It's been freezing down here in the LA area. The north wind has set in to clear things up and cause a ruddiness to my cheeks. It's getting dark earlier as well, which bring the temperature down. Who would have thought I would be screaming for heated grips on my commute - but yesterday I was.
It didn't matter that the views were fantastic. It didn't matter that I was mixing up my routine by taking what I hoped was the 280 of the Valley (it wasn't). It didn't matter that I was finally going to be able to see the inside of a house I fell in love with. Nope. "It was my freaking freezing fingers.", "These aren't three season gloves!" and explicatives. I took the cold out by riding faster and lane splitting more.
That typed, it was a gorgeous drive up to Moorpark through Simi Valley, along the San Gabriels as the sky streaked blue and pink, then shot onto the 5, industrial wasteland. At one moment, I felt completely and utterly insignificant. The sky was black and the hills alternately a-twinkle of lights and darkness. I saw streams of red and white. I saw myself reflected in the yellow glow from my side lights. The yellow of my helmet. I was about to get onto the 110 from the 5 S. I saw myself as a tiny light, a mere motorcycle in the maws of the LA freeway system. I was not scared. I was so insignificant. Insignificant to those SUVs, those big rig trucks I so love to lane split, insignificant even to the sedans. I was a mere single light, a firefly in the jungle.
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