I hadn’t been on the VFR in a while. At least not for any real riding. I have had the occasional commute or run to the gym, but I really haven’t done a good ride through the twisties for three or four weeks. I woke up Saturday to one of those fall days when the sky is crisp and blue, freshly laundered by several weeks of periodic rain and Santa Ana winds. It’s hard to beat Southern California in November. In the fall the sky sheds its skin. We shake the tourists off the beaches and paint the mountains in green and blue, and if we are lucky, white.

I put on my leathers, packed my tank bag with a bottle of water, a digital camera and an extra shirt, anticipating the cold ride home after dark. I backed the VFR out from the side of the house and motored out of Newport and onto the freeway for my long ride up to Los Angeles.

I pulled into Santa Monica and onto PCH just before 2 PM, thankful to be out of the urgency and barely controlled chaos of the infamous Los Angeles 405 freeway and finally free of the deafening roar that comes with 85 MPH and speeding SUVs. It was one of those afternoons where the color of the ocean mirrored the color of the sky. The beaches were free of tourists, and only the neoprene coated surfers were making their way to and from the cars parked along side the highway. The anticipation of weekend rain seemed to keep people home. Even the packs Ricky Racers and weekend cruisers seemed to stay home. Sure, I must have passed thirty or forty guys making their way up PCH on their various canyon runs, but on a busy weekend, you could find yourself in individual packs of thirty riders.

Right before Topanga Canyon, a rider pulled up next to me on a gorgeous Ducati 999r , a $30,000 street legal rocket ship. Ridiculously expensive, notoriously unreliable, and tragically outclassed when compared to the liter bikes just spit out of the Japanese factories for a fraction of the money, but still a speeding sculpture of red plastic and tube steel. And nothing talks to you like a Ducati. The sound of those pipes tucked up under that seat is deep, authoritative, dangerous. It’s petrol powered sex. Sure, the Suzuki might get the cup, but the Ducati gets the girl.

He bolted off the light, and with a twist I was right behind him. I may not be riding a 350 pound race bike, but my VFR is no lap dog. Sixty happens in just over three, and if you have the road and the balls, 160 isn’t impossible. With 126 HP and an 800 cc VTEC V4, my ride may not be the best at any one thing, but it’s possibly the best at doing everything.

I chased the Italian for a good ten miles. Cat and mousing him through the SUVs and ubiquitous black, German sedans of Malibu. 55, 65, 75 MPH up PCH. Hair splitting the lanes, left, right, left again. Each taking a lane at the lights. Where’s the opening? Is that Ford coming over? Watch the mirrors. Watch the blinkers. Watch the driver’s head. Two fingers on the brake. Two fingers on the clutch. Thumb covering the horn. Living dangerously. But living.

He finally dumped me for one of the many canyon roads, I waved him off and continued to ride up through Malibu, the hills all green from the recent rains, up toward Oxnard. I finally picked a quick right up into the hills to ride some twisties and get some perspective on the coast. The road was tight and dangerous. Narrow asphalt folds like black ribbon. Turns so tight that frankly I lacked the skills to execute them with either speed or grace. But it was good practice, and evidence that maybe I need to get back in the mountains and back in the parking lots to work on that bike control before I start taking those Malibu canyons at any speed.

But the view from the top, the pacific stretched out below, multi-million dollar ranches dotting the hillsides, spectacular. I finally raced back down toward the highway and an easy, if chilly ride back to Los Angeles, and back to home.