It was not a good night. I didn’t fall asleep until almost 3:00 a.m. Yes, I was tired enough to need the sleep. No, I wasn’t dwelling on imponderables, like what’s keeping 300 of my fellow citizens in Washington DC from passing the assault weapons ban that 300 million other fellow citizens seem to want. A bad night’s sleep is frustrating enough when you’re at home in your own bed, but when dozens of miles lie in wait for you the next day, it’s downright oppressive.

Eventually, I dozed off, waking up with the crows a short time later. I ate breakfast, struck camp and whizzed back onto the highway, southbound.

It’s hard to say which is more dangerous: the PCH filled with relaxed, fun-seeking holiday drivers or the PCH filled with harried, clock-watching tradesmen and commuters. Either way, it’s loud, the lanes are narrow and nobody with a lick of sense has any business riding a sodding bicycle on it. It didn’t help that I was continually distracted by landmarks from my halcyon teenage days of driving the coast in a sports car. The endeavor firmly reinforced for me the words of the Claremont riders I’d met at Refugio a few days earlier: “Riding through L.A. is a death wish. Especially in Malibu. Those people are all crazy!”

Still, I reasoned, if I can do that, I can do anything.

I survived the maelstrom and turned onto the bike path that winds through Santa Monica State Beach. I paused for lunch near the storied pier.

The cycling map advised me to stay the course, but that same bike path through Venice is as frustrating as the town itself, so I took a detour from the map. I missed a turn on Washington Boulevard – another bad street for cycling – then spent a big chunk of the afternoon taking the long way around Marina Del Rey. By the time I resumed the route, I was in Playa Del Rey, with an annoying crosswind and airplanes from LAX roaring overhead.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” I told my bike. “This long-haul riding in the city is for the birds.”

To judge from its name, Manhattan Beach ought to be flat. Other than the bike path, however, I guess it isn’t. I braved an end-of-day slog through town to Hill Section, the neighborhood in which my cousins live. Relatives visiting from Colorado also came over, and we all went out for a multi-cousin dinner at a local Irish pub, merrily catching up with one another and exchanging family updates.

When I hit the sack that night, I had no trouble falling asleep.

The day dawned overcast – no surprise – and I continued south.

Although it’s well into Ventura County, the huge rock at Point Mugu has always felt to me like the milestone between the agricultural landscapes of Ventura and Oxnard, and the vast urban expanse of Los Angeles.

This was the Monday of a holiday weekend. I stopped at the venerable Neptune’s Net on the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) for lunch outdoors with two or three thousand hungry patrons – mostly couples and young families – along with all but a few of the Harley Davidson riders in North America. We were entertained by a long, loud truck rally of flag-waving, horn-honking enthusiasts driving north. They were conspicuously not driving electric vehicles, or even hybrids, which just may have been part of the message they wanted to convey.

The campground at Leo Carrillo State Beach, where I’d planned to spend the night, was closed due to damage from winter storms. That meant more miles as I had to ride past Trancas and Zuma Beach to a private campground at the northern edge of Malibu. The sun had broken through, and the most exhausting climb of the day was the last one: several steep grades to reach the tent campsites a few hundred feet above PCH.

I valiantly defied the temptation to get off the bike and walk it up the hill; somehow, people seemed to know that. As I rode sweatily up through the RV sites, a fellow smiled at me, pumped his fist and called, “Stay strong!” On the final climb up an unpaved path among campsites, three women sitting outside a tent paused their conversation as one of them called, “We’re really impressed by your talent!”

You take your cowbells where you can get them.

Thus, The Road rewarded my perseverance. Especially when I took in the view from my campsite.

I phoned the relatives I would stay with the next night to update them on my progress.

“How are you going to get from Malibu to Manhattan Beach by 4:00 tomorrow afternoon?” asked my cousin, incredulous.

“The bike can do it,” I answered. “So can I.”

“Three dozen miles in a day? Who can ride that?”

“It’s not that far. In fact, if you stand on your roof and wave your arms, I may be able to see you from here.”

Another short day. Another overcast sky. And how many consecutive days of some of the world’s most to-die-for coastline can a person really stand, anyway?

I did have to contend with a few inclines on the way south from Carpinteria, and even a brief, steep downhill alongside high-speed traffic on Highway 101. But most of the ride through Rincon, Punta Gorda, Sea Cliff and Solimar was easier on the legs, especially now that my Achilles tendon had forgiven me. My aunt used to say, “If you live long enough, everything goes away,” and my corollary is that if you ride long enough, it will too.

When you travel the central coast, it’s easy to be captivated by the beaches, waves and relaxing seascape of an ocean that goes on forever. But the cliffs and hills on the land-side of the highway are beautiful in their own right, especially when they’re unencumbered by human construction, like on this stretch. I continually took my eyes off the road and feasted them on the view to the left.

The coastline here also features long, enviable bike paths; expansive, enviable beach homes; and hulking, unenviable recreational vehicles, decked out with flagpoles, dog fences, satellite dishes and second cars in tow. For the holiday weekend, the owners had their RVs arranged in a long, dotted line along the shore, with many of the comforts of home in easy reach. Pretty different from the way I was traveling, but hey, they were getting their family out of the house and into the world, which is always wholesome.

