"Woke up this morning and found the great sucking hordes waiting for me."
I was far more interested in eating breakfast than being breakfast, so I quickly packed up and rode to the small town of Leggett for 3 pancakes and hashbrowns. As I was eating, two cyclists showed up, asking if I'd seen a guy named "John". They were friendly, but had too many "in" jokes to make me feel comfortable. I left them to their respective coffee and milk and tackled the dreaded Leggett Hill.
The Leggett Hill starts at an elevation of about 700 feet and climbs to almost 2000 feet over a stretch of 2 or 3 miles. Its only real claim to fame is that it's the highest point on the Pacific Coast trail. Sure, it was a long climb, but I'd become accustomed to climbing by that point. The road was quiet, the weather was beautiful, and I slowly spun through the forest to the top. I got there with no trouble, but was disappointed to find little in the way of spectacular views. The climb wasn't wasted, however -- the other side consisted of a wonderfully curvy eight-mile downhill.
After Leggett I hit another hill -- this one a measly 700 feet in elevation. At the beginning of the trip, the Mt. Walker hill was about the same size, and the guidebook went so far as to suggest carbo-loading before attempting it. Now, 700 feet was little more than a bump in the road.
I was now back on the coast, and the weather felt like it. The temperature must have dropped a good 10 degrees between Leggett and the coast. Still, the scenery was beautiful. The road was carved right into the edge of the cliffs, and at times there was nothing between me and the waves far below but a measly white line. Sometimes, even the white line was gone. This section of the highway is reportedly the world's most expensive -- just because the ocean keeps eating it away.
After 25 miles I stopped in Westport for lunch, at a local grocery. After a while, the two half-blind tandem cycles showed up, and the two guys I had met earlier at the diner in Leggett, and finally their friend John. I sat talking to the latter three -- Paul, Alex, and John -- for a while.
John is from San Francisco. He's an amazing storyteller, and crafts the most incredible metaphors as he's talking. He's full of energy -- his entire body almost vibrates as he's talking. Paul is a violin teacher for Boston who (I later found out) likes to sing old gospel songs as he rides. Finally, Alex is from Germany by way of the University of Toronto. He had started his ride in Calgary, and was stopping in San Francisco, bussing to LA, and then flying home. All three were really nice guys, and despite their "in" jokes I felt really comfortable with them. I talked with them for about 30 minutes, then hit the road with plans to meet them at the campground that night.
After a few miles, John passed me. He's a sight to see as he rides. No helmet, no "cyclist" clothing, and only the bare minimum of equipment. He absolutely flies along, and you can tell he loves every minute of it. I caught up with him about 20 miles later at Fort Bragg, where he had stopped at a microbrewery. We waited for the other two to catch up, then all had some beers. The two half-blind tandems also came in for a drink.
While we were sitting in the bar a completely inebriated fellow came over and started talking to us. He was a logging truck driver who had three drunk-driving convictions, and he proceeded to make a real nuisance of himself. He was actually very friendly, but was too hammered to make meaningful conversation worthwhile. He told us that logging truck drivers hated cyclists -- but assured us we shouldn't take it personally. He was cut off from the bar about 15 minutes after he started talking to us, and stumbled out the door to somehow find his way home.
From Fort Bragg we rode the ten miles to Mendocino pretty much as a group. Mendocino was a strange town. It was full of hippies (the Generation X kind), all just generally milling around looking like they were waiting for something to happen. I strongly suspect nothing ever did. One guy had a "need beer" sign in the front window of his hippie van. Mendocino was the butt of many jokes for many miles.
We spent about a half hour picking up groceries in Mendocino. I tended to carry a lot of food with me and only bought groceries every few days, but on a route like we were travelling, there were enough substantially-sized towns to make that unnecessary. The other three guys bought groceries every day. On that particular day, John bought bacon. He was very explicit about pointing the fact out to us -- to ensure that we bought some of our own and wouldn't beg him for some the next morning. He's a pretty smart guy.
