More Coincidences

I finally had a chance to wear my short-sleeved shirt since the weather was decidedly warmer, and I would not be facing any steep downhills. I parted with Maik and Mario and headed towards Pismo Beach.

I stopped for a muffin and coffee at Cayucos in a groovy looking coffee shop. As usual a customer enquired about my trip, so we got talking. After learning that I was Italian, he asked me if I knew of a town called Bordighera. I had to laugh at the additional serendipity this journey has gifted me with. I explained how my family has holidayed there for most of my lifetime and as early as my mother’s teenage-hood. He knows of it because he’s friends with a Bordighotta.

After Cayucos I climbed towards San Luis Obispo for a Mexican lunch and internet café break. The people around town had the appearance of the stereotypical Californians: blonde, healthy, well dressed and driving expensive looking cars. It had to happen eventually.

The ride to Pismo Beach was pleasant albeit the slight burn from the sun. The State Park wanted $20, which I grudgingly paid even though the campsite was totally worth it as it was located on a wicked beach. Had it been warmer, I could have stayed another day.

A New Hope

The next day I had to start with another steep climb above Big Sur within a light mist. I stopped at a bakery for a scone and cookie: $6!!

I couldn’t help being snap happy during this leg as every valley yielded much spectacular scenery. After one curve, a rather large bird flying no more than 6 meters off the road approached me. At first I assumed it was a Turkey Vulture, however it soon became clear that the large pink head and impressive wingspan led me to believe that I was encountering a California Condor. I grabbed the brakes and froze, probably open-mouthed. As I child, we were taught about the plight of the Condors so for me it was a first hand representation of the concept of extinction. It was a real joy to see one in real life. Luckily it decided to land several meters behind me, so I had time to video him and take a few shots before some idiots who drove up to it to do the same thing spooked it.

At San Simeon State Park I met Maik and Mario, two Germans from what was originally East Germany. They had been on the road for the last 6 months, starting in the United Arab Emirates, Oman, Malaysia, Indonesia, Burma, Laos and Thailand. I may join them next year when they head to Iran from Germany.

It was nice to exchange stories over shared food and fire. I’ve discovered and embraced my nomadic self.

Solo Again – Sort Of

After a hearty breakfast, Ken and I exchanged our contact info and said our goodbyes. I couldn’t have asked for a better person to spend those days with.

I proceeded towards Capitola by way of Pleasure Point (an awesome surfing beach with practically perfect waves…every wave). I cycled with some University of Santa Cruz students towards the 1. They were headed to their bike workshop. After building a bike from parts, they donate it to the university’s bike library where any student may use it for an entire term. Excellent idea.

As soon as I left them I encountered Brian. He was on his first cycling outing of the season, trying to get into shape for a future bike trip. We ended up talking until Monterey. We detoured to a yacht club so he could show me a photo of his father who was on the wall of all the club’s previous commodores. Just before we parted, I met Bill and Ricardo. They were on a charity fund raising trip from San Francisco to Santa Barbara. They invited me to join them from LA to the border (I should do it so I can say I rode from border to border).

From Monterey I climbed the hill parallel to the 1 in order to avoid the 17-mile ride, which borders the peninsula. I couldn’t care less about seeing millionaire’s homes from afar.

I bought provisions at Carmel’s Safeway’s, knowing full well that anything bought during the Big Sur leg would cost me dearly. A group of Italians were there doing the same; they thought I was nuts for cycling all this distance.
Before reaching the climb towards the campground, I stopped in someone’s driveway for a snack. The gate opened and this large man in a Mercedes pull out and asked me if I was lost. During the conversation I mentioned how lucky he was to live in such a beautiful location. His reply was to shrug his shoulders. Sad.

At Big Sur I had to grit my teeth before handing over $40 to camp at a private site. One State park was closed; the other non-shower site wanted $15. The site was immersed in Redwoods and was very nice; the complimentary coffee and tea was a decent touch.

Head wind to Santa Cruz

The Pigeon Point hostel was actually a great place to stay. Hostel guests are allowed to hang out at the lighthouse grounds after it is closed to the ordinary public. Later in the day the mist rolls in giving the whole place a mysterious feel to it. The hostel rooms are located in 4 bungalows each with their own kitchen, bathroom and living room space. A man named Mike offered to cook me angel hair spaghetti but I declined (some people get funny about burning flags – most Italians get funny about pasta cooked by non-Italians). This issue arose later during a heated Scrabble match; I had obviously pushed some buttons.

The idea of going to a hostel can be off putting however the experience always turns out to be better than expected. The bonus feature of the Pigeon Point hostel was its hot tub; I didn’t partake.
The next morning we took off into the mist towards Santa Cruz. Within minutes we were drenched and fighting a headwind. Morale soon lowered to “let’s give up” point.

We soldiered on to Ano Nuevo and Pebble Beach (not the famous one) and finally stopped at Swanton Berry Farm in Davenport, which was also the finishing line for a 48-hour charity running race. Cyclists receive a 10% discount (if they wear their helmets) on all products; I suggest the pumpkin pie and coffee.

