The Tale
(note: this page is the entire 45,300 word story on one page, but without all the photographs)
PACIFIC COAST TRICYCLE ADVENTURE
Florence, Oregon to Atascadero, California
along coastal highways 101 and 1
875 miles 19 days
hiker/biker campsites
A DAY BY DAY NARRATIVE OF THE JOURNEY
by steve greene
(click here to read David Massey’s complete journal)
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DAY 1
September 03, 2013, Tuesday
Florence, Oregon to Bastendorff County Park, Charleston, Oregon
57 miles (running total = 57 miles from Florence)
At 6:45 AM, I heard the laundry room door open, and the familiar voice of Matt Jensen say: “I’m in the garage Steve.” We had arranged to leave the house at 7 AM, so things were proceeding according to the schedule. My ICE Qnt recumbent tadpole tricycle was fully loaded with panniers the night before, so only my final preparation this morning stood between me and pedaling out of the driveway for the wild ride south along the Oregon Coast Highway and Pacific Coast Highway. I had eaten my bowl of granola, brushed my teeth, made my cozy bed, and mentally prepared myself to begin pedaling long hard hours on the road each day, and sleeping each night on the ground outside in a tent. The transition mentally can be a challenge, but at least with someone else sharing the experiences, thoughts were kept manageable.
Three of us had agreed to embark on this journey as a team. Matt and I would be meeting up with the third member tonight, at Bastendorff County Park in Charleston, Oregon. His name is David Massey, and he drove to Coos Bay in a rental car from his home in Glendora, California. From Coos Bay, he would be riding his Azub TRIcon tricycle to our camp this evening at Bastendorff.
Matt used to have a Catrike 700 recumbent tadpole trike too, which he sold a couple years ago, and today he is pedaling a Surley Long Haul Trucker touring bicycle loaded with his gear in Ortlieb panniers. David and I have Arkel and Radical Design panniers. Only the hours of this day and a few miles separated Matt and me from David. From the departure point in Florence to the campsite David would be securing for us mid afternoon, 57 hilly and picturesque miles paved our path.
The morning is warm already. September is typically the most pleasant month of the year when measured in terms of human comfort zones. Matt and I ride south on Highway 101, only 5 blocks from where I live, cross the Siuslaw River bridge, pedal up the hill south of town, and begin our forested coastal ride in earnest. The trike is slower on uphills, so Matt pulls ahead out of sight. I see a car parked up ahead, and a man waves me to pull over. He is a close friend of mine, and wishes to say goodbye one more time, while wishing me all good things. He hands me a small piece of paper with a quotation on it, one that I had included in one of my books. Uttered by Marcel Proust many years ago, the short thought says: “The real voyage of discover consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” I thank my friend for his thoughtfulness, we speak briefly, sad to depart one another’s company, and I return to the road to catch up with Matt.
The huge evergreen trees tower above my diminutive tricycle as I enjoy the landscapes from my reclined position, a view that traditional bicyclists do not have with such ease. Highway 101 has wide shoulders here, making the ride a breeze. Matt and I speak briefly with a man called Len from Colorado, who is also riding a tadpole trike (two wheels in front, one in rear), except that his is powered by an electric motor, allowing him to travel 160 miles per day with little physical effort on his body. Hills that I slowly labor up using human power, Len flies up with electric power. We bid him adieu, and continue on.
Crossing the Reedsport bridge, we pedal south through Winchester Bay, stopping at turnouts with ocean views for a Clif or Odwalla bar and water now and then. The day has already exceeded 70 degrees Fahrenheit, so seeking shade in which to eat and rest is the order of business, especially since we are warm from pedaling up steep hills. It feels good to cool our bodies at intervals, and get our feet off the pedals a bit.
Today it is fully sunny and a robust 73 degrees Fahrenheit. A trucker’s weigh station is up ahead. It is a huge scale used to weigh the big rigs, the tractor/trailer units everyone calls semi-trucks. In 2009, I rolled my trike and trailer onto one of these in the Cascade Range of Oregon. The displayed number was 350, which I figured was accurate because prior to leaving on that trip, my calculations revealed the rolling weigh (including the organic engine called “me”) was about 375 pounds. Ugh! Wiser after a couple of overland journeys, this year’s PCTA is easier due to less weight. I pull onto the truck scale with my ICE Q trike. The red-lit number popped up at 250 pounds. My calculations this year put my rolling weight at 265 pounds. Newbies always pack everything including the kitchen sink. Live and learn the hard way is always the name of the cycling game! Run light, fast, and easy – the only way!
Eventually, we arrive at the huge bridge that spans Coos Bay, variously called by folks the North Bend bridge, the Coos Bay bridge, or the Conde B. McCullough memorial bridge. Conde designed this bridge in the early 1930s, but failed to give any serious thought to human powered humans, especially cyclists. A major renovation was just completed prior to our crossing today, yet the state made no modern modifications to accommodate cyclists any better than Conde’s short-sighted creation decades ago. Many cyclists live in sincere fear of this bridge on their Pacific Coast adventures, but there is an easy bypass that avoids the bridge and the two automobile-congested towns south of it. Today, Matt and I will cross the bridge however, because we are going to meet David in Charleston, so the bypass is not appropriate.
On the south side of the bridge, we stop and relax in a beautiful park setting, using the bathroom and refueling with a snack. A few more miles and we stop at a Safeway supermarket for additional calories in the form of mixed nuts and V8 Juice. As we coast down a hill into the small town of Charleston, west of Coos Bay, the drawbridge is in the “up” position so a fishing vessel can cross underneath it. All the cars stop. I pull forward to the head of the line on my trike to take a photograph of the tilted roadway. The fishing boats in the bay also make for picturesque memories.
At long last, the 57th mile is completed and Matt and I arrive at the Bastendorff Beach road to the campground. The uphill grade is insanely steep, not meeting any modern requirements for reasonable grade, and requires me to stop four times to rest on the way to the top. Fortunately, it is only about 50 yards long. Even in my low/low gear on the trike, which gets me over the longest and steepest highway grades on mountain ranges, I must mash on the pedals hard and slow to reach the tiny summit.
Matt and I find David already in a campsite, his tent pitched, and his electronic devices in full use as he documents his adventure thus far and calls his wife to keep her posted as to his safety. The sound of the jetty foghorn pierces the air every 30 seconds to warn ships. We pitch our tents in the same campsite, after some rest and relaxation to recover from the first day’s miles, which are the most difficult of the entire trek just by virtue of being the first day. As the days roll on during a tricycle journey, they get easier because the body adapts to the expectations placed upon it. We three cycling rogues eat dinner and enjoy the camaraderie of our endeavor.
On coastal overland journeys such as this, where state and county campgrounds are common, the order of the evening camp is as follows: 1) find a level place to pitch the tent, 2) pitch the tent, 3) toss your gear in the tent, 4) take a shower, 5) fix and eat your dinner at the picnic table while sharing your experiences with fellow cyclists, 6) write in your journal, 7) use the bathroom one more time, and 8) hit the sleeping bag to rest your weary body and drift off into dreamland. I have found that there is little to no desire to do anything more. The days of pedaling are long and challenging, so the essentials of survival rise to the forefront of one’s needs. Imagine taking a 57 mile day-ride at home, but then getting up before sunrise the next morning to do it again, and imagine doing this every day for the next 18 days.
The body needs as much rest and recuperation time as possible. The scant hours of the night are really not enough initially for the body to be ready for the next day. It does get easier day by day, but the process can be rough for the uninitiated cyclist who does not know what to expect. On a recumbent trike, the legs grow noticeably in strength and muscular size over the weeks, while the upper body is reduced to a lean and gaunt appearing presence. The evening’s procedure becomes well understood, and you become very efficient at setting and breaking your camps. Within the first week, you know where all your little items are stashed in the panniers. The procedure outlined above is typically all a cyclist has time for each evening if covering the maximum amount of ground possible during the daylight hours.
I drift off to sleep, occasionally hearing the distant sea lions at Cape Arago, a few miles south. Bastendorff campground is on the Cape Arago Highway, a road that dead-ends at the cape where the sea lions bask on the rocks.
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DAY 2
September 04, 2013, Wednesday
Bastendorff County Park to Humbug Mountain State Park, Oregon
60 miles (running total = 117 miles)
Cycling teams typically arise prior to sunup, beginning the striking of camp when there is barely enough natural light to see what one is doing. This is the normal order of life for a trike gypsy. This morning, I become aware of noises emanating from my team members’ tents, and as I peer out of my tent door, realize it is yet dark outside. I am an early riser naturally, but today, David and Matt have beaten me to it, and are already removing gear from their tents using the light from their headlamps, so I get up from my warm sleeping bag, dress, put on my headlamp, and begin what is to be another day of mileage similar to yesterday. My body is rested, yet I can feel the residual effects of a challenging first day on the road.
We all work in total silence, like a well oiled machine, tending to our similar shared chores as our tents quietly come down and are stashed away in our cargo bags on our cycles. Silent striking of the camp is common, so as not to awaken other campers who drive petroleum powered vehicles and can afford a few more hours of slumber. Trikers do not have this luxury typically, and must make the most of every daylight hour, even when it means beginning prior to daylight. Trike gypsies are like phantoms of the night. We arrive at our camps silently because our vehicles make no noise. We cause no pollution of the air shared by others at the campground. Only if other folks see us silently roll in do they realize we have arrived. In the mornings, while all others are still sleeping, we silently break camp and depart, our phantom-like presence keeping us virtually invisible to normal people. They get up first thing come sunrise and wonder, what happened to those guys with weird looking bicycles? We are gone, without a trace. The trike phantoms have moved on, never to be seen again.
I like to eat a bowl of granola for breakfast on my overland journeys, so I sit at the picnic table and do so once my trike is fully packed and ready to go. Matt and David have some other minimal bit of food compared to my “elaborate” fixings. Just before I sit down to my highly anticipated granola feast, Matt walks over to me and quietly informs my brain that he will be returning to Florence this morning, where he also lives, duplicating the ride we had yesterday as he departs from the Pacific Coast Tricycle Adventure. I nod in acceptance, yet still tell him I will miss his presence in the days and weeks to come. Resigned to his declaration, I sit and eat in silent contemplation. Matt then approaches David and likewise informs him of the decision to leave the adventure this morning.
Just prior to departure, David and I line our trikes up side by side for some photos. After the picture, we all depart down the insane campground entrance road, and ride about a mile to the junction where Matt will turn left and head north, and David and I will turn right and head south to southern California. David and I are now the remaining team members of the PCTA as we begin our ascent of the mountain on the Seven Devils road, infamous in its ability to reduce any cyclist to a struggling bioform attempting to make it to Bandon, Oregon, only 24 miles distant. I had given David the option, at his sole discretion, of riding to Bullards Beach State Park, just two miles north of Bandon today, for our second night’s camp, or riding to Humbug Mountain State Park, another 36 miles distant, as he has a schedule to maintain on this journey.
David is a high school teacher of computers and art, soon to retire, but for this year, his district has allowed him three weeks to take this tricycle trip so the students can follow along online in the adventure of it all. He must be back at work on Monday, the 23rd of September, and must arrive in Morro Bay, California no later than the evening of Friday, September 20, where his wife will pick him up in their truck. Thus, I leave it up to him how far he wishes to ride each day to maintain his needs. David chooses to ride to Humbug Mountain State Park today, 60 miles distant from Bastendorff County Park. I wonder if this 60 will be easier than yesterday’s 57, but from prior overland experience, I suspect it will be.
So, we begin today’s ride over the summits of the seven devils on the Seven Devils road, appropriately named because it feels like satan is right on your heels as you pedal up the long slow grades. In our favor, the morning is overcast, so we have no bright hot sun upon our bodies as we had yesterday. At some time in the past, a cyclist took the time to paint the names of the devils in the two lane roadway, so I snap a photograph of “Devil #2” as I come to a stop to rest momentarily. There are only five devilish summits yet to conquer before we head back down the mountain on the other side towards Bandon. Matt said that this portion of the coastal route had the steepest grades of anywhere between Canada and Mexico. David and I hope he is right. With the seven devils behind us, we pass the South Slough National Estuarine Research Reserve, where visitors can hike the trails through the forest. As committed trike nomads however, and tired to boot from out-pedaling the devils, David and I simply photograph the sign and press on south.
A little farther on along the ridge line, a rural resident has placed a couple dozen tiny elf figurines in the miniature forest in front of their home. I can’t resist some photographic moments. My diversions of picture-taking always put me behind David, something that will repeat itself every day. Everyone take pictures – I just take a few more than everyone else!
At last, we approach Whiskey Run road, a tightly wound narrow road that drops in elevation quickly off the peaks of the seven devils. There is no high speed triking to be had here however, for the curves are so tight that without constant braking on the trikes, we would end up upside down in the borrow ditch and woods. This descent is a welcomed respite despite the needed attention to curve management. What the devils took away, the trike angels return to our fatigued legs.
Once in the small coastal village of Bandon, we pull into Ray’s Food Place market and chow down for lunch. We park right in front of the main entrance by the windows on the sidewalk of the store. The deli’s eating area is on the other side of the window, which makes for easy monitoring of the trikes just outside. Next, we stop by Mother’s Natural Grocery, a health food store I’ve been visiting for the past 19 years. She makes the most incredible cookie for health nuts like myself, called the “Everything cookie”, which is loaded with so many life-extending goodies that I can’t name them all here. Lastly, we pedal through Bandon’s Old Towne area for some photo ops on the boardwalk. Somehow I cut my right index finger here, and blood is everywhere my hand goes. My former paramedic training stops the gusher, and I bandage it sufficiently to carry on.
We pedal on south out of Bandon, David opting not to ride the extra mileage along the scenic bypass route on the cliffs. We remain on Highway 101, which is easier, less mileage, more direct, and wide shouldered all the way (the bypass is narrow with no shoulders in many places). David and I have figured out that to reach Morro Bay by the 20th of September, which is what his schedule calls for, we must average 48 miles per day. If we take all the scenic bypass routes, as someone not on a schedule would probably opt to do, we would not get him to Morro Bay on time to get back to work. Good thing retirement for David is not far off. Then, he can take overland trike journeys without the time crunch thing hanging over his head. It’s okay though, because this is his first overland trike trek, which will be hard enough on him without adding more agony to the mix.
In the miniature village of Langlois, there is a sign board near a tiny grocery market that reads: “BIKERS FREE WATER STOP” so we pull in, fill our water bottles, which are near empty in the warm sunshine heat, and get some fresh fruits to eat. Folks gather around our bizarre looking “bikes” and ask all the typical questions all overland trikers hear time and again while on the road: “What is this?”, “How do you steer?”, “Are you handicapped in some way?”, “How far are you going?” and so on. We sit in the shade of the storefront, ambassadors for trikers everywhere.
Back on the road, we pedal through the nearly non-existent “town” of Sixes, Oregon, where a grange is one of the few things to see from the highway. On the side of the old wooden building is a sign that reads: “SIXES GRANGE – 856 MARKETPLACE BINGO HAND CRAFTS”, which is painted in black. Shortly after Sixes, atop the Cape Blanco summit hill, we pull over and sit on the guardrail for a drink and energy bar. As we prepare to leave, David discovers one of his gloves is missing. It has to be here somewhere because he had it on when we stopped. This drove us nuts for quite some time. The glove was nowhere to be found! And we were overly thorough searching for it, even considering a wind that may have taken it across the highway. We never did find it. He finishes the ride today with one glove, reminiscent of a famous pop entertainer of late.
By the time we arrive in the town of Port Orford, the fog has rolled in again, largely obscuring the Pacific Ocean that lies immediately to our right. We pedal on, not stopping because we want to get to camp as the day is wearing on quickly now. We are tired, looking forward to hot showers at Humbug Mountain State Park campground. The boundary for the state park is a few miles prior to the camping area, and David is beginning to wonder if we’ll ever make it before dark. But sure enough, it is indeed around the final bend where 101 turns inland for a while from the ocean, in a tight canyon with big trees everywhere.
We decide to splurge, and instead of paying $5 each for the hiker/biker camp, which is in the dirt far from the showers, we pay $17 (split two ways because we are on trikes), get the site next to the shower complex, and use paved walkways exclusively. This is just in time because the sun sets and by the time we hit the sack, it is mostly dark once again.
Well, actually, the $17 was not split tonight. I paid the whole enchilada because David had no money. Why is this? Was he unprepared? Nope, not at all. He learned a hard lesson today. On recumbent trikes, it’s like you are sitting in a recliner chair, as opposed to a conventional bicycle where you are sitting upright. David had been keeping his cash, more than $500, in a money clip, which he had placed in his pants pocket. First rule of triking: NEVER CARRY ANYTHING YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO LOSE IN YOUR PANTS POCKETS! Sure enough, somewhere after the Langlois market and here, that money clip and its contents said adios to David, and parted company. Needless to say, David is somewhat bummed tonight, but we are tired, so decide to figure it out tomorrow. When he called his wife this evening, he did not mention this little hiccup to her, so as not to worry her.
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DAY 3
September 05, 2013, Thursday
Humbug Mountain State Park to Harris Beach State Park, Brookings, Oregon
49 miles (running total = 166 miles)
David is still quiet and reserved this morning as the fog surrounds our little camp. The sting of losing five hundred smackers is still there. I mention that the next town of Gold Beach will have several banks, and he can access his money at home from there, and be back in business. We decide to hit a bank in Gold Beach, break camp after breakfast, and pedal onto the fog enshrouded Highway 101 again, in the tight little canyon. It’s early, and petroleum powered vehicles are far and few between. The air is cool, so we make good time, that is until I see something that forces me to stop immediately …
David didn’t stop. I last saw him cranking on ahead around the next curve. I pulled into the large dirt parking lot to the right. It was too early for anything to be open, but what was staring at me from above didn’t care about business hours. Two creatures from the Jurassic period of time dared me to visit them, so I did. I parked the trike, yanked out my camera, which I always carry around my torso for quick access, and stepped way back to capture the moment for you to see here. Have you ever photographed your trike about to be stepped upon by a tyrannosaur? Only in Oregon! David surely wonders what happened to me again, as a while farther on, there he waits as I finally pull up.
David uses all the latest and greatest electronic gadgets, gizmos, and gear on this trip: a portable solar array that he places atop his panniers to charge his devices, an iPad, an iPhone, and who knows what else. As I pull in behind him, playing catch-up once again, he is dialing a number on his iPhone. The fog is heavy, but the signal is strong because we have gained elevation out of that little Humbug Mountain canyon. Pompous grass is growing wild along side the highway, and the farther south we travel, the heavier it gets in places. This grass is the fancy looking stuff with puffs begging to be photographed.
At one large turnout overlooking the vast Pacific, which is featured in the opening scenes of the PCTA movie production, I meet a fellow named Tim Cassese, who is pedaling his Surley Long Haul Trucker bicycle south along the same route David and I are following. He is tall, lean, and a very happy fellow. Tim asks me if it’s going to rain today, having determined that I live on the Oregon coast. Guess he figures since I live in these parts, I will have a pretty good handle on weather patterns. He had heard on the radio last night that rain was predicted today for the southern Oregon coast. I tell Tim that it will not rain today, and that these clouds and foggy conditions will dissipate come midday. He is relieved to know this. We say goodbye as he departs slightly ahead of me. Cycling the coast, you meet many others doing the same thing. Some you see again, others it’s a one-time meeting and you never see them again on subsequent days.
Since the morning is foggy and cool, we make great time into Gold Beach, a southern coast community with full services. We cross the bridge on the north end of town, pedal up the steep hill into the downtown area, and stop at the Umpqua Bank so David can remedy his financial poverty situation. Next, we take a while and do a midmorning calorie refueling at McKay’s Market. My nectarine looks perfect, but it has a consistency closer to an apple than a nectarine. David resupplies his Gatorade stash, I guzzle three Odwalla chocolate protein monster drinks and eat some mixed nuts, and we answer more questions from curious onlookers of our trikes in the parking lot. It’s a very good thing we scarfed up on the high calorie food here in Gold Beach, because what came next was … well, enough to do a triker in.
After we leisurely pedaled past some gigantic rock monoliths in the ocean, called by some sea stacks, our gauntlet ramped up a few dozen notches in short order. The first visual clue of the impending challenge were some words written in chalk on the shoulder pavement: “HILLS ARE Fun!” it read. A quick look at our elevation profile maps confirmed that the mystery author was simply trying to give followers a little pep talk for a big obstacle: the longest and toughest hill on the southern Oregon coast! I call it the Bellview hill because Bellview Lane is at its summit in the woods. It was still somewhat foggy, but the air was warm and somewhat muggy. I was sweating like crazy at the top, and had to unbutton my shirt to vent the heat … that is, until the breeze and fog started chilling me a tad.
