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.