Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Over the Mountains
I left San Marcos yesterday and ran down the coast to San Diego. I stopped off at a high-end Triathlon store to pick up an extra tube, and ended up running into some locals with whom I rode into La Jolla. This was especially nice because it allowed me to take a "locals" shortcut that didn't show up on the map, and I was in Mission Bay in no time at all!
From looking at my elevation profile (which tells you how much elevation change takes place between points) I saw that by far the most major climbing would be out of San Diego for the first 100 or so miles, a gain of about 7,000 feet altogether before dropping below sea level.
I stayed last night at the Viejas Indian Reservation. As usual I got in late at night and didn't realize until this morning that the campground had a hot tub, showers, and a store. After a poor night's sleep, these things got me off to a good start this morning.
Most of my day was spent climbing. At one point, right before Jacumba, the road is only a stone's throw from the Mexico border, and there are border patrol agents EVERYWHERE in the area. The terrain was beautiful and completely desolate; the bike route goes along the nearly deserted Old Highway 80, through a dry mountainous country.
The descent I had been looking forward to all day turned out to be the most terrifying part of the trip, as the wind coming through the canyon was so strong I couldn't ride any faster than 15 miles per hour without risking being thrown into traffic or off into a canyon.
When I finished the descent, the haunting wind turned out to be an ally. It hit me directly in the back on the straight run East, and I was going 25 miles per hour without even pedaling. It felt like I was riding a quiet motorcycle!
The only bad part about this stretch was the roads, which were in poor condition. I pulled alongside a cyclist from New York who had just finished changing a flat tire (his third on the day, poor guy) and was heading in the same direction. We rode together and talked until he flatted again, so I gave him a tube and we were back on the road until his disk brake started rubbing. I don't know anything about disk brakes, but still managed to center it so that the rubbing stopped and we could get to El Centro where there is a bicycle shop. We rode the tailwind into El Centro, split a motel room, and grabbed some excellent Mexican food not more than 20 miles from the border.
All in all I did about 80 miles today, and will be staying below sea level tonight in the desert of Central Southern California.
The Mexican-US Border
From looking at my elevation profile (which tells you how much elevation change takes place between points) I saw that by far the most major climbing would be out of San Diego for the first 100 or so miles, a gain of about 7,000 feet altogether before dropping below sea level.
I stayed last night at the Viejas Indian Reservation. As usual I got in late at night and didn't realize until this morning that the campground had a hot tub, showers, and a store. After a poor night's sleep, these things got me off to a good start this morning.
Most of my day was spent climbing. At one point, right before Jacumba, the road is only a stone's throw from the Mexico border, and there are border patrol agents EVERYWHERE in the area. The terrain was beautiful and completely desolate; the bike route goes along the nearly deserted Old Highway 80, through a dry mountainous country.
The descent I had been looking forward to all day turned out to be the most terrifying part of the trip, as the wind coming through the canyon was so strong I couldn't ride any faster than 15 miles per hour without risking being thrown into traffic or off into a canyon.
When I finished the descent, the haunting wind turned out to be an ally. It hit me directly in the back on the straight run East, and I was going 25 miles per hour without even pedaling. It felt like I was riding a quiet motorcycle!
The only bad part about this stretch was the roads, which were in poor condition. I pulled alongside a cyclist from New York who had just finished changing a flat tire (his third on the day, poor guy) and was heading in the same direction. We rode together and talked until he flatted again, so I gave him a tube and we were back on the road until his disk brake started rubbing. I don't know anything about disk brakes, but still managed to center it so that the rubbing stopped and we could get to El Centro where there is a bicycle shop. We rode the tailwind into El Centro, split a motel room, and grabbed some excellent Mexican food not more than 20 miles from the border.
All in all I did about 80 miles today, and will be staying below sea level tonight in the desert of Central Southern California.
The Mexican-US Border
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Don's Bookshelf
Today is Grandpa Ringler's birthday. He would have been 89 years old.
While I rest in San Marcos, I am staying in his bedroom. I stay up late at night taking in everything, trying to absorb the entire room at once. So many things strike me that I would have asked about. I wonder who William Cole was; Grandpa has his Iowa farm title on the wall, dated 1820.
As I glance from one book to the next on his bookshelf, I think about how rewarding it was to hear him to explain each of these works to me. He always knew their historical significance, the author's background, the motifs, everything. He knew the most obscure facts about the most obscure works. Being a writer himself, he understood writers and the way that each one tried to present his or her ideas.
I thought of him, the young Marine, while I was at Camp Pendleton. I talked with Grandma Ringler about how they became engaged shortly before he was sent off for what would have been his second tour in the Pacific had the Japanese not surrendered. I never knew that he had been a Marine even before the war had begun; there is a lot I didn't know.
In the bathroom his cane still hangs on the towel rack as if he will come back for it after washing his hands. I can sense his presence when I am around all of his artifacts, the pieces of history he held on to and kept alive. I will always have his picture on my desk and his voice in my heart, to immortalize him in the same way he immortalized his idols. Happy Birthday, Grandpa.
"Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past."
-"Ulysses" by James Joyce
While I rest in San Marcos, I am staying in his bedroom. I stay up late at night taking in everything, trying to absorb the entire room at once. So many things strike me that I would have asked about. I wonder who William Cole was; Grandpa has his Iowa farm title on the wall, dated 1820.
As I glance from one book to the next on his bookshelf, I think about how rewarding it was to hear him to explain each of these works to me. He always knew their historical significance, the author's background, the motifs, everything. He knew the most obscure facts about the most obscure works. Being a writer himself, he understood writers and the way that each one tried to present his or her ideas.
I thought of him, the young Marine, while I was at Camp Pendleton. I talked with Grandma Ringler about how they became engaged shortly before he was sent off for what would have been his second tour in the Pacific had the Japanese not surrendered. I never knew that he had been a Marine even before the war had begun; there is a lot I didn't know.