Just over the top, it was clear we were going to have one doozy of a thrill ride going down the south side of this monstrous mountain summit. This was one of those great downhills where braking was not required, and the grade was steep enough to allow a seemingly endless increase in coasting speed. Thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five … wow, this is making up for the north side agony. Half the hill we are dying and crying, and the other half we are flying. This is one of those 50 miles per hour gems that comes along now and again on the Pacific Coast route. Even though it is the uphills that build us and make us stronger trikers, it’s those downhills that keep us stoked and begging for more!
I have not seen David for quite some time by now, up to my old antics of picture taking, but as I round the final curve of the humongous downhill heading into the straightaway, I see David at a pullout with tourists, waiting with his camera to get a movie or photo of me. I am having so much fun at this speed, I do not even stop to say hello to him, nor can I even take my hand off the handlebar to wave for fear of losing control, but rocket on by at break-neck speed as the road levels out and the sun comes out. Tourists are everywhere. They must think I’m some kind of a nut case.
The ocean views are spectacular, some of the best on the entire Oregon coast. Oregon’s coast is very different than California’s coast, which is much drier and barren of the big trees. I see a beautiful floral bouquet on the guardrail, likely where someone was killed in an automobile accident. It makes me sad. Everyone is worried that I will be killed on a trike, but somehow the statistics of 50,000 annual deaths from cars in the US each year seems to negate that fear.
This afternoon, we reach and cross the Thomas Creek Bridge, the highest bridge in Oregon, at 345 feet elevation above the ocean below it. David crosses first in the ample shoulder lane, so that stevie-boy can do what? Take another photograph, of course, as he pedals this Pacific Coast landmark. On the next hill crest, I take a water break, while David takes a cell phone break.
Around 5:30 PM, we roll into Brookings, Oregon, a full service town that is about six miles north of the California border. Harris Beach State Park is on the north end of town, and offers great camping, fantastic views, awesome hiking, hot showers, flush toilets, and even a laundry room. Now, once again loaded to the hilt with cash, David pops for the entrance fee, and gets us another regular campsite near the laundry and showers, with paved pathways to keep us pristinely clean after our showers. Our daily camp duties are slowed now and then by the curious walkers who just have to know all about our vehicles, somewhat different from their gigantic and invasive Rvs. Again, we are stealthy trike phantoms who roll in and pedal out with no toxins or noise to betray our presence.
Tonight, I pitch my tent, eat my dinner, take a shower, and then start a laundry. The laundry room closes at 9 PM, but it is still early enough to get one load in. What I didn’t count on however was that one of the dryers was out of order (“sorry for the inconvenience” the sign read), and other users were not returning in a timely fashion to remove their laundry. Another sign read that this room is locked precisely at nine, no ifs, ands, or buts, and any laundry still in here is locked in until morning. Well, as it turns out, when the official comes to lock the laundry, my clothes are still damp, having started them later than expected. So, I gather my clothing up, walk in the dark back to the trike and tent, and set it all on my trike seat to wait out the night. The laundry opens back up at 7 AM, so I figured to be the first one in!
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DAY 4
September 06, 2013, Friday
Harris Beach State Park to Trees of Mystery redwood forest, California
44 miles (running total = 210 miles)
Up like a bunny at barely first light, I deflate my ThermaRest NeoAir Fast n Light mattress, slide into my clothes, and prepare to hit the laundry. David informs me it’s not quite 7:00 yet by the time my tent is packed away, so I eat my granola, brush my teeth, and leave last night’s dinner remnants in the private bathrooms. I am waiting at the door with my damp clothing when the official returns to unlock it. In no time flat, they are dry again, and my laundry boo-boo doesn’t even slow up our departure from Harris Beach State Park.
We fly into town, only a mile south, and drop into Fred Meyer to restock any supplies for our early morning ride into the next state south of Oregon: California, here we come! The sun has come up by now, and David poses with his trike in front of a large bear dressed in a Viking suit of armor. Then, it’s simply the final flat miles to the state line, where, of course, we come to a grinding halt to capture our obligatory “Proof of Being There” photographs just in case anyone doesn’t really believe we did all this crazy stuff. Of course, it also serves the purpose of stroking our egos that we have pedaled through the southern half of the Oregon coast and are about to enter another imaginary political container, one that is far more bankrupt than the one we are leaving. Why is California washed up financially? Well, one quick clue is that the pavement improves immediately at the line, from rough Oregon paving to glass-smooth California paving! Notice the state line photos and you can actually see what I mean!
We also enter Del Norte County, the Redwood Gate to the Golden State. This crossing into California is far removed from the crossing that I encounter on my inland trike route that enters the state in its northeastern corner, in agricultural landscapes as far as the eye can see. It’s all flat land out there, with potato farms and horse pastures everywhere. Here on the Pacific Coast, it’s all huge evergreen trees and even larger redwood trees. Wow, the difference is striking!
The day is warming up quickly. There is no fog this morning so far. Shade is what we seek. Up ahead! Look! Its a gigantic tree, and David decides it needs some water, being out in the relentless sun and all, so we stop and perform our good deeds for the day by keeping this giant alive and thriving. As I roll up, David looks like a little ant under the tree’s spreading limbs. I capture another photo of the trikes from the front. My hat is hanging on the flagpole, a little trick I do when I am really pumping out the perspiration, as the breeze makes quick work of drying out the Outdoor Research cap I got at REI.
This western coastal section of northern California changes continually. One hour you’re in huge woods, and the next you’re crossing some agricultural farms. At times, we see orchard workers on platforms pulled by tractors, doing whatever they are doing with the particular crop they are harvesting. The terrain is pretty flat, so we make incredible time flying south in our highest gears, reaching flatland sustainable speeds of 15 miles per hour at times. With only a 52 tooth big ring, holding 20 requires a lot of extra effort when fully loaded, and is not worth the caloric expenditure or potential for joint injury. Holding at 15 for a while gets us down the road well, and our spirits are high. We pass several sculptures along the road made from horseshoes. Before we know it, the northern California town of Crescent City is right in front of us.
This town was devastated by a tsunami years ago, but we take a chance and stop at a Grocery Outlet discount market to eat some lunch. The speeds we sustained to get here used up our energy reserves, and the food was welcomed. We met some town officials who were really interested in our trikes. It was a fun visit. We are now only 351 miles north of San Francisco according to the state road signs. My, how time flies when you’re having fun! In Crescent City, I see the perfect delta trike for sale at a gas station: it has a huge fan that propels it forward. But today, neither David nor I need it because the road is so darn flat that we can go as fast as our legs, lungs, and gearing will take us! What a rush. We get some incredible photos of the trikes at the beach.
Of course, all things must pass, this we know. And so, the flat gives way to what cyclists call the Crescent City hill. This is no ordinary hill, but seems more along the lines of the Bellview hill we traversed not long ago in southern Oregon. Yep, my eyes were telling my brain that it is about time to “spin and grin” once again, a mental state where a triker puts the mind somewhere else, and the feet just keep spinning away at those pedals until the summit is reached. Maybe that fan powered delta trike would be just the ticket for this monster.
A sign at the bottom reads: NARROW SHOULDER NEXT 10 MILES WATCH FOR BICYCLES. Hey, what about tricycles? I’m getting a complex. Of course, there is a message carefully hidden inside those words, one not understood by petroleum powered humans, but deeply felt by human powered humans such as David and me. That message? Prepare to fry and cry for the rest of the afternoon. Well, that’s not all the message. The rest is to prepare (eventually) to fly down the other side. What goes up a monster hill must also rocket down at some point … if a triker can live long enough to see the top. Survive the torturous ascent and be rewarded with a heart-throbbing descent, the likes of which you have never known.
We enter the Redwood National and State Parks somewhere along the seemingly endless ascent. We pedal up for what seems like hours. I have not worn a timepiece for more than 20 years now, so my only clue is the position of the sun. David knows the details, but we do not speak on the way up. All our life powers are concentrated in the goal of summit acquisition. I see the top. I reach the top. It is not the top! It is what is known as a false summit. Bummer. Up we go again. More of the same. Death comes slowly and in measured doses as the sun knows no mercy. After a while, I really do see the top. I reach the top. It is not the top! Another false summit. How cruel this flat Earth can be. Christopher Columbus just had to go and prove it wasn’t flat, so now I pay the price. We pedal on, again, hoping for the top, but now mentally defeated, as if there really is no summit to the laughing colossus.
Time marches on. I see the top! I reach the top! It really is the top this time! Six miles, according to the roadside milepost markers, have passed since we have known flat ground. We rest. We eat energy bars. We prepare for what must be the ultimate yahoo ride, a real Mister Toad’s Wild Ride is in store for two very wiped out trike gypsies. Not far from the top on the descent, there is a traffic stoppage for a construction zone. I enter the line of cars and wait just like them. David went through on the last pass. The light turns green. The cars begin moving. I keep pace with them, actually having to brake because they are moving slower, believe it or not.
We all exit the zone together, and I am still pacing the automobiles. What a trip this is! The road is so steep, I am not holding anyone up. I am also not riding on the shoulder anymore because at high speed, trike riding on shoulders is simply foolish. I take a car lane. Car passengers and drivers are amazed to see the show of this little human powered trike coasting at such speed. It’s two miles before the road levels out. It was an 8 mile experience.
Our journey still has us up quite high in elevation compared to down at the beach. David and I pass the boundary to the Del Norte Redwoods State Park. Now David is taking a lot of photos also, amazed at the size of these trees, giants that even a camera with a wide angled lens cannot fully capture or do justice to. Only the eyes and our brains allow full appreciation of this amazing place.
At another high point, we see that the Mill Creek campground in the Del Norte Redwoods State Park is open. We are exhausted now, and turn in to camp, but what we see is heartbreaking. The sign indicates it is another 2.2 miles to the campground off the highway, and as we pedal forth anyway, the road plummets at a grade far steeper than what we have been climbing all afternoon. The road is so degraded from years of no maintenance that potholes and cracks are huge, and very uncomfortable on our trikes. About 100 yards down the insane hill, we stop, look at each other, and simultaneously realize that no, we clearly do not wish to descend this aberration after our hard-fought elevation gains today, and we most certainly do not wish to climb this monstrosity first thing tomorrow morning! Word is that this campground is a triker’s dreamland once there, but the price is just too stiff for David and me to pay, so we return to the main highway and pedal on.
This option we have chosen is also not without unknowns. There are no known campgrounds now for a very long distance, much farther away than we can reasonably pedal in these waning hours of daylight. Our destination tonight is fully uncertain. The road is extremely narrow, with practically no shoulder area much of the way, and the car traffic is exceptionally heavy. We use our flashing taillights, and car drivers are courteous. It is very dark in here because the massive redwood trees filter out much of the sunlight that remains this late in the day. We are too tired to slide into worry mode now. We just keep our forward motion, and realize we will make a spur of the moment decision at some point, perhaps a wild stealth camp in the virgin woods is in store for us tonight!
We finally descend again to the level of the mighty Pacific. Sun is low. The large sea stacks are impressive in this late light. The road turns inland, and before we know it, there we are! I see Paul Bunyan and his blue ox Babe standing there on the left. Paul is waving to me. Babe keeps him company. The light is almost gone from the gigantic statues, and no matte what, I simply must have a photograph of my ICE trike at Paul’s immense left foot. David pulls in shortly, and rides to get in on the action. He knows a great photo op when he sees it! While he is still shooting away, I have an idea, and ride off across Highway 101 to the Forest Cafe.
We are at the world famous Trees of Mystery redwood forest. This place, while certainly a tourist attraction of the first order, is worth the admission price. I have been through it, and highly recommend it to anyone who loves monster trees. I enter the Forest Cafe, greeted by a large stuffed bear who waves at me. I am also greeted by Billy Jo, the hostess, at whom I throw myself to her mercy. I relate our sad tale of woe, with no where to pitch our tents for the night. Might it be possible to inconspicuously pitch two small tents in the deserted gravel lot east of the restaurant? She says yes, and immediately our uncertainty is totally gone. When David pedals up to me outside, I relate the good news, and we decide to eat dinner at the restaurant, and also grab breakfast the next morning. It’s the least we can do for their generosity, for there is no charge to camp. I am even allowed by the other waiter, Joe, to use their private telephone with my calling card, since there is no cellular service in here.
David and I pitch our tents, physically wasted from today’s tests of endurance, and then walk into the restaurant for dinner. I order a black bean veggie burger, which is delicious, the first “normal” food I’ve had for a while – and, it’s hot for a change! David spends his time on their free Wi-Fi signal, updating his website and contacting his wife. We leave a generous tip and hit the sack. The tent flies are damp – something odd about the atmospheric conditions, for the sky is crystal clear, and the night brings a sky that fully displays the edge of the Milky Way. It is so awesome here. Serendipity has played a role. We are safe and having a great time, with two killer hills now behind us – but, of course, on this coastal route, there are many more where they came from! Sleep quickly overtakes us.
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DAY 5
September 07, 2013, Saturday
Trees of Mystery to Patrick’s Point State Park, California
40 miles (running total = 250 miles)
As David and I arise prior to sunup, it is clear that our tent flies are heavily laden with moisture. The night was totally clear, yet this odd dynamic with water presents itself. This large gravel lot was put in recently, and partly covers a ravine just next to our tents. Perhaps a stream or other water source that we did not observe while setting up the tents is nearby, causing the wetness. In any event, it’s time to do some drying. I carry a small piece of chamois cloth (9×9 inches) that I cut out of a large old chamois for my first trike trek in 2009. I wipe off the fly as best I can, wring out the chamois, and then wipe off the waterproof pannier covers on my Arkel bags. After removing the tent fly, I shake it vigorously to clear any remaining moisture, but still, it must be stowed in a less than dry condition.
My tent is new this trip. It is a NEMO (New England Mountaineering) Obi one-person tent, which I am totally loving every camp. Compared to my old two-person REI tent, this is very easy to pitch and strike, and it weighs half of the other tent I had on my first two expeditions. The Obi came in a waterproof carrying bag, suitable for easy storage in a backpack. I chose to not use that bag because when I put gear away damp like this, I do not want it tightly packed. My intuition tells me that loosely packing the gear will allow it to dry more efficiently, so, I pack it, loosely folded (not rolled) in a larger REI stuff sack, but the tent and sleeping pad I put in the sack is not stuffed at all. There is much air space surrounding all the items. Then, I place it in one of my Radical Design side seat pods, which is breathable and gets good sun during the day. The next evening when I pull it all out, there may be a little residual dampness on the fly, but it is far less than had I rolled it tightly in a tiny stuff sack.
At the Forest Cafe restaurant, we park our trikes right out front, having loaded our gear already. Immediately, folks staying at the motel start looking at them, and then stopping by our table to chat about the trip. We are the center of attention throughout our early morning eating. David orders a breakfast, and then gets right to work updating his website with all the latest PCTA news for his students at Glendora High School. Being the crazy health nut guy I am, I order hot oatmeal, to which I add my wheat bran, green veggie power, and raisins. I eat like this normally, but on a trip where diet is compromised somewhat, I find the wheat bran added to my granola each morning (3 heaping spoonfuls) keeps my pipes running clear, which is a good thing when using camp bathrooms, or facilities less than optimal from a sanitation standpoint. Quick in and out makes for a hassle-free experience.
We take our time, eating, talking with people, and tending to electronic business, then shove off down Highway 101 again in the early morning sunshine. It isn’t long at all before we have to remove light jackets as we are heating up from our pedaling. The road is pretty flat here, so we remain in high gears and knock down some miles in short order. I take a photo of David as he pedals ahead of me, with a SLOWER TRAFFIC KEEP RIGHT sign next to him, accentuating the mode of progress from the point of view of an overland triker. Highways 101 and 1 have several names, depending on which state and where in that state you are. Today, and for days to come, this section of 101 is called the Redwood Highway due to the huge redwood tree groves with which it dances.
Eventually, the highway begins to climb in elevation as it proceeds farther inland, away from the ocean. We arrive at a junction where the Pacific Coast Bicycle Route shows an alternate way to go, off the main highway for several miles. This is the old highway, and it goes to Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park, a stunningly gorgeous natural preserve of colossal redwood trees. It adds miles to the trip, but is well worth the extra distance. We stop at the offramp, discuss options, and agree that this side trip will be one well taken. Off we pedal, up the hill, and into the deep big woods with little auto traffic.
Once we arrive at the visitor center for the state park, which also includes an incredible campground facility, we chat with a couple of young gals who are on their own bicycle journey south along the Pacific Coast. They will be staying here at Prairie Creek for two nights, so this is likely the final time we shall see them. It is far too early for David and me to call it a day, especially considering his time schedule to arrive in Morro Bay by the 20th of September, so we head on out after looking around, taking a snack break, filling our water bottles with pure redwood forest water, and chatting with some other interested onlookers. Signs warn us to stay away from the elk. This is a refreshing rest from the road. Back onto the highway towards Eureka we merrily pedal.
In the tiny town of Orick, we stop at the little market to get some fresh veggies and nuts. David buys a large pack of ice to resupply his small ice cooler trunk, and then peddles the remainder to some folks in a camper truck, who happen to be from the Bend, Oregon region. I laugh at him for all his ice, and he reluctantly poses for a photo. We are having a great time together. After Orick, the road is flat, and takes us back to the ocean through agricultural lands with cows and patchy fog rolling in.
Past some large lagoons we ride, and then the road soars back upward into the hills once again. As it crests finally, we come into view of a huge body of water, which is actually called Big Lagoon, and is part of Big Lagoon Park. On the far side of this gigantic body of water is the point where we will spend the night. It is called Patrick’s Point State Park, and there is fantastic hiker/biker camping awaiting us there. Often, it is all fogged in, and the ocean is not visible in the cold foggy air, but this time of year, it is crystal clear, not a cloud in the sky, and pleasantly warm – custom made for us weary overland trikers! Patrick’s Point is one of the best overnights on the entire Pacific Coast if you hit the weather right, as we are doing today. September is my recommended month, but keep in mind, on overland trike journeys, the only certainty is uncertainty! There are absolutely no guarantees.
I take a photograph of David as he crests this hill, and then he is gone, flying down towards the lagoon, and around the water to the point. After several more miles on the Highway 101 freeway, open to cyclists legally, and very safe due to the wide shoulders, we arrive at Patrick’s Point State Park. It is still relatively early, so pitching of the camp is leisurely and easy. While setting up our night’s camp, Tim Cassese silently rides in like a phantom, and asks to share our secluded bounty overlooking the ocean on this bluff. We quickly agree, and the three of us enjoy all there is to enjoy here.
There is an impressively tall rock monolith right next to our camping area, called Lookout Rock. Being a wilderness explorer of sorts, after pitching the tent and eating dinner, I walk over to it through the trees. There is a pathway to the top! It is chiseled out of the stone, with rocks placed as necessary for foot steps. The way is narrow, steep, and precarious, but I simply must reach the top and take in the views of the grand ocean before the sun sets. I am wearing my SIDI Dominator 5 mountain bike cycling shoes, not the best thing for hiking like this, but make it to the summit anyway. Awesome vistas present themselves to my eyes and brain. I am ecstatic, and take some photographs. I return to camp, and tell David and Tim that this is a “must see” before the sun settles down into the salty water to the west. They take my suggestion and hurry on up for their own pictures and memories.
The shower facility for the hiker/biker camp is brand new. I find a shower that, while supposedly requiring quarters, operates just fine by pushing the button without money. I have made it a habit to always check first. Sometimes showers just come on, so I don’t argue. This particular park charges 50 cents for five minutes. Some charge 75 cents or a dollar for five minutes. Still, no matter what the charge, a warm shower each evening is surely a treat, especially for this overland trike nomad, who is used to an inland route along the eastern Sierra, where campgrounds and showers are virtually nonexistent.
Night finally falls. David’s tent is aglow with soft interior light from his electronic gizmos as he records the trip’s happenings and makes cell phone calls. Tim must already be bedded down. I take a couple photos of me in the NEMO Obi tent for kicks and grins, update my logbook by headlamp light, and then fall fast asleep in nothing flat. Trike pedaling all day long does that to a person. Sleeping is easy! As with many coastal camps, sounds of fog horns and/or sea lions are heard in the still and quiet night air. It is dry and warm all night, with no moisture on the fly or gear.
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DAY 6
September 08, 2013, Sunday
Patrick’s Point State Park to Stafford RV Park (2 miles north of Avenue of the Giants), California
59 miles (running total = 309 miles)
We all awaken to a dry camp. No dampness is on anything, so unlike yesterday morning, we pack away our gear fully dry this time. Tim is making his peanut butter and chocolate spread on tortillas breakfast. I pour my granola, adding wheat bran, veggie powder, and raisins. It is a grand morning … except for one potential issue that has been developing.
David has become the victim of an infection, which began manifesting itself yesterday, but he was hoping to beat it through the night’s rest. He has medication for this occasional issue at home, but did not bring it with him on this trip. This morning, he feels really bad, and it seems to be worsening rather than getting better. He informs me that he will likely be leaving the PCTA today, having found an airport on his iPhone near Arcata, California, where they rent Hertz automobiles. His plan is to ride south to this airport with me this morning, which is about 13 miles south of our Patrick’s Point camp, and then depart in a rental car back to his home in Glendora, California. Of course, this immediately saddens me to hear, as his company has proven very pleasant for me. I enjoy the camaraderie of a kindred triking spirit. Challenges often seem less daunting when shared with a good friend, and so it has been on this adventure.
