Day 13
DAY 13
September 15, 2013, Sunday
Golden Gate Bridge to Half Moon Bay State Beach, California
36 miles (running total = 632 miles)
I have peeked out of my space blanket many times during the night, not to mention when I exit the crackly piece of chrome blanket to go water the bushes. It seemed like morning would never come, but I finally arise to offload some water, and yes! Morning has broken! At least the faint light of a star 8 light minutes from me is brightening the eastern horizon, while most of San Francisco will still be sleeping for several more hours this Sunday morn. Sunday morning is so perfect for riding through this huge coastal megalopolis, as most citizens here will either be sleeping in late or spending time praying in church, meaning that the roads and town will seem deserted. While I am slowly attempting to get the blood flowing again in my icy body, having sat on an ICE trike all night, my cycling companions of the past few days are soon to arise up north at Samuel P. Taylor campground.
Last night’s frigid ordeal is one I want to document, so I take a picture of my trike seat moments after having stepped out of my chrome cocoon. It retains the shape of my body because the wind has finally stopped. What a funny photograph it is. Alcatraz Island, and its old federal prison, is clearly visible out in the bay. What stories it has to tell. The lights of the city still shine through the slowly growing daylight. My trike’s flag is still smiling, just as happy now as last evening. That flag has been known to lift my spirits in times like these. Overland triking is not easy in the slightest, and requires a steel mind to make the journey. Happy flags can help.
I do not hang out for long here. It is still too cold to eat comfortably, and the picnic tables are wet, so I decide I’ll do breakfast somewhere in San Francisco. I consider waiting until the sun hits so I can eat my granola at the table, but I choose not to spend the time sitting idle. I would rather get on the bridge so I can see the rising sun. Just seconds before I get into the trike to pedal away, a county sheriff’s vehicle drives by. He puts on the brakes, stops, and is about to back up, presumably to investigate me. But I am standing, putting on my helmet, and there is absolutely no evidence that I spent the night here. Then, he reverses his direction and drives on around the corner towards the bridge, which is the south end of his county jurisdiction.
Time to hit the road for one of this journey’s most memorable experiences, that of pedaling a human powered recumbent tadpole tricycle across the mighty Golden Gate Bridge of San Francisco. Yes, it’s a human-made bridge in a highly overpopulated location, and yes, these types of encounters run counter to my deep love of the wilderness and my desire to pedal through serene locales with few humans, but today, I’m excited to do this, just to say I did. I suppose it’s one of those ego things where you just want to share with others that you had a unique experience few even can comprehend. There is so much around me right now, so much to take in, that my pedaling fades into the background.
Within moments of pulling out onto the road, the final yards to the big curve overlooking the bridge disappear behind my tires, and there the orange tribute to bridge builders’ ingenuity stands before me, as it has for decades, looking as it did when I first crossed it in an automobile as a kid. But oh what a difference my vantage point has today! At first, as the road rounds the curve, I am slightly below the level of the bridge’s roadway, but then I plummet down a steep grade to the level of the water in the bay. This is a park-like area here where people can enjoy the bridge from below, and is where all the cyclists easily avoid the busy main highway. It’s somewhat bizarre down here, as the road dead-ends into a large steel and concrete barricade designed to keep out all unauthorized motor vehicles, the kind of ultra mega security one would expect to see at a top secret military headquarters or at the White House. Warning signs are posted. I watch a bridge patrol officer in his vehicle activate the militaristic barrier, which electronically flattens into the pavement so he can drive over it.
As I first coasted down to this dead-end, it appeared that I could proceed no farther, like I was trapped in a cul-de-sac and would have to return the way I came. Yet, while it is indeed true that no motor vehicles are allowed any farther on this road, the authorities have granted special permission to trike gypsies to go on through. It’s a little known secret that only presents itself to a triker or biker if he pedals on up to the impenetrable quasi-military barrier. Immediately to the left of the imposing auto barrier is a small opening, with steel and concrete posts on either side, that is only wide enough for my trike to fit through. There is a sign that states I am among the privileged to proceed where the common citizen in a car cannot. There is also one of the region’s white and green bicycle route signs as I have been seeing ever since turning onto Sir Francis Drake Boulevard yesterday afternoon. It is still Route 5, and shows access to the Golden Gate Bridge. I am on the right track!
I pedal past the barrier in my privileged little lane, proceed under the bridge with a view that the millions of motorists on Highway 101 will never see, and am faced with one of the steepest grades I have ever witnessed, or had the thrill to pedal up. Up is the key word here, for within a short distance, I now go from waterfront level to highway level in order to access the triker’s lane on the bridge. Once at the top at highway level, I can see San Francisco in the background past the bridge. I am stoked, for it is clear I am about to finally get on this metal monster. Even up here, there are little secret passageways for only cyclists, but the way is obvious now, and I am rolling south onto the massive girders I just pedaled under moments ago.
