2000 February

Equal doses of the dreams and realities that live in Wyoming.

I ride the BART over the bay to San Francisco in the morning. I call Bruce to plan a meeting, and he proposes coming down to pick me up today. I have a few hours to hang out, so I munch on calamari on the wharf and talk with a guy who claims he’s built the shortest wheel-based recumbent in the world, about 28 inches. The thing is fun to ride - instead of reclining it props you up into a standing position.

Eventually I make my way across the bridge, trying to envision what this bay must have looked like before being dominated by this mammoth red conveyance. I must admit, the bridge makes for an incredible view.

Bruce meets me on the north side and takes me to his house tucked away in the woods of Forestville. I plan to take a rest here, meet up with my mom, and make a day excursion back south to the Golden Gate Bridge on the bike at some point.

Starting early, I head toward the bay with no idea what I’ll find there. I’m soon riding through the mirred towers of the headquarters of Oracle, Inc. The buildings themselves look like giant flowchart databases. No one is around this early, and the morning sun reflects blue off the tinted glass.

Entering a neighborhood of carbon-copy million-dollar homes, I realize that there will be no road that even pretends to hug the jagged coastline of the bay. This neighborhood bike path swings out onto a peninsula and back again. From there I find my way over a ditch on an old bridge, along a dirt path, and through a trailer court. This all takes a lot of time, and feeling my goal of riding around the entire bay slipping away, I pedal hard wherever I can. Eventually I’m forced onto highway 101 for a stretch, until I can duck off onto a frontage road on another dirt path. Soon enough I’m back on a busy road again. It’s nearly noon already, and I resign myself to crossing the Dunbarton bridge and falling short of my goal. On either side of the bridge I peer at the sunny campus of Sun Microsystems, and I wonder if I will find work at a place like this when my ride is over.

The east side of the bay presents many challenges. There is a flat, muddy, barren plain between the bay and most roads. Some parks have paths that lead enticingly toward the water and back again. I navigate through warehouse districts, marinas, parks, and railyards. It’s as easy to get lost in a park as a neighborhood. At one point I’m forced to complete an entire loop of bike path, but I’m rewarded by the recurring sight of a busty jogger with the word ‘Yummy’ stretched across her chest on a skin-tight purple shirt.

I can’t even remember how I got around the Oakland airport, but I crossed at least one more bridge before plunging into endless neighborhood streets. I just head north whenever I can, and miraculously find myself in the slightly familiar neighborhood of Annemarie Sudermann before dark. She welcomes me in, feeds me a glorious, colorful, fresh salad, and talks to me while I’m able. It isn’t hard at all to fall asleep on her floor.

I’m not exactly sure what the cause was, but my trip changed at this point. You may have noticed that a while back I stopped keeping the detailed statistics on my daily riding time, milage, and spending. Often during the trip I would go a few days without writing in my journal, then catch up when I had chance. At this point I let a few days go by, then a few more, and I never wrote the remaining journal entries. It was partially due to writing fatigue, but I think the major factor was the fast-approaching end of my journey. I really didn’t feel ready for it to end, and I believe I was in denial about how close I was coming to the finish line. Writing journal entries would be a reminder of the truth, and so I avoided it. Now, years later, I face the task of writing the missing journals from memory. It won’t be the same. I won’t even try to fake a sense of continuity. It may, though, be a form of relief and renewed interest for both the writer and readers. If you’ve followed me this far, you’re probably ready for a change too! Let’s see how it goes.

Riding into San Francisco from the coast was both harrowing and blissful. Highway 1 became busier here, with some tight turns, narrow shoulders, and road construction. It was when I turned to climb to a ridge above the city that things got better. The air was warm and moist, and the work hard. At the top of the ridge I was stunned by the sight of alabaster San Francisco spread out below me.

I had agreed to visit Maxine, the writer I met at Shirleyanne’s place, at her house in San Mateo, so I turned south. There are some really pleasant parks and bike paths that descend from the hills here, and I didn’t have to confront true urban riding for some time. When it came I was ready, and found my way to Maxine’s without much trouble.

I recall Maxine’s house as very comfortable, just up the hill from a busy streetscape full of restaurants and offices. I felt welcome there, but I don’t remember much of what we did. I thought Maxine lived an attractive life.

