It’s no secret that I love riding my motorcycle up and down Mount Diablo. It’s the ride that doesn’t require hassle. No bridges, tolls, or traffic exist on this technical squiggle. Last night I needed to clear my head, so I grabbed the Speed Triple and the Canon R5 and pointed them both toward the summit. I’d intended to go up to Diablo’s summit a few weeks ago, but landed at Grizzly Peak due to some time constraints.
There’s a lot swimming around in my brain right now: a necessary surgery I need to schedule as well as poking at what the next season in my life could look like on a number of fronts. Mount Diablo brings me back to the fundamentals of motorcycling: stechnical road, tight turns, speed management, and turn control. It’s just the bike and I working together. Somehow focusing on the fundamentals of riding brings me back to the basics of life.
The Climb
I try to be at the base of the mountain 60 to 75 minutes before sunset. This gives me enough time to climb at a reasonable pace and have some time to shoot around at the top. It was a warm October day—highs on the valley floor were near 80, though by the time the sun went down, temperatures were in the low 60s at the summit. I was in that funny summer-like fall season. I had shorts and a t-shirt underneath my Aerostich and I was toasty warm going up and a touch cool coming back down.
Traffic was nonexistent. I went straight to the summit without stopping at the junction. The pavement was clean, but the road was bumpy. The soil in this region shifts quickly, which makes it hard to build roads that stand the test of time. These bumps require me to keep my core tight, my arms loose, and my legs anchored to the frame of the motorcycle.
The Speed Triple wants to respond to everything. Those golden forks telegraph every imperfection in the road. It’s a different kind of feel than the soft, lazy feel of the GS on these roads. The Triple demands your attention in a way that keeps you present on each turn, bump, and bits of cruft along the way.
I’d strapped the tail bag on before leaving—I never like wearing a backpack with hard objects like a camera in case of a dismount. The R5 rode securely behind me while I focused on the road ahead.
At the Summit
I actually remembered to bring both a fully charged battery and an SD card for the SLR. Score! By the time I pulled into the summit parking lot, the light had was shifitng from warm oranges and yellows to that cool blue tone—long shadows came from the trees, the air noticeably cooler.
The summit was mostly empty, except for some really loud tourists who seemed determined to make sure everyone could hear their conversation. I grabbed my camera and walked away from the noise. That’s not what I needed in this moment. Even from the parking lot I could hear them.
The summit marker sits there like it always has, that bronze plaque marking the climb. I’ve passed it may times, but there’s something grounding about it each time—a physical reminder that you made the technical journey.
The observation building stood silhouetted against the pastel sky, that distinctive dome catching the last bits of warm light. I worked the camera, trying different compositions. I feel great about the Triple’s glamour shots. It’s a different bike to photograph than the GS. Plus, I love the rich color I only get from RAW files. It’s depth that the iPhone can’t quite match even with its impressive 48-megapixel sensor. Apple is closing that gap though. However, there’s just more data to work with in Lightroom to go from good to great.
The phone mounted on my handlebars had captured some shots too, but I knew the R5 would have better dynamic range for these tricky lighting conditions.
Golden Hour
The park ranger was late coming up to kick everyone out, which gave me an extra fifteen minutes past official closing. I watched the sun drop below the horizon and caught that moment when everything shifts. The foothills below still held onto golden light while the valley floor was already settling into shadow. You could see Mount Diablo’s own shadow stretching east across the landscape—this long triangular darkness reaching out toward the Delta.
The gradient in the sky was perfect—that transition from pale yellow-orange at the horizon, through pink and purple, up to deep blue overhead. The layers of ridgelines faded into the haze—the San Francisco skyline barely visible in the distance, the Delta waterways reflecting what was left of the sky. Individual lights began to flicker on across the valley floor, tentative at first, then more confident as the darkness grew.
This is what I came for. Not the golden hour itself, but this moment just after, when the world is suspended between day and night.
The Descent
I suited up and threw my leg over the Triple. The headlights came on—those distinctive twin bubbles cutting through the growing darkness.
The temperature had dropped enough that I was glad for the Aerostich. I started down.
A few turns into the descent, I pulled over to grab one more shot—the valley lights starting to dominate the landscape. I eased the bike onto what looked like solid shoulder and—fudge. The front wheel dropped into a gulley I hadn’t seen in the fading light. The Speed Triple is a tall bike and my legs are short, which meant I was suddenly stuck trying to muscle it back out while standing on my toes. The ranger would be coming down any minute, sweeping everyone off the mountain. I ground through it, rocking the bike back and forth until the front wheel finally climbed out.
That’s the thing about a sunset ride on Mount Diablo—it’s not really about the ride up, or even the view from the top. It’s the ride down.
The road unfolds in front of you, familiar but somehow different in the fading light. The Speed Triple’s suspension loads up in the turns, those golden forks compressing and extending as I work through the switchbacks. The twitchiness that demanded attention on the way up now feels like communication—the bike telling me exactly what the road is doing.
The temperature drops with each thousand feet of elevation. You feel it on your face, through your gloves, that shift from warm evening air to cool night. The sky transitions from that rich gradient to deeper blue-black. And the valley below comes alive—house lights, street lights, car lights—spreading out as far as you can see.
There’s something awesome about carving through these familiar turns with the city waking up below you, the Speed Triple’s headlights catching the reflectors on the guardrails, those layers of ridgelines disappearing into the night. Riding forces me to slow down and be present in the moment. I can’t think about work or surgery or what comes next when you’re managing speed and turn entry and throttle control. I can only be here, now, in this turn, on this road.
By the time I rolled through the base entrance, full darkness had settled in. The valley was a carpet of lights stretching to every horizon. My head was clearer. I didn’t have everything sorted, but had enough space to breathe and think. Sometimes that’s all I need.
Thanks Triple!
Leave a Reply