In the bathroom his cane still hangs on the towel rack as if he will come back for it after washing his hands. I can sense his presence when I am around all of his artifacts, the pieces of history he held on to and kept alive. I will always have his picture on my desk and his voice in my heart, to immortalize him in the same way he immortalized his idols. Happy Birthday, Grandpa.
"Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past."
-"Ulysses" by James Joyce
Refugio to San Marcos: The Urban Scramble
The funny thing about a Blog is that the more you are generating things to write about, the less time you have to sit at a computer and type them out!
I obviously saw quite a bit as I made my way through Los Angeles. In honor of Sam Turman, I ordered a tall cup o' joe at the toniest Starbucks I could find in Malibu. The gentleman behind me took out a piece of paper from which he read his latte order(no joke); I was quickly getting out of my element the farther South I traveled. My path was through many of the well-known beach areas; Santa Monica, Venice Beach, Redondo, etc. It was something else to see everyone rollerblading, walking their dogs, weight lifting, and acting in every way LA is generally portrayed. No Baywatch lifeguards though.
I got lost in a bad part of Long Beach. I rode near the Los Angeles River, quite possibly the most depressing site I've ever seen, though I was surprised when I looked into people's back yards to see that some houses had horses. What could you possibly do with a horse in the heart of LA, I wondered? I moved quickly to get as far from the sprawl as I could before night fall, but when I made it to the camping beach I had planned to stay at, I found it was RV camping only. I had gone around 100miles that day, and the sun had set. I camped in the parking lot of a nearby nature preserve. Around 12:30 AM, I was awoken by a floodlight shining directly onto my sleeping bag; a police officer had found me in the lot. He asked where I had come from, and when I told him he allowed me to stay the night where I lay, provided I didn't have any felonies or outstanding warrants. It was not the best night's sleep.
In Huntington Beach the next morning, I fixed a flat, had a doughnut, made some repairs, and mailed some postcards. By this time I was getting into the heart of Orange County, possibly the most dangerous drivers I've seen thus far. People won't hit you in LA, because there would be thousands of witnesses. In Laguna Beach, the Cadillac Escalades drive where they please, and I ain't nothing but a tall road cone.
The closer I got to San Diego, the more I kicked it into gear. Even with my trailer, I must have been doing 25 miles per hour average between Dana Point and Camp Pendleton. I was ready for a nice warm bed and tea with Grandma Ringler!
The Coastal Bike Trail rides right through Camp Pendleton, a large Marine Base near San Diego. I had a good time talking to the Marine sentries at the gate for a while before taking off across the gigantic base. The ride afforded lots to look at, but a very high stress riding environment. I was passed by three huge military trucks with "Student Driver" emblazoned on the front. Then I was passed by a full-sized tank. Thank God those "students" know what they're doing!
I'm now in San Marcos on my second day of rest, and will probably take one more before I hit the road.
Me and Grandma Ringler
"But officer, it was a crime of passion!"
A Dog Walker in Redondo Beach, LA
Redondo Beach Mural
I obviously saw quite a bit as I made my way through Los Angeles. In honor of Sam Turman, I ordered a tall cup o' joe at the toniest Starbucks I could find in Malibu. The gentleman behind me took out a piece of paper from which he read his latte order(no joke); I was quickly getting out of my element the farther South I traveled. My path was through many of the well-known beach areas; Santa Monica, Venice Beach, Redondo, etc. It was something else to see everyone rollerblading, walking their dogs, weight lifting, and acting in every way LA is generally portrayed. No Baywatch lifeguards though.
I got lost in a bad part of Long Beach. I rode near the Los Angeles River, quite possibly the most depressing site I've ever seen, though I was surprised when I looked into people's back yards to see that some houses had horses. What could you possibly do with a horse in the heart of LA, I wondered? I moved quickly to get as far from the sprawl as I could before night fall, but when I made it to the camping beach I had planned to stay at, I found it was RV camping only. I had gone around 100miles that day, and the sun had set. I camped in the parking lot of a nearby nature preserve. Around 12:30 AM, I was awoken by a floodlight shining directly onto my sleeping bag; a police officer had found me in the lot. He asked where I had come from, and when I told him he allowed me to stay the night where I lay, provided I didn't have any felonies or outstanding warrants. It was not the best night's sleep.
In Huntington Beach the next morning, I fixed a flat, had a doughnut, made some repairs, and mailed some postcards. By this time I was getting into the heart of Orange County, possibly the most dangerous drivers I've seen thus far. People won't hit you in LA, because there would be thousands of witnesses. In Laguna Beach, the Cadillac Escalades drive where they please, and I ain't nothing but a tall road cone.
The closer I got to San Diego, the more I kicked it into gear. Even with my trailer, I must have been doing 25 miles per hour average between Dana Point and Camp Pendleton. I was ready for a nice warm bed and tea with Grandma Ringler!
The Coastal Bike Trail rides right through Camp Pendleton, a large Marine Base near San Diego. I had a good time talking to the Marine sentries at the gate for a while before taking off across the gigantic base. The ride afforded lots to look at, but a very high stress riding environment. I was passed by three huge military trucks with "Student Driver" emblazoned on the front. Then I was passed by a full-sized tank. Thank God those "students" know what they're doing!
I'm now in San Marcos on my second day of rest, and will probably take one more before I hit the road.
Me and Grandma Ringler
"But officer, it was a crime of passion!"
A Dog Walker in Redondo Beach, LA
Redondo Beach Mural
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Catching Up
I'm finally sitting at a keyboard, freshly showered and wearing fairly clean clothes. I haven't been able to get to a computer since Santa Cruz, which was six-ish days ago. I've been camping out in Monterey, Big Sur (both the North and South side), Pismo Beach, and last night at Refugio State Beach, located twenty miles North of Santa Barbara. This last stop has been one to shift my trip entirely.
To begin, it has been over 100 degrees for the last three days. I have been putting in a lot of mileage, doing the largest amount of hill climbing thus far, and generally laboring under the scorching sun. By the time I pulled into Refugio, I had put down 85 miles for the day with a whole lot of hills; it was arduous.
