Jake bikes the West Coast

Bike trip summary: Time to thank the masses

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 19:04:00 +0000

Before beginning this trip, I could count on one hand the number of people I knew -- the number of people I'd seen within five years -- on the West Coast.

I figured I'd be on my own for the majority of the trip. There'd be several nights camping on my own and staying in hostels and motels by my lonesome.

As it turned out, that was far from the case. I ended up staying more nights in people's homes than at campsites on my own.

And here's the amazing thing: Many of the people who opened up their cribs to me hardly knew me or hadn't seen me in several years. And then there were the people I'd never, ever met who were extremely generous.

So here's to the hosts who helped make this trip a huge success:

-- Janet, my Dad's old friend, who let me stay at her beautiful house on Whidbey Island. I'd never met her before and she hadn't seen my dad in a couple decades, but she welcomed me and provided me with a huge, delicious meal after two straight days of PB&J sandwiches.

-- Janet, Kaila, Brian, Danny and Tiffany in Seattle: This was huge, because I didn't know about a place to stay in Seattle until Janet told me about the house she shared with her daughter, Kaila, and other young adults. I stayed here for two nights, and they showed me a great time.

-- Sean and Melany in Warrenton, OR: I needed this break before beginning down the Oregon coast. Thanks, Sean and Mel, for reaching out to me and then showing me a great time.

-- David and Taunie in Coos Bay, OR: I can't thank you guys enough for taking in a complete, stranded stranger and hosting me for a night, feeding me a great meal and being amazing company. Hopefully I can return the favor.

-- Corby by Crescent City, CA: I can't thank you enough, man, for hanging with me while I had all that time to kill in northern California and letting me crash in the front seat of your truck during the night when I didn't have a spot booked at the hostel.

-- Marnin and Tea in Arcata, CA: A big, big thank you to my family's friends from our neighborhood in Ann Arbor. I had never met Tea before and probably hadn't seen Marnin in at least five years. They took me in for two nights despite having a small living place and two small children. Then they let me store my bike there while I was hiking with Dad.

-- Myra in San Francisco: Here's how I "knew" Myra. My uncle's girlfriend, Karen, had a family connection with her. That's it! But she took me in for a whopping three nights, took me out on the town, and constantly checked up on me to make sure my city visit was enjoyble. Another huge favor I need to repay down the road.

-- Toad in Carmel/San Jose: I probably knew Toad as well as any of my hosts, which is pretty remarkable considering I only knew him from a semester spent in Australia and a few days in Boston and Washington, D.C. Anyway, big thanks, Toad, for not only hosting me for a couple days, but showing me some sweet ocean hikes in the Carmel/Big Sur area and for taking me out for some delicious-tasting food.

-- Erica, Margot, Rusty and parents along the coast: They didn't host me at a house, but we camped together for three nights and biked together for even longer than that. They provided great company throughout the time and their parents were extremely generous in providing me a couple of large dinners. Big, big thanks to you all.

-- Barton and Vicki (and Carol) in Santa Barbara: Here's another one of those improbable connections. Barton is the first cousin of my late grandfather, also Barton. I only knew about him and Vicki because of my aunt Sallie, who first connected me with her old college friend, Carol, who lives in Santa Barbara. Then Carol suggested I give Barton a call. Carol was more than willing to open up her house as well, but my timing was bad. I arrived in the city the same day as her daughter's graduation, when several relatives were in town.

Anyway, I got ahold of Vicki, and she kindly offered me a chance to stay with her and Barton, without hesitating, and their place was absolutely incredible. I also got to meet Carol and her husband, Ken, during my stay there, where they showed me a world-famous Mexican restuarant and, along with Vicki, treated me to a delectable lunch.

-- Tim and Sherry in L.A.: I hadn't seen the family friends in probably close to 10 years, but they kindly took me in for three full days and provided me a great living quarters in West Los Angeles despite a very busy time for them -- Tim gave two final exams at UCLA while I was in town. Big, big thanks to you guys and it was great catching up.

-- Sky and Brian here in San Diego: This has been (and will continue to be) the perfect, relaxing end to my journey. I hadn't seen Sky in a good six years, since the end of high school, but she and Brian have taken me into their one-bedroom apartment and are showing me a fun time here in this beautiful city. Also, I must throw out a huge, huge thanks for picking me up from downtown San Diego Thursday night after my most physically taxing day on the bike.

Since I'm by the border, mucho gracias to all of the above.

They weren't the only people who helped make this trip enjoyable from start to finish. I met hundreds of nice folks along the way, and I can count on one hand the mean, unhelpful people I ran into.

I'm sure I'll forget some people, and for that I apologize (you know who you are). From north to south, more thank-yous...

Ernie and Mariette in Vancouver, who took me on a nice detour on my first day.

The fellas in the sports shop in Centralia, who gave me better directions than the map and allowed me to avoid some big hills.

Glen in Manzanita, who offered me a couch to sleep on that I declined because I wanted to experience the sunset. It was a very generous offer.

Tom and the other guy in Pacific City by my campground. They offered several tips about the riding ahead of me and were fun to talk to.

The guy who drove me -- and the bike -- 2 miles into Depoe Bay, OR, when I simply couldn't continue on because of the rain (yes, I guess I cheated).

The man outside the store in Florence, OR, who gave me a tip about where to stay at Honeymon State Park. I took his advice and slept under a canopy, always fearing the rain.

The librarians in North Bend, OR, who let me use the Internet for a whopping four-plus hours while the rain and wind went crazy outside. (Almost all of the librarians in the small Oregon libraries were nice and acommodating.)

The man who worked at the hotel in Bandon, OR, and offered me a bed in the one hostel room remaining for $20 cash because he didn't want to leave me out in the rain.

Emmett, the other biker staying in Bandon. He provided company during a long, dreary day and evening in the small town.

The host at the Humbug Mountain campsite, who, along with her dog, was nice company during a lonely night at a desolated spot on the coast.

A big shout out to Anthony, Joe, Shane and, of course, Corby who camped with me at Nickel Creek in Crescent City. They were great company in sharing the site and their food. Our huge breakfast was delicious, and the day of hanging with Joe and Anthony before heading to the Redwood hostel was fun and relaxing.

Most of the workers at the Redwood hostel, who were nice enough to let me hang around the place even during the day when I didn't have a room. They were easily the nicest hostel hosts, and the $16 a night was very affordable.

The man at the gas station in Arcata, who gave me perfect directions to Marnin and Tea's place. This was crucial, considering I was soaking wet.

The Red Wings fans in the Arcata pub. It was nice watching Game 7 of the conference semifinals with some other Detroit enthusiasts.

Tony, Joe and Gregory, who provided Dad and me with great company (and some warm whiskey) up in the Trinity Alps.

The Swedish biker I met at the campsite off the Avenue of the Giants. After a long day of riding, he provided great company and some s'mores!

The Gualala bartender. Great, fun-loving guy to talk to after another long day of riding.

The five people at the campsite just north of San Francisco. After yet another heavy-duty day on the bike, they were tremendous company for the night. Not only did they feed me with food besides my PB&Js, but they made a fire and we exchanged stories well into the night. Then, the following morning, they made a list of food joints to visit in San Francisco (and their choices were spot-on).

The regular at the chess table in San Fran, who was a part of one of my biggest thrills off the bike -- beating him on my third try.

Fat Joel and friends for providing company, and entertainment, in both San Fran at the Giants game and in Carmel.

My man Bubs from back home, who absolutely shocked me by texting me that he was in Monterey while I was in San Fran. I had no idea he was in California. Then I met up with him, his wife, Lea, and her sister and father the next day and they took me out to dinner in Pescadero. Big thanks to that whole group for agreeing to meet up with me and treating me to a great meal.

The manager at the hostel in Santa Cruz, who agreed to hold my stuff while I biked downtown to do some blogging. This, in retrospect, was huge, because my bike seat and lights were stolen outside of the library. I can't imagine what else might have been taken if all my stuff was on the 520.

The guy at the bike store in Santa Cruz, who helped me find a good replacement bike seat and installed it for me. Then he hooked me up with a biking hat.

The woman at the fruit stand who gave me about $1.50 worth of cherries for the lame $0.97 I had.

Larry and Fred, the bikers north of Carmel. Larry biked with me for 15 miles and told me the best way to get to Carmel -- through Pebble Beach. Larry took me the last couple miles through PB to the Carmel beach.

The bikers in L.A. who rode along with me for a while on the bike paths along the beach during what I knew would be a long day of riding.

And, I believe, that's it....

Now, of course, the people who provided support from other parts of the country....

A big thanks to Uncle Buz, who advised me in my search for a good bike and bought the maps for me at discount price. He also talked me through one of my toughest, most lonely parts of the trip.

A huge thanks to Karen, who also talked to me a couple times during the rainy days in Oregon and, of course, provided the Myra connection!

Thanks to the Boreykos for holding all of my belongings in North Carolina at no charge and (I hope) for picking me up Tuesday!

Big ups to my man Tick for providing me sports updates every week!

Thanks to Aunt Sallie for setting me up with Carol/Barton and Vicki and for consistent support.

Thanks, also, to all of my relatives and friends who supported me doing this trip instead of, you know, getting a real job or something!

And, finally, a big thanks to the parents, who never told me this was a bad idea or discouraged me from doing it. Mom was maybe a bit heavy on the phone calls, but I did appreciate talking to her and Dad a couple times a week (and, of course, it was good to know at least two people were reading the blog!).

Also, it was great to have Dad out here for three days of amazing hiking.

In conclusion, this trip was everything I thought it would be. It wasn't easy, but that's part of what made it so successful. When I finally finished my longest day Thursday, I had a great feeling of accomplishment that I don't think I've ever had.

Completing this trip is one of my greatest feats, no doubt.

I always say, somewhat truthfully and somewhat in self-deprecating fashion, that I'm bad at making big decisions, but I know it was a very good call to go north to south. There are a few reasons for this.

1. The wind: Rarely did I face a headwind, and during a lot of my difficult miles in California, I was helped by a nice tailwind.

2. The hills: I faced several difficult hills, but it would have been even worse going north. Specifically, I don't know how I could have handled the 12-mile hill heading from the ocean on the Pacific Coast Highway to Leggett. It was bad enough climbing 6 miles in the other direction. Twelve miles would have killed me.

Often, it felt like the hills I went down were a little longer and steeper than the ones I went up.

3. The ending. I'm very glad that I finished here in San Diego. For one, it's perfect because I have a place to stay here for a few days. Secondly, it's the perfect spot for relaxing right on the ocean. I can't wait to swim in the ocean this afternoon. I wouldn't have this experience in Vancouver, and I don't know where I would have stayed or for how long.

Going south to north didn't appear bad on paper, especially weather-wise. I wouldn't have experienced much cold and, possibly, could have avoided all rain. But in looking back, I definitely made the best decision.

But it wasn't my best decision. That had to be buying the Trek 520 touring bike. It might surprise you, but I really don't know a whole lot about bikes and bike maintenance. So I really wanted to find a bike that wouldn't give me much trouble even during a trip this long.

The 520 did exactly that. I never had to pump up the tires, which were rock-solid the entire way and never gave me a single issue. And nothing else broke down. All I had to do was lube the chain every few days and get one midway tuneup in Arcata.

The Trek 520 helped make my trip, for the most part, worry-free.

A big, big thanks to the amazing bike that held strong on many difficult roads and went over its fair share of rocks and minor potholes.

Here's to many more years of fun rides, big and small, on the 520.

And, finally, I'm out. I'll have my final set of pictures posted soon on Picassa and facebook.

Thanks to everyone who has followed the blog, either consistently or intermittingly.

It's been the trip of my lifetime and I highly recommend it to anyone who has some free time and wants to really experience a beautiful, diverse coastline.

Feel free to facebook me or e-mail me (jakeblloyd@gmail.com) with any questions about the trip and the area.

Peace,
Jake

Bike trip summary: Crunching the numbers

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 17:35:00 +0000

Yes, I'm in San Diego, the weather's perfect and the beach is calling my name -- I still haven't gone in the ocean during this trip -- but I know how much all of you have been anticipating the numbers from my journey so I've toiled away here on this gorgeous Sunday morning.

And here they all are...

Total miles biked: 1,984.6

Miles biked in Canada (approximation): 41

Miles biked in Washington (approximation): 364

Miles biked in Oregon (approximation): 410

Miles biked in California (approximation): 1,170

Days of trip: 57

Days on bike: 35

Days of rest: 22

Average miles per day of biking: 56.7

Most miles in a day: 101.7 (the final day)

Longest day on the bike: 8 hours, 34 minutes, 23 seconds (the final day)

Least miles in a day: 13.6 (Crescent City to Redwood hostel)

Nights spent camping: 20 (16 on my own)

Nights spent with friends: 23

Nights spent in hostels: 6

Nights spent in front seats of vehicles: 2

Nights spent in motels by myself: 2

Nights spent in a motel with Dad: 3

Nights spent in Canada: 1

Nights spent in Washington: 7

Nights spent in Oregon: 10

Nights spent in California: 38

Bike maintenance:
-- Bought chain lubricant and tire-valve adapter in Tillamook, OR
-- Got $75 tuneup and new brake shoes in Arcata, CA

Days of biking in the rain: 6

RANKINGS
Hardest day on bike: Day 57 (San Clemente, CA-Border Field State Park, CA-San Diego, CA -- 101.7 miles biked) --This is a tough call, because I had some very difficult days in Northern California and the ride on the final day was relatively flat. But I rank it my most difficult because of the pain I was in and how I had to adjust my riding style for the final 30-plus miles. Plus, it was my longest day on the bike.

Most beautiful state to ride in: Oregon -- This is another difficult call, because much of the riding in California was breathtaking, especially in the northern part of the state. But Oregon, as a whole, was a little more beautiful. I was on the coast the entire time, there was some great ocean-side riding on the 101, and the many rocks sticking out of the water were cool to look at.

Favorite big cities to visit:
1. San Francisco: Great food, chess games downtown, walkable, on the water, great baseball stadium.
2. Seattle: Perfect climate, amazing selection of cuisine, very diverse, laid back, good music scene.
3. San Diego: Still in progress...
4. Vancouver: Only there for an afternoon, but loved how nature blended into the city and the backdrop of mountains.
5. Los Angeles: Way too spread out for not having a car, nothing special about downtown, hotter than the other cities.

