Week ending November 1st 2009

A flower of paradise

Another week begins, and everything we see is new. Around every bend something we’ve not seen before awaits us. This week, we leave Cyndi’s slowly. We had  a lovely time there, and leaving anywhere nice is difficult. We shipped some stuff home, pottered around in the town - which we agree is one of our favourite of the trip so far - and then begin pedalling in earnest.

We stop regularly to watch the pelicans and the seals and, as the roads have bike paths or bike lanes, the riding is easy. The housing, whilst continuous in this area,  is pleasant and low key, the sun continues to shine and people wave and say ‘hello’. We only make it to Pismo State Park  20 or so miles away, where we put up camp. A lovely spacious campsite,  quiet at this time of year, we have a cuppa then we walk over the dunes adjacent to the rolling sea and sit and watch the sun set, glass of wine in hand, and confirm that there is little better in the world. The bank of cloud, ever present but always a long way out to sea, looms on the horizon like the massed ranks of the Roman army; watching and waiting for the signal to engage.

Have I got too much time on my hands, I wonder, as I sip my wine and watch the waves roll in…

In the morning, the damp sea air meant that we had to dry our tent and our sleeping bags before setting off. The roads were good and the greenery fairly rapidly faded to beige and brown, with pockets of irrigated grass and fields of vegetables dotting the route. For the last few days we’ve witnessed the occasional cactus and palm tree, and today their numbers increased. The palms are very tall with huge leaves only in the very tops of the trees, creating living lollipop sculpture in the hills.

The towns receded once more and we rode through some farming land, where the Mexicans and others from the central Amercian region worked the fields, with hoodies and hats on to prevent the sun from burning. In a field ready for picking, we see upwards of 50 people, all bent over, working silently, their trucks and bicycles parked at the edge of the land. Strawberries, artichokes, brussles sprouts (yuk) as well as fennel and a variety of other herbs, lay next to each other in the fields, all vying for the water so carefully laid on by pipe. Irrigation is the only way these plants could ever grow because, whilst the land is fertile and the onshore breezes keep it cool for much of the year, it is also very hot for a lot of the time and the offshore breezes draw the even hotter desert air over them. We saw land being prepared and turf being grown on incredibly flat fields, absolutely perfect for camping on…

Nice and flat

The road wound through the hills which once again met us at the coast and we pedalled over the Harris Grade Road, known locally as a bit of a climb, before whizzing down the other side for miles and miles. The wind was strong at our backs but we wanted to stop. Riding along at 22mph on the flat is fun, but we were tired and Lompok offered us a snapshot of what we once thought of as intrinsically American: a busy, broad street, an edge of town strip mall, a cheap motel, a Starbucks, a Pizza Hut and a grocers. Marvellous

Lompok itself was nothing to write home about, but the slow and easy climb out of town was delightful. The road was wide and quiet, and the trees and hills very picturesque. At turns they reminded us of The Yorkshire Dales, Provence and Tuscany.

We approached Goleta, on the edge of Santa Barbara, a pretty town with plenty of cyclists, grass, tree lined boulevades - and a bike shop which fixed the squeaking in both our bikes, for free. Thanks guys, much appreciated. (Bicycle Bob’s doesn’t have a website link on the business card we were handed, but suffice to say, it was a great place and very welcomed.)

As I was standing outside the grocers waiting for Joy I met a lady called Ann who was from Cambridge - though she’s lived over here for years. She was a midwife and knew various people in our home village (a place of 500 people) and even visited it on her last trip back to Blightly - and will be back there again next year. A lovely meeting which made us all think of home, she left us all in a better frame of mind.

After a short ride through town, we arrived at Dr. Steve’s, where we were due to stay the night. Steve is a human biologist and anthopologist and over a bottle or two of vino we had a fascinating chat - some of which I even understood - on the spread of the human race across the planet. 

He rode with us the next morning along the well laid out cycle paths which are intrinsic to the University of California at Santa Barbara’s campus. We saw thousands of bikes that day and it heartened us. Hundreds were parked in the racks outside the halls, and plenty more whizzed past us, ridden by enthusiastic students with far too much energy.

We pedalled through Montecino, apparently the posh side of Santa Barbara, where the occasional filmstar lives. It was nice, but no nicer I thought than Santa Cruz, Monterey, and especially San Luis Obispo.

The path and/or the hard shoulder remained with us for a good part of the ride, after which we got back on Highway One, which is also known as PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) and the Cabrillo Highway.

Ventura arrived pleasantly enough. Chic shops, snazzy cars and shiny people lined the roads as we puffed up hill in dirty clothes towards Nicole’s place. The storey height of property around here has been restricted to two for the sake of aesthetics, and it cetainly seems to have worked wonders for the place. The tall trees and the hills beyond played a part in creating the atmosphere in town and the distinct lack of ugly high rise blocks and drab strip malls weren’t mourned for long.

