By LANCE SCHMIDT Special to the Daily Press
(Editor’s note: Santa Monica resident Lance Schmidt is spending his last summer days cruising through Alaska on his motorcycle. He will provide a glimpse into that world for Santa Monicans every Thursday until he returns home in September. Check out smdp.com/archives for previous reports.) Whitehorse, Yukon Territory — Santa Monica can be downright irritating during the dog days of summer. Traffic grinds to a halt, the homeless descend in droves, tourists fill the streets and bars with unrecognizable dialects, neighborhood groups become architectural firms and the City Council behaves like rabid squirrels frothing at the mouth from their bluff. Kind of like the rest of the year. It was time to blow this pop stand for Alaska.
But first I had to select my riding partner — a spirited saddle monkey to accompany me for the next few weeks. It had come down to three distinct females, each chosen for her own concevoir et l'exper-tise. Which one would it be: the stunt coordinator, the demur professor or the divorced urban cougar? The essential criteria were fundamental: attitude, knowledge of the outdoors, comfort on a motorcycle (in potentially wicked conditions), and overall toughness not necessarily revealed on first blush.
Of course, my primary concern was how she looked in riding leathers.
I phoned the “winner” to let her know she should be ready to go in a few days. After securing her gleeful acceptance, I text-messaged the others to share the results. Perhaps I was just imagining it, but they seemed positively ecstatic about my decision.
I rolled up to my new companion’s north-of-Wilshire apartment and out came the professor. I was pleased by my discernment: Not only did she demonstrate the necessary qualifications, but she also was clearly smarter than me and could probably talk me out of an array of foolish initiatives. That was a critical attribute. It is not unusual for me to misconstrue stupid for adventurous.
We took off and headed north on I-5 with loaded saddle bags, camping gear, a full tank of gas and nervous smiles.
Day two: We pulled into Seattle at just about sunset and were greeted by my college buddy and his wife, who had graciously prepared a hot meal and offered us a spare room. They live in Bellevue, just outside the city. The trip so far had been pretty plain-Jane. The two of us were still getting used to each other and getting comfortable on the bike. We also had to make time — our ferry was scheduled to depart that Friday evening and it was the only one headed through the Inside Passage that week.
I have driven automobiles and motorcycles in most of the lower 48, Hawaii, Alaska and numerous foreign countries, and I can say without hesitation that Washington drivers are the absolute worst. They all plug along in the left lane below the posted speed limit, exhibit no sense of direction, drive SUVs while yakking on their cell phones — and when asked to move over become positively irate. They also have no respect for motorcycles and
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on August 18, 2005. Read the original PDF.