After that much needed break we fought the wind into Santa Cruz, had a wicked Mexican lunch and checked into a motel. That night Ken and I mentioned the elephant in the room: his need to slow down, my need to speed up; with that we knew we would be parting the next day.

Newly Greased Balls

The weather seemed to hold this morning, so we took off after raiding the motel’s breakfast buffet. My intended target was Santa Cruz. As soon as we started, my front wheel began making some clicking noises. Nothing was obstructing its motion, so it most definitely had to be the bearings, which was a bad sign. Ken suggested it was best to get to a bike shop as I could damage the wheel. I wanted to stop by a cycle shop anyway because my rear tire thread had been considerably consumed due to the weight I am carrying.

After about 5 km the drizzle, which had just started, turned into rain. I couldn’t decide what was worse: the climb after Pacifica or the being drenched again. My shoes had only dried an hour earlier – they were getting squishy.
We made it to Half Moon Bay and stopped for a coffee in order to get out of the rain and reassess our position. Ken decided to stay in Half Moon Bay, I half agreed to the same given that I had to service the bike anyway.

We pinpointed Bike Works located in a converted two-storey house on Kelly Ave. One of the guys (Matt) took a look at the wheel and confirmed it was the bearings. He also said that because of being understaffed and overworked, the job would have to be done on Monday. Sensing my despair he offered to swap my tires around and reassured me that I could make it to LA without fixing the bearings sans considerable damage to the wheel.

Turned out I needed a new rear tire as mine had also developed a tear. I had a slightly thicker one with deeper threads fitted. During the procedure I chatted with Matt and got a sense of his dedication to his job. I worked my magic mentioning the highlights of my trip, how great cycling in Europe was etc. With glazed eyes, Matt went ahead and began working on the bearings.

The sun was shining when we left Bike Works and both Ken and I were feeling positive again. I’d like to think that I convinced him to proceed towards Santa Cruz, but it was the $114 room he was offered which made him change his mind.

We reached the lighthouse at Pigeon Point and noticed it was also a hostel. I wanted to press on, so we went ahead but soon stopped at Gazos Grill for a late lunch / early dinner. The waitress said the hostel was great and mentioned its hot tub overlooking the point. Ken’s eyes glazed over and I lost him to the temptress. At least the lemon merangue pie was delicious.

Riding the Wiggle and Panhandle

We awoke to a light rain and decided to push on to San Francisco with two options: if the weather held we could do a spot of sightseeing and then proceed to Pacifica, if the weather worsened, we would check into the first motel and take a damned shower.

The weather was fine and so was the downhill into Sausalito. We had breakfast and then crossed the Golden Gate into San Francisco. Ken wanted to see China Town; I wanted to see the Mythbusters studio.

As we approached Grant Ave, I became unsure about the gastronomic decision I had agreed to partake in. Ken slammed on the breaks and said “Here”. He indicated towards the Far East Café, where 6 SFPD motorcycles occupied its parking space. Cops know about food.

The heavens opened so my Mythbusters pilmigrage was iced. We proceeded to Market Ave so that we could follow it out of San Francisco. At an intersection we asked another cyclist for directions to the 1. He said, “Follow me”.

The Wiggle is a very clever cycling route intended to avoid San Francisco’s infamous hills. Basically when you reach a hill, you simply turn left/right from it and eventually make it to your destination without as much as a climb. The route is also indicated with signs.

The panhandle is another cycle route shaped like a panhandle. Duh.

I also saw two familiar faces: Milanese trolleys. I would have never imagined seeing them in California. Italians, they’re everywhere.

We checked into a motel in Pacifica and initiated the drying procedure.

End in sight

Another black hole for breakfast eateries. We had to cycle 20 km to Jenner in order to have breakfast (coffee and a Danish). There was a gathering of seals just north of Jenner. We then pressed on to Bodega Bay to have one of the best bowls of clam chowder I had ever eaten.

The 1 then brought us inland to Valley Ford, Tomales and finally Point Reyes (another place one should stop in). Ken bought a copy of Dead Eye Dick for 1 dollar.

We were in reach of San Francisco, so Ken stopped dilly-dallying as he sensed I wanted to get there sooner than later. We aimed for Mont Tamalpais State Park, which would have allowed us an easy entry to San Francisco the morning after.

The ride after Olema was fantastic: another long downhill through a grove of Eucalyptus trees towards the banks of a lake into Stinson Beach. We decided to eat at The Sand Dollar before reaching the campsite. Little did we know that the campsite was located a further 4 miles uphill! We opted for a motel since we were tired and hadn’t showered since the night before.

The first place wanted 100 dollars; a nutter who introduced himself as Alphonse manned the second place. He had a limp, a raspy voice, and a wicked sense of humour. He brought us to a locked room and had trouble finding the key to unlock it. Ken asked for a knife and proceeded to unlock the door (tricks of the trade) and enter to find a couple of suitcases on the bed with some clothes strewn about. Confused, Alphonse rang his wife only to discover that the room had been leased to another customer.

