Mulege Friends, Bahia Conception, and Loreto

An easy way to figure out what touristy things you should go see in a town you just get to is look at what images are on postcards.  In San Francisco for example, a typical postcard will have the Golden Gate Bridge, sea lions, Transamerica, and/or the Painted Ladies.  I walked into a store originally named ¨La Tienda¨ and saw the Santa Rosalia Mission.

The Santa Rosalia Mission is up on a hill.  Mulege even built a nice set of stairs so you can get a better angle for a photo.

This is the vantage towards Mulege from the same set of steps.

When I was walking back from the Mission, I finally felt a bit of hunger, but I was still uneasy in the stomach.  I decided I was destined for more tacos since I believe they are a safety food.  I cross a small river back to town, and the first restauran I see has a sign for happy hour margaritas.  I am not much in the mood for margaritas, but what the hell, you only live once.  When I go in, there are two men at the bar and another working behind it, talking about whether or not the hanging light should be on.  It appears they all know each other.  The reason I clearly know their topic of discussion is that they are speaking in English.  Jackpot - I just found a Gringo hangout.  English is like music to my ears in the depths of Baja California.

Happy hour turns into a 4.5 hour eating and drinking binge.  The owner of the bar Travis is a transplant from Palacios, TX.  The other two guys are Scotty who happens to own the place where I had my lunch cheeseburger and Jon who are transplants from Eugene, OR and London, UK respectively.  They each basically came to Mulege on vacation and never took their homeward bound flights.

I bring up my Visa fiasco, and Travis provides a good plan that will cost me very little.  I should go to the Mulege Ministral, tell them my passport and Visa were stolen, then take the evidence of the stolen goods from the Mulege Ministral to the Immigration Office in Loreto and get a new Visa.  I can then take my passport which I never lost and the newly issued Visa to the agents at the Guatemala border acting like I entered through Loreto, and the agents gave me a Visa but failed to stamp my passport.  I am totally on board.  ¨Honest is the best policy, except in Mexico.¨

Jon suggests that they always put stamps on the passports, and there is a new computerized system where they can actually check the records in real time.  I now have doubt.  Travis´ wife Rosalia enters the conversation and says to go back to Santa Rosalia and confess the truth to the people at their immigration office.  Now I have no plan.  I plan to dominate a game of darts to find clarity.  I fail to win but decide to mix all of their ideas and just ride to Loreto and confess my sins at the Immigration Office.

Mulege is at the very north end of the Bahia Conception.   

 This photo was taken only a few miles outside of Mulege.  I am thinking, well, this is a cool shot.  I better not miss it since the crazy road architects will probably have me head in the mountains instead of running along the beautiful low lying coast.

I was wrong.  There was about 10 miles of winding coast lined with white sand beaches and people lounging around with no responsibilities.

This sign confirms that these little shacks serving food do in fact serve donkey as their meat.  There was a donkey farm right behind the restaurant.  There were only baby donkeys so either they had a tourism run and the adults are gone, or the ´veal´ style fetches a higher price.

The road south of Bahia Conception has a few climbs back into the mountains.  There was a particular stretch where I started to gear up instead of down on the incline.  I decided to see what would happen if I stopped peddling, and I overcame a 100 feet climb on a 3% grade maxing out at 9.2 mph during a big gust.  If Only I had Halle Berry from X-Men in my back pocket for the long climbs, I could double my daily mileage.

Before riding in Baja, I had a vision that the place would be a dust bowl.  I packed a bandana and always left it at the top of my clothes pannier in case I need it quickly.  This is the first substantial amount of dust I have seen in Baja but still have not used the bandana.

I mostly raced myself all day so I could get to the Immigration Office before it closed.  I assumed government offices are early closers so I better make it to Loreto before 4pm.  I made it with 45 minutes to spare.  As I am approaching Loreto, I stop and ask the first person where the office is.  Crickets.  I then ask for the center of town.  I get directed down a dirt path.  After asking about 15 more people that were equally as uninterested in helping, I made it to the town center.

Someone told me that the Immigration Office was in the Municipal and I saw a sign for the Municipal, but it turns out I was one building over in a church.  Unfortunately, the Municipal was not where the Immigration Office is.  Great, I just wasted 30 of my minutes, and I had to back track.  I was told by an English speaker that I had to go back to near the highway, which meant asking more directions from locals with no real incentive to help.  I finally get to the Immigration Office to learn that they closed at 1pm.  I was way off.

I am going to be at their door as soon as they open in the morning hoping that I do not get deported.

I am getting a crazy tan line from the gap between my arm sleeves and my gloves.

Leaving Santa Rosalia, Stopping in a Decent Town, and Estimating my Coefficient of Drag

Even though Santa Rosalia is a decently sized town and directly on the Gulf, there was no reason to stay there.  The town seems to be the least "Mexican-like" of any Mexican town I have visited.  I mark Mexican towns as ones with narrow streets, poor pavement, and no car parking.  The streets were nice and parking was aplenty, which is perhaps why the candidates chose Santa Rosalia to speak.

Mr. Eiffel of the famed Tower designed this church right off the main drag.  Even though it is the town's biggest tourist attraction, it is still actively used for worship.

Still feeling the effects of the lasagna, I was happy that the ride today was short. I made it to Mulege in about 3 hours and quickly found a Huespedes for 100 Pesos a night.  I am now 1269 miles from SF.  Immediately entering the town, I was greeted by fellow Gringos.  In no time at all, I have made friends with a few other adventure travelers and have decided this is my favorite spot into Baja only behind Ensenada. If my stomach will agree, I should enjoy margaritas over Monday Night Football.

I learned to take photos right outside my hotel in every direction so I can look for markers in case I can't find it later.  This view is directly outside my Huespedes looking to the left.

As the University of Texas at Austin has bestowed upon me a degree in Mechanical Engineering, it is only natural that I wonder about the mechanics of my ride.  I wrote up this analysis over a cheese burger at lunch today.  I coasted down a 7% grade and held steady at 38mph which is the basis for the analysis.  Feel free to correct me on invalid assumptions and wrong data.  Everything was directly from memory.