We rolled into Van Damme State Park rather late and set up camp. Dinner was very interesting. John's utensils consisted of a pot, a spoon, and a stove. He didn't carry a knife -- if he wanted to chop a carrot, he would just take bites out of it and spit out the pieces. Paul had an absolutely ancient, battered stove that seemed to be able to run on just about anything. Alex was like John -- a part of every dinner ritual was scrounging for suitable sticks to use as stirring implements. Their dinners generally consisted of one-pot wonders -- the staple of the touring cyclist.
My dinner stood out in strong contrast to these guys. Actually, I think I was showing off to my new friends: poached salmon with fresh green beans, carrots, and mashed potatoes.
"We're gonna stay up shootin' the shit all night. Nice guys. I'll stick with them all the way to SF, I think."
"Today was a very difficult day. Rolling hills forever. Long day. Sooo tired."
I got up around 7:00 and joined the great bacon cookout. I was definitely glad I had bought some, because our campsite smelled absolutely wonderful. We bummed around camp for quite a while and didn't get on the road until 10:00.
John is a much faster rider than everyone else and quickly disappeared into the distance. When I first met these guys I was concerned about showing them I was a good, capable rider -- basically, turning the ride into a race. Back then, I would have tried (and probably failed) to keep up with John. Now, as I grew more relaxed with their company, speed wasn't so important. I settled down and tried to enjoy the ride.
Unfortunately, the road had other ideas. It was extremely hilly -- small hills, but up and down and up and down all day long. I figure we must have climbed at least 3000 feet total while staying within 300 feet of sea level the entire time.
"The hills constantly break your rhythm. Shift up, shift down. Blah."
I rode with Paul all day. We went about the same speed, but our riding styles were different. Every time I wanted to go fast (usually up hills) he was in front of me -- and trying to pass on the narrow curving uphills was tough. Then, when I wanted to go slow, he was behind me. Still, I really enjoyed his company.
We took breaks at 11:00, and again at 12:30, but the blahs just wouldn't go away. Every now and then we'd come across a wonderful view, but that only barely made up for the gray weather and the spirit-breaking hills.
Over the past 1600 miles, I had passed by many, many cows. As I rode by each field I attempted communication, but my inquisitive mooing never elicited a response. Well, today as Paul and I rode we passed a field of sheep. I "baaa'd" at one and to my joy, he/she/it "baaa'd" right back! I felt as if I had made a great step in understanding the world. I was one with nature.
We stopped for groceries at 3:30, and stayed there for awhile, talking with some other cyclists we had met. I had a donut, and an ice cream cone, and a slice of pizza. Now properly fueled, we hit the road at 5:00 and cycled another two hours to camp.
John was nowhere to be found when we got there. We cycled back a mile to see if he was at another camp, but couldn't find him. Turns out he had continued on another few miles to a much better campsite -- completely empty with a top-rated shower. We settled for a pleasant field in the woods, but no showers.
"I broke another spoke today. I also decided that I'm packing way too much stuff on my bike. When I get to Ka Kay's, I'm definitely repacking. Now, my rear wheel is short two spokes. I hope I make it to San Fran."
"...I was being punished for some terrible crime I committed, but I don't know what it is."
Paul left camp early, and Alex and I bummed around camp for a while before getting a late start. Alex loves to adjust his equipment -- often stopping while on the road to take care of some nagging problem.
The road took us up some beautiful brown grassy hills, high above the coast, before dropping us down in Jenner. We stopped there for a break at a roadside café where John and Paul were waiting for us. We stayed there for a while, then hit the road again, inland through brown farmland. The change of scenery was nice, and the odd tailwind made the rolling hills almost bearable. Almost.
At one point I passed a construction crew. They were preparing to resurface the road, and as a first step they were driving a bulldozer down the road, using the shovel to pop the little road turtles off the center line. Then, a guy walking behind the bulldozer would kick the road turtles off into the grass by the side of the road. I strongly doubted he was planning to pick them up, especially since a few were kicked right over the cliff to the beach below. It was a very disappointing sight.