This Pacific Coast Tricycle Adventure (PCTA) is now reminding me of the 2011 Coast to Cactus Tricycle Expedition (CCTE). On both expeditions, the crew consisted of three cyclists at the onset, yet two of the three faced issues that led to them leaving prematurely. This is Day Six, and it now seems that the days between now and September 20 when I reach Morro Bay will be spent solo once again. Twelve days of solo riding now are ahead of me, unless I meet up with other cyclists along the way who wish to ride with me. Chances of meeting a triker though are next to zero. There are scores of bicyclists, but a triker? Not a chance.
We pedal out of Patrick’s Point, heavy with the impending separation. David really wants to complete this overland journey, and so besides the infection hitting him hard, the sadness of having to stop short is also hitting him hard. At least his final night’s camp was as good as they come. He tells me that last night was his favorite of all the campgrounds so far.
After a lot of up and down pedaling in the typical morning fog, we arrive in Trinidad, California, hit the small market, eat some snacks, and sit in front of the post office as David finalizes his plans with his wife on the iPhone. A local war veteran who plays a First American flute, tells us of a wonderful shortcut off of Highway 101 that takes us straight into Arcata, with ocean views all the way. He says all the cyclists take it, and if we can’t find it, we deserve to be lost. He points to the road near the on-ramp to the highway, and says to just take that road right there for the best ride, which he insists beats the highway experience. Okay, I say. Let’s give it a shot, although I have never heard of this road.
Well, to make a short and miserable story even shorter, this road has not been maintained by any governmental agency in decades. It is loaded with potholes, has fallen away down the cliff side, is full of huge cracks where earth movement has broken the road, and is of the “chip seal” variety that simply jitters a cyclist nearly to death. Sure, the view beats having gotten back on Highway 101, of that there is no doubt, but the going is so very slow and painfully tedious that every ounce of potential enjoyment is sucked right out of our heads. We are miserable on this most horrible of all horrible roads, just creeping along most of the way to avoid crashing, and pedaling up rather steep, but fortunately short, inclines along the cliff. After a couple miles of this hellish torture, we come to a DEAD END sign! The road dead-ends into nothing, meaning that all our endurance of this gauntlet was for naught, especially considering that David feels miserable to begin with due to his infection, and this agony has only magnified his suffering! Lucky for us there is a short road that leads back to the main highway here, so we turn left, get on the steep on-ramp, and are back to smooth sailing to the Arcata airport and David’s rental car. Lesson learned? Never take an alternate route if in ANY doubt – the main highway is nearly always the shortest and easiest route, well maintained, with the most gentle of grades.
Back on Highway 101 and flying along, we pass a sign that indicates 8 more miles to Arcata. Then, it happens! We arrive at the off-ramp to the airport, so I stop to wait for David. He rolls up and reiterates that he must leave the PCTA due to his degrading health issue. I take some photos of his trike, and of us together one last time, and then watch solemnly as he pedals down the off-ramp named 722. Our early hours today were shared, yet what happens next will be wholly different. Our worlds have been ripped apart, and our stories are no longer similar from here on out.
I do not know what became of my friend. As I pedal along towards Eureka on the flat and very fast roadway, I wonder how he is feeling, and if he will get a car and be able to drive home today. I do not keep my borrowed cell phone turned on, so can receive no incoming calls from David. This phone is very old, and the battery does not last long, so I only turn it on at evening camps to notify family of my whereabouts, and then off it goes until the next night. Since there is not always cell service, and since I keep calls short, the battery lasts long enough to eventually find a suitable recharging solution, which is often a plug in a campground bathroom, trusting that no one will abscond with it during the hour recharging. If I suspect that an upcoming camp will not be in a cell service area, I will sometimes make a midday call and simply leave a short update message. I try to call a correspondent with the online name of Desert Dune, who has volunteered to update the Trike Phantoms website for this Pacific Coast Tricycle Adventure.
The highway is lined in many areas with huge eucalyptus trees, and the smell is lovely, like the oil that comes from these trees and can be purchased in stores. Growing up as a young lad, my parents’ house had five eucalyptus trees in the backyard, so I grew to love the aroma always out the back door. These trees have an orange cast, and their long slender leaves that have fallen line the road now and then if the weather in a particular area has been cold enough to initiate fall-like conditions.
At 44 feet above sea level, I reach the limits of a town with nearly 30,000 residents. I need to pee, and there is an opening in the heavy shrubbery to the side of the shoulder here, where I notice an old and abandoned railroad track. I park my trike at the city limit sign of Eureka, walk through the opening in the bushes, into total privacy, and realize I am smack dab in the middle of an extensive blackberry patch! It’s my lucky day! After watering the old trestles, I have a grand time picking and eating all the blackberries I want. I did not expect such a treat, but since it’s here, I take full advantage of it. No one will be picking these berries this far out, including bears, so might as well use them before they shrivel up.
The next stop is the Target store on the northern edge of town. It is an easy off and on to the highway, so I pedal into the shade of the store, park the trike, and shop for an ice cold protein drink and some fresh strawberries and cherry tomatoes. I also make a cell update call here, and leave a message, figuring that tonight I will likely be back up deep in the forest, with no service. Then, into the main town I head.
When I pedal through most towns, I remain on the main thoroughfare for expediency sake, but Eureka has a bike route worth taking. Yes, it does go through back areas where bums are living in the bushes around industrial areas, but it also skirts a nice marina, and then takes the cyclist past the private member Ingomar Club, which is housed in the world famous Victorian mansion that appears on post cards and other travel memorabilia. I grab a shot of the ICE Q right in front, and have a good laugh imagining this as my private residence. Of course, it runs completely counter to my way of seeing life, the antithesis of my wilderness ideologies. I am a 62 year old tricycle rider. Clearly, I don’t do things like everyone else. When the herd turns right, I turn left. This expression of overindulgent opulence is a tribute to someone’s ego out of control years ago, shouting to look at what I have, when nearly a billion humans are starving to death.
It requires a long time to get through Eureka, as there are many stoplights along the way. I make good time however, stop in a Chevron convenience store, fill my water bottles with ice cold water, and then book on out the south side back into the wilds. One of the first things I notice is a large billboard with Sasquatch chasing some campers in their car, as they drive through a big redwood tree. This is advertising the Avenue of the Giants, a world famous series of redwood groves that are so expansive that at midday on a sunny day, it is dark inside the forest. I have been through this avenue, and highly recommend it to touring cyclists. It adds mileage to the route, of that there is no doubt, and it adds hills and time too, but the big trees are worth the effort. I was fully planning on taking this wonderful side trip with David, but since he is now but a memory, I will remain on Highway 101 to cut down on my mileage, work load, and time frame. There are many challenging uphills on the coastal route, and now my goal is to avoid any unnecessary ones.
The road it pretty flat much of the way today, and I make good time in high gears once again. The rest from uphills is welcomed. The milepost markers seem to fly by, which is fine with me, especially since I’m still bummed out that David is no longer part of the team. My mind today says to lay down as many miles as I can as I adapt to the new solo routine. Solo riding has its advantages though, the major one being that I can do what I want when I want, on the spur of the moment, without any consultation necessary. This typically makes for quicker progress, yet I would rather have a companion and the fun of shared decision making.
Now the day is wearing on. The sun is rapidly getting lower. There are no state campgrounds anywhere close to where I will end up today, and now I am facing the potential for a wild stealth camp again. Being solo, wild camps are easy. It’s easier for one guy and one trike to inconspicuously blend into the environment than two people with two trikes. One reason I chose the new NEMO Obi one person tent is due to its ultra small size and rapid setup time. Big tents may be nice in dedicated campgrounds, but they are a liability for stealth situations. Plus, the NEMO tent is dark gray and black without the fly, so it virtually disappears into the darkened night forest.
The next small town, called Rio Dell, has a camping sign, so I exit the freeway, pedal over the overpass, and quickly find within about three blocks that whatever the highway sign was referring to is no longer here. It’s just a bunch of old run-down homes with no further signing of anything. I turn around, stop on the overpass, make a quick cell call in case there is no later service, and return to the highway via the on-ramp. The road is still wide and relatively flat, so I fly along towards my unknown destination as the sun continues to race towards the horizon. The little town of Scotia comes and goes, with no available camping. Things are looking dicey.
I notice the big AVENUE OF THE GIANTS sign coming up ahead. On a tricycle, one sees road signs for a much longer time period than folks in high speed automobiles. On a tricycle, I can also stop anywhere along the shoulder to take photographs. Ahh, the freedom of the trike is exhilarating! As I approach an off-ramp next to the big sign, I notice off to the left side of the highway, a large sign that reads STAFFORD RV PARK, and my spirits rise with thoughts of an easy camp without any hassles or worries. I exit, pedal under the underpass, ride down the rural road of old houses, junk cars, and barking dogs. Just when I think this might be yet another dead end, there is the RV park, not the type of camp I would usually pick, but perhaps the best solution this late in the day.
Into the RV park I silently roll. I walk up the steps of the old mobile home in which the elderly couple live who own the massive acreage of towering redwood trees. Their little “yipper” dog goes nuts, being surprised by my quiet presence. The wife tells me it’s $18 for a tent campsite. I think to myself that I could stay for more than 3 nights at hiker/biker camps in the state campgrounds, but suck up my logical pride and ante up the bucks. Besides, this lady and her 86 year old husband are very nice to me, and I am too tired to seek other solutions this evening. She asks me if I would like an ice cold Arrowhead water to drink, which they sell. I ask how much it costs. She takes pity on my pedal pushing body, and just hands it to me while saying, “It’s free!”
I ask if there is cell service here. She says yes and no. Over there at the road, people can get it, but just these ten yards to where you are standing knock it out for some reason. I walk over and fire up the cell, dogs barking, but not aggressing. I get service, so I update Desert Dune about what’s going on. Then, I pedal way back into the redwood grove to find the tent area. Gorgeous! This choice, even though pricey, is a good one, and I’ll be able to take a long hot free shower tonight to boot! I find a great place to pitch my tent right at the base of a colossal redwood tree, and as I look around, what do I behold? You won’t believe this!
Yes, just a few yards to the west, next to a tent already pitched, is … hold onto your helmets, a (I can’t hardly believe it myself) human powered recumbent tadpole tricycle! Unbelievable. I know how rare it is to see these things out on the road, but here one is in the next campsite. I call out “hello” to find the rider, but no response is forthcoming. He must be taking a shower, I think. The mystery triker’s ride is a blue Greenspeed Magnum, the new heavy duty trike introduced in 2011 by the Australian trike company. I know Ian Sims, the owner of Greenspeed, and think that I have to tell him about this when I see him at the 2013 Recumbent Cycle Convention this coming November. I will be manning a booth there, and so will he.
Having pitched my tent, I sit down at the old picnic table among the giants to eat some precooked rice and a 3 ounce packet of salmon, protein and carbohydrates to rebuild what I destroy each day on the road. Midway through my meal, as darkness slowly encroaches, Sid Cheek walks over and introduces himself. He is 64 years old, and tells me he is on one of his “bucket list” endeavors, that being something a person really wants to do before he dies. I think to myself that he is awful young to be engaging in bucket list things, but I have no idea if there is something that might afflict him I don’t know about, thereby prematurely terminating his life power. Sid is only two years older than me, and I have no thoughts whatsoever of bucket list things. Life is yet young and vital, and bucket list activities seems somewhat depressing to me.
We talk a bit, but I cut it short eventually so I can go get into the shower across the big field before it gets too dark to see in here. As I shower, I consider Sid’s undertaking. He lives in the midwest portion of the United States. He has a son in Puyallup, Washington, which is where he began his trike odyssey. He is riding from his son’s house, south to the Mexican border, and then east to the southern most tip of the Florida panhandle! This is his first trike ride cross country. The distance, and solo no less, makes my head spin. Sid says that 20-30 mile days are his maximum. Today he rode 40 miles and said it nearly did him in. He is in pain tonight, and taking Ibuprofen to ease his suffering. Tomorrow, he will be pedaling through the Avenue of the Giants. I hope for the best for Sid. He is a really mellow and nice guy. He will also be on the road for a VERY long time, many months if successful at reaching his stated objective at the Atlantic Ocean.
After my shower, I crawl into my tent, put on my headlamp, write in my journal, and then fall quickly into a deep sleep, content to know that the giant redwoods loom all around me. I feel at home in this awesome forest, and the pine needles below the tent make for a very comfortable sleep. The weather is dry, with no chance of rain.
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DAY 7
September 09, 2013, Monday
Stafford RV Park to Richardson Grove State Park, California
47 miles (running total = 356 miles)
First thing in the predawn morning, I get up. Sid is already up over at his table. I take the time to snap some photographs after eating my granola, as he is about to depart for the Avenue of the Giants ride. He rolls his trike over for me to get the pictures. I tell him I will be placing him on my websites eventually after my journey. Then, I watch as he pedals out towards Highway 101, for another day on the endless highway of adventure. He got about a 30 minute head start on me, but I will probably not see him again. Sid will be turning off 101 in two miles for the side trip, but I will be remaining on 101 for the more direct route. Not only that, but our daily average mileages are vastly different.
Speaking of daily average mileages, I am noticing on this coastal journey a different daily mileage paradigm at work. On my former trike treks inland through eastern California, where campgrounds are rarely found, I usually just pedal the trike until about an hour before sunset, judging the time based on where I see the sun in the sky. This is because camps are frequently wild stealth affairs, so I make the most of the daylight hours. This translates into a higher daily average over the course of the journey, around 67 miles per day. On this coastal route, where many known state campgrounds exist, I find I am planning the days based on staying at the next reasonable state camp, so the riding day is typically terminated earlier in the day. I suspect that on this journey, my average daily mileage will be more around the 50 miles per day range. Oh, the trade-offs for a hot shower each evening, ha ha.
Today seems to be warming up rather rapidly, probably because I am heading inland, farther and farther from the cooler ocean with each pedal stroke. I pass through Humboldt Redwoods State Park early in the day, and then continue on through and past the little towns of Weott, Myers Flat, and Miranda. It is now sometime approaching midday, and I am getting really hot. There are no clouds this far inland, and no breeze either. Not only that, but my two water bottles on the mainframe of my trike have finally reached an empty state – I have one liter left in my rear pannier for emergencies, but hope to find some water prior to accessing it. The elderly owner of Stafford RV Park said it was 83 degrees Fahrenheit there yesterday, but it feels like 83 has come and long since left right now on the air’s incessant march towards more scorching temperatures. Of course, these numbers are not so bad depending on what one is doing, but a triker pedaling up hills in full sun has less tolerance than someone sitting on their deck in the shade.
Highway 101 is gaining elevation ahead of me, wide open in the sun. There is an off-ramp coming up, showing signs for the towns of Redway and Garberville. The sign displays numerous local businesses, something that was not shown in Weott or Miranda, so I make a spur of the moment decision to exit into the shade of the trees. I pedal into the driveway of the first business I see on the right, a small motel. I have no idea what the temperature is, but I am beginning to realize that today may be a might more intolerable than any day prior on this trek. Inside the office, I ask the rotund lady if there is a water facet at which I might fill my two bottles, as perspiration is clearly visible on my shirt. She directs me to the laundry room sink. I walk over only to find my 24 ounce Hostel Shoppe bottles are too tall to fit under the facet. I return to the office, where she somewhat reluctantly agrees to fill them in the office. I ask the woman if there is a market nearby, and she tells me of a nice local market in Redway, just up the road a mile or so. I also ask her what the temperature has been here lately. She responds that yesterday’s high was 101 degrees. I thank her, get back on the Q, guzzle some water, and pedal up the hill towards the heart of town.
I locate the Redway Shop Smart market, a modern and nice looking store with all expected amenities of any well stocked market. However, things are oddly bizarre here. The town is old and rundown for such a nice market. The small parking lot is absolutely packed with cars and traffic in and out is almost perilous for a triker. As I always do, I park the trike right by the front entrance, which was a challenge because of the large number of people entering and exiting. And the people, boy are there some anomalies compared to any other market I’ve been to thus far!
In a former life, I was a cop, so I have loads of experience with alternative folks of all walks of life. It takes a lot to unnerve me, yet this place is certainly on the spectrum of mental composure. I would say that conservatively, only about 5% of the folks I see right now are what you would consider “normal” people. Now, I realize that this discussion borders on what is called profiling, a prejudgment of people based on their appearance and outward demeanors, but what I am seeing is so “out there” that my mind certainly wonders if I have entered the Twilight Zone or something.
Most people I see have not apparently bathed in quite some time, a matter of many days to be more precise. Most are well endowed with numerous tattoos, earrings, piercings, and other decorative embellishments that scream anti-establishment to the maximum. Most are smoking cigarettes, many have “dreadlock” hair arrangements that are filthy, and everywhere I look, the “others” are sitting in the shade on the sidewalks trying to stay cool. One is playing a guitar. Many look really out of it mentally, as if they are recovering from a bad hangover, or are on some kind of an illicit drug. Some have knives in scabbards hanging from their belts. Most clothing has not been washed in probably days or even weeks. I mean, this place is so far off the normal zone that it defines a new normal called Redway.
In all my experience, I have never witnessed something this bizarre. I’ve seen a lot, but nothing this concentrated in such a tiny area in such a tiny backwoods town. One man, about 5 feet 7 inches tall, stares oddly at me as he enters the store. I continue to eat my foot and drink my Odwalla protein monster drinks on the newsstand next to my trike. The trike looks so oddly out of place here! That same man who stared at me going in, now exits the store.
He is very dirty, with earrings and tattoos. He steps out of the market entrance, cool air-conditioned freshness spilling out onto me in the oppressive heat even in this shade, and stops about an arm’s length from me. He faces me directly, stares directly into my eyes, and says absolutely nothing as I sip my Odwalla and pop another cherry tomato into my mouth. Finally, after a time that would indicate to a sane person that something is really weird here, he speaks. “How are you?” he asks me in a very zombie like monotone voice, staring blankly into my eyes with his nonblinking and expressionless eyes. I realize my description here borders on what you may consider overreacting, but I assure you of its accuracy.
So here is the scene: I am hot beyond belief in this totally still, what must by now surely be triple-digit air, even though in the shade. I’d rather eat in the market, but they have no place to sit down. The ambiance is so bizarre that all I really wish to do is finish my food and drink and get out of here. I’m hot. I’m tired as a result from all the pedaling in the heat, and the last thing I wish to do is engage a man clearly under the influence of some substance that is not conducive to human longevity. I am indeed a rogue maverick, but this guy, and most of the others, are not of my philosophical mindset. So, staring right back into this man’s eyes, I respond with one short cold sentence: “I am not in any mood to talk.” There is a noticeable hesitation as his numbed brain attempts to process my meaning. At long last, without another word, he does a military twist on his right foot and ambles off into the parking lot somewhere. Moments later, a tall dark man in tattered dirty clothing, with earrings and a nosering, dreadlocks hanging about his chest and shoulders, and with an equally bizarre woman standing behind him, asks me if I have a knife. He has an orange he needs to peel. I simply say no, finish my last sip of protein drink, and carefully maneuver my trike out to the parking lot, where I click into the pedals and begin pumping.
On my way out of the market driveway, an unkempt gal playing a guitar on the curb, with a sign asking passerby for money, tells me she likes my trike, and wants one for herself. I smile, tell her how fun they are, and quickly pedal out onto the roadway, which is slightly downhill, allowing me to reach a high speed quickly so as to distance myself from this den of craziness. Within short order, I sail past the city limit sign, into a dead-air canyon and a heat blast that exceeds anything I’ve ever felt, even out in the Mojave Desert or Death Valley on the trike. The air is also heavy with humidity, making things even worse.
No sooner am I dying a million deaths in this canyon than the road climbs a steep hill into the neighboring town of Garberville. In low/low, I am out of water already, and it was only a few miles back that I refilled the bottles. Near the top of the hill, I see a gas utility building on the left. It is very modern, and looks perfectly normal compared to the Shop Smart market. I pedal up its steep driveway and park under the shade of a lone tree, although shade in this heat is marginal at best. Once inside, I walk up to the well dressed people behind the customer service desk, apologizing for my ragged looks, wondering in my mind if they think of me what I was thinking of those folks at the market.
In my best English grammar, with the utmost in politeness and articulation being put forth, I provide the reason for my situation (pedaling a tricycle for hundreds of miles and living in a tent), and provide further clues that I am a highly educated and compassionate man who does not have any association with the readily observable populace in Redway. A customer next to me, an elderly woman paying her utility bill, is interested in my journey, and begins a conversation. I ask the lady behind the desk if she might fill my water bottles. She happily agrees, and provides not just water, but ice water! The air conditioned room is a haven to me, and I hate to leave, but I still have miles to go, so I bid my farewells and thank them for their acts of kindness.
