The breeze was cool and the weather warm and my attention draw to the scenery of Malibu and not the liquid dripping on my left ankle. I take my leisurely time riding west on Sunset Blvd letting four-door Porsches and Ferraris pass me at great speed only to pass them back when they are stuck behind traffic. Mansions tower overhead as the road carves and curves west until dead ending at the Pacific Ocean. Today was a beautiful day to be on a bike, even if my left ankle was getting saturated.Turning north on an nondescript street, I continue riding, winding, curling up into the Santa Monica Mountains, towards a trail I've never been to eat a sandwich I've never ate. There is no parking at the trail head but I wedge the motorcycle between overgrown agave and begin walking.
Hiking is a scene in Los Angeles, hell why wouldn't it be a scene everything else is. Stylized people sipping name-brand water in avocado-colored skin-tight Lycra yoga shorts. I walk a few hundred feet before sitting under an old tree and stare into a 3 o'clock sun that's falling closer and closer to the horizon. The sparkling water is still cold and the half a pear from breakfast hasn't oxidized too bad as I watch waves lap against the bay and sailboats crowd the shore.
Contrails paint the sky while kelp discolors the ocean water that ripples a thousand feet below my feet. From up here I can see no smog or traffic just a wild and urban landscape baking under a golden sun and it's times like this that I love Los Angeles.
Nature is few and farther between but if you are willing to endure, willing to deal with the expenses and people, traffic and social disfunction there are endless miles of trails and views of places that have yet to be coated in concrete. My attention was swept away in the cool breeze until I scratch my left ankle and, feeling the dampness of my sock, decide to smell my scratching finger, which reeks like gasoline. Not a motorcycle's leaky petcock or having to hike four more miles in a fire hazard sock was going to ruin my day.
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