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.