Guerrero Negro Leaves a Bad Taste, Faceplant in San Ignacio, and Over to the Gulf Side of Things

It was Friday night, and I was looking to get some food after spending more time than I would like to admit in the last internet cafe.  Even though I was on the verge of being famished, I really could not stand the thought of another taco as I eat them for most of my meals.  I was craving falafel but knew this town would never give me such satisfaction.  I was tempted to go to a restaurant a few blocks from my hotel called Santo Remidio, but I felt like it had a shady operation going as its logo was on all of the rear window of every taxi cab in town.  I postulated that cabbies get kickbacks for bringing Gringos in there, and I was not going to be apart of that.  I walked several blocks farther and arrived at Los Caracoles which was recommended by the lady that helped me do my laundry earlier that day.  Los Caracoles was a one stop shop for tourists.  They had a hotel, restaurant, gift shop, whale watching tours, and bar.  The menu at the restaurant rivaled that of Friday´s back in the day when it was called TGI Friday´s and the number of pieces of flare mattered.  I ordered the potato skins then was stuck between pasta or salad for my main course.  I was thinking of going for a second century tomorrow and decided to load up on carbs.  I ordered the spaghetti, but the waitress convinced me that I would like the lasagna more.  I topped off dinner with an apple pie a la mode.  When the other waiter came by and asked how dinner was, I told him that the lasagna tasted funny.  I very rarely give bad reviews of food, but I chalked up the funny taste to a different way of making the tomato sauce. 

After dinner, I proceeded upstairs to the bar.  The place is mostly empty, and I pulled up a stool a few places down from the man who appeared to be the nicest dressed.  He wastes no time and introduces himself.  He is an air traffic controller and apparently wanted to practice his English with me.  About 15 minutes into my Q&A session, the TV is changed from wrestling to Karaoke.  The air traffic controller really loves his Tejano power ballads and controls the mic for roughly 50% of the night.  He decides that I need to sing a song, and I do my best to push the out of his head.  Regardless he scrolls through the American secion looking for the Eagles.  As I watch him do this, he thumbs to the ´T´ section, and perhaps a little piece of me wanted to sing, because I redirected him to the ´E´ section.  Now I am holding the mic and belting out the best rendition of Hotel California I could.  Why would I care that I am horrible at Karaoke?  I would never see any of these people again.  As the night progressed, more and more people showed up.  By people, I mean men.  By the time I left around 1am, the room had 50 men and 2 women.  I am pretty sure all of the men had the same idea.  Let´s go to Caracoles and pick up some women.  Damn, there are no women here, let´s get as drunk as possible.  When I was walking out, I thought for sure a fight would break out in the next 20 minutes.

This is the Volcan Tres Virgenes.  It is between San Ignacio and Santa Rosalia.  Perhaps if the Mexicans would refrain from throwing virgins in their volcanos, the nightlife of Guerrero Negro would not make San Jose seem like a college frat party.

I woke up Saturday morning and was not hungry.  This was a first.  There was a breakfast spot caddycorner from my hotel and the thought of breakfast seemed to make my stomach curdle.  I ignored these feeling and started peddling.  The road was flat with no wind, but I was really struggling to show any strength.  I was ridiculously thirsty and stopping every few miles to pee.  I made it to Vizcaino and really considered to quit for the day even though I had only ridden for a few hours.  So much for the century.  I casually rolled through Vizcaino looking for a place to eat, but I could not find something that was appealing.  Before I knew it, I was back in the desert.  At various times during the day, I was wondering, what could be wrong?  Did I have Montazuma´s Revenge already?  I had been super careful not to drink the water.  There was one time I had OJ and who knows what kind of water is in that.  Could I have Appendicitis?  I know my brother had his Appendix removed, and if it is hereditary, I clearly have the gene.  Or was it bad food?

I did not want to dwell on the negative too long so I crystallized political theories I would use if I ever go into politics.  I stopped around noon and tried my best to put down a sandwich and some breakfast bars.  Around 2pm, I was passed another single family pueblo town and stopped for food even though I was not hungry.  The place inside was swarming with flys.  The only dish for sale was Machaca burritos.  I have decided that Machaca is really donkey.  The way they make Machaca is to create a meat stew and simmer it down such that the consistency is almost like jerkey but still moist so you really cannot tell what kind of meat you are eating.  In my experience, Machaca meat has no resemblence of beef, and it makes sense that these isolated restaurants would look to reduce their variable costs at any measure.  Maybe this is presupposing a lot, but until you try one, you won´t understand.  This pueblo was 24 km from the next town San Ignacio.  As I was sitting at the table amongst my fly friends, I really considered just passing out on the table and seeing what happens.  This was the most lethargic I have been on this trip.  My stomach made me want to double over.  Fears of turning into a fly like Jeff Goldblume made me peddle on.

The road started to go uphill.  Great.  I had run through all of my camelback and the 1.5 liter bottle of water.  Even better.  Not to say that I was out of water because I had two others, but the plastic bottles make the water taste like cancer.  I pull up to a military checkpoint on the verge of hallucination.  I hope he does not want to make conversation.  Fortunately he waves me immediately through.  I can see San Ignacio in the valley below.  This is the first time that I felt any energy all day.  It was a delightful cruise down to the town, and I stop at the first hotel.  I can barely negotiate a price with the lady, but I knew that I was not going to pay 300 pesos regarless of my situation.  I can´t even formulate coherent thought, much less ones in Spanish, and she gives me the room for 250.  I walk in the room, get one shoe off and fall on my face on the bed.  I wake up a few hours later shivering in a cold sweat.  I decide to pull together my final bit of energy and rinse off.  I get under the tiny tepid trickle leaking out of the shower head and feel myself start to burp.  One of them makes a few chunks come out.  I swallow them down knowing what is about to happen.  I have had a fear of vomiting ever since watching Spinal Tap as an adolescent, but I knew it was not long until I would have to overcome that fear.  I dry off and chug some water just waiting for the inevitable.  The nautious feelings pass, and I slide into the covers.  Not even 10 seconds after laying down, I know it is coming.  I have a quick decision.  Do I use the toilet, sink, or shower.  I go with the closest which is the sink.  I let out 5 heaves of major orange fluid followed by a few dry heaves with some of that Machaca at the end.  I immediately feel better.  However, my sink does not drain, so there is about half of gallon of vomit festering in the sink.  I close te door, lay back down, and pass out.  A few hours later, I feel more stomach pains, but the problem will be solved from the other end.  I take a fast wet porcelain ride, and when I go to the flush the toilet, the handle is broken.  This is fantastic.  I have no interest in pulling off the lid to manually flush the toilet so the bathroom is going to eminate of a combination of vomit and diarrea.  In my condition, the smell made no difference to me.  All in all, I made it to 1184 miles for an 89 mile day feeling like death.  I am quite proud of the day.

This photo was taken in the morning after the cleaning lady helped me unclog the sink, but it shows how the sink holding my orange delight was in my face as I was going Number 2.  What is it with the Mexican water that makes the metal chain connecting the stopper to the handle corrode?  This is the 3rd one I have come across with this problem.

Still lethargic, I could not decide if I wanted to spend another night in San Ignacio or head to Santa Rosalia.  Knowing that I am capable of making a significantly longer ride totally sick, I get on my bike a little before noon and head on to Santa Rosalia for the 46 mile ride.  I was unable to put down any food other than a Snickers bar for the entire ride.  10 miles outside of Santa Rosalia, there was a long twisting descent.  In certain places, there were large speed bumps encouraging slower speeds.  However, the gaps between the bumps were large enough that my tires could fit through them.  The speed bumps were staggered so I felt like a sober Bode Miller heading down the slalom course.  It was a nice test of my hand eye coordination when I did not have much left in the tank. 