The ocean didn’t smell good – nobody ever said that it had to, but it’s easier to like it when it does. It smelled rather like dead fish. That inspired me to keep moving.

It was gratifying to arrive in Ventura in a better mood than the one I’d had upon arriving in Carpinteria the day before. I stayed with relatives who live near the beach.

“I certainly tip my hat to your wardrobe coordinator,” my cousin observed. “That’s quite the ensemble you’re sporting.”

I explained that the ride was a triumph of determination over fashion. “History will record the accomplishment,” I crowed, “and conveniently forget the duds.”

We ate, listened to old rock music and shot the breeze about kids, parents, cycling, travel and the shared relief that comes from having kept our respective non-profit organizations alive and thriving in spite of all the can’ts that the pandemic threw our way.

I mention the number of miles I rode each day, but I don’t know why. It’s only one of the many variables that go into describing how a cycling day on The Road was.

For example, the ride to Carpinteria, short though it would be in miles, started off meh and got worse from there. In spite of good sleep and a lively breakfast with my college friends, I never built up much of a head of steam. Even the sight of the Santa Barbara Pier and the streams of young families enjoying the long weekend failed to stoke the boiler.

The ride was oppressive, even without a headwind. The route abounded in ups and downs – take it, give it back, take it, give it back – unnecessary map instructions, and even more unnecessary turns. I pedaled through Montecito wondering whether Harry and Meghan really – really – had days as tough as the one I was having.

This was another Hike and Bike camping night, which meant that I could not reserve. That, of course, is one of the inconveniences baked into being on The Road, most unwelcome in the middle of a holiday weekend. It took me back to an ancient insecurity from my globetrotting days, when I always worried that the youth hostel would be full by the time I’d arrived. Firming up lodging for the coming night became my highest priority when traveling.

As with 96 percent of worries, however, this one was baseless. Although the regular campsites and RV slots at Carpinteria State Beach were throbbing with families, the Hike and Bike was empty.

I was joined there by only one other fellow cyclist a few hours after I arrived.

Neither of us complained about the view.

The clouds persisted. That displeases vacationers, but cyclists revel in it. Cool cycling is good cycling.

As we broke camp, I asked David, one of the other riders, to check the pressure in my tires. (Note to self: Pack a pressure gauge next time.) He did so and topped them off.

But no good deed goes unpunished. I passed him on Highway 101 about an hour later. He was seated next to the shoulder, removing the tube from his rear tire.

“Need help?” I asked.

“No,” he answered. “It’s a flat, but I’ve got what I need to repair it.”

“Sorry this happened to you.”

“Yeah. This is only my second flat in the last thousand miles or so.”

“You’ve been fortunate.”

“Not really. The first one was fifteen minutes ago.”

I bade David goodbye and good luck, then rode on, wondering how I’d dodged the road rubble that had spoiled his morning.

The signs indicate north-south, but that part of the coast is actually east-west. The highway closely follows the coastline, and it took me up and down only a few dozen feet at a time as I rode. The inclines are gradual and the pavement mostly even. My right Achilles tendon still bothered me, but riding flatfooted relieved some of the pressure and gave that part of my leg a break.

At Isla Vista, site of a mass shooting in 2014, the map took me off the highway and onto a bike route that got more scenic and less urban until well into Santa Barbara. I rode through the campus of UCSB; the route wasn’t always evident, but it was better than plying Highway 101 or Hollister Avenue all the way into town.

Past the university, along Atascadero Creek, is an extended bikeway that any city would be lucky to have. I rode it to meet, dine and stay with dear college friends I hadn’t seen in thirty years. They grew up in Lompoc and I told them I’d cycled through there a few days before.

“You rode up Harris Grade Road??!!” they gasped, doubling the question marks and exclamation points.

Yep. It’s what you do.

As much as I dreaded yesterday’s ride, I looked forward to today’s ride on Highway 1 south from Lompoc along El Jaro Creek. The route is a gradual climb to about 1,000 feet above sea level through rolling, cattle-dotted hills, past Rancho San Julián and Sunburst Sanctuary. Then a long, straight drop to Las Cruces.

The next thing you know, the freeway signs confront you with the Ultimate California Decision.

 

As usual, I opted for the left lane, southbound. The return to normal freeway traffic on Highway 101 wasn’t fun, but at least I still had plenty of downhill to the coast and Gaviota.

 

Then came the ten up-and-down miles of coastline riding to the campground at Refugio State Beach. On the downhills, you take it; on the uphills, you give it back; then you repeat.

Although California’s state beaches and campgrounds are short on reservable campsites, many of them offer Hike and Bike camping. It’s a first-come-first-served spot of ground for people who are walking or cycling from one spot to the next.

Hike-and-bikers tonight included:

·       a chef from Cleveland, OH, who had ridden first to St. Louis, MO, then to Oregon, then down the Pacific Coast

·       three gents from Seattle, WA, on their way to San Diego

·       a couple from Claremont, CA, getting in shape for a November ride from Bogotá, Colombia, to the southern tip of Chile

Nobody complained about the view.