I pulled into the hiker-biker camp feeling 'bout half past dead. A fairly young guy in good shape with a brightly colored beanie was sitting alone at a table, gazing placidly out into the ocean not fifty feet from the campsite (it was an AWESOME site for hiker/biker). I was still reeling from the effects of dehydration as we exchanged pleasantries.
He asked where I was from; I said Reno. I asked if he was a hiker. He said no and pointed to his bike half-hidden behind a nearby tree. I asked where he was riding from, not paying too much attention but rather concentrating more on not missing the bench as I sat down. I could have sworn he said Petaluma...
I had been distracted. He was noticeably surprised by my response, or rather my lack of a response. I must have missed something."How long have you been on the road?" I asked, trying to keep the conversation alive despite my fatigue. "Just about three months" he replied. I was confused. Petaluma couldn't be more than 600 miles away, there was no way he was coming from there. "Where did you say you were coming from again?" I asked sheepishly, embarrassed for having forgotten so quickly.
"Panama City. I've been riding the Pan-American Highway through Central America for a charity." I was amazed. I wasn't aware that roads were running through parts of Central America. I had so many questions!
Aaron, it turns out, had been big time Real Estate guy in the Bay Area until about two years ago, when he sold all of his stuff and decided to go around the world. He had spent a significant amount of time abroad, and eventually found himself in a Hostel in Panama. He traded his backpack and a little cash for a bike owned by a man with red dreadlocks who was staying in the hostel. He set up a charity to build a school in Guatemala, and took off back to San Francisco. Tonight he is in San Luis Obispo with some friends who joined him in LA to ride the last stretch.
I kid you not. This guy really exists. You can read about his cause, his travels, and perhaps help in some way. This is his Blog:
http://www.lasthillbeforehome.blogspot.com/
A fraternity brother of his came up from Oxnard with dinner and they invited me to join them, which I was more than happy to accept. Pasta, bread, salad, wine... It really couldn't get any better, especially because I had planned on having trail mix with water before passing out. Instead we sat around and talked, and the group tried to convince me to turn around and head back to San Francisco with them, where a large party in the city will culminate Aaron's project. We playfully argued the pros and cons of my returning on the trail I had just set, though eventually they realized it was a lost cause.
For all of the traveling this man has done, he said time and again that riding the Baja Peninsula was the most beautiful and introspective portion of his journey. His friend, who had not seen him in over two years, told me that Aaron spent the first 45 minutes of their reunion gushing about the Baja ride.
He told me about the expansive desert and the lonely cacti. He told me about the bright blue waters and people camping on the sand dunes. I want to interact with the environment that this man, who has seen so much, couldn't stop gushing about. After I rest in San Diego with my family, I am heading into Baja California Sur and riding to Cabo San Lucas.
The same couple who brought us dinner last night graciously invited me to stay at their house in Oxnard tonight. Thank you so much Greg and Brenda. So here I am: freshly showered, wearing fairly clean clothes, and making this whole thing up as I go.
The Baker's dog Tug!
To begin, it has been over 100 degrees for the last three days. I have been putting in a lot of mileage, doing the largest amount of hill climbing thus far, and generally laboring under the scorching sun. By the time I pulled into Refugio, I had put down 85 miles for the day with a whole lot of hills; it was arduous.
I pulled into the hiker-biker camp feeling 'bout half past dead. A fairly young guy in good shape with a brightly colored beanie was sitting alone at a table, gazing placidly out into the ocean not fifty feet from the campsite (it was an AWESOME site for hiker/biker). I was still reeling from the effects of dehydration as we exchanged pleasantries.
He asked where I was from; I said Reno. I asked if he was a hiker. He said no and pointed to his bike half-hidden behind a nearby tree. I asked where he was riding from, not paying too much attention but rather concentrating more on not missing the bench as I sat down. I could have sworn he said Petaluma...
I had been distracted. He was noticeably surprised by my response, or rather my lack of a response. I must have missed something."How long have you been on the road?" I asked, trying to keep the conversation alive despite my fatigue. "Just about three months" he replied. I was confused. Petaluma couldn't be more than 600 miles away, there was no way he was coming from there. "Where did you say you were coming from again?" I asked sheepishly, embarrassed for having forgotten so quickly.
"Panama City. I've been riding the Pan-American Highway through Central America for a charity." I was amazed. I wasn't aware that roads were running through parts of Central America. I had so many questions!
Aaron, it turns out, had been big time Real Estate guy in the Bay Area until about two years ago, when he sold all of his stuff and decided to go around the world. He had spent a significant amount of time abroad, and eventually found himself in a Hostel in Panama. He traded his backpack and a little cash for a bike owned by a man with red dreadlocks who was staying in the hostel. He set up a charity to build a school in Guatemala, and took off back to San Francisco. Tonight he is in San Luis Obispo with some friends who joined him in LA to ride the last stretch.
I kid you not. This guy really exists. You can read about his cause, his travels, and perhaps help in some way. This is his Blog:
http://www.lasthillbeforehome.blogspot.com/
A fraternity brother of his came up from Oxnard with dinner and they invited me to join them, which I was more than happy to accept. Pasta, bread, salad, wine... It really couldn't get any better, especially because I had planned on having trail mix with water before passing out. Instead we sat around and talked, and the group tried to convince me to turn around and head back to San Francisco with them, where a large party in the city will culminate Aaron's project. We playfully argued the pros and cons of my returning on the trail I had just set, though eventually they realized it was a lost cause.
For all of the traveling this man has done, he said time and again that riding the Baja Peninsula was the most beautiful and introspective portion of his journey. His friend, who had not seen him in over two years, told me that Aaron spent the first 45 minutes of their reunion gushing about the Baja ride.
He told me about the expansive desert and the lonely cacti. He told me about the bright blue waters and people camping on the sand dunes. I want to interact with the environment that this man, who has seen so much, couldn't stop gushing about. After I rest in San Diego with my family, I am heading into Baja California Sur and riding to Cabo San Lucas.