Nicole, a cycle-touring warmshowers host, kindly welcomed us into her home. This rather modest lady holds the Race Across America (RAAM) ladies doubles title as well as the 508 mile race across the desert; and numerous other titles.

Nicole, ultra racer and warmshower host

These ultra races involve, for instance, not sleeping at all duirng the course of a 40 hour race, or cat napping for 20 minutes at a time, during a two week race, in which her support vehicle crew feed her and massage her whilst she’s trying to sleep. And she does this for enjoyment.

Her food cupboard includes all sorts of pills and potions, liberally scattered with bottles of red and white wine, cognac and even sugar. A balanced diet of sorts. We went out that evening for a frozen yoghurt extravaganza which included coating the healthy stuff in chocolate and chocolate sauce. We enjoyed this aspect of the diet.

Nicole rode slowly with us the next morning to humour us, and showed us the harbourside area with its rather prestigious (and sometimes empty) developments. The tops of the sand dunes blew across the road on a regular basis and clogged and choked the driveways, the paths and the gardens of the well to do.

Mexicans were seen cleaning drives, cutting grass, pruning hedges and building extensions all along this stretch of the ride - in fact, almost from the moment we entered California. It seems to us (and some residents of the State) that if the illegal element were to be removed from the country, California would collapse within the week….

Whilst the towns and cities came and went, and were punctuated by lush and sometimes brown fields and forests, there was a general increase in traffic and people as we edged ever nearer to Los Angeles. From Ventura we rode the Ventura Highway, a beautiful, unspoilt section of road where the pelicans and seals once more displayed for us. The hills rolled towards us, but now they were not watered and their true colours showed. We were in semi desert. Cactus increased, the eucalyptus receded into the distance, and brush grew stronger. The grass making a poor living on the hillside, was brown and scratchy.

We rode all of 50 miles to arrive on the edge of ‘27 miles of scenic beauty.’ A bit of self-aggrandisement we thought to ourselves, as the scene consisted almost entirely of house after house - albeit houses unique, sometimes bizarre and ranging in size from monstrous to ‘the size of a small country.’ Those on the coast itself cost upwards of $2m, whilst some of those up the hill and therefore off the road by a few hundred metres, a lot more. One lady in the LA Times this week wants, amongst her 9 properties, to include the $27m mansion in Maliu in her divorce settlement with her husband, rather than settle for the $19m one which, rather catastrophically, does not feature a pool of olympic size…

We decided, for a bit of fun, to see how much the rundown, shabby motel on the edge of malibu might cost us for the night. Bearing in mind that in Lompok it was $51, we had to resist the temptation to laugh at the owner when she said $123 plus tax - ‘it’s the cheapest in malibu…’ ‘But we don’t need it for the entire week’ we thought.

Malibu RV campsite was eminently suitable, and perhaps even the best equipped yet. The showers were magnificent, there was a computer for internet use and a shop, not to mention the view over the hills and the big houses and the sunset over another perfect sea.

Malibu on the rocks

When we calculated how much the owner of this very attractive campsite was making, per annum, we could see why he didn’t want to flatten it and build three or four gargantuan houses.

Malibu, as with all other places on our route, was just somewhere that the Adventure Cycling Association’s maps took us. We had little desire to go there. But as with so much of this lovely State’s land, it is open for all to enjoy. In a place where we had, admittedly, formed some opinion of what we would or would not enjoy beforehand, it was refreshing and invigorating to discover that although homes of the rich and famous are in enclaves, or behind electric gates, they are ringed by public land, usually protected by State law and conserved for the good of both wildlife and future generations. And in a land which has created (either consciously or otherwise) the image of selfishness and individual greed, it was so nice to discover that we could wander along the beach in front of these houses, drink tea in the nice shops (at only a slightly inflated price) and enjoy the scenery and sunsets along with the beautiful people. Which, heaven forbid, might all begin to decribe a Californian Socialist Republic. Aaaarhghgh. 

As Malibu vanished so Santa Monica appeared on the northern edge of LA’s coastline. We had not, it’s fair to say, been looking forward to this stretch of the ride, but with California’s usual ability to surprise, we actually enjoyed it quite a lot..! LA had arrived. The beaches and the houses, the offices and marinas were of course immaculate, and the bike route took us infront of it all, right on the beach and then right through the thick of it. Only on two occasions in 20 or 30 miles did we have to follow the road. The concrete path whizzed us through Venice Beach, Redonda and Hermosa and, whilst the analogy doesn’t quite fit, it was like visiting Jorvik, the viking experience in York, in which you are whisked through a mock-up of the old city in a big pram watching and listening to the gossip, smelling the place and sensing it - except in Jorvik, you go backwards in the pram.

As it was a saturday when we rode through, there were a few bodybuilders posing on the sand, some bleach-blonde ladies with little dogs securely tucked in their handbags and various other equally funny scenes unfolding infront of us, but for the most part it was runners, skaters, bladers, cyclists and walkers all making their way across the beach - and back again, just in case somebody didn’t see them first time round…

Volleyball was being played on a grand scale, children were being rocked in pushchairs and various people were listening to their headphones whilst doing any or all of the above:- and amongst this all two bewildered cyclists wove their way south.  