I think it was during my stay at Maxine’s that I had the idea of attempting a ride around the bay. I thought I might be able to get all the way around to Annemarie Sudermann’s house in Berkeley via Menlo Park in one long day of exploration.

Interesting first night in a hostel. On the good side, it was nice to have bathroom, living room, and kitchen to use. I liked meeting, cooking, and eating with other people. But it was an added expense, and the guy in the bunk under me snored like a hippo all night long. I think I prefer camping.

It’s an almost ridiculously short ride to Half Moon Bay. It starts to rain when I arrive, so I duck into a restaurant and eat some breakfast. The rain clears up so I head into town. I find the library closed, so I scope out all the coffeeshops in town, choosing one to hang out and read in. There’s a cute Latino waitress there who keeps flashing me her incredibly sexy smile. She doesn’t make it easy to talk to her though. Every time I approach she disappears. Eventually I leave without saying a word to her.

The sun has come out, small clouds are working their way across the sky. I talk to a bum from the Haight who says the sky here is magical, a neverending drama. There’s a homeless kid here too with a big smile. Hard to understand him, but I think he only talks about sex. The bum asks me if I know how to find the campground. I lie and say yes, then ride several miles in the wrong direction before turning around. No problem though, the day is now gorgeous.

I stop at another coffeeshop, where an Indian guy makes lattes and sells his books of poetry. He doesn’t trust me, I have to prove to him that I paid for my self-serve coffee. Another guy there asks about my trip and gives me a penny with a clover cut out of it, attached to a card with an Irish travel blessing printed on it. It’s a blessing of farewell I sang once a long time ago at the Lama Foundation in New Mexico. I like it, and sing it over and over again now,

May the road rise with you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
And the rain fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.

Finally I find the campground and get myself set up in a secluded spot. While I’m making dinner I notice a strange man looking at me, about 10 yards away. He’s gingerly holding a wet tennis ball. I ignore him, but a minute later I look up and he’s still there. This time I keep looking and he approaches me. I don’t know how to describe the conversation we have. I learn that he’s Egyptian, a retired engineer, and interested in me as an odditiy in the campground. He asks me if I know the story of Cain and Able, and is thrilled whenn I say that maybe I’d prefer to be descended from Cain, but it makes him very curious. I never find out why he has a wet tennis ball, and he never learns what sort of traveling I’m doing.

Sun today, through high, wispy clouds. I have cereal and cinnamon rolls with Zach and roomies, then say farewell. I watch breakers smashing into the rocks as I leave town. Civilization dissipates quickly, and I’m gliding through hills and fields.

By early afternoon I reach the Pidgeon Point Youth Hostel. It doesn’t open for a while, so I relax with a couple of other bikers. One is a day rider from Santa Cruz, the other is a Danish kid named Jan touring from San Francisco to San Diego. I give him one of my maps to help him through LA.

I have a lazy afternoon of reading, looking around the lighthouse, and playing soccer with some kids. When the hostel opens Jan and I book our beds for $8 each, cook some dinner, and relax in the hot tub with a panoramic nighttime view over the ocean.

The thought that it is Valentine’s Day does not occur to me at all. I’m just happy that the pouring rain has let up and that I’m still warm and dry. Unfortunately the feeling doesn’t last. I get up and begin the extremely unpleasant process of putting on my wet clothes. My gear is all waterlogged. When I get packed up, I can still squeeze water out of my panniers. I rig what I can so the bike is ridable with the bent rim in back. I can ride slowly. I wobble into downtown Santa Cruz, see no bike shops right away so stop for breakfast. Everybody in the restaurant is very clean and dry compared to me, but no one says anything.

I ride up a hill to California Street. It looks familiar from a long-ago visit to Michael Burton. When I reach the bike shop I find it’s one of those closed-on-Monday places. The only other shop I could find on my map was back on the other side of the river, so I turn around and go back down the hill. Luckily the other shop is open. They talk me into a burly, double-walled $100 wheel that will handle my abuse better. Considering I’ve ridden nearly 13,000 miles with 60 pounds of gear and most of my body weight on the back wheel, it seems a reasonable expense.

