And now for something completely out of date:
We stepped out on the road brimming with confidence -- well, moistened by it, anyway. Damp with confidence. We were also fortified with a parting shot of Limoncello, a boost as refreshing as it is short-lived.
It was immediately clear that touring in California was an entirely different animal than touring in the Missouri. A bear, if you will, compared to Missouri's...hm, bad example. Anyway, people are more considerate here, behaving as though the "Share the Road" signs are more than gentle suggestions. Bike lanes are everywhere, as are signs indicating proper bike routes. One thing that both places have in common: we are constantly being passed by athletic middle-aged unladen spandex-wearers who are 1. riding for exercise rather than to get around, and thus 2. cheating (more on this later).
We made it only four miles* (and two water breaks) before running into our first mountain. Not being quite warmed up enough for a ride up a Californian mountain on our fully-laden bikes, we chose to push. Hours passed, then days, as the towering skyscrapers of Redwood City shrank below us. When at last we reached the top, having climbed hundreds of vertical feet and nearly tens of horizontal, it was already time for lunch, which we ate in the beautiful California weather.
Man. I can see why the Red Hot Chili Peppers would spend 20 years complaining about this.
From there, things picked up a bit. We sped along Cañada Road, whizzing past miles of sagebrush and eucalyptus trees. Imagine our dismay after such a pleasant afternoon's ride to discover that Rt. 92, our passage to Half Moon Bay and the first step of our tour to San Diego, was a war zone of tanker trucks, traffic twits, and tailgaters,. And, of course, the shoulder was the width of a gnat's naughty bits. Uphill. In the rain.
Sure, we gave it a fair shot. We made it a whole 300 feet before bailing, pausing by the side of the road to catch our breath, plan our next move, and wrap up our heart attacks. After fifteen minutes or so (during which both the traffic and the rain worsened), a Good Samaritan pulled up in a BMW to offer us some sage advice.
"You guys goin' up there?" he shouted from his window.
"Yep!" we replied. "Ha ha!" I added.
"You're fucked!"
The man, whose name turned out to be Tony, explained to us that this route was basically impassible to bikes during rush hour. Clearly, I realized, the universe was giving us a sign: we had been wondering how best to proceed, and lo, here was a doomsayer telling us to give up. No, wait--he's handing us his phone...he's calling us a cab! He's explaining our position to the dispatcher! Oh, hurrah, and well done indeed, universe!
The cab dispatcher told us it would be about 30 minutes. We thanked her, then our rescuer, Tony, who told us that he was a cyclist himself and had a jar of mayonnaise on the passenger seat (odd touch there, universe). Tony sped off and we passed 30 minutes going over what we'd learned on our first day of traveling in California.** The next 30 minutes we kept warm by complaining about the rain. After over an hour and no cab, we began to despair in earnest. Finally, as things seemed they could grow no darker, a second savior pulled up, this one named John. He, too, was a cyclist, and he carried us to Half Moon Bay in his pickup. He also dispensed some intelligence regarding fish tacos that would prove invaluable (they are tasty).
John dropped us off at the campground, which was beautifully positioned right above the beach. Tired, waterlogged, and finding no rangers or camp hosts about, we set up at an unoccupied site right by the sea. From there, we passed a lovely evening, cooking our dinner of mac and cheese with salami (truly, a dish for kings). When at last at 8:00 our tent had been set up, our dishes were washed, and our peppermint tea was brewing, we had satisfied our setup to the universe, who delivered a punch line in the form of a ranger pulling up to tell us that we were in an RV spot and would have to move.
So...have you ever seen two grown adult people carrying a fully pitched tent 100 yards in the dark? Well, you're not going to now, since neither of us had hands free to take a photo. But believe you me, it was exactly as slapstick-y as you might imagine.
The rest of the night went by uneventfully. Except, of course, for the fat old raccoon that shimmied down a tree and made off with our garbage. And the stray cat that ate some of our bread. And the other raccoon that almost invaded our tent until Jenn chased it off with her most powerful cusses. So, like three events. The universe clearly had more to teach us, but we were blissfully asleep by 9:30, so its lessons would have to wait for another day.
From Half Moon Bay, it would be off to the South in the morning. Destination: San Diego, California, USA!
We paused only long enough to commit the crime of the century at HMB's Pumpkin Festival. Carmen Sandiego, eat your heart out!
*It should be noted that nowhere among our impressive collection of heavy and very expensive electronics can one find a GPS. Thus, any and all distances given in this blog are to be taken with a generous spoonful of skepticism.
**"Listen to the signs the universe gives you"; "Plan your routed thoroughly and check their accuracy with a reliable source"; "Google Maps is not a reliable source." But of course we already knew all that.