It all began calmly enough....

Forrest, a chap we’d met initially in nothern Washington, welcomed us into his mum and dad’s place in Palos Verdes, a leafy, quiet and very nice part of the city complex, situated on a peninsula to the south of LA. From here we could survey the whole of the city, watch more lovely sunsets and enjoy the tranquility of the suburbs.

We met his mum and dad, Diane and John, who very kindly put us up for three nights, despite Forrest not living there anymore… Thank you very much, John and Diane.

We went kayaking the morning after we arrived, and Forrest showed us a seal colony lazing just offshore in a quiet stretch of water south of all the excitement. The omnipresent pelicans tried to steal the show, but we wanted to see the seals this time. Sorry pelicans, maybe next time.

After a terribly hectic morning’s paddle followed by a snooze in the jacuzzi (overlooking the azure sea) we drove through Manhattan  Beach, Hermosa and Redonda to pick up some campy things before having lunch. More relaxation ensued, before we said our farewells to Forrest. He had to work the next day.  

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During the preceding few days Joy and I had formed a plan. We had heard a lot recently about the violence and other troubles on the Mexican side of the border as well as the (perhaps) unattractive conurbation that stretches from LA to San Diego, featuring a corridor of cars and malls, and the fact that the first few hundred miles of northern Baja has lots of desert and occasional banditos…. Suffice to say, all these aspects conspired to put off two softy English cyclists from venturing anywhere near the area…

So we’re going to fly…

…but only from LA to Loreto, on the eastern side of Baja, about two thirds of the way down the peninsula.

To see more of our photos, please go to: www.flickr.com/photos/cycletheamericas

Week ending October 25th, 2009

The Streets of San Francisco

…Or is it still Central California..? We left San Francisco and pedalled out, in remarkably little time, towards the sand dunes along the coast. Much of the conurbation in this part of the world goes inland, around the bay, whilst the coast is left for the little towns to enjoy. Pacifica passed us by and we rode on quiet roads much of the day until dusk when we arrived at the beautifully located Pigeon Point youth hostel, on a rocky headland. The lighthouse adjacent was constructed in the 1870’s and is one of several dozen which were built to aid shipping coming around the coast from the east, via Cape Horn. The fog was settling in the for the evening and next morning, it remained there. We pottered about, read all the annotated photos in the little museum next door and then, finally at about 11am the fog lifted. The scenery was as pretty and as surprising as it had been ever since we set off down the coast from Washington. Our image of ‘California’ doesn’t traditionally include elements such as rolling hills, trees and grasses, little villages, amazing wildlife, abundant State Parks and a conservation zeal that far surpasses much of the UK. Apparently the State realised long ago that it was losing much of its natural resource to development, and so took positive steps to protect and nurture it and educate the people, so that the environment experienced by the first (white) settlers remained available to explore and enjoy.

Santa Cruz, whilst not a ’small town’ was a pretty place. We entered it on the dedicated bike path and sat for some time by the lighthouse watching surfers do their thing.

Dude

The town beach featured large and regular waves that the boys in their wetsuits, and the small crowd that sat overlooking them, appreciated. We found Michael and Ann who had offered us a place for the night, and wandered back into town with them for a meal. It was fun talking with Michael who, despite being American, liked to listen to Radio 5 Live, drank PG Tips and played football. All very homely for us, and a nice reminder of what we missed from the old country.

From here we headed to Monterey. Another town with a well known name. The film and jazz festivals are worlds famous but of course, we has missed them both. The music ended a couple of weeks ago. We arrived in this attractive town along another good bike path which whisked us past John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row and fishermans wharf. The scale of the downtown area, conspicuously lacking in strip malls and neon lighting, was immediately attractive to us and whilst we looked for Paolo’s place (where we were to stay that night) we happily pedalled around looking at the gracious housing and manicured lawns, both public and private. The seals lay in the bay, the water lapped at the wharf and the sun shone on the town.

Paolo worked as a language teacher for the military and told us how every serviceman and woman had to learn the language of the country into which they were to be deployed, and pass an exam, before they could go. He taught Italian, which he accepts has limited use at the moment, but there were dozens of teachers for Pashto, Farsi and Urdu, etc. We wondered how, in the current ‘climate’ these teachers were vetted - and how long it might have taken them to be accepted onto the military base.

We left at 7.30 the next morning and discovered the Big Sur as soon as the strawberry, artichoke and brussles sprout fields had ended. The Big Sur is a shortening of the Spanish for ‘unexplored southern land’ and it certainly had the  built by man.feel of somewhere unknown to the masses - though we realise this is not the case in reality…

The landscape became rugged.