Favorite cuisines on the coast:
1. Mexican: A no-brainer. The northern-style burritos are delicious, not to mention huge.
2. Organic: Especially in the big cities, I've noticed many organic grocery stores as well as restaurants. They provide a great selection of nutritious foods.
3. Seafood: I haven't had much good seafood because of the prices...

Favorite highways to bike on:
1. Pacific Coast Highway: The PCH in California was scary at times, but it provided amazing views right above the ocean.
2. Highway 101: Provided great riding in Oregon, where it was just two lanes and hugged the coast.

Most enjoyable day on the bike: Carmel, CA-San Simeon Village, CA -- Obviously, there are a lot to choose from here, but this day takes the cake. The 25 miles up to Big Sur were breathtaking, providing me the most amazing views of the ocean down below and the road ahead. Then I joined up with Erica, Margot and Rusty and had company for the final 60 miles of a long, beautiful 94.9-mile day.

Stay tuned for my final post, featuring final thoughts on the trip and, of course, many thank-yous I need to throw out.

Day 53 (June 11, the FINAL DAY): San Clemente, CA-Border Field State Park, CA-Downtown San Diego, CA -- 101.7 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 23:43:00 +0000

(Written from Sky and Brian's apartment in Ocean Beach, San Diego)

Miles biked: 101.7 (1,984.6 overall)

Time on bike: 8 hours, 34 minutes, 23 seconds

Maximum speed: 29.3 mph

Roads taken: Avenida del Presidente, bike path, Camp Pendleton: Stuart Mesa Road, Vandegrift Boulevard ... Oceanside: Harbor Drive, Pacific Street, Breakwater Way, N. the Strand, Wisconsin Avenue, S. Pacific Street, Cassidy Street, Broadway, Vista Way, CR S21 ... N. Torrey Pines Road/CR S21, N. Torrey Pines Road, San Diego area: La Jolla Shores Drive, Torrey Pines Road, Prospect Place, Prospect Street, Coast Boulevard, Olivetas Avenue, Marine Street, Monte Vista Avenue, Fern Glen, Neptune Place, Palomar Avenue, Camino de la Costa, La Jolla Boulevard, Mission Boulevard, bike path along Mission Beach, Mission Boulevard, W. Mission Bay Drive, Dana Landing Road, Quivira Road, Nimitz Boulevard, N. Harbor Drive, bike path along N. Harbor Drive, ferry from downtown to Coronado, bike path, Glorietta Boulevard, bike path along Silver Strand Boulevard, 13th Street, Coronado Avenue, Hollister Street, Monument Road, after turning around: Monument Road, Hollister Street, Coronado Avenue, 13th Street, bike path along Silver Strand Boulevard, Glorietta Boulevard, bike path, ferry back to downtown where I was picked up by Sky and Brian.

Places stopped: Del Mar (for an oatmeal lunch and a midway-point breather), La Jolla (to admire the ocean view and take a few pictures), downtown San Diego (to wait for the ferry), Coronado park (to change bike shorts), Border Field State Park (the official end point on my map), Jack in the Box (to stuff myself with celebratory junk food; the milkshake was amazing), Rite Aid (to buy something).

Looking back, it is only fitting, I guess, that my most difficult day on the bike was my last one.

Throughout this trip, I had to constantly remind myself that there's really no such thing as an "easy mile." You have to keep pedaling to earn every tenth of a mile -- or lean on your brakes if going down a hill -- and no matter how flat the road is or how crystal clear the sky is, no part of the trip can be taken for granted.

I learned this in a big way Thursday.

In truth, the riding should have been a breeze and should have been enjoyable from start to finish...

The morning riding wasn't great, but I made excellent time. I biked through a military base for the first time, Camp Pendleton, and saw dudes working out on all the typical military equipment -- bars, ropes, etc. Then after a few miles through the middle-sized town of Oceanside, I joined up with CR S21, a miniature highway, and pedaled through several beachside towns.

I passed through Carlsbad, Encinatas, Cardiff by the Sea and Solara Beach -- all, from appearance, popular towns for surfers and tourists -- and finally allowed myself to stop in Del Mar for lunch. I looked at my map and realized that I was just outside of the greater San Diego area.

For the first time of the day, I thought about how close I was to the finish line. I had biked about 41 miles and had roughly the same amount of miles to the Mexican border.

After an oatmeal lunch -- the last of my backwoods food -- I hopped back on the bike, feeling good, and biked toward La Jolla. There was an increase in traffic, but that didn't keep me from enjoying the ride.

I biked up a long hill, the only long climb south of Santa Barbara, and then passed by Torrey Pines Golf Course, where Tiger won the U.S. Open with one leg last year. It was the second famous golf course I saw this trip along with Pebble Beach.

Then I made my way back to the ocean, which I biked along in La Jolla. The waves were bigger than any I'd seen on the trip and there were hundreds of surfers riding them. I stopped for a minute and took a couple pictures.

And when I got back on the bike, I started to feel it -- soreness in my ass.

It wasn't terrible pain. I could still ride in my normal positions. Plus, it wasn't entirely unexpected. I had rode over 50 miles, and throughout the trip I had felt some soreness off and on during the afternoons of long days on the bike seat.

So I rode on, starting to sense the finish line. There was no stopping me at that point.

I reached Mission Beach and biked along a crowded boardwalk next to the beach. The problem with biking on such a path is that it's difficult to locate the next turn. So it was no surprise to me that I went a little bit past my turn needed to go to Ocean Beach.

But I didn't have to backtrack much, and soon enough I was riding into Ocean Beach. I checked my odometer, because the "OB" is where I would need to ride back to after getting to the border to reach my spot of rest, Sky's apartment. It read 60 miles. I figured I still had 20 to 25 miles remaining. That meant I'd end up doing about 105 to 110 miles for the day -- a high for the trip.

The ass was sore, but not unbearable. I didn't even consider stopping at Sky's and calling it a day. What kind of finish would it be to wait until the next day and just do 25 miles to the finish line?

So I biked through the OB and then took a bike path along N. Harbor Drive all the way downtown. The ass was starting to hurt pretty bad whenever I sat on the bike, but I knew I had a nice, extended break ahead of me -- a ferry from downtown to Coronado. I thought, hoped, that it would relieve some of the discomfort.

Upon reaching the ferry terminal on San Diego Bay, I waited about 15 minutes for the ferry to arrive. Then I boarded the boat and snapped some pictures of downtown as we headed just across the bay for Coronado.

When I got off the boat and back onto the 520, I knew I was in trouble.

The rest had made my ass even sorer -- now I could hardly sit on the bike. The pain was like nothing I'd experienced on the entire trip. As I rode gingerly along a bayside bike path, I yelled out a couple times in pain.

There was no turning around, but how could I continue like this for 17 long miles?

I didn't think I could, so I stopped at a playground area and changed bike shorts, hoping that the fresh pair would bring comfort.

They didn't.

So I simply sucked it up. I turned up the volume of my iPod and tried singing along to songs to take my mind off the pain. That didn't really work, however.

Once I reached the Silver Strand bike path, a long, straight, flat path along the very narrow strip of land between Coronado and Imperial Beach, I stood up and didn't want to sit down again.

And for about 3 miles, that's what I did. I pedaled and pedaled while standing up, putting the bike in a high gear and cruising along the strip. My legs told me to sit down on several occasions, but my ass told me that'd be a bad idea. But the Strand kept going, and eventually I had to sit down and rest.

Thankfully, I was able to shift to a sitting position that wasn't quite as unbearable as before. It wasn't your proper riding position. I had my legs out to the side and my feet were angled in to the clips. But I was able to ride sitting down again, which helped me get through the rest of the Strand and reach Imperial Beach.

When I turned right onto 13th Street, I knew I had just three more turns before the finish line. I turned onto Coronado Avenue and biked past shopping malls and a high school, still riding gingerly but sitting down. After about a mile, I hooked a right on Hollister Road.

Just one more turn to make...

But my ride on Hollister seemed to go on forever. And after a couple miles, the pain in my ass become unbearable again. As I passed a stall of horses, I had to stand up -- and stay standing up.

And that's when I reached Monument Road, which runs parallel to the border. As I turned right, I noticed the large ridge just to my left that separates the U.S. from Mexico. I also saw a section of the border gate atop the ridge. It didn't look like an easy fence to scale.

I continued riding...

I knew I had a couple miles to go on the road before reaching Border Field State Park, but I was biking on adrenaline at that point. I stood up the entire way, pumping one pedal stroke after another as my iPod played "California, here we come." (Amazingly, there's no "Border Field State Park, Here We Come" song that I know about.)

I had the road all to myself. It was oddly appropriate that I was finishing my journey all on my own. After all, that had been the case for the majority of the close to 2,000 miles.

And then I reached my final destination!!! ... and it was ... UGLY.

That's right. There were several large, sharp rocks in the middle of the road. A dirt road led off to the left. And in front of me was a locked gate, which made it known that the park was closed.

My map had said the park was open Thursday through Sunday, but the sign said that it was only open on weekends. I don't think it would have mattered -- there was nothing to see, nowhere to go.

In the days and hours leading up to the conclusion of the ride, I had imagined how I'd celebrate finally reaching the end point. I'd imagined doing all kind of fist pumps, yelling in utter joy, getting off the bike and doing a face plant in a nice patch of grass.

When the moment arrived, however, I did none of that. I couldn't lie down in grass because there wasn't any. And the scenery didn't exactly inspire a celebration.

So I simply got off the bike and managed a smile, which quickly disappeared when I thought about how many painful miles I still had to ride.

Then I lugged the bike over to the state park sign so I could take some pictures to mark my reaching it. There was no one around, so I couldn't pose for a picture (although I tried, unsuccessfully, to snap a picture of the bike and I by the sign).

After the photo shoot, I sat down in the middle of the road -- the most comfortable spot there -- and called Dad. As we were talking, a military guy on a four-wheeler rode up to me and stopped briefly to ask if I was OK. After all, I was sitting in the middle of the road.

I told him yes, and he continued down the dirt road. This happened three more times during my conversation with Dad, and twice the guys asked me about the trip. In retrospect, I should have asked one of them to snap a picture of me with the bike and sign.

Oh, well. I needed to get back on the road, anyway. Reaching Sky's apartment before darkness had become another concern.

The pain didn't subside on my ride back, but at least I knew I was headed in the right direction. Upon reaching the Strand, I stood up for three consecutive miles without sitting down. The sun was going down to my left and I started to think that if I didn't make the next ferry -- they ran every hour -- there was no way I'd make it to Sky's before darkness.

But I simply couldn't stand up the entire way. I had biked 95 miles and was going against the wind. Finally, I allowed myself to sit down and again found a bearable position to sit in. I wasn't going as fast as I could have, but the pain didn't make me want to die, either. That was a plus.

The ride on the Strand seemed to take an hour, but I eventually reached Coronado as the sun was nearing the horizon and pulled up to the pier leading out to the ferry dock. That's when I noticed where the ferry was -- just offshore, heading in the other direction.

I had missed it by about 8 minutes. It was 7:38. The next ferry wouldn't leave until 8:30.

I realized at that moment that I was done riding. I had gone 101.1 miles.

It was time to ask for help. So I called Sky to ask for a ride from downtown, and when she told me that, yes, she could pick me up and that, yes again, she had a RAV4 in which we could fit the bike, I celebrated -- at least internally.

Pending a safe ferry ride, I didn't have to worry about any more riding, about any more left or right turns. I exhaled and called Dad to get a Lakers-Magic update. Then I had a man take a picture of me, the bike and the San Diego skyline.

That would serve as my ride-is-over picture. It seemed more appropriate than a picture at the border when I still had 17 miles to ride.

Throughout the trip, I had felt pretty good physically at the end of each day of riding. But, I must admit, I felt fatigued at the conclusion of my final, long day.

My legs were sore, especially my calf muscles, and my ass had never been sorer. Sitting down on any surface, even a couch, was a tad uncomfortable.

But I drew joy out of the fact that I wouldn't have to sit down on a bike seat the next day. Or the next. Or the next...

I think the trip was about the right length. I was ready for an extended break from the bike.

And I'm sure the 520 felt the same way.

Stay tuned for my final wrap-up blog, including all the intriguing numbers...

Day 52 (June 10): Los Angeles, CA-San Clemente, CA -- 88.1 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 20:41:00 +0000

(Written from Sky and Brian's apartment in Ocean Beach, San Diego)

Miles biked: 88.1 (1,882.9 overall)

Time on bike: 7 hours, 57 seconds

Maximum speed: 30.8 mph

Roads taken: Los Angeles: Pico Boulevard, Gateway Boulevard, Ocean Park Boulevard, bike path along Pacific Ocean, Washington Boulevard, Admirality Way, Fiji Way, bike path, Harbor Drive, Torrence Boulevard, Western Avenue. 223rd Street, Wardlow Road, bike path along Los Angeles River ... Long Beach: Bayshore, E. 2nd Street ... Pacific Coast Highway, El Camino Real, San Clemente: Ave Pico, Boca de la Playa, Calle de las Bolas, Ave Florencia, Ave Pelayo, Calle Puente, Ave Palizada, Calle Seville, Ola Vista, Ave Calafia, Ave del Presidente.

Places stopped: Huntington Beach (to finally rest after 55 miles and eat a Power Bar/blood-red orange lunch), 7-Eleven in San Clemente (to get Gatorades and ice-cream bar), San Clemente State Park (for the night).

I woke up Wednesday morning well aware of the task ahead of me: navigating my way out of Los Angeles. From my bus rides, I knew how huge the city was and that it wouldn't be a breeze to "get out of town."

The first part of the journey wasn't bad. After 4 miles of biking in traffic got me down to the Santa Monica beach, I enjoyed about 15 miles of pleasant riding on a bike path along the beach. A few people joined up with me as I pedaled.

First an older man from Ireland rode alongside me for a few miles, asking several questions about the trip and helping to pass the time. A little later, a pair of locals rode up beside me and provided company as I headed through Hermosa Beach and toward Redondo Beach.

The only negative thing about riding with them is that I missed my turn. They knew the area really well and said they could offer me a different route, but I didn't want to get off the route the map outlined -- I had too many turns to make, too many miles to bike. So I backtracked about a mile to Torrence Boulevard, where I began a more unpleasant part of my day on the road.