Just as I am about to leave the building, I hesitate, turn around, and ask if they happen to know the outside temperature today. The clerk tells me they are having a freak heat wave this week. She further states to my nearly brain-dead head that the temperature outside right now is 107 degrees! How about that! The day I decide to pedal a tricycle through Garberville, California, it is 107 stagnant degrees without a cloud in the sky. Guess this makes up for all those chilly and foggy mornings up in Oregon. Okay, I’ve paid my dues. I’m outta’ here!
As I pedal through the remainder of Garberville, I observe many people similar to those observed in Redway, sitting under curbside trees, sometimes in group, smoking and playing guitars, and just trying to survive the sweltering heat. This town is definitely more “upscale” appearing than Redway though. On the ensuing uphill grades out of town and farther down the highway, I stop many times for rest in whatever shade I can find. As the afternoon rolls along, the shade stretches farther across the pavement, providing more wonderful opportunity at relief. I am just poking along now, with practically nothing left to keep me powered up.
Forty-seven miles into the day, a day I shall never forget, I finally arrive at Richardson Grove State Park, now fully back into deep redwood forests. Some California state parks are no longer staffed on weekdays because of the state’s indebtedness, so I self-register and proceed to the hiker/biker camp, which is a tiny pie-shaped wedge of ground barely big enough for 5 tents. There are two picnic tables. I need a shower, tons of water, and some food. I need to revive what is left of me!
Here there is a French-Canadian woman named Pierrette, who is pedaling a bicycle and trailer for world peace, all over the United States and Canada. She is an admirer of the late Peace Pilgrim, a woman who walked tens of thousands of miles in tennis shoes for world peace. She never owned a car. Pierrette was cut from the same mold as Peace Pilgrim. She was writing in her journal when I arrived. There were some other hikers there. A little later, a fellow named Alan, from Arizona, rides in on his Surley Long Haul Trucker touring bicycle. Alan is packed with Ortlieb waterproof panniers, an obvious veteran of the overland cycling clan. He wears an Arizona jersey, with the state’s star and sun-ray symbols emblazoned upon it.
It has been a very difficult day for me, not really the bizarre people in Redway at Shop Smart, but primarily the extreme humid heat of 107 degrees. Physically, I am drained, and chat only briefly with my camp companions before I go hit the showers through the woods. After cleaning up and returning to my tent and trike, Alan walks over to talk about the trike. I tell him about Redway, and he knows precisely what I’m describing. Alan tells me that there are many marijuana growers in that region, and the people who live on the streets there are simply waiting in hopes of being hired to work the illicit farms in the forest. Alan seems to know this from some reliable source. I just want to go to bed in this cooler evening air, so I really don’t care. I excuse myself and crawl into the Obi for the night. Sleep quickly overtakes me.
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DAY 8
September 10, 2013, Tuesday
Richardson Grove State Park to Standish-Hickey State Park, California
15 miles (running total = 371 miles)
I awake refreshed, and enjoy my morning bowl of granola amid the towering redwoods. It is quiet. Only Alan is up. The others, who drank a lot of liquor last night, are still tucked away in the sleeping bags in the dark forest. Alan and I talk as I eat. I need to do a laundry again. Heat waves have a way of making this necessary. One of the fellows who was at camp last night walked over from a nearby RV park where he is staying, and told me to stop by his tent in the morning and I could do a laundry at the RV park (just tell them, if they ask, you’re with me). So, it’s early, and I decide to take advantage of the offer.
The laundry room is old and somewhat run down, but here it is, and I am the only one up to use it. Once started, I sit outside and wait. Large RVs are all around me. Once the folks start getting up, the men folks walk over to learn all about my trike. I answer many questions with a smile for a long time. I figure if these folks like me, I’m as good as in here, and won’t be hassled by anyone for doing a laundry, which technically, I am not suppose to be doing here since I’m not a paid guest. This is a very conservative park, with conservative patrons, and there are religious sayings affixed to all the walls of the laundry room. I do my entire laundry without negative incident. One man tells me how dangerous my mode of transportation is. I thank him, load the clothing back in my Arkel panniers, and pedal onto Highway 101 south, heading for Standish-Hickey State Park.
Standish-Hickey State Park is only 14 more miles down the road, but I decide to stay there tonight. Coming from my head, this sounds rather out of place because I enjoy high mileage days, but I have two reasons for a short day. First and foremost, I have eaten up a substantial amount of my morning riding time doing a laundry and talking with all the fellows who gathered around to learn about my trike. Second, beyond Standish-Hickey State Park 2 miles, I will be departing Highway 101 after all these days, and taking Highway 1 out of Leggett, California, over the 22 very steep and long mountainous miles back to the Pacific Ocean. There is no known campground (at least in my knowledge base) for quite a ways from Standish-Hickey State Park, so I would rather pitch my tent early today, really rest up a lot, and then tackle the infamous Leggett Hill first thing in the morning tomorrow, when it’s foggy and cool outside. This strategy will set me up perfectly for a moderate 59 mile day the next day into Van Damme State Park along the coast.
It is an easy day for me. Fifteen total miles through the redwood forest is wonderful. Still, it’s hot though, so the shade feels good. It is certainly no where near as hot as yesterday in Redway and Garberville. I take my time pedaling, realizing that I can easily arrive at Standish-Hickey long before sunset. The state park comes into view in early afternoon. I make a stop at the market across the street, and, true to form, scarf up my Odwalla protein monster drinks (all three of them), along with a couple bananas, and other good stuff.
Regarding protein, I am maintaining an intake level of 90 to 100 grams of protein per day. I am keeping it this high because cycling is continually breaking down the muscle tissue, which rebuilds itself from protein intake. Normally, when working out off season, I train every other day, with a day of rest in between to allow for muscle recuperation. Overland trike treks are not so kind on the body, as there is no rest sufficient for muscle growth, or at least one would deduce based on extrapolated logic. I like to give my body every advantage I can, and since I know that it is being stressed maximally most days on the road, I decide to “feed the machine” all I can. Interestingly, on these trips, my leg muscles do noticeably increase in volume. I can see the results as the trip goes along, and by the end, it is clear that my legs are much more defined with more muscle mass. One-hundred grams of high quality protein each day maximizes this dynamic.
I also supply the machine with high fat foods, primarily mixed nuts or trail mixes. They are high in healthy mono-unsaturated fats, which give me loads of energy for these long steep uphills. The protein may rebuild the muscles each night at camp, but it requires the fat to fuel the burn that breaks the muscles down in the first place, which leads to overcompensation, thus increased size and strength. And I eat plenty of fresh fruits and veggies at the daily market stops, in addition to the green veggie power I spoon into my granola every morning for extra insurance.
My largest expense item on overland trike trips is food. At the Safeway supermarkets and other stores, I spare no money in fueling my living machine. Price is not a consideration when out on a trike journey. This is unbelievably difficult work pedaling cross country, and it would not demonstrate wisdom to use money as the determining factor in what I eat. At Safeway, for example, their trail mix packages are very pricey, and the Odwalla protein drinks are too. Veggies and fruits are cheap. It is not unusual for me to spend upwards of $20 at times on a tough day. It is always at least $10 in any market where I buy “eat on the spot” food. I like cold drinks on hot days, and chilled strawberries. Hiker/biker camp sites are typically $5 per night, so you can see that the food bill will comprise the bulk of what this trip ends up costing.
Shortly after 2:30 PM, I pedal into Standish-Hickey State Park campground, pay my five dollars, and cruise into the hiker/biker camping area. The area is huge, well maintained, right next to multiple private showers and toilets, with an outdoor sink for washing cycle clothing, and electrical outlets for charging electrical devices like cell phones. There are already five cyclists here, so I walk around and introduce myself to them. A husband/wife couple from New Zealand, Mike and Les who live in Aukland, are the first I meet. They tell me to learn more at http://getjealous.com\crang, a website that apparently tells about their adventures.
Next, I walk over to another picnic table and meet Bert Lensink from Victoria, British Columbia and Vic Krueger from Vancouver, British Columbia. They have been riding together on diamond frame touring bicycles since northern Washington. They too are really nice and very enjoyable to visit. They seem to have this touring business down to a fine science. Bert and Vic are slightly older than I am. And again, I see Alan from Arizona sitting at a table, smoking one of his 25 daily cigarettes. Alan is an alternative type of fellow, perhaps a bit rough around the edges for some refined folks, but I really am starting to like the guy. He is very likable if one doesn’t find him frightening. I think he’s a kick in the pants to talk to, a real straight shooter who is honest to a fault, even if it puts some people off. His knowledge of this Pacific Coast route is incredible, having pedaled it before. I ask him many questions, and he usually knows the answer – impressive.
For an hour or so, we all visit, with no one else arriving, but then, sometime after 4 PM, after we have all showered, they start coming in. First a trickle, then a torrent. I realize that so many bikers are arriving now that to go around and get all their names won’t really work. I want to take a group shot of us all for the website when we numbered about 10, but by the time the afternoon turned into evening, and the total number swells to 17 cyclists, all working diligently at setting their camps, cleaning up, and eating, it becomes apparent that I will simply visit and behold the activities. One gal sets up an elaborate hammock, and explains how it is that you don’t fall out. I greet everyone who pedals up with a smile and a welcome to our camp spiel. This is fun.
With my borrowed cell phone charged, dinner eaten, shower taken, visiting accomplished, a tomato eaten that Mike and Les did not want, and darkness finally descending upon our lively gypsy camp here in the grand redwoods, I slip quietly into my tent for the night. Fabian Brook, a cordial young man from Whitehorse, Yukon, is out there playing a ukulele, and the music is very nice to hear. I will not forget his strumming. Tomorrow morning, all 17 of us will be arising before sunup to begin our ascent of the Leggett hill, only three miles distant from our tents by road. My easy day today will be replaced by a working day tomorrow, and only 24 miles from my sleeping bag lies the Pacific Ocean once again, replacing the oppressive heat of Redway and Garberville.
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DAY 9
September 11, 2013, Wednesday
Standish-Hickey State Park to Van Damme State Park, California
59 miles (running total = 430 miles)
When one family in a typical large motorhome arises in the morning at a campground, begins their day, attaches their car to the motorhome’s trailer hitch, and warms up their diesel engine for several minutes prior to departure, all the other campers in the vicinity quickly become fully aware that this temporary neighbor is up and preparing to leave the campsite. Noise level is high, air quality takes a dive due to petroleum particulate matter being emitted everywhere, and sleeping any further usually is an exercise in futility.
That’s just one family, and there are many such families and motorhomes in most state campgrounds. Multiply this scenario by a fair order of magnitude, and that is what America sees as camping in the wilderness. I’ve camped for decades, witnessing this year after year. Regardless our individual opinions about this, let’s compare to a cycle camp.
It is September 11th at Standish-Hickey State Park. The sun is not yet up. Most folks would not even call it dawn. The “motorhomers” are still sound asleep. There really isn’t enough light to easily see to break down a tent and campsite, but with each passing minute, it does get a little bit brighter. In short order, headlamps can be turned off as dawn approaches. There are 17 of us cyclists here, confined to a relatively small area compared to what the monstrous motorhomes require. I hear a faint rustling outside my tent, somewhere in the faintly predawn air of the hiker/biker camp. Sure enough, some of us are now already up and quietly beginning our morning routines prior to hitting the road once again.
We are all like phantoms. It’s some kind of an unwritten law of the cycle touring world. We are part of a loosely confederated group of human powered humans, brought together for a few hours daily on our shared, yet individual, journeys south on the Pacific Coast. We all have our unique morning procedures, but they all lead to the same result: We wake up, get dressed in our tents, strike our tents and pack them away in our panniers, wash the sleep from eyes, eat something for breakfast to fuel the machine for what lies ahead, pack the final items in the cargo bags, and depart the campground. If words are even spoken, they float on the air softly in whispers, extending no farther than the ear close by. There are no engines, no toxins, no noise pollution to awaken all the neighbors. When the folks in the motorhomes finally do wake up and begin their routines, the hiker/biker camp is deserted … all without anyone else knowing.
By the time the typical camper is groggily walking over to the bathroom, the cycle nomads are all out pedaling the highway once again, using most of the daylight hours to reach the next overnight camp, a distance that the noisy petroleum powered motorhome humans will travel in only one hour. The two worlds are dimensions apart, and the only shared ground is the pavement upon which we all travel in our vastly different vehicles.
I start the day on Highway 101, the same road I have been pedaling since the third of September. My trike’s taillight is on, flashing its 10 LED lights, as the redwood forest engulfing me keeps out the light quite well this early. By the time I reach the tiny isolated village of Leggett, California, two miles south of Standish-Hickey, it is bright enough to easily see. Here is the sign coastal touring cyclists can’t afford to miss. This is where California 1 forks off of US Highway 101 at long last, and is also where the Pacific Coast Bike Route leaves the racing petroleum puffers to their high speed drive to cover as much ground in as little time as they can. I happily turn onto California 1, called PCH, or the Pacific Coast Highway.
Of course, there is a price to pay for making this right-hand turn at Leggett. That price is the abandonment of easy uphill grades and wide shoulders. The next 22 miles to the Pacific Ocean is very narrow, one lane in each direction, and often with little or no shoulder for the trike. Oh, and did I mention that much of the road is extremely curvy with a 15 mile per hour speed limit in places? And, oh yeah, one more little tidbit about this road: It is steep, very steep, for most of its miles, with two summits. So here is the picture: I pedal the ICE trike in the lowest gears for what seems like hours (probably because it is hours), reach a summit, begin rocketing down again (but I can’t go too fast because the curves are very tight in places, and can flip a trike), pedal easy for a while as I pass a sign that reads SHORELINE HIGHWAY, think I am nearly at the ocean, only to realize that directly ahead of me is, ugh, yet another summit grade I must ascend, just as steep as the first, but fortunately, not quite as long.
This traverse, called the infamous Leggett Hill, requires much of a cyclist’s morning, but it is not as bad as the picture painted by many riders. Why? Because it is all overcast this morning, 55 degrees Fahrenheit, and as I near the ocean once again, the Pacific’s typical weather pattern kicks in, namely fog. So, despite the effort needed to travel these 22 miles (24 from Standish-Hickey State Park), I am not dying of the heat or horribly exhausted as I was in the Redway/Garberville area recently. I have plenty of water to easily get me to the calm gray sea below the cliffs where the road opens up out of the forest.
As I reach the Pacific, I stop and have an Odwalla protein bar and a Clif Bar. The water is so quiet and still, with hardly any surf. It is almost eerie. There is hardly any traffic here. Not even three dozen cars passed me on the 22 mile ride over Leggett Hill. This is very peaceful territory. The road now flattens out by comparison, and I can see for many miles far ahead down the southern coast from where I am standing. Many pompous grass bushes grace the hillsides. They sway gently in the slightest breeze. They remind me of home, up north in Oregon, where there are also many, but the Oregon ones seem to be more yellow in tint, whereas these are more lavender.
Along this route, I also find more blackberries, and never miss an opportunity to gather some up to fuel my organic engine for the ride south. After riding for a while, I notice Alan from Arizona up ahead. He is stopped smoking a cigarette, but does not see or hear me pass by. I call out “Hi Alan” as I move along, which clearly startles him. Trike Phantoms are quiet. Nobody can hear us coming. Later, I pass one of the cyclists and his wife who camped at Standish-Hickey last night. She broke a spoke. He fixed it. Good thing he knows his mechanics. There are no bike shops to the rescue this far out!
At times along this Route 1, the trees form what feels like tunnels with their branches. They make for interesting photographs. This is called the Medocino coast, and today it is currently cloudy and muggy. By the time I enter the city limits of Fort Bragg, a large full service town, the sky is mostly clear and sunny. It is early afternoon, time for a Safeway market break, some Odwalla protein monster drinks, fresh strawberries, trail mix nuts, and a couple of bananas. This is a welcomed pause in the pedal pushing routine, having successfully crossed the Leggett Hill, and also making it up a grade that was beyond belief in steepness, short, but a pedal mashing low/low affair.
Here’s what happens continually along the Pacific Coast: I am pedaling along the bluff overlooking the ocean. Now and then, streams and rivers flow from the mountains into the ocean. Well, where these waterways enter the ocean, there is a canyon of sorts, often small, and rarely do government agencies spend money erecting long bridges over these frequent fresh water intrusions into the sea. So, I have learned that when I see the road ahead take a hard 90 degree turn to the left, often with an arrow warning motorists, I know that it is because a stream or river is flowing into the ocean. The road takes a sudden drop along the small canyon face, down to the river level, where a little short bridge has been built over the waterway. Then, it just as abruptly curves right, and up the canyon face on the south side, returning to the bluff overlooking the ocean once again. These are continual all along this Pacific Coast Highway, and the uphill segments, although usually short, are extremely steep, much more so than allowed on governmental highways built today. The higher the bluff, the more extreme and long these uphills become, and a few are mind blowing hard.
At Safeway, I come out of the store after buying my highly anticipated trail treats, ready to refresh myself and refuel the machine for more riding. Up rolls Fabian Brook from the far north country of the Yukon, the same fellow who played the ukulele last night, along with a couple of other bicyclists from our Standish-Hickey hiker/biker party camp. We relax together, share good times of the trip, and eat our freshly acquired food. We also stash some of it in our panniers for tonight’s camp, which will be at Van Damme State Park if all goes as planned. Leaving Safeway, I follow Fabian up the first hill out of town, and then he out-paces my trike and is gone. He is a powerful rider.
David, my partner for the first five days of this journey, is also a very powerful rider. I was duly impressed with his ability not only to usually keep pace with me, but sometimes pull ahead when I took my time ascending a steep hill now and then. David had trained well for this trek prior to his departure from southern California to Oregon, taking fully loaded training rides to accustom himself to the demands of overland triking, which, as you might guess, are many. Lots of trike pilots dream of becoming trike gypsies, but most find out soon enough that the gulf between dreaming and doing is indeed incredibly wide. The mind may want it, but the body cannot handle the challenges of the road. I have witnessed this time and again. If you plan on joining the ranks of overland trike nomads, plan on at least one full year of all-out physical conditioning ahead of time. That means frequent and fully loaded day rides of 50 miles, along with mini treks of 2-3 days to get used to the camping end of things. There is nothing easy about overland triking, on that you can depend!
This road soon flattens out with wide shoulders again, and I make good time south to Van Damme, arriving there well before sunset. This state park lies in a tight river valley that exits to the ocean. It is fully in the tsunami zone, meaning that if a tsunami occurs while I am camping in here, things will get really exciting, and really wet, really fast in the middle of the night. Ahh, all part of the adventure of triking along the Pacific Coast Bike Route on Highway 1.
When I roll silently into the Van Damme hiker/biker camp area, very small indeed, with bumps and potholes all over the ground, my Canadian friends Vic Krueger (on the left with blue cap) and Bert Lensink (on the right with red cap) are sitting at the table. They wave to me, and we are all happy to once again keep company. Good overnight road companions are an important asset to help keep one’s head together if things are going roughly. But today is smooth sailing, and all is fun. A little later, Fabian rides in (must haves stopped somewhere for a bit because he was ahead of me leaving Fort Bragg). Later still, female cyclist Bronwyn Wood rejoins this rag-tag group of pedal pushers. She was with us at Standish-Hickey State Park, one of the Wild Seventeen. Bronwyn lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but was born in Santa Barbara, California. Her family left Santa Barbara when she was an infant, so she is eager to cycle through there now as a young adult. I take a picture of her as she returns to the camp after her shower, blue towel on her head. She wonders why, so I tell her that I want to capture the true spirit of the gypsy life.
We all talk a while after dinner, and then, as usual, hit the sack shortly after sundown because we know that tomorrow brings another early rise and return to the asphalt. This happens every evening, and we all become precision machines without thinking. It’s kind of like the popular old movie called Groundhog Day, where the guy wakes up to the same day everyday, except that each day for us is new and exciting – only the start and end routines are identical.
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DAY 10
September 12, 2013, Thursday
Van Damme State Park to Gualala Point Regional Park, California
50 miles (running total = 480 miles)
This morning I seem to be the initiator of soft noises that slowly prods the sleepy heads of the other four cyclists into conscious awareness. I begin the day by slowly opening the air valve to my NeoAir matress so it can deflate while I am atop it – makes for more complete emptying. I don’t open it all the way though, as the gush of air would be disturbing to the others. Then, I get out of the synthetic Glacier’s Edge sleeping bag, zip it closed, and remove my sleep clothes, replacing them with my riding clothing.