Here is my first view of the Gulf of California.  It is beautiful, but the first spot I passed on the coast smelled of decomposing fish and pelican poop.

As I am circling the downtown area of Santa Rosalia searching for a cheap hotel, I see the owner of Los Caracoles walking toward a political rally.  I stopped to chat with him for a bit.  I was so pissed that his place gave me food poisoning, and he showed no concern, that I was tempted to inform his wife who was within earshot that I saw him touching the young waitress last night in a way that most would feel unacceptable for a professional relationsip.  In any event, my stomach is still sour, but I finally am able to eat.  I am now 1230 miles from SF.

Here is a photo of the candiates for a particular campaign.  The man at the podium is Guille Santillan.  The shorter man with the yellow shirt on is Luis Armando and is running for Governor of BCS.

Busting through 1000 Miles, My First Century, and Crossing State Lines

It was nearly impossible for me to get up in the morning. Sleeping without the rainfly made my body stiff, and I struggled to get my act in motion as the winds were blowing my gear everywhere. Today was Thanksgiving, and my breakfast included a PB&J sandwich, the last of my Energy Bars, and one packet Gu Gel. I leave my camp with the equivalent of less than $5, a day´s worth of water, and only enough food for 2 sandwiches.

This first 10 miles were incredibly challenging as I was headed due east with a strong southerly wind. I knew that the road would turn south soon, and I would be in for a fun, fast ride. I really wasn´t prepared for how fast I would go. With the downhill, downwind ride, I completed the next 30 miles in just over an hour.

I wasn´t sure if my odometer would roll back to 0.0 or up to 1000.0 so I took a photo as I was approaching the M mark. I now know that I won´t have to use fingers in front of my odometer to signal for each thousand miles.

I come to an area where the road sign says dangerous curve. I have seen tons of these so I basically ignore it. What I wasn´t prepared for was an overturned truck blocking his lane forcing another truck to pass in my lane as I was speeding downhill. My body released a major amount of adreneline as I recognized the situation. The road was sandy, so my back tire was in a skid. I was doing over 25mph and barely slowing. The other truck was on his brakes but still approaching with a blunt grill leading the charge. The only thing I could think was to control my breathing and not to prepare for impact unless it was inevitable. I escaped disaster and took a photo to remember the intense situation I just conquered.

I made it to Nuevo Rosarito and spent half of my money on more water, chips, and some gummy candies. I planned to eat a gummy candy for every few kilometers I traveled as a reward. The chips would be last resort if I couldn´t make it to Guerrero Negro before sundown.

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The scenery made a dramatic change, and the road was flat and fast with a favorable wind. I crossed the 100 mile mark easily somewhere in here.

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I crossed the state border from Bahia California to Bahia California Sur. Unfortunately, my camera died so I could not snap any photos of the 28th parallel ´Eagle´ monument. I pulled into Gro. Negro and hit the first ATM followed by a marginally hot shower at another fleebag motel. I caught up on my texts and phone calls as there was finally cell service, then gluttonized the taco stand by ordering 3 tacos (chorizo, asada, and pastor), 2 quesatacos, and a torta before passing out in my room with the lights on fully clothed trying to finish The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

My odometer read 1095 for a total of 119 miles. This one will be a Thanksgiving Day that I will never forget.

I am ready to hit the road tomorrow morning and will post again from Santa Rosalia or Mulegé in a few days.

Thoughts on San Quintin, New Top Speed, Breeze through El Rosario, and Starry Nights in the High Desert

After my San Quintin dinner binge, the hotel owner was telling me that another guest was staying in my room. I tried to tell him that is okay, but I would like a discount. It turns out he wanted money from me as the guest would be my escort. I politely declined his offer even though he made a gesture that I was gay. I stayed in San Quintin simply because my map had the city highlighted in yellow, but I am pretty sure there was nothing of interest there. However, in relation to the next 263 miles, it was undeniably the best thing around.
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I made a long climb to enter into another military zone. I actually got stopped and questioned this time. When asked what I had in my panniers, I now know that I told them I had a doctor in my back left one. I think my Gringo speak threw them, and they let me pass. I descended from the top of the hill to catch some major speed. Before I knew it, I hit 46.2 mph and never peddled or tucked.

I took this photo from the first market I came to pointing at the hill that I flew down. I still had a lot of velocity as I was approaching but chose to give it up as I had no idea if there were other markets in town.
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I was now in El Rosario, and I stopped at a family taco shack. I somehow racked up 180 Pesos worth of food (5 plates and a Coke will do it). When I was done eating and looking to get back on the road, the mother started with a line of questioning. Was I married, what am I doing, how can you eat like that and be so skinny, etc. Then came the flattery. I was handsome and strong. Then came the final questions. When will you be here again, and will you take my daughter with you? My response, not very soon but if she has a bike, she is welcome to draft.

I never got their names, but they certainly got my money.

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As I am leaving El Rosario, I stop to shed a few layers. I see a man with a large shovel quickly approaching, and I wonder if this is where my first hand to hand combat battle will ensue. It turns out that the one-eyed street cleaner named Jorge with solid English skills just wanted to tell me that it´s not cold, it´s just windy. I obviously know that it is windy as it is directly in my face telling me not to travel this road.

This photo is taken at the top of a hill looking back at the road I just traveled.

I have seen no sign of civilization in 4 hours, and I really have no idea where I am or where to sleep. I decide to travel until 4:30 and head off the road and camp in the desert. My odometer reads 903 when I quit for the day. I find a nice spot among various kinds of cactus and set up my tent. The night´s sky is amazing as I watch the moon rise from the horizon.

A small red cactus which are sparingly scattered in the desert.

The beginning of the next day was basically more of the same. I traveled through high desert with no signs of civilization. However, after I make a particular climb and descent, I was magically in a boulder field.

In the middle of the boulder field is a pueblo called Cataviña. This pueblo is the first place I have seen in over 100 miles with more than a single family as the entirety of the residential population. I know this because I stopped at El Progreso where they told me it was just their family there. By my presense alone, I was overwhemling the permanent residential population with a 14% boost in population by transient tourism.

In Cataviña, I loaded up on water and some chips. After the purchase, I realize that I am down to 58 pesos. Cell phone service is non-existent and using a ´telephone caseta´ is 17 Pesos per minute. I can hardly afford the phone so I borrow the WiFi at the only hotel in town where I write a quick I am safe email and make my ESPN Pigskin Pickem picks. I hit the road again. I wish I could say that I camped amongst huge boulders, but I left them behind. I ended up rummaging through a bunch of thorny brush setting up my camp 976 miles from San Francisco. I decided to not use my rainfly tonight as I wanted to see more of the night´s sky, and it turned out to be a wonderful decision. Before the moon ruined the party, I was blessed by a display of shooting stars every few minutes with the Milky Way as the backdrop. It is a pretty surreal experience to witness little fragments of rocks composed mainly of iron being pulled in by Earth´s gravity and ending in a quick blaze of visual glory. The only improvement I can suppose would be if Whoopi Goldberg was there live commentating.

