Despite what I implied in the previous installment, I could get used to sitting on the beach all summer. I found myself returning to it on more than one occasion each day last weekend - it's going to be a bit of a wrench to leave Santa Monica, truth be told. But, of course, it is not the summer. It's pushing on towards November already, which means the more northerly regions are cooling rather more rapidly than I care to imagine. And, given the appeal of Yellowstone is one of the reasons I came to the States early, I should head there before it freezes over completely.
Now, I'm in the southern reaches of California, and Yellowstone is predominately housed in Wyoming, a couple of states east of the northwest Pacific coast. There just so happens to be a road which runs the length of the western edge of the country - the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). It would be rude of me not to travel along it.
Before that can happen, though, I need a means. And it is at this stage that I have to introduce you to my Purple Nimbus. There is only really one easy way to do this - without modesty getting the better of me - and that is to show you a picture of it. But first, some preamble, by way of dramatic tension!
Monday started with packing up my things at the hostel and jumping on a Big Blue Bus that took me the 45 minutes to the edge of Inglewood. I don't know about you, but my only exposure to even the notion of Inglewood before now was what I could garner from Jules Winnfield, Samuel L. Jackson's character from Pulp Fiction. Not the best reference point, granted. Anyway, I had a measure of totally unfounded apprehension as I walked past the 'Welcome to Inglewood' sign and the homeless shelters under the San Diego freeway on my way to meet Raphael.
Raphael is the man with the means. I knew I'd get on well with Raphael within minutes of meeting him; he legitimately used 'discombobulate' in general conversation and had an admiration for the word 'maidenhead' - I felt compelled to explain Chaucer's usage and started to think that maybe Pulp Fiction had been a mite misleading. We took our time working through the paperwork and finances; there was no great rush. Sooner or later, though, the conversation turned to my trip.
Raphael was of the opinion that, given I'd be on the road for eighty-five days, I'd be guaranteed to meet a lot of ladies. He told me to be wary, however. No matter how genuine those ladies appear with their intentions, they would all be after one thing and one thing alone: my Purple Nimbus.
I have to concede, he is probably right.
It is a striking beast, undoubtedly guaranteed to turn heads. Yet it is also beautifully delicate, where the purple blends to veins of mauves and violets. To call it flawless would be bold, but few could disagree it is a work of art. For me to try and compete would be futile. I just have to accept that my Purple Nimbus is pretty much unrivalled, and try to make the most of our association.
Click here for a picture (NSFW).
We won't be alone on the journey. My package includes a choice of free guides, bizarrely. I went for Emily, a well-to-do British girl, from her voice slightly older than me. She is (usually) excellent with directions. I'll let you know how we all get along.
So. North. San Francisco is the next major marker on the map, and I figured I'd spend three days getting up there, taking in a couple more beaches on the way. At times the PCH followed right along the coast - think Dawlish in Devon except here it's cars rather than locomotives and beige rather than rouge. One bridge we crossed had a sign which read 'Speed enforced by aircraft' - my mind immediately envisaged John Travolta in a broken arrow. I stuck to the limit with not a second thought.
Aside from Emily, I've got various navigational and reference material: a road map, a USA lonely planet, a USA roadtrip guide and a copy of Woodalls - effectively a Yellow Pages for RV campsites. About a third of the way to San Fran was a town called Lompoc, and nearby - 15 miles off the PCH - was a campsite called Jalama Beach. I made that my first destination. I had filled up the van before I left Inglewood. I say filled up, except none of my cards worked, so I paid cash which got me to just over half a tank with what I had on me.
This had become just under a quarter of a tank at the Jalama Beach turnoff but, a couple of miles on, the needle suggested I was almost empty. At the same time I found myself driving into an encroaching sea fog - it was 8pm by now so pitch black dark as well. It got to the point where I could see little more than a few yards in front of the van, with a rapidly emptying tank of petrol and ten miles in either direction before civilisation. I pulled over. I re-read the blurb about Jalama Beach, what facilities there might be. Should I turn around? And had I really just managed to strand myself on the very first day of the roadtrip? I suppose, if I was going to meet my end at the side of that road in the dusty Californian coastal hills, at least I had a three sets of plastic crockery and a duvet.
As it happens, the petrol gauge started to move as I sat there, wasting petrol, back up towards a quarter-full. Perhaps I had been going uphill when it dropped before? I decided to press on. The fog was really thick and I didn't fancy the prospect of doubling my time in it.
I made it to the campsite where I was greeted by a very friendly ranger. It was as I pulled into my site and reached for the ignition that the 'Low fuel' light came on. It's a likely twenty miles to the nearest petrol station from here. But I'll worry about that in the morning...
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