On my prior trips, I have carried and used an expensive down bag, but it is not necessary on this coastal route because the weather is warm enough for the synthetic bag. This bag is also lighter weight, and stuffs slightly smaller than the down bag. More good news is that at the conclusion of this journey, this bag is easily washed and dried with no special attention needed. On prior trips, I have also used a bag liner to keep my skin’s oils off the down bag. I am not a big fan of these bag liners as they bunch up when turning at night, and they are a hassle to get them into the bag. This trip, I did not bring the liner, instead opting for some long cotton sleep pants, and a long sleeve merino wool/cotton blend pullover shirt. This new paradigm is much more to my liking! Live and learn, or trike and learn in this case.
Next, I stuff the bag into its stuff sack, fold the mattress, and then put on my socks and riding shoes before exiting the tent. Then, it’s just a matter of putting the gear in the panniers, breaking down the tent, stowing it on the trike, eating breakfast, brushing my teeth, going to the bathroom, and saying goodbye once again to my cycling friends. Eventually, there will come a morning where I will never again see these wonderful people with whom I have shared so much challenge and joy, but for now, we know a few more days are ahead where we will probably rekindle the group.
This morning the fog is heavy, and the tent fly is damp. My little chamois comes in handy once again, but still the fly goes in the lightly packed stuff sack moist. It will dry during the sunny day, and also once it’s reset this afternoon at the next new campground.
Today’s stretch of Highway 1 has many river inlets, thus many insanely steep uphills as I pull out of the river drainage to regain the elevation to the bluff overlooking the ocean. There is also an extra heavy proliferation of construction sites on the roadway. This must be my lucky trip, because so far, they are all friendly for southbound trikers and bikers, being downhill on the southern direction. Many construction areas use automated traffic signals nowadays to save paying flaggers a wage, but when flaggers are present, they always like to discuss my bizarre mode of transportation. Signals don’t care, of course, what my vehicle is.
At one point, Highway 1 makes a sharp 90 degree turn off to the right, over a bridge. If a cyclist were not paying attention, he would end up going straight, which looks like the right thing to do, but find himself on Highway 128 and way off track. Later, a big yellow sign appears that reads NARROW WINDING ROAD NEXT 21 MILES WATCH FOR BICYCLES. This means the government has yet again abandoned my safety, and shoulders usually go away for a while. It’s no big deal in reality though, as I have never had a close call or dangerous interaction with a motor vehicle in my five years of riding a tricycle. I am always afforded the utmost courtesy. Even if one of those “one-in-ten-thousand” young white macho males in a Dodge RAM pickup (thanks to the Dodge “GUTS, GLORY, RAM commercials) honks at me to let me know this is “his” road and I have no right to be on it, I at least know he sees me, and I am safe. He may hate sharing the road in his immature and socially challenged selfish mind, but he steers clear as he cusses to himself. When this happens (VERY rarely, I might add), I just smile and wave so he can see in his rear-view mirror that I love him just the same. Someday, perhaps, he will realize that sharing is a good thing during his brief time as a human being.
This coastal route in interesting in the sights I see. There are all manner of strange twisted trees, victims I suppose of endless days of powerful winter storms with winds that mercilessly batter the growing trunks, distorting them this way and then that. There are homes with colorful ocean floats hanging all over the porch, and old buildings with grayed wood splitting from weather extremes and salt overload. On a tricycle, there is ample time to enjoy all these oddities all day long, often things that petroleum powered humans rarely if ever notice in their high speed metal boxes. While they are surrounded by stereo music in their climate controlled and environmentally isolated worlds, I feel every gentle breeze, hear every faint sound, and smell every unusual aroma as it wafts through my natural realm inches from the ground. We travel the same road, yet exist in parallel universes, my alternative reality not even within the ability of comprehension for psychologically conditioned motorists.
At one point in today’s ride, while ascending a very steep hill out of one of the many stream and river outlets that exit into the ocean, a gigantic crane lugged up the hill behind me, barely sustaining a speed slightly faster than my own. It came and came. I could hear it for the longest time while my thighs ached as they evacuated me from the lowlands towards the bluff above. Finally, it slowly passed, so slowly that I was able to photograph it at will with no hurry. And guess what! Despite what fear mongers tell me about being squished by such things like a mosquito under a human’s thumb, it is just another wonderful experience on the PCH.
While entering the tiny village of Manchester, California, not too far north of Gualala, a very heavy-set woman quickly rides her TerraTrike Rover recumbent tadpole tricycle out of the first side street from my left. She has the right trike, that much is certain, because the Rover has a load limit of a whopping 400 pounds. She is very friendly, and tells me she heard I was coming, likely from a motorist who had passed me north of town and knew this gal had a similar trike. Her Rover has a pinwheel flag that spins wildly as she rides, making her very visible. Anyway, she rides with me all through her little town on the PCH, and when we exit the south end, she finally bids me a happy goodbye, pedaling back to her home. I did not stop to ask her name, being rather focused on reaching the Gualala campground early, which is 20 more miles, as it is in deep woods, where it seems late even with sun shining.
The Point Arena lighthouse attraction is on the route, but since it’s a 2 mile side trip (one way), I opt out. I am passed by a recumbent touring bicyclist near the lighthouse turnoff, and I wave, smile, and tell him he is the only other recumbent rider I have seen so far, but the man does not acknowledge my presence, even though he passes a couple feet from me – not even a quick glance, which I find so very odd. The town of Point Arena sits on an extremely steep downhill when traveling southbound, and I must use the brakes as I proceed through the town with many pedestrians.
I roll into Gualala and spend a while at their main market, gathering up some mixed nuts, Odwalla protein drinks, fresh fruit, and sit at a table inside to eat and drink it. This town has many Mexican workers, and my companions appear as though they have spent a long day working, as they talk in Spanish, having fun and making jokes. I understand some of what they say from my years past in school, but am too tired to study it in any detail. I put the uneaten nut mix into my panniers, attempt to make a failed cell phone call, and then pedal out the south end of this busy little hamlet, across the bridge, and up the hill to enter the Gualala Point Regional Park to camp for the night.
In this campground, Sonoma County has converted one small former walk-in campsite into their entire hiker/biker area. It is only $5, so no complaint there, but the area is so unbelievably small that any more than three bikers nearly maxes it out. The campground host tells me last night they packed nine bikers in here. Tonight, we number only seven, and our tents are so close we hope no one suffers any gastrointestinal distress during the night. A five minute shower here is a bank-busting $1.50, compared to free showers in Oregon, and 50 cent showers in many of the California state parks. Well, at least some of us are together again, just a little closer than is really comfortable for privacy. The host tells me that if any of our gear strays beyond certain bushes (and she delineates them), we will be charged the full $35 for camping. They are very serious about this, and do not see anything unreasonable about packing so many people into such a tiny space. There are no smiles or apologies.
Alex, a very quiet and peaceful woman from Germany, is at our camp again tonight. I met her at Standish-Hickey State Park. She speaks so softly that one must be fully quiet to hear her thoughts. Fabian is here again, and now he has met and is riding with a man from France, who speaks English, yet understanding him is a challenge for me. Vic and Bert from Canada are here, always fun guys to engage in conversation, and always seeking information on the upcoming road. It is very crowded in our little temporal hiker/biker haven, but we are having fun. After the pitch and dinner, I walk over and take my expensive shower. Cell phones are worthless anywhere around Gualala, so I use the pay phone by the restrooms to update Desert Dune for the Trike Phantoms website, and then I hit the sack. With the extreme darkness caused by the heavy trees, it is easy to fall asleep.
Tonight brings a new experience for me. This is night camp number ten on the PCTA, and it is one to remember. I am sound asleep, and I hear my little yellow bear bell I hang atop my flag antenna, which alerts me if the tricycle is moved in any way. Even the slightest movement of the trike causes the little bell to jingle. The sound is so unique, that even in deep REM sleep, I quickly rise to a level of consciousness, grab my Black Diamond mountaineering headlamp, and shine it on my trike. Nothing there. I figure that one of the bikers perhaps brushed against my pannier while returning from a late shower in the pitch black night, so I lie back down and attempt to return to sleep.
It isn’t long until my bell sounds again. Immediately, I hear a huge crash sound just behind my tent. I hear Alex getting out of her tent. I hear Fabian, who sleeps in his bag on a tarp with no tent, expressing some form of dissatisfaction about something. I hear someone placing items in the food stash wooden container made for cyclists to store their food. Then, all is quiet again, and I fall asleep for the night. My trike and gear are secure, and I can no longer maintain any watch for whatever may be happening, for sleep overtakes me. The bear bell never sounds again tonight.
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DAY 11
September 13, 2013, Friday
Gualala Point Regional Park to Bodega Dunes State Beach, California
48 miles (running total = 528 miles)
The morning is cool and dark with the trees keeping out the light. I begin my camp striking routine yet again. While at the trike packing a bag, I notice an obvious clue about last night. There are two distinct raccoon paw prints on my recumbent mesh seat. Alex is getting up. She tells me about the loud crash sound, that it was Bert’s bicycle being knocked over by a raccoon, so she picked it up, leaned it against the tree again, and put his panniers in the food locker. Bert and Vic slept through it all.
Fabian’s story was interesting. He looked directly into the eyes of a raccoon at its level, being as how he sleeps on the ground without a tent. The raccoon then began dragging his bicycle helmet away into the forest, which is when he began expressing his dissatisfaction with its behavior and his gear. It was a unique night, that much is certain. Raccoons can be tenacious, but after enough evidence that people are going to stop them every time, they really do finally give up. Oh, if only there were an easy way to keep them at bay during the night. My bell was successful in its intended purpose, but that is only after the raccoon is already either on the trike or messing with my gear. Nothing on my trike was damaged, and the panniers remain fully intact. The odor-proof special plastic containers I purchased at REI did their job. The animals could not locate the food in my left Arkel pannier. Food storage strategies are the key at overnight camps.
As with every morning, I’m on the road again, early, but the sun is already shining over the eastern horizon. That dark deep forest at camp was deceptive about how late it was getting. I pass a sign that reads CLICK IT OR TICKET, posted by the government to let vehicle drivers and passengers that seat belts are mandatory – hmm, I don’t have a seat belt, but then of course, my speeds are not generally fast enough to kill tens of thousands of humans every year like cars. Pompous grass abounds along this coastal route, and I always love watching it sway in the breeze. The ocean panoramas are gorgeous. On challenging hilltops, I often stop to rest my feet, eat a bar, and have some water. When it’s hot, I hang my Outdoor Research Sunrunner cap on my flag antenna so the breeze will dry it.
I pass through the Fort Ross State Historic Park, which used to be a Russian settlement in the early history of California. The old fort buildings are still here, overlooking the ocean. Highway 1 always has surprises, but what is never a surprise is that next hill waiting just around the corner! One thing trikers and bikers can always count on is an over abundance of steep challenging uphills. My suggestion for today is: If you don’t like endless daily hill climbing, don’t ride the Pacific Coast Highway. Hills are one big memory that sticks in all cyclists’ minds.
As I enter the small coastal town of Jenner, California, it dawns on me that midday is here, the sun has been warming me up quite a bit, and an ice cold Odwalla protein drink (or three) would hit the spot just fine, along with some other things like bananas and whatever other healthy stuff this tiny berg might offer. I pull into the parking lot of the Jenner ‘C’ Store and gas station, park under a tree, and remove my headgear. As I am doing so, three motorcyclists with whom I’ve been playing leapfrog for a while out on the road, pull in and park next to me. We have a fun talk, and I tell them of my former days of motorcycling, on Harleys, BMWs, and other mounts. Two of the guys are on Harleys, and one is on a BMW. So the BMW guy asks me if I preferred Harleys or BMWs for the open road. I liked them both for different reasons, but said if I were to pick a bike for long haul motoring today, it would be the BMW for its ultra smooth ride and dependability. He smiled, and even the Harley guys got a kick out of it as the BMW guy was rubbing it in.
Then, my friend Alex, the bicyclist from Germany, rolls in silently. She gets a sandwich in the store, and we sit, eat, and visit for a while before hitting the road again. The weather is perfect, and we are really enjoying the day. Back on the highway, I turn right at the big fork not far south of town, and head towards Bodega Bay and its state park, where I plan to camp tonight. It’s only 10 more miles, so the afternoon should be easy … except for those never ending uphills, of course!
There is still plenty of daylight when I arrive at Bodega Dunes Campground, a Sonoma Coast State Park. When I pedal into the hiker/biker area, Bert and Vic from Canada are already here, so now we are three, but it is yet early, and others are sure to arrive later. This hiker/biker camp is clearly on a piece of ground that was not usable for any other purpose, so the park officials designated it a hiker/biker camp. It’s on the side of a deep sand hill, most of which is tough to even walk up. The only really practical tenting area is at the very bottom, next to the paved roadway, where some grass covers the dry sand. Even here however, the ground is not level, so we all pitch our tents so our heads will be on the elevated end of the tent.
Some state parks do like this, giving hiker/bikers the undesirable leftover landscapes that no one else wants, but others, such as Patrick’s Point, Half Moon Bay, and Big Sur, really do it up nice for us human powered humans. Clearly, there must not be a statewide mandate to provide the same level of camping experience at all parks. It must be up to the individual official in charge of each park. The good news for us tired cyclists is that the showers here are free! This is because so many thieves were breaking into the money collection boxes inside the showers that the state park finally gave up and just removed the boxes, allowing unlimited hot water luxury for grungy and hot pedal pushers. So, I am happy, but as I am coming out of the shower, all cleaned up, a little kid, who was left holding a huge dog while his dad was in the bathroom, cannot control the massive animal, and it bolts towards me growling as the panicked child does everything in his power to stop the fracas. I jump into the deep sand to escape my impending sullying by the large animal, and barely escape unscathed. Out comes the dad, who figures out that perhaps he might devise a better way to control his untrained animal next time.
Alan from Arizona pedals in, and pitches next to my tent. I am between the Canadians and the Arizonan. Then Alex arrives, and pitches her tube tent up the hill from Alan’s two-person tent. Alan stores all his cargo in his tent each night, as well as using his stove in there to make his morning coffee. The tent Alex has in one of those that only has room to slide into from one end. She cannot sit up in it at all, and dressing in the tent is a real chore she says. She mentions that after this trip, she will find a new tent that is more reasonable for long trips. My NEMO Obi one-person tent has slightly more area than hers, but I can sit up, easily dress, and pack away my gear while inside. Choosing the best tent for one’s needs is a live and learn experience.
Other cyclists also come into camp a little later. They are new folks who the five of us who have been camping together on and off have never seen before. Turns out they are heading north on the PCH instead of south as we are, thus the fact we have not seen them prior to this evening. Over dinner, they ask us about the road ahead for them tomorrow. We tell them of the mother of all uphills they will face on their ride north to Gualala. For us, it was a thrill ride downhill, but for them, it will be less than desirable. The north side is more gradual, which made it easier for southbound cyclists.
I take a couple of photos inside my tent to show what it’s like. One is looking out my door towards the trike, one is of the area where my head goes, and one is facing where my feet are. This tent is very well designed, and if the fly gets wet for any reason, the tent remains dry because it is suspended from the pole, so no water dampens any pole tubes because there are no pole tubes. This was one of the factors in my decision to get it, because my former REI Arete had pole tubes, which actually contacted the fly material.
Tonight’s sleep is, as always, well earned and easy. The first 18 miles of the ride were easy, but then the long steep cliff hills kicked in, and the work began in earnest. The foghorn tonight is a wonderful companion with which I am familiar because in my own coastal town where I live, I hear the horn from my bedroom. For me, it is a cozy ambiance that always puts me into deep restful sleep.
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DAY 12
September 14, 2013, Saturday
Bodega Dunes State Beach to Golden Gate Bridge, California (north end, Sausalito)
68 miles (running total = 596 miles)
This morning as we are all striking our tents and gear, and as we are eating our breakfasts, we all talk about each other’s intended itinerary for the day. A logical overnight tonight is a popular camp at Samuel P. Taylor State Park, south of Olema, California, an ideal stop-over prior to pedaling into San Francisco the next day. This is a common practice for many cyclists on the Pacific Coast route. Staying at Samuel P. Taylor sets up the cyclist to travel the following day to Half Moon Bay State Park, which is a distance of 58 miles. Sounds logical enough.
Essentially, many cyclists want to camp as close to San Francisco’s northern end as possible, thereby making it within grasp to negotiate the sea of humanity en route to Half Moon Bay. It sounds entirely doable to think of 58 miles in one day as a realistic goal. Vic and Bert have other plans. They will enter the city of San Francisco on Sunday and penetrate its heart as they wish to stay at a hostel there for a couple of days rest, over by the Fisherman’s Wharf area. They invite me to accompany them, but I am not really interested in pedaling my trike into and through the downtown portions of this densely packed metropolis. Alex is only traveling as far as San Francisco, to a friend’s house, so this will be her destination point on Sunday. Then, she returns to Germany after staying there a month.
I joke around with Bert and Vic, asking them if they are worried about bed bugs in the hostel. Bert answers, “We are now!” and we all have a great laugh. Hostels can be havens for these tiny creatures if the business operators don’t keep things immaculately clean. I then ask if they know why the San Francisco bay is as it is, explaining about the San Andreas fault, the mother of all faults in this region. We are having much fun with this conversational thread, as I point out all the reasons, in addition to the insane automobile traffic, that they may wish to reconsider their hostel plans. It is all a good time this morn.
All the while, I am contemplating my own plans. True, we have all more or less been traveling companions for several days now, but we ride separately for the most part, only seeing each other at campgrounds and grocery stores along the way. We have grown our friendships during this time, and the thought that very soon we will likely never see each other again has a certain sadness to it. I ask Alan his plans, and he is going to follow the “tried and true” plan of camping at Samuel P. Taylor State Park tonight, and riding the 58 miles to Half Moon Bay on Sunday. So shall Vic, Bert, and Alex camp at Samuel P. Taylor tonight, before the big day on Sunday when our little ragtag crew disbands for all eternity.
I tell Bert and Vic a few minutes later, after breakfast, that I may not stay at Samuel P. Taylor State Park tonight with the rest of them, that I may pedal on by and position myself as close as possible to the northern end of the Golden Gate Bridge. I contemplate this because it is well known among cyclists that the route to access the northern end of the bridge is somewhat convoluted, and can very much challenge even riders who have done it before. Even Alan, who has indeed pedaled these very miles in the past, says it’s no easy task to arrive at the bridge’s cycling entrance. Alan tells me that the trick is to get to Sausalito, and to do so, follow Sir Francis Drake Boulevard. He talks of little hidden bike paths that make the ride easier, but they are difficult to find.
Contemplating my past trike journeys on an inland route, where campgrounds are rare, and where predetermined overnights are not the name of the game like here on the Pacific Coast, I realize that normally I would ride until sunset is about an hour away, giving me time to pitch a camp and eat. So, I wonder if that strategy might prove more beneficial to me today, to return to the habits of former trips even though everyone else is meticulously planning precisely where they are going to stay. Knowing each day’s destination does indeed instill a certain confidence in one’s head, removing the sting of uncertainty, but to achieve this, lower mileage days are often the consequence.
My decision is to go with what feels right at the time. I will pedal today and see how far along the sun is when I arrive at Samuel P. Taylor State Park. I will think this all over as I pedal along, and by the time I need to decide, it will all come to me, one way or the other (or so I hope). There is no right or wrong in all this, after all. There is no best answer. Life is an adventure. This Pacific Coast trike ride is an adventure. What is adventure without a whopping big does of uncertainty?
Before I go, I tell Vic and Bert to be on the lookout for where Highway 1 departs the main road southeast of Bodega Bay. Just past the miniature village of Valley Ford, the PCH takes a 90 degree turn south, and it is far from obvious if one is not looking for it. Heck, even if one IS looking for the turn, it can be missed. If this turn is missed, the traveler does not know about the mistake for many miles, and eventually finds himself entering the city limits of Petaluma, California, over by Highway 101.
Then, our crew breaks ranks and silently rolls onto the pavement. Off I pedal, up the long entrance road back to Highway 1, where one of the bicyclists from last night turns left and heads north, straight for that horribly steep cliff hill not too far distant. I happily turn right, for some long stretches of easy pedaling on flat ground. In a few miles, I reach the turnoff for Highway 1, just past Valley Ford (population: 126), and stop to photograph the sign, which is well hidden behind some overgrown bushes (a big reason people miss this turn). Since there is no sign prior to this alerting travelers to the turn, this sign in the bushes is all the warning an uninitiated cyclist, or motorist, gets. The sign reads Tomales and Pt Reyes to the right.
While I am taking this series of photographs, Bert and Vic pedal up behind me and ask if this is the intersection I warned them about. I tell them yes. They ask if this is where they turn right, and I confirm this is our turn to stay on track for Tomales and Samuel P. Taylor State Park. They thank me, turn right, and pull ahead, eventually riding out of my sight.
