There are some things you absolutely must do in life. One of them, I’d been told by native Californians, is to ride a bike from San Francisco to Los Angeles down the Pacific Coast Highway (Route 1). Not wanting to miss out on a "California classic", yet also not much of a cyclist, I mentally prepared myself for days of dreadful butt pain and asked the most experienced bicycle tourist I know (my high school friend and fellow ski racer Maggie Smith) to join me for the ride.
We set out from San Francisco at 7:00am on Sunday May 27th. The air was cold and humid from the grey fog that covered the city. I was clad in my newly acquired bike touring armor: tight fitting black spandex bibs, white polyester socks with a line of blue and yellow bicycles around the ankle, awkward and clunky Shimano clipless pedal shoes, and black and white bike gloves. My bike, a late 1990’s Lemond Zurich, was no longer minimalist and speedy. It was a pack mule loaded down with two panniers and crowned with a six foot orange flag that screamed, “DON’T HIT ME!”
 |
| Departing San Francisco |
The first few hundred feet from the house were steep and I struggled to balance the unwieldy metal and rubber beneath me. Like a newborn baby breathing in for the first time I was nervous in this new world of bike touring. Maggie, who came equipped with quadzillas for legs and has ridden across (and all over) the country, looked calm, stable, and at peace on her bike. When we reached the crest of the first hill she began to instruct me on the basics of bike touring. I learned to start breaking early, to use my hands to signal potential hazards, and to walk my heavy bike with one hand on the seat and the other on the handlebar.
It was Memorial Day Weekend but the city was empty. For others, Sunday morning was for sleeping off Saturday night’s hangover or for a luxurious brunch at a French Bistro. But we were bicycle tourists and we were going to Los Angelels!!
So we pedaled. Rotation after rotation propelled us down the coast. We passed the beaches and sand dunes of the Outer Sunset District and rode on through Daly City, and down through Pacifica. This wasn’t so bad, I thought. I can do this.
We stopped for an energy bar break at the top of our first climb, the windy Devil’s Pass. While sitting at the edge of a cliff looking down three hundred feet at the deep blue crashing waves, Maggie and I reaffirmed our goals for the trip; we were doing this to see the California coast, to get a break from “normal life”, to catch up, and for fun. That night we camped 10 miles north of Santa Cruz at the “local’s only” 4.5 mile beach. Total mileage: 72.
 |
| Campsite at 4.5 mile beach |
Day Two was one of berries, fish, and barbeque.
We left our heavenly beach site and rode through the back streets and country lanes of Santa Cruz, Watsonville, and Castroville. If you buy berries at the supermarket you’re likely familiar with Watsonville, the strawberry capital of the United States and home to Driscoll’s (owned by the fruit giant Dole) who grows, packs, and ships strawberries and raspberries—to even the smallest of markets in faraway places like Maine.
Castroville, twenty miles of strawberry fields south, is the artichoke capital of the world. There, field after field of unruly, threatening artichokes grow like giant cacti. They stick their leafy heads high up in the air and, when the time comes, a tractor hovers above and decapitates them. After a day in the fruit and artichoke kingdom we arrived at our destination, Monterey, in time for a tour of the town’s gorgeous aquarium. That night we feasted on grilled portabella mushrooms, avocado, fancy cheese, and drank wine with Maggie’s friends.
 |
| Watsonville strawberry fields |
 |
| Monterey Bay Aquarium jellies!! |
Heading south from Monterey the scenery got better and better. We pedaled through 17-mile drive (a posh gated community), Carmel (posh retired white person community without a gate), and started down the Big Sur coast. Travel guidebooks say that Big Sur is one of the best drives in the nation. If only the guidebook authors could have seen it on a bike! Riding slowing, we teetered at the edge of one thousand foot cliffs that plummet into crystal blue waters. Although every point was a vista point for us, the people in cars-- those gigantic climate controlled couches with surround sound-- flew by, missing our views. They stepped out of their vehicles in designated pullouts and gathered together, cameras snapping, jaws dropping. California!!
 |
| 17 Mile drive near Carmel. |
 |
| Maggie rounding a turn on the Big Sur Coast. |
Our first crisis struck at Pfeiffer Beach. We were camped on a cliff among monterey cypress trees (endemic to Moneterey and Carmel) when it happened. The most novice camping mistake ever: I spilled our pasta in the dirt. The pot toppled off our little MSR Micro Rocket and over went our gorgeous penne noodles. Their center holes, which normally fill with gooey cheese and savory sauce, were riddled with dirt, small stones, and bits of cypress bark. I sat down, stunned, and started laughing. I, the veteran camper, “the camping technique and gear guru” who’s slept all but 12 nights outside in the last 9 months, just botched our meal.
