Getting to work Monday morning was intense. While motorcycling the seven miles from my bedroom to my office, the automobile drivers seemed to want my space. They needed to be where I was. They all had, “What the hell are you doing there anyway? Idiot biker,” expressions

None of this was unexpected. My years of riding experience here in California have been years of acute sensitivity to all those who ignore others who happen to be on the road. Their road. And indeed, in somebody's way.

I love my extra loud horn. Although my motorcycle is old, it's large with horn having ten times the volume of the little commuter cars with their wimpy beep-beep roadrunner horns. Its sound surprises those ever so self-important, insistent, pompous, self-absorbed egos in command of their private cars alone in their own private worlds.

On Sycamore Avenue Monday morning I was approaching the traffic light at the San Pablo Avenue intersection to wait in the left lane for a left turn. I spied a tiny Asian woman to my right almost hidden between her steering wheel and her seat's headrest. I was surprised to see her using her blinker while crossing the solid white line into my lane.

Usually, Californians don't use directional signals. Just too insignificant a device for important people to be bothered with, I guess.

Anyway, this woman moved right on over into my space, just as if using the directional signal gave her permission to run me over, or at the very least, take my space. After all, she wanted that space, needed that space, and by God, she was entitled.

Well, the blast of my horn in her ear evoked a quizzical expression and strange hand movements. The body language was one I was unfamiliar with. Perhaps it was always open season on motorcycles back home in her native village, since it appeared that I should have known that it was okay for her to commandeer an idiot biker's space.

Anyway, a quick handful of throttle shot me out of her invasion plan. Ah, the early morning challenge of the daily commute.

Further down San Pablo Avenue I was ready for other comers whose obvious goal would be to get to where they wanted to go irrespective of who or what might be in their way. Good thing. From the line of traffic on the right, the classic California lane jumper commuter did his thing right in front of me. He decided to dash around the car in front of him. Swerving left, he jumped out in front of me and took off. I saw that coming. I read that action nanoseconds before the driver even got the idea.

That afternoon on the return trip, I was waiting at the traffic light at the intersection of my company's driveway and that infamous San Pablo Avenue. When traffic lights turn green most people proceed through the intersection. Not me. Not at that light. That light seems to interfere with way too many drivers' plans. Stopping for that red light just isn't what a self absorbed Californian wants to do.

The light turned yellow for the traffic ripping along San Pablo Avenue followed by the predictable red light. Just routine. But one oncoming driver blew through that red light as if it was some kind of a personal challenge. I remained in position, ignoring my green light. No horn blowing. The driver was already in the next town.

That traffic light has a reputation. If it were given yearly performance appraisals just like I give and get, it would be fired. Drivers are known to ignore that light, especially truckers. The nauseating crunch of metal, glass and the splattering of blood, body parts and other tissues have shocked and surprised many people at that intersection, both alive and dying.

That's why I just waited there and watched the car whoosh by in front of me. Anticipation is pivotal to making it in California.

Closer to home, while in the right lane and avoiding the bazillion ubiquitous depressions in the streets from all the round utility access plates, manhole covers and storm drains, a typical thoughtless commuter cut me off.

Enter my loud horn.

Ah, a thoughtless, but repentant driver. When he pulled up to the next red light with my high beam in his rear view mirror, he turned around and said something. I thought I could interpret his hand language. He seemed apologetic. I love it when folks admit that they screwed up. Sure beats having them pull out a gun to teach an idiot biker a lesson. After all, this is California.

It felt good, rewarding to get home safe and sound.

All of those fourteen miles on local neighborhood roads are so much safer than on our infamous multi-lane freeways.

My recent rides to New Mexico and South Dakota were a breeze, literally and figuratively, by comparison to my daily commute.

California dreamin', anyone?