San Simeon to Morro Bay – 23 miles
I hear the moisture in the tent before I see it: condensate on the rain fly where the cold, wet ocean air has found the warmth I’ve generated inside the tent, such that water droplets are landing on the floor. Still, it’s because of fog, not rain.
While eating breakfast and striking camp, I hum The Rolling Stones’ “This Could Be the Last Time.” I can’t think of anyplace else I want to cycle-tour after this trip—least of all Minnesota or the ALCAN Highway—so this could indeed be the last time I do this.
I ride past the campground kiosk upon exiting and see the same friendly volunteer who checked me in the day before. He wishes me bon voyage.
“Thanks.”
“You looked pretty haggard when you rolled in here yesterday. Where are you headed today?”
“Morro Bay.”
“Oh, yeah,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You should be in for an easier ride today. That’s mostly downhill.”
I marvel at how many people in this part of the world say that. But in this case, I have a strong hunch it skews toward the truth.
On the road I see signs for Cambria, a town I have never visited. A reliable source has told me that couples visit Cambria when their marriage is in trouble. I don’t fit that visitor profile, but the town strikes me as the optimal place to wait out the morning gray with a hot chocolate.
I miss the west turn for Cambria’s Moonstone Beach, and the part of town east of the highway seems more attractive anyway, so I turn left at the light and find a cafe. They serve good, Mexican hot chocolate, conscientiously prepared by one of the Spanish-speaking owners. I sit sipping it, trying to read the faces of passing couples for signs of marital tension. Or, if they’ve been here a while, for signs of renewed optimism. I see neither and decide my attention is better applied to my cycling map.
Customers in flannel shirts and work boots enter the cafe and order in Spanish, and while I understand only snatches of their conversation, I’m glad to be within earshot of them. This ride has confirmed my hunch that in California, the language of construction—maybe of all infrastructure—is Spanish. A quartet of tradesmen sit near me conversing in Spanish; when I beg their pardon in English to ask for directions out of town, they graciously switch languages and tell me the way.
The wind propels me past small farms near Harmony, then off Highway 1 and onto Ocean Avenue in Cayucos, where I buy take-away lunch from a sandwich shop. A half-hour later I ring the doorbell at the home of friends in Morro Bay, and I’m done for the day.
Relaxed company, long conversations, the backdrop of Morro Rock, a home-cooked meal and even a Dodger game on a big-screen TV ensue, then a night in a comfortable bed.
No tent.