Day 15
DAY 15
September 17, 2013, Tuesday
Sunset Beach State Park to Veteran’s Memorial State Park, Monterey, California
33 miles (running total = 732 miles)
When I tent camp on my overland trike journeys, there is always an awareness floating in my mind about the passage of the night. There are not any issues with sleeping soundly, for after a day’s riding, I always sleep very deeply, and even though I arise a time or two during the night to offload a little water, I always fall back into a deep sleep quickly, having multiple REM states and vivid dreams each night. So what is this awareness all about?
As a trike gypsy, I enjoy the morning hours. I’ve always been a morning person, rarely sleeping in late even at home. The morning is a new crisp and cool time for me, whether in the desert, at the ocean, or up in the mountains. Overland trikers who get an early start on each day learn that the pedaling is easier no matter the terrain because the temperatures are much cooler than later in the day. Also, the earlier one arises, the longer the period before the incessant drone of rubber petrol puffer tires begins its annoying assault of the ears. Further, if a triker plans on attaining maximum daily mileages, the nightly objective is reached sooner, allowing a tent pitch prior to the onset of darkness. Pitching a tent in the dark is doable, and I’ve done it, but I prefer not doing it to headlamp illumination.
This morning, it is yet dark when I have a vague awareness of time. Since do not wear a watch to advise me of my life’s seconds ticking away on a constant basis, and have not owned a timepiece for more than 20 years now, I have only the light of the moon to guide me if first light has not broken. If the sky is moonless, but it had a moon earlier, it is typically sometime after 2 AM. But still, this is not foolproof. This morning though, I have an alarm clock, a very unusual alarm clock.
Sunset State Beach sits in the heart of agricultural land, and farmers are typically early rising entrepreneurs who get up earlier than practically anyone else. First light has not arrived, but the noise of a very oversized tractor awakens me, and I deduce that since the farmer’s day is now starting, it’s probably getting close to my day starting, although I prefer there to be just enough natural light so that I can see to begin my camp breaking routine. So, I lie and take in life right now for a while, listening to the massive tractor in the field, and noticing the multiple super brilliant headlights it has all over it. Since this field literally borders the tent area where Alan and I are pitched, the farmer is really pretty darn close to us.
As a slim margin of natural light begins to barely brighten things up a bit, I look outside again. This tractor has long metal arms extending horizontally from each side, perhaps 20 feet out, making this entire unit about 50 feet wide. Eventually, it dawns on my mind, as the sun is dawning on the Earth outside my tent, that the farmer is spraying his crops with toxic pesticides and herbicides. Those long arms are spewing out poisons like rain in all directions. Well, this gets my attention as the reigning president of the American Health Nut Society, so I figure I best get up and get out of here before he does the row of greenery right next to the camp.
By now, I can see slightly, but I use my Black Diamond mountaineering headlamp to hasten my progress. I can hear Alan stirring over in his tent about 30 feet away, and I already know he is pretty quick about things, although he brews his morning coffee in his tent, so he may just be on that step right now. Anyway, air mattress deflated and sleeping bag stuffed in its sack, I get dressed, put my gear on the trike, and take down my tent. So far, I have no tell-tale whiff of the sickening sweet toxins. The wind is working in my favor right now, so I take advantage of it.
Air sustains human bioforms. Whatever is taken into our lungs is rapidly absorbed into the bloodstream and circulated to all the tissue in our bodies, and to the 100 trillion cells that make us what we are. If we can smell something, whatever it is is already circulating in our blood, as the air enters the lungs, is absorbed in the minute alveoli sacks, and becomes part of us. If I can smell it, it’s too late. But, I can’t smell this … yet.
I walk over and inform Alan that I am going to ride down the hill to the picnic area at the park’s entrance to eat my breakfast, as this tractor is getting closer by the minute. He agrees that staying here any longer is not wise, even though he is a cigarette smoker. I am ready to go, so I head down the steep slope to the bottom and will meet him there. About half way down the long steep grade, I pass the main campground where all the huge RVs are camped, and guess what! Yep, sure enough, that faint sickening smell that chemical companies place in their poisons is wafting through the air as I am now straight downwind of the farmer. But I’m on the trike and the downhill grade is steep, so I upshift and really begin flying along. Within about two seconds, I have passed the downwind area, and no longer smell the air-borne poisons.
