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Traveling
by Two Wheels: The California Coast
Originally published July 27, 2008
The California coast is to bike touring what the Appalachian Trail
is to backpacking -- I had dreamt of riding it for years.
I'd spent months plotting and searching. I had a list of the best,
cheapest campgrounds from San Francisco to San Luis Obispo to Los
Angeles. I had half a dozen meals-ready-to-eat crammed in my saddlebags
and $60 in my wallet.
The 500-mile bicycle tour through California's central and southern
coast began as an exercise in bonding, a rare chance to spend a couple
of weeks on the road with my older brother, riding south on Highway
1.
But when my brother was diagnosed with pneumonia early in the trip,
what had started as a brotherly adventure became singular in nature
-- a personal journey that would take me down a coast I had seen many
times from behind a windshield while traveling 60 mph. On the bike,
that comfort and security were gone.
I saw California in all its startling complexity, from the dirt-bike-covered
dunes of Pismo Beach to the spandex-clad cyclists racing through the
Santa Monica Mountains.
From the hunched-over farm workers of northern Santa Barbara County
to the well-heeled retirees of Monterey.
From the tiny taquerias of Guadalupe to All American Surf Dog, a New
York-style hot dog stand just south of Carpinteria.
They were all there.
Stranded
My brother and I had started just south of San Francisco. During that
first leg of the trip, from Pacifica to Monterey, ominous clouds drifting
over the Pacific did little to hinder our ride.
As we chugged past the expanses of ice plants lining the Santa Cruz
coast, past the seemingly infinite strawberry fields of Watsonville,
sore muscles were our only obstacle. Muscles in our upper arms. Muscles
near our hips. Muscles in our fingers. Muscles it seemed we had never
used before in our lives.
There was the occasional drizzle and stiff headwind, too, but it wasn't
anything we couldn't handle. We had spent years preparing, working
as bicycle messengers in Washington, D.C., and Chicago.
In Monterey, all that changed. A storm blew across the California
coast that February week, hurling powerful wind and rain. We were
stranded.
Even worse, my brother had developed a gut-churning cough and a 103-degree
fever. After several days of hacking and coughing, of long naps and
several doses of cold medicine, a doctor delivered the pneumonia verdict.
My brother packed his bags and headed to my parents' house in Los
Angeles.
I couldn't quit.
Day 8
On paper, 13 miles didn't seem like much. The ascent looked gradual.
Compared to Big Sur, it was tiny.
But as I crested that long, dogged climb through a valley south of
Lompoc, the 30 pounds of food and gear strapped to my bicycle began
feeling very, very heavy. The exhaustion of a 60-mile day set in.
I stopped, squirted water on my face and surveyed the surrounding
ranchland. The hills looked like they'd been colored with Crayons.
A dozen or so cattle grazed near a winding creek and a patch of oak
trees. A car sped south toward Highway 101. Almost there, I thought.
Just two more miles to the next campground.
I jammed the water bottle back in its cage and took another look at
that lush scenery around Lompoc. Then I hopped in the saddle and prepared
for the two-mile trip downhill.
The agony-turned-bliss that followed was typical of the journey. I
had planned on staying at the Gaviota campground -- an ocean-side
state park just north of Santa Barbara.
As I ground through what I thought were the last two miles of the
day, I imagined the delicious, pre-cooked gruel I'd be scarfing down
in a few minutes -- red beans and rice with Cajun-style sausage, canned
pears and a granola bar. I imagined the six-minute, 75-cent hot shower
I'd take afterward. And I imagined lying on the ground with a large
bag of ice propped atop my aching knees.
But my fantasies proved premature. A closed gate blocked my entrance
and sandbags were strewn about the camping area. A sheet of paper,
scrawled with black marker, hung in the office window: "Campground
closed." Another victim of the recent storm.
I slowly pedaled up a nearly vertical Highway 101 on-ramp. It was
another 10 miles to Refugio State Beach, the next campground to the
south.
As it turned out, those extra 10 miles were well worth it.
Refugio was like a Jimmy Buffet song: As I set up camp, a fiery sun
descended on a nearby peninsula. Palm trees lined the empty beach
and enclosed the campsites, shielding me from the chugging generator
of a nearby motor home.
The finale
The next two days of riding through Santa Barbara and Ventura counties
were almost entirely flat -- a pleasant change after my trek through
Lompoc.
By the time I pedaled down Los Angeles' winding beachfront trail --
which begins just south of Malibu, allowing cyclists to avoid traffic
through most of the city -- I had eaten my MREs, spent my $60 and
worn out my knees.
It stung a little bit that my brother wasn't there. But, I soon learned,
he was already planning our next trip: Seattle to San Francisco. Or
maybe a ride down the Baja Peninsula.
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