First there was the gathering. One by one the Harleys roared into the parking lot, and riders popped off their helmets. They joined the circle standing nearby, which grew minute by minute until the magical KSU time. Old friends met some new friends; names were exchanged, as well as handshakes and hugs.

Suddenly, the appointed time arrived, and riders scattered to their motorcycles, adding layers of leather, earphones, and helmets. The dog pack obediently emptied into the street, patiently holding back the thunderous power that its riders sat astride. The bikes passed through the gauntlet of traffic lights and stop signs, growling with anticipation.

At the appearance of an open road, each bike roared as it took off, eager to stretch its legs in the desert. In the backyard of the city, each twist and turn brought cobbled together mobile homes or spreading mansions into view. Both poor and rich shared the dream of the pioneer—build on the land and claim it for your own. Brick and wrought iron fences did not prevent us from viewing the piles of toys inside, apartment sized travel trailers, boats, vintage cars, and off road vehicles. The next turn revealed boarded up and crumbling shacks that told the story of dreams cast aside.

The road climbed up the side of the desert mountain, and I peered cautiously over the edge. The lake below us was wreathed in mist, deep navy blue. As I looked up, I was dazzled by the snowcapped mountains in the distance. Yesterday, my boots crunched in the January snow up in those mountains, but today I rode behind my husband on our Harley in 60 degree sunshine. Again I was reminded why Californians find it difficult to be transplanted in other states. We take our climatic diversity for granted.

With the top of the mountain reached, the snarling pack of Harleys threaded themselves through the narrow pass between the peaks. The tree covered mountains stretched before us, looking like a fleece blanket thrown over unknown items. Their mystery remained unrevealed to us as we sped past them, concentrating on the curves of the road. The wind rushed in our faces as impatient sport bikes passed through our line, determined to push the boundary between the capability of their motorcycles and eminent death.

After some time had passed, the mountains spit us out into the hills near the beach. The pack turned, and we enjoyed the tame shrub dotted hills after the rugged pass. The wide, multi-lane road, bordered with elaborate landscaping, spoke of the area’s affluence. The major intersections boasted stores on all four corners, including upscale fast food restaurants. After all, after Mommy’s busy day at the office, or shopping, she doesn’t have time to cook.

A few turns later, we left the red tile roofs and bird of paradise behind and dropped down into a narrow canyon. The crowded big box houses gave way to sprawling ranches nestled under towering oak trees. Elegant horses lounged in white fenced corrals. Bicycle riders in full racing gear shared our mud streaked road. Our Harleys obediently slowed on hairpin turns as we crawled to the bottom. I realized how close we were to the beach when I saw the hull of a large boat under construction in someone’s front yard.

A long line of parked motorcycles signaled the end of our journey, Cook’s Corner. We pulled up next to custom choppers, full dresser cruisers, and lean sportsters. Live music called to us from the patio, smells of hamburgers and fries caused my stomach to rumble. After I peeled off my chaps and stashed my gloves and helmet, I followed my husband and our fellow riders across the wooden bridge. A carnival atmosphere assailed us with booths selling motorcycle clothes.

Inside, men, many bearded and wearing hats, were crowded at the bar, cheering at the flat screen displaying a football game. Spandex coated bicycle riders, an older gentleman in a wheelchair, and bikers with leather jackets announcing various motorcycle clubs all patiently waited in line to order food. A man at the bar turned back to tell my husband, “You see those guys in line? They’re part of this riding club. The dealership sponsors them.” With a laugh, my husband shows the man his patch, and they exchange a few more words.

After picking up our tray of food, we joined the rest of our group seated at a long table outside. The band was cranking out classic rock on the patio a few steps above us, but we were far enough away to enjoy conversation. Looking around, I was again amazed at the variety of people gathered at this place. Not all motorcyclists, yet sharing the love of spending time outdoors on a sunny winter afternoon. For this moment, it was enough to connect us.