Big Sur was a beautiful surprise

Cliffs dropped into the sea, the road wound its way beneath the hills, which loomed overhead, and there was a distinct lack of anything built by man. The roads were quite clear, and the only sign of human habitation was the occasional postbox sited on the road, which  related to a house tucked high into the hills above. Eucalyptus and palm trees painted the landscape and all the while the sea crashed below. This was in part a sea otter reserve, though we only saw dolphins and seals.

The occasional volcanic ‘plug’ which had dotted northern California and Oregon appeared here and there, creating a complex pattern for the crashing waves. Sea birds were numerous, as well as the omnipresent turkey vulture. Red tailed hawks, kestrels, hummingbirds, ravens, bluebirds and a Californian condor all appeared in the diarama.

We even saw spectacular black, yellow and red butterflies drifting on the wind like hangliders, who didn’t see the need to flap their wings.  Now how laid back is that..?

The State Parks here are just great. Even though Arnold Schwarzenegger, the Governator, is cutting back on such niceties, in an attempt to offset the $86billion deficit, they remain numerous, well run and clean. Some don’t have water - which can be a pain - but most do. We arrived at one such place to discover that giardia had entered the water system, so there was no drinking water, let alone any showers…. We pitched our tent overlooking the sea in time to watch the sunset and, despite packing all our foodstuffs into the raccoon-proof containers, screwed to the picnic tables, we were awoken on several occasions that night by the sound of rummaging. Joy’s rucsac, empty and zipped up, was carefully unzipped and ransacked. My front panniers, buckled up, were unbuckled. Their problem-solving abilities had been honed well on unsuspecting tourists. We chased them off several times. And it left me wondering how good they might be with managing a large budget deficit.

Another day riding the Big Sur only reinforced our admiration for the conservators and governors who sought to protect this land from the developer. These two days are indeed highlights of the trip so far. The majesty of the place and the relative solitude were great surprises and have heightened our enjoyment of a state that we thought would not be of particular interest.

We met a couple on the road having a picnic, who were over here on business from Florida. They very kindly shared their lunch with us and we shared our appreciation of the wildlife with them. The lady told us of her experience in Arizona, during another business meeting, which found them staying at a rather luxurious golf resort. She had seen rabbits pottering about of the golfcourse and had wanted to feed them, so she bought some rabbit food. Duly scattered across the 18th green in the evening, she awoke next morning to find several rather large wild boar digging up the grass with their snouts and hooves. And in amongst them she noticed a couple of rabbits…

The second park in a row found us camping next to Glen and Bobby again.

We love the hiker biker sites

Two cyclists from the San Juan Islands, they too were cycling the Pacific Coast highway. There were hot showers and drinking water at this site, but the park ranger on the gate was having to cut her hours to assist in the great saving required by Herr Schwarzenegger.

Early next morning the tent was covered in condensation. Our sleeping bags were wet and the tables outside were soaked. Even in this part of California the seasons are quite distinct, and the coldness only disappeared at about 10am. Leaves are falling from the trees, and frost has been known in these parts, but not by us. Thankfully.

We rode down hill, left the Big Sur landscape and with a stiff tailwind bowled along at 20mph. The brown hills, which were slowly becoming more green, receded into the background, the sea was more approachable, and as we roared along past the entrance to William Randolph Hearst’s ‘castle’ we saw hundreds and hundreds of elephant seals basking on the beach to our right. We stopped, along with dozens of other onlookers, to have a closer look. The colony, fenced off from human intrusion, lay 10yards away and had apparently only been established in 1990 when park rangers saw a couple of pups lounging on the sand. Year by year the colony grew and nowadays there are in excess of 15,000 seals in the bay. Their huge bulk and collective noise was quite impressive; and they certainly didn’t seem to mind our presence.

Dive-bombing pelicans, and the black water birds which mob them whenever they catch a fish in their huge bills, continue to put on their impressive displays for us.

Pelicans..!

The butterflies, which lazily glide around on the breeze, have been identified as monarchs - which are apparently famous in these parts partly because of the enormous quantities that ‘roost’ in the trees overnight. One of the State Parks that we found ourselves in was offering an evening walk to show them off - but of course, we were too early for the event, which was scheduled for early November…

However, these observations again reinforced our appreciation of the place and we rolled onwards towards San Luis Obispo, happy for the tailwind, the sun and the beauty of the places through which we ride.

At San Luis Obispo we stayed with a friend of Kelly and Elaine’s, called Cindy. We had a lovely dinner with her and Paul, and her daughter and son, Clare and John and their kids. The following morning we were invited to stay for another night, so we did. The town was one of the prettiest of the ride so far - tree lined, green, good public spaces, nice houses and shops. A mission, dated 1772, sat comfortably in the centre of town, and was one of the original 21 that the Spanish built in the late C18th along the coast, which helped establish California as a Spanish settlement.

The mission at San Luis

Joy even went ’sit-on-top’ kayaking for a morning with Cindy where they spotted more pelicans and sea otters in the bays. Flat topped rocks played host to hundreds of these birds, along with the occasional, lost, seagull.