The same couple who brought us dinner last night graciously invited me to stay at their house in Oxnard tonight. Thank you so much Greg and Brenda. So here I am: freshly showered, wearing fairly clean clothes, and making this whole thing up as I go.
The Baker's dog Tug!
Sunday, April 19, 2009
All the Sur I can handle!
I put down a lot of mileage yesterday, around 80 miles of rolling hills and steep climbs that took me from Big Sur to Cambria, CA. This portion was the heart of the Big Sur coast, riding on the edge of cliffs, looking down on elephant seals and sea otters from the road. I'm getting closer and closer to the LA/ San Diego area, so I'm camping out as much as possible. Not much to report; I took my second bug to the eye this morning, and will definitely be picking up some sunglasses as I get towards "SoCal."
Saturday, April 18, 2009
The Big Sur
Yesterday was hectic, but also my best day of riding thus far. The Sea Otter was unbelieveable; thousands of people, hundreds of booths, races all around. The bicycles on display were surreal and incredibly expensive, especially the Triathlon bikes. I had a lot on my mind (for a touring cyclist) but still enjoyed it a great deal.
Around 4:30 in the afternoon I decided to shoot for the Andrew Molera State Park near Big Sur, the best decision I've made. I somehow threw a cotter pin from my trailer that would have been extremely hazardous if the trailer came loose riding Sur, but luckily I found out only 1/2 mile from the last shopping center and was able to replace it. Relief! I bought an extra in case it happens again. The cotter pin holds the fork down for the trailer, and had the fork come loose it would have destroyed my rear axle and sent me flying over the handlebars, probably into the ocean!
I rode Big Sur as the sun set to the west over the ocean; I could hear the waves crashing on the beach below me, sometimes 200 feet straight down from where I rode. It was breathtaking and I couldn't stop smiling. I rode over huge bridges and tall, curving mountains flanked by grassy plateaus, with no buildings in sight and hardly a car. I got to Andrew Molera at 7:35 (the sun was projected to set at 7:47!)
I met a couple who had been cycling from Seattle with their dog in a Burley trailer. They were in their late 20s, and the woman cycled professionally. A man from Santa Barbara had offered to share his camp site with them, and allowed me to stay as well. I pitched my tent quickly and joined a group gathered around a campfire, including two girls riding up from LA to San Francisco and a couple from the Bay Area.
We enjoyed wine and trail mix, and exchanged stories from the road until the fire burnt out. It was excellent.
Around 4:30 in the afternoon I decided to shoot for the Andrew Molera State Park near Big Sur, the best decision I've made. I somehow threw a cotter pin from my trailer that would have been extremely hazardous if the trailer came loose riding Sur, but luckily I found out only 1/2 mile from the last shopping center and was able to replace it. Relief! I bought an extra in case it happens again. The cotter pin holds the fork down for the trailer, and had the fork come loose it would have destroyed my rear axle and sent me flying over the handlebars, probably into the ocean!
I rode Big Sur as the sun set to the west over the ocean; I could hear the waves crashing on the beach below me, sometimes 200 feet straight down from where I rode. It was breathtaking and I couldn't stop smiling. I rode over huge bridges and tall, curving mountains flanked by grassy plateaus, with no buildings in sight and hardly a car. I got to Andrew Molera at 7:35 (the sun was projected to set at 7:47!)
I met a couple who had been cycling from Seattle with their dog in a Burley trailer. They were in their late 20s, and the woman cycled professionally. A man from Santa Barbara had offered to share his camp site with them, and allowed me to stay as well. I pitched my tent quickly and joined a group gathered around a campfire, including two girls riding up from LA to San Francisco and a couple from the Bay Area.
We enjoyed wine and trail mix, and exchanged stories from the road until the fire burnt out. It was excellent.
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Sea Otter Classic
As I rode into Monterey yesterday, I stopped to take a picture of Monterey beach when a woman with a transportable bike stopped and asked if I would like her to take a picture with me in it. As we talked I found out that she was in town for a bicycle conference. She asked if I was going to the Sea Otter Classic, a well known mountain bike race/festival. I told her I wasn't aware that it was going on, and she said it was just starting. Because she would be able to get another ticket, she kindly gave me her entry ticket. I had been planning to continue to Big Sur, but I saw this as an omen and have decided to stay in Monterey and watch some races and check out the vendors. I may even try to enter a Cat 4 road race, but will probably just spectate at this celebration of cycling!
Coooool.
Sailboats!
My Kestrel would be jealous.
Coooool.
Sailboats!
My Kestrel would be jealous.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
New Songs!
Thank you Dad for posting the "Stand By Me" video, and I have come across a few other great songs so far that have helped to define the trip and keep me sane:
"Other Ways" by Trevor Hall (Thank you Laura!)
[embedding was disabled, you have to use the link]
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjEQccgh_Cw
"God's Gonna Cut You Down" by Johnny Cash
"Yes" by LMFAO (Thank you Jackson, this one is just way fun!)
"Other Ways" by Trevor Hall (Thank you Laura!)
[embedding was disabled, you have to use the link]
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjEQccgh_Cw
"God's Gonna Cut You Down" by Johnny Cash
"Yes" by LMFAO (Thank you Jackson, this one is just way fun!)
Santa Cruz
I rode some pretty major mountainous terrain yesterday coming out of Palo Alto towards Santa Cruz. The roads were almost deserted, steep, and beautifully tucked away into the hills. I enjoyed the climbing and the 30 mile descent down Highway 9 as much as I have ever enjoyed riding hills before, and I imagine it would have been even better without my trailer to weigh me down. I would guess I did around 3,000 total vertical yesterday, if not more.
I saw the Tea Party protestors on my way into Santa Cruz, and stopped at a coffee shop to get my bearings. I decided to stay the night with my Aunt and Uncle town, and will aim for Big Sur today. I'm not sure if I will make it that far because I am dragging my feet a bit and my knee was really hurting last night, but I look forward to a beautiful ride through Monterey and down along the coast today! The weather is great, around 68 degrees.