Wow, what a head trip this is, in addition to the trike trip. Here I am, little stevie greene, riding his little clean green tricycle at age 62 on this world famous landmark. Never at any former time in life would I have even remotely predicted that I’d still be riding a tricycle at this age, or that I’d be riding one across this bridge into San Francisco. What a trip indeed. I am on the Golden Gate, Sunday morning, the 15th of September, 2013, at sunrise. There is hardly any traffic. The timing was perfect. Last night’s miserable sleep and cold are all forgotten as the ambiance of what is happening right now overtakes my mind, almost numbing it in the process, but I want to remain aware enough so that I don’t miss the full experience of it all. I take in the views, take in some photographs, and take in the crisp Pacific air as it breezes past me on my little tricycle road. I am dwarfed by the orange uprights that secure this colossus to the bay’s floor. I am speechless!
I cross the San Francisco city and county line, reading the sign that shows the population to be 723,959 human beings. Next to it is a yellow sign that reads BICYCLISTS SLOW KEEP RIGHT PREPARE TO STOP YIELD TO PEDESTRIANS. The two signs, plus a SPEED LIMIT 45 sign for petroleum powered humans, are affixed to the northernmost of the two towers that hold the bridge up. I stop here, point my camera straight up, and capture the tower from a triker’s vantage point. This early on Sunday, there are a few bicyclists already riding the bridge, but their numbers are nothing like they will be in another couple of hours. How impressive it would have been to see those hundred cyclists that passed me last night as they crossed this bridge with their headlights illuminating the pathway.
The sun to my left is warming me still from last night’s endurance test, and it feels very nice. I notice the orange paint on the bridge – glad I’m not a painter! I look out to my right towards the Pacific Ocean, and notice the early morning fog bank out to sea. There are numerous small boats heading out into the ocean, perhaps fishermen. To my left and slightly forward, I see the city’s unique skyline, including the trademark triangular spike building, being delineated by the morning sun and clouds. At the southern end, as I exit the bridge, I speak briefly to a California Highway Patrol officer, but unlike yesterday’s discussion with a CHP officer in a car, this one is riding a bicycle! He sports a full uniform, badge, gun, and all, but his assignment is to ride a human powered bike so he has access to places the car cops can’t reach.
I make a cell call once off the bridge to update correspondent Desert Dune as to my whereabouts and the experience I just had, so it can be posted to the Trike Phantoms website today on the Progress page. I see a sign that warns me to beware of coyotes crossing the road. I pass a high tech racing bicyclist who is bummed out because a San Francisco city cop is writing him a ticket for some reason (probably exceeding the speed limit – they are strict about cycling enforcement in these parts because there are literally countless thousands of them here). Out of respect for this unlucky cyclist, I do not whip out my camera to record his embarrassing Sunday morning bummer.
Now my body has warmed, and is politely requesting a caloric infusion, so as I pedal the steep San Francisco streets towards the beach and Great Highway route, I keep an eye out for a park-like setting to have my granola. I pass a public beach day use area, but it is down a steep grade, and since I am now at some elevation, it would require a tiring return to the road, so I pedal on. Finally, I see it, on 34th Avenue, the Lincoln Park golf course, restaurant, bar, and grill. Perfect! I find a nice spot next to a green, and chow down in the sun, watching golfers hit their little white balls into the bushes. An attractive Swedish gal, who is running the bar and grill section, fills my water bottles for me, and in her thick Swedish accent is asking all about what I am doing out here on my tricycle. Before I go, I use the restroom facilities, which are probably better than anything I’ll find later. Ahh, this is living today! It all makes up for last night in spades!
Breakfast behind me now, I pedal up and up to the crest of these residential hills, and behold the ocean down in front of me. A pit bull dog is sunning himself in a second story window, so I stop and take his picture because my sister Willow loves dogs, has a small dog-sitting business, and will love to see this shot. The lazy dog looks down at me on my tricycle, then closes his eyes again to continue his siesta. Down the hill I go to San Francisco’s Great Highway, a flat section of coastline for tourists and beachcombers, where I make good time, with the famous windmills on my left.
I am now on Highway 35, which takes me back to Highway 1, which I left for my tricycular route to, through, and around the congested bridge area. Through Daly City I proceed, up the long long hill they stuck in there, but the sun still feels good this early. When I arrive at the on-ramp for Highway 1, leading to Pacifica and Santa Cruz, I am greeted by an unexpected and unwanted surprise: bicyclists are prohibited, and directed inland for some unknown and convoluted route I cannot find on any of my maps. After consultation with my silent paper maps, I make the crazy guy on a trike decision to take Highway 1 regardless of what governmental authorities instruct me to do. Entering the on-ramp, I pick up speed quickly because it is downhill, and since Daly City is in the hills, the entire portion of Highway 1 that is illegal for bicyclists (and tricyclists too I presume, although it’s not specifically stated) is also a healthy downhill grade. So, I shift up to my highest gear and pedal like a bat out of hell, hoping to make the town of Pacifica before the next encounter with a California Highway Patrolman. In Pacifica, Highway 1 again becomes a multi-use roadway that allows human powered humans on tricycles.