At the picnic area by the park check-in station there is no issue with smelling this anymore, so I park and do my usual bowl of granola for breakfast. Alan and I chat. He has some kind of convenience food, smokes another cigarette, and then tells me he’ll meet me where this little entrance road rejoins the Pacific Coast Bike Route, itself just a small two-lane agricultural roadway. I clean up, use the restroom, and then pedal up the mile hill (gentle grade) to meet Alan.
The sun is coming up over the fields as we reunite. Our plan today is to camp at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park tonight, in the southern-most redwood grove in California, a ride of about 68 miles or so, similar to the distance we covered yesterday. It’s doable for us, but requires an early start, which we got, and a dedicated perseverance when the hills begin manifesting themselves back on Highway 1 south of Carmel, California. We are likely to arrive late afternoon, but since hiker/bikers always get a spot, are never turned away, and since Big Sur has a dynamite hiker/biker camp area, we will get the job done through motivation of the objective.
This morning’s ride is along very rural agricultural farm roads, and we see migrant workers driving in and being dropped off to begin their harvesting work. These folks work the fields all day long every day, regardless of whether the farmer man is dispensing toxins in the air and on the food. The bike route follows San Andreas road for quite a ways on this portion of the ride. It cuts out all the Highway 1 freeway hassle, where cyclists are prohibited for many long miles. This is pleasant riding, so there is no complaint here.
San Andreas road is extremely steep in a few places, grades that are not acceptable for modern roads and governments. The steep sections are relatively short, but the one I am on right now is so darn steep that even in low/low, I must mash the pedals with all my effort, turning them at roughly 35 to 40 revolutions per minute. My front crankset consists of 26-39-52 rings, and the rear cassette is an 11-34 mountain bike configuration, so I have low enough gearing to get up nearly any hill, even this insane monster, but still it’s hard-fought. Fortunately, I am in complete shade from the early morning sun, which is obscured anyway by morning clouds and fog. There are big trees surrounding a huge mansion on my left, probably the home of one of these mega-wealthy crop farmers out here. We have come about 7 miles so far from our camp.
Just as I am about to reach the crest of the hill, while looking off to the left to see down the mansion’s driveway and gaze at the fancy gates, the trike jerks suddenly and comes to an immediate stop. I hit the brakes. My first thought is that the chain derailed to the inside of the small 26 tooth chainring, so I look forward to verify my suspicion. Interestingly however, I cannot verify this because there is no chain to see derailed. The chain has disappeared! Gone, just in a heartbeat! This hill is very steep, so I set the emergency brakes and get up, which is not easy on such a low trike sitting at such a steep up-angle. My chain did not derail. It exploded, and now I have no driveline to power the trike!
I cannot simply roll the trike forward the final 20 feet to the level top of the hill, for if I do, then whatever chain is still in the chain tubes will fall to the ground, making my imminent repair that much more of a challenge. So, I lift the rear wheel off the ground using the handle I had fabricated for my 2011 journey, and walk the trike forward ahead of me, an extremely awkward and difficult movement with my panniers attached and full. My legs must straddle the bags as I walk. Once I find a level area, I set it down to survey the damage. At the crest of this hill, it goes down on the other side, so I only have a few yards in which to secure the trike and work on the chain.
I take the cargo bags off the right side of the trike so I can have full access to the drive chain. This trike has chain tubes, as do most stock trikes, to keep the chain off the frame and off the rider’s clothing. I discover that one of my links failed completely, opening up at one end, and releasing the link formerly attached to it. The broken link is caught in the chain tube due to its expanded size where it broke, and must be forcefully pulled out. Of course, I realize that the chain must also be reinserted through the tube, but since the tube is angled up in front, it must be removed so I can drop the chain back through once I break out the bad link.
