Boots, Jeans & a Bike... All a Girl Needs.

The sun had dipped below the rolling hills on my left and the damp fog of the ocean brought an unexpected chill. My plan of riding to the Oregon border that night was becoming less appealing with every chug and gasp that my 1976 motorcycle apologetically offered. As I crawled along, almost blind, up a seemingly endless mountain road, I began to wonder what I would do if it left me stranded. Not daring to stop to check for cell service I knew wouldn't be there, I kept riding, hoping desperately to come across a motel, a store, a gas station, houses... any sign of life.

As the road leveled out, I pulled gleefully into a two horse town, only to find the gas station and motel permanently closed and my hopes dashed. I kept riding. Thirty miles on, teeth chattering, the next town came into view. Lights! Dare I dream? A bed, coffee, shower? Like a beacon of hope, the tattered 50's sign for the Palm Motel, with it's lit "vacancies" neon, filled my heart with joy. I managed to unclench my hands and paid the grumpy man at the desk the $77 he asked for. Precious key and plastic fob in hand, I pushed my now silent bike up to room #6, grabbed my bag and entered a musty dive motel room... absolute heaven. After a scalding hot shower to ease away the ache in my bones, I climbed into a surprisingly comfortable bed (though after 10 hours on a motorcycle, anything is comfortable) and drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep.

6:30am I awoke to discover I was in Orick, California and to my immense delight, I discovered the motel had a cafe, the aptly named Palm Motel Cafe. A proper American diner, complete with counter seating, endless coffee, and a waitress hollering things like "burn the british" and "adam and eve on a raft" to a cook grumbling charmingly at a grill. I sat, blissful consuming my breakfast of bacon, fried eggs, hashbrowns, pancakes, and toast (smothered in butter and homemade blackberry jam!) with dungaree wearing local farmers on my left and traveling hunters in camouflage on my right.

As anyone who knows me will tell you, it doesn't take much to make me happy; breakfast and pancakes will almost always do the trick. But to step into a diner so authentic, to sit down at a counter with a mug of hot coffee placed in your hands, to be flanked by people so far removed from your usual circles and to feel for just a moment, like everything is going to be alright, to feel like you belong... that is what an American road trip is all about.