For over 10 miles, I rode on busy city streets through Redondo Beach, Torrence and Carson. Luckily, I was used to such things -- it might have been a little more scary had I done this at the beginning of the trip. All I cared about was staying on track.

I almost got lost upon reaching the Los Angeles River. I had to get on a bike path on the east side of the river after crossing a bridge onto Wardlow Road, but I didn't see a way to reach the path. After riding through a neighborhood, I finally made it to the path -- but it was on top of a hill in front of me. So I had to walk my bike through dirt for about a quarter mile before reaching a ramp that led up to the path.

Like the path along the creek in L.A. the day before, the path beside the Los Angeles River is not what you imagine when you hear of a "bike path along a river." The river was disgusting and reeked. It was filled with trash and maybe ankle-deep, for the most part. There was nothing nice to look at.

So I simply pedaled along, heading into Long Beach.

And Long Beach actually looked like a pretty nice place, with -- you guessed it -- a "long beach" and a nice harbor. Droves of people milled about in the midday sun; sand volleyball games were played on the beach; kids screamed and played at an amusement park.

It was a nice city, with plenty of things in a small, contained space (yes, that's an L.A. joke).

Of course, I got lost in it, however. I was supposed to follow a bike path all the way through the city, but somehow I wound up biking a circle by the harbor and then trying to figure out how far, exactly, I was on my maps. That's one of the only issues with my maps -- on the "detail" maps, there are no mileage markers so I never know exactly how far I need to go on a certain road or bike path.

But a man helped get me back on track, and I rode along another nice path out of the city and toward Seal Beach. That is where I finally joined up with the Pacific Coast Highway, officially marking my exit from the four Los Angeles "detail" maps that had dominated my morning.

I'd been riding for more than 40 miles.

I reached Huntington Beach, the "surf capital of the world," and finally allowed myself to take a breather after 55 miles of reading. I exhaled, ate a Power Bar and a blood-red orange and talked briefly with a biker who was quite cynical of the area containing Huntington Beach, Newport Beach and Laguna Beach.

The guy said that if I'd come two weeks later, I'd be "dead" because of the crazy drivers in the area. I thought he might have been exaggerating just a bit, but I was thankful, I guess, that I'd made it two weeks before things got chaotic.

He did have a point, however. The stretch from Huntington Beach through Laguna Beach was crazy, as I biked along the PCH amid lots of traffic. Between the cities, I was treated to small shoulders. But when I biked through them, I had no shoulder to work with and had to watch out for car doors opening from the cars parked on the right side.

There was no way to avoid the traffic. I just had to establish my space in the road, letting cars know that I was there and that they better avoid me unless that wanted some legal trouble (or something like that).

As I was cruising through the high-traffic zones, the scenery was often amazing. And it's no wonder, really -- I was in "The O.C." zone.

I had looked forward to biking through Newport Beach, where the TV show takes place. I wanted to see the huge, amazing houses that are on the show.

Sure enough, there were hundreds of tile-topped houses sitting atop hills along the coast by Newport Beach as well as Laguna Beach. Not a bad place to live, I thought, or to film a TV show.

I got to San Clemente around 4, having already biked about 80 miles, but when I stopped for a snack I realized that I couldn't go farther than nearby San Clemente State Park for the night. The next hiker/biker site was some 30 miles down the PCH, and I couldn't even get there at that point because my route would take me through the military's Camp Pendleton, which -- according to my map -- closes at 3:30 p.m. on weekdays.

So I slowly cruised through several side streets in the nice town of San Clemente and stopped at the state park for my final night of camping.

And it was a beautiful park. I walked down to the beach, which sat just on the other side of a railroad track on which a train passed. I watched a couple surfers take some of the large waves into shore. It was peaceful and beautiful.

Then I walked back to camp and made beans and rice for dinner. It was fun to have a backwoods meal during my final night on the road.

After eating and cleaning up, I walked back toward the beach and enjoyed the end of the sunset.

Then I headed back to the tent and got to bed early.

It was probably a good decision -- I had a little bit of riding to do before reaching my final destination.

Day 51 (June 9): Los Angeles -- 0 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 19:30:00 +0000

(Written from Sky and Brian's apartment in Ocean Beach, San Diego)

Miles biked: 0 (1,794.8 overall)

During my final day in Los Angeles, the local buses drove me crazy -- and, of course, forced me into a lot of walking.

It's safe to say that by the end of the night, I was ready to get back on the bike. I was sick and tired of the L.A. buses.

My game plan in the morning was to catch a bus to Venice Boulevard, where I'd transfer to another bus to get down to Venice Beach. Once there, I planned to walk around and explore the scene.

But, somehow, I rode right past my stop, which I swear was never announced. And after about 12 minutes, I realized I'd gone too far and was well on my way to LAX.

I quickly got off to cut down on the damage, but it had been done. I was miles from my desired location.

After about a mile of walking, I saw a little, hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint and got a tasty burrito. That helped better my mood a bit, but I had a long walk ahead of me to reach Venice Beach -- yes, I could have tried to find another bus, but I had no idea which one to catch from where I was and I didn't have a bus map on me.

So I walked along barren streets, which featured no scenery. The thing about walking in L.A. is that you might be 5 miles, or even closer, from downtown and all the activity, but have no idea. I felt like I could have been in some random, run-down city.

After a while of walking, I reached Ballona Creek, which runs out to the ocean. I noticed a bike/walking path along the water, which looked more appetizing than the sidewalks I had been following.

In truth, it really wasn't. The creek, like the Los Angeles River, was narrow and had concrete walls on both sides. The water wasn't deep and was extremely dirty, and I felt bad for the ducks stuck in it.

Anyway, I walked along the creek for a couple miles before finally reaching Marina del Ray. Once there, I had to slide my way along busy Lincoln Boulevard and its lack of sidewalks before reaching Admirality Way, which slowly took me around the marina toward Venice Beach. I had to stop and sit down on a bench for a break -- I'd been walking for 2 hours.

But finally I reached Venice, my legs fatigued, and I actually found an interesting part of the city to explore: The Venice Beach boardwalk.

It was a nice afternoon, and droves of people were out walking the strip. Here's a sampling of what/whom I passed by:

-- A handful of "doctors" who could provide marijuana for medicinal purposes. Each place had a list of reasons why you could see the doctor for weed. Among them: arthritis, AIDS and many other medical problems.

-- Several street performers, who sang, sculpted, did tattoos, etc... One guy had sculpted an alligator out of sand. It was impressive.

-- Several sidewalk stands selling everything from beads and necklaces to T-shirts, pipes and ice cream.

-- Muscle Beach, a large, outdoor weight room. It's a great idea, really. L.A. hardly gets any rain, so it makes sense to pump iron outside in a happening place. It would sure beat working out inside a hot, indoor gym.

-- Also in athletic circles, there were paddle ball courts and basketball courts. Paddle ball is a fun sports to watch and, I presume, play. It's played on a miniature tennis court with tennis balls, but with paddles. Players hit the ball with tennis-like strokes.

Overall, Venice Beach was a one-of-a-kind experience. All kinds of activity and things to look at just a couple hundred yards from the water.

Then, of course, it was back to the bus life. After a relatively short walk, I caught the 733 bus on Venice Boulevard heading toward downtown. And then I took a nap, because I had a long, long ride ahead of me.

I ended up riding the bus for a full hour until, finally, I arrived downtown. Then I had to catch another bus, the No. 4, to get to Dodger Stadium for the main attraction of the day -- a baseball game at the oldest MLB stadium I hadn't been to.

After about half an hour, I arrived at my stop -- and Dodger Stadium was nowhere in sight.

Luckily, a sign pointed me in the direction of the stadium, which was up a large hill about half a mile from the bus stop. The perimeter of the stadium was a setup different from anything I'd ever seen. Toll-booth like stalls were set up, where cars had to go through to pay for parking in several large lots surrounding the stadium.

It seemed different, but also more simple than most parking situations outside sports stadiums -- but it wasn't beautiful. After walking a few more hundred yards, I finally reached the stadium, which doesn't exactly stand out. It's kind of tucked into the ground like Michigan Stadium, only to a lesser extent.

Still, it provides a good baseball-watching experience, and that's all that matters. I bought a $30 bleacher ticket, which included unlimited food -- hot dogs, nachos, popcorn and peanuts -- and non-alcoholic drinks (soda and water). I'd never heard of such a deal at a ballpark, but it was enticing.

And the ticket wasn't bad. I sat in the second row of the right-field bleachers, which was prime home-run territory. The Dodgers jacked four of them during their 6-4 win, including a blast that landed about 10 feet to my left. That sent my section into chaos, as fans jived back and forth about who missed the ball.

The bleachers were packed, and the crowd was extremely ethnically diverse -- an experience I'd never witnessed at a baseball game. The fans were boisterous, and they got even more excited and gregarious as the Lakers' NBA Finals game wound down in Orlando during the middle innings.

One guy about 20 seats to my right had a portable TV, and he kept updating everyone around me. It was craziness. Somebody would ask for a score and get a response. Then the kid next to him, who hadn't heard the score, would ask. It resulted in shouting back and forth that I had to chuckle at.

The excitement over the basketball game was as great as that about what we were there for until, finally, it was announced -- and confirmed -- that the Lakers had lost by two.

That did nothing to dampen the fans' moods. It was an enjoyable, entertaining experience throughout the 3-hour game, filled by fans doing the wave, fans batting beach balls, lots of eating and, of course, watching the best team in baseball win another game.

Then it was back to the buses...

Before leaving that morning, I had used mta.net, the L.A. public transportation system, to map out a plan. It had me taking two buses, the No. 2 and the No. 7, back to Tim and Sherry's house off Pico Boulevard. When I caught the No. 2, however, around 10:30 p.m., the driver told me that it didn't connect to the No. 7.

Still, she said it was my best option, so I sat down and waited. After about 40 minutes, she told me to get off at Fairfax Street and take the No. 217 down to Pico, where, finally, I could take the No. 7 back to Tim and Sherry's. Not only would i have to take three buses, but transfers weren't given at that time, so I had to pay $1.25 for each ride.

Well, the driver had said nothing about the 37 minutes I waited outside of a drug store for the 217. I considered, at one point, running down to Pico, but I knew how huge L.A. is. It'd be a long, long run in my Tevas. And, at long last, the packed bus pulled up a little after 11:40.

I got to Pico a bit after 12 -- it was a good thing I hadn't tried running, because it must have been several miles -- and had a decision to make: Should I sit at a bus stop and hope that the 7 showed up, or should I run for it?

Thankfully, the signs on Pico listed the schedule for the No. 7 -- and there would be one more bus for the night headed in the right direction. Unfortunately, even if it was on schedule, it was more than 15 minutes away. So I decided to jog up Pico and stop, temporarily, at each bus sign to see if the bus was coming.

After about 15 minutes, I was winded and decided to camp out at an abandoned bus stop. A couple minutes later, an abandoned bus pulled up. The nice driver took me within a block of Tim and Sherry's.

It was 12:30.

My L.A. experience on buses was over.

And I was ready to get back on the bike, a form of transportation I knew I could count on.

Day 50 (June 8): Los Angeles -- 0 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 07:10:00 +0000

(Written from Tim and Sherry's house in West Los Angeles)

Miles biked: 0 (1,794.8 overall)

Unfortunately, I don't have too many exciting stories to tell from my first full day spent in the city of stars.

You can blame my lack of planning and the hugeness of L.A. for that.

A city like L.A. is tough for me to navigate, because I like to explore major cities by foot. Also, unlike your typical tourist, I don't come to a city with a predetermined plan to see A, B and C. I just kind of wing it as I go.

That kind of thinking, unfortunately, didn't get me very far Monday.

A brief summary of my day spent, mostly, walking or on buses:

1. I bussed to UCLA's campus, not far from here, hoping to see the inside of cozy Pauley Pavilion, where the Bruins play. Of course, the arena was completely locked up and I couldn't find a way to get in.

UCLA's campus is nice, the buildings are interesting and all that jazz, but I've seen many cool campuses over the years. It didn't exactly get me dancing.

2. So I walked north to Sunset Boulevard, where I hoped to catch a bus -- I'm not sure which one; all I knew was that L.A. has hundreds of buses -- to Hollywood and something, you know, cool and hip.

But I didn't see any bus stops during a long walk on Sunset, and when I reached an intersection with Beverly Glen -- right by the entrance to Bel Air, by the way -- I decided to hook a right and head back toward West L.A. where I was sure I could catch a bus down to Santa Monica and the ocean.

3. I walked, and walked and walked a little more. It wasn't the worst walk, however, and was made more interesting by beautiful, large houses and by trucks I'd see almost every mile sitting idle on the street.

What were they? I'd never seen 'em before.

What I soon realized was that I was looking at portable Mexican restaurants, sent out to the streets to serve all the Mexican landscapers and menial laborers -- and others -- who worked on the upper class' homes.

It's a great idea, really -- bringing lunch to the workers. I must have seen about 10 of the trucks, and many of them featured different logos. One, sitting by a park, drew a decent line of hungry men. I guess it's become quite the competitive business.

4. Anyway, after a few miles of walking in the afternoon heat, I finally made it back to Pico Boulevard and, after 16 minutes of waiting, caught the Big Blue Bus (No. 7) down to Santa Monica.

I walked along the touristy pier for a little bit and looked out at the blue ocean and the sun rays hitting it. Fishermen tested their luck below me. A musician tried to entertain a few hundred feet behind me. Kids screamed for cotton candy. Moms said enough sweets.

It was your typical pier, but still enjoyable for a few minutes.

After dismounting, I walked along the edge of the "bikers only" path for about a mile until I found a lonely cafe located between the beach and the streets to the north. I got a late lunch and then headed back toward Pico and the bus ride north to Tim and Sherry's.

They fed me a healthy, filling dinner and entertained me with some only-in-L.A. stories.

Day 2 totals from my stay in L.A.:

-- Bus rides: 3
-- Money spent on bus rides: $1.75
-- Estimated time on buses: 1 hour, 17 minutes
-- Approximate number of miles walked: 4.25
-- Percentage of the city I've seen (rough guess): 0.12

I guess I'll be getting around on Tuesday, my last day in the city.

