A cottage built on an old growth redwood stump, at the RV park where we camped
Same cottage, ground floor, inside the stump
This scene caught my eye. Something about the contrast between the impermanence of the hot car from somewhere else with these grandfathers
Today was a ride to remember: 44 miles, starting at the northern terminus of Highway One, California’s Pacific Coast Highway. I have more to add to the previous long and wandering post, some of it already written and waiting for upload, but this just needs to be shared while it’s still fresh.
I purposely held to a short 30 mile day yesterday, having heard that the climb over to the coast was substantial, with two big climbs to get to the coast. Also, with no state park with showers until close to Fort Bragg, the day would be full, and I’d be wise to get a (relatively, for me) early start.
The beginning of the first good climb out of Leggett. This cyclist and I shared stories as we climbed.
Highway One turned out to be a delight. No shoulder, sharp turns, steep climbs and descents, but also little traffic, with slow and courteous drivers for the most part, and exquisite scenery. The first climb, which began as soon as I crossed the Eel River, was actually easy. I came upon another graybeard cycle tourist, who had ridden from Maine to Vancouver and was now heading to Mexico, and we swapped stories until we suddenly were at the top of the pass, around 1,000′ of climbing, I’d guess.
And here I’ll interject a couple of side stories. I’m not sure any more if I have written here that I am repeating a bicycle tour that I did half a lifetime ago. I rode down the coast, from Vancouver Island to Santa Cruz, California, forty years ago in 1974, when I was 23 years old. I have relatively few clear memories of that trip, but at 1,400 miles it was my first long tour, with a trailer and a mongrel dog that time. I’m in a completely different stage of life this time, and having just a great time.
One of my clear felt-sense memories from that time is that after about three weeks of solid bicycling, my body tunes into the exertion, and my leg muscles strengthen such that I reach the performance level where I could climb a hill all day. I could find a gear for a climb of any steepness that was simply not more exertion than my body could handle without tiring. Today that was just what occurred: we shared stories to pass the time while climbing, and neither of us was working hard enough that carrying on a conversation was difficult.
Both the abandoned cabin and the 1955 GMC truck are slowly melting back into the earth.
This lone bull elk was placidly grazing along our route.
One antler had four points, the other one small spear, so he may have lost one in battle.
Anyway, the first climb was followed by a fast descent perfectly paced for a bike. The turns were tight and frequent, with plenty of slope for fast speeds. My top speed on the descent was 34 mph due to the tight turns. This is slow compared with straighter steep runs (45 mph is my record). I stayed conscious of vehicle traffic, which was surprisingly light, and sometimes assertively directed cars, to wait or to pass me.
Even after the fast descent the road followed a stream for several miles, all downstream. Then came the second climb. This one was steeper than the first, but just as calm, just as easy. Another screaming downhill, and suddenly the ocean is in view. The last twenty miles was constantly up and down, which actually works out to “constantly uphill with short rest breaks”.
When I finally reached the campground, I was nearly giddy with joy for the day’s scenic beauty, the perfect road for cycling, and good companionship with other riders.
A tree tunnel, along the coast highway north of Fort Bragg
Ok, just for fun, here are a few recap statistics. I left home on Saturday, July 5th, and today is Friday, September 19th, so I have been traveling for just shy of eleven weeks. In very rough terms, I have ridden the train Amtrak (from Lamy to the Bay Area) about a thousand miles, hitchhiked about a thousand miles, and bicycled a bit over two thousand miles.
My plan at this time is to continue riding down the Coast Highway One through Point Reyes, San Francisco, Santa Cruz, Monterey, through the Big Sur coast to San Luis Obispo. I rode the Big Sur coast on my first-ever bike tour, after dropping out of engineering school in 1971. Once I’m in or near San Luis Obispo I’ll decide what to do from that point on. I could keep riding toward home, I could decide I had toured long enough and be ready to head straight home (most likely by hitchhiking), or I could choose a mix of the two.
I’m quite aware of the part of me that wants to return to the comforts of home, rather than sleeping most nights on an air mattress on the ground. But this experience is so rich and rewarding that I’m not ready to give it up yet. I’m quite willing for that to change in SLO. Also, Sunday is the fall equinox, when day and night are of equal length, summer has ended and fall has begun. The days are getting shorter, and the temperatures will be dropping. Here the rains typically come in October, and I hope to outrun them heading south on the coast.
Tomorrow, Sunday, is the Great Climate March. I just learned that the tiny town of Caspar, down the coast about six miles, has organized a march, and I intend to be there. I may spend a second night at MacKerricker Beach SP in order to be there – we’ll see.
One More Thing!
I will admit right up front that this is a total ego-trip gratification for me… All along I have written that I’m traveling for three “reasons” – to celebrate retirement from Positive Energy, being alive (this part is related to my cancer treatment 2 1/2 years ago); and being healthy enough to take this bicycle trip. This is about this last.
Yesterday morning I shared camp with a young couple from Montana, heading down the coast to San Francisco ( I fear I have lost their names); this is her first tour. I asked their age: 26 and 27. I asked them to guess mine, including in my request that I was looking for an honest estimate, not flattery. Both of them guessed me to be 52. I thanked them heartily for the unintended compliment!
Then, heading up the second climb, I stopped to talk with Rick, a single older man who had ridden from Maine to Vancouver and was now heading south for the winter. He told me he was 62 when I asked, and was surprised when I replied that I was one year older, as he had guessed me to be 52.
Something weird about this bicycle touring business: it causes us to grow younger, rather than older, I guess.