Right after she graduated, my girlfriend moved to San Francisco to go to college. I made a couple nerve wracking flights out to visit before she moved on to New York. It had been several years but I managed to find her diggs at 685 Geary Street. I snapped a picture for her.
We found Lombard Street and gave our brake pads a good glazing. For all the beatings she endured on this trek, the single mechanical failure was one I built in to the trip. The little four's oil pan had been weeping through a hairline crack for months before I set out west, before and after I rebuilt the engine. I left it be in anticipation of visiting Charlie's Place in San Francisco, a shop run for the sole benefit of old Honda's like mine. Sure enough he had a new pan waiting for me. I strapped it over my pack and skipped port.
Justin and I ended up in Berkeley on accident, but made the most of it with an ice cream at Fosters Freeze. Our northern aim turned west for the fabled Yosemite Valley. Past Modesto we rode long through the short grass. Approaching the park boundry, Justin's glowing pipes were a welcomed distraction from the crippling cold that halted us at Mariposa, where we camped for the night.