Day 49 (June 7): Leo Carrillo State Beach, CA-Los Angeles, CA -- 32.9 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 05:31:00 +0000

(Written from Tim and Sherry's house in West Los Angeles)

Miles biked: 32.9 (1,794.8 overall)

Time on bike: 2 hours, 33 minutes, 11 seconds

Maximum speed: 31.8 mph

Roads taken: SR 1, Santa Monica bike path, Ocean Avenue, Ocean Park Boulevard/Gateway Boulevard, Pico Boulevard, Camden Avenue.

Places stopped: Santa Monica bike path (to kick it for a minute and text google to find out if Federer won his 14th grand slam), Tim and Sherry's house (for the night).

I've concluded that I'm very good at underestimating how far I can go on a bike in a certain amount of time.

For instance, on Saturday I told Tim, whom I'd be staying with for three nights in L.A., that I'd probably get to his and his wife Sherry's place in West Los Angeles around 12 Sunday afternoon.

Forget the fact that I planned on getting up early and had an estimated 30 to 40 miles of mostly flat riding to do. I never expect to get somewhere quickly on the 520.

So when I arrived at their house a tad past 10, after 32.9 quick miles, it was, naturally, a surprise to them. Thankfully, they're great, accommodating hosts and let me in the door.

(And the rest of my visit, so far, has been blessed with kind hospitality, entertaining conversation and, of course, a comfortable bed.)

As for the ride into L.A., it was actually hillier than I expected. Going through the coast town of Malibu, I climbed quite a few hills. No, they were nothing like the hills I went up in the northern and central parts of the state, but they still offered a good workout.

I enjoyed most of the ride because I got an early start and beat the L.A. heat. I executed my earliest wake-up time of the trip -- I've never used an alarm; just awakened on my own -- by getting up around 5:47 a.m.

It's incredible how early it gets light here. When I emerged from my tent, it looked like it'd been light for nearly an hour (maybe I'll have to test that during my final night of camping). Whatever the case, I had no problems adjusting to the early morning and preparing for my ride.

After a cup of tea and some oatmeal, I was ready to go reach another big city.

Riding through Malibu was nice, except for all the cars that lined the side of SR 1. I had to constantly look out for opening doors, as some early morning surfers were preparing to hit the waves.

Once I got through Malibu, it was less than 10 miles before the traffic increased and I knew I was nearing the city. Apparently, Santa Monica used to be its own city, but now it's part of the L.A. sprawl. This was proven when I noticed the Los Angeles city limit sign before seeing the Santa Monica pier.

Thankfully, I was able to get off SR 1 and onto a beach-side bike path just as the traffic was getting heavy and the bike lane becoming the width of a pencil. I knew, then, that I was in the city.

The Santa Monica beach is nice -- just a long stretch of sand, featuring several volleyball nets and, of course, broken up by the pier and its cornucopia of mini roller coasters, games and stands selling overpriced junk food

I enjoyed riding roughly 100 yards from the water, passing all kinds of bikers, rollerbladers, runners, walkers, you name it. The path was supposed to be "bikers only," but what could I expect? This was L.A.

Eventually, with the help of a nice girl at a hotel, I found the street that Tim had described as the most safe to bike on and get to his house, Ocean Park Boulevard. While there wasn't a designated bike lane, there was some room to ride and the traffic wasn't too bad on a Sunday morning.

After a few miles on that, followed by a very brief stretch on busy Pico Boulevard, I arrived at my destination, ready to ditch the bike and kick it in the city of stars for a few days.

L.A. DAY 1
My plan for Sunday afternoon was to get down by the Staples Center prior to Game 2 of the NBA Finals and observe the scene. And, of course, I'd be accepting any free tickets (shockingly, I didn't get lucky in this respect).

One of the interesting things I noticed on the two-bus ride downtown, which took over an hour, was that I was the lone white person on either bus. I didn't feel uncomfortable, but instead enjoyed being the super minority for once.

(It would be the same on most of my other bus rides in the city -- and there were many.)

The bus rides also gave me an idea of just how huge L.A. is. My route was all on one street, Pico Boulevard, but we must have gone some 200 blocks before getting downtown to the central part of the city.

Walking L.A., like I walked a solid portion of San Fran, is not an option. This is especially the case because of how spread out everything worth seeing is.

There's the beach and pier in Santa Monica. There's UCLA in Westwood. There's Hollywood north and east of there. And there's downtown, and the Staples Center and Dodger Stadium, even farther East.

I bought an L.A. map, and it doesn't even show Anaheim and Pasadena -- that's how spread out the metropolis is.

Anyway, I made it to the Staples Center about 40 minutes before the 5 p.m. tipoff and wandered around. Obviously, there were thousands of yellow- and gold-clad Lakers fans milling about, but the atmosphere didn't seem too much different from that before a regular-season or early round game in the playoffs.

Of course, the hundreds of T.V. cameras and sets gave away the occasion, but there was no craziness. Maybe the Sunday afternoon sun and heat had mellowed people, or maybe they were saving their voices for the game.

I did, however, find the pregame spot to be -- outside of the VIP entrance. I walked upon a throng of onlookers who were, apparently, intrigued about the possibility of seeing a famous actor or musicians pull up to the entrance.

And, sure enough, a few minutes later I heard a few screams and shouts, turned to my right and there, stepping out of a black SUV with tinted windows, was the one and only Diddy, the famous rapper/producer/actor/man of many talents.

I decided to blend in and snap a few pictures as Diddy, decked out in spiffy sunglasses, waved to the crowd and headed straight for the front of the line. I guess some folks around here have privileges.

Among the other celebs I saw during my brief stay along VIP lines: soon-to-be high NBA draft picks Tyreke Evans and James Harden and actress Bridget Marquardt from the "Girl Next Door." (No, I didn't know that last one off hand; I was tipped off by one of the many knowledgeable picture-takers.)

So that was fun...

Then the game started, and I found out that finding a cool place to watch the Lakers downtown is quite the challenge.

There were a few fancy restaurants and the absolutely mobbed ESPN Zone -- which is overrated, anyway. Finally, about midway through the first quarter, I settled on an overpriced joint a few blocks from the arena.

I watched the first half there, but never felt any kind of NBA Finals atmosphere and didn't enjoy the $5.50 Miller Lite.

So I checked out at the half and decided to head back up Pico for the second half. Well, I quickly discovered, surprise, that not everyone in this kind of big city cares about the Lakers. As I walked through a predominately Mexican neighborhood, I didn't see one restaurant that had the game on, didn't notice one person with a jersey.

I realized that I'd have a hard time finding a cool place to watch the game, so I hopped on a bus heading back toward Tim and Sherry's with the hope of catching the conclusion at a neighborhood bar.

Luckily, there weren't many people on the last of the four buses I took during the day, and I made it to a nice spot just a block from my temporary residence for the game's final 5 dramatic minutes plus overtime.

There were several Lakers fans watching there, but the celebrating still seemed tame to me. I don't know -- maybe they're saving their rowdiest cheers for the night when the championship is clinched.

Or maybe the Lakers winning simply isn't all that important to the majority of L.A. citizens.

As an outsider, I can only guess.

I went to bed fairly early Sunday, wondering how many buses I'd take during my first full day in the gigantic city.

Day 48 (June 6): Santa Barbara, CA-Leo Carrillo State Beach, CA -- 55.4 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 04:41:00 +0000

(Written from Tim and Sherry's house, West Los Angeles)

Miles biked: 55.4 (1,761.9 overall)

Time on bike: 3 hours, 57 minutes, 10 seconds

Maximum speed: 29.5 mph

Roads taken: Toro Canyon Road, Via Real, Santa Ynez Avenue, Carpinteria Avenue, US 101, SR 1, bike path, Ventura: Omar Raines Oceanfront bike path, Pierpoint Boulevard, Peninsula Street, Seahorse Avenue, Oyster Street ... Harbor Boulevard, Channel Islands Boulevard, Oxnard: Ventura Road ... Port Hueneme: Port Hueneme Road ... Navalair/Frontage Road, SR 1.

Places stopped: Ventura boardwalk (for a Power Bar/blood-red orange lunch and break), Point Mugu (for a snack and to admire the ocean view and the cliffs on the left side of SR 1), Leo Carrillo State Beach (to camp for the night).

It's a good thing my brakes were working Saturday morning, because they got their biggest test going down Toro Canyon Road from Barton and Vicki's house that sits some 1,250 feet above sea level.

After bidding Barton and Vicki goodbye, thanking them and discussing the possiblility of meeting up again during the week in L.A. -- where they work -- I got on the 520 just before noon and started down the hill that had nearly caused me to quit biking two days earlier.

I love going down hills as much as the next guy, but not all hills are fun to descend, and you can put the Toro Canyon beast in that category. For 2.8 miles, I didn't let go of the brakes for more than about 2 seconds lest I reach a ridiculous speed, hit a bump and go flying 43 feet in the air.

My hands were sweating by the time I reached the bottom of the hill and I had to dismount to regroup before continuing my trip south.

That was the only real drama of the day.

It was my flattest day of riding to date, which made the 55.4 miles seem like 20 miles. I wasn't pushing that hard, and I still made it to the hiker/biker campsite closest to L.A., Leo Carrillo State Beach, in less than 4 hours of biking time.

The riding was easy, but it wasn't boring. Even the 6 miles along US 101 -- I'm pretty sure I'm finally done with my major-highway riding; SR 1 doesn't quite count in that category -- was scenic, as the ocean stretched out to my right and small mountains stood in the not-so-far distance to the north and east.

It became even better once I got through the nothing-special towns of Ventura and Oxnard and merged onto the Pacific Coast Highway. As I passed Point Mugu, peaks higher than 1,000 rose steeply right on the edge of the highway. Yes, if I were a rock climber, I could have parked at a wayside and started climbing.

Not only that, but the ocean, and some decent-sized waves, was just 30 feet or so below the road on my right. I stopped on the side of the road about three times to snap pictures.

When I reached the state beach around 4:30 p.m., I really didn't want to call it a day. But I had no other plausible options. There were no more hiker/biker sites before Santa Monica, and I definitely wanted to camp a night before smelling the fumes of the city.

So I sadly got off the bike and spent most of the evening on the sandy beach, watching a large group of talented surfers take rolling waves to shore.

I got in the sleeping bag before 9, thinking about getting up at a very early hour and coasting into L.A. before the oppressive heat hit.

A COUPLE NOTES
1. I can't thank Barton and Vicki enough for welcoming me into their house and being extremely hospitable for nearly two days. It was an incredibly fun and relaxing time in the beautiful Santa Barbara hills.

2. I decided on Saturday, somewhat out of convenience and somewhat out of dedication, that I won't swim in the Pacific until I reach my final destination of San Diego. It will make running into the water -- which, hopefully, will be an accomodating temperature -- for that first time all the more intoxicating.

Day 47 (June 5): Santa Barbara, CA -- 0 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Sat, 06 Jun 2009 05:43:00 +0000

(Written from Barton and Vicki's beautiful house, Santa Barbara, CA)

Miles biked: 0 ( 1,706.5 overall )

I woke up Friday morning to the pattering of rain on top of my sleeping quarters for the first time in over three weeks...

And I was perfectly OK with it.

That's because, of course, I was under an actual roof. Instead of having to step out of a soaking tent into a rainy morning, my only duty was to walk outside, for about 26 seconds, and move the 520 under the side of Barton and Vicki's house.

And then I crept back into my super comfy bed and fell back asleep.

Oh, the luxurious life. For a day, at least, I lived it in Santa Barbara. Among the highlights:

1. Vicki prepared a delicious breakfast for me made up of eggs, English muffins, bacon, cantaloupe, blueberries and tea.

2. I relaxed during the morning, reading the New York Times and browsing an assortment of magazines while reclining in extremely comfortable chairs while watching the rain hit the pool outside.

3. Around noon, the sky cleared and Vicki and I headed out to meet Carol, who roomed with my aunt Sallie at Brown and knew the Myers as well. We met Carol and her husband, Ken, at a world-famous Mexican restaurant called La Super Rich close to downtown.

From the look of the place, you'd never guess it's world-renowned and is a common place for celebrities to eat at. It's a one-story building with a green-tile roof on the corner of an uninspiring neighborhood. But when I saw the line snaking out the entrance door, I knew it was legitimate.

As Ken described, the food served was southern Mexican as opposed to the northern Mexican burritos I'd experienced farther north in spots such as San Fran and San Jose. Carol and Ken, regulars at the place, ordered us a bunch of plates -- enchiladas, tostadas, chicken, beef, guacamole, mild and hot salsa, etc... -- and we sat down in a crowded outdoor dining room to eat.

I felt like I was in a greenhouse as I sipped a delicious rice drink called Horchata. The food was just as good, not to mention diverse, and I left the place after taking a few pictures to commemorate my visit.

After that, Vicki took me downtown to State Street and we walked around for a little bit. I admired the Spanish-style buildings with their tile roofs as Vicki told me how part of the main downtown area had been rebuilt, in a style similar to its original form, after a deadly 1925 fire.

The buildings and the backdrop of 4,000-foot mountains combine to make Santa Barbara quite the appealing small city on a hill (and I didn't even mention the ocean).

4. In the afternoon, after a much-needed nap, I woke up and was treated to another absolutely delicious, filling meal prepared by Vicki -- steak, peas, salad, corn, white and red wine, and ice cream and berries for dessert. Not only was the food good, but I got to share the meal with Barton, who was back from a work trip.

We talked a lot about the Lloyd and Myers family histories, attempted to put together family trees -- I had a hard time remembering some of the names -- and chatted about sports and architecture well into the evening. Barton is a famous architect, so it was neat just listening to any stories or opinions he had because I knew he was making perfect sense.

It was a great-tasting, relaxing, informative night that I capped off by looking out over the ocean toward an almost-full moon. Oh, and the oil rigs out on the water provided a little light as well.

This setting is perfect, really. It'll be hard to leave when I get back on the bike.

Day 46 (June 4): El Capitan Beach State Park, CA-Santa Barbara, CA -- 36.1 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 06:32:00 +0000

(Written from Barton and Vicki's beautiful house, Santa Barbara, CA)

Miles biked: 36.1 (1,706.5 overall)

Time on bike: 3 hours, 29 minutes, 54 seconds

Maximum speed: 24.2 mph

Roads taken: 101, Hollister Avenue, Los Carneros Road, bike path (through UCSB's campus and to Santa Barbara), Santa Barbara: Arroyo Road, Nueces Drive, Modoc Road, Mission Street, Castillo Street, Cabrillo Boulevard, Coast Village Road, Olive Mill Road, N. Jameson Lane ... Sheffield Drive, Ortega Hill Road, bike path, Summerland: Ortega Hill Road, Lillie Avenue ... Via Real, Toro Canyon Road/192.

