Big Sur to Limekiln (Lucia) – 26 miles

Undaunted by its failure to stub my spirit out like a cigarette butt the day before, The Road throws another soul-searing hill at me as soon as I clear the campground driveway. It’s a 750-foot climb over a scant mile or so, to one of the highest points on Cabrillo Highway. The sky is clear and the sun is bright but the air is still cold, and I keep my windbreaker on. I pedal, stop, rest, drink water, rethink my life, then repeat. It’s a drag restarting each time, with lactic acid and fatigue throbbing in my thighs and knees, but I do it as many times as it takes to reach each crest of the road.

Naturally, white-knuckle downhills follow and I hog the full lane, checking my mirror continually for vehicles approaching from behind.

I can’t remember two dozen tougher yet more beautiful miles of road. It’s gratifying now and then to look as far as I can to the north:

and think, “That’s about where I was this morning,” then to look as far as I can to the south:

and think, “That’s about where I’ll be at the end of the day.”

And, as usual, there is as much to behold on the inland side of the highway as on the shore side, including at Regent’s Slide, where construction crews have struggled the past few years to convince Nature to accept a road. Following torrential rains a few years ago, the slide looked like this:

photo credit: Caltrans (2024)

This and other slides forced the closure of Cabrillo Highway to through traffic, bringing normal life to a standstill in this part of the state. Now Regent’s Slide looks like this:

Speaking of getting Nature to accept things (or stop trying to destroy them), the Rain Rocks Rock Shed covering Highway 1 next to the Pitkins Curve Bridge north of Lucia is an eye-opener.

Although it was finished in 2014, it has the look of a venerable structure from the last century. It’s designed to keep the road clear of debris dropped by landslides and rockfalls on this stretch of highway.

After the last time I rode a big chunk of the Pacific Coast Highway, a discerning friend innocently asked, “What do you think about, riding for hours on end day after day?” I didn’t have an answer, but it’s a fair question.

Mostly, it’s sentences and paragraphs about the trip, some of which have made it into this travelogue.

Next, there’s the road surface, which, if it isn’t smooth, harshes my cool in ways that I can’t help commenting on out loud.

Then there’s my body. Do I need water yet? When should I eat so I don’t run out of calories in the middle of the next hill? Shall I stand-pedal and let some blood into my legs? Am I warm? Am I cold? Are we there yet?

I think about how to help end gun violence and why the hell it even has to be a problem in the first place. On this trip, I think especially about the billboard our organization is running, and the process we’re undergoing to rebrand ourselves.

There’s the happy mental cavitation that goes on when I stop to stare for a while at the coast or watch birds sailing on thermals hundreds of feet below the road. It’s a bit like thinking, but without the chatter.

Shifting gears, always I’m shifting gears, spending a lot of time in either first gear or twenty-seventh gear. That’s more about muscle memory than about thinking, except when the gears hesitate to do my bidding; in that case I pepper my speech with the kinds of words that have made New Jersey great.

Then there are things I don’t think about and don’t miss thinking about, like billable work, the current administration, the Padres, and what a con artificial intelligence is.

I wish I could say that I’m devoting mental cycles to channeling the likes of Steinbeck, Kerouac, Kesey, Henry Miller, Alan Watts and other luminaries who have graced this part of the world. But if they have whispered their insights to me on this trip, I’ve been too busy shifting gears and pedaling to notice.

By mid-afternoon I’ve arrived at Limekiln State Park, a campground wedged into a space where, frankly, Nature does not want one. The hike-and-bike fits no more than three or four tents.

The campground occupies the gorge of Limekiln Creek on the inland side and offers easy access to an expansive beach. It’s a far cry from glamping, yet all the more appealing for it. I pitch my tent, enjoy the creek for a while, then walk down to the beach.

On my last long ride, the byword was “If I can do this, I can do anything.” I said that whenever my legs or seat or back complained, almost like a mantra. This time, the byword has evolved to “I don’t have to do this fast. I just have to do it.”

Now and then, I get into moods that make me push back even on the “just have to do it” part. But not when I’m looking at the beach at Limekiln.

