He gunned the Harley up over the top of Topanga Canyon Boulevard and put the valley behind him. He loved going for long rides — especially canyons and along Mulholland and Angeles Crest Highway — just rocking back and forth like a big slow metronome into and through the curves of the roads. Tick. Tock.
The hog was a rental, from a place out in Arcadia. He hadn’t been on a motorcycle in years. Not since he sold his after his brother was killed while splitting lanes on the 101 — was it 12 years ago? Wow. He was amazed that it had been so long and how little it took to feel totally comfortable in the saddle of such a beast.
Just like riding a bike, he thought.
With the road mostly to himself and in no hurry, he took it slow down the mountain, arriving bout 15 minutes later to where Topanga ends at Pacific Coast Highway. He let off the throttle and downshifted on final approach to PCH. Decisions, decisions. Turn left and head back to civilization. Turn right and put it behind you, even if just until Point Dume or Point Mugu, then maybe turn around and come back down to Neptune’s Net for a pound of steamed shrimp and a beer.
Or perhaps go all the fucking way to Santa Barbara and come back to Ventura and head inland to the 126 and run that all the way past Santa Paula and Filmore back to the Golden Street Freeway.
The sun was high over the water, plenty of daylight left. He turned right.