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.