I’m starting to get a complex on this trip that has never affected me before: On my inland treks, I never even see a bicyclist on tour, so I have no gauge as to my overall speed, but on the Pacific Coast, where upwards of 10,000 cyclists tour every season, I am continually passed every single day by many touring bicyclists. I put out the same amount of effort, yet they pass me anyway. Dynamics of tricycles versus bicycles are part, but the fact that my rear wheel is only 20 inches in diameter, versus their 26, 28, or 700c wheels, makes a difference. Further, they can stand on the pedals and use bodyweight on the uphills, whereas tricyclists cannot get that strength and leverage advantage. This allows bicyclists who are not as fit as me to pass me on uphill grades. Of course, on flat ground or downhills, the tables are turned, but since this route has so many uphill sections every day, the two wheelers pull away consistently. Maybe I need a trike with a larger rear wheel?
Just north of Tomales, in the early morning fog and overcast conditions common to the coast, I pass a turkey farm, and feel sorry for these bioforms, knowing their ultimate demise is close at hand. Past the little town of Tomales, the road really levels out for many easy and fast miles along Tomales Bay, where I see huge bulls with big long horns and shaggy fir sitting in the tall brown grass, along with large white birds that have long necks and long yellow beaks. It is as if they are all good friends. Trees, sculpted by wind and the elements, are lining the road in all kinds of shapes. Overhanging trees form natural tunnels through which I ride. Eucalyptus trees share their distinctive aroma, and the bark sometimes borders on brilliant orange.
For the most part, Highway 1 is well signed along the way. At Point Reyes, a little bustling town that many San Francisco cyclists ride to and back for a long day ride, the signs are clear, leaving little doubt I am on the right path. I stop at the Palace Market for my daily Odwalla protein monster drink infusion (usually 3 bottles, for a total of 75 grams of protein), and some bananas and cherry tomatoes. Vic and Bert have just shopped and are on their way out as I arrive. Alex catches up with me here, and joins me for lunch. I watch her bicycle and possessions for her while she walks to a nearby bank to get some cash from the ATM machine. She watches my gear while I walk a block behind the store to use the town’s only public bathroom facility. I even take my own self portrait as it reflects in the glass doors of the market, the produce in the store visible all around me – I love bizarre images now and then.
Chores complete, I bid Alex a fond farewell and pleasant rest of her journey, realizing that this will probably be the last I ever see of her. I am inclined at this point to pass on by Samuel P. Taylor campground today, so I may be totally on my own for a while. I pedal on south through the small town, traffic courteously giving way to my little tricycular form. Just south of town is the Point Reyes National Seashore, managed by the United States Department of the Interior, National Park Service. At the rural town of Olema, I turn the trike’s handlebars left and head up the hill to begin my ride on Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, which is a key route change off of Highway 1 for trike gypsies if they want to get to Sausalito and the Golden Gate Bridge.
This road goes up and down over the rolling countryside, but the hills are short and not so ridiculously steep as many on the coast route. When I pass the boundary line of Samuel P. Taylor State Park, it is still way too early to stop and pitch a tent, especially since it is getting warmer, and I feel like putting in some more miles. I keep on pedaling past the campground entrance farther up the road, thinking about all my new friends and how I’ll miss them. The road becomes narrow and curvy in places, with large forests and redwoods. Quite a few miles after my turn at Olema, I finally see the first proof I am on track for my golden goal of the big bridge: a sign reads SIR FRANCES DRAKE BLVD. Then, I see a white sign with green lettering, depicting a bicycle, with the number 20 underneath it. Below the 20 route designation is a straight arrow and the word FAIRFAX. Since this area of the coast is so heavily populated with an active cycling community, the government marks main cycling routes as they do for marking main auto routes. It is a fantastic idea I have never seen anywhere else! Since I know the town of Fairfax is one I wish to go through, my mind relaxes, knowing I’m where I need to be today. I think I’m slow at times, but now I pass a hiker with pack and guitar, traveling only a fraction of the speed the trike is capable of on this flat road.
The scenery here consists of rolling brown pasture lands, low hills, and scrubby bushes and trees. It is Saturday afternoon, and traffic is moderate, but the shoulder is mostly wide, so it is comfortable to pedal along in the bright sunshine. In Fairfax, bicycle lanes and routes are the order of the day, and I enjoy knowing the government here supports human powered humans to such a great extent. I see many more bicycle route signs, and am amazed at the level of support for cyclists.
I had heard that the west side human powered human path over the Golden Gate Bridge was closed for repairs, so when I see a California Highway Patrolman finishing up issuing a traffic citation to a motorist up ahead, I decide to ask him if he knows about this. He is parked on the shoulder, so I pedal up to his driver’s door on my ICE Q trike. His window is closed, air conditioner on inside, and he is busy writing in his log. The top of my helmet is just barely at the level of his window, so I’m nearly invisible down here. The patrolman does not even know I am here, having arrived so silently as trikes always do, and continues writing, oblivious to my presence. I extend my right arm way overhead and tap gently on his closed glass window, which truly startles him, and he jumps with surprise. Then, a huge smile comes over his face, his electric window comes down, and he says I scared him. We have a great laugh, and then I inquire about the bridge passageway. He is not sure, but thinks I can get over. I bid him a good day, and pedal on, still chuckling over the encounter.
As I get to Marin City, still on Sir Frances Drake Boulevard, traffic gets heavier. I stop at a bicycle shop to ask directions. The lady hardly knows English, and is unable to help me, other than to let me use the shop’s bathroom. I pull into a large shopping mall and ask a business owner about finding my way, as I notice the Highway 101 freeway is looming a couple blocks ahead, and knowing I am not allowed on it. She tells me some directions, but is not sure of all the bicycle routes. Two blocks farther east, I pull into a fire station, which is next to the 101 freeway, dismount, and talk to the firemen working on cleaning their large red trucks. These guys are very cool, give me tons of information, show me a gigantic wall map of where I need to go, and even give me a Gatorade because the afternoon is warming up as it marches on.
The fire personnel tell me of a hidden bike path a few yards past their station, and warn me to look into the bushes to see it. I thank them, still in doubt as to my way, and slowly pedal back out onto Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, which by now is very crowed with cars since the freeway is literally right in front of me. The firemen said the bike path is just a few feet prior to getting onto the 101 on-ramp, and what do you know! Yep, sure enough, over a little dirt area through the oleander bushes, I see the bike path. Never would I have found this had it not been for their coaching! The path puts me onto a private roadway just for human powered humans, and leads over a bridge and river bed, with the Highway 101 on-ramp just to my left, over the concrete divider. Then, it parallels the freeway with a little yellow line just like the big automobile roads, and is separated from the surrounding territory by a chain link fence.
Cars are speeding by me on my left, and I notice the sign for Mill Valley off-ramp ahead. This is an area I know I must pass through also, so it’s another clue I’m doing this correctly. Through some residential neighborhoods I ride, up a steep hill, and then down to a busy intersection where I am not sure of the best way to proceed. It’s my lucky day, as a veteran local cyclist in spandex on a fancy racing bike is stopped momentarily on the sidewalk. I ask him directions, and he tells me to take this bike path for the next couple of miles into Sausalito. He says I will arrive at the northern end of the Golden Gate Bridge eventually. I thank this young man, pedaling off with due haste as the day is wearing on quite quickly now, and I have absolutely no idea of where I will be sleeping tonight.
All my cycling pals are already eating their dinners, cozy and ready to bed down in their tents at the Samuel P. Taylor State Park campground, while I’m out here in a sea of humanity that does not care about my sorry state of affairs – oh, the adventure is running high now! If nothing else, I am many miles farther down the road than any of them, and I have been successful at finding my way almost to my end goal for today, the big orange bridge. If I had stayed with them tonight at the camp, I would have had to do all this tomorrow morning on a day where I would have to ride 58 miles to boot. The way I figure it, regardless of what tonight brings, tomorrow’s ride will be a much shorter and easier 35 to 40 miles instead of the nearly 60 they will have to do. And, since tomorrow is Sunday, I reckon I’ll be pedaling across the bridge first thing at sunup. I like the plan, although I’m not crazy about the hours of darkness between then and now.
On this final bike path, I see I am on bike route 5 to Sausalito, so I shift up to high gears and book along as fast as my legs will pedal. The sun is close to setting now, so I must find some sort of sleeping arrangement. Fortunately, the air is still comfortably warm. The bike path crosses the 101 freeway, which is now on my right. I see a freeway sign for motorists that points to the Golden Gate Bridge and San Francisco, and an off-ramp to Marin City and Sausalito, so I know my goal is imminent. In Sausalito, I see how I need to go (up some very steep hills), and stop quickly to ask two female power cyclists about a potential place to stay. They know of no options this close to the bridge, but tell me that if I follow them, they’ll show me the final mile or so to the bridge. These gals power up the hills and leave me in the dust, but I see the lay of the land now, and know it’s only a matter of minutes.
Then, up some more hills I ride, reaching a large pullout day-use area, which is part of the Fort Baker recreational area on the bay waterfront. Here, I also see the full San Francisco skyline, just as the sun is shedding its final rays on the towering skyscrapers. Even though my overnight activities are dubious and few at this point, I am clearly elated to have finally reached the famous bridge, bay, and city. I cannot see the bridge from this turnout, but I know it is literally just around the next bend in this road, so I am content to stop, eat some bars, drink some water, and offload some water in the bushes on the cliff to my left, which drops precipitously into the bay below.
There are picnic tables here, and a trash can, and the surface of the turnout is well covered with a reddish brown colored gravel. They spared no expense with this day-use area. I am out of options, so I decide to camp right here along the road. Sure, I could ride into San Fran right now, but I want to save that joy for sunrise tomorrow! If I pitch my tent here, I will be evicted in short order by the first cop to happen by, so, as I have done in the past at times, I choose to sleep on the tricycle.
This ICE trike has a seat that is 37 degrees off the horizontal, so it is very reclined. It is also very low to the ground, my rear end being only 7.5 inches off the deck, so I can spread my legs out straight ahead of me, lean my neck back on the neck rest, and be surprisingly comfortable. Since I pitch no tent, if questioned, it is clear that I am resting only, being a cyclist who was out of options. There is no law against resting, and the odds are in my favor. The growing moon is very bright, and rising over the eastern bay – it should be full by the time I reach Big Sur in a few days. I know from past experience that sleeping on the trike gets cold, so I pull all my coat type clothing out of my panniers and layer it on, zipping it all up all the way, and putting the hoods over my head, which is already covered by my polar fleece skull cap.
As I am settling in for a long chilly night, I cannot believe my eyes: I watch as a group of racing cyclists begin pedaling by my day-use area, from south to north, from San Francisco to Sausalito. I am talking on the telephone to my trike correspondent Desert Dune, offering the latest on the PCTA progress for the website, so I also mention the cyclists I see coming. “There looks to be about a dozen cyclists.” I say, as there is a fraction of a second where I see no more coming over the little rise in the road. But it doesn’t stop! These bicyclists all have headlights and taillights, and soon I realize that the first dozen was just that, the first wave. Only a few yards behind them come a continual stream of bicyclists on racing machines, all knocking down the miles at a very respectable pace – in other words, fast! I am dumbfounded. The line simply does not stop! I do not see an end until about 100 of these rugged souls fly past my little pathetic tricycle camp! Who were they? Why out so late? Wow! What a show that was! But the show is over, and I return to my life on the side of the road, while they all return to their warm showers and cozy beds.
In the past, on my inland route where it does get extremely cold in the Cascade Range and the Sierra Nevada Range, I bring much heavier jacket options, but this trip along the coast, I have minimized my clothing cache, so I hope for the best. At first, I am fine, but as time passes, I can feel the cold from the wind that is whipping over the hills to my west. The hills protect me from a full-on assault of wind, but still it curls around and takes its toll on my ability to generate internal warmth. It is coming off the ocean, and is loaded with humidity, making it seem even colder. Normally in a tent, I am in an insulated sleeping bag, inside a tent with fly that keeps me fully protected from wind. Not tonight! I am out in the elements with just the clothes on my back.
Well, not quite. I do have a very thin survival type space blanket, which is obnoxiously chrome colored and crackly when manipulated. I get it out, but the wind whips is around, making it a real challenge to get it wrapped all around my torso and legs so that it will stop the chilly fast moving air. It becomes too cold to rest my head back against the neck rest, so I keep it tucked down onto my chest to preserve heat. I draw my legs up under my knees to further preserve my body heat. Occasionally, I peek out and see the position of the moon, which is my way of telling time (I have not worn a watch for more than 20 years). No cops yet. The moon at long last sets behind the western hill, darkening me even more from prying eyes, except that there are no eyes out here to see me this time of night. A couple stops for a while in the wee hours to make-out over the bay, but incredibly, they don’t even see me sitting a few yards away. Finally they leave, none the wiser.
I sleep fitfully tonight, fighting cold, and hoping for the faint sight of an impending and needed dawn. The moon is gone now, so I know hours have passed. With every hour, the cold increases, and while my body never reaches a point of constant shivering, it seems to exist right on the border at times, never crossing over though. My mind reaches some dream states, so I am getting some sleep, but I realize how sweet it will be to arrive at Half Moon Bay State Park tomorrow, pitch a tent at the beach, and crawl into a fully protected bag for the night. Indeed, Sunday night holds the promise of luxury compared to tonight!
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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 was one I wanted 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!
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DAY 14
September 16, 2013, Monday
Half Moon Bay State Beach to Sunset State Beach, California (Monterey Bay)
67 miles (running total = 699 miles)
Another beautiful day greets me as I awaken before dawn. Last night, Alan and I agree to ride as a team for a while, and he suggested we arise early today because we have nearly 70 miles to reach Sunset State Beach in northern Monterey Bay for tonight’s camp. Alan always gets up early, as all cyclists usually do, but he even beats the early birds. He like to ride at a slower pace, so he allows himself more time. He always arrives at the same nightly destination as everyone else, but he gets there later and leaves earlier. To awaken me, he walks over to my trike and jingles the flag antenna, which activates my little yellow bear bell. Of course, I am already awake, just savoring the final few moments in my cozy warm bag as the sky very slowly brightens off to the east.
We take off, and after a while I pedal past a sign that says 46 miles to Santa Cruz, and 95 miles to Monterey. Alan tells me that navigating through these two cities can be problematic, and how on a former trip, he got lost several times and had to backtrack. He offers to guide me through both towns, through all the little unknown bike paths and alternate routes that make the journey more enjoyable, and sometimes shorter. I navigated San Francisco on my own, and yes, it can be a frustrating exercise having to stop and ask everyone you see how to get where you are going. So, I graciously take Alan up on his offer and tag along behind him.
Today the ride is relatively fast and easy. We are out of the huge cliff mountains for a while, and maintain much higher speeds with much less effort. The shoulders are mostly over sized and clean, which suits me fine, but I know that south of Carmel, the cliffs will return in a couple of days. I ask Alan about New Brighten State Beach, but he says Sunset Beach is a much better campground in his opinion. The scenery is gorgeous in many places. At one point, I look off to the left, towards the east, on a section of road that is elevated, and gaze down into a serene and idyllic valley shrouded in morning fog. A picture on my Kodak Z915 digital camera brings it back for you – what do you think? I can always spot Alan up ahead in his Arizona jersey, which has seen better days. I tell him he needs a new one once he returns home.
Up in northern California, this highway was called the Redwood Highway. Here as I head south from San Francisco, it is now called the Cabrillo Highway. Before this trip began, my sister Willow sent me a postcard with a photograph of Pigeon Point lighthouse on it, and she wanted me to stop there and see it on my journey. So I did. I took a couple photos to show her too. There is a hostel at Pigeon Point lighthouse, and the scenery is wonderful, but I pedal on towards Sunset Beach and Monterey. The pedaling is easier today because there is a very nice tailwind to drive me forward. Look at my smiley flag on the trike as it sits in front of Pigeon Point lighthouse. The original big classic light is gone in this lighthouse, and only a small modern beam shines. They must have run out of money to maintain the historic locale.
Passing the Santa Cruz county line, I am greeted by Swanton’s berry farm, just one of many such roadside businesses that motorists can visit to taste goodies and load up the trunk with fresh food. As a trike nomad, more weight is not something I want, so I travel on, taking only pictures.
Finally, Alan and I enter the city of Santa Cruz, and in good time too, as the roads have been easy. He knows his way through here. I ask him about a Safeway. He says to wait until the one on the south end of town. There are 5 Safeway supermarkets here, and, true to his admonishment, the final one is the nicest one. It allows us to eat a little later so we won’t be starving for dinner tonight. There are several short but steep uphills as we progress through Santa Cruz, and the city goes on for what seems like forever. We have come over 50 miles so far, a long day in many cyclists’ minds, but we have about 15 or so to go.
Santa Cruz is bike friendly for the most part, with many signs telling motorists to be kind and share the road, plus it has bike lanes here and there. Where there are no bike lanes, the city has erected bright green signs that show a bicyclist in the lane in front of a car, with the words underneath: BIKES IN LANE. Leaving the southern end of the city, the Pacific Coast Bike Route parallels the freeway, separated by a chain link fence. There is a key intersection after the PCBR crosses the freeway, where we follow the sign and turn right. Alan once turned left here, which is the intuitive thing to do based on how the terrain appears, and ended up inland in a town called Freedom. His knowledge is valuable. Another sign reads BE COURTEOUS SHARE THE ROAD, showing a car and bicycle side by side.
We are now in sprawling agricultural landscapes, with huge white mansions and long distance views near the ocean. As the day is wearing thin, we arrive at Sunset Beach road, a narrow straight road that leads about a mile or more to Sunset State Beach, through the endless fields of green crops. The ocean is dead ahead, and camp is near again. We pay our fees ($5) at the guard house, and I learn that it is about another three quarters of a mile to the hiker/biker camp, up some very steep hilly terrain. After 68 miles, I pull off the pavement and into the tiny hiker/biker camp area, next to the showers. This campground is mostly empty out on this end. It is very far off the beaten path, and few tourists probably even know about it. As a result, it is also very quiet out here in farmer land. It is on a bluff above the ocean.
Alan bought a pizza at Safeway I discover, as he gets out his Jet Boil stove and starts heating up sections of it one at a time. It smells like a pizzeria out here, but I eat my Uncle Ben’s precooked Santa Fe rice out of a packet, mixed with 3 ounces of Starkist pink salmon, wild caught, of course, not farm bred. There is a seemingly endless field of some crop just over a tiny berm past my tent. I am surrounded by an ocean of green on three sides, and an ocean of blue on one side. I write in my journal once bedded down in my tent, using my headlamp. A nearly full moon rises. Through the first half of the night, I enjoy watching it cast moon shadows on me through my tent door mesh. It is magical, and I am at peace. Good night.
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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 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.
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.
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DAY 16
September 18, 2013, Wednesday
Veteran’s Memorial State Park to Big Sur State Park, California
34 miles (running total = 766 miles)
I am the first cyclist to begin the morning routine. First, the air quietly leaves my ThermRest NeoAir Fast ‘n Light mattress. This insures that I will be motivated to get up shortly thereafter. By Day 16, I am a well tuned trike gypsy, knowing precisely what to do, what order to do it in, how long it will take, and what to do next. I move with great speed, in large part because I am so excited to pedal my trike the next 34 miles to one of my favorite places on the California Coast: Big Sur, the final redwood stronghold on my journey.
Up like a bunny, having broken camp, I roll the trike temporarily down to the table so I don’t have to carry my supplies. The table is very damp from last night, so I want to only set my bowl on the table, keeping the rest of the stuff on my seat. The sun is now breaking through the trees, and it feels pleasant upon my face. Alan tells me that leaving this park, even though it is situated atop this mountain, requires even more steep uphills exiting via Skyline Drive and 17 Mile Drive.
Sure enough, he is right again, and we begin another test of elevational endurance, which tests not only me, but also once again that chain that so unceremoniously exploded yesterday morning. When we get to the Skyline Drive intersection, the traffic is extremely heavy as the 9-5 crowd is hurriedly rushing down the hill from their expensive homes to the city below, so they can pay their inflated mortgages and maintain their self-induced need to exceed the neighbors’ net worth. I have never seen so many Mercedes, BMWs, Ferraris, and other high-end cars so packed together in one place before! This is the wealthy realm of the mountain up here, and by the time 17 Mile Drive gets us down, we coast into Carmel, which is likewise loaded with even more fancy cars, suited men and women behind the wheels, impatiently waiting in the horrible gridlock this Carmel hill always sees Monday Through Friday at this time.
On our bike and trike, Alan and I sail past even the most impatient driver as they are stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, and making no progress at all. We coast quickly on this steep downhill to the head of the line at the signal, and then fly on through to reach Safeway just before we leave town and head up into the cliff region again along the bluffs, where only animals and trees call home. As a trike gypsy, I have learned that you take Safeway when you can, no matter the time of day. Today, this is the only one we shall be passing, so we stop early to stock up on what we need. I get a couple of … you guessed it … Odwalla super protein drinks to fuel the lean greene riding maching the next 30 some miles to Big Sur. I also get some more Safeway trail mix (costs a fortune, but it’s cheaper than motels), and a couple of bananas. Alan gets his stuff, and then takes a few minutes to smoke a cig. This is one of the best looking and unique Safeway stores I have ever seen, but considering the financial level of the average resident in Carmel, California, it’s no surprise the company didn’t spare the horses on this one.
