Riding the PCH would be a sportbiker’s dream if you weren’t afraid of flying off the edge of the road and plummeting to your death against the rocks a thousand feet below. That’s a lot of time to think. And wonder, as you spin around the bike and the bike around you, whether you still have a chance to make it, and whether that tiny chance could be increased by landing with the bike beneath you or, since it’s likely to explode in a yellow ball of skin-searing flame, whether you should push it away from you now, while you still have a chance to land a prudent distance from it. In the end you don’t push it away from you, because holding on to anything, even a motorcycle tumbling through the air, is more comforting than facing a horrifying death alone. Which makes you wonder, the last instant before you hit the rocks, whether there is indeed a God, and whether he is kind enough to forgive you for not having believed in him. Or Her. It had better not be a Her on account of that Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned thing.
No, the PCH is best taken at a measured pace. So you can stop and enjoy its hidden treasures, like the cove in the picture above. And take the time to thank God for making Her world such a pretty place. Just in case.