Mill Valley to Half Moon Bay – 42 miles

I wake wondering whether the road crud has kept its side of the bargain. In fact it has, and I celebrate with a copious hotel breakfast—the last good one I know I’ll have for some time—while I study maps for the day’s ride ahead.

Why start in Mill Valley? Pure superstition. A couple of years ago, in my piecemeal quest to ride from the Oregon border to the Mexican border, I tried to ride from Santa Rosa to Monterey, but an autumn heat wave made me throw in the towel on the climb out of Muir Beach. For good luck on this trip, I’m picking up close to where I left off last time.

The day is overcast, which bodes well. Cycling gets old when it’s hot out, and clouds prevent that. I retrace part of last night’s trip, including what is now a beastly climb through Sausalito.

My return trip across the bridge is less adventurous than it was last night, but it’s still a watershed event that ushers me onto a well-worn bike route across the western side of The City.

I see places and things I never got around to seeing in eight years of living there, like the richly verdant Presidio, the JFK Promenade in Golden Gate Park and the two-mile-long Sunset Dunes promenade along the coast. The route also reminds me of one of The City’s most endearing characteristics: art that pops up in the darnedest places.

photo credit: Illuminate.org

photo credit: Illuminate.org

photo credit: Fiona Lee

Still, city riding is not my thrill on this trip, and that feeling of being an inconvenient cyclist persists down the urban obstacle course of impatient drivers on Arguello Street, then through southwestern San Francisco and Daly City. The prescribed route doesn’t let me back onto Highway 1 until traffic thins out below Pacifica, having subjected me to a finger-chilling, 600-foot climb through inbound fog on Skyline Drive.

Then, once the cityscape is far behind me, I feel the genuine Cabrillo Highway vibe: wide fields on both sides of the route; beach parking lots and rest rooms dotting the straightaways at sea level; and long, gradual downhills with a north wind propelling me almost effortlessly at 20 miles an hour. South of the Devil’s Slide climb, the fog dissipates and patches of blue sky reveal themselves over the soulful burgs of Montara, Moss Beach and El Granada. At Miramar I take the quiet bike-and-pedestrian path along the ocean to Half Moon Bay State Beach.

Sites at most coastal campgrounds book up months in advance, but I have an ace in the hole: the hike-and-bike areas in many state parks and beaches. For a few dollars a night, backpackers and cyclists can pitch a tent without a reservation, first-come-first-served, with full use of campground facilities.

Sure, it’s a hard way to take an easy trip, but it’s a generous concession from the state. And, at the end of a 42-mile day, I find that the ground under my tent works the same as it would in a full-price campsite.

San Francisco to Mill Valley (Marin County) – 15 miles

“I don’t mind raising money to help end gun violence,” I tell myself, “but I don’t want to buck a headwind if I don’t have to.” So saying, I board a northbound train in Los Angeles and head to the Bay Area, planning to take advantage of winds from the north that will help propel me down the coast.

The first hour of the 12-hour train trip, the landscape is raw, urban and industrial, as we pass through miles of small factories, vehicle yards, warehouses and the graffiti-covered backs of low, commercial buildings. Near Camarillo the flavor finally changes to agriculture, and the buildings give way to sprawling fields tended by small groups of farmworkers. The highlight of the trip is the time capsule between Gaviota and Casmalia, where Hollister Ranch and Vandenberg Air Force Base preserve a vast, undeveloped chunk of California coastline.

All photos by author except where indicated.

But I watch as the stretch from San Luis Obispo to Salinas, beautiful though it may be, devours an entire afternoon of my life and I get antsy. I chat up the couple across the aisle, who have just returned from the first dinner seating in the dining car.

“How was supper?” I ask.

“That was the most awkward meal I’ve ever eaten,” says the woman, Julia. She wears a peasant dress, and half of her hair is bright purple.

“Me too,” says the man, Josh. He is a fellow of girth, beard and bushy hair.

“What happened?”

“The conductor put us at a table with another couple,” says Julia. “They were dressed a little nicer than we are, I guess, and when they saw who their tablemates would be, they started wondering loudly about the kind of people who travel on trains. The woman said she was expecting tablecloths, china and waiters in the dining car, and a sort of upscale experience. We tried to converse with them for a few minutes, but obviously we weren’t their cup of tea.”

“They must have thought they were on the Orient Express,” says Josh. “It was the longest short meal I’ll ever eat.”

Josh and Julia are riding from Kansas City via Los Angeles to Oakland to attend a Hayley Williams concert. I applaud their ability to enjoy such a journey, their willingness to go that far without worrying about getting there fast, and the fact that such adventurous young people still walk the earth. When they ask about my trip, I tell them I plan to get out in Oakland, take BART into San Francisco, then get onto a bus with my bike and head across the Golden Gate Bridge. I’ll spend the night at a hotel in Mill Valley in Marin County.

Dusk falls, and the train snakes through more wilderness most Californians don’t know about: the Pajaro Watershed, between Salinas and Gilroy. Staring out the window at kayakers and wildlife in the wetlands, Josh turns to me.

“Wait,” he says. “Why take the bus from San Francisco to Mill Valley when you have a perfectly good bike and a perfectly good bridge? Why not ride across?”