Places stopped: Chase Palm Park in Santa Barbara (for a Power Bar and water), Barton and Vicki's house (for the night).

I can't lie -- today was almost all about the finish line.

That doesn't mean the riding wasn't nice. Once I got off 101 and rode for a few miles, I joined up with a bike path that I took for 7 miles.

It was easy riding, and I was treated to plenty of scenery as I passed through UCSB's campus. It is, as I was told later, a campus overflowing with cyclists.

I could have guessed that just from my morning ride. As I pedaled along the bike path, hundreds of girls rode by me on every kind of bike you can imagine. Some talked on their phones as they rode, others pedaled along with one hand.

The riding, obviously, was nothing more than a means to get to class. Finals were coming up.

I passed by one set of bike racks, outside of an academic building, where there must have been some 300 bikes locked up. Some serious bike-seat stealing could go down there (no, I'm not suggesting it, kids).

Then upon riding into Santa Barbara on relatively calm residential streets, Erica, Margot, Rusty and I got to look at beautiful, blooming purple flower trees on either side of the road. (I'm awful at identifying flowers, so help a dude out, folks.)

When we reached downtown, we were greeted with a nice stretch of beach and a pier overlooking the water. People were all about on the sunny morning -- some locals and some, clearly, tourists.

And I immediately saw what I've come to like best about the city of a little less than 100,000: The mountains that serve as a perfect backdrop to the Spanish-style homes on the hillsides. It's amazing to me how close you can be out here to both the water and mountains.

It's one of the aspects of this coast I like best.

But viewing the mountains, which range to about 3,500 feet, also reminded me of what lay ahead: a HUGE hill.

Yes, I had climbed the map's biggest hills already. And, yes, my route the rest of the way to San Diego was relatively flat.

However, my grandfather's cousin, Barton, and his wife, Vicki, had graciously invited me to stay with them for a couple nights in the area. And -- here's the bad part -- their house is a few miles inland from the ocean, and my prescribed route, and mostly uphill.

My biking friends decided to head downtown on State Street for an early lunch. I started, a minute later, to follow them, but after a few blocks I turned around. I wasn't really hungry, and all I could think about was the challenge ahead of me, probably the biggest I'd face the rest of the trip.

I had to conquer it. There was no time to waste. I was back to riding by my lonesome.

After a few miles of easy riding, I arrived at the base of Toro Canyon Road, and I began the most tortuous, grueling, sweat-causing 3 miles of this entire journey. (I know I've said that before, but you'll have to believe me this time; it really was the worst hill of the trip.)

The road was curvy and uphill the entire way. Some parts were steeper than others, all parts were difficult.

After about half a mile, I was only using my lowest two gears. I would get in the drops and zig-zag my way up while in my lowest gear, trying to focus on the music playing in my ears instead of the burning in my lags. Thankfully, I encountered only about three cars, which allowed the massive zig-zagging.

Still, I had to take not one, not two, but three breaks for water and to rest the legs. Of course, they started burning again as soon as I got back on the 520.

My destination was 949 Toro Canyon Road, and the numbers didn't go up quickly. On one side of the road, I'd see a number only to notice, a minute later, a smaller number marking a plot of land a few hundred feet up on the opposite side.

Vicki had said I might need to walk my bike up the hill. Chugging my way up it, I completely understood.

Finally, after a last break, I perspired my way into the 900s and once I saw the number on the driveway, I celebrated internally like Kevin Garnett did externally upon winning that first championship ("I'm on top of the world!!!!!!!").

Actually, I was pretty high up, as Vicki told me later. She said that I'd climbed from close to sea level to 1,250 feet. When I rode in a car up and down the hill a couple times, I realized just how ridiculous the climb had been.

Anyway, it turned out to be well worth it...

THE MYERS' HOUSE
As I soon discovered, the house in which I'd be staying for two nights is like nothing I've ever stepped foot in. It's no wonder Barton is a famous architect.

The first thing I noticed, after pushing my bike up the steep driveway, is a pool of water in front of the house. I didn't think it was anything but accumulated rain water at first, but Vicki later informed me that the top part, about 5 feet wide and 4 feet deep, is actually a lap swimming pool.

I took an incredibly refreshing dip in the pool later in the afternoon.

While I was swimming, I looked down the hill to the south and admired a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean and the hilly Channel Islands just 20-some miles off the coast. I could sit in the pool and take in that view all day.

But then I wouldn't get to see the coolest, hippest, most fire-retardant house I've ever set my eyes on. This is what Barton and Vicki call home when they're not working in L.A. during the week, and they've had it for over 11 years. I could live in it my entire life.

The outer shell is almost completely glass, but get this -- it can also be completely air. Yes, all the windows can be pulled up into the ceiling like a garage door, creating an open space (imagine eating at your dining room table outside while looking out over the ocean 1,250 feet below).

As far as protection from those deadly California fires, there are sheets of steel that can be pulled down to cover the glass exterior and thoroughly shield the house from wild flames.

Barton and Vicki are also doing their best to protect the surrounding landscape from fires by planting as many cacti as possible. The cacti also give the plot of land a western desert touch, which feels right, and the fruit trees in the hills directly above the main house and Barton's office building make the whole setup just about perfect.

Did I mention that you can see the peaks of mountains in the Los Padres National Forest looming to the north? Well, you can, and they're the ultimate backdrop to the rustic, tranquil setting.

It's going to be hard to leave this place.

Thankfully, I have a full day here Friday before continuing down the coast Saturday toward smoggy L.A.

Barton wasn't in town Thursday, but Vicki treated me to a delicious lunch, took me on a 3-mile long walk along a dog-friendly beach -- those are always the most entertaining -- and then took me out to dinner along with a friend of hers to an Italian restaurant on the outskirts of Santa Barbara.

The food was absolutely delicious.

I expect to wake up Friday feeling rested, finally, and well-fed.

Then maybe I'll take a dip in the pool.

What more can a kid ask for?

Day 45 (June 3): Oceano, CA-El Capitan Beach State Park, CA -- 80.3 miles bikes

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 05:42:00 +0000

(Written from Barton and Vicki's beautiful house, Santa Barbara, CA)

Miles biked: 80.3 (1,670.4 overall)

Time on bike: 6 hours, 53 minutes

Maximum speed: 36.7 mph

Roads taken:SR 1 South, Mesa View Drive/SR 1, SR 1/135, 135, Harris Grade Road, Lompoc: N. H Street, E. Ocean Avenue/SR 1 ... SR 1, 101.

Places stopped: Lompoc (for lunch at cheap diner), just before the SR 1-101 junction (to mildly celebrate conquering the biggest hill and prepare for the steep downhill cruise), El Capitan Beach State Park (for the night).

I have been very, very pleased with the Adventure Cycling Association maps I've used to navigate this tremendous journey down the West Coast.

But there have been a few turns the set of maps has suggested that have left me furiously scratching my head.

On Wednesday, I looked at one of the suggested turns and said, "No freakin' way, ain't happening."

It came at the beginning of what would be a long day. The map suggested about a 3-mile detour, involving four turns, to avoid a 0.8-mile stretch of SR 1.

Upon riding up to the intersection, I could tell that the part to "avoid" was nothing but a moderate hill. So while my biking companions took the detour, I hooked a right and bike-sprinted up the hill. And, of course, it wasn't bad at all.

There was a decent shoulder, and I had reached the top after about 4 minutes. Then I zoomed down to the intersection, stopped at a gas station and talked to a friendly local for about 20 minutes while waiting for Erica, Margot and Rusty.

We had a nice conversation.

From there, it was difficult for me to take my mind off the two monster challenges that loomed, literally, later in the day.

Big Hill.

And Super Big Hill.

One thing I've failed to mention in previous posts is that the past two maps I've used have detailed elevations of the route (since it's so hilly), so I've always known, roughly, what lies ahead of me. So that's how I knew about the two large hills that we'd have to climb Wednesday.

As I've gotten closer to San Diego, too, I've found that it's harder to keep my mind off a day's destination. This isn't to say that I'm no longer enjoying riding. Simply, I'm always thinking about what lies ahead.

So, naturally, my mind was on the hills as we cruised along flat roads for the first 30 or so miles.

What I did notice was a strong, strong Spanish presence. As we biked into the small town of Guadalupe, a Verizon Wireless billboard was in Spanish -- I'd never seen a national brand advertised like that -- and for every "Open" sign in a store window, there was also an "Abierto" sign.

If I ever move out here -- don't rule it out -- I'll have to sharpen up on my Spanish. It'd make things much easier (and more interesting).

Speaking of grades of difficulty, the Big Hill was one tough cookie. I knew Harris Grade Road would provide some challenges, because the map detailed several switchbacks on the country road just north of Lompoc. It lived up to the hype, that's for sure.

With a strong sun beating down on me, I pedaled hard -- in 10th or 11th gear -- around several curves, always hoping the next one would be the top of the upward maize. Finally, after 2.5 miles and with a sweaty forehead, I saw the speedy Rusty stopped ahead, which signaled to me that I'd reached the top.

One hill down, one to go.

We then cruised down into Lompoc, which proved to be a scary stretch of riding. After one intersection, I found myself coasting on a super narrow strip of pavement with cars accelerating by me on both sides -- they were merging onto the road from my right.

Thankfully, there was a break in the chaos and I was able to get to the shoulder, but riding through Lompoc -- including after a cheap lunch at a local diner -- was no breeze. There was no real downtown to speak of, and the main road was two lanes, and busy, all the way through the city of about 41,103. No, there was no bike lane, either.

I haven't biked through many non-biker towns, but Lompoc was one of them.

But we made it through and back onto SR 1, and then the anticipation reached an unbearable level. Where was Super Big Hill?

You see, according to my maps, SBH would be my last big hill of the entire trip (not including side trips off the route; see June 4 entry). So getting up it was a big deal. Everything would be a breeze after it, right?

So as I zoomed along in the afternoon sun, I kept expecting the climb to be around the next bend. But the road, instead, would descend or flatten, and I'd exhale and keep pumping the pedals.

We'd gone nearly 15 miles since the lunch break when, finally, we stopped at the side of the road and saw what had to be the SBH. I squirted some water into the mouth and started up it.

And, as it turned out, the hill was nothing to fret about.

Sure, we climbed to over 1,000 feet. But I never even had to downshift to my lowest rung of gears. I beasted my way up the gradual slope, reached the top, ate a few smashed strawberries -- Erica bought a bunch earlier in the day -- and put on some sunscreen.

There were no huge celebrations, no Tiger fist pumps.

I didn't even thoroughly enjoy the 7.5% downhill grade for the next 2 miles because I was getting smacked by a crosswind that threatened to blow me over.

I did enjoy the part after that, when we merged with 101. For a few miles, the road was bordered on both sides by steep cliffs that rose several hundred feet in the air. I felt like I was biking along I-93 in between New Hampshire's White Mountains.

The rest of the afternoon was spent on 101, but it wasn't bad because of the scenery. We had rejoined the ocean after several inland miles, and decent-sized mountains with cool-looking rocky summits stood just to the left side of the highway.

Still, I must admit that I felt a bit tired when we arrived at the El Capitan campsite and I spent another mile of riding looking for a campsite. (Although that extra mile allowed me to reach the 80-mile mark for the day.)

After a ramen noodles and Power Bar dinner, I didn't have any trouble falling asleep a tad past 9.

Day 44 (June 2): San Simeon Village, CA-Oceano, CA -- 57.3 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 05:16:00 +0000

(Written from Barton and Vicki's beautiful house, Santa Barbara, CA)

Miles biked: 57.3 (1,590.1 overall)

Time on bike: 5 hours, 5 minutes, 46 seconds

Maximum speed: 38.7 mph

Roads taken: SR 1 South, Ocean Avenue, SR 1, Morro Bay: Main Street ... South Bay Boulevard, Turri Road, Los Osos Valley Road, Foothill Road, San Luis Obispo: N. Chorro Street, Broad Street ... Price Canyon Road, Pismo Beach: Price Street, Stimson Avenue, Dolliver Street/SR 1 ... SR 1.

Places stopped: Morro Bay (for lunch at Mexican joint; I just had a Power Bar), bushes just north of San Luis Obispo (yes, I failed to unclip fast enough and fell into the bushes, as did Erica, who ended up beside me), Pismo Beach State Park (for the night).

This was one of those days that will be forgotten, but not because it wasn't enjoyable.

It was, simply, uneventful.

And easy. Very easy.

After taking on a handful of huge hills, not to mention 94.9 miles, the previous day, it was extremely nice to have an easy day on the bike.

Yet still rack up the miles.

The terrain was mostly flat, the wind was at our backs, and threatening clouds didn't burst open and pour on us. Instead, the weather was just about perfect. It was mild, as I rode the whole day with my long-sleeved Lakes of the Clouds shirt.

We would have gone farther than Oceano, but there weren't any campsites within some 30 to 40 miles of riding -- and getting there actually would have involved some climbing.

So Erica, Margot, Rusty and I pulled into Pismo Beach State Park around 3, ready to call it a day and do some serious relaxing.

The only problem I had with the day was the ridiculous price of campsites. Neither of the state parks in the area offered hiker/biker sites anymore, so we had to pay for a regular site -- which, really, is no better than a H/B site.

And, all of a sudden, campsites in this part of California are a ridiculous $25. They're no different from sites in the northern part of the state -- or Oregon or Washington, for that matter -- but they're extra expensive. We're talking about a small plot of land with a picnic table and a fire ring.

So that didn't make me happy.

Thankfully, I had three companions with whom to split the price. So, yes, the wallet survived.

It did much better than survive later that night when the parents, who are driving the coast as their kids bike it, treated me to a second straight dinner -- this time Little Caesars pizza, bradsticks and salad (by the way, Little Caesars has to be the best budget/tasting pizza out there; I'm not just saying that because I worked there for two months after high school).

I was very, very thankful for getting two quality dinners in a row and being able to keep my ramen noodles tucked away in one of my small panniers.

