping Ferris Wheel every year, my father at my
side, as we chomped on powder blue cotton candy that just melted in my
mouth. I can still feel the air as it touched my face while the sky-bound
seats swayed back and forth, my hands extended, ever-hoping my fingers
might slip through the clouds. There was nothing to fear. We were flying
without wings. Down below were kids running about, catching rides on a
carousel filled with jeweled horses and porcelain seats made for royalty,
only at that time, we were the royalty. And there was the smell of popcorn
in the air, and the magic that comes from believing in the impossible.
I awoke from my daydream just in time to see Mercy High School San
Francisco on our right, the sister school to the Mercy High School I
attended in Burlingame. Further along, as we started our steep climb up
the hill on the Avenue, was the San Francisco Scottish Rite Masonic
Center, big and bold on the corner, as it had been for as long as I could
remember. Across the street, I read the “Stern Grove” banner. So many
occasions my family had attended free concerts in this park, complete with
picnic basket, blankets and milk chocolate See’s Candies for dessert. The
most interesting show encompassed a troop of ballet dancers. For some
reason that Saturday, the venue had a few unwelcome guests in a swarm
of bees--that helped cut short our visit, resulting in a detour to Golden Gate
Park instead.
Continuing on as we reached the intersection of Vicente and 19th, to the
left was a grassy area that had once been home to swings and a
playground, and if memory serves me, a fighter jet. Yes, it seemed as if
the aircraft had been of the era close to the Korean War or later. But the
grounded flying machine was still a landmark, year after year. I always
wished I had stopped by to take a peek. The mystery of the plane was
more intriguing. It was gigantic and metallic. For all I knew, Martians had
dropped it from outer space.
As we passed the Olympian Gas station far, far ahead I could see the top of
the Golden Gate, peering out from the fog. We were getting closer to
where we had to be. The former Shriner’s Hospital came into view, now
something called the Vintage Golden Gate took its place. Then our riders
crossed Lincoln Avenue onto Park Presidio.
Martin Luther King Jr. Drive was just over my shoulder. I believed we
could take that route to the California Academy of Arts and Sciences (Now
celebrating its 150th Anniversary). So often in the past, my parents would
take me to the Natural History Museum with friends, and we had fun
exploring the many stuffed animals/reptiles. I was drawn to the dinosaurs,
as well as the lion family that seemed real enough to touch. But what I will
never forget were the many alligators that met us at the entrance,
surrounded by the protective bronze fence. For what seemed like hours I
would stare at their reptilian skin, hoping for a glimpse of those molars,
praying they’d open their mouth wide. All the while I felt safe behind the
metal bars. Still, there was always that inkling that if I slipped, could I
escape their grip?
Back to the scene at hand, I laughed to myself as we continued moving
and I pictured alligator lizards, whatever they are, in the middle of
humming America’s “Ventura Highway” and how the free wind is “blowin’
through your hair” and “Season’s crying no despair, alligator lizards in the
air, in the air.” Not quite snakes, but the true sight of these creatures
falling from the sky would’ve freaked out Indiana Jones, nevertheless. Not
to mention the true meaning of having a bad hair day…
Fulton Street was close by. I looked up as high as I could and the top of St.
Ignatius Church was in the distance. The holy dome was where I had
attended a mass for my USF graduation, located on the same complex as
the campus, in the bicentennial year. It all seemed so long ago.
We rolled along into the General Douglas MacArthur Tunnel, loud and hog
wild. Wait? Did Pete pass Aris? Anyway, soon the Posse was on the
Golden Gate Bridge. It seemed for just a second, the wind had died down
long enough for me to look out at the water, and the beautiful skyline in the
special way only a native California can appreciate.
All of us stopped at the H. Dana Powers Memorial Vista Point. As he
disembarked, Jeff said, “It was like going for a world’s record down 19th
Avenue.” I guess I wasn’t the only one thinking about our remarkable pace.
At the center of the rest stop, which overlooks the bay—and a remarkable
smattering of sailboats--is a monument dedicated to the United States
Armed Forces. In an enclave there are plaques for the Navy, Marine
Corps, Merchant Marines and the Coast Guard. A metal statue of a sailor
rests in the middle, a large knap sack at his side. He looks so young,
reminiscent of the young men who are at war today.
