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| Puppy Love Ride Report Article for May 3, 2008 By: Elizabeth Fajardo Fantastic weather, a motorcycle rider’s best friend, was in abundance on Sunday, May 3rd, for the California Posse Police Activities League (P.A.L.) ride. Under sunny skies, having fun while contributing to this special event that sponsors programs for children, were: Walter, Aris, Ed, Jeff, Terry, Dan, and his son Jacob, Phil (Armando), Gerald, Doug, Rob, Larry, Stan, Chris, Vivian and Jose (Sparky’s friends), Rick and myself. We began the journey at the registration table for the poker run at Taft Elementary School in Redwood City. I told the gentleman at the table: “I plan to win.” “Good luck,” he replied, with a gleam in his eye. My draw was low; I knew I’d have to create my luck in other ways. I didn’t have far to go—there was a size “medium” in the T-shirt gift case, a find at any giveaway. The design on the front of the long-sleeved shirt, covering a black background, was a white imprint of a youngster riding as the passenger of a policeman on a motorcycle. In royal blue lettering above the cartoon picture was the logo: “Give a P.A.L. a Ride.” The participants were also treated to a nifty pin displaying a Harley (What else!) and three playing cards, with an inscription of the cause underneath. Several large pastry boxes were filled with donuts (Again, what else at a police event!). With all the vibes of those in uniform, I kept thinking wouldn’t it be nice if I could gather support to bring back one of my favorite TV cops, Jesse L. Martin (a.k.a. Law & Order’s Detective Ed Green). I guess that would be wishful thinking. Then we were off, through the streets of Redwood City, up around Saratoga, followed by a drive within the boundaries of La Honda. Redwood trees and the smell of fragrant flowers blossoming along the road awoke my senses. Other foliage, ferns and the like, made paths surrounding a forest of antique oaks, with branches that seemed to take on new life, like giant arms that never ended. I was just happy to be alive, a captive in the wild, experiencing nature— if only as a moving target. The only wake-up calls were from the police escorts that honked every time they passed, signaling a warning on their approach. As we continued in formation, in front of us I noticed a couple on a charcoal- black Harley from Vacaville. Mainly, what caught my eye was the full-length patch on the black leather vest the lady passenger was wearing—an American Bald Eagle at center, and outlined in a circle, were the words: “In Memory of Our Troops.” While the rest of the group slowed periodically within the city of La Honda, and we began edging up to the left of the two riders, I looked closer and discovered a baby Chihuahua poking her head out from a backpack that was wedged between them. It was love at first sight! She was cuter than any Taco Bell ad pooch extra, born with an adorable set of deep, dark peepers, and had a princess pink collar as an added bonus. The first chance the line of bikes stopped, I leaned over and asked the “mother” what the puppy’s name was. “Pebbles,” the forty-something redhead said. And we both smiled. There was only a momentary delay on Highway 84. In a matter of few minutes all the bikes were moving again. I keep staring forward, watching Pebbles. A couple of opportune times she stretched her head over the bag and spotted me. Those big root beer brown eyes were heart-warming. I kept thinking the “real” Flintstones’ would’ve loved this pet for their Pebbles, if only they were assured that Bamm-Bamm could control his clubbing (And I don’t mean bar- hopping). But that was a different story—and a different era. I began to play a game “Peeking for the Pup,” similar to the made-up “Count the Cool Cars” activity we occupied ourselves with as kids on road trips to Disneyland. This was undeniably better, since there no way I could lose. And so it went for a while, up and down the highway curves-- until the sudden halt. The term, “Where’s a cop when you need them?” no longer applied. Black and whites were everywhere. It was only a matter of time that our worst fears were realized. A motorcycle officer motioned for everyone to continue cautiously, and eventually directed us in a single-file line down the road. Less than a minute later we were passing the scene of the accident. I looked over my left shoulder and saw what appeared to be the lifeless body of a man lying on the highway face-up, a cracked windshield strewn on the asphalt, a pair of broken sunglasses just feet away, and then--the quick action of a cop removing his boots. The downed vehicle, a dark-as-night Harley Road King, was pinned to the ground and out of commission—a reminder of how much damage one vehicle can cause when it comes in unexpected contact with another at extreme speeds. The victim’s leather jacket was zipped up, his arms to the side, legs straight, stiff as could be. His bare feet exposed left such an impression on me. I had been in an anatomy lab before, and the rule was that med students study all areas of the body, except for the eyes and hands. Those parts are left covered until the end. The impact is too dramatic. I won’t forget his feet. Just like the shoes left on a highway after a collision. Yet, this represented once moving objects--parts of a living, breathing human being. And he wasn’t alone. As I stretched my neck, there seemed to be another body in the distance, but I couldn’t be sure. If the injured parties were in peril, at least they had all the right people acting in haste at their disposal. I prayed they would make it. To my right, parked on the dirt was one of two women who I had chit-chatted with in the lobby prior to leaving at the start of the event. Could this be her friend? If I was in shock, how deep were the wounds of the couple harmed? I looked for familiar faces and within seconds Walter became our leader again, as we made our way down the hill. I turned my head and the little puppy was now out of reach, lost in the back of the pack. A sea of motorcycle headlights blocked my view. Pebbles was gone. Then out of nowhere I heard the distinct sound of an ambulance siren. The noise grew louder. Closer and closer they came, until two