I went to John’s, where he worked his magic on the drivechain of Joy’s bike, which had been playing up. Despite an extensive service in the last few weeks, this problem had just begun. And had just been solved.

An afternoon catching up on the website and drinking tea ensued for us both, and the following morning we packed and said our goodbyes.

Week ending October 18th 2009

The flights across the US were quite an experience… The route east involved changing planes at Las Vegas, where the ‘Jetstair’ broke, and subsequently held us up half an hour, which meant we had to run for our next flight - to Chicago - which was over 3 hours in duration. We changed there for Durham and arrived, after 137 hours in the air, tired and bemused.

The scenery as we cruised at 30,000ft was stunning. There was no cloud cover for much of the journey and so the whole of the US was laid out beneath us, as though we were surveying a really really big map with the sort of detail only the OS can produce. The mountains and deserts roamed across the western half of the country for ages. Erratic, windblown ranges and sands reminiscent of dinosaur backbones snaked across the barren lands of Nevada and the western part of Texas. Occasional human outposts - which must surely be the built remains of a people entirely lost in the desert - dotted the wilderness. Little round patches of green and brown appeared on the sandy land, perhaps in response to a dare by one farmer to another who bet that one couldn’t make something - anything - grow out here.

The brown surfaces gave way, in fairly quick time, to deciduous woodland - though I think I fell asleep during our flight over the midwest…

The greenery was as dense and as distinctive as the desert was sparse and dry. We flew over it for more than an hour before landing at Raleigh Durham, where we met Joy’s friend, Jo (or is it Scarlett..?), who very kindly picked us up and drove us home to meet Rhett (sorry, Sam).

Jo and Sam's place in Durham - nice...!!

Their impressive house featured an enormous centrally located staircase with wings and more bedrooms and restrooms than one could shake a stick at. It really was a case of Joff and Joy visiting the set of ‘Gone with the wind’, though the characters in our version were immediately more friendly and believable.

The flights back to San Francisco, where we changed planes in Charlotte, were quicker and less painful, given that they were going with the sun. Jetlag remained at a minimum. We touched down in torrential rain, having negotiated slightly nervous pilots, gusting sidewinds and almost zero visibility.

We met Kelly and Elaine at Petaluma, north of San Francisco, who greeted us in their raincoats. They had driven out to pick us up and all we could do was moan about the weather. The English.

Apparently on that day back at their house outside Valley Ford it had rained 3.85 inches. In the hills surrounding San Francisco, 10 inches fell.

Our bikes had been serviced at a place in Sebastopol (www.westcountycycleservice.com) and whilst Joff’s was obviously fine(!), Joy’s rear hub needed replacement. The part required wasn’t in stock, and so whilst we anticipated a few day’s wait, Kelly and Elaine very graciously allowed us to remain with them whilst the bike shop repaired Joy’s bike. Marvellous.

The following day we all rode out to Dry Creek Valley in Sonoma to experince the wine valleys of northern California. The valley was lush and vineyards. It was a smal place, and our 20 miles essentialy saw the full extent of it. The sun shone and to cool us down we popped into an somewhat overpriced vineyard called Lambert Bridge, to sample their wares. Kelly, who manages the occasional vineyard as part of his portfolio, took us to buy some Grenache afterwards and for the same price as the cheapest on offer from Lambert, we bought 3 rather good reds - from Spain….

On our second day with them, Elaine, a professional photographer in Hollywood, took  a set of photos of us both for promotional purposes.

Joy and Joff - The Hollywood years

The ‘best’ - or should we say least offensive to the eye - are available to laugh at on Flickr. After all, even Elaine’s magic can only work so well.. Her website, www.kelseyedwardsphoto.com is a great place to start if you need that Hollywood photo makeover…..

The photoshoot over, we all relaxed. The lighting technician (Kelly) and the wardrobe department (??) were exhausted, our makeup artist (Elaine) bedazzled and the photographer (Elaine, again) buzzing. If the excitement in Hollywood is anything like this… then we’re only too glad that we’re cyclists…

Next morning and we said thanks to the bike shop for sorting the bikes, and goodbye to Elaine who was off to Dallas to shoot some real models. Kelly dusted off one of his bikes and decided to ride with us along the quiet and rather delightful roads in the northern part of Marin; the county where mountain biking all began in the late 1970’s.

He headed back after we’d all had some ice cream in the lovely little village of Tomales, and we were left on our own again. It had been a really good few days and weeks and now, once again, it was back in the saddle. Our legs already ached and the hills in this part of California were as steep, if not more so, than those previously encountered. Hoorah.