I departed with a heavy heart, wondering where the future would take us in
this world. As we exited the tunnel that led to Sausalito, my eyes opened
wide as I was treated to a sign at the side of the freeway: “Peace on
Earth.” The sentiment was simple, yet, self-explanatory. I couldn’t have
said it better myself.
Our leader took us to a pit stop just before the Paradise Avenue/Tamalpais
Exits. I could smell the aroma of coffee. Yet, there was not a Starbuck’s in
sight. It was just Big Sweaty D, handling a cup of Joe. He remarked: “I’ve
got gas and my coffee. I’m set.” How true. However, a mug of hot
chocolate would do just as well, for my taste.
Lucas Valley Road was next on the agenda. The sixteen bikes cruised into
vegetative territory. The meadows looked as green as lush fields in
Ireland. There was a mighty patch through a redwood forest. I closed my
eyes as the scent of the redwoods filled my senses. It was so cold I went
into a dream mode, thinking of warm thoughts. Immediately, George
Lucas’s film “Indiana Jones: Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” came to mind.
Over and over I heard the words May twenty-second, May twenty-second;
it became like a mantra, the opening day of the movie.
Within minutes we had reached the cross street of Nicasio and Lucas
Valley Road. Just four years prior I had come to this stop with a friend and
in front of us I had spotted who I thought was THE MAN, George Lucas, in a
silver truck directly in front of us. He had the profile—the outline. It had to
be the director that immortalized that unforgettable Edsel in “American
Graffiti.” Okay. So Ron Howard and Cindy Williams were the real stars. But
my eyesight was definitely 20-20 in those days. My passenger had stared
and in disbelief, said that the male in question seemed too thin. I stand by
my story. Nevertheless, I would rather have seen Sean Connery in his
next project, as Harrison Ford’s eclectic father, ‘Junior’ tormentor, or not. I
can still dream.
Nicasio had some interesting sites. The Nicasio School was a bright pink
building, the architecture almost church-like. Alongside this storybook
institution was a giant plastic princess pink castle labeled Jubilee Jump,
similar to a party promotion jumping room. I guess if the prince can’t climb
the tower, the lady in question can always leap like a frog. You get the
picture.
In minutes, we had arrived at Tony’s Seafood Restaurant overlooking
Tomales Bay. Barbequed oysters were their specialty. Rick and I took a
seat by the window. The waitress approached several of our members
and said, “The first round of drinks is on Anton, in honor of your
President.” The gesture was comforting, as was the view of the water,
close enough to see shell-laden rocks below the surface, the mild waves
rippling to the side. A single duck waded towards a rustic old boat a few
feet from my sight.
As I looked above I noticed miniature sharks dangling from the ceiling.
“Thunderball” anyone? Outside, the waterway seemed endless with
possibilities. I imagined Sean Connery sitting at the head of our table,
introducing himself by saying, “The name’s Bond, James Bond.” He’d
continue the conversation by ordering a martini shaken, not stirred. All the
while the three of us gals would sit quietly, starring at those fabulous
brown peepers. He was one-of-a-kind. Just like the way this day held
together. All for one--and one for all. As for the new Bond? What can I
say? Daniel Craig, eat your heart out.
By: Elizabeth Fajardo
Together and determined are the two words that best describe the feeling
of the
March 30th Posse ride to Tomales Bay. It was as if the emotion of
Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild” swept into the atmosphere and, along
with the sun, infused us with adrenaline—making every vrrm, vrrm count
even more. Could the spirit of James Bond in “Never Say Never Again”
have resurrected in our midst? I began to recollect my favorite spy as he
conquered the streets (although in a Yamaha), chasing evildoers in total
command, or as his nemesis Barbara Carrera puts it, “Well equipped,” for
the assignment, never losing sight of the prize. Aris made sure as our
leader for this Sunday that we had kept our focus, with Walter not far
behind, for moral support.