It was another night of good company, another enjoyable day.

Despite the ludicrous campsite price (and, no, it wasn't even on the beach).

Day 43 (June 1): Carmel, CA-San Simeon Village, CA -- 94.9 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 04:41:00 +0000

(Written from Barton and Vicki's beautiful house, Santa Barbara, CA)

Miles biked: 94.9 (1,532.8 overall)

Time on bike: 7 hours, 35 minutes, 20 seconds

Maximum speed: 35.4 mph

Roads taken: SR 1 South.

Places stopped: On the shoulder of SR 1 several times (to take breathtaking pictures), Lucia restaurant (to eat lunch with my new biking companions), north of San Simeon (to view dozens of entertaining seals), San Simeon State Park (for the night).

I was scared Monday morning.

The climb had been built up, hyped up, made to seem like the hill that would finally finish me off, end my journey south.

OK, maybe I'm exaggerating a tad, but Toad sure did a good job of scaring me as I prepared to get back on the bike and pedal 25 miles to Big Sur (and then beyond, I hoped).

As it turned out, the climb was the best part of my trip -- and I've been on the bike for quite a while now.

It wasn't easy, but it wasn't exactly as steep as Toad made it seem, either. And the views were so breathtaking, I wasn't even thinking about the hills I was climbing.

As I biked up gradual grades, the ocean was just to my right. And in front of me, I could clearly see a mile of SR 1 twisting its way on top of the craggy cliffs. The sky was clear and the views, both in front of me and behind me, unbelievable.

Apparently, I wasn't the only person who thought that, because I actually kept pace with a pair of driving tourists for about 3 miles of mostly uphill riding. Every time I came to a turnout, they'd be out of their car taking pictures.

Yeah, it was that amazing. And the scenery wouldn't go away all day.

In the afternoon, I found some companions to enjoy it with.

I hadn't biked with anyone the entire trip. I'd seen other bikers at campsites, but schedules had never synced up. So I'd biked alone, counting on the scenery -- and, at times, my iPod -- for entertainment.

But a few miles south of Big Sur -- after getting another delicious Big Sur bar -- I ran into a trio of cyclists who were on their way from San Francisco to San Diego. After brief introductions, I asked if I could ride along with them, and they were happy to oblige.

So I began riding with Erica, Margot and Rusty, three siblings out on an adventure together. And immediately, I found that the trip was more enjoyable. I went at a slower pace, expanded a little less energy, chatted at times with my companions when cars weren't passing -- and the miles flew by.

The riding wasn't a breeze, either. Right around Gorda, we had a pair of large climbs that were more difficult than the over-hyped Big Sur climb. The second one, especially, was tough because it was a switchback. After a nice, long downhill, we sharply turned a corner and had to begin climbing.

That wasn't much fun. But once we reached the top of the hill, it was all downhill and flat riding the rest of the afternoon. And I hardly even noticed how many miles I was logging ... 70 ... 80 ... 85.

I was feeling good, especially as the road became flat.

We stopped in the late afternoon to view a group of entertaining seals on a beach. They were hilarious to watch, as some of them flipped sand on themselves -- to stay warm? -- and others spooned with each other (or whatever that is in seal speak).

After getting back on the bike, it was just a few more easy miles to the hiker/biker campsite, which cost a trip-low $2.

When my companions' parents took me out for a delicious Mexican dinner to cap off the night, I could officially call the day one of my best of the trip (on and off the bike).

And as I crept into my tent satiated and content, I felt good physically.

And I was excited about riding with my new group again the next day.

Days 41-42 (May 30-31): Carmel, San Jose, CA -- 0 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Sun, 31 May 2009 23:36:00 +0000

(Written from UC-Santa Clara Library)

Miles biked: 0 (1,437.9 overall)

Originally, I considered spending just one full day at my man Toad's place in Carmel, but my cyclist friend Fred convinced me that I didn't want to bike to and through Big Sur on a weekend.

So I decided to stay grounded through the weekend and get back on the road Monday morning for the final difficult stretch of riding days.

SATURDAY: TOAD'S HIKING TOUR
Toad had Saturday all planned out for me, and the man sure knows what I enjoy doing.

We started the day by driving through Pebble Beach, mostly on roads I hadn't biked on Friday. Toad showed me the "Lone Cypress," which is a famous tree sitting on the coast. It's really not that special, but I had to act the tourist for a minute and get a picture in front of it.

Then we did some walking in tide pools, since the water was extremely low. Toad said he'd never seen it so low. We didn't see a lot of aquatic life -- just a couple small crabs -- but it was cool being on the coast and looking at the fog above the water.

The scene was made even more interesting by all the kelp that was in the water. It was the ocean like I'd never seen it before.

And my day of observing the great Pacific was just beginning.

After stopping at a local deli -- Toad's No. 1 sandwich joint -- to buy an enormous sub, we began Toad's hiking tour of places south of Carmel toward Big Sur.

But first I had to throw a jacket over my head and close my eyes. OK, let me explain. ... One of the great things about this trip is that everything I've seen on the bike is new to me. So driving down Highway 1, I didn't want to spoil Monday's ride.

I did, however, feel many of the hills that I'll have to ride up and over. And Toad laughed several times as he wondered how the heck I'm going to make it to the elevated town of Big Sur and beyond.

A challenge certainly awaits me.

But on Saturday, we stopped at three different hiking spots where I opened my eyes, did a little walking and enjoyed the sights.

Toad saved the best for last -- a spot along the road, which I later figured out was between Carmel and Big Sur (in my blindfolded state, I originally thought it was south of Big Sur).

The other places had been tourist traps. I'd enjoyed fairly short walks to the beaches, and the sights had been nice -- there were even horseback riders on one of the beaches -- but they didn't have that peacefulness that you find at a unpopulated spot.

The third, and final, hiking spot was more of a local gem.

After a short walk, I found myself at a sandy beach on which waves rhythmically crashed. There were about six people there, which was six more than he'd usually see, Toad said.

I sat for a while and enjoyed the peacefulness around me. To the east, just on the other side of 1, were huge, rolling hills that almost made me feel I was in Ireland. Earlier, Toad had pointed out the hills by Big Sur that were victimized by raging fires last year.

To the north and south, the beach was overlooked by beautiful, craggy cliffs that almost appeared man-made but retained their beauty in nature just the same.

And in front of me, of course, was the water. If it wasn't so damn cold and I had my swim trunks, I'd have been tempted to run into the crashing waves.

So that was the best hiking spot of the tour, but Toad also made another stop -- it was actually before the pristine beach.

We stopped in Big Sur and experienced something that, well, you probably can't find in 99.999 percent of places -- wooden chairs in a stream.

No joke.

After buying Big Sur bars, which are absolutely delicious and hearty -- I'll get another one Monday, that's for sure -- we walked down to a stream, which was maybe a foot deep at its highest point.

And there, in the middle of the stream, sat a handful of wooden chairs. It was the perfect setting, because tall trees created shade while the sun just barely poked through to give off a little warmth.

I took off my socks and Tevas and waded into the middle of the cold water, where I sat in one chair and dropped my feet onto another. I relaxed and opened up the "Pine Cone," the free newspaper I'd picked up in the store.

Talk about chillin'. I'll have to stop there again when I reach Big Sur by bike -- if I reach Big Sur -- Monday.

Late in the afternoon, after all the touring was done, I was very thankful to Toad for the ultimate afternoon. It hadn't been strenuous, but it hadn't been dull either.

Saturday evening, we made the drive to San Jose, where Toad lives while he attends law school at UC-Santa Clara.

I didn't really experience the city, not that it's anything special, but I got my first bowl of Vietnamese soup from a local joint.

And, man, was it delicious (and huge).

If you haven't tried it and there's a place around, I highly recommend it.

Unless, of course, you can't stand the thought of eating raw meat.

SUNDAY: A DAY OF REST
Today hasn't been anything special, but it's been nice.

It's, really, the first day this entire trip when I haven't exercised. And I think it's necessary, too.

Beginning tomorrow, I'll face another difficult string of tough riding days. I've got about 300 miles to Santa Barbara, and from there the riding should be mostly flat and through urban areas. Plus, I'll be on an emotional high because I'll be so close to my final destination.

But this week should be difficult -- and I'll probably camp four consecutive nights. There are two hostels along the way, but I'm not sure I want to spend more money than I have to. We'll see how I feel.

Anyway, thanks to Toad for what's been a great weekend full of adventures, great food and, as is always the case, entertaining times.

And on a final note, Santa Clara has a really pretty and small campus. Students here are getting ready for finals, and I always enjoy being on a college campus -- especially one with palm trees.

Tonight it's back to Toad's family's place in Carmel and then back on the road early tomorrow.

Oh, and the new bike seat seems all right.

Let's hope it's my last one of the trip.

Day 40 (May 29): Santa Cruz, CA-Carmel, CA -- 62.8 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Sun, 31 May 2009 22:51:00 +0000

(Written from UC-Santa Clara Library)

Miles biked: 62.8 (1,437.9 overall)

Roads taken: Santa Cruz: Front Street, Soquel Avenue, 41st Avenue, Soquel Drive ... Freedom Boulevard, Bonita Drive, San Andreas Road, Thurwatcher Road, McGowan Road, Trafton Road, Bluff Road, Jensen Road, SR 1 South, Molera Road, Nashua Road, Monte Road, Del Monte Boulevard, bike path (for about 15 miles), 17-mile Drive in Pebble Beach.

Places stopped: Moss Landing (to buy cherries; the lady gave me $1.62 worth for my 97 cents), Pacific Grove (to eat lunch by the bay), inside Pebble Beach (to take pictures and watch a little golf), Carmel beach (to meet Toad, who took me, and the bike, back to his house).

This day of riding had an interesting dynamic.

I began the day later than I wanted because of an uncool act by a person -- yep, the stealing of the bike seat.

I enjoyed several miles of my ride and took a good route because of two friendly, local bicyclists -- good guys.

In the morning, I walked my bike about half a mile to The Spokesman bike shop in downtown Santa Cruz. A man there fitted the 520 with a new seat post and seat, and I got out of there after dropping a moderate $69.

The guy also hooked me up with a biker hat, which I initially didn't think I'd ever use. But, after using it a little the past couple days, I've found that it's comfortable and gives me a cool European look. (It's also extremely compact and, thus, easy to pack.)

As soon as I got on the road, I wanted to get out of Santa Cruz quickly. That wasn't easy, as I followed busy Soquel Avenue. But once I got out of town, the riding was easy and calming.

The back roads I took were flat, and the traffic was light.

I wouldn't call the ride scenic, but it was interesting and new to me. I passed dozens of strawberry fields in which hundreds of migrant workers fielded berries. I'd never seen so many strawberry patches in such a concentrated area.

I was tempted to stop and buy some berries, but all I had to spend was $0.97, including a Canadian dime. In Moss Landing, I asked a lady what kind of produce I could get with such a small amount of money. She pointed to the cherry bin, so I grabbed a few handfuls and bagged them.

When she put the bag on the scale, the price showed $1.62 and I cringed. But she smiled and said to give her what I had. She was the first of many helpful folks I'd meet throughout the day.

The second person was a local cyclist named Fred, whom I met as I was about to turn onto the bike path along Del Monte Boulevard by Marina. I was excited about the path, on which I would ride for roughly 15 miles all the way into Monterey.

Getting to ride with a partner, for the first time on the trip, was an added bonus.

Fred was from Pacific Grove, which is in between Monterey and my destination for the day, Carmel, and he led the way for 15 relaxed miles. He showed me a few nice spots overlooking the ocean and a long stretch of sandy beach. He gave me a little history lesson of the area, talking at length about the military base right by the bike path that had shut down.

That was fine with me, because the riding was fairly peaceful and not difficult. There were only a few intersections to go through and a couple spots where we had to briefly stop. The path was also, for the most part, flat.

My map told me to cut over to Carmel from Monterey via a couple roads that, Fred said, would take me over a huge hill. He suggested, instead, that I bike west through Pacific Grove and then through the large Pebble Beach community, which is the home of four golf courses, a couple of them famous for hosting tournaments such as the U.S. Open.

The route would be more miles, Fred said, but it'd be much more scenic, avoid traffic and not be too difficult. I didn't hesitate -- I had plenty of time, with Toad at work all day. I could do a few extra miles.

And, boy, was it a good call.

The road through Pebble Beach, 17-mile drive, took me past golf courses on my left and the beautiful ocean and cool rock structures on my right. At one point, I stopped and watched a group of players tee off at a par-3 nestled between the curving road and the ocean.

That's a hole that'd be enjoyable to play. I would feel some pressure, though, considering that several tourists stand and watch the players.

Not only was it enjoyable looking at the golf holes and ocean as I cruised along, it was also neat checking out the huge, million-dollar houses. When Toad and I drove through the next day, he showed me the house owned by Clint Eastwood and another that, he believed, Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt used to own (you know, when they were together).

After about 7 miles, a biker named Larry came up behind me and started riding alongside. At first, I thought he might zoom right past on his road bike. But when I sped up, we started chatting and he led me the rest of the way to Carmel.

I chilled at the Carmel beach for a few minutes, and then got a little life-is-easy service. Toad drove down from his house, which was up a huge hill from me, and picked me -- and the bike -- up.

No, I don't think it was cheating. I still biked to Carmel, and he didn't take me any farther south. Plus, I did the extra riding through Pebble Beach.

It was a solid day on the bike. I was ready for a relaxing weekend in and around Carmel.

Friday night, Toad and I ate "chowdah" out of sourdough bread bowls on Monterey's wharf and then hit up a local pub. Despite the huge flocks of tourists, Monterey is a nice, medium-sized town with great views of the harbor and sand beaches to the north.

Saturday would bring even better sights.

Day 39 (May 28): Pigeon Point, CA-Santa Cruz, CA -- 32.5 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Sat, 30 May 2009 16:15:00 +0000

(Written from my man Toad's house in Carmel)

Miles biked: 32.5 (1,375.1 overall)

Time on bike: 3 hours, 12 minutes, 3 seconds

Maximum speed: 30.0 mph

Roads taken: Pigeon Point Road, SR 1, Santa Cruz: bike path, Mission Street, Laurel Street, Broadway, Ocean Street, San Lorenzo, Riverside Street, 3rd Street, Main Street.