Tempting. But.

“I’d be riding the bridge after eleven at night,” I object weakly.

“So?” says Julia. “What time will it be if you take the bus?”

Beyond all doubt, if I were their age I would go. Then, curiosity takes root, and a few taps on a cell phone reveal that cyclists are indeed permitted on the bridge at night.

“You’re right,” I concede. “I’d be crazy not to go.”

So, upon arrival in Oakland, I take BART to the Powell Street station in San Francisco and emerge at ground level with my bike. The air is cool but not damp, and plenty of people are out. I hop onto the bike and immediately feel The Road rise to meet me, taking me west on Ellis Street, across the dicey Tenderloin neighborhood.

Waiting for a green light at Hyde, I watch a pedestrian stop at the corner, place a cigarette between her lips and try to light it with a butane lighter before crossing the street. She seems to be in the altered state of consciousness for which the Tenderloin is famous, and I fear for her nose as she struggles unsteadily to get the orange flame to find the cigarette. Her escort takes hold of her elbow and ushers her across the street, postponing the cigarette moment until after I’ve left.

I continue northward and westward to the Marina and Crissy Field, where a strong headwind blows straight off the bay and into me. The bridge, huge and illuminated in orange, looms ahead forbiddingly, but neither the headwind nor the steep climb up the final approach deters me. The entire undertaking is too bizarre not to be a good idea.

The ride across the windswept bridge, well over a mile long, takes some time. Even at half past eleven, cyclists occasionally whiz past in both directions, but I pedal no faster than I need to, allowing the novelty of the moment to wash over me. In the distance to the east I see the skylines of Berkeley and Oakland, and to the southeast the familiar nightscape of The City; elsewhere, all is black—a bay of blackness unpunctuated by moonlight, ship lights or even Alcatraz.

Overhead, the bridge’s two towers soar ramrod-straight into the night sky. It feels vaguely silly to be so awestruck by riding a bike across a bridge in the dark. But it’s some rush.

At the north end of the bridge, the bike route leads down the steep hills and residential streets of Sausalito. When my rear tire suddenly starts making a strange tick-tick-tick sound, I stop and dismount. Probing the tire with the toe of my shoe, I discover unwelcome road crud that feels as though it contains shards of glass or metal. It is not a good time for repairing a leak, so I negotiate.

“I’ll ignore you,” I tell the road crud, “if you ignore me.”

“We’ll see,” it replies coyly.

I remount and continue through the pitch-dark streets of Sausalito, then on to Mill Valley and the hotel—without tire distress or further incident.

A triumph of bicycle diplomacy.

Morro Bay to San Luis Obispo – 20 miles

The victory lap is beginning to feel as long as the race itself, but SLO is the stated end of my bike tour. It’s another short day, into town to catch a southbound train.

By mid-morning a 20-to-25-naut wind off the ocean is forming whitecaps. The strong wind is unexpected, but it bodes well for my ride, which parallels Highway 1 on Los Osos Valley Road. I bid good-bye to my friends and hit the road.

The fifteen miles of tailwind are welcome, but they still require some pedaling. There is a slight climb and a crosswind as I approach SLO, and I notice how disinclined my legs are to engage the pedals. They are surely over it—the entire ride—even before the rest of me is.

Up in town at the Amtrak station, all that remains are the selfies. One memorializes my arrival:

Another memorializes our new brand:

And a third, my odometer reading:

“Only 335 miles?” I wonder aloud. “Oh, well, guess I’ll take it.”

I didn’t have to do it fast. I just had to do it.

Costanoa to New Brighton (Santa Cruz) – 34 miles

The north wind persists deep into the night. I listen as it charges up from the shore, rattles through acres of eucalyptus branches and leaves, then finally spills into Costanoa. In the morning, heavy fog drifts up from the coast, but early dawn light glows behind the hills to the east.

The youngest campers wake first. Their parents follow groggily, and the campground comes slowly to life. I wolf down a breakfast of oatmeal and banana, strike camp, load up the bike and resume the route to the south.

The brisk north wind persists, and on this Saturday morning, clutches of cyclists are plying Highway 1. Like me, the southbounders enjoy a 15-to-20-naut tailwind; the northbounders, well, not so much. Those without panniers on their bike are recreational cyclists, probably from the Santa Cruz area, out for exercise. They know what they’re in for, so they curl themselves over the handlebars and contend with the elements. But the heavily loaded northbounders have either not gotten the memo about prevailing north winds or have chosen to ignore it; they are long-distance traveling up the coast straight into the wind. I appreciate their lot but am glad I do not share in it.

Every change of county is a milestone, however small. By mid-morning the sky has cleared and I have crossed the county line from San Mateo into Santa Cruz.

The easy ride prompts me to notice yet more things I wish I could remember permanently: large ponds and reservoirs randomly located on either side of the highway, bird songs (when the absence of passing vehicles allows me to hear them), offshore rock formations sculpted and beaten by millennia of tides and swell, volleys of Spanish-language conversation I pick up among people working in the fields and farm buildings.