medical vans were in focus, and passed us going in the opposite direction. Walter guided us to the Pioneer Market in La Honda Center for a pit-stop. I began to gather information from witnesses. We were told that a Harley driven by a man had high-sided his bike while trying to make the tight right-hand curve and crossed the yellow line. Consequently, a Ducati sport bike traveling in the opposing lane made contact with the oncoming Harley. The passenger, who had been out of my field of sight, was a woman, who one of the firemen in assistance stated had turned blue on the spot. Her condition was so critical they determined she would be transported by air. The words used to describe what took place were, “She was launched from the machine.” The man had survived with some broken bones. I couldn’t help pondering his outlook, once he was fully conscious, and what direction would his life take. Who can say how fast was fast? I wondered what might’ve been the scenario, had we ridden in sequence farther up the chain. I even recalled what I had set at the onset: “I plan to win.” I wasn’t always the best at cards, but now I had a winning hand. I realized that being alive was as good as it gets. I entered the Pioneer Market and spoke to Vivian, a new rider with our group. I complemented her choice of a plum leather jacket and matching helmet. She explained that she purchased the set at “Street Vibrations” in Reno. We exchanged information on the accident, still worried about the fallen riders. Upon leaving the store I happened to glance at a huge poster in the front window. The message in bold lettering was: “We wore helmets when we played. So should you.” Underneath the writing was a group photo of Willie McCovey, Ronnie Lott, Joe Montana, Lynn Swann, Willie Mays, Y.A. Tittle, and Steve Young. Standing in the front line were three kids on bicycles wearing their head gear. Hopefully, helmets saved lives today. I was glad Pebbles was sheltered from harm in the arms of her “mom.” On the road again following Walter, we just missed hitting a speedy bobcat that darted out in front of us. I asked Rick if the feisty animal could eat us. He answered, “Maybe you.” At least he noted my diet was working! Our clan spent a few minutes in Pescadero across the street from Puente De La Costa Sur Restaurant, kitty corner to Duarte’s. The sun eluded us and the cool air engulfed my entire body. Terry gave me details on her new 2006 pearl white Dyna Low-rider. We girls chuckled at the idea of her purchasing a white leather jacket and the proposition that everything would match perfectly. The Posse was on the move again, this time en route to Palo Alto. We crept up to Clouds Rest Road, which was chilly at best. There was a lookout point where you could envision the lush green valley and the penetrating deep fog that swept over the tops of the trees. On Skyline we made our way past the Thomas Fogarty Winery, no relation the famed brothers who once made up Creedence; although the tune “Proud Mary” soon entered my senses. “Rollin’ on a river…” And there were even bikers (bicyclists) next to bikers (the motorized kind) standing tall next to our police escorts, all in green striped uniforms. Not quite prison attire, but entertaining, just the same. Still no Pebbles in sight. I could’ve used a furry body like hers or one of her ancestor’s right about now. There were many cottages on the outskirts and a bright red barn—secluded, no livestock to speak of--just your typical country place--homey and quaint. One ranch-style home in the same neighborhood, while on our expedition, had an elongated driveway, set apart from the neighbor’s lot by a tall white mailbox—which displayed a carved wooden dog perched on the ledge. The crafty canine wasn’t as darling as Pebbles. Nevertheless, there was always the possibility it could fool a pesky rodent. The route was getting colder by the minute, even with layers of thermals and protective leather. First there was Pompano State Park, then San Gregorio. Next was the Triple “D” Ranch, followed by a chalk white nondescript farm, introduced to the public by a hastily drawn sign: Fresh eggs. Fresh chickens. The latter sounded mighty tasty. Were they farm fresh or those goofy imposters in the Foster Farms commercial? We didn’t wait to find out. There were many artichoke signs in succession, and the Riace Wine Tasting Deli as we made our approach to Half Moon Bay. Even if scientists claimed drinking alcohol makes one lose body heat, I was willing to give it a shot any second now. Our group made the turn up to 92 and in my view was Tom & Pete’s produce— the infamous pumpkin patch, that, come many a Halloween, I had arrived with my son, Anthony in tow, for the choicest pumpkins. And I have the annual photos to prove it! At the top, where Skyline meets the highway, was Lifemark Street, nearing Vista Point. Life was too short, and it sparked my thought process that I didn’t want the end to come any sooner that necessary. Then the blood came back to my hands and my lifeline was met with sunshine and the familiar Crystal Springs Reservoir in San Mateo. We were almost there. Back driving along the streets of Redwood City…Now the new sound— competing with Walter’s country music and the police horns—was the ice cream truck. It may sound funny, but suddenly I had a craving for an ice-cold chocolate malt. Lest we forget where we’d been? Walter brought us to the final destination, the Redwood City “Theatre District.” The letters T H E A T R E D I S T R I C T looked identical to the concrete blocks of bedrock in Fred Flintstone’s work yard. Even the nails had the appearance of something out of the Jurassic Age. Blues music from Bart Shea’ s band drowned out my prehistoric thoughts and brought me into the present. Pebbles was nowhere to be found. Yet, I was consoled by puppy love, recalling the three main elements that encompass this state of mind: First, the feeling is effortless. Second, it is all-consuming. And lastly, the love is unforgettable—all the components of today’s ride. However, anytime Donny Osmond’s version of the original Paul Anka song comes on the radio, I will remember that one little mutt, and how we lived to play another day. Maestro please… “And they called it puppy love…” |