I’m out in front putting things together when a bearded, black-haired guy stops and asks, “Is your name Dylan?” I look at him in puzzlement, then it snaps into place. “Ah, you must be Zach!” Indeed, he just got back into town, listened to Buzz’s message about me, and saw me out here in front of the bike shop. He’s en route somewhere, but invites me to his place for the night. That is a welcome offer after last night.

I finish my repairs, then tour the coast to the boardwalk. It’s here I remember that it’s Valentine’s Day, because Ann mentioned to me that she likes to come here. Today it’s deserted and closed up, and the beach is strewn with debris from the flooding. A pretty lonesome place. I sit down and eat a snack out of my pack, then go to find Zach’s house.

He greets me and introduces me to his roommates, a married couple and her mother. Everyone is nice but has stuff to do, so I kill some time on their computer.

When Zach is free he takes me on a tour of the Santa Cruz UC campus, which is huge and even more lush and green than the grounds of Lewis and Clark College in Portland, where I lived for a year. We go out for Thai food. Zach is inspired by my endeavors and we have good conversation. We have similar ideas in much different contexts. It all clears up after dinner though, when we pick up Zach’s friend and go to the bars. The subject turns to women, and they enjoy my New Mexico story. Here’s a snapshot of our environment: a fight breaks out, the music stops, some drunks are kicked out scornfully, and then the ass-kickin’ punk rock music comes back on. We laugh, and drink to being single on Valentine’s Day.

On the way to the next bar I try to withdraw some money and get the insufficient funds message for the first time. Time to dip into savings…

The next bar is slow, so we call it a night. We pass a couple making out in the street, a prayer to St. Valentine.

I wake up earlier than Buzz and Cheryl. Looking around Zach’s old room, I see jazz posters, bike pictures, and a picture of Zach meeting Dizzy Gillespie. There’s a bike quilt with panels made by various family members for Buzz’s 60th birthday. I take a shower and poke around until they get up, then we have a light breakfast together. I’m still full from last night. Cheryl talks Buzz into riding with me for a while today, even though it’s raining.

Before we leave we take some photos. When Buzz takes a picture of me and Cheryl we put our arms around each other and I suddenly become aware that this 59-year-old marathon runner is a firm, warm, appealing woman. I try not to embarrass myself.

Buzz and I take off over Carmel Hill in the rain. I have to huff to keep up with him. When we get to Monterey Buzz gives me a little tour. We stop at an old storehouse that’s now a museum. I learn that well before the gold rush, California had a cattle boom, and cowhides were the dominant currency here. This was also the first place to fly the California flag as the US contended with Mexico and Russia for possesion of the territory.

We continue along a bike path, passing big dunes along the beach. In Seaside, when we pass a big mall, Buzz bids me farewell. Cheryl will pick him up here. I thank him for everything and continue on my own.

The path follows highway 1 to Marina, then goes off along a county road to Castroville. There are big agricultural fields here, and I pass a complex of scrap metal shanties where some of the workers must live. A little smoke rises out of one. They don’t look like they’d keep this pounding rain out. Some smashed up cars are parked outside.

In Castroville I stop for a burrito and enjoy a few moments out of the rain. It’s not letting up though, so I’m soon soaked again. I see a sign for Sunset Beach State Park and consider stopping, but it seems too early.

The fields and shanties continue for miles. In Aptos it finally shifts to quiet neighborhoods. The water level is getting serious now. I have to find a way around one section of flooded road. In other places the road is like a shallow river. I feel like I’m sitting in a boat as I ride along.

After going through Soquel I stop at a coffeehouse, partly to escape the rain and partly in hopes that someone will offer me a place to stay. No such luck. It’s getting dark, so I head for the coast and New Brighton Beach State Park. On the way I take a turn onto a small river of a road. The surface is beneath several inches of muddy water, and I somehow slam the rear wheel into an unseen pothole. It puts a huge dent in the rim so the bike will barely bump along now. Luckily I’m not far from the park entrance, but the road in is flooded. I explore around a bit, but soon give up. There’s a picnic table in the woods near the entrance. I try to put up the tent there without getting it too wet. Outside I peel off my rain gear and hang it under a sign. Then I sit back into the tent and feel a splash, as if the tent has filled with water. My heart sinks, but when I look I see that I’ve just sat on my pants. I get naked and crawl into my bag. Considering the situation, I feel fairly warm and cozy. It’s not hard to fall asleep.