After 1600 miles, the inevitable happened. I got a flat tire -- a small piece of glass had found its way into a gash in my back tire. I pulled out one of my two spare tubes and was on the road in about 15 minutes -- a little greasier but none the worse for wear. I rode another ten miles, generally keeping up with Alex, when...
"Pssh...Another flat. A staple. In the rear again. No problem -- used my other spare tube."
I finally arrived in Tomales to find the guys waiting for me. I'm glad touring cyclists don't believe in schedules -- they must have been waiting a good half hour for me. We had lunch together in a little café, then rode off as a group. We stuck together for the final 20 miles of the day, with Paul singing gospel songs and teaching us Czechoslovakian renditions of American folk songs. The hills and headwind were a common source of grief. We bonded. Alex was particularly glad to be riding as a group through the annoying terrain -- he constantly warned us that it was a bad idea to leave him alone with his anger.
Just before camp we were riding along an abandoned train right-of-way that had been converted into a bike path, through an absolutely beautiful forest, when it happened again.
"Psssh! Another flat. Argh! This is on top of the two broken spokes. Three flats in one day. Flat #3 was caused by my tire lining moving and exposing the nasty spoke holes."
I waved the guys on, figuring it wasn't too far to camp, and that I could just pump up my tire again and make it to camp before it re-softened. Well, no such luck. I ended up walking and jogging the three miles to the state park, and arrived as a very unhappy camper. I saved the repairs for tomorrow, ate some pasta for dinner (with triple-concentration powdered sauce), and hit the tent.
"WELCOME TO SAN FRANCISCO!"
I woke up and tried to fix my tire. I did a thoroughly bad job and ended up pinching the tube -- giving me flat #4 of the past 24 hours. I finally did the job properly, had a big peanut butter breakfast, and the four of us rode out together in high spirits.
We made it about five miles.
"Pssh! Another flat! (Number five!) This one another exposed tire liner."
I pulled off to the side of the rather busy highway while the other guys waited. They were starting to get frustrated with my flats -- but not nearly as frustrated as I was. I fixed myself up and then carefully rode to Fairfax, which had a bicycle shop. I gave them my bike and asked them to do a rush job -- fix the spokes, true the wheels, and put a new tube onto the rear wheel. The guys were again kind enough to wait for me. About an hour later, we were on the road feeling very happy. My bike felt much better, especially with the tires pumped up the proper pressure. Unfortunately I was now paranoid about flats, with my tires always feeling just a little to soft.
We were now about 20 miles north of San Francisco, and the population showed it. There was no distinction between towns -- just one string of traffic lights after another.
Everyone was in a great mood. At one point, as we were going up a hill, Paul rode up behind John and, jokingly, gave him a push -- which caused Paul to fall off his bike. He almost fell in front of a truck, which didn't even slow down (let alone stop), but no damage was done to body or bike and we continued on.
We arrived in Sausalito for our first view of the San Francisco Bay. John was especially excited to be home again, and pointed out all the interesting landmarks. We had ice cream, then rode up the hill to the Golden Gate Bridge.
We stopped at the north end of the bridge, at the tourist center, for more views. John, who is generally the most excited person I have ever met, was practically vibrating with desire to hit the road. We were about 10 miles from his home. We dragged Paul and Alex away from the views and rode over the bridge.
Once on the bridge, the weather took a turn for the worse. It was extremely windy, and a dense fog was pouring in from the sea. In about 15 minutes the sun completely disappeared. Then, John took us up, up, up to the top of San Francisco, where his mother lives. We disappeared into a freezing windy fog bank.
"John's mom lives way up high. Holy steep roads! Holy headwinds! Foggy! Cold! Doesn't feel much like summer!
On the way here we stopped at Haight and Ashbury to look at the hippies. Looks kinda cool. Be a nice place to spend some days checking out the cafés. I'd like to stress again that it is very extremely windy, foggy, and not sunny. And very hilly.
But now, we're enjoying the hospitality of John's home. Nice place, but a little crowded now.
I made it to San Fran! Hard to believe! Look how far I've cycled! It hasn't quite sunk in, the magnitude of what I've done. But, I'm happy."