That picture of me is the last time I was cool.  And I don’t mean James Dean cool.

Turns out, James Dean was killed not far from Paso Robles, where Route 46 and Route 41 intersect.  The Texaco station at the intersection of Route 46 and Route 33 has the whole story.  They say it was the last place he stopped before his wreck.  They also have a re-created Dust Bowl truck in a display among the pistachios, walnuts, and maple-covered almonds.  They found it somewhere, cleaned it up, added the utensils and other items the Okies carried, and brought it into the store.  They even had a picture of the same truck to guide their efforts.

Looking over the old truck and reading about the difficulties the people fleeing the Dust Bowl endured, I felt like a wimp for whining about the harsh suspension and non-existent wind protection of my Softail Custom.  They even had a statue of Grannie holding a plate of cookies.  She would have made a good biker Momma.

Missus Fender Bunny is a good biker Momma, too, though I’m not 100% certain that’s what she aspires to.  Why I subject her to such abuse I’ll never know.  I’ll ask my priest, if he’ll still speak to me.

It was 108 when we got to Baker, California.  When she pulled off her helmet, I could see that she was suffering from heat exhaustion.  We got in the shade and sipped a little warm water.  Wet her scarf and put it over her head.  After a while we went inside to enjoy the A/C.  You have to be judicious with the A/C, or when you walk back out, it feels like a furnace.  After a while she started looking better, so she stood up, clapped her hands, and bought a can of Red Bull.

When we got back on the bike it was 109.  Did I mention that she has relatives in Oklahoma?

We rode from San Simeon to Las Vegas in just under 12 hours.  Total mileage was 420 miles, more or less.

GiG