Alan is busy doing something with his panniers, so I take off first, as he is often faster than me overall, and I figure he will catch up sooner or later. But, as I pull out, I jokingly say to him: “See you at Big Sur.” and then I’m off. I expect to see him in my mirror before long though.
Back on Highway 1 once again, finally departing the megalopolises for good, I take a photo of the first sign that indicates Big Sur. Another quickly follows. I am giddy with delight as I am so close to this special place again, which also means the journey is progressing quite well at this point, despite the broken chain and two short mileage days. Now the work begins in earnest, with steep cliffside hills and some high winds. The day is totally sunny, and the ocean views are spectacular, more so the farther south we go.
Hearst Castle is now only 90 miles distant, and beyond that lies San Simeon State Park, which will find me a camper there in the not to distant future. A road warning sign shows tight and curvy roadway for the next 74 miles, as it continues fairly far south of Big Sur. I love these ocean views, and so do all the motorists touring today, as they are all pulling out every chance they get to take some awesome photographs of the rugged coastline. The road is tight, and motorists are usually sightseeing, so everyone is going pretty slow, and cars have no issues with me. Alan pulls into view finally at a turnout, but stops for a smoke, so I pedal on, putting some serious distance between us due to my excitement at reaching the Big Sur.
After a while, I see a gigantic hill in the distance, one of those river inlets I have described, only on a very large scale this time. As I look across the churning water of a bay area, I see the road disappear inland, only to reemerge at a horrendous upward angle to a point on the side of the cliff. If this is not enough, there is a construction job going on, so the highway is clogged, and controlled by a traffic light. There is a little button for cyclists to push to let them through, since the sensor does not detect us apparently, so I push it. The signal turns green after some cars go by the other direction, but unlike the often flat or downhill constructions I’ve passed so far in these 700+ miles, this one is all up hill, and a very steep hill it is. This means that a tricyclist will have one heck of a time getting through before the next wave of oncoming traffic surges from the northbound lane. Well, anyway, I make it through, and continue my ascent of this long uphill. Fortunately, the views are so spectacular, and the wind so cooling and pushing from behind, I don’t even mind this hill today.
At the top at long last, I photograph the ICE trike with a breathtaking view of cliffs and Pacific ocean behind it. The yellow smiley flag is whipping so hard that I am wondering if it will just rip off the pole. It has become rather ragged since 2009, when I first started using it as my main visibility strategy, and this trip will be its last, for I doubt it can withstand another. I will retire it, and hang it proudly upon the wall somewhere at home. To me, this flag holds so many memories!
I look back down the hill, attempting to steady myself in the wind, and realize what a climb it was! Then, my peripheral vision picks up movement of the trike, and I discover that the wind is actually pushing it onward, right towards the cliff – good thing there are some big boulders placed here to keep motorists from accidentally surging forward to their demise. Look at the photograph with the bridge in it from above to get an idea of how long and steep this hill is.
As I approach Andrew Molera State Park, the road flattens out, having come down off the cliffs for a while. Andrew Molera is not far north of Big Sur – I am almost home free for today. The air has become quite warm now, and shade feels good once again. One minute a trike gypsy seeks the sun, and the next, he scrambles for the shade. Thermal regulation is always a big issue on overland trike treks.
Not far past Andrew Molera, I enter redwoods once again, my silent pals on much of this grand journey. The hot sun is cooled by the colossal trees. I stop in a little store just prior to the campground, and get more Odwalla protein drinks – this might be a record for one day, especially considering that it is a short day of only 34 miles. Then, after a relaxing sit on their wooden bench to drink my drinks, back in the cockpit I go, and off I pedal. Alan has not yet caught up.
At Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, I stop at the park’s general store to get a neck lanyard that says I survived Highway 1, which I’ll wear in November for the 3 days of the Recumbent Cycle Convention at the Los Angeles County Fairplex in Pomona, California to display my presenters tag for Trike Asylum. I knew they carried these cool neckstraps here, and was lucky because this is the last one they have in stock for this season. Whew, that was close! You can see this lanyard in one of the pictures for this day.
I pay my $5 entry fee for the hiker/biker camp (one of the nicest and most serene anywhere), and ride on into the magnificent redwood grove where this park is situated. There is a long pedestrian and cyclist bridge that crosses the Big Sur river, and it goes right into the hiker/biker camp area. To my surprise, Alan is already here, having ridden in while I was in the general store getting my lanyard. He was not too far behind me. When I told him jokingly this morning at Safeway that I’d see him at Big Sur, I sure didn’t think I would be right. Cool! Maybe trikes aren’t that slow after all if the driver is motived sufficiently.
I pitch my tent, enjoying the cool afforded by the big trees. It’s hot today for this place. Alan is complaining about a lot of little tiny flies that are bugging the daylights out of him. They just hatched about a week ago. Normally in the summer, there are no issues with little annoying flies. Today, they are indeed everywhere, and the only relief is if you walk around and do something. If I sit a while, they find my face, my eyes, my ears, and my nose. Well, at least I am bringing happiness to others, even if they are another bioform slightly different than myself.
Alan and I are talking at my picnic table. I ask if he wishes to spend a free day here tomorrow, which is what I am currently considering. What better place to hang out? He says he wants to get on down the road, and will leave first thing at daybreak tomorrow. I thank him for guiding me through Santa Cruz and Monterey, and tell him I’d like to treat him to dinner tonight at the fancy Big Sur lodge restaurant at the park’s entrance. He is appreciative, but kind of a loner, and says he doesn’t want to eat at the fancy place – too uptown for his tastes, he says. Okay, so I’ll again have packaged rice and salmon tonight for dinner. I’m used to that by now.
Today is Wednesday, and despite the chain incident and that setback in progress, I am still on track to make David Massey’s necessary arrival date in Morro Bay on September 20, Friday. If I went on with David tomorrow morning, we would arrive at San Simeon on Thursday after a long day’s ride, and then would roll into Morro Bay Friday morning before lunch. Yes, David, we would have indeed made it in time to get you back to your high school and students! Wow, we did it, except that David is no longer with me anymore. I wanted to get him a lanyard too, but there was only one left, and unfortunately, he did not make it this far. I surely wish he were here with me right now! I think he would have loved this journey to the very end. My best wishes go out to David this afternoon as I contemplate what should have been if our plan had worked. At least we got the timeline dead-on for arriving at Morro Bay!
Well, but David is not here, so realizing that the schedule is no longer in effect, I do decide to spend a free day here to enjoy the place I love. I will call tomorrow Big Sur Appreciation Day, and soak it all up as Alan and the other cyclists battle the big hills, especially the Ragged Point challenge just down the road a long ways.
As Alan and I are sitting talking at the picnic table, a Vietnamese woman named Lien Ton-nu walks up and queries me about my recumbent trike. She is 33 years old and lives down towards San Diego. The conversation develops, and actually starts becoming quite deep philosophically, so Alan eventually walks back over to his tent, perhaps figuring the gal is interested in me and me in her. Who knows. All I know is that he disappears at some point and neither Lien nor I really notice his absence. Sorry buddy!
Her name is pronounced “Lynn” and her level of intelligence and ideological principals is really quite impressive. We seem to be kindred spirits in so many aspects of life, and our conversation is so enjoyable that it seems to carry on for such a long time. I ask her if my talking is keeping her from anything, and she tells me that she is driving up to Monterey and Carmel this afternoon to stay with some friends, so she has plenty of time. But Lien also tells me she want to stop and see Cannery Row and some other places, and it seems to me that there are not enough hours left today to do it all, so I suggest that she should not wait too much longer. Yet, apparently she is enjoying our verbal engagement as much as I am, and she keeps offering up more fascinating stories and ideas. The time does arrive however when even she realizes it’s getting late for her intended itinerary, so she bids a nice farewell and vanishes into the trees. Usually, when I meet special people, I take their photograph, but our talk was so intriguing that I forgot this time. Oh well, maybe she’ll read this someday and email a picture to post with this story and other photographs.
Later, one of those tandem bicycles enters our camp, where the front person sits in a recumbent chair, and the back person sits on a typically uncomfortable bicycle seat. The rear person pedals and steers, and the front person may pedal if they want to, but because the front crank freewheels, they don’t have to. This female/male couple tell us they switch off positions. The other bikers and I wonder what happens if the front person sees an obstacle that the back person cannot yet see. They say you get used to it. Other bikers roll in, so there end up being 7 of us total by nightfall.
I take one final photograph of Alan in his tent through the mesh because he does not have the fly on the tent, reading a book, before I hit the sack myself. I realize I will probably never see him again, so I sincerely thank him for all his assistance these last few days. He says it’s no big deal, and he was happy to help. I bid him a final adieu, and that’s that, as they say. My morning will not begin at first light tomorrow, or even sunup. I’m sleeping in for the first time on this entire journey, and I suspect that by the time I arise in the morning, everyone here will be long gone, out on the road of adventure once again. That’s how life on a trike and bike is. You make friends, and never see them again. We live in a temporal world anyway, so even these short friendships with folks like Alan and Lien are precious.
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DAY 17
September 19, 2013, Thursday
No travel today – remained again at Big Sur to enjoy all it has to offer
0 miles (running total = 766 miles)
In the early morning pre-dawn hours, I still sleep soundly, and when I become aware of faint noises that typically accompany cyclists as they arise in their tents, I ponder how nice it is to not be getting up right now. Every other day of this journey, I either began my morning chores when I heard others doing likewise, or I was the first to begin the process. I am so use to this ingrained habit that when I hear a bicyclist in a nearby tent starting to rustle around, a part of me says to get moving steve, it’s time to get up! Strangely, as I hear others following suit, a certain sadness washes over me, because I know I am supposed to be part of this ritualistic morning dynamic. By lying here and ignoring what is happening out there, I know that I will never see these folks again.
As the sun begins to break through the trees, I finally give in and get up. What a lazy guy I am today, but it is nice to feel no need to rush into the expected routine. It is nice to know I can take all the time in the world to do whatever it is I will be doing today. I do not deflate my air mattress today however, because I will be using it again tonight. In fact, the tent can remain as it is, making today an easy arising. Sure enough, by the time I put on my shoes and get up, the hiker/biker camp is empty. The other 6 cyclists have long since started pedaling. They are all out on the road, cranking up hills, staving off the chill of the morning air on downhills, and watching the miles roll by.
After a leisurely granola breakfast and finishing my post-meal oral dental care, I decide to move my tent and trike to another location about 30 feet towards the river, over where cyclists ride into the camp when they arrive. I do this because several times yesterday, a lady, who was camping with her husband across the road out of their van, walked her dog directly through my tent area on her way to the bathroom. Well, the dog was not leashed as required, and on one of these trips, the animal was fixing to urinate or excrete right near my tent. I noticed just in the nick of time and told it no. So, the little yipper starts barking at me like crazy, and the lady, who is several yards ahead and paying no attention to where her dog is, turns around to see what is upsetting her animal. I tell her what was about to happen, and she seems so surprised, but it is clear she has no intent on avoiding such a thing again. So, I figure it’s just easier to side-step the potential problem by moving the tent far away from the beeline between this lady’s car camp and the bathroom.
The move is easy this morning. The lady is not yet up over there, so she will not even know I moved in all likelihood. I just pull up the three fly stakes, remove the fly, and simply carry the ultra lightweight tent, with mattress and sleeping bag still rolled out inside, over to the new location. Then, I reattach the fly, stake it down, and I’m good to go, not in line between the bathroom and any other camper. Next, I roll my trike over next to my tent, and it looks like I’ve been here all along.
This may seem like a nitpicking issue to some, but in my extensive camping history, I have had a fellow camper’s dog actually urinate on the fly of my tent, believe it or not. And I was standing right there watching. When I shooed the dog off before any more urine ran down the tent fly, the owner becomes perturbed and asks me why I’m hassling his dog. I tell him the animal just urinated on my tent, and politely ask him to leash his dog. He becomes even more upset, and tells me there is no way he is going to tie his dog up. Being a man of logic and slightly more intellect and compassion for others than this particular dog owner, I simply break camp and leave. I don’t need to spoil my day because of a dog owner who has no consideration for others. Thus, when a dog is about to do his, or her, duty on or near my tent, I become proactive these days.
The huge redwood trees surrounding my tiny tent, trike, and me are absolutely awesome! I will spend the day today admiring them, hiking around a bit, and simply realizing how fortunate I am to have these hours to enjoy this special place. This forest dwarfs my miniature camp, yet the forest itself is dwarfed by the surrounding landscape, which is in turn dwarfed by the planet on which it all rests. This dwarfing by comparison extends right out into the space about our planet, through the solar system, galaxy, and beyond. To contemplate such things is an incredible exercise for my head. There is no need for me to make up stories about how all this occurred in order to conquer my little human fears, because simply accepting what is and appreciating my part in it, is profoundly exhilarating for me. I am in love with the natural world around me. I am a wilderness rogue, happy and care-free.
The camp area here in the hiker/biker area is covered in a thick layer of bark chips, making a perfect bedding for spreading out tents, mattresses, and sleeping bags. The ground is flat. There are several nice picnic tables, full shower and toilet facilities, and even fire pits, although it has been my experience that few cyclists ever actually use them. When we all arrive at these camps each evening, we are tired, and we are motivated to pitch camp, clean up, eat food, and just get into the tent to allow our bodies the little recuperation time we have to prepare for our early morning departure. Having a camp fire necessitates staying up to enjoy it, usually after it gets dark, but cycle nomads are almost always asleep in their tents before it even gets completely dark.
The photographs for today are just taken around the Big Sur State Park campground as I walk here and there, including some of the laundry I do before lunch. The laundry facility, which is rare in state park campgrounds, is at the far end of the campground area, so it takes me quite a while to walk down to it. I could ride the trike, but why? I ride it miles every day. Today I wish to walk, first carrying my dirty clothes, and the returning with my clean clothes. It is far enough away, likely about three quarters of a mile or so, that I just wait as the clothes wash and dry. There is no rush. I have all day. I also grab a leisurely shower to be ready for what tomorrow brings my way.
At each hiker/biker area, there is also a steel ring attached to the post that indicates which site the biker or triker has. My first site, where the little doggy was going to soil my area, was “D” so I took a photo of the post and loop. As the sun breaks through in it full glory, some campfire smoke is wafting through the trees from distant neighbors, and it makes for a few more neat images. One of my favorite things to do is point my camera straight up into the tree tops. How magnificent the result! I notice that my yellow smiley flag is becoming quite worn after several years of riding. Even with the heavy edging I had put on it, the material is finally coming apart. This will be the flag’s final trike trip. It will be display on the wall in the garage at home eventually, as a memento of my trike gypsy travels.
I walk over to the lodge to get a couple of stickers that read: I SURVIVED HIGHWAY CALIFORNIA 1, with the California 1 part in the typical road sign configuration. On the way over, I a wild turkey walks right past me. These birds are plentiful around this state park for some reason, and I have also seen them in other areas and other states. You may recall I passed that turkey farm on the way to Tomales, south of Bodega Bay, a few days ago. They were being farmed for death. Hopefully, these wild turkeys will live out there days in these beautiful redwoods, unencumbered and unmolested by the species that thinks it superior to all and can do what it wants without regard to life.
The Big Sur lodge, while by no means as spectacular, large, or grand as several of the national park lodges in the United States, is impressive in the small area it has. I take some photographs of the lodge to show the ambiance that is tucked away inside the redwood canopy. Back at camp, a couple of deer stroll by, but having lived so many years in remote wooded locales during my life, this is a common site for me. Still, I love to capture these gentle creatures on film, as I did that pair a few days ago out on Highway 1. The universe smiles upon me, leading me to a trio of butterflies, something I have never witnessed before. Yest, this place is a magical realm at times.
I notice that my right Arkel pannier cover, the yellow overlayment that keeps out rain and makes me highly visible to automobile drivers, has a new hole in the bottom. You may notice in the photograph that I had already had a worn spot from my 2011 journey repaired, and now I have a new worn spot to fix. These holes occur when I back the trike up into a curb to park on a hill so that it will not roll. The material on the bottom is extremely fragile, and does not play well with concrete, rocks, or the wilderness when contact is made.
By mid and later afternoon, a new wave of cyclists begin to arrive in my quiet triker camp. I welcome these fellow human powered humans because I love to hear all about their journeys, their vehicles, and their experiences. After talking to everyone for a long time, trying not to monopolize their time as they go through their end-of-day routines, I eat dinner and check into the tent early, for tomorrow will be a long day. I figured it would be about 63 miles to San Simeon originally, but one of the young cyclists who checked in about two hours ago is riding northbound on Highway 1, and he told me his computer showed 70 miles. Okay, tomorrow will be a longer day, along the high magnificent cliffs south of Big Sur, with the climb up the Ragged Point grade the longest and most challenging of the day, so I need all the sleep I can get tonight. Past San Simeon, it is only another 20 miles to Morro Bay, David’s proposed end point, and then another 39 to Atascadero, my end of the trail.
After a few days of observing the moon becoming fuller and brighter each night, tonight is the grand finale called a full moon! How special is that? Here I am at Big Sur, a magical land of memories and trees that make me feel like a little elf, and tonight the moon is round as round can be. And, it is shining directly into my tent door! I capture it on my digital camera, not much to look at perhaps, but it is my remembrance that I lived for a time on the ground in a tent on the floor of Big Sur with that wonderfully magical moon illuminating the breathing sentient bioform I call me.
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DAY 18
September 20, 2013, Friday
Big Sur State Park to San Simeon State Park, California
70 miles (running total = 836 miles)
I waste no time this morning. I am eager to start knocking off the miles, knowing the day will be a long one. While still pitch black outside, except for the bath facility lighting, it occurs to me that the cellular telephone I borrowed for this trip, to call in my location information, has a timepiece in its software. Having not worn a timepiece for a couple of decades at least, I rarely care about knowing the time, but now, I decide to activate the phone for a minute because I want to get a big jump on the day. Muffling the cute musical tone it plays upon activation, so as not to disturb nearby sleepers, I see the time is a couple of minutes after 5 AM. Perfect! I begin by deflating my air mattress, first slowly because it makes a loud hissing sound if I open the valve all at once, and that would definitely awaken other cyclists who, while wanting an early start, generally don’t get up this early. Like the trike phantom I am, my activities are so stealthy and practiced that there is practically no noise. This early, I have the time to take it slowly and make sure I remain silent in all I do.
I am still bundled up a bit in layered clothing this early. I eat my granola to headlamp light, being careful to keep it pointed down only at what I am doing. Most cyclists are like this, keeping their headlamps carefully focused on their stuff. A few, on rare occasion, do not think of this, and move around in a careless manner, their headlamp wildly shining into everyone’s tent close by, which wakes them up, of course. The metal spoon I have can clang on the cereal bowl, so I am careful not to allow it. Tim, the young fellow who clued me into the 70 mile distance to San Simeon, is up now also, and he has a red cover that pops down over his headlamp for times like these, dampening the light so it does not disturb anyone if it accidentally shines into their tents. We whisper a bit, and finally bid each other goodbye and good luck as I finally shove off at first light. This is the earliest departure I’ve had this entire trip.
I activate my flashing taillights as I pull out onto Highway 1 for some of the final miles of this magnificent journey. The light enclosure has ten flashing ultra bright LED lights, so it is quite visible from a long way off. It is still quite cool, and there is a fog bank rolling in from the ocean to my right, over the hill. I start up the long curvy tight hill immediately south of the park, with hardly any cars for a very long time. I have the highway to myself, and am experiencing it up close and personal from 7 inches off the ground, out in the elements, able to touch plants as I go by. Petroleum humans can never know this joy of being one with the wilds during travel along the coast. I may be slow, but that slowness translates into delectable experiences that can be had no other way.
The first road sign past the Big Sur village shows San Luis Obispo 105 miles distant, and the famous Hearst Castle only 60 miles away now. I break out to the first grand overlook of the Pacific Ocean south of the little town to see a common sight in mornings here: a thick dense fog blankets the sea, making it invisible to roadway travelers. Only by hiking down to the beach can one actually see the water this early in the morning. It is like being in an airplane, where the sun is shining, and you look down on clouds, knowing the people underneath them see only an overcast day with no sun.
As the road begins its typical up and down roller coaster ride, I enter areas of dense fog on the trike. I love the magical ambiance the fog brings to my senses. Portions of the road near sea level are flat for a ways, so I pick up speed and move along rapidly. This coastline is spectacular, so I’ll simply let the photographs speak for themselves now.
