Consider this scenario: One of you yearns to peel off a few hundred miles of open road on the new bagger that has accumulated a blanket of dust in the heated garage all winter, while the other half’s itch can only be scratched by a seaweed body scrub and access to a world-class shopping district.

Photograph by Tony Aguirre. (Click image to enlarge)

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In the 1970s, the look-alike Moto Guzzi Ambassador was a favorite mount of the LAPD. Apparently, its ominous black and white heritage still resonates. I soon found my path cleared by nervous drivers and was able to roll on the 1,064 cc V-Twin’s bristling mid-range torque and clattering charm all the way to California’s legendary Highway 1.

Southbound and sitting tall in the Guzzi’s nearly 31-inch saddle, the miles between beach towns unraveled on sandblown blacktop. The onshore blasts kept my seaward glances to a minimum, but I managed to glimpse a pair of dolphins gently arcing beyond the breakers near Huntington Beach. If that doesn’t make you roll off the throttle and enjoy the ride, you might as well fly.

Photograph by Tony Aguirre. (Click image to enlarge)

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Further south, funky beach towns such as Leucadia and Cardiff-by-the-Sea drifted by, then I hit the left turn that took me up into the languid hills of Rancho Santa Fe and through the gates of our first resort. I found our casita and leaned the Moto Guzzi on its lanky kickstand. My arrival was well timed. The big orange sun was dropping through the towering palms like a hot stone, quickshifting me into martini and massage mode.

Holly Elegant Seclusion
When choosing a resort, Mike and I agree hands down on what we require: an incomparable spa, privacy, fine linens, superior concierge service and a welcoming pet policy. The secluded and verdant Rancho Valencia Spa and Resort nestled in the coastal foothills not only fulfilled our desires, but assured easy access to great rides for Mike as well as plenty of girlie activities for me—not to mention great walks for Hank, our furry-faced family member.

Rancho Valencia is comprised of 49 luxury casitas, many overlooking the 18 tennis courts, surrounded by lush foliage and an orange grove that only Southern California can boast. The ultra-comfortable king-sized bed, cozy fireplace, flat-screen TV, wet bar, and secluded terrace with a four-person Jacuzzi may well keep you pajama-clad for the length of your stay. Certainly, the oversized bathroom’s billowing Mr. Steam-equipped shower claimed much of Mike’s post-ride evening. Had it not been for the opulent spa and inviting restaurant steps from our casita, there was a chance that room service might be our only contact with the outside world.

HIS RIDING STYLE
Helmet: Shoei RJ Platinum R; Eyewear: Harley-Davidson Profile Jacket: Schott One Star Perfecto; Gloves: Star Basic Leather Pants: Levi Strauss Signature; Boots: Wesco Boss
HER RIDING STYLE
Helmet: Scorpion Solid 700; Jacket: Lost World Easy Ryder Gloves: Shift Dynasty; Pants: Lucky Brand Jeans Easy Rider; Boots: Taryn Rose Quincy Riding Boots.
Photograph by Tony Aguirre. (Click image to enlarge)

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Photograph by Gary Payne. (Click image to enlarge)

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Photograph by Tony Aguirre. (Click image to enlarge)

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While there is no shortage of homey cafes to refuel on heaping plates of comfort food and linger over endless refills of coffee, Julian is a pie town—apple pie town to be specific. The ruddy log cabin exterior of Mom’s Pie House lures the hungry from either end of Main Street to watch the bakers perform their magic in the big front windows. It is a particularly cruel tactic when combined with the aroma of the freshly de-ovened discs drifting through the doorway. No self-respecting gourmand stands a chance.

Fed and fueled, I continued my loop down out of Julian on Highway 79. Providing more frequent and compact bends than the 78, the road south winds through twisted oaks, a brook-lined pine forest and arcs around shimmering Lake Cuyamaca. The descent proved an exacting test of the Road King’s handling characteristics and four-piston front brakes. A more adept mountaineer than the Moto Guzzi, the Road King is remarkably at ease with the tighter confines at speed. The comfortable 27-inch seat height makes for a more embedded riding position, which complements the bike’s agility.

Photograph by Cordero Studios/ www.corderostudios.com (Click image to enlarge)

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Holly Coastal Classic
Situated atop La Jolla Cove, La Valencia Hotel has been the place to see and be seen since opening in 1926. Charlie Chaplin, Greta Garbo and Groucho Marx were among Hollywood’s golden age luminaries who relied on the hotel’s discretion, fine service and romantic lobby to create the perfect escape. La Valencia’s present day decor is an eclectic mélange of antiques—many donated by generous patrons over the years. It is an atmosphere that fits our lifestyle like a leather glove.

Our spacious corner suite at La Valencia included an elegant bar stocked with top shelf adult beverages and our own full service butler who offered to walk Hank after mixing us a chilled martini. While they took the evening air, we sipped our way through the suite’s numerous amenities: a full kitchen, dining and living areas, indoor/outdoor fireplace, an ocean-view terrace, separate bedroom, and, to Mike’s endless delight, a Mr. Steam. After a nightcap on the balcony, we drifted off to sleep as breakers battered the nearby cliffs.

Photograph by Cordero Studios/ www.corderostudios.com (Click image to enlarge)

Mike had one final surprise of his own that required a sunset ride over the Coronado Bridge. Located behind Loews Coronado Bay Resort, the Gondola Company offers private rides through the twinkling canals of the Coronado Cays. The excursion is made all the more dreamy by chilled champagne and antipasto compliments of Mistral, the hotel’s Mediterranean-inspired restaurant. As the sun dipped behind us, Giuseppe the gondolier serenaded us with a selection of Verdi as we toasted our exceptional good fortune and fabulous vacation.

Mike Homeward Bound
After a late checkout, we loaded up the car and I sent Holly and Hank on their way home with the top down—Hank’s preferred mode of transport. Figuring to cut my own travel time, I decided to bypass he scenic route and take the Road King inland up Interstate 5. I may have shaved some time off the commute, but slogging past reeking industrial plants and dingy card casinos left me with the feeling I had overvalued the concept of expeditious headway. I should have been cruising up PCH, glimpsing whale spouts beyond the whitecaps. Instead, I was in Tustin, stuck behind a monster truck, staring at a decal of a kid voiding his bladder on a Chevy logo.

While that unfortunate dénouement could not possibly dim the glow of a perfectly romantic and adventurous weekend, it did make for a helmet smacking moment of clarity. With my boots planted on the blacktop, I realized that in my haste I had forgotten the obvious. When you are on a motorcycle, the road is the destination. It’s a simple maxim, but one that is easily abandoned these days. No offense to Tustin, but from now on, I’ll be taking the long road home.