Alphonse also worked as Stinson Beach's sole taxi driver. For 12 dollars, he offered to take us to the park in his truck - but only if we helped him unload some soil along the way. Another shrewd businessman.

We arrived at the park and were dismayed to discover that it too did not have showers. Whore’s bath, two nights in a row.

More coast

As we were searching for our breakfast spot I had vocalized my desire for eggs benedict. It was slim pickings for eateries since we were located on a stretch of coast known only for its grandiose houses.

We eventually stopped at the Harbor House Inn. I knew we were in trouble when the brass front door handle only measured 2 inches. We were told that because they only had 2 guests, they hadn’t prepared any breakfast apart from what those guests had requested: eggs benedict. I’m going to wish for a million dollars tomorrow.

Next interesting towns visited were: Point Arena and Gualala (go to the Blue Canoe for coffee!).

We camped at Salt Point State Park. No showers….

Back to the Ocean

The next morning began with the serious climb up hill. The occasional motorist would honk in support or give us the thumbs up. I have noticed that I’m pretty good at climbing since I don’t tire easily and leave Ken at a considerable distance.

The payback was sweet: 17 kilometers of downhill culminating with a greeting from the ocean at the very bottom. Totally worth it.

We had finally entered Mendocino, so far in my opinion, the best coastline in California. The town of Mendocino was fantastic too. We got talking to a woman at the post office that had been to Venice with her dance troupe. She said she loved Italian food, so I offered to make all of us some if she let us use her kitchen. Unfortunately her husband was not in the mood to host strangers in the house. I was so close to a plate of spaghetti al ragu’. Ken suggested we try again with somebody younger.

That night we had fish tacos and two pitchers of margheritas at the Little River Inn. We had been promised fresh abalone from our camp neighbors, but we got back too late. Another perfect day.

More Redwoods and crazies

Finding breakfast was going to be hard in our location – and the fact that it was low season didn’t help either. We stopped in Miranda for a coffee. Don’t bring your patronage to the only coffee shop in that town; it’s run by the most impertinent arsehole you could imagine.

We pressed on to Phillipsville and had a pretty good breakfast there. Lunch was had at Garberville. Ken liked to go slow and stop everywhere. I was having a blast.

Eventually we made it to Standish Hickey Park at the foot one of the tallest climbs in my journey. The roadside café in front of the state park is a must for a visit if anything to have a chat with the owners. Their hamburgers are pretty damn good too.

Ave of the Giants

Ken agreed to meet me at Trinidad for breakfast. He was all packed up and ready to go even before I had a chance to fold up my hammock. He was nowhere to be seen when I got there so I had breakfast without him. On my way back towards the 101 I heard my name shouted. Ken was at the filling station eating a breakfast burrito.

We talked as we rode throughout the whole day. I discovered he was a retired Las Vegas policeman who had run for judge but barely lost the election. He was on his second big trip, the first being 3800 miles. Oh yeah, he's also married to Mrs Nevada 2007.

He rode differently than me; slower, wanting to stop often to check things out. Perhaps I was doing this trip all wrong. I should be taking more of it in rather than jetting down to LA as quickly as possible. Anyway, he’s slowing me down and I’m speeding him up – which actually turned out to be working in both of favor since the campsites are now scarce and timing to reach them has to be accurate else we risk too short or long days.

We reached Weott, in the middle of the Avenue of the Giants.

First bad day ends well

Crescent City was a pretty drab place and the weather didn’t help much: a cold consistent wind coming in from the ocean brought in dull and gray clouds. I hit the road at 8 with the intent to have breakfast at a diner.

After 20 km I was still running on empty, and the only places I encountered where really not worth stopping for. I became quite miserable – to the point that I had convinced myself that I had had enough. The sign indicating 395 miles for San Francisco didn’t help either. The motel manager was right; the first 10 miles were going to be hard.

I took the usual suggested cyclist detour into a stretch of Redwood forest. It was both awe and gloom inspiring. My mood seemed to worsen, almost as if the forest was exorcising my troubles. It wasn’t the ride that was angering me.

Once out of the forest and into a sunny spell my funk lifted. My stamina however had suffered considerably probably due to my previous day’s exhort and lack of this morning’s breakfast.

I stopped at the beach just after Orick (which was the actual site of the original Indian village with the same name) for a pause to regain my mental focus. Had the energy and vibrations of the trees affected me?

I struggled on to Patrick’s Point and decided to stop, even though it was early in the day. Perhaps I needed the rest after all.

After setting up camp and a snooze, a cyclist approached the hiker/biker section of the grounds. He saw me and almost did an about turn to set up on the total opposite side of the site. Later he approached and confessed to me that he had initially thought I was a vagrant. He did have a point; ever since entering California, there was a considerable increase in the number of bums walking the 101. I do admit my beard didn’t help either.