I arrive at San Simeon State Park around 5 PM, having ridden a little over 10 hours. There is only one other cyclist here. The farther south a cyclist rides into California, the fewer cyclists are found on the coast highway. From 17 up at Standish-Hickey State Park to only 2 here, the difference is striking, but it occurs slowly over the days, fewer and fewer the farther south. San Francisco is a popular destination point for many, doing just the northern coasts. South of Morro Bay, things start getting more and more congested, and by the time the coast highway gets down into the Los Angeles region, it is a whole different world. Passing through the San Pedro coastal area, for example, with it countless and unsightly mega petroleum plants, stacks, and ports of commerce for international ships, the ambiance of the northern coast is totally gone. Hundreds of thousands of humans are swarming all around in every direction. Run-down parts of towns are glaringly obvious, and the citizenry of many areas are of dubious nature, not conducive to trust or serenity as the wide open spaces of the northern areas are.
The hiker/biker area at San Simeon State Park is literally only a few feet off Highway 1, so tire whine from automobiles is nearly as loud as while riding on the trike. A very heavy fog is quickly rolling in as soon as I arrive, so I make haste in setting up my tent, eating, and preparing for the night. Even before I get to bed, the fly and my pannier rain covers are becoming noticeably damp. I am sure the morning will require me to use my little chamois before packing things away.
Unknown to me, there is a raccoon den right along the highway, only a few yards from my tent. I discover this about two minutes after I get into my sleeping bag for the night. I hear my bags being rustled, along with the distinctive tinkling of my small yellow bear bell atop my flag pole antenna. Up like lightning, I snatch my headlamp and exit the tent. The masked marauder is already gone, but the three Clif Bars I had already prepared for tomorrow’s midday snack, which were sealed in a normal Ziplock baggie, have been stolen. This raccoon did not harm my Radical Design side seat pod, but rather lifted the little rain flap, unzipped it about 7 inches, and neatly extracted the small bag with the three bars inside. These creatures are amazingly dexterous, as skilled as any human. I search the bushes for his location and my bars. I can hear him unwrapping my bars, but cannot see him back in the dense bush covering that protects his den. Enjoy the 210 calories per bar my friend – you will be taking in 630 calories total, along with 30 grams of protein – that should tide you over until morning!
The stealthy dark gray and black animal did not detect the food I have in my left rear Arkel pannier, as it is sealed in special military grade bags that fully stop any odor whatsoever. Animals simply cannot detect food in these bags. I was skeptical at first when I saw the product at REI, but after this trip, and two raccoon incursions, I am convinced of their value, and will be acquiring more for my next trip! The reason the three Clif Bars were in the side seat pod is because I have been making a habit of preparing for the next day ahead of time, only this time, on my last night’s camp, my procedure is clearly shown to be faulty. My luck has run out. Next trip, I will prepare the day’s snacks the morning of departure so this will never occur again.
Back into the tent I go, hopeful that this will be the end of the attempted thefts, but still thinking that of all nights, this last one is full of bugs. The fog is ultra heavy now, and everything is getting wet. Even standing out with my headlamp on, I can see the dense mist right before my face, and I can feel it on my skin. And now, the raccoon is about his or her mischievous ways, so can I get any rest? Tomorrow will be a short day, but after 70 miles today, I would sure like to sleep soundly, especially since it is the final night in my tent as a trike gypsy.
This campground is crowded and popular, and being Friday night, many regional folks have swarmed to this place for easy beach access a few yards away, and quick assess to the famous Hearst Castle tourist attraction up on the hill six miles north. I wonder if my raccoon friend will find the messy campers of pickup trucks and cars, teenagers and kids, food everywhere, to be more inviting than my neatly kept little tricycle camp. The answer comes, probably within the hour. Off goes my bell once more, but this time, having been alerted prior, my headlamp is ready and I am out like a flash. The LED lights on my forehead illuminate the quiet little miscreant, and his eyes glow orange when the beam hits them. He is running off again, towards the cars to my south. I check my bags. All is well. He has not taken anything else, probably because there is nothing else to smell, and the fact that I was so fast at shooing him away this time.
Standing here in the wet moving fog, like a vigilant knight guarding the castle, I wonder how I can put a stop to this activity that interrupts my much needed rest and sleep. My mind ponders the situation from all angles. Even though the food bag is right outside my tent door, if I’m totally zonked out, it takes a moment for me to respond to intrusion. Then an idea comes to my tired, but still functional brain! If these creatures have such a superior sense of smell, to be able to smell Clif Bars, which are wrapped in their own sealed wrapper, which are then sealed in an airtight Ziplock baggie, maybe I can use this smelling ability to my advantage!
I think like an animal. What do they do? They mark their territory. I am an animal just like they are. Since I am up anyway, might as well mark my trike camp territory, just like they do. So, in a slight arc, between the raccoon den and my panniers on the trike, and about six feet out from the trike, I offload what water I have at hand in an arcing shape on the grass. I am chuckling to myself, thinking about what I’m doing on my last night as a trike gypsy, resorting to basic animal behavior to solve an animal problem. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, the saying goes. I have done so, and back to bed I go. Despite my initial worry earlier that I’d get little sleep tonight after the first incident involving the Clif Bars, I go right to sleep, my fatigue finally overtaking me. I sleep soundly the rest of the night, with no further forays from the den of thieves who are experiencing the same weather I am, living on the same ground I am, and playing this same game with me tonight.
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DAY 19
September 21, 2013, Saturday
San Simeon State Park to Atascadero, California
39 miles (running total = 875 miles from Florence, Oregon – journey complete)
Morning comes, the slight light that precedes what one would actually call daytime. I don’t care what time it is, for today is a short one compared to yesterday and many other long days with high mileages. I am but 39 miles from the end of the trail for the Pacific Coast Tricycle Adventure, which for me is a walk in the park.
Everything is wet outside. The fly works well, as the tent is totally dry. The rain covers on my panniers work well, as the panniers themselves are totally dry. Out comes the chamois, and I diligently spend the time removing the excess water from everything. Of course, with the fog still as heavy as it was, I ponder the wisdom of my actions. But at least I can get the tent fly fairly dry before I slide it in its bag. I can dry it out later this afternoon at my destination, where I will have plenty of time for such things, and where the weather will be warm and very dry.
Marking my territory last night worked flawlessly. Mister raccoon did not enjoy the smell I left for him, and realized that this marking marked the end of his territory and the beginning of mine. This is a lesson well learned. It works, but who would talk about such things? Most folks are embarrassed to discuss such topics. Oh well, I guess they can get their bags opened by invaders of the night then. Of course, depending on the circumstances of the trike/bike camp, this countermeasure may not be a practical one. Remember the night at Gualala, north of San Francisco? Well, the government packed us bikers and trikers in such a midget area so tightly that my traveling companions surely would not have thought too highly of me had I initiated this solution there! Our tents were practically on top of one another, and avoiding tripping over each other’s fly lines was a real challenge in the dark. I know I wouldn’t be too happy if another cyclist marked his territory right outside my tent.
Breakfast eaten and all business taken care of, I begin pedaling away. The other cyclist has already left before me. He is fast. I am alone, no more cyclists to chat with. The trek is winding down, and there is a certain sadness wafting through my head about finally nearing the end. While I am of course elated that another successful journey is nearly complete, and look forward to allowing my body to get plenty of rest and experience the life of Riley, there is a call that motivates all trike gypsies to be out here on the open road of adventure and freedom. We are free on three out here, in the best sense of the words, traveling for hundreds of miles and never once having to stop and buy gasoline. We are not prisoners of the big oil conglomerates. I like that. I cannot explain the freedom and wonder that comes with a trike journey to anyone, for it must be ridden to be known!
The final miles into Morro Bay are mostly flat, and my large chainring is the one of choice as the miles move quickly under my trio of Schwalbe Marathon Plus tires, the rubber that always gets me to my destinations without a flat tire. I have never had a flat tire. I have been warned by mystics that such words should not be spoken, lest Murphy’s Law kick in, but you know what? I have spoken them many times, and still, I have never had a flat out on the road, or anywhere else for that matter. The right tires do make all the difference in the world of tire eating debris.
As I ride, the fog only gets heavier. This turns out to me a little more than the traditional early morning fog along the coast, which really never leaves me damp or wet. Even the heavy fog in Oregon does not leave me wet. But today, the fronts of my pants below the knees, the parts that face forward at 15 miles per hour, are clearly becoming soaked. My shirt is getting quite damp too, and water droplets begin to fall from the bill of my cap. My sunglasses must be wiped off frequently so that I can even see the road well. The fog grows to a visible precipitant I can see ahead of me. Is it rain? Well, let’s just say this: It is as close to a light rain as you can get without saying it’s actually raining today. Regardless of what one might call it, I am damp and wet, and this is the only day of the 19 total days that this has happened to me. It is not heavy enough to don my rain gear, and putting on rain gear would only serve to quickly overheat me, as it is not cold as I pedal along
Halfway to Morro Bay from San Simeon State Park, I begin being passed by bicyclists going north on Highway 1. It quickly becomes evident that this must be a bike club of some sort, perhaps the SLO bicycle club (SLO is the jargon for San Luis Obispo). For miles I watch as these rough riders are flying along towards San Simeon in the light rain. I do not count them, but there are many for quite some time. We all wave as we pass, sharing the dampness this Saturday morning on the Pacific Ocean. They are out for a fun day ride, and recognize that I am out for a long haul journey of many days, apparent due to my heavily laden tricycle.
Fascinatingly, I also see, of all things, three tricycles with this group. They are not riding together, but are spread out among the bicyclists for many miles. One of the trikes, all of which are tadpoles by the way, is a velomobile, a trike fully encased in a fairing, making for higher speed potential, and protecting the rider inside from the elements in the sky. It is orange. The trikers seem to really get a kick out of seeing me heading southbound, based on their hand gestures and verbalizations. I give them all the thumbs-up sign and a big smile.
I arrive in Morro Bay slightly before 11 AM. The huge rock, as often the case, is fully encased in dense impenetrable fog, and if one had never seen it before, one would not have any clue the massive monolith is even there in this bay called Morro. So today, I just see drizzles everywhere as I am leaving the freeway at exit 279B, which will drop me off at the intersection of Highway 41, called the E.G. Lewis Highway. This road will take me over the coastal mountains into Atascadero.
Into a Chevron mini-mart I pull for a drink of protein, and to make cell calls to Desert Dune regarding progress and to my hostess where the trip will end, so she knows I am about 3 hours out from her one-acre country spread, which she happily refers to as Rancho Relaxo, nestled in the rolling hills above the town of Atascadero. The mileage is not far from here, but the road climbs over the mountains, which will slow my progress from that experienced thus far today.
The female clerk in the mini-mart asks about my trip and destination. When I tell her, she becomes sick with deep fear that I will meet my doom on Highway 41. Seen from her vantage point as a motorist, she is convinced that to pedal this road is suicidal. I have been told this before, by a triker couple in the SLO area, who suggested I ride Highway 46 instead. If a triker listens to enough of this talk, it can undermine the facts and spook you out. My reality over the past 5 years does not support this fear at all. The road I have traveled for the past 18 days has countless areas far “worse” than the one mile section that grips this clerk with fear for my safety, but still, I am grateful for her kind thoughts, but I must leave before I start assimilating her fear.
My ride over into Atascadero is wholly without incident, and indeed, it is not one that induces any fear based on what I see or experience. One mile of it is tight and curvy, just prior to the Cerro Alto campground, but other than that, this road is very enjoyable and relaxing. Even the tight section was less, what some would call, “anxiety producing” than much of what I’ve been riding this whole trip.
As I roll over the summit area of these mountains, and begin coasting down towards town, the sky morphs into a clearing phase, with just a few white cotton clouds, sun out, completely different than in Morro Bay to the west. The weather is warming, and life is good. I pedal my bones into Rancho Relaxo just prior to 2 PM. No one is aware of my presence. Once again, the trike phantom has arrived in stealth mode. Of course, once I twist my shoes out of the pedal bindings, the two click sounds alert Bella, the resident K9, and out she flies with a roar … er, make that a bark – make that many barks. My back is to her as I remove my helmet, sunglasses, hat, and gloves, and I greet her by name: “Hello Bella” I say. Then I hear the Rancho Relaxo proprietor greet me by name. She puts Bella in a secure alternate location until the trike is no longer part of the picture, as sometimes doggies get confused by a tricycle – there is no memory data bank for most dogs as to what they are seeing. Trike? What’s that? Of course, this is true for many humans as well.
Rancho Relaxo – end of the 2013 Pacific Coast Tricycle Adventure
This acre of country belongs to an old high school classmate of mine. Okay, she’s not old, at least not any more so than I am, but it was 44 years ago that we were seniors there. I have never met this gal before. In high school, she was an ultra popular song girl, and I was an ultra ignored nobody with no friends. So, needless to say, there were no formal introductions as our two universes never crossed paths in 69. But then, 44 years after graduation, Debbie read one of my books, and what I said resonated in her brain, so she sent an email to who she learned was somewhat of a kindred spirit. And that’s how it all started earlier this year. Once we realized that my 2013 Pacific Coast Tricycle Adventure route coincided with her country acre of relaxing real estate, she put out the invite for me to recuperate after nearly three weeks of pedaling down the coast.
It all worked out well. I had no desire to continue south of Morro Bay, as what awaits a triker down there is not that high on my list of “go to” spots. I grew up in southern California, and am very well aware of how things tend to rapidly deteriorate the farther south one travels. The crowds grow to insane levels, the traffic makes what I’ve seen so far look like an infant’s playpen, and the industrial workings of mechanized progress have done a pretty good job of annihilating the breathable qualities of the human air supply. Morro Bay is the perfect place to bail out of this coastal ride, out where things are still laid-back and easy, out where the air is still clean, and out where people still trust one another.
So, 875 miles from home, in a place I’ve never been before, I am pitied and taken in by a wild woman, a confused dog, and a singing guitar man named Rob. I am fed, catered to, talked to, sung to, and more or less just allowed to relax with nary a care in the world. A warm shower awaits me, and after I shave off my scraggly beard so as not to over excite Bella with thoughts of Big Foot, I settle in to life in four walls again. It seems kind of weird after living on a tricycle and tent for 19 days, kind of like I am in some altered brain-dead state of nonthinking. Heck, I am even served the bizarre plant-based foods I normally eat, but, as most who know me know, I am not nOrmAL by any stretch.
After all, in my sixty-third year of life, I still ride a tricycle! See ya’ …
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until next time
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AFTER TRIP THOUGHTS:
(in no particular order of anything, just quick blurbs to further yank you along on this page)
The NEMO Obi one-person tent, brand new on this journey, was everything I had hoped it would be. I absolutely love this tent, and it will most definitely accompany me on every future trike trek. It is ultra light, sets up far easier and faster than any tent I’ve ever seen or used, allows me to sit up to get dressed inside, and disappears into the night if the green fly is not installed (the tent is black and gray, perfect for trike phantoms who do not wish company in the wilds).
New England Mountaineering (NEMO) Obi one-person tent
The SIDI Dominator 5 mountain bike shoes, brand new on this journey, far exceeded my expectations for what a trike shoe should be. On prior overland trike journeys, I have had issues with Nerve Compression Syndrome, what riders on the street call hot spots. These shoes easily made that a non-issue, being by far the most comfortable I have ever worn. The hard soles did the trick, and the fine Italian craftsmanship makes them feel like an expensive leather glove. With the binding attachment cleats all the way rearward, NCS was a thing of the past.
By the time I arrived at Rancho Relaxo, I was 10 pounds lighter in bodyweight than when I left the central Oregon coast, which meant my rolling weight on the trip (total weight I had to pedal up every darn hill out there) was about 255 instead of 265 by the end of the journey. These trips consume at least 5,000 calories on a typical day, sometimes upwards of 7,000 depending on how many hours I ride, and taking in that much food simply does not happen out on the open road. By the time I arrived in Atascadero, at 150 pounds instead of 160, I was indeed, as some have referred to me, the lean greene riding machine.
Total financial cost of this insane triangular journey was $398. This was not determined from receipts or intricate record-keeping, as I no longer am a mental prisoner of old IRS fear tactics to keep receipts for seven years. Nope, I know the financial damage because of the cash in my wallet. I do not spend with a credit card, using only the green stuff. At the rancho, I counted the money in my wallet, and there were 398 fewer dollars in there than when I began 19 days earlier. I spent $5 per night at campgrounds for the hiker/biker camps, except for at Humbug Mountain, where I treated David and myself to a regular campsite to be right next to the new shower facility (besides, David had just lost all his money when it fell out of his pocket somewhere on Highway 101, so I took pity on the poor soul). By a wide margin, the majority of money went to the Safeway supermarket chain, as well as other smaller markets, for such things as Mountain Gold Canadian granola, Odwalla protein monster drinks (made in Half Moon Bay by the way), expensive trail mixes with nuts and raisins, bananas, strawberries, and buckets of cherry tomatoes. One might argue that they could drive those 875 miles for far less money invested in gasoline – yes, but could they take a 19 day vacation for what I spent?
I prefer riding with a companion, but solo works out well too. Both have their advantages and disadvantages. Partnership makes the hardships less frightening, but generally slow down progress. Of course, having someone to talk to keeps the mind more or less in the mental territory of sanity. Solo riders are known to be prime candidates for mental hospitals by the end of the trip – that was the real reason for ending the trail in Atascadero, for there is a men’s state mental hospital there (but that’s another story). No, it wasn’t Rancho Relaxo!
Once again, I suffered no flat tires en route. My choice of Schwalbe Marathon PLUS tires, Earthguard tire liners, and Kenda heavy duty flat-resistent Qtubes is the winning combination that so far as kept me rolling along mile after thousands of miles. They all just work … period! Learn it here, or learn it out on the road under less ideal and convenient circumstances.
For overland trike journeys, use a 26-39-52 front chainring combination. On the rear, have an 11-34 mountain bike cassette. Do not pull a trailer under any circumstances. Have fun, pedal easy, go fast. The kitchen sink is not recommended. Experience is the only teacher, for most of us!
I want a faster trike for my next trek, something with a 26 inch or 700C rear wheel. I got tired of being passed by loaded roadies who were far less physically fit than I am, but were making quick work of me on the uphill sections of the PCH, of which there were many (many uphill sections and many roadies flying past me). I will further refine my packing paradigm. I brought stuff this trip I could have done without, so I continue to learn. Riding fast and easy is what it’s all about out there folks (it ain’t the Hokey Pokey). Pedaling in agony every day is no one’s idea of fun!
Cost of gasoline on this journey of 875 miles was zero, nothing, zip. Yes, in the year 2013, when our sedentary, lazy, and unhealthy society understands no other way of human transportation other than toxic waste emission machines called automobiles, these tricycle expeditions again clearly demonstrate that cars are only a learned habit of addiction. For most of human history, the car did not exist. We have come to redefine our living paradigm based around the destruction of our finite and fragile air supply. If you simply cannot break yourself of the habit, either: A) use only an all electric car, or B) offset your petrol car using certified carbon offset countermeasures through TerraPass or the Nature Conservancy. We live in a closed environmental system folks! Once this air supply is sufficiently sullied, our time as a species is over. If we cannot breathe, we cannot be!
Some folks like to calculate their average daily distance traveled, which helps to gauge how long future trips might take to complete. Daily average mileage can be looked at in different ways. If we divide the total mileage of 875 miles by 19 days, this reveals a daily average of 46 miles over the course of the entire trip. However, one day was spent with no travel at all, simply to enjoy the redwoods of Big Sur, thus, if we look at the remaining 18 days where trike travel actually occurred, 875 miles divided by 18 equals 48.6 miles per day, which is more accurate when it comes to future planning.
Even so, this 48.6 miles per day figure does not take into account a half-day utilized simply to do laundry and stop in early afternoon because of a convenient campground where many other cyclists were choosing to hang out. Nor does it consider the short days where stopping at 2:00 PM to enjoy great camping like at Half Moon Bay sometimes occurred. The Pacific Coast is an entirely different animal when it comes to daily distances. On inland treks where there are rarely any campgrounds, I would ride until an hour before sunset, and then pitch camp in wild settings. If I had used this same strategy on this coast ride, at least one more day would be subtracted from the total for the trip (of course, I loved the campgrounds for only $5, the hot showers each day, and the wonderful camaraderie that occurs with other cyclists, so I’m not complaining). If we divide the 875 miles by 17 days, which would simulate more accurately an inland trip without convenient campgrounds, a figure of 51.47 miles appears.
Based on these thoughts, and my past overland triking experience, I would recommend that if you are contemplating a trip, and want to make the best time possible if your time is short, plan on at least 50 mile daily averages, although I have also found that I can usually average in the 60-70 mile range. Of course, this also depends on one’s fitness level, along with the terrain one encounters on a given day (mountains are harder than flats). If a fit triker averaged 63 miles per day, which is certainly very realistic, this journey could be completed in 14 days. It’s all a matter of a rider’s personal goals and expectations.
Anyway, there you have a few thoughts about how far is reasonable each day. On the coast ride, with the convenient and frequent campgrounds, shorter days are the order of things for most cyclists who are not bent on reaching the destination in the shortest amount of time, in other words, for those who wish to just relax a bit more than the speedy guys.
Trike Phantoms 
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