So, here I am, on a remote farm road, bags off the trike in the street behind me, on my knees on the asphalt as I begin my task of making the Q functional again. Alan finally comes back when he realizes that my absence has exceeded a normal slow trike guy on steep uphills. This is the first breakdown I have ever had on one of my trips, but now I know why I carry spare chain, a chain tool, and spare master links! Without these supplies, I would be reduced to thumbing a ride on the next farm pickup truck. A trike gypsy must be self sufficient if he is to make the goal. Alan does not have any spare chain supplies, so this is a lesson to be ready to deal with issues on your own.
Well, to make a long, dirty, and unpleasant story short and sweet, this job takes some time, even though I am versed in doing stuff like this at home in controlled conditions. Yes, I know what to do, but feeding a 12 foot chain where it needs to go, and keeping it there while you reassemble with the links, takes time. Alan assists as needed, by picking up the rear wheel so I can spin the pedals to help things along at the right time. I remember to insert something into the chain ends as I work so they don’t slip back into the tube again, which would necessitate beginning the job anew. This mess eats up somewhat more than an hour I suspect. Anyway, it becomes clear to me that making our Big Sur goal today is probably not the wisest thing to attempt at this point. Better to relax and stop short, and roll into Big Sur tomorrow evening. This touring business is supposed to be fun, after all.
Finally, the chore is complete, the new SRAM gold master link is in place, and it appears it will hold. The chain ended up two links shorter than it was before due to the particulars of the job, and even though it is now a tad short, I will go with it to see what happens. This is the original chain that came with this trike in 2007, so I suspect that if one link broke under high pressure conditions of extreme hill climbing, another link or two may be on its way to follow suit. I don’t totally trust this chain at this point in time. Who knows what another killer hill might do to it. I put the bags back on the trike, put the tools away, clean up my hands as best I can with a rag Alan found alongside the road yesterday, and off we pedal, my mind just thinking that I better be babying this thing until I feel confident about it.
The road levels out in short order. It is easy pedaling on mostly flat ground for many miles through the artichoke fields, through Moss Landing and past marinas on Monterey Bay. At least I am cranking out fast and easy miles for a few hours, which is a good thing. The agricultural fields seem endless out here as the bike route criss crosses the Highway 1 freeway here and there. We are heading due south towards the town of Seaside and the city of Monterey. Just prior to getting on the Fort Ord Bike Path, Alan, who is in the lead as I baby my chain, is hailed to pull over by an older white haired man with a big white beard, who is standing alongside an old Volkswagen van, a vintage green machine with a white top, and Kermit the Frog decals all over. He has a Kermit the Frog cap on his head.
As I roll up, downshifting from my high gears, and braking to slow my rapid progress, Alan calls my name and waves me over. This man is Paul Aschenbrenner, who is a self-proclaimed “Trail Angel” for all cyclists who ride the Pacific Coast Bicycle Route each season. Paul is a former long haul biker himself, having logged thousands of miles in his younger days, and simply wants to stay in touch with the scene by helping the new younger generations of people who are just like he used to be. Every Tuesday and Thursday, Paul is out here, handing out his home-made chocolate chip cookies, power bars, and water, at no charge. He finds his happiness by giving back to his community of cyclists, and willingly hands out his goodies to all who will listen and engage in a little bike talk for a while. Paul is an amazing man, and I really enjoy his company! His daughter, he tells us, is about to complete a Mexico to Canada backpacking trek on foot along the Pacific Crest Trail. Today, she is less than 100 miles from the Canadian border Paul says, in the state of Washington. Amazing family!
Paul can be reached at paulaschenbrenner@sbcglobal.net if you are interested to contact him, or know him. He is a wonderful and kind hearted human being. Thanks Paul for your tireless contribution to all us cyclists out here! You set a lovely example of peace and happiness. Peace!
