Late in the afternoon i pulled into a gas station in San Luis Obispo, shut down my Yamaha motorcycle, removed my helmet and gloves, fed the nearby pay phone, and called Alan Hughes. He used to be in Griffith Hall with us at UC Berkeley but transferred to Cal Poly. Alan gave me directions to an Italian restaurant where we met up a few minutes later. We caught up on recent happenings with ourselves and our mutual friends over dinner and then i followed him to his apartment. Rather than sleep on a couch, this night i had the comfort of sleeping in the bed of Alan’s absent apartment-mate.
After a simple breakfast of cereal and coffee, Alan drove me around the Cal Poly campus. He was especially enthusiastic about his experiences with a diesel farm tractor. After the campus tour we went out to the airfield where Alan carefully explained to me each step as he worked through the preflight checklist for the campus flying club’s Cessna 140. At long last we were seated side by side, doors closed, engine roaring, and rising from the runway. Awesome.
The noise of the Cessna’s engine forced us to nearly shout at each other just to make comments about the beautiful countryside as Alan flew the plane west. Before we reach Morro Rock, Alan turned the plane around and let me take over the controls for simple level flight. Rather than work at keeping the Cessna level, i indulged in lightly banking left and right.
Alan turned to me and asked, “Have you ever been in a spin?”
“Never but i’m up for that.”
Alan laughed. “Well yeah, we’re even far enough up. Let me take over the controls.” I let go of the yoke and Alan pulled back on the yoke on his side of the panel. Up we went, steeply.
“Watch the airspeed indicator,” he said. Our airspeed was around 60 and dropping rapidly. Alan pulled the yoke as far back as it would go. The airplane wallowed in the air as the stall warning buzzer blared at us. Suddenly the Cessna pivoted to the left, the nose dropped, and we were falling. My stomach felt as though it were up in my neck. I threw out my arms to keep my head and torso from bouncing about in the tiny cabin as i stared at a country road thousands of feet below us that was going around and around.
I shouted, “Awesome!,” and glanced over to see him calmly holding the yoke nearly up against his chest. Looking straight out the windshield at the spinning Earth, it did not appear that we were descending very rapidly, but i had to ask, “How do you stop it from spinning?”
“Easy. Instead of holding the yoke back, you push it forward to agree with what the plane is really doing, diving.” With that, he pushed the yoke forward, the spinning stopped and we were merely flying under control and accelerating straight at the ground. Alan eased the yoke back gently, my butt sank back into the seat, and the Cessna soon was flying level again.
“Again?,” Alan asked.
“You bet. May i do it this time?”
Alan was silent for a while as the engine roared at full power to regain altitude. “I’ll spin and recover it. You can fly it back to the airfield.”
The second spin was identical to the first except this time i knew what to expect. Fabulous. The flight back to the airfield was somehow too damn tame, especially since Alan took over for the approach and landing. Alan actually was concerned about the landing since the 140 was a tail-dragger (two wheels under the cabin and one under the airplane’s tail). He explained that unless one were careful, the plane would ‘ground-loop’ and might get damaged. He landed straight and true.
We did a little grocery shopping on the way back to his apartment and fixed cheeseburgers for dinner. Alan told me about his friend, Bruce Cruikshank, who lost both legs in Vietnam and was building a “powered glider’ from scratch. “If it’s a glider, how can it be powered?,” i asked.
“Well, powered gliders are not that rare. They’ve got a small engine with a propeller and that can get them off the ground and up to where they can shut down the engine and fly it as a glider. Bruce is building his so that after he shuts off the engine, he can rotate the engine and propeller down into the fuselage. Less drag.”
We talked for a while before calling it a day.
In the morning, Alan scrambled up some eggs and sausage while i packed my belongings into my yellow backpack. After breakfast, we said our goodbyes and i rode off on my Yamaha.
There was very little traffic on 101 as i passed by Madonna Inn, passed alongside the town of Pismo Beach, and through Santa Maria. My eyes were frequently drawn to the beautiful hills and seascapes but at 70mph i routinely scanned the highway ahead for obstacles such as mufflers that might have fallen from cars. There were no problems. It was a serene ride. After Santa Maria came a bit of winding highway and then once again i was cruising along with the Pacific Ocean on my right. A beautiful ride.