Point Reyes International Youth Hostel stands lonely in the wooded hills by the ocean and is only reached by a tortuous climb up some serious hills. Rooms were available however, so we crawled over the never ending hills on what we thought in the morning to be a 30 mile day - but in fact turned out to be a 45 mile day. We should perhaps have left Kelly’s before 1pm…

As we left the central valleys around Valley Ford and Sebastopol that morning, so the aridity left and the land, bathed in regular blankets of fog, became verdant and heavily cloaked in trees. Along with redwoods and differing forms of oak, tall, strong eucalyptus trees became more widespread. Their leaves littered the roads we rode. - But before this trip we had no idea that they even grew here, let alone that they were so bold and abundant.

The hostel was a lovely place, just the sort of place one expects a proper youth hostel to be. Friendly folks, a shared kitchen, stories of other journeys from people from differet countries and the inevitable snoring contest in the male dormitories. ‘Surround sound’ has never been so unappealing.

A ladies church group form Sacramento cooked too much spaghetti bolognese for dinner, so we helped them polish it off.  Same deal with the french toast next morning for breakfast .

We pedalled off the following morning as the YHA closed its doors at 10am, only to encounter a 17% hill. Now, for the uninitiated, this is a VERY VERY steep hill.

Reviewing the hill towards Point Reyes YHA

The sort that Joff and Joy push. Even Lance Armstrong, in his latest email to me said that he never rides hills of more than 16%…

The 45 miles to San Francisco were a pure delight. We had no idea that it would be so pretty nor so quiet, so close to the city. But it was. The hills were short and sharp, the sort that PT instructors in the Army would enjoy sending recruits up. The views were stunning and, as we turned the corner of the last, most strenuous, steepest hill, we spied San Francisco in the distance and the towering Golden Gate Bridge. 

The roads were still reasonably quiet as we approached Sausalito, to the north of the city, but for the incessant overtaking by Tour de France looky-likies (who never say hello to us) in their illfitting lycra shorts, garish tops and overpriced bikes. Is there some sort of snobbery attached to riding a race bike that is far better than the rider could ever dream of being?  Many of these ‘racers’ are about as round as their wheels and out of shape as a buckled one.

We negotiated the streets of Sausalito, where it felt like we had just ridden into a moving party. Cyclists teemed everywhere, several rode up to us and began chatting then pedalled off at the next lights. One lad, a San Franciscoan by birth, said that his mum was born in Notting Hill in London and knew all the English phrases like ‘rubbish’ and ‘blimey’. 

The place definitely had a very friendly atmosphere, and with the views across the bay, the big condos on the front, the semi tropical trees lining the roads and the sun shining, it was a lovely place to ride through.

We eventuall found our way to the bridge. It was absolutely jammed with pedestrians and cyclists - those same cyclists who don’t say hello to mortals. They rode their shiny toys across the bridge at top speed, as though they were being dared to scare off the tourists. But the views were spectacular and we didn’t mind. It was very high and quite windy, bu thankkfully the fog didn’t descend. We’ve been so lucky with the weather. Apparently it’s quite rare for the bridge to be fully visible at this time of year.

The Golden Gate Bridge

We found Cindy’s place in inner Richmond just as dusk was falling - which at the moment its about 6.15 - 6.30pm. It seems that the sun, happy in its sphere, suddenly gets tired and decides to fall out the sky.

Cindy, a warmshowers contact, lives in a lovely Victorian apartment in a very nice neighbourhood with corner shops and activity going on all around. We had a lovely meal with her and the next morning, we walked through the botanic gardens, into the Haight Ashbury area (which saw the summer of love) and hopped onto a bus into the downtown area. A trolley bus followed and we found ourselves in the tourist centre, with kiss-me-quick hats, postcards and gaudy t-shirts. We wandered through it, in the interests of research of course, then off route to find some of the quieter parts of the area. A bus then bustled its way back to Cindy’s from where we left the following morning, refreshed. Thank you very much, Cindy.

Week ending October 11, 2009

The leisurely few days we had planned in North Carolina started well, but we realised pretty soon that they weren’t going to be sufficient, either to catch up with friends, or to catch up on sleeping and reading. So we extended our time here. Marvellous. More tea, vicar…?

Hard work, all this eating and drinking and being merry....

After 12 relaxing days at Jo and Sam’s house we reluctantly said goodbye to everyone, boarded a plane and flew back to San Francisco, through the most terrible storm the pilots on our aircraft had ever encountered - or so it seemed to us, as we rolled and bounced through Californian airspace until we landed, rather shaken, but definitely not stirred.

Week ending October 3, 2009

The trees and the semi arid hills rolled on. We all enjoyed the feeling of whizzing along with the wind behind us, round a bend, down a steep incline only to be followed rapidly by a sharp turn and a slow uphill climb, accompanied by the sound of frantic gear changing and leg work. The miles flew.

weeeeee

We had covered over 470 miles in a rather hilly week and, as we were aiming for San Francisco by October 1, we really had to carry on pedalling. Dave, glad for the company to begin with, probably thought twice about it 5 days on…

A shorter day but of equal beauty saw us arrive at Rusty and Joan’s place at 6pm, on a farm north of Elk. Their house was designed by them 30 years ago and featured a huge monopitched roof and solar heating. 50 tons of rock beneath them kept the heat in and let it out slowly during the colder evenings, to ensure an even temperature throughout the house, throughout the night.