Interestingly, had my chain not broken, I would have never had the pleasure of meeting this trail angel. Trail angels are folks who help cyclists unexpectedly. Paul doesn’t arrive at this location each Tuesday and Thursday until mid morning sometime, and when we pulled in, he had only arrived about 15 minutes prior he informed us. Well, had my chain remained in one piece, we would have been somewhere in Monterey by now. Funny how fortuitous things can be. Now, I am happy to have suffered the chain ordeal just for the privilege of meeting Paul. This stuff makes me happy.
After saying a protracted goodbye to my new friend, I head out and get on the Fort Ord Bicycle Path into Seaside, California. These bike paths are wonderful, like little roads for cyclists. I’ve never seen so many. Then, Alan and I take more bike paths through Monterey, at the south end of Monterey Bay. We stop at a Jack-in-the-Box restaurant so Alan can get some food. I fill my water bottles here. He tries to get a Wi-Fi signal, but can’t, so we pedal farther into town and stop at a Starbucks Coffee house, where he finally gets his signal. In fact, he is getting signals from several businesses, including an Embassy Suites motel across the street and a McDonalds burger joint next door. Traffic is heavy on these city streets, but as always, proves courteous to us human powered folks.
Back on the city’s bike path system again, called the Monterey Bay Coastal Trail, City of Monterey Section, we head south, having decided to camp tonight at the Veteran’s Memorial State Park, way up on a steep hill overlooking Monterey Bay. It will be a very short day, and to think we could have been much of the way to Big Sur by now kind of bums me out, but then when I remember Paul, a smile returns to my face and I am content with what is. We pedal past the famous Cannery Row of John Steinbeck fame, and then begin our laborious ascent and assault of the city streets that seem to go straight up to the highest elevations in town, up in the woods above the bay and ocean. It is called Jefferson Street, and it is a serious taskmaster! Okay, this will be the acid test for my chain repair job. This climb is long, hard, and steep! It is also a wide detour from what we would have done by going straight through to Big Sur. This campground is well off the route, and adds a lot of sweat equity in this ride, but is our lot for tonight.
Parts of the beautiful bicycle path are lined with the ever present eucalyptus trees, and at one point we pass a colossal cruise ship just before we begin the big climb to camp. The first thing we see upon arriving at the self-pay station for the campground is a white sign with green letters that reads RACCOONS PRESENT PLEASE STORE YOUR FOOD, and it has a very cute drawing of a raccoon on it. Of course, these mischievous nocturnal marauders are not so cute looking when they are stealing the food from your panniers. I pay the fee for Alan along with mine, as a little gesture of gratitude for showing me the way through this maze of routing, and for hanging out with me to assist on my chain repair job. He did not have to, but he did. He is a good man, albeit a little rough around the edges.
The hiker/biker area is on a hill, making it a chore to find the best flat spot. There are many tents already here mid afternoon, all over the place in fact, but there is not one bicycle to be found. Alan knows the score. He tells me that this is mostly a community of people down and out on their luck, who have taken up residence here for as long as they can get by with it. The people seem nice enough, yet I wonder as the bikers come in if they will worry about their possessions.
This is a military type arrangement here. Every evening, the “Taps” military song is played on a huge loud speaker somewhere through the forest trees, and every morning, that morning military song is played to get everyone out of bed, just like in the US army. You know the one, very annoying I suppose if you are trying to sleep longer. They also play over this speaker system other military songs now and then. It feels like we were just inducted into a war effort. I am also told that an army man, dressed in full military uniform, comes around to check everyone’s camping slip to make sure they paid. This place is ship-shape, and cuts no quarter to slackers or bums.
By the time night rolls around, there are eight of us cyclists here, yet we are still outnumbered two to one by the semi-permanent nomads who arrive by foot off the city streets to avoid the cops. All the cyclists have a great time sharing stories of the road. I go to bed before Taps is played on the loud speaker, about 8 PM. Taps doesn’t play for about an hour. I hear Alan joking around with the other cyclists until what seems like close to midnight. It is relaxing, and whatever powers of the universe got us here with all these people, I am happy to be breathing the forest air up here on the mountain over the ocean and bay.
Trike Phantoms 
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