I though the noodles were ruined but Maggie told me, in a highly confident tone, “Max, we are going to eat this pasta.” So I volunteered to go down to the creek, where I swished and shook the pot for nearly thirty minutes. A passing hiker asked if I was panning for gold. No, I thought, I’m trying to get the forest out of our penne!! After most of the rocks were out I blew through each noodle and carried the mushy, glutinous remains back to Maggie for inspection. She declared that we would split each noodle in half and wipe out the residual dirt with our fingers. We sat together, with the pot held fast between her quadzillas, and repeated, noodle after noodle: split, swipe, wipe. The crux of our assembly line was preventing one noodle’s dirt (which sticks to your finger) from contaminating the next noodle. I wiped the gunk on my white socks with the blue and yellow bicycles. Finally, when finished we mixed in tuna, avocado, bell peppers, and cheese- which collectively masked the mutilated remains of the noodles. And we toasted, with a bottle of Cianti Classico Reserva 2008, to Big Sur and to noodle cleaning-- may we forever and always bike tour with angel hair noodles (which don’t have holes).
 |
| Maggie optimistically picks up noodles (left). Our finished meal (right). |
California undergoes a dramatic transition at Big Sur’s southern border. Northern California turns to Southern California. The change is visible in both the land and the people that inhabit it. The topography levels out, the air temperature increases, and there’s less precipitation. The people dress better, the dogs get smaller, the houses less attractive, and the cars turn from multi-color to either black or white (the colors of luxury). Maggie and I started into “So Cal” the day we rode 85 miles from Kirk Creek Campground to San Luis Obispo. The next day we went another 85 miles to Lake Cachuma, a massive 400+ site campground outside Santa Barbara. Along the way we passed Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch and the birthplace of Hidden Valley ranch dressing. At Lake Cachuma campground we met Gary, a local fisherman who invited us over for cocktails, a campfire, and story time. He and his family entertained us with the area’s history, gossip, recommendations for things to do that we didn’t have time to do, and warned us of the pass we had to climb the next day.
 |
| Guadalupe, CA |
 |
| Rolling hills of Southern California. |
The pass proved to be a long gradual climb up two thousand feet. The opposite side of the mountain was steeper, curvier, and thrilling to descend. We dropped down from the hot grasslands to the cool coast, and into Santa Barbara County. That night we camped in Carpinteria, a quiet beach town just south of Santa Barbara, and the next day we rode up to Ojai, our final destination. Of the thirty or more homes I’ve crashed in during the past year few can match the generous welcome we received from Tom and Becky Lowe. At their home we boxed up our bikes, laundered our clothes, filled our stomachs, and talked about, among other things, Patagonia(Tom has worked there since the beginning). The next day we rode with Tom to Patagonia’s headquarters for an extensive half-day tour. We met Jess Clayton (Outdoor Gear Lab’s PR contact), Evan Daniel (an up and coming alpine designer), Val Franco (longtime do everything specialist) and Lee Turlington (VP of Global Product)— we got an excellent peek into life at Patagonia. That afternoon we took a short train ride south to Los Angeles, spent the night with my sister, and flew out of LAX the next morning.
This trip opened my eyes to the wonderful world of bike touring. Out of all of the possible ways to travel long distances in the frontcountry none are as fun, as affordable, or as spontaneous as bike touring. Thanks Maggie!
This trip opened my eyes to the wonderful world of bike touring. Out of all of the possible ways to travel long distances in the frontcountry none are as fun, as affordable, or as spontaneous as bike touring. Thanks Maggie!
0 comments:
Post a Comment