As the days flew, so the landcape melted into a collage of semi arid grass, hills overlooking us to the east and the cold blue, thrashing sea to the west, with views north and south to accompany us all the way. Time became, for the first time since we left, more of an issue.

That day we met up with several of the chaps that we had be leapfrogging all the way down the coast. (There are certainly a lot more cyclists on this leg of the journey than there were across the States). At a lovely little State Park we all camped in the hiker biker sites near to Valley Ford. We bought some logs and had a campfire. All very relaxing. The next day also promised to be, as we only had 37 miles to go, as opposed to the average of 65 that we’d done over the last few days and weeks.

We headed inland next morning, where it got very hot. The sun shone, but thankfully the wind was extremely strong and from our backs. We almost managed to roll up hill a few times.

At the little village of Valley Ford, 50 miles north of San Francisco, we said our goodbyes to Dave, who pedalled on towards the thronging masses. We headed back up hill to meet Kelly and Elaine, two cycle tourists who had offered us a place to stay. Their farm was a revelation to us. Kelly manages a flock of sheep and has employed two Italian dogs, called maramas, to guard them when he’s not there. Apparently, these 2 particular dogs were brought up with goats and so are quite happy living out of doors with them. They wander about wherever the sheep go, and guard them from coyotes who, rather unfairly, like to hunt in packs. In this part of California, it’s quite usual for dogs to live with the sheep that they guard - and maramas are the dog of choice.

Kelly and Elaine very kindly drove us into Sausalito the next afternoon, from where we took a wonderful ferry ride across the bay to San Francisco. They even agreed to look after our bikes and panniers too…Thanks both, very much.

Joff, Elaine and Kelly

The city centre, where we arrived, was beautiful and a world away from our trip.

Approaching San Francisco on the ferry

Reflections, tall buildings, frantic traffic, bustling noise, people everywhere and a buzz of energy took us away from the quiet of northern California for an afternoon, and we boarded a BART (tube train) for Millbrae, a suburb to the south of downtown.

Paul met us at the station in his car and whizzed us up and up and up, to a rather nice neighbourhood and his house on the hill, which had the most fabulous views over the bay area. He and Jeff are cyclists, as are many of our overnighters, and they agreed to put us up for the night. And Paul even agreed to take us to the airport the next morning at 6am… Thoroughly decent.

We hope to meet up again as we resume our ride, which takes in the city, after our little detour to North Carolina, where we aimed to stay for a few days with a friend from England. And drink tea.

Week ending September 26, 2009

Californian fruit customs - honestly...

California awaited us. We expectantly approached and discovered, with gratitude, that it was as low key and informal as the part of Oregon through which we had just cycled - except for the ‘fruit customs’ through which we had to drive, after declaring to the rather officious and dull chap with sunglasses and a gun that we had no fruit or vegetables in our possession. California is concerned that pests from other States are not brought into their own.  (I know there’s a joke there somewhere, but I can’t for the life of me think what it is…) Suffice to say, entry into our last US State was quite memorable.

Whilst the landscape did slowly change through the day, the coastline was still rugged, but development actually tailed off. We had heard from people in Oregon that California had ruined its shoreline by allowing private development, presumably contrary to what it was considered Oregon had done. It was rather a revelation. Parks did indeed continue to act as a buffer to private development, so that ordinary folks could enjoy the grandeur of the place, without gauche architecture and overly grand entrance gates distancing them from the waters edge; but it also seemed that, as the trees receded into the hills inland, the views across the sea actually improved. The rocks and crashing surf looked pretty similar to those up the coast but glimpses turned into large vistas, where one could see the sea mists rolling in and the tides rolling out.

...and more

More beautiful coastline...

Crescent City was our first introduction to Californian towns, and it didn’t disappoint - though only inasmuch as it was as dreary and lacking in excitement as those in other States. We had decided long ago that the small villages (some of which are still referred to as a ‘city’) were our favourite. The nucleated centre and the pedestrian scale of such places felt welcoming and friendly, as opposed to those towns with malls, miles of straight roads cutting through them, choked with traffic and fumes and the decaying, tired industrial and retail premises that had long ago lost their appeal to both the viewer and the consumer. It appeared to us that tyre (tire) centres, auto body repair shops, exhaust (muffler) fitting stations and random ‘retail villages’ littered with the kinds of shops that sell the kinds of things that nobody really wants, were all fair game in a recession. Their poorly constructed shells and windswept signage pockmark towns across the States and hint at days when things were perhaps a little rosier. Oh, for the small towns.