This stretch of anxiety producing freeway, which is not worrisome as far as traffic is concerned because the shoulder is wide and cars are few, lasts about four and a half miles. The shoulder is a mess, strewn with debris and ultra rough pavement with cracks and potholes. The ICE Q is shuttering all around because I am flying along at high speed. When able, I move into the closest automobile lane to avoid the shoulder. Being all downhill, and staying in high gear the whole way, these four-plus miles are over in nothing flat, or so it seems. No cops, no hassles, no problems, and no wasted energy doing some governmentally sanctioned work-around detour like the sign instructed south of Daly City. Okay, that part of the adventure is over. This is working into quite a day.
What is in store for me now? Back on a legal tricycle highway again at Pacifica, a sign lets me know that I am going to pedal for three miles up a steep hill in the woods with blind tight curves and no shoulders. Not only that, but for some reason, perhaps because church just let out, everyone and his brother is now driving a car on Highway 1, which is now just one narrow lane in each direction on this hill. There is no choice but to ride in the car lane because the wise governments do not see fit to pave a little shoulder here for folks who choose not to pollute the air supply we all breathe. Yet, grim as this may sound to inexperienced trikers, there is absolutely no problem because drivers are as they almost always are: courteous and sharing. There are no horn honks, no nasty gestures, and no yelling out the windows by anyone. Only actual trike experience on the road serves to drive this message home. Trike treks are not some suicidal mission of no return, despite what your loved ones tell you!
From pre-trip study, I know there is a big tunnel at the top of this hill, and there are also yellow diamond shaped signs that tell of its arrival soon. This is the new Devil’s Slide tunnel, finally financed by the government after decades of mountain slides and cave-ins kept closing Highway 1 on this stretch of the Pacific Coast. Now, it is all secure. As I round the last curve and the tunnel comes into view, a couple parked at a turnout tell me that there is danger ahead, in the form of the tunnel. I smile, say thanks, and tell them I love this tunnel. This confuses them. I am not confused. The Devil’s Slide tunnel is big, wide, and the trike lane is wider than the automobile lane, with no debris whatsoever. There are several duets of gigantic fans on the ceiling, continually blowing out car exhaust because this is a long tunnel. My telephoto lens on the camera makes it look shorter than it really is. The best news about this tunnel is that the speed limit is 45 miles per hour and it is definitely downhill for southbound traffic. What this means is that I am able to maintain a high speed throughout its length in my highest gear.
Devil’s Slide is over before I know it, and I rocket out the south side of the tunnel, continuing a healthy clip down the mountain cliff towards the ocean below. Terrain eventually levels out at sea level, and soon I am nearing the popular town of Half Moon Bay, where the Odwalla company is headquartered. Gee, I’ve been keeping them in business these past 13 days, scarfing down their protein monster drinks and eating their 14 gram protein bars. They should sponsor me! Oh well, my destination camp for tonight is coming early for a change, which suits me just fine after 68 tough miles yesterday and last night’s chilling conclusion. I’ll be pitching my camp in sunlight for a change … and legally too.
I pedal past hundreds of people arriving at the beach here after church, and for miles every parking spot along the sand is taken, or quickly snatched up if someone pulls out. It’s a traffic mess here, requiring diligence and care on my trike. Fortunately, they are all going slow looking for a parking place, hundreds of drivers eager to soak up the sun and shop in Half Moon Bay. Farmer John’s Pumpkin Farm is off to my right. Kids love this place. I stop at Safeway for my daily Odwalla infusion, along with some strawberries, bananas, and trail mix. It all fills me up, as I relax at a little metal table in the shade by the market’s front doors. Half Moon Bay is a real clean town, the kind that middle America just can’t get enough of.
At last, I turn of Highway 1 on the road to Half Moon Bay State Beach, passing some fresh vegetable farmer businesses, and then check in for the day’s camp. This state park is a whopping $7, so I have to ante up another $2 on top of the $5 bill I just handed the clerk at the check-in station. All the other state parks are just five smackers, and when I ask why the difference here, the man acts totally unaware that his campground is any different than the rest of the entire state of California, as if I am the first person in his job history to question this. Okay, no big deal in reality, as $7 is a pittance compared to a motel or what the RV campers are paying for less space than what I get. The hiker/biker area is big and flat, mowed brown grass, making for a comfortable base for my tent. The views are great. It is wide open for a change, instead of choked with deep dark forests. The ocean is a few yards to the west of my tent, over a small dune, past the great hot showers. What a joy it is to bask in the sun and have more ground at my disposal than I’ll ever need. I highly recommend this triker camp.
Shortly after 3 PM, my tent is erected in the most perfect coastal weather anyone could imagine. As I am finishing the tent prep, Alan of Arizona rolls into camp. He is the last of the remaining 17 wild bikers from Standish-Hickey State Park north of Leggett. A couple from Germany, who speak no English, pedal their bicycles into the camp and begin their evening chores. One other cyclist comes in later, a guy from Canada, who is a loner and does not talk much. Towards evening, gorgeous cloud formations appear, so I whip out the camera and begin capturing them for your enjoyment now. The clouds remind me of many birds flying through the air. This day is capped by a picture-perfect sunset, and then I go to bed in a real sleeping bag with all the warmth I need. No trike seat tonight!
Trike Phantoms 
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