I noticed a car that was gaining on me from the rear so i moved over to the slow lane where the pavement was slightly less smooth. The car was probably going about 75mph, just 5 mph faster than me; a common speed for many cars on 101.
As the car came even with me, the driver backed off on the throttle enough to match my speed.
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I glanced over, thinking that they wanted to communicate something, like give me a thumbs up for my handsome motorcycle or point out that something did not look right. Suddenly the car crossed into my lane. I quickly gave it more room by moving farther to the right. SMASH. The side of the car ploughed into me. Immediately, the impact on the handlebars sent the bike twisting and thrashing off the highway. I was no longer astride it. Fierce pain. Another gyration. Boulders.
Days later, Michael Ferris sat at a right window seat on a Greyhound Bus enjoying the ocean view. From his elevated perch, he briefly spied a motorcycle lying near the highway; just as quickly it was out of sight. His imagination took several swings before he resolved to call the California Highway Patrol when he reached Goleta. Needing some landmark, Michael looked for the next mile marker at the side of the freeway. He spotted the next one but too late to read it. However, now Michael knew they would pass the next mile marker in fifty to fifty-five seconds. Michael stared at his wristwatch until fifty seconds had gone by. This time he was successful. He wrote the number down in a little spiral-bound notebook he had in his shirt pocket.
CHP Officer Kenneth Gibson clicked on his warning lights, slowed his cruiser to 45 mph, and scanned the side of the road along the stretch of 101 where a motorcycle was reported. Odd tire marks caught his attention so he slowed to a stop by the edge of the highway, put it in reverse, and backed up to where the marks were. He got out, locked the car, and stood at the faint dark rubber streak that angled off the road. His eyes followed the streak as it left the pavement and became a smear in the dirt. Further along was a faint pathway of broken twigs and branches through the bushes. He turned to survey traffic on the highway before following the barely discernable path. He found the rider under the spread-out branches of a low-growing tree on the far side of a 3-foot boulder.. Trails of ants to and from the body convinced Officer Gibson that checking for life signs wasn’t really necessary. The bashed-up motorcycle was lying another 30 feet farther at the edge where the ground drops away to the railroad right of way below.
He wrote down the license plate number and as he walked back to his cruiser he muttered to himself, “Stupid motherfucking motorcycles.”
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Chills went up my spine. I grabbed the front-wheel brake lever with my right hand and shoved down on the rear brake pedal. The car was viciously swerving into my lane but i had braked early enough and hard enough that the car’s rear bumper missed hitting my front wheel by a hair. The car’s swerve carried it all the way across the right lane and to the edge of the pavement. I continued braking as the car straightened out and accelerated away at full throttle.
It was an older and slightly dented-up white Chevy with four or five teenagers who appeared to be latino. When i thought to read the license plate, it was already too far ahead.
Damn! They had tried to bash me off the highway! Their screwing around could have killed me!
I looked over past the edge of the pavement. There were scrubby trees and boulders strewn about. Just beyond was a drop-off to a level width of ground with a railroad line. At 70 mph, an excursion off the pavement could have been fatal.
Of course they might think that i successfully got their license number. In that case they now had a reason to try a second time. Would they pull off the highway, wait for me, and target me with a gun? I let them get about a half mile ahead and then matched their speed to follow them at that distance. We went mile after mile at 85 to 90 miles an hour while i hoped they couldn’t see me behind them. They took the Hollister Avenue exit. I dropped my speed to 65 and nervously continued on 101 without taking the exit. When i reached the onramp from Hollister Avenue, i looked back to see whether they were re-entering the highway. The Chevrolet was not in sight.
I kept looking behind me. Past Isla Vista, i scanned the cars behind me. Past Santa Barbara and Carpinteria, i kept scanning cars approaching from behind. When i stopped for gas in Ventura, i nervously kept looking around at every approaching car. When a light-colored Chevy turned off the street and into the gas station, i freaked out before i saw that it was actually a light blue and carrying a middle-aged couple. During the remaining miles to El Cajon, i kept watching for the Chevrolet.
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