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The blonde wasl not 'entirely' taken, said the bartender, and nodded was his fishing buddy sitting at the bar next to me. No she was taken, and she was shy and strategic. Best brisket I have ever had, better than Memphis, Chicago, Hill Country Texas, is in Gualala.
I rode to Gualala. The man and the woman in Marshall said I'd like Gualala, but it didn't compel me to stop there until the man with the old store instructed I pass right through Sea Ranch and on to Gualala and stay in Gualala. It's there in Gualala you'll find that "none of those guns are legal here but no one is asking permission; we have lots of guns in Northern California." Fuck yeah you have guns, you have guns because you have something to fight for, like your waitresses, your tender brisket, your beer, your ocean, and your sunset. I will fight for you Gualala.
Fuck yeah, yes. We ride for Gualala and brisket tomorrow. Go on trips. Take more risk. Sweat and silence and steel on good roads. Pictures. Then stop to write about it. I don't understand what else there is. Happiness is a good, long day of riding into new territory. The dictionary of it all says that. That's what it says. Really.
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