Ensenda Nightlife and the Rides to San Vicente and San Quintin

The torture of the rain soaked ride to Ensenada was more than worth it to experience the dramatic improvement of nightlife over Rosarito. The crowds were young and attractive. Most hardly spoke English even though I was in the Zona de Tourista. The first place I went to cost $3 to get in, but it included an open bar until midnight with 2 for 1 drinks after that. 2 beers ran me 25 pesos. I sat down at a table that seemed empty, but two 18 year old boys were there previously occupied with the battle to get a bartenders attention. One was tall, skinny, and shy, which reminded me of myself at that age. I felt obliged to take him under my wing and force him to socialize. I took them across the street to Pappas & Beer which is the best nightclub in Ensenada. My efforts were thwarted by our language barrier, and I had to set them free around 2am as they were probably already out past their curfews.

I was wandering around downstairs, and a random guy came up to me and hit my beer with his beer trying to do the trick where it makes your beer overflow. However, he was too intoxicated to realize that this trick only works on a freshly opened full beer. I looked down to see that he hit it so hard that my bottle had shattered. I shot him the best look of disappointment I could muster. I began to sense that a fight would soon break out, but his friends entered the situation with a new beer for me. they began to chat me up. It turns out they were touristas as well and from LA. I shut the bar down talking to these guys. We took turns picking each other´s brains over buckets of Tecate the beer of choice in Ensenada.

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Before leaving Ensenada, I went around to several places looking for waterproof clothing. This turned out to be a fruitless endeavor, and it was noon before I was on the road. This was the latest start to my day thus far, and menacing rainclouds were directly above. I could see blue skies ahead so I really tried to hussle. However, my fate would fall victim to a construction zone. I have gone through a few of these so far that can take up to five minutes to pass. This one was different. Basically, it was dirt path that had been washed away by the previous days rainstorm. A quarter mile down the road, about the fifth trucker in a caravan of truckers towing their Baja 1000 dune buggies in the opposite direction yells to me, ¨Go home. You´re fucked.¨ It´s far to late to turn back now, and a few muddy roads will not hinder my journey. His comments actually motivate me to make it through, which was no small task. I will spare the details, but it took me over an hour to make it through this section.

There is a mud pit where the cars are backed up. The whole situation is basically a free for all.

After completion of the construction zone, I was welcomed by five miles of switchback mountain climbing. I descend out of that mountain into a military check point. There is actually some guy in a bunker surrounded by used tires whose job is to activate the trip wire that I pass over. I was hoping the Federales would give me a stamp on my passport as I am sure I am illegally traveling in the country, but I get waved through without a second look.

I arrive in San Vicente at 5pm in total darkness, 770 miles from SF. As I enter, I see headlights on my left, which is normal and on my right, which is not normal. This is a pretty terrifying sight as I am not that visible and totally vulerable. Therefore, I find the nearest hotel. I hit the town looking to spread my Gringo money around and buy tacos at one place, then half a chicken at another. I look for a place to eat the chicken and review tomorrow´s route. I pass by a billiards bar with open seats. The guys standing outside advise me not go in there as many people are drunk who are looking to fight. I end up eating the half chicken while walking to the Pemex to buy some water. However, this place has no convenience store so I make my way to the next market whose floor is covered in sawdust and stinks of sour milk. Before reaching my hotel, I stop at a torta stand and ask what the cars are doing driving back and forth on the pot hole wriddled dirt road. They tell me that the poor people go to the billiards hall to drink while the rich people drive their cars up and down the street drinking in their cars. It´s an interesting show of wealth.

I finish off my eating binge with a delicious apple filled pastry at the local bakery.

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I was glad to leave San Vicente and have finally crossed the first fold in my map. I arrive in San Quintin at 1:45 but decided to stay even though I could get many more miles under my belt as the road is flat and the wind is helping. The reason I decide to stop is that San Quintin is labeled in yellow on my map signifying a place of interest, and the next one, Santa Rosalie is about 500 miles from here through arduous terrain and on the gulf side. I really appreciate entering a town with sufficient light as it makes it much easier to locate the cheapest motel. Today´s motel is half the price of yesterday´s at 150 Pesos.

There is a very good chance that I will not be posting for a while but will do my best.

Thoughts on Local Directions and the City of Rosarito and My Demoralizing Ride to Ensenada

Every day on my ride, I ask one or more locals for directions. I can say with 100% confidence that I have not received directions that were 100% correct from anyone, even the from people that seem entirely knowledgeable. This experience exemplifies why men do not ask for direction. Usually, the advice will point me in the right direction with a only few distances misstated. On the contrary, I have had some that is dead wrong. I am pretty sure a compass and map is better than depending on strangers that have no motivation or capacity for the help one may need. I tend to ask just for verification and to socialize as time on the road is rather lonely.
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This was the first and certainly not last taco stand I drop a few pesos at.

Rosarito seems like it was a bustling place very recently. The restaurants are plentiful and large. The same can be said for the bar scene. However, at all of these establishments, there were more workers than patrons. The main drag had plenty of available parking, and the taxis were desperate to take a fare. I appreciate that this is the low season, but the added negativity of the American media has surely taken the largest toll on Rosarito. I imagine a large percentage of the typical patrons are LA and SD locals that are not 21 and want to go party. They are afraid of Tijuana, and Rosarito was a good second option. Now it seems that this town will be in a downward spiral until the sense of safety is restored. From my experience, I felt completely safe and comfortable. The biggest hassle was telling the salesmen that I do not want a pancho or a high quality leather wallet. I talked to a club promoter about the situation, and it certainly hurt his financial well being. He still gave me a Mexican flag, which I now proudly display over my camping gear.
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Before I settled up with the hostel owner, my bike computer read 666 miles. I noticed the ground was wet, but it was not actively raining. Therefore, I decided to get out of the depressed but delightful town and go to Ensenada, which has a much larger population. Not even a few miles outside of Rosarito, the wind begins to howl. I am not stranger to the wind, but it was fierce enough that my pseudo rain gear was flapping which deafens the sounds of approaching vehicles until they are almost upon me.



Not quite Rio, but you can see the rain clouds ahead.