Point Montara Hostel
Point Montara Hostel
Palo Alto, seen from the Santa Cruz Mountains
I saw the Tea Party protestors on my way into Santa Cruz, and stopped at a coffee shop to get my bearings. I decided to stay the night with my Aunt and Uncle town, and will aim for Big Sur today. I'm not sure if I will make it that far because I am dragging my feet a bit and my knee was really hurting last night, but I look forward to a beautiful ride through Monterey and down along the coast today! The weather is great, around 68 degrees.
Point Montara Hostel
Point Montara Hostel
Palo Alto, seen from the Santa Cruz Mountains
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Palo Alto
After staying the night at the Point Montara Hostel, I decided to head over the mountains from the coast to visit my friend Jackson at Stanford. The wind was blowing furiously from the North this morning, and I almost called Jackson to tell him I wouldn't make it because I wanted to ride the gust straight down the coast. I'm glad I made it over though; we had a great conversation as usual and I got to see the beautiful campus again. By the time I was getting ready to leave, the gusts were over 50 knots at the coast heading inland, and therefore I would have had to ride against the wind back over the mountain. I decided to stay the night in the valley, and Jackson let me stay on his futon.
He headed into the city for a concert this evening, and because the venue was sold out I decided to meet up with another friend from high school, Ana, and do some climbing. We went to a really great but expensive gym and had a great time catching up as well. Tomorrow I will head back West to Highway 1 and will make it to Santa Cruz or possibly Monterey from there.
He headed into the city for a concert this evening, and because the venue was sold out I decided to meet up with another friend from high school, Ana, and do some climbing. We went to a really great but expensive gym and had a great time catching up as well. Tomorrow I will head back West to Highway 1 and will make it to Santa Cruz or possibly Monterey from there.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Au Revoir, Napa
After four days of wine tasting, reading, and general lounging, I am back on the road today. I spent last night at the house of a man named Tom, a friend of Alan's who graciously volunteered to let me stay the night. I was offered pretty much every piece of food I could possibly hope to carry let alone eat, and had a hearty breakfast. Tom, not being a coffee drinker, nevertheless woke up early to make a pot for me. If you read this Tom, thank you again! I slept better than I have any night thus far. Tom's house was filled with books and firefighting memorabilia, a throwback to his career as a San Francisco fireman. I was sad to leave Napa, but overjoyed to be pushing pedals again.
I then proceeded to lose my way twice. I ended up in Vallejo and took the ferry to San Francisco; my only other option would have been to backtrack some 15 miles. I also lost my way along the coast, heading unconciously towards Burlingame and finding myself in Milbrae rather than Pacifica (Mom will know what I'm talking about :) ).
After all this, I made my way to the lighthouse at Montara where a hostel has been constructed. As the ocean crashes onto the rocky shore below me, the wind howls and the beacon of light warns lost ships, I sit quietly with the other travelers in front of a large fire, writing letters and reading books.
I then proceeded to lose my way twice. I ended up in Vallejo and took the ferry to San Francisco; my only other option would have been to backtrack some 15 miles. I also lost my way along the coast, heading unconciously towards Burlingame and finding myself in Milbrae rather than Pacifica (Mom will know what I'm talking about :) ).
After all this, I made my way to the lighthouse at Montara where a hostel has been constructed. As the ocean crashes onto the rocky shore below me, the wind howls and the beacon of light warns lost ships, I sit quietly with the other travelers in front of a large fire, writing letters and reading books.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Calistoga, St. Helena...
I haven't posted in the last couple of days because I have been in a holding pattern in the Napa Valley waiting for Alex to celebrate her birthday here this weekend. I've mostly been reading and tuning small things on my bicycle, and meeting people around the campsite. I'll be in Napa until Sunday or Monday, then I begin the run down the coast! The Napa Valley is beautiful but best viewed with some money in your pocket.
Songs I've been listening to quite a bit:
"Running on Empty" by Jackson Brown
"Heartbeats" by Jose Gonzalez
"Heartbeats" is viewable on YouTube, I'm not sure about "Running on Empty." Good suggestions Eli. If anyone else has song suggestions please feel free to share them!
Songs I've been listening to quite a bit:
"Running on Empty" by Jackson Brown
"Heartbeats" by Jose Gonzalez
"Heartbeats" is viewable on YouTube, I'm not sure about "Running on Empty." Good suggestions Eli. If anyone else has song suggestions please feel free to share them!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Be Prepared
The Boy Scout's motto is "Be Prepared." These two words have come to mean a lot this trip.
In order to be prepared I need to be assured that I have anything I can possibly need for the coming day organized as to be available in the correct order (food and water first in one bag, raingear in another). I like to have enough food and water to last me two days, which is a great deal of supply as I am eating around 4,500 calories per day.
Yesterday morning I left Clearlake, California with the expectation of rain. My gear was packed into bags as well as covered with heavy duty garbage bags, and I had clear glasses on which kept the rain out of my eyes without limiting my vision in the low light. I felt prepared.
I've found that for me personally, I am only ever 92 percent prepared at the maximum. If I spend my entire day thinking about what I packed and what I didn't pack and didn't count on, I will still leave out some 8 percent factor. Usually it isn't too important, but yesterday it was. In those cases, I can only hope that I did everything in my power to reach my 92 percent threshold, and hope that I can improvise for the shortfall.
As I arrived in Middletown, I asked some locals at a restauraunt about the route to Calistoga. I was warned that it was a very and dangerous road with many turns, especially given the day's wet conditions. A Spanish-speaking waitress with whom I had been talking looked horrified that I would ride my bike down the mountain road to Calistoga, and said she would pray for me. This is never a good sign.
The ascent was steep, and almost entirely made up of switchbacks and hairpin turns. As I continued to climb, the rain fell harder and harder. I pressed on because the shoulder on my lane was wide enough to allow for any passing traffic, but I was becoming more and more nervous. Finally, at a hairpin turn just 300 yards ahead, I watched a descending truck with a trailer fly into the left hand lane before crashing into the guardrail, unable to hold the turn. Had it not been for the guard rail, the truck would have gone careening into the valley below. My anxiety was rising.
