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:
Tthe 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 though the afternoon sun is prodding temperatures into the seventies and cycling is beginning 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.