At any rate, the road heads under the non-biking freeway. On my paper map, it looks like a small hiccup and runs parallel to the freeway. The map is not wrong but misleading. I see that my compass is now headed NW to NE, which happen to be my least favorite directions to ride on this trip. The rain begins to pick up as I head up the mountain side. When I reach the northern most face, I get some rain and wind protection where I stop to eat a Clif Bar. As I turn the bend, I am getting pelted by sideways rain. I first feel some coldness on my arm and am not sure if it is water or just the cold rain on the rain gear. Needless to say, it is water that penetrated my North Face Shell. Thirty more minutes of this, and I am soaked from head to toe, and I am not over stating the situation. Even my eyeballs are being hit behind my glasses as there is a weird wind effect making the rain curl over the top edge and into my eyes. I start to think of how the situation could be worse. I am soaked, I am climbing switchbacks on slick mountain roads, I have wind gusts in the 30mph range, and there is no sign of civilization.
I took this photo about an hour into the brunt of the storm.


If the weather were colder, it would be worse. That is all I think of, until an 18-wheeler going the opposite direction has at least 3 wheels directly hit a pothole filled with mud and throws it all over me. At least the mud stayed below my face. Even with this, I still have to laugh at the situation I have put myself in. I keep myself in pretty high spirits until I have my first descent. Considering that I am totally soaked, I begin to shiver in the wind chill. My hands are barely able to grip the handlebars, and my shoulders are beginning to send pain signals. I remove my hands and make a fist and just watch as a cup of water falls from my gloves. This amuses me, but I am still in the mountains with no idea if I am still on the right road or how far I have to go.

I make it out of the mountains and make it to a town with lots of taco stands and some of them are labeled Ensenada. I am not sure if it is Ensenda or not so I stop and ask a local. He tell me 10 more km. I see some hotels for as low as 20 USD, but I did not just ride all that way to stay in suburbia of Ensenada. As I continue on, I lose feeling in my feet. For some reason, my left foot feels like there is a hole in my shoe, and my sock came off. However, my shoe is fine and there is no way my sock came off. I push on until I get to Ensenada where I see a mecca of taco stands, massage parlors, and motels. As a gigantic Carnival Cruise Ship is opposite where I am, this must be the tourist zone of Ensenada, which is where I will call home for the night, 716 miles from SF.

Departing San Diego, Crossing the Border, and Stopping in Rosarito

The road to the border was uneventful except for meeting another cyclist, which brings me to my point. When you go on long ride with a bike loaded to the brim, people are curious as to what you are doing, especially other bikers. Along the way, I have made many of what I call "10 minute friends." Typically, other bikers approach me from behind with stories to share or questions to ask. The thing that set this guy apart, was that he didn't have stories to share or questions to ask. I felt like I was in the 1st grade when children don't actually play together, they just play next to each other. I never even got his name, and we rode together for at least an hour.

As I'm nearing the border, I get in the lane that says, "MEXICO ONLY - NO USA RETURN". There is even a bike lane so I'm pretty stoked. Unfortunately, there is a construction fence blocking my route, and I don't see a way across unless I toss my bike over the barrier and ride through with the cars. I just about throw my back out manhandling that hunk of steel over the waist high concrete, but I'm gleefully heading across the border. It's my turn to go under the swing arm, and I get rushed down the lane like cattle heading for emminant death.

As I'm going through, an agent points me to the right. Another agent points me to the left. I am pretty confused and end up going right through the middle of the border without talking to anyone. Cars are now buzzing by, and I decide to keep on riding because I remember from a previous road trip to Monterrey that the real check point was 23 miles in from the border. I am not sure how far I am now, but I hope my justification for riding on is validated soon. If I really fouled up, please lend me some advice.

After crossing the border, I am immediately lost in Tijuana. I was given some advice, to stay on the main road, but I can't even manage to do that. I am in no way trying to be adventurous in TJ, but I don't know where or how to get to the highway. The only thing I know is that I need to go back towards the border and catch the road to Ensenada "MEX 1D". After a few circles in and out of buses, speeding cars, and mindless pedestrians, I miraculously end up on the right road. The road is narrow, and the shoulder is almost non-existant. I'm sucking in tons of white exhaust fumes plus whatever random trash is being burn right off the road. My eyes and lungs are burning, I'm pretty darn scared, but I still had a silly grin on my face that I couldn't shake off.

As I am riding down the highway just past the TJ maze, I see a sign that has a bicycle with a red cross through it. I really see no alternatives so I just ride on. I get stopped by a security lady and turn around to head down some random fenced off path. I again am riding on random streets in Tijuana. I really don't know where to go except toward the coast and south. Of course the road dead ends, and as I head back to the road that I'm not supposed to ride on but south of the guard, I get chased by a herd of dogs down a rough dirt path. I end up having to carry my bike bath to the highway and just head south. I really don't know why there are "no bike" signs when the traffic is almost non-existent and the shoulder is huge. A group of three cops blast past me so I feel like my crime isn't too bad.

I make it into Rosarito and stop at one of the taco stands. I practice my broken Spanish and get some advice to head down the road toward the city center. I stop in several hotel/motels to check their prices, and no one wants to beat the price I paid in Lompoc. I know there has to be something cheaper. I randomly find a hostel while trying to find another motel. This place is as basic as it gets, but it is 180 Pesos and a 100 yards to the ocean. Hopefully the owner's three dogs will stop barking so the ocean can serenade me to sleep tonight.

Thoughts on LA public transit and my glide into San Diego

I was staying in an unincorporated part of Huntington Beach on the edge of Orange County. I wanted to go two place, USC in downtown LA and UCLA in Westwood. I didn't have a car so I would be going to my two destination via LA public transit.

My first complaint: the fare system.
As with all public transit, the bus drivers do not carry change so you need to carry lots of quarters to use the public transit. I am not a fan of walking down the sidewalk quietly announcing to the public that you have a pocket full of change, especially not in the neighborhoods I was traversing. It is unAmerican to carry lots of loose change.

My second complaint: transfers.
Part A - The time between buses is unacceptable. I had consecutive half hour waits.
Part B - If you take a bus one mile, then transfer to another one to go one mile, you pay twice. However, you can take one bus and go 30 miles and only pay once.
Part C - Each city has its own brand of transit. I set foot on the following brands of transit: Orange County, LA Metro, Long Beach, Foothill, and Santa Monica. I am sure there are more.

My third complaint: non-paying riders.
There is no incentive to pay for the LA Subway and Light Rail. LA Metro is leaving tons of money on the table. There is no gate or people checking your tickets. I saw multiple transactions of people selling cigarettes for a quarter, baby mamas with a handful of out of control children, and a verbal scuffle over how much room one person deserves. I don't want to make any unfounded assumptions, but I'm sure not everyone was a fare paying patron.

My only praise:
The light rail and subway moved a lot of people and fast. The light rail had mostly timed lights and priority at intersections.