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 going to be another short day, just 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—over this entire ride—even before the rest of me is.

Up in town at the Amtrak station, all that remain 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.

Monterey to Monterey – 29 miles

It turns out that 17-Mile Drive is about 24 miles long, if you keep getting lost the way I do.

Rising at six, I resolve to ride 17-Mile Drive around Pebble Beach.

“We thought we were getting the day off,” my legs complain.

“You are.”

“Not if we’re pedaling seventeen miles. Probably more.”

“I’m leaving the heavy luggage in the hotel room. It’ll be just me and the bike.”

photo credit: KSBW 8

They aren’t fooled in the least.

Anyway, by eight o’clock I have a breakfast of pancakes, eggs, bacon and hot chocolate in me. By eight-thirty I have made my first wrong turn of the day, missing the approach on Lighthouse Avenue in Pacific Grove. A resident out for her morning walk graciously gives me directions and I correct my course, passing several yard signs warning about the presence of local deer during fawning season.

Even following the resident’s directions I manage to get lost again, then finally reach the main attraction of the drive—the Pacific Coast—at The Restless Sea point of interest.

The drive deserves all of its fame. It’s a series of sharply manicured golf links, craggy rocks adorned with the guano of ages, long stretches of roadside ice plant, the stately mansions of celebrated exploiters and ordinary zillionaires who just got lucky, numerous pull-outs for parking to enjoy the coastline and a winding path with plenty of pedestrians even on a cloudy Monday morning.

At the south side of the peninsula, the drive goes inland and travel alternates between short climbs and dips. Baronial estates crowd the shore side, obstructing the view of Pebble Beach and Carmel Bay. Signs of construction—new homes, remodels, add-ons—abound. Along the route is the main entrance to The Lodge at Pebble Beach, the renowned golf course, the resort and the shops. Naturally, I fit in perfectly.

Then comes the unexpected, grueling climb to the Pebble Beach Highway 1 Gate and the end of 17-Mile Drive. I’m pleased that the bike is only lightly laden but worried about how many similar hills I’ll face over the next few days with the bike fully laden. Fretting and sweating over that, I miss yet more turns and log several unnecessary miles attempting to return to my hotel.

Monterey is also my opportunity to do something about dirty clothes, and with 17-Mile Drive behind me, I turn my attention to laundry for an hour. Other business includes grabbing a nap, sourcing the next day’s meals and dealing with the unexpected loss of a credit card somewhere along the route. “I picked a bad day to get lost in Pacific Grove,” I mutter, watching my day of rest tick away.

At dinner in a fast-casual Italian place downtown, I sit near a table of energetic but well-behaved teenagers tended by their responsible adult. They depart after eating, leaving one of their number to wait for a to-go order. Seeing me scribble away in a diary, he starts a conversation with me about keeping journals. He and his mates are on the golf team of a San Francisco high school and their coach is showing them Monterey’s courses for a couple of days. The lad, Jade, asks what I’m writing about.

“Mostly notes about the bike trip I’m on,” I reply. I tell him briefly about the route and the miles.

“What’s the best thing about journaling?” he asks.

“Nothing now, really. It’s just a stream of notes and things I want to remember.”

“Huh. Will you write about this conversation?”

“Maybe. If you say something I want to remember.”

Jade thinks a moment. “Why are you doing the ride?”

I laugh out loud. “Now that I will write about.” I laugh again.

“Why is that funny?”

“Because I don’t have an answer to that question. On one level, I’m doing it as a fundraiser. On a deeper level, I’m doing it just to do it. Because it’s harder for me not to do it.”

I can see that I sound like somebody’s ridiculous Uncle Wally, so I back off and ask Jade about sports in high school and college. He believes he’ll land a golf scholarship to a four-year school in the coming year. At length, the restaurant staff hands him his to-go boxes, so he and I shake hands and wish each other good luck.

I watch him walk across the room and out the door. He conveys the cool discipline, strong ambition and great expectations that we prize in young people. We too had those characteristics when we were that age, but we didn’t think them extraordinary. They were just part of who we were.