take me for a ride in the car

a ride in the car
The stars aligned so that Lizzye and Philip could take a ride in the car. After a lazy morning, we headed up the I-80 to Pinole and thus to the California 4. Stockton was our destination and good beer our desire. A ride in the car is a vacation for me. All we need is a destination, usually a late lunch somewhere. (Remind me to tell you about the Olema Inn!) New brewpubs are lovely but we had run out of them until two weeks ago. Our local started pulling ales from Valley Brewing Company and Philip was enticed. Since a ride across even part of this great state is my idea of a very good time, we took advantage of the MLK holiday and headed for Stockton.
We had wanted to come to her over the 4, my second favorite highway after 395, but missed our turn and ended up taking Vasco Road down to Livermore. Those are beautiful hills, very unstable and good only for cattle grazing and watershed. The brilliant winter green against the grey of winter rain made for a stunning drive.
We picked up the 580 East, toward Tracy and the 5. I-5 is the blood stream of California. Huge trucks filled with the bounty of of the state roar up and down this most important of roads. It took us directly to Stockton.  (What is the problem with Stockton? Why does everyone dismiss it automatically? In the history of this best of all states, Stockton is essential. A river and aggie town with a fine university, this dear old burg does not get the honor that she has earned.) Just north of Tracy,we came to her southern border and took Pershing into the city. What a sweet place—neat, medium sized houses on pretty streets. The campanile of the University of the Pacific rises above the flood plain, anachronistic but handsome. What with streets that change their names when crossing avenues, we got a little turned around but found our destination, the Valley Brew pub and sports bar.
We have some experience with pubs. We know them in Inverness, York and our dear Grosvenor in Pimlico, London. Our local is Barclays in Rockridge, Oakland where Philip had his first Valley Brewing ale. Valley Brew is by contrast a sports bar, with very high ceilings, brick walls and good sight lines. It is not a pub and certainly not a brew pub.  But Valley Brew is a good place to drink VERY good ale and beer. My crab cakes were crabby and held together with cornmeal, a delightful difference. Philip’s ribs were made with the house stout, that made a splendid sauce,  very dark with a hint of bitter. We bought three bottles of their varied best to take back to Oakland.
The ride home was just what I needed—the broad flood lands of the lower Sacramento. Large rivers frighten me; they are great powers I don’t understand. The Sacramento is the exception. With so many dams and diversions, she is much gentler, like a great cat who has been declawed.  I ride across her flat heart, watching the herons in the flooded fields and the black earth that feeds the world.  I’ve seen her magical headwater, coming out of a granite mouth in Redwood Park, Shasta City. Here on the flood plain, the Sacramento is a mighty water and the 12 from Stockton to Rio Vista is just the place to see her. Accompanying the white herons are assorted grebes and terns chasing each other across a classic valley cloud display. When the weather breaks in the San Joaquin/Sacramento delta, the effect is DRAMATIC! We are talking C.B. DeMille, with great rays of sun splitting thunderous clouds and Mount Diablo looking like the Hall of the Mountain King.
The 4 and the 12, the narrow highways that cross the middle of our state, are a perfect way to see the Great Central Valley. These are the pastures of plenty of which Woody Guthrie sang and they give us our peaches and radishes and kale and on forever. I love this drive even more than Sir Francis Drake Boulevard out to Pt. Reyes. I get a mini vacation and enough time to do political theory and moral philosophy with my favorite traveling companion. Take me for a ride in the car.