My solutions:
A - LA Metro needs to own and operate all of the buses in and around LA. It appears that the different cities do not coordinate their schedules. Shorter transfer times will increase ridership.
B - Bump up the fare to $2 or $3 for any cross town ride to 1) eliminate the loose change issue 2) cover the cost of transfers. A simpler fare system will increase ridership.

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Huntington Beach to San Diego. (616 miles from SF)

Before I start riding, I notice my rear tire has lost air pressure. I pump it up, and it holds air so I decide to head out. I ride for 10 miles in constant paranoia of a catastrophic failure before I decided to find a place to eat and change my tire. I see a place with a bunch of bikes parked out front so I decide to stop there. It's called Newport Burger so I don't have high expectations as I am stopping at 8:30am, a non-traditional burger time. There is a group of four elderly bike riders at the outdoor table next to me one upping each other about over seas driving. One of the guys drops the trump card about paying a toll booth in Italy in the days of the Lira with ten US Dollars. When they get tired of talking to each other, they strike up conversation with me about where I'm going. I tell them Mexico City, and I immediately get words like, "you'll die if you cross the border." Not wanting to hear any more of this media sensationalized nonsense, I end the conversation with, "Thanks Mom" and put my head back down to fix the tire and eat my delicious breakfast burrito. One of the guys at the table goes and tell the owner of my plans, and the owner comes out with a stand up bike pump and a free journal to keep my thoughts. I happily used the pump but declined the journal and countered with my this blog. Even though the flat put me in a sour mood, I was lucky to stop by Newport Burger and meet the people at the establishment.

Here are the owner of Newport Burger. Thanks for the air pump!

A ways down the road, I get to a fork. I can go right and head down the shoulder of I-5, or I can go left and stroll through the Marine Base Camp Pendleton. Memories of cars whizzing by on 101 steer me down the military route. As I head through the camp, I was impressed to see groups of new recruits attempting to complete the obstacle course like the ones advertised on TV. However, I was disappointed to see empty boxes of cigarettes and beer discarded on the road and a 24-hour McDonald's. I idealized our military as clean and healthy, but I shouldn't kid myself. It's well after 1pm and the breakfast burrito is totally consumed so I stop to make a PB&J after I leave the Pendleton. I'm looking for a good spot with shade and place to sit, and the first place that meets my criteria is a gentleman's club. This must be where the Marines go to celebrate or blow their signing bonus. I don't mind watching the strippers smoke in white robes outside the entrance, but I fail to make eye contact with any of them.

The road from LA to SD has been almost completely flat. This gentle ride ends with a long climb up the Torrey Pines Reserve. After I reach the top, I see Torrey Pines Golf Club where my father took me in high school. That was a nice memory, but I don't have sunlight to relive my golf career. As has been the precedent in my ride, I expect to have a massive downhill glide either into another climb or the city of San Diego, but I get neither. The top of the hill seems to be a big mesa. I go a few miles before I get to sail down to San Diego, where I am staying with my college friend Shane in Pacific Beach.

Sunset over Pacific Beach

I am heading out tomorrow for Mexico and don't know when I'll make another post. Hopefully the elderly bikers at Newport Burger were wrong, or else there will be no more posts.

San Francisco to Los Angeles

Instead of diving into details about where I went and what I saw, I will reserve this blog space for telling you about what I was feeling and/or thinking while in transit. You can check out my photos at http://picasaweb.google.com/dougbays/SanFranciscoToLosAngeles?authkey=Gv1sRgCOuB8urqiZCOggE#

Day 1 - San Francisco to Capitola (89 Miles from SF)

I ate my final meal in SF at the Crepe House then set off for my first day. I hadn't even left the SF city limits, and a fireman stops me to ask where I'm going. I have a lot of answers for him, but what should I say: south, Capitola, San Miguel, Mexico, Argentina, etc? All would be legitimate answers, but I blurted out Mexico. This set the precendent as I am asked the same question all the time by random strangers. The fireman stopped me, more to tell me about his bike tour through Spain than to hear about mine. I knew right then, this journey would be a self serving one.

Not even 30 miles into my ride, I took a spill because I was looking at the ocean and went off the road. I got blood on most of my stuff including a biking vest that I picked up at a consignment store with a logo that says Death Ride. I hoped this was not foreshadowing.

I made it to the New Brighton State Beach in Capitola in pitch black darkness. I have never actually been camping, and I fumbled around to get my tent set up. If 89 miles and 7.5 hrs of riding isn't enough punishment on my body, blowing up the air mattress provided the final low blow of the day.

Here is a photo of from the bluff 200 yards opposite my campsite.

Highlights: a dead deer that I almost hit, making friends with Chris from Cole Valley who was going to LA, and some minorities smoking 'that stuff' while watching the sunset next to the Santa Cruz boardwalk.

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Day 2 - Capitola to Big Sur (172 Miles from SF)

When I left New Brighton, the park ranger gave me directions to Monterey (~50miles) which did not include Highway 1. This was my first indication that I would be tacking on additional mileage to what I initially planned. I follow the directions, and they put me through long agriculture fields. I see tons of fruits and vegetables scattered on the ground. Knowing that the produce sold on Stockton Street is unreasonably cheap, I wonder if there is an old lady picking up the scraps and selling them to her brethren in Chinatown. In these same fields, I also see 100's of migrant workers lined up in rows walking down the aisles and picking strawberries. I come to the conclusion that big corporate farms are okay. I frequently hear people hate on these farms, but after seeing the workers in perfect and efficient lines, I think the corporate farms assembly line makes a more effective use of the land than if there were more small families trying to produce the same yield per man-hour of labor.

While cruising through Monterey, I notice it's similarities to San Francisco. They both have: Sea Lions, Fisherman's Wharf, Cannery, Aquarium, and a 3D IMAX. From what I could tell, Monterey is missing the Bush Man so if times get tough, I could take up employment scaring tourist from behind trash cans and actually getting tipped for it. After passing through the tourist trap, I see a big hill to the south and I decide to take the flatter route. This flatter route put me on 17 mile road which is where professional and amatuer photographers alike go to take pictures of waves crashing into rocks and splashing water in the air. It was $9.50 for cars to go on the road but free for bikes. Even though I took the longer flatter route, I had to climb the mountain from the the steeper back side.

This photo was taken between the tourist zone and 17 mile road.

I labored through the rugged coastline from Carmel to Big Sur. Along the way, I would either be in my low gear climbing or my high gear blasting down the mountain. There are several deep canyons with narrow bridges that I had to cross. The bridges tend to be in low spots so I'm hitting them at 30mph, but they also have crazy swirling winds. I really feared for my life crossing the Bixby Bridge as one gust moved my bike two feet closer to the railing. A few more feet over and a free fall of some 500 feet awaits.

Here is the Bixby Bridge. At least I think it is. I went over a lot of these, but this one seemed to have the most tourist taking photos of it.