As I neared the summit, the rain was pouring torrentially. There was a small State Park, the Robert L. Stevenson Park, where the shoulders opened up and allowed hikers to park for the day and hike. There was no campground at this park.
I took a few deep breaths at the top and repeated to myself how I would navigate this road safely. I headed down. After a quarter mile of descent, I judged that it would be unsafe to continue down given the heavy rain, turns, and a trailer I had never used on wet roads. I pulled off and turned around, ascending back to the State Park at the Summit to wait out the storm.
When I got to the Park, I immediately set to work putting up my tent and getting my gear inside. I noticed a great number of signs about car break-ins, warning hikers to carry their valuables with them while hiking. I quickly set up my tent and locked my bike and trailer to a nearby tree. It was 3:30 in the afternoon when I got into my tent, and I wouldn't leave again until 9:00 the next morning. I lay in my sleeping bag for 17 and a half hours.
I thought often about the theft warnings, and I thought about my bike. I had plenty of time to think of these things. When my computer broke off, I had had 6,000 miles on my odometer. I had since done one more season and one more Death Ride, plus weekend rides with my Mom, plus the 330+ miles from the present trip. I estimated my total mileage on Ghostrider to be over 7,000 miles. I figured that if I rode at an average speed of 15 miles per hour for that distance, I had spent about 467 hours on that bike. 20 days straight, day and night. I thought about how sad I would be if it got stolen, and the lengths I would go to get it back. I hated to think about it getting rained on. I love my bike.
I looked out this morning; the air was misty and cold. It was so saturated that if the temperature fell even a few degrees it would start raining again. Still it was much better than the day before, so I packed up and went. The descent was as scary as I had imagined, but as I fell out of the clouds and into the valley, I was happy I had moved when I did.
When I got to Calistoga, I spent the morning doing laundry and re-packing, trying to be prepared again, and trying to get the most out of my 92 percent before I drive to the Bothe-Napa campground this evening.
In order to be prepared I need to be assured that I have anything I can possibly need for the coming day organized as to be available in the correct order (food and water first in one bag, raingear in another). I like to have enough food and water to last me two days, which is a great deal of supply as I am eating around 4,500 calories per day.
Yesterday morning I left Clearlake, California with the expectation of rain. My gear was packed into bags as well as covered with heavy duty garbage bags, and I had clear glasses on which kept the rain out of my eyes without limiting my vision in the low light. I felt prepared.
I've found that for me personally, I am only ever 92 percent prepared at the maximum. If I spend my entire day thinking about what I packed and what I didn't pack and didn't count on, I will still leave out some 8 percent factor. Usually it isn't too important, but yesterday it was. In those cases, I can only hope that I did everything in my power to reach my 92 percent threshold, and hope that I can improvise for the shortfall.
As I arrived in Middletown, I asked some locals at a restauraunt about the route to Calistoga. I was warned that it was a very and dangerous road with many turns, especially given the day's wet conditions. A Spanish-speaking waitress with whom I had been talking looked horrified that I would ride my bike down the mountain road to Calistoga, and said she would pray for me. This is never a good sign.
The ascent was steep, and almost entirely made up of switchbacks and hairpin turns. As I continued to climb, the rain fell harder and harder. I pressed on because the shoulder on my lane was wide enough to allow for any passing traffic, but I was becoming more and more nervous. Finally, at a hairpin turn just 300 yards ahead, I watched a descending truck with a trailer fly into the left hand lane before crashing into the guardrail, unable to hold the turn. Had it not been for the guard rail, the truck would have gone careening into the valley below. My anxiety was rising.
As I neared the summit, the rain was pouring torrentially. There was a small State Park, the Robert L. Stevenson Park, where the shoulders opened up and allowed hikers to park for the day and hike. There was no campground at this park.
I took a few deep breaths at the top and repeated to myself how I would navigate this road safely. I headed down. After a quarter mile of descent, I judged that it would be unsafe to continue down given the heavy rain, turns, and a trailer I had never used on wet roads. I pulled off and turned around, ascending back to the State Park at the Summit to wait out the storm.
When I got to the Park, I immediately set to work putting up my tent and getting my gear inside. I noticed a great number of signs about car break-ins, warning hikers to carry their valuables with them while hiking. I quickly set up my tent and locked my bike and trailer to a nearby tree. It was 3:30 in the afternoon when I got into my tent, and I wouldn't leave again until 9:00 the next morning. I lay in my sleeping bag for 17 and a half hours.
I thought often about the theft warnings, and I thought about my bike. I had plenty of time to think of these things. When my computer broke off, I had had 6,000 miles on my odometer. I had since done one more season and one more Death Ride, plus weekend rides with my Mom, plus the 330+ miles from the present trip. I estimated my total mileage on Ghostrider to be over 7,000 miles. I figured that if I rode at an average speed of 15 miles per hour for that distance, I had spent about 467 hours on that bike. 20 days straight, day and night. I thought about how sad I would be if it got stolen, and the lengths I would go to get it back. I hated to think about it getting rained on. I love my bike.
I looked out this morning; the air was misty and cold. It was so saturated that if the temperature fell even a few degrees it would start raining again. Still it was much better than the day before, so I packed up and went. The descent was as scary as I had imagined, but as I fell out of the clouds and into the valley, I was happy I had moved when I did.
When I got to Calistoga, I spent the morning doing laundry and re-packing, trying to be prepared again, and trying to get the most out of my 92 percent before I drive to the Bothe-Napa campground this evening.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Funky Fresh Chico Snakes
Any Sigma Nu, whether on a pilgrimage to visit all houses or just driving through Chico, should make a point to stop at the Iota Kappa Chapter's house. I would like to believe we in Reno would show the hospitality that I received here.