Sixteen motorcycles left the California Grill in unison, from San Mateo that
morning. The rest of the group consisted of Jeff and Terry, their son Nick,
Manuel, Lourdes,
Dan P., Phil Smith (Armando), Big Sweaty D, Ed, Pete, Dave F., Bob,
Gerald, Ray Fitch, Rick and myself. Gusts of wind couldn’t sway us. The
cold merely served to energize. We were on a roll. Call it pride. Call it
instinct. Call it an unstoppable goal—or maybe the taste of mouth-
watering oysters on the mind. Whatever it was, no one was about to stop
these bikers. We were on a mission.
As we drove up 19th Avenue, the Stonestown Galleria on our left, I felt
goose bumps
all over my body. Yes, it was due, in part, to the chilly weather. Mostly, I
was thinking of a better time. A happy state when this had been THE open-
air mall to shop at. I had visions of the Emporium during Christmas, when
Santa appeared at the top of the Big “E” at a special ice skating rink, just to
hear my wish list. His elves, dressed in red and green felt costumes,
would reward me with candy –filled grab bags that included vanilla taffy
wrapped candies bearing big red cinnamon-flavored “E” printing. Then
without hesitation Dad would take me up the elevator to a fantasyland on
the rooftop.
I would ride the skyscraping Ferris Wheel every year, my father at my
side, as we chomped on powder blue cotton candy that just melted in my
mouth. I can still feel the air as it touched my face while the sky-bound
seats swayed back and forth, my hands extended, ever-hoping my fingers
might slip through the clouds. There was nothing to fear. We were flying
without wings. Down below were kids running about, catching rides on a
carousel filled with jeweled horses and porcelain seats made for royalty,
only at that time, we were the royalty. And there was the smell of popcorn
in the air, and the magic that comes from believing in the impossible.
I awoke from my daydream just in time to see Mercy High School San
Francisco on our right, the sister school to the Mercy High School I
attended in Burlingame. Further along, as we started our steep climb up
the hill on the Avenue, was the San Francisco Scottish Rite Masonic
Center, big and bold on the corner, as it had been for as long as I could
remember. Across the street, I read the “Stern Grove” banner. So many
occasions my family had attended free concerts in this park, complete with
picnic basket, blankets and milk chocolate See’s Candies for dessert. The
most interesting show encompassed a troop of ballet dancers. For some
reason that Saturday, the venue had a few unwelcome guests in a swarm
of bees--that helped cut short our visit, resulting in a detour to Golden Gate
Park instead.
Continuing on as we reached the intersection of Vicente and 19th, to the
left was a grassy area that had once been home to swings and a
playground, and if memory serves me, a fighter jet. Yes, it seemed as if
the aircraft had been of the era close to the Korean War or later. But the
grounded flying machine was still a landmark, year after year. I always
wished I had stopped by to take a peek. The mystery of the plane was
more intriguing. It was gigantic and metallic. For all I knew, Martians had
dropped it from outer space.
As we passed the Olympian Gas station far, far ahead I could see the top of
the Golden Gate, peering out from the fog. We were getting closer to
where we had to be. The former Shriner’s Hospital came into view, now
something called the Vintage Golden Gate took its place. Then our riders
crossed Lincoln Avenue onto Park Presidio.
Martin Luther King Jr. Drive was just over my shoulder. I believed we
could take that route to the California Academy of Arts and Sciences (Now
celebrating its 150th Anniversary). So often in the past, my parents would
take me to the Natural History Museum with friends, and we had fun
exploring the many stuffed animals/reptiles. I was drawn to the dinosaurs,
as well as the lion family that seemed real enough to touch. But what I will
never forget were the many alligators that met us at the entrance,
surrounded by the protective bronze fence. For what seemed like hours I
would stare at their reptilian skin, hoping for a glimpse of those molars,
praying they’d open their mouth wide. All the while I felt safe behind the
metal bars. Still, there was always that inkling that if I slipped, could I
escape their grip?
Back to the scene at hand, I laughed to myself as we continued moving
and I pictured alligator lizards, whatever they are, in the middle of
humming America’s “Ventura Highway” and how the free wind is “blowin’
through your hair” and “Season’s crying no despair, alligator lizards in the
air, in the air.” Not quite snakes, but the true sight of these creatures
falling from the sky would’ve freaked out Indiana Jones, nevertheless. Not
to mention the true meaning of having a bad hair day…
Fulton Street was close by. I looked up as high as I could and the top of St.