I pull into Pfeiffer State Park in darkness again. It was late enough that the park ranger was gone, and I have a test of my ethics. Do I self register and pay $5 or just carry on? I won't say what I did, but if you know me, you probably already know. While setting up my tent, there was some guy jamming to the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack in the RV camping section. Between the rustling Redwoods and the babbling brook, I passed out into a deep comotose. However, the temperature fell to the mid 30's that night, and I decided that my 15F sleeping bag was probably meant to read 51F. Waking up wasn't a total sour spot as I looked up at the stars and saw the brightest night sky I had ever seen covered in twinkling stars. I'm still not sure why I dropped my 5th grade plans to be an astronomer.
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Day 3 - Big Sur to Morro Bay (266 Miles from SF)

Is it possible to get bored with riding along rugged coast and sheer cliffs that would spell certain death at any misstep? The beginning of the ride was 50+ miles of mountainous terrain, which was really similar of the ride from Carmel to Big Sur.

I took a pee break behind this rock. The only reason this made the blog was that I took the photo on 11-11-10, and in the top left corner another person tagged it with 'Meeting my penpal today after 36 years. 11-11-10 TJW´

I stopped at some tiny 'whale watching' town to get food and water. The town apparently didn't have drinkable water, which I thought it was a scam to get me to buy their bottled water so I skipped the fill up. I would later regret that decision. I also bought a hotdog from that town, and I'm still regretted that decision for at least 8 more hours.

I made it out of the mountains and was in a coastal flatlands. My speed was consistently over 20mph so I assumed I was stronger after training in those mountains. I started to have grandiose ideas of winning the Tour de France, but they were crushed since I had been unknowingly gliding downwind and the crosswind slowed me to my typical 11.3 mph pace. I passed a few hundred tourist looking at a few thousand sea lions lounging on the beach. I saw Hearst Castle a mile down the road at the top of a ridge to the east. I guess the 1,2 punch of sea lions and castles in the middle of nowhere bring the masses.

San Simeon was my 'safety' campground if I couldn't make it to Morro Bay. I've got 2.5 hrs of daylight and 30ish miles to Morro so I go for it. No more than 5 miles past San Simeon, I run out of water. I make it to a decent sized town, but the market is on the opposite side of the street so I carry on as daylight is a precious commodity. I see a sign that says the next town is 6 miles so I start to salivate to the idea of water. When I reach this town, the priority of water far outweighed daylight; unfortunately, this town has a population of 18 and no market. I finally make it to the next town, and this time I buy the gallon jug with no questions asked.

Again, I cruise into the campsite in darkness, but the park ranger is there. She's an attractive 20-something so I strike up conversation about nightlife even though I had no intention on doing anything but crashing. She drops a line about her kid, and I make me think about a book I recently read by Barry Schwartz called The Paradox of Choice. I did not read all of it but watched his TED presentation so I feel like I know what I am talking about. The premise is that too many choices makes one not ever be happy with their selection. This relates to the park ranger since I assume she has most of her dating experience in the small town of Morro Bay and did not have lots of mating options like the city dweller I am and most associate with. I would guess that 5% of the people I know already have kids while that number would be more like 50% if I were exclusive to a small town with few options. This is making a leap, but I am wondering if this bike trip is going to open new options to me. I do not mean in the dating world, but I also include eating, drinking, et cetera. I already have a hard time deciding what to eat for dinner. I hope the paradox of choice does not further stalemate me.
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Day 4 - Morro Bay to Lompoc (340 miles from SF)

I was late getting on the road as my entire body hurt, but I had to get moving as I had a century planned for the day. On the first road out of Morro Bay, I arrived at an unmarked 3 way intersection. I had a 50-50 chance of getting it right, and I went wrong.

I made it to SLO expecting it to be a happening place, but I cruised through without batting an eyelash. Maybe I'm still bitter that the pizza place didn't open until 11:30, and I wanted pizza at 11:10. A few miles down the road I'm in Pismo Beach. This place is more like I what I expected from SLO. Pismo even had a few trees turning colors indicating fall is really here.

After leaving Pismo, I wouldn't see the ocean again. I descended into more endless agriculture field and was pleasantly permeated by strawberry scents. As I passed the fields, the wind was blowing the irrigation water in my face. It was nice to cool off, but who knows what chemicals are in the water.

Late in the day, I was doing a recap and thinking to myself, "it's cool that there are no corporate chain restaurants on my ride." Enter Lompoc. Highway 1 turns into H street, which is a pure mile of what makes the US so homogeneous. It had everything from Applebees to Walgreens.

It was 4pm and I still had 40 miles to my planned destination, Refugio State Park. I decide to take shelter in the cheapest fleebag in town, which was the $40 a night Star Motel.

I go to the nearest restaurant, which is the Jalamar Cafe. It's Friday night and there are some guys sitting at the bar drinking beer watching the local high school football team on TV. I ask the waitress what's best on the menu. She tells me to get the burger as it is world famous. I don't externally question her because I seriously doubt anything in Lompoc could be world famous, but she immediately backs up her claim with facts such as McDonalds tried to buy the recipe and the BBC and CNN have done pieces on their secret sauce. Whether it is true or not, I'm sold on the burger and proceed to order the double Kobe burger. She looks at me like I'm crazy and even tries to get me to order the single. When she brings my meal, she says,"you don't look shocked." I tell her to bring me the best appetizer in addition. Needless to say, I crushed all that food before the place completely closed. As the last patron, I walked out on freshly mopped floors at 8:30pm.
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Day 5 - Lompoc to Oxnard (428 miles from SF)

The first town with food or water after Lompoc was Goleta. I stopped there and had the mixed BBQ plate at L&L Hawaiian BBQ. I doused it in Sriracha sauce per my usual. From Goleta through Santa Barbara to Carpinteria, there were very nice bike lanes... I was going to keep this part of the story to myself, but I think it's too funny not to share.
So my stomach starts to feel funny in Santa Barbara. I start scouting for places to stop. While stopped at the traffic light, I'm wavering whether or not to stop in at The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. They actually had a jazz trio outside, which must have soothed my stomach so I press on. The feelings return in Carpinteria, and my stomach gives me 30 seconds to find a spot to relieve myself. After jumping off my bike and down a ditch, I performed what I call my 'feet and head three point stance'. This Matrix-like maneuver reminded me of the Asian style bathrooms in Taiwan. For the unintiated, an Asian style bathroom is basically a hole in the ground. There is no reading of the NY Times in those bathrooms as all of your facilities are engaged in body balance and bowel contractions. Anyway, back to the sewer in Carpinenteria, I have two feet firmly planted in mud, my head leveraged against a sewer wall, one hand holding branches back, and the other is keeping my shorts out of the mud. My quads were already sore, and they start to tremble. I fear that they might give out at any moment, and I would fall into sewer mud and my own excrement. In addition, I start to get the sensation to pee. Since all of my limbs were occupied and the default direction of my pee was towards my feet and shorts, I had to wait until the last second before it came out and pinch it off. I felt like this experience was good for my future career as a NASCAR pit crew chief. They have to decided whethere they can win on 2 tires or 4 and if they need to fill up all the way. Winning the race to me was feeling better and not soiling my clothes, and I won and pressed on.