Places stopped: Side of road (for quick break), Santa Cruz hostel (for the nigh).

The biking on Thursday was nothing to write home about. I rode on mostly flat terrain to Santa Cruz, reaching the city of about 50,000 a little after noon.

The blog material happened while I was in town and, ironically enough, has to do with blogging.

After I reached the Santa Cruz hostel, the man in charge was nice enough to let me store all my stuff there even though check-in wasn't for more than 4 hours. I thought about leaving the 520 there, as well, but Peter said that it'd be a long walk to the library.

So I decided to take the bike, with no panniers or anything, to the library to do some serious blogging -- I was a full week behind. But when I arrived at the library and locked my bike up -- using a metal lock and a cable lock, I secured the frame and both wheels -- the librarian told me that it cost $2 just to use the Internet.

I'd never heard of that at a library, but she did recommend going to a place just a few blocks away called "Bad Ass Coffee," where you can use a computer if you make a purchase of $2 or more. That sounded like a deal, so I walked out of the library and headed to the main drag -- Pacific Avenue.

I thought about taking the bike with me, but I figured it'd be fine and secure, all locked up, in front of the library -- where plenty of people were milling around.

Well, I spent the next 5-plus hours blogging, and blogging and blogging a little more. I probably wrote close to 5,000 words as I recapped a full week of life on (and off) the bike.

When I finally walked out of Bad Ass Coffee a little before 7, I was feeling good and accomplished. I'd gotten a lot done and the night was still ahead of me. I could do all sorts of fun things in the cozy college town.

And then I neared the bike...

As I did, I wondered if maybe some dirt bag had decided to grab one or both of my lights, which are really easy to unattach. And then I laughed when I saw that, indeed, the front light was missing. It was more amusing, really, than irritating.

But then I saw something (or, rather, a lack of something) that made the blood boil. My bike seat, the same seat on which I'd sat for over 1,300 miles, was missing. So was the seat post. There was just a hole in the frame.

I'd been robbed.

A couple notes on this...

1. I blame myself. People who would do such things tend to loiter outside of libraries, and seeing a fairly new and expensive bike like mine had to make for an easy target. I should have taken it to the coffee shop, which was on the city's most busy street.

Lesson learned. Especially as I get into Southern California, I'll have to be very careful with the bike. It's unfortunate, but it'll be harder for me to stop places along the way.

2. What about the onlookers? It's astonishing to me that people simply watch others do things like this and don't say a word. I can't guarantee, of course, that there was somebody watching the thief, but it's not as if the library was on an empty street. People were milling around, entering and leaving the premesis.

A day later, when I took the bike to a downtown shop to get a new post and seat, the guy there told me that just recently they'd needed to use cable cutters to snap a lock on a bike because the owner had lost his lock key. So a couple random guys had taken several minutes to cut through a lock on a downtown street.

And nobody in the area said a word.

That, to me, doesn't make sense. Maybe in New York minding your own business is the best course of action.

But in a place like Santa Cruz, locals should try to foster a crime-less downtown area.

Judging from all the bikes I saw locked up that were missing wheels, that's not the case.

And, no, I didn't treat myself to a night on the town after the incident.

Thankfully, the hostel's "Free Food" supply was large.

Day 38 (May 27): San Francisco, CA-Pigeon Point Lighthouse, CA -- 51.1 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Fri, 29 May 2009 00:55:00 +0000

(Written from Bad Ass Coffee, Santa Cruz, CA)

Miles biked: 51.1 (1,342.6 overall)

Time on bike: 4 hours, 23 minutes, 48 seconds

Maximum speed: 31.6 mph

Roads taken: In San Fran: Waller Street, Stanyan Street, Parmassus Avenue, Judah Street, Great Highway ... SR 35, Daly City: Westmoor Street, Skyline Drive, Crenshaw Drive, Longview Drive, Palmetto Avenue ... Pacifica: Clarendon Road, Francisco Boulevard, Westport Drive ... SR 1, Medio Avenue, bike path (in Miramar and Half Moon Bay), Half Moon Bay: Kelly Avenue ... SR 1.

Places stopped: Pacifico beach (to rest and watch the dozens of surfer dudes), Half Moon Bay gas station (to buy hot dog for lunch), Half Moon Bay library (to blog, but the librarian was ridiculous and limited me to 15 minutes despite there being several available computers), Pigeon Point Lighthouse Hostel (for the night).

After a delicious oatmeal breakfast, compliments of expert breakfast preparer Myra, I hit the road around 10 Wednesday morning. Yes, I was finally back on the bike after a great two and a half days in San Fran.

Well, first I had to get out of the city -- not an easy task.

But Myra suggested a route that helped me avoid any busy streets, or huge hills, and although it took a while to reach the Great Highway on the west side of the city, it was a rather pleasant ride.

From there, I cruised out of the city on a sizable shoulder. The ocean was just to my right, and it made for a fairly easy beginning to a never-easy "back-on-the-bike" day.

Then I reached Daly City...

From a distance, the city of about 100,000 looked interesting. Rows of houses sat on a hill overlooking the Pacific. But when I made a turn onto a city street, I was bored out of my mind -- not to mention heading uphill.

As I pedaled up a long hill, all I saw on either side of the road were identical homes -- one after another. I felt like I was living in the '50s and the birth of suburbia.

Finally, I reached the top of the hill and cruised downhill for a while into the neighboring city of Pacifica. I stopped at a beach to rest for a few minutes and observe the dozens of surfer dudes who were taking advantage of the sunny weather (at least for a few minutes; it quickly became foggy after that).

Then came a crazy stretch that I wasn't expecting. I've realized that no matter how easy a day on the bike might seem on a map, that's never really the case. There's almost always a challenge that I didn't see coming.

On Wednesday, the challenge was a stretch of about 6 miles that had my heart beating faster by the second.

First, the road suddenly narrowed and slanted uphill. I quickly found myself staying as far to the right as possible while trucks zoomed by. The hill continued as a construction worker yelled, "Almost there."

I was almost out of breath and couldn't muster much of a response beyond, "Hmphf." Then the real craziness began.

I wasn't going uphill anymore, but I was high above the ocean -- still on the skinny road -- and the wind was hitting me from all directions. I later learned that the stretch of SR 1 is called "Devil's Hill," but at the moment I was just thinking about pushing through to the bottom of the thing.

It was one of the most scary stretches of biking on the trip.

But I survived without any scrapes, bruises, lacerations, broken bones or scratches. And the rest of my moderate day of riding was pretty uneventful.

Except for what happened off the bike. Libraries, in general, have been great places for me to blog during the trip. But the Half Moon Bay Library failed miserably.

I planned on staying there for as long as I could to catch up on my blogging, but I was kicked out after a 15-minute session. It might have made sense if the place was packed, but there were several available computers.

That didn't leave a good taste in my mouth.

But it did provide an opportunity for me to call one of my good friends from back home, Bubs.

In one of those "You've got to be kidding me" stories, Bubs was in Monterey, just about 120 miles south of San Fran. He had randomly texted me Tuesday night about a basketball game, and when I texted back that I was at the Giants game, he texted back that he was in Monterey.

I was shocked, had no idea. (Shows how well I keep up with my friends' lives!)

Anyway, Bubs hoped that I could hang in San Fran for another night since he was driving there Wednesday afternoon with his wife, her sister, and their father, who lives in the city and is the reason he was out here.

I couldn't because of my reservation at the Pigeon Point Hostel, but when I called him from outside that library and he found out I was biking down the 1, we concluded that we could meet up in Pescadero, a small town just north of the lighthouse.

After arriving at the lighthouse -- the ride there from Half Moon Bay had been uneventful besides meeting a biker, Ben, who was riding with a group down to San Diego in a span of five days! They had road bikes and were planning on doing about 120 miles a day. Wow, that would kill me -- I quickly showered and prepared for Bubs' arrival.

But first I realized that the lighthouse wasn't what I had imagined. In the Hostel International brochure, it's described as having a hot tub overlooking the ocean that's open to guests.

What the brochure didn't say, however, was that the hot tub costs $7 for a half hour -- and you must have at least two people. The hostel already costs a lot for a hostel -- $28 -- so to charge extra for the hot tub was ridiculous.

Not only that, they charged $0.50 for the use of a towel.

It was a big change from the Redwood Hostel, which was very hospitable and offered a hiker/biker discount. I paid just $16 a night there.

Anyway, that was disappointing. But the dinner that Bubs' father-in-law treated me to wasn't. It's always nice to get a break from preparing cheap dinners and be treated to one, and I am very thankful to him for taking us out.

And, of course, it was great catching up with Bubs and his wife, Lia.

Didn't see that one coming.

The night was uneventful until I met a trio of older guys who were hiking up and down the coast. They were doing something I've never heard of -- they'd hike 15 miles, or so, a day and then get back to their car(s) and stay at nice accomodations. Sometimes their wives would pick them up, other times they'd use two cars, sometimes they'd hitchike. Once in a while, they'd camp out.

It wasn't your traditional hike, but I can't blame them. Two of them had done almost the entire stretch from Mexico to San Francisco along the coast.

That was my conversation of the night. I was ready for bed.

But first, I had a night-time snack. Yes, there was one positive about the hostel.

The "Free Food" cabinet was stocked with bread, peanut butter, honey, jelly and chips.

A silver lining to cap off an up-and-down, back-on-the-bike Wednesday.

Days 36-37 (May 25-26): San Francisco, CA -- 0 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Thu, 28 May 2009 23:34:00 +0000

(Written from Bad Ass Coffee, Santa Cruz, CA)

Miles biked: 0 (1,291.5 overall)

DAY 1: WALKING THE CITY, SOLO STYLE
I didn't bike Monday, but don't think that I didn't exercise (as long as walking fits in that category).

I slept in and enjoyed a relaxing morning at Myra's dining room table. She lives in a great neighborhood. Haight Street is quite the scene, with just about every kind of store and restaurant you could want (from smoke shops to organic grocery stores).

I chose to visit the organic store, where I bought some granola, sourdough bread and bananas for my breakfasts. I planned on doing plenty of eating out, but three meals a day (or more) seemed a bit extreme. I didn't want to put the budget into a tailspin in just a couple days.

After a relaxed morning, I turned down Myra's gracious offer to attend a Memorial Day barbecue nearby (it was very tempting, believe me). I wanted to do some exploring in the city, see as much as I could in an afternoon.

I also needed a baseball fix. I was already planning to see a Giants game the next night with my man, Toad, who would get us tickets. But I figured I'd head over to the ballpark Monday afternoon and check out the scene.

So after taking the No. 71 bus downtown, I walked/ran several blocks on 2nd Street until I reached AT&T Park, which is right on the bay. And while I quickly realized that I wouldn't be getting a really cheap ticket despite arriving 20 minutes after first-pitch time, I enjoyed walking around the stadium.

One of its coolest features, besides the kayakers in the bay behind right field who wait for long home runs (yes, there were even a couple despite Barry Bond's absence), is a free, standing-room-only zone behind the right-field fence.

Yes, you can actually walk up -- with no catch -- and stand right behind the outfield fence for free. It's not perfect watching a game through the fence grates, but you can still follow the action from field level.

For free!

It was an amazing thing, considering how ridiculous most modern stadiums are when it comes to charging fans for everything and being strict about where fans can venture.

I felt good about the stadium, and I hadn't even been inside yet.

Then I began a long, long walk in the sun and along the water. I passed pier after pier and got numerous looks at the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, which doesn't get the attention of the Golden Gate but is huge -- a double decker -- and so long that an island serves as a midpoint.

Fortunately, I'd say, bicyclists are not allowed on the bridge. That would be a long, long -- and probably windy -- ride.

Something that I'd never envisioned seeing in San Fran is a palm tree, but, sure enough, such trees lined the main drive along the harbor. I guess I've always thought palm trees are a Florida and Southern California thing. Silly me.

I thought about taking the ferry tour to Alcatraz Island, but then quickly dismissed such an idea. Not only were the tours $26, but they were booked until Tuesday. Talk about your ultimate tourist trap. Plenty of fun can be had without such a tour.

Somehow, despite wearing a fleece in the sunny weather -- nice one, Jake -- and Tevas, I made it to Fisherman's Wharf and walked amidst thousands of tourists for a few minutes past dozens of restaurants and shops that could afford to spike their prices.

No, not much fun.

The most entertaining part of the wharf was seeing the dozens of sea lions, who were a popular sight for tourists. I stood atop a wooden bench and observed the large beasts. According to a sign, they came to the harbor in the hundreds after the huge 1989 earthquake (historical fact of the blogpost).

From the wharf, I wormed my way back through downtown, stopped at a deli for a sandwich and drink and then reached Chinatown. I'd never walked through a large Chinatown, so it was a fun experience traversing San Fran's substantial neighborhood.

I observed large groups of older Asian men playing a game in a little plaza. I had no idea what the game was -- it looked a bit like Checkers -- but it was extremely popular. Two men would be playing, with about 10 others peering over their shoulders at the board.

(Myra later told me the game's name, but my memory hasn't held up.)

Then I walked past hundreds of Asian restaurants and stores. I bought a bag of sweet-tasting sesame cookies and continued on. I was tempted to buy some San Fran T-shirts for $1.89, but such purchases will have to wait until San Diego. (Can't add anything bulk to my panniers for now.)

When I got back to Market Street, I was ready for my highlight of the day.

I was ready to play chess.

No, that's not a typo. San Fran's shops didn't interest me. Nor did the tourist-trap trolleys. Nor did much of anything else in the downtown area.

Except for the chess boards, which were set up at the intersection of Market and 5th. Similar to Central Park in New York, there were boards set up where homeless men, mostly, played all day.

Some played with a clock, which, after some observation, looked intense. Each player got just 5 minutes and 30 seconds -- to make all their moves. If a player's clock ran out, they lost.

I wanted to play a game, but not against the clock. I was thinking just this when the man in charge invited me to play. And, just like that, I found myself sitting across the board from a regular -- an older man with a fisherman's hat and cigarette dangling from his mouth.

The deal was this: I paid $1 to get an hour at the board, and bet my opponent $2 a game. It seemed fair enough, and worse case scenario -- the man, whom appeared homeless, would get my money.

It was game time.

I could tell right away that he played all the time. During my moves he stared at the ground, his eyes almost shut. It looked like he was barely breathing. But he knew whenever I moved, and he made mostly solid moves.