I arrived in the late afternoon. A pledge who had been working hard in the front yard putting in new sod went upstairs and told the President I was asking to see him. I had awoken Nick from a nap, but he still took the time to give me a house tour, trudging around in his pijamas and rubbing his eyes. When I asked if there was a thrift store nearby where I could buy some clothing, he pointed to the Clothing Donation bin the Chapter had set up as part of a community service event. I grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt. This reminded me pleasantly of my own Chapter, where approximately 80 percent of food collected from a drive will arrive at the homeless shelter. Let this be a warning to concerned food patrons: If you have a bag of Cheetos that you want to give to the homeless, you had better deliver it personally. If you have a bottle of clam juice, we can probably handle it.
Freshly showered and sporting a new-to-me outfit, I was ready to take on the world. We grabbed dinner at an excellent little restaurant downtown, and made our way to a few parties. I slept until noon the next day, gently awoken by whispering pledges standing above me staring, trying to clean the front room for the "Funky-Fresh 90's party" later that day. Apparently Nick had forgotten to tell them I was in town, and they had no idea why a stranger was sleeping on the couch at noon, wearing the exact same shirt one of them had just given away to the homeless.
The entire day was dedicated to the Funky Fresh Party preparations. The Chapter had a very close relation to the house next door to the Chapter house, also owned by the Alumni, where parties with a great number of Sigma Nus took place, in no direct violation with the school's no-alcohol in school sponsored houses rule. Sneaky sneaky Snakes.
The event was well attended and I must have met about 100 people, two of whose names I remember. I slept on my couch again, awoken only at 3 A.M. by Nick asking if I wanted to get Nachos. I had been fast asleep with no notion of wanting nachos, so I gratefully declined. I grabbed a coffee the next morning with a brother and took off down the 32 towards Calusa.
Pictures to come, I promise. Below is the Sigma Nu House, as well as the "next door neighbor's" house.
The House:
The Neighbors:
I arrived in the late afternoon. A pledge who had been working hard in the front yard putting in new sod went upstairs and told the President I was asking to see him. I had awoken Nick from a nap, but he still took the time to give me a house tour, trudging around in his pijamas and rubbing his eyes. When I asked if there was a thrift store nearby where I could buy some clothing, he pointed to the Clothing Donation bin the Chapter had set up as part of a community service event. I grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt. This reminded me pleasantly of my own Chapter, where approximately 80 percent of food collected from a drive will arrive at the homeless shelter. Let this be a warning to concerned food patrons: If you have a bag of Cheetos that you want to give to the homeless, you had better deliver it personally. If you have a bottle of clam juice, we can probably handle it.
Freshly showered and sporting a new-to-me outfit, I was ready to take on the world. We grabbed dinner at an excellent little restaurant downtown, and made our way to a few parties. I slept until noon the next day, gently awoken by whispering pledges standing above me staring, trying to clean the front room for the "Funky-Fresh 90's party" later that day. Apparently Nick had forgotten to tell them I was in town, and they had no idea why a stranger was sleeping on the couch at noon, wearing the exact same shirt one of them had just given away to the homeless.
The entire day was dedicated to the Funky Fresh Party preparations. The Chapter had a very close relation to the house next door to the Chapter house, also owned by the Alumni, where parties with a great number of Sigma Nus took place, in no direct violation with the school's no-alcohol in school sponsored houses rule. Sneaky sneaky Snakes.
The event was well attended and I must have met about 100 people, two of whose names I remember. I slept on my couch again, awoken only at 3 A.M. by Nick asking if I wanted to get Nachos. I had been fast asleep with no notion of wanting nachos, so I gratefully declined. I grabbed a coffee the next morning with a brother and took off down the 32 towards Calusa.
Pictures to come, I promise. Below is the Sigma Nu House, as well as the "next door neighbor's" house.
The House:
The Neighbors:
Progress as of April 6, 2009
View Larger Map
The lettered points correspond to where I stayed for the night, and I spent two nights at the Chico State Sigma Nu house (Point D). As shown on the terrain map, I'm leaving the Sacramento River Valley today and heading back into more mountainous terrain to the West around Clear Lake, CA.
The Bells and Whistles
I would like to apologize in advance for the lack of other media displayed on the blog thus far. I haven't been able to pick up a cable to connect my camera to the computer, and almost all of my Posts have been written on an IPod Touch wireless Internet device (the equivalent of writing a long text message). I'm going to try and embed the video here using the HTML embedding code(without actually being able to watch it myself), so I hope it works!
Saturday, April 4, 2009
The Toughest Sixteen Year Old in Forest Hill, Perhaps the Whole World
Just as we must develop strong legs, a cyclist must also develop a tough skin when facing insults. Although bicycles have been around for quite a while and there is in fact a reason for why I wear the clothing that I do, why my shoes make sound when I walk, and why I have a helmet on my thick-skinned skull, bystanders still ask questions as avidly as if I just arrived with a sled dog team wearing a Speedo. Most of the time I smile and walk away when asked why I am wearing "tights", but every so often I will take the time to educate my tormentor. The Toughest Sixteen Year Old in Forest Hill, a town with a whopping population of 1500, is such a case.
Yesterday I was enjoying a chocolate milk in the afternoon before dropping the last ten miles into Chico. As I sat in the parking lot, two dirt bikes screamed around the corner and parked, drawing off their helmets dramatically as if they were delivering news from the battlefield. One was a dopey looking guy in his early to mid-twenties, the other was the Tough guy. They exchanged a few words, and I overheard that Dopey would go into the store to purchase two cans of Sparks, a half energy drink/ half booze concoction that undoubtedly improves the performance of any dirt bike. While Dopey was inside, Tough decided to chat with me while I finished my snack.
Tough: What the hell is that?
Trevor: It's a bike with a trailer attachment.
Tough: It looks gay! I'd kick your ass in a race!
Trevor: I sure hope so. You're riding 125 cubic centimeters of engine powered by exploding fire. Mine has two pedals and a trailer.
Tough: Haha, yeah! Real men ride real bikes!
(five seconds pass as we look at each other)
Trevor: Is that an insult or a compliment?
Tough: Huh?
Trevor: I mean mine is a bicycle, and the abbreviation of bicycle would be "bike." Yours is a motorcycle.
