It's 0718, the solar rays invade my space and awaken me as a reminder that a new rotational cycle has begun. I reluctantly acknowledged and subconsciously begin preparations. The physical movements are ingrained and automatic, effortless indeed. I know what I wish to do today yet the fine details evade me. I slowly make my way down the staircase to the garage inspect my steed and make peace with the world, a necessary psychological contract with destiny. Before embarking on an adventure both rider and steed must refuel and thus a mandatory petrol stop is on the agenda, along with a stop at the de facto home of Tournament of Roses Parade. There is an alluring mystique to Surfing early morning when the sun rays are just cresting the Angeles Crest National Forest Range, unapologetically radiating and replenishing the spirit.
I have imagined this range in my dreams and doubtful moments, now here it welcomes me with a subtle morning breeze, low humidity and exquisite ambient temperature. The message registers, and the neurons begin to fire up and activate, a delightful experience indeed. As I sit on a sidewalk table at a Café on Colorado Boulevard, the incongruence of the moment confounds me, and thus questions arise. I sit and observe the Red, White and Blue unfurl, the visitors, the outdoor residents and time slowly drift away. Time calls my name and I answered and followed, destination due west north. There is a gem of super slab that traverses east-to-west at the foothills of the Angeles Range onward, today I will Surf it and beyond.
The physical destination is near yet the realm I seek is vast and afar, before entering such realm I must Surf the congested arteries of a mega-metropolis that defies logic and common sense, while speeding through time and space at 70mph. I'm in. The guidance and need of a cell phone or gps is forsaken for the full experience of the present and the probability of the unknown. The road signs guide and confirm my arrival, the road narrows to a two lane road, the elevation is slight yet discernable. The buildings are replaced by dry plant matter on slopes battered by constant heat dangerously awaiting one spark to reaffirm its presence and reclaim its territory from invading human species.
The Waltz begins, rider/steed and road. The road leads this dance unabashedly, challenge its dominance and you will be ejected on a stretcher. The Rhythm calls for variable speeds and graceful right and left turn lean angles, this road rewards diligence. From the de facto home of the Tournament of Roses Parade to Bouquet Canyon in search of the ever evasive moto-bliss. I once asked, if you were granted exactly what you wish for, would you know what to do? I do, I know where I am and where I need to be. My name is Fredo, I am a Tarmac Surfer and this is my reality, exponentially beautiful Reality.
A respite from the Unknown
When all else fails simplify, one is greater than zero
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