We met up with a chap called Dave the following morning. The mist was thick, perhaps in punishment for our negative thoughts, so we teamed up to ride one of the biggest hills on the coast. It rose roughly 1500ft. in a winding and rather narrow sort of way. Trucks still thundered along it. We wobbled slowly up and, in amongst the trees we found breaks in the mist. The views through were spectacular.  We had entered the land of the Redwoods, the tallest and (almost) the oldest trees in the world. This was one of the places that we had wanted to visit since planning the trip a year ago. These monsters reach in excess of 300ft towards the sky, usually in a perfectly vertical manner. A really tall one exceeds 350ft… And the trunk base diameter can be anything up to 22ft… Branches tend to begin about 50ft or more above ground level. I wondered whether Tolkien had these trees in mind when he described the Ents.

‘Sentinels to time’ is a rather hackneyed phrase, but certainly one that we wouldn’t try to improve on. They stand there silently observing everything around them and have done so since Jesus was a boy. If a plant can have dignity, then the Redwood must certainly be a contender. Photographs of the trees alone do them little justice. It’s only when one stands alongside them, or next to a root ball of an ex-tree, that the full effect of their scale can be appreciated.

...and an average redwood sleeping

An average redwood standing

Apparently, their root systems only extend 10ft or so into the ground, but they spread out and entwine lots of other trees in the vicinity, creating a web of roots which helps the stability of all the trees.

The forest park went on and on. The road was extremely twisty and turny, and we noticed that the temperature and the quality of light remained constant. Outside the canopy, it soared to 100 degrees fahrenheit, but within it, 70 or 80 was bearable. The understorey was notably rich and verdant. Ferns and brackens grew proportionately to quite a size. Deer roamed around and signage promised elk before the evening ended.

The campground at Prairie Creek didn’t produce any elk that night, but as we all left the next morning, there were a herd of 5 grazing immediately next to the road, in a large field. We stopped - as did various others - and watched them. They’re rather big and the bull, whose antlers must have extended 4ft subtly suggested we didn’t approach any closer.

the rather large bull elk

His calls to his family, friends and followers were haunting. They began with a whistling howl, which sounded like nothing else, and echoed around the forest, followed by a deep bark and a snort. They continued to eat their grass and pose for a 1000 photos before the tourists got bored and pottered off.

Like several of the days along this part of the coast, another day began cool, with mist being drawn inland by the heat of the hinterland. Once this had burnt off, (usually by 11.00am) it warmed up. The riding was glorious and some of the best of the trip to date. The sweeping bends, the erratic surface, the distinct lack of a hard shoulder, but the stunning vistas across the pacific ocean, the possibility of spotting grey whales or sea lions and the incredible beauty of the other, equally novel wildlife was wonderful. Even quite plain birds like the turkey vulture, who swooped around us all day (no doubt waiting for us to drop down dead from heat exhaustion,) were exciting to see, watching us watching them. Hawks flitted, little birds skitted and all the time, the vultures lazily circled above. Clearly the recession was having little effect on their livelihoods.

We rode through the tri-cities of McKinleyville, Arcata and Eureka. Only a coffee with Dave and a debate about how quickly we could leave these places delayed us. The wind had been strong on our backs all day, so we felt we could cover the next 18 miles in treble quick time. We followed the rather-too-busy 101 out of the triumvirate and pedalled at up to 22mph to get away from the pull that they clearly exerted on the mass of vehicles streaming their way. Just over a hour later we crossed a bridge, left the remaining traffic and rode across a flat plain into Ferndale, a delightful, turn of the (C20th) village with pretty buildings, old fashioned stores and a real sense of quality.

A lovely town, Ferndale was everything the tri-cities weren't...

It was getting dark - the sun seems to drop out of the sky like a stone at about 7.30 at the moment - so we found the county fairgrounds and pitched our tents. Just enough time for a cuppa before bed.

The road out was also a delight, except for the entirely unnecessary hill that slowed our progress.  The first part of the day involved small farms, stands of trees and a backdrop of easy hills covered in sunlight. We were informed that it would reach 100 degrees today, but given the freezing mist that greeted us as we awoke, we were a little sceptical.

By 11.00am, we wondered whether 100 degrees might be exceeded. Thankfully, a ride through the Avenue of the Giants followed. This route, noy enclosed within the Park, was 32 miles long and both awesome and serene at the same time. On the occasions that we exited from the canopy, the heat rose rapidly.

We approached Garberville sweating heavily. The roads had been recently re-laid and were warming up nicely. The village was a lovely place in the green hills, essentially one road dotted with organic food shops, an internet ice cream parlour, a bar and several motels. There was quite a concentration of brown-clothed, tattooed, dreadlock haired, dog owning, backpack wearing people in need of a good shower. Apparently, we had arrived in the centre of the ‘green triangle’, a place which was known across the State as the best marijuana producer in an area of good marijuana production. The counties of Del Norte, Humboldt and Sonoma formed this triangle - and given that there was a music festival this weekend, the place was filled with ‘music lovers’ of this one kind.

The music didn’t detain us. We rode on the next morning. The weather had warmed up again, so we pedalled up some long steep hills in more 100 degree temperatures.

Westport