The chords of an acoustic guitar pierced the cool night air as my wife and I emerged from a dark section on one of Valencia’s paseos. “What’s that noise?” we thought as our minds tried to separate the music from the automatic sprinklers, the rustling trees, our labored breath, and the rhythmic mechanical clicks of our bicycles.

As we rolled down the bridge, we heard it again: a beautiful guitar rhythm. Our eyes tried to make sense of the darkness around us, trying in vain to confirm what our ears were telling us: someone was making music in the middle of the night in Valencia.

Barefooted and in tattered jeans, the girl we came across couldn’t have been more than 15 years old, but here she was strumming away on her guitar and singing a Bob Dylan-esque folk song. We stopped to chat with this Siren on our own journey home.

When you don’t have a car in Santa Clarita scenes like the above play out often on Santa Clarita’s alternative transportation network. Whether on a smelly city bus, a relatively high-speed multi-use path, or a winding paseo shrouded by trees and populated by teens, your journey can often times become more interesting than your destination.

The Case of the Japanese Restaurant Waiters

Case in point: three weeks ago, I rode my bike from Newhall to attend the No Doubt tribute concert at Central Park. I met my wife and mother-in-law there, and we had a nice leisurely evening sitting in the soft cool grass. With about a half hour to the end of the concert, we decided to leave, and I hoped I could prove the value and utility of my bicycle by beating my wife to home.

But it didn’t work out that way.

As I navigated my way onto the bike path adjacent to Bouquet Junction, I was stopped cold by -of all things- a waiter from Kisho Japanese restaurant.

“Sir, excuse me, but do you have a cell phone?” he asked, an edge of panic in his voice.

Just then, two other men -another waiter and a 30 something man with a buzz-cut, in a black shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops- walked up behind cell-phone requesting Waiter #1.

“What for?” I asked.

“Sir, this man just violated a girl at our restaurant, and he’s trying to escape. We followed him all the way here and we want to call our restaurant,” he said.

I looked at the man, who appeared a bit intoxicated and quite angry that he was being followed on foot by two waiters.

“Fuck it man, just forget it man, these guys are crazy,” the man said to me with anger in his eyes.

I handed my phone over to the waiter who called his restaurant, advised them of his location, and asked the restaurant to call the Sheriff’s station.

Meanwhile, the suspected “violator” marched on down the path towards a gas station at the corner of Bouquet and Soledad. Hot on his heels was the other waiter, a 20 something Asian guy who stood about 5′6.

Many people, at this point, would have beat a path to get out of what looked like a tense situation. But I’m naturally curious, so I asked Waiter #1 for more information.

“He was just sitting there with his friends at the sushi bar and reached over and violated a 16 year old girl. The girl is in tears,” Waiter #1 told me. “When we caught him doing it, he ran from the restaurant and we followed him here.”

Waiter #1 was by now speaking rapidly, emotionally. He was clearly excited.

“My friend has a black belt” in some martial art or other, he told me, “and he’s going to kick this guy’s ass!” he continued, before running off to join his friend.

I glanced over at the Asian waiter, who by this time had physically stopped the suspected violator in the gas station lot. He was untying his apron, and rolling up his sleeves. He looked ready to pummel the suspect, but I guess the threat of force was enough: the suspect went and sat down on the curb.

I hung around that gas station for about 20 minutes, hoping to see a Deputy roll up to diffuse the situation. But the waiters apparently never called the Sheriff’s station, or Deputies were simply delayed in getting there, so I left.

Fortunately, not all of my bicycling encounters are so ugly or filled with tension, but I do often run into the darker side of the SCV at night on those trails.

Drugged out teens, homeless men, and mother and daughter in Newhall

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve rode my bike through a park on a paseo and watched as a group of teens at a picnic table lit up a joint or a bowl of pot amid raucous laughter. It seems the paseos are a great place to stroll or walk by day, but by night they become the domain of teens, drug use and care-free summer fun.

Life in the slow lane also reveals Santa Clarita’s less fortunate, the folks I now call “The Bridge People.” These are the folks so down on their luck they call the underside of the Bouquet Bridge, or the small concrete railroad bridges in Newhall their home. I find them dozing off at mid day, in the early morning hours, or making camp at night. They sleep on concrete or in the sandy bed of a dried creek, oblivious to the 50,000 cars passing overhead or the mile long freight train that rolls through town once a day. I often spot them in small groups, huddling up with tattered old blankets or a sleeping bag or in some cases, just the shirt on their back. Their stench is noticeable even from a bike path, but to most of us, they’re out of sight and out of mind.

My travels by bus are no less full of curiosities. I’ve found that there are two demographics who primarily ride Santa Clarita city transit buses: car-less teenagers and Latinos, and occasionally the foreign students who attend COC. Their’s is a life of waiting to get from Point A to Point B, often for a half hour or more, followed by what must be a long walk from a bus stop on a major arterial into the heart of Valencia, Northbridge, or Canyon Country.On one trip back home late at night, I found myself quite upset as a young Latino mother boarded the bus with her three year old daughter. It was at least half past ten, and I wondered what mother in her right mind would have her three year old child out at night, that late on a city bus. She boarded in Old Orchard and left the bus at the Newhall Metrolink station, then walked up over the tracks to what I hope was her home.

All these encounters tempt me to go back to the auto-centric lifestyle; to give in, buy a car, and travel in a safe and insulated cage from Point A to Point B.

But then, as I set on my bike to accomplish some task, the question in my mind changes from, “How long will it take for me to get there,” to “What will I discover today on my bike ride?” For better or worse, I’m learning more about the people who call Santa Clarita home when I set out on my bike, and it’s an education I’d never get while in a car.

Which is what made the encounter with the Valencia Siren so sweet.

You have to realize that it was a surprising, almost spiritual, moment. Here we were all alone on a darkened paseo, trying to get home quickly when out of nowhere came this sweet voice and smooth guitar.

She told us her name was “Chelsea,” and that after working her summer job all day, all she wanted to do was play her guitar and sing. She said she often strolled up and down this section of the paseos to practice, and from what we could tell, she was quite good.

Around her neck was an old paisley scarf littered with buttons, one of which said, “Do one thing everyday that scares you.” Her other buttons reflected typical youthful optimism and simultaneous cynicism, but I was encouraged because Chelsea was at least involved and interested in the world beyond her safe, homogenous neighborhood. Here was a teenaged girl more interested in the arts than in getting high on a picnic bench in a darkened park.

When I asked her how old she was, she refused to answer, replying instead, “I’m ageless.”

We had a chuckle, took a photo, and parted ways, but on the rest of the ride home, I realized that having such experiences while travelling was, at least at one time, quite common and “ageless” in a way. Homer’s own Odyssey was interrupted by singing women, and the travels of Marco Polo, Ferdinand Magellan, and countless others are tales of experiences during the journey.

My modest travels to and fro in Santa Clarita aren’t nearly so adventurous, but they’re equally as valuable. So thanks Chelsea and keep practicing!