I don’t recall ever having been in Santa Cruz, but I immediately see what all the fuss is about. A well-marked bike path starts on West Cliff Drive then hugs the cliff as it passes the lighthouse, the Municipal Wharf, the Beach Boardwalk and the Giant Dipper roller coaster. The whole place looks like weekend fun for thousands of people, even as I notice the afternoon sun prodding temperatures into the seventies and cycling begins to feel like real work.

But by the time I reach the campground at New Brighton State Beach, I’ve long since exited the fun zone of Santa Cruz. I have traversed the town of Twin Lakes and gotten lost near Capitola Beach, so I’ll have to wait for a future visit to properly enjoy Santa Cruz.

Besides, the bike wants attention.

“Kinda taking me for granted, aren’t you?” it asks.

“Whaddya mean?”

“Have you looked at my front tire lately?”

I look. No tread left. “I’ll get another year out of it,” I say with a shrug.

“Yeah, but maybe I won’t. It’s a pothole away from blowing out. And what about my brake pads? You think they’ll make it through all the hills on this trip?”

“Hope so.”

I have to admit that the bike is the unsung hero of this adventure. It’s a touring bike I bought in a pawn shop for $250 about ten years ago. I bought it mostly because it has 27 speeds, and I’m easily impressed by large numbers like 27. The bike is not poorly made at all, but I’ve worn it down. I’m not fastidious about maintaining it, and now it’s something of a heap, a relic, a blunderbuss on wheels, a mechanical picture you’re supposed to find ten things wrong in. Plus, it’s as slow as the seven-year itch. Especially when I’m on it.

It’s not the bike’s fault that I don’t feel sentimental about it; it’s my fault. In unguarded moments I sometimes cast a fond glance in its direction and think about the thousands of miles I’ve racked up on it. But at the core, I regard it as little more than a soulless frame and tires that connect the determination in my head with Planet Earth.

Somehow, it knows.

“I’d run better if you took care of me.”

“I see. Is that why you’ve been slipping gears? And dumping your chain just when a hill gets serious?”

“My chain’s a mess.”

“But I cleaned, tuned and lubed the whole power train before we left.”

“That was a hundred twenty miles ago. Look at it now.”

I flip the bike onto its back and wipe a section of the chain with a rag; the rag comes away pitch black with road dust and old oil. Even I know that’s not right, so I invest the entire rag in wiping down the chain, then apply some light oil to it. But it’s a palliative measure; after all, I can’t deep-clean a bike chain in the middle of a trip.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll do better when we get home.”

“Hope so,” the bike sighs.

Then, the counseling session at an end, I turn my attention to the ocean soundscape and splendid afternoon views of the coast from the cliffs near the hike-and-bike.

New Brighton to Monterey – 43 miles

I welcome the return of cloudy skies. Sunday morning traffic through Aptos is light and hills are few as The Road takes me on its 40-mile crescent around Monterey Bay.

Today’s leg is brought to me by agriculture, notably by hundreds of acres of strawberry fields forever, starting from Manresa Uplands State Beach to well past the Pajaro River.

Artichokes abound as well, nearing the point of harvest.The bike route avoids Watsonville and Castroville, sending me through farmland along eerily quiet roads, their asphalt beaten by generations of tractors and agricultural machinery. The detour is meant to shave off a couple of miles, but the end of the day’s ride begins to feel farther and farther away, and even the change from Santa Cruz into Monterey County doesn’t make me feel any closer. I rejoin thunderous, two-lane traffic on Highway 1 through Moss Landing to reach Del Monte Boulevard and the Monterey Bay Coastal Recreation Trail.

The trail is a triumph of rails-to-trails planning, stretching 18 miles from Castroville in the north to Pacific Grove in the south, over the Southern Pacific railroad tracks that used to serve Cannery Row. Today it is a priceless urban asset, accommodating joggers, cyclists, pedestrians and young families.

Well thought-out though the trail may be, I manage a wrong turn on it and spend more time studying the map than pedaling. Worse yet, an afternoon tailwind has turned into a strong crosswind, less vexing than a headwind but equally unwelcome when you’ve lost your way and are already doubting The Road’s benign indifference. The mile markers for Monterey don’t help; they never appear often enough and when they do, they don’t count down fast enough. It’s Nature’s way of reminding me how far 43 miles really is.

Eventually, signs for Monterey’s tourist attractions appear, and my mood improves. So much so, that I pause for a selfie at a tiny pop-up protest on the outskirts of town.

I’ve planned a two-night stay in a Monterey hotel on the east side of the peninsula. My nephew treats me to dinner at a Mexican restaurant and schools me on the personal trainer’s approach to balancing nutrition for physically hellacious endeavors like the one on which I’ve embarked.

“Fats and proteins, Uncle John. Your body makes energy from those. That’s what you’re gonna need to get through this.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“May I have your beans, then?”

“Sorry. I need them. I’ll order another side for you, though.”

Later, in my hotel room on Munras Avenue, I look forward to catching up on sleep and functioning more or less normally for a day and a half. I also intend to give my legs a break the next day.

Nevertheless, I intend to take the excursion that every visit to the Monterey Peninsula should include—especially when cyclists get to take it at no cost.