Leaving Oatman after breakfast yesterday, Tony’s bike had gone down, leaving him with a broken wrist and a suspected head injury, and leaving the group without its photographer. Given Gary’s accident, this came as quite a shock to all. Up until now, during the fifteen years that the Rally has been running, there had not been a single serious accident to a participant. The odd broken wrist or ankle, but nothing life-threatening. Now, suddenly, this year, we have had two. The fact that these things happened to two experienced riders affected everyone in some way.
The ride into Santa Monica was as smooth as I can remember it, despite the morning LA traffic, and we all managed, eventually, to park on Ocean Avenue, close to the Pier. Without Pat’s wife to organise the al fresco buffet on the sea front, breakfast now takes place in an Italian restaurant across the road, with pictures taken at the Pier afterwards. It was a good spread of toasted ciabatta, muffins, fruit and muesli, and the prize-giving was fun, as always, but if anyone wanted my honest opinion I prefer the outdoor option. There was something much more relaxed about the donut and coffee buffet, and the long-suffering organisers were always on hand to snap the same group photo on dozens of cameras. Everyone had a chance to exchange contact details and recount their favourite memories of the week and the whole thing was appropriately unhurried, after a week of early starts.
In any event, John and I always want something a bit more substantial for breakfast, so as soon as everyone had dispersed, we made our way to the Broadway Deli for bacon and eggs with Doug and Joanne. By about 9.30am, we were on the road again. Bound for Canada and Alaska.
Highway 33 is breathtaking. 40 miles of spectacular twisties that belong to bikers – come up behind a car, and the drivers will, almost without exception, move over as soon as they are able. 
Beyond the mountains, the road passes through the oil fields, a strangely surreal landscape: barren desert littered with countless electricity pylons and rusting nodding donkeys. Then come the fruit farms: millions of trees in perfectly geometric rows, each with their own irrigation system. 
And, all the while, the westerly wind pummels the bikes and whips up the dust from the reclaimed farm land. In a hundred miles, it seemed we had passed through several different continents.
We spent the night at King City.