Tough: It's a dirtbike!
Trevor: A dirtbike is a kind of motorcycle.
Tough: Yeah, duh!
Trevor: Plus the bicycle was around way before the motorcycle. So who has the "real bike?" Or by "real" (by this time I was being facetious because I was annoyed) did you mean "not imaginary?"
Tough: What the hell are you talking about?
Trevor: Did you mean that not-imaginary men ride not-imaginary bikes? If so, I agree.
Tough: You're hella weird. The tights are starting to make a lot more sense.
(Our conversation ended just before Dopey exited with the two cans of Sparks. I mounted my bike as they enjoyed their beverages.)
Yesterday I was enjoying a chocolate milk in the afternoon before dropping the last ten miles into Chico. As I sat in the parking lot, two dirt bikes screamed around the corner and parked, drawing off their helmets dramatically as if they were delivering news from the battlefield. One was a dopey looking guy in his early to mid-twenties, the other was the Tough guy. They exchanged a few words, and I overheard that Dopey would go into the store to purchase two cans of Sparks, a half energy drink/ half booze concoction that undoubtedly improves the performance of any dirt bike. While Dopey was inside, Tough decided to chat with me while I finished my snack.
Tough: What the hell is that?
Trevor: It's a bike with a trailer attachment.
Tough: It looks gay! I'd kick your ass in a race!
Trevor: I sure hope so. You're riding 125 cubic centimeters of engine powered by exploding fire. Mine has two pedals and a trailer.
Tough: Haha, yeah! Real men ride real bikes!
(five seconds pass as we look at each other)
Trevor: Is that an insult or a compliment?
Tough: Huh?
Trevor: I mean mine is a bicycle, and the abbreviation of bicycle would be "bike." Yours is a motorcycle.
Tough: It's a dirtbike!
Trevor: A dirtbike is a kind of motorcycle.
Tough: Yeah, duh!
Trevor: Plus the bicycle was around way before the motorcycle. So who has the "real bike?" Or by "real" (by this time I was being facetious because I was annoyed) did you mean "not imaginary?"
Tough: What the hell are you talking about?
Trevor: Did you mean that not-imaginary men ride not-imaginary bikes? If so, I agree.
Tough: You're hella weird. The tights are starting to make a lot more sense.
(Our conversation ended just before Dopey exited with the two cans of Sparks. I mounted my bike as they enjoyed their beverages.)
Friday, April 3, 2009
As I dropped into Chester, California yesterday I stopped on the side of the road to take a picture of Lake Almanore as the sun set. A Jeep pulled up behind me, and as the driver stepped out I asked if she too had stopped to take a photo. I then realized the woman was wearing a Forest Ranger uniform. I thought back to ten minutes earlier, when I had been stealthily trying to photograph a bluebird, which was no small task with the zoom feature on my camera broken. It required extra sneakiness and probably looked ridiculous if not predatory when viewed from the Highway. As I prepared my defense, the woman asked me if I would be camping that night, and offered me a room at her family's house instead. I was more than happy for the offer to get off the road for the night, and I was very grateful for the offer. I biked into the small town and rode to the address I had been given.
When I arrived, I discovered that Chuck and Lisa had been touring on bicycles for many years, including a world tour. Their son had just been picked up by a sponsor while living in San Diego and was leaving for Belgium to ride professionally. Chuck owned the Chester bicycle shop, Bodfish Bicycles. The couple shared tips and tricks of bicycle touring, as well as great stories from the road. We had an excellent dinner and I slept well in a warm bed.
Chuck and Lisa are exactly the type of people I was unconciously hoping to meet on this trip. They opened their home to me without knowing anything about me, and I appreciate their hospitality more than they could imagine. If you ever find yourself in Chester, CA drop into Bodfish Bicycles, because Chuck knows more about cycling than almost anyone I've ever met and can surely set you up for a great ride, as he did for me!
-TH
When I arrived, I discovered that Chuck and Lisa had been touring on bicycles for many years, including a world tour. Their son had just been picked up by a sponsor while living in San Diego and was leaving for Belgium to ride professionally. Chuck owned the Chester bicycle shop, Bodfish Bicycles. The couple shared tips and tricks of bicycle touring, as well as great stories from the road. We had an excellent dinner and I slept well in a warm bed.
Chuck and Lisa are exactly the type of people I was unconciously hoping to meet on this trip. They opened their home to me without knowing anything about me, and I appreciate their hospitality more than they could imagine. If you ever find yourself in Chester, CA drop into Bodfish Bicycles, because Chuck knows more about cycling than almost anyone I've ever met and can surely set you up for a great ride, as he did for me!
-TH
Thursday, April 2, 2009
"Miniature horses for sale. Acreage available."
When asked to write a story in six words, Hemmingway wrote "For Sale: baby shoes. Never worn."
I saw the advertisement for miniature horses spray painted on a piece of plywood just outside of the small town of Doyle. When you move as slowly as an untrained cyclist riding with thirty extra pounds of cargo going straight into the wind, you find yourself reading a seemingly meaningless sign for long enough that you start to make something from it, and I can create a biography for the miniature horse breeder from the time my near sighted eyes see the sign until I pass it. Yeah, I'm going that slowly. I also saw the little guys attempt a small scale stampede in their pin. It was hilarious.
I'm told a storm is moving in, which explains the early morning wind I felt at dawn. I'm shooting for Sierraville today.
I saw the advertisement for miniature horses spray painted on a piece of plywood just outside of the small town of Doyle. When you move as slowly as an untrained cyclist riding with thirty extra pounds of cargo going straight into the wind, you find yourself reading a seemingly meaningless sign for long enough that you start to make something from it, and I can create a biography for the miniature horse breeder from the time my near sighted eyes see the sign until I pass it. Yeah, I'm going that slowly. I also saw the little guys attempt a small scale stampede in their pin. It was hilarious.
I'm told a storm is moving in, which explains the early morning wind I felt at dawn. I'm shooting for Sierraville today.
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