Not even 5 minutes after my search for Master Splinter, my bike lane ends, and my options are the freeway or some road in the mountains with lots of switchbacks. There definitely isn't enough time to climb hills so I take the 101. It turns out that the freeway shoulder is actually where the bike lane went. I have been dealing with lots of cars passing me at 70mph; however, 100s of them per minute is pretty intense. After four miles of skirting death, I exit to the safety of Highway 1. I'm just glad my bowel episode didn't come on the 101.

The rest of the ride into camp was pretty tame except for this old Hispanic guy pushing the crosswalk button over and over as fast as he might. Using the pole to block my face from his view, I looked at the two women standing behind him who I assume are his wife and daughter, and I send them the Shooter McGavin wink. I receive a shoulder shrug in response from the younger one.

Sweet sunset over Ventura or Oxnard, not sure where I was exactly.

The sun is setting and my destination McGrath State Beach, is 3 miles away. Gnats start to get in my eyes, and the air begins to stink like a circus. I approach the culprit, which is a waste water treatment facility next to the campground. Not on does this campground smell awful, but it costs twice the price with half the amenities. I must be getting close to LA.

Note to self: copious amounts of exercise and Sriracha don't mix.

Day 6 - Oxnard to Huntington Beach (524 Miles from SF)

I head due East out of Oxnard, which takes me back to agriculture fields. The ground is flat and barren with a 15 to 25 mph headwind. I battle the wind for 10 long miles. Before I started for the day, I estimated that I would make it to my destination around the kickoff of the Sunday night NFL game. During my battle with the wind, I start postulating a thesis on how God either hates me or doesn't want me to see football tonight. Just then, the wind lets up. Somehow, there was a pocket of no wind, and in the half a second of calmness, I took back all of those derogatory comments I was saying about God.

I get back on the Pacific Coast Highway and catch the Malibu Marathon at about their 7th mile. One of the water stations is out of water, and this lady looks at me with desperation for some of my water, and I do my good deed for the day. She claims I saved her life, but I think extreme bouts of excersize can make anyone sensationalize their feelings. I approach a group of Pepperdine sorority girls that have a sign that reads: Half Way There, 13.8 miles!!! This sign was blatently wrong for two reasons, first, the sign should say 13.1 miles. Second, they weren't even to the 13 mile marker. There is nothing worse than doing a footrace and thinking you are farther than you really are. Either Pepperdine girls are really cruel or really dumb. I'll let you decide.

At the 13 mile marker, it becomes obvious that there is a half marathon as well. It was obvious not because there was any indication on the road such as a starting line, but judging by the non-ideal weight "runners" using walking poles. How could they possibly be in front of those people running at with 7:48 splits? I looked back and the half marathoners were wearing red bibs while the full marathoners were weating blue bibs. I then developed this a game that I call "full or half". The half marthoners were easy to spot. They would either have no sweat on their backs or look like they ran out of the ocean. Some Half's would be talking about how they "thought about doing P 90 X" or wearing really fancy gear that was marketed to them at the boutique running store in Beverly Hills. I guess I don't have the right to criticize seeing how I've never run a full, but you have to entertain yourself somehow on the bike ride. There was one other notable person. A full marathoner in his 24th mile looked back at me with a seriously troubled grimace and asked, "do you have some spray?" I said no and rode on, but I wondered what he meant. I assume he meant the spray that World Cup trainers pull out anytime someone was injured. The spray somehow transforms soccer players that can't stand to doing wind sprints. If it really works, I want some of that spray.

Not even 100 yards into the Los Angeles city limits, vehicular traffic on the PCH was at a standstill. I was glad to have a bike even though there was no real space for me to ride. A few miles later when cars got more aggressive with me, I ended up jumping on the beach bike lane which is terrible. There are signs painted every 100 yards on the path that say "bikes only", but I think the sign would be better to read, "do whatever you want to try to be in the way of everybody". This bike path is crazy circuitous, covered in sand, and packed with people. Half the people are lolligagging on beach cruisers, some are rollerblading, a few less are racing home to buy more spandex on their I want to be Lance Armstrong bikes, and the rest are hippies standing around looking confused. Venice Beach certainly takes the cake for most frustrating place to ride. I stroll down to Hermosa Beach and get back on the PCH for an intense ride through Torrance and Long Beach. I finally cross into Orange County as the sun is setting and make it to my friend Laura's place where I take a hot shower and catch the Sunday night game.

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I really don't know when or where my next posting will come from. Love, Doug.

Prepping in San Francisco

Yesterday my friends threw me a surprise going away party, which happened to be the first surprise party I have ever had in my honor. I had a great time, but the realization of my plan is starting to set in. I am leaving behind a comfortable lifestyle and great friends for a whole bunch of unknown. I by no means regret this plan; however, leaving is a lot harder than I'd like to admit.

My plan: Ride south from San Francisco to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. I'll stay in San Miguel until I am a little more comfortable with my Spanish. The second part of the journey will include traveling as far south as I can get by May 2011. I have a wedding in San Antonio, TX on May 7th so I will catch a flight from the nearest airport, which I am hoping is in Buenos Aires. After the first wedding, I plan to ride from Texas to Traverse City, MI for another wedding on August 14th. This should be the end of my ride as B school classes will start sometime at the end of August.

My inspiration: When I moved from North Carolina to California, I knew that I did NOT want to live in San Jose where my office was, but instead, I chose to commute from San Francisco via bike and Caltrain. Before moving to San Francisco, I had never been on a road bike. My friend Ashley let me borrow her road bike to go apartment hunting in SF. I immediately fell in love with street biking. After some time of working and commuting, I was helping my friends Donna and Dennis paint their new house, and Dennis told me about his trans-Canadian bike ride. I didn't think I was ever cut out for something like that, but I started to take longer and longer bike rides until I felt confident I could do a ride like that. I read Tim Ferris' book, The 4 Hour Work Week, and the ideas inside the book gave me the final push for me to plan and take this journey.

What I am bringing: Surly Long Haul Trucker Bike, 4 Ortlieb Panniers, Waterproof Handlebar bag, and 100 oz Camelback. The panniers will hold my clothes, bike repair equipment, medical supplies, and food. The handlebar bag will hold my electronics and valuable items like my maps and passport. My bike has 3 water bottle holders and in conjunction with the 100 oz Camelback, I should be okay in the hydration department.

Tomorrow I will ride to the New Brighton State Beach in Capitola and camp for the night. I should check back in when I get to LA County.