Shileyanne provides yet another very pleasant breakfast with boiled eggs, cereal, and yummy scones. I wait a while to meet Maxine, who’s having a little trouble finding us. When she arrives I like her immediately. She’s an attractive, alive personality. She gives me her number and invites me to visit when I reach San Mateo.

Soon it’s time to saddle up on the wet bike. There are a few very nice state parks which I check out, looking for sea otters. I find a couple. They are unbelievably cute, floating on their backs while using their long furry bellies as a table for cracking shells.

In Carmel I stop for some groceries. Outside the store another biker approaches me and invites me out for a cup of coffee. His name is Dave. He’s not overly talkative, but slowly I discover that he is camped outside Carmel, waiting for spring. He says he lives here quite comfortably on $6 a day, which includes coffee. While we’re talking a local guy named Buzz stops to ask us about touring. Dave directs all Buzz’s attention to me, he seems to have no interest in talking. Buzz invites me to stay at his place tonight, even though he and his wife have dinner plans. Why not? I accept, and Buzz draws me a map to his house.

Dave offers to show me a better coffeehouse, so we ride a few blocks in light rain. He seems impressed by my ease on the recumbent. He buys me a coffee. I discover that he’s been touring constantly here and in Europe for 15 years. He makes his living doing watercolor paintings, especially portraits. He seems to like the life, especially being outdoors. He does get sick of outdoor clothing, he says. This spring he wants to trade the bike in on a kayak and traverse the great lakes. He gives me a book, The Blue Nile, explorer literature. I try to get him to take the Oedipus Trilogy by Sophocles, but he refuses. When we part I’m left feeling intrigued and inspired.

I follow the map to Buzz’s house in a very pretty, forested neighborhood. I meet his dog, a terrier, and his wife Cheryl, a stunning marathon runner. While I talk about touring with Buzz, she goes to the store to pick up some food for me. Even though they are going to a friend’s for dinner, she refuses to let me fend for myself in her house.

Buzz and Cheryl are both schoolteachers. I look around, they seem to be living very well for schoolteachers. He talks a little about the cross-country tour he did with his son Zach last summer. He introduces me to a term his son came up with, ‘The Pace of Discovery’. It fits my situation perfectly. He clearly was moved by the experience, even though he suffered from some prostatitis at times. He gets a deep satisfaction from my stories it seems, attracted to the self-contained, exploratory nature of my journey.

Cheryl returns and serves me a wonderful bowl of chowder with bread and cheese while we talk. I marvel at the apparent quality of life of these two - the extravagant house, dog, fine food, active lifestyles, and close family ties. They are affectionate with each other and generous with me.

As they prepare to leave Cheryl invites me to the table where the “rest” of my dinner awaits. My jaw drops. It looks like a feast for a king. A huge salmon filet, fresh asparagus, rice, and a monstrous salad. I haven’t even finished the bread and chowder yet. They leave, and I spend a good hour sumptuously finishing off this meal. It’s dark then, and I’m sleepy, so I go off to bed in Zach’s old room.

I was planning to leave this morning, but it’s raining like hell again and I just don’t feel like it. Shirleyanne has to go to work but she invites me to stay another night and meet another of Mom’s writer friends who’s visiting tomorrow, Maxine. I gratefully agree and spend the morning getting her computer online, one service I can provide in thanks for her hospitality.

The rain keeps up all day, so I stay inside, read, work on the computer. When Shirleyanne gets home she takes me out to dinner at a great Sushi restaurant. I learn some things about her. She’s very into the medeval period of history. She has shelves of books on it, paintings, and she’s working on a novel set in the period. I learn that before I lived with her as a child she spent 15 years in a convent, and now she is contemplating becoming a Carmelite nun “if they’ll have her”. Surprisingly our religious ideas appear to be quite compatible. While she’s living in the world she seems to have no quams with enjoying some good wine, which we do. There’s a tiny bit of awkwardness, but she has a good time. I do too, and the food is delicious. I discover I have a taste for octopus.