Ignatius Church was in the distance. The holy dome was where I had
attended a mass for my USF graduation, located on the same complex as
the campus, in the bicentennial year. It all seemed so long ago.
We rolled along into the General Douglas MacArthur Tunnel, loud and hog
wild. Wait? Did Pete pass Aris? Anyway, soon the Posse was on the
Golden Gate Bridge. It seemed for just a second, the wind had died down
long enough for me to look out at the water, and the beautiful skyline in the
special way only a native California can appreciate.
All of us stopped at the H. Dana Powers Memorial Vista Point. As he
disembarked, Jeff said, “It was like going for a world’s record down 19th
Avenue.” I guess I wasn’t the only one thinking about our remarkable pace.
At the center of the rest stop, which overlooks the bay—and a remarkable
smattering of sailboats--is a monument dedicated to the United States
Armed Forces. In an enclave there are plaques for the Navy, Marine
Corps, Merchant Marines and the Coast Guard. A metal statue of a sailor
rests in the middle, a large knap sack at his side. He looks so young,
reminiscent of the young men who are at war today.
I departed with a heavy heart, wondering where the future would take us in
this world. As we exited the tunnel that led to Sausalito, my eyes opened
wide as I was treated to a sign at the side of the freeway: “Peace on
Earth.” The sentiment was simple, yet, self-explanatory. I couldn’t have
said it better myself.
Our leader took us to a pit stop just before the Paradise Avenue/Tamalpais
Exits. I could smell the aroma of coffee. Yet, there was not a Starbuck’s in
sight. It was just Big Sweaty D, handling a cup of Joe. He remarked: “I’ve
got gas and my coffee. I’m set.” How true. However, a mug of hot
chocolate would do just as well, for my taste.
Lucas Valley Road was next on the agenda. The sixteen bikes cruised into
vegetative territory. The meadows looked as green as lush fields in
Ireland. There was a mighty patch through a redwood forest. I closed my
eyes as the scent of the redwoods filled my senses. It was so cold I went
into a dream mode, thinking of warm thoughts. Immediately, George
Lucas’s film “Indiana Jones: Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” came to mind.
Over and over I heard the words May twenty-second, May twenty-second;
it became like a mantra, the opening day of the movie.
Within minutes we had reached the cross street of Nicasio and Lucas
Valley Road. Just four years prior I had come to this stop with a friend and
in front of us I had spotted who I thought was THE MAN, George Lucas, in a
silver truck directly in front of us. He had the profile—the outline. It had to
be the director that immortalized that unforgettable Edsel in “American
Graffiti.” Okay. So Ron Howard and Cindy Williams were the real stars. But
my eyesight was definitely 20-20 in those days. My passenger had stared
and in disbelief, said that the male in question seemed too thin. I stand by
my story. Nevertheless, I would rather have seen Sean Connery in his
next project, as Harrison Ford’s eclectic father, ‘Junior’ tormentor, or not. I
can still dream.
Nicasio had some interesting sites. The Nicasio School was a bright pink
building, the architecture almost church-like. Alongside this storybook
institution was a giant plastic princess pink castle labeled Jubilee Jump,
similar to a party promotion jumping room. I guess if the prince can’t climb
the tower, the lady in question can always leap like a frog. You get the
picture.
In minutes, we had arrived at Tony’s Seafood Restaurant overlooking
Tomales Bay. Barbequed oysters were their specialty. Rick and I took a
seat by the window. The waitress approached several of our members
and said, “The first round of drinks is on Anton, in honor of your
President.” The gesture was comforting, as was the view of the water,
close enough to see shell-laden rocks below the surface, the mild waves
rippling to the side. A single duck waded towards a rustic old boat a few
feet from my sight.
As I looked above I noticed miniature sharks dangling from the ceiling.
“Thunderball” anyone? Outside, the waterway seemed endless with
possibilities. I imagined Sean Connery sitting at the head of our table,
introducing himself by saying, “The name’s Bond, James Bond.” He’d
continue the conversation by ordering a martini shaken, not stirred. All the
while the three of us gals would sit quietly, starring at those fabulous
brown peepers. He was one-of-a-kind. Just like the way this day held
together. All for one--and one for all. As for the new Bond? What can I
say? Daniel Craig, eat your heart out.