Still, I played a very strong first game and was in control until a couple dumb moves doomed me. After almost an hour, I lost.

Never before had I played a board game nervously, but that's how I was against this dude. I had butterflies. I learned that each move must be intensely studied, because as soon as my piece hit the board -- even if my finger was still on it -- the move was official (this happened on one of my worst moves of the game).

I paid another dollar for another hour and prepared for Game 2. And it was a blowout. He efficiently finished me in about 11 minutes.

OK, I thought, I'll give it one more crack, put forth a good effort and try to create a highlight of my trip.

And then I played the game of my life, not making a single careless mistake. The chess regular, on the other hand, made a rare error, allowing me to split his queen and king with a knight.

From there, I played smart enough to close him out. And when I made the final move, I could finally relax my muscles.

I had beaten a very, very solid chess player.

The money didn't matter. I only had a single $1 bill, so I gave him a $5 and felt good about it.

The win was what mattered. (I'd pass by the spot the next afternoon and, sure enough, my man was there again staring at the ground as an opponent thought about his move.)

I think it's a great setup. Living homeless can't be easy, but getting to play chess outside and making money from it is better than begging or, in my mind, playing music all day long and trying to get tips.

After my chess experience, I walked several blocks up Mission Street toward the restaurants that had been recommended by my camping friends. After 10 mostly empty blocks, I reached the very ethnic food stretch of Mission.

Both sides of the street were lined with ethnic restaurants -- tons of Mexican joints, some Asian spots and others. There were also handfuls of outdoor markets overflowing with fresh fruit.

It was a food lover's paradise.

I was able to contain myself until I reached the corner of 18th Street, where I stopped in a hole-in-the-wall Asian place called Yamos. It was tiny -- there was just a counter and, behind it, a row of stoves and counters where all the food preparation was done.

But the food was super cheap -- $5.50 for a meal -- and delicious, as I would find out.

Since it was getting late, I decided to walk with my dinner for a little while. My walk took me to Castro Street, where I went through San Fran's popular gay district.

I knew I was in it because of all the striped flags hanging from buildings. And it was quite crowded on this Memorial Day evening.

I stopped at a little area of tables to eat my mango chicken dinner and observed, entertained, as a Prop 8 puppet danced to music in the street. I'll go out on a limb and say that I'll never eat a dinner to such a musical act again.

After dinner, it was 20 more minutes of walking, over a few hills, back to Haight Street.

Pretty tired from my day of walking, I crashed fairly early.

DAY 2: WALKING THE CITY, DUO STYLE
Tuesday marked my long-awaited reunion with "Toad," Part 1. He lives in San Jose and, occasionally, at his parents' place in Carmel, where I'll meet up with him again this weekend.

After another relaxing morning -- Myra makes great tea and honey! -- I met up with Toad for the first time in nearly two years. He had driven in from San Jose, but after having quite the time traversing the busy streets by car, he decided to park the SUV for the day.

It was time for another walking tour.

We began by heading up Mission Street -- the second time I'd done that.

But I hadn't eaten at La Taqueria, which is known as arguably the best Mexican joint in the city.

It lived up to expectations. I had a couple delicious tacos -- one chicken, one pork -- smothered with the works, including, as Toad noted, real guacamole. It was the kind of delicious, ethnic meal you hope to get in a big, diverse city.

Then we headed across 25th Avenue to Mission Pies, which was one of the bakeries on my list of places to hit up. My strawberry-rhubarb pie was delicious, don't get me wrong, but it simply wasn't enough pie to warrant the $3.83 price.

Pie is hard to buy by the slice; the slices just aren't big enough most of the time.

We shook off the minor disappointment and took the train, BART, back downtown to the government buildings. That's where most of the city's energy was contained that afternoon.

I haven't followed national news at all this trip, except for sports, so I didn't even know about the Prop 8 decision. But, Toad informed me, a decision had come down Tuesday morning.

And as a result, there were thousands of protesters outside of the large city hall. It was cool observing the large, calm but energized crowd. Many people had original signs, such as "Hetros for Homos."

I've never seen so many expertly thought-out signs at a public parade or rally (not that I've attended many of them).

After a lot more walking, Toad and I finally reached AT&T Park -- ready to sit down and watch some baseball. We had upper-deck seats parallel to first base, compliments of Toad, that provided an excellent view of the bay behind all sections of the outfield.

As the sky grew darker, I could notice the lights from Oakland's stadium across the bay. It was quite the backdrop to the stadium -- who needs to watch the game?

Of course, it is a modern stadium, so we were pretty far back from the field. But it being my first game at the ballpark, it was quite enjoyable as I watched the Giants cruise to a 4-0 win in a little over 2 hours.

(Credit to the lower-deck usher, who helped us find two empty seats from which to watch the last inning. There aren't many ushers like her out there these days. She realized the situation -- there were plenty of empty seats -- and helped us enjoy the game from close-up for a few minutes.)

Toad had to get back home for a morning interview, so it was a short night for me. But that was fine -- I needed some rest before continuing my journey the next day.

As I hit the sack, I felt I had done a solid job of enjoying San Fran.

There's always more to do -- and hopefully I'll be back -- but it wasn't a bad experience for two and a half days.

Huge, huge thanks to Myra -- and her housemates -- for letting a stranger (at least initially) stay for three nights and for being so hospitable and outgoing and friendly and caring!

Day 35 (May 24): Lagunitas, CA-San Francisco, CA -- 38.1 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Thu, 28 May 2009 22:42:00 +0000

(Written from Bad Ass Coffee, Santa Cruz, CA)

Miles biked: 38.1 (1,291.5 overall)

Time on bike: 3 hours, 55 minutes, 18 seconds

Maximum speed: 30.3 mph

Roads taken: Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, several roads that I don't remember through small towns en route to San Francisco, Magnolia Avenue, Corte Madera Avenue, Camino Alto, SR-1 (scary for a minute), bike path, in Sausalito: Bridgeway Boulevard, Richardson Street, Second Street ... East Road, Murray Circle, Golden Gate Bridge, in San Fran: Lincoln Boulevard, 25th Avenue, a bunch of roads on which I got lost.

Places stopped: In Sausalito by side of road (to take pictures of San Fran, shrouded in mist across the bay), at north end of Golden Gate Bridge (to chat with a family from Chapel Hill), at middle of bridge (to take a breather and take pictures), at south end of bridge (to take more pictures), on Irving Street (to stop at Internet cafe and figure out how to get to Myra's and also get some food), at the long strip of grass by the basketball court right near Myra's (to watch some hoops, do some reading and wait for Myra to return home), Myra's row house (for the first of three nights!).

I slept in Sunday morning -- at least for camping -- and then relaxed for a couple hours, enjoying a filling breakfast with a couple of my new friends.

While I don't exactly remember their names (and don't want to mess them up), they were great company. They served me eggs and sausage as well as fresh cherries for breakfast and also left me with that aforementioned list of food joints to visit in San Fran.

When I finally hit the road after 10, I felt satiated and excited about my upcoming stay in the city.

And then it got hot, really hot.

Within 7 miles, I was down to my long-sleeved Lakes of the Clouds shirt and I applied sunscreen (yes, you got that right; just outside of foggy San Francisco).

Then I started a journey through small, trendy towns. Thankfully, there were bike-path signs that directed me, because it would have taken several stops for me to follow my map.

On one side street, I was joined by a father-and-son, mountain-biking pair for a couple miles. I chatted with the father, which helped pass the time as we continued on side roads through the towns of Fairfax and Ross.

All the towns were small, but obviously got plenty of attention from people biking north from the city. Yes, there were hundreds of bikers on the road, maybe even thousands.

I didn't go a mile without seeing a few bikers just out for a nice Sunday ride. I didn't need to get to San Fran to know that it's a very popular town for cyclists. There were also many bike stores along the way, included one at which I stopped to get some much-needed lubricant for my chain.

As is the case with all of my short days, the miles seemed to take longer than I thought they would. I continued to follow the signs and think about the bridge. How could I not? It was the ultimate destination.

Just before the last town I would go through prior to reaching the bridge, Sausalito, I met up with a pair of young, female cyclists, one of whom said she had gone to North Carolina State University in Raleigh upon noticing a sign of my most recent living spot.

She said they were biking to the city, so I followed them as well as I could through the tourist-dominated streets of Sausalito, which was packed with vehicles and patrons on the sunny afternoon.

It was dangerous riding, especially when I was clipped in and even more so when we had to contend with an aggressive bus driver who made several stops. At one stop, I heard a man arguing with the driver and then calling her a female dog as she slammed the door on him.

I raced past that mess.

I wanted to stay with my companions, but I couldn't breeze past the walkway along the bay. I had to stop, devour my last PB&J and take some pictures of San Fran, just across the bay, which was -- no surprise -- shrouded in fog. I could also see, vaguely, Angel Island to the east.

After the short break, I got back on the Trek 520 and began my final push to The Bridge.

And when it came into sight, folks, it was magnificent. No wonder it's such a popular suicide destination. It is, I must say, the most beautiful bridge I've ever seen. (Yes, Aussies, even better than the one I climbed in Sydney.)

I had to climb a final hill to reach the entrance to the west sidewalk of the bridge, which is only open to cyclists (all the camera-wielding, walking pedestrians are relegated to the east side).

Before beginning my ride across, I ran into a family from Chapel Hill. I figured it'd happen at some point -- these things always occur on such trips. Still, it was pretty cool talking to them. One of the kids, actually, is a writer for UNC's "Daily Tar Heel."

After a little North Carolina talk, I bid them adios and prepared for a crazy ride over the bridge. From my previous experiences going over bridges this trip, I knew it wouldn't be easy.

And when a man coming in the opposite direction warned me of some crazy wind, I prepared for the worst.

This was the scene: I was riding on a sidewalk that was just wide enough to fit cyclists going either way. And there were hundreds of them, including many tourists who had rented crappy mountain bikes.

I didn't trust the tourists, who sat upright and were, thus, very susceptible to the strong winds. I stayed low in the drops and didn't clamp in my right foot in case I needed to suddenly stop.

And I pedaled as hard as I could in an effort to keep from swaying to the side. I did manage to stop a couple times to take pictures of the misty ocean and headlands to the west.

But for the most part, the main objective, believe it or not, was to get across the bridge!

After a couple miles, I had survived it without a catastrophe or, really, a close call. I exhaled and then joined the throng of tourists to be one of them for a minute and snap some pictures of the bridge and my handsomeness in front of it.

I did that for about 7 minutes -- I can only play the tourist part for so long -- and then got back on the bike with the goal of figuring out how the heck to get close to Myra's place in the Haight-Ashbury district.

I didn't have a legitimate city map, just some small sections on my biking maps, so I kind of winged it. Luckily, I didn't have to climb too many hills to reach an Internet cafe on Irving Street, where I figured out where the heck I was.

Here's the thing about San Fran. On a map it might appear very narrow, but when you're on a bike or walking -- ouch -- it seems just as wide as Los Angeles. You're not going to get from one side of the city to the other quickly. It's still got the feel of a big city.

Anyway, I figured out where I was and, after getting lost a few more times, finally found Myra's street. She was still out, though, so I hung out in the little strip of grass just a block away from her place.

Contrary to the morning, it was quite chilly. I layered up and lied down, dreaming of the two and a half days I'd have to relax off the bike. I watched some cats hoop, rode a few loops and then Myra called.

Just minute later, I had found my home for a few days.

I left the bike in the garage, where it would get a well-deserved rest, and headed inside.

Myra rents a cool, little row house along with with two other young adults. And I can't say enough about her hospitality.

I got a warm bed in the dining room, which was perfect. And Sunday night, I went out on the town with Myra and her friends to a trendy, small dance club on eclectic Mission Street.

Tired from biking but nothing else, I danced (if it deserves to be called that) for most of the night knowing that I didn't have to wake up at any particular time the next day.

It was a great feeling after five long days on the bike.

And I had a great place to stay, too.

Day 34 (May 23): Gualala, CA-Lagunitas, CA -- 89.7 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Thu, 28 May 2009 21:58:00 +0000

(Written from Bad Ass Coffee, Santa Cruz, CA)

Miles biked: 89.7 (1,253.4 overall)

Time on bike: 7 hours, 20 minutes, 32 seconds

Maximum speed: 35.7 mph

Roads taken: SR-1 South, Pt. Reyes Petaluma Road, Platform Bridge Road, Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, Marin Trail bike path.

Places stopped: Fort Ross (for an oatmeal, bread and tea breakfast, and to prepare for the killer stretch), Jenner (to catch my breath and eat a banana), Valley Ford (for a much-needed lunch break: PB&J sandwich, cookie, gorp), Samuel B. Taylor State Park (for the night).

I thought about making this an easy day, considering the three consecutive difficult days I'd had.

But, of course, there was a problem.

There was a campsite in Bodega Bay, but that was only about 45.7 miles down SR-1. With an early start, I could reach that before 1. And then what? I love Bodega Bay as much as the next guy, folks, but it doesn't deserve an entire afternoon. Not when the smell of San Fran is in the air.

The next campsite, however, was another 45 miles down 1.

Damn, I thought, how can there not be a single spot in-between?

But my decision was made. I'd suck it up, "man-up," whatever you want to call it, and suffer through another long day so that I could relax, finally, in the days after it.

I didn't get the earliest start, not getting on the bike until just before 8, and the going wasn't fast either. But after what seemed like 6 hours, I made it to the tiny, tiny town of Fort Ross and stopped for a much-needed breakfast, which I hoped would also serve as a Red Bull.

That's because the toughest, most crazy stretch of my day was in front of me -- 13 miles between Fort Ross and Jenner of biking 300 to 400 feet above the ocean on a road with narrow shoulders and, at times, no guard rails.

To add to the challenge, it was foggy (when is it not around here? Answer: never). I even turned my front light on as a precaution. And then I headed up my first hill...

And I actually, somewhat, enjoyed myself. Sure, I did a whole bunch of climbing. And, sure, a bad turn to the right could easily send me off the bluff and down into the cold, unwelcoming Pacific far below.

But the riding was cool, almost mystic.

The fog obscured my view to the left, where large, vast, green hills loomed. At times, I even felt like I was hiking on an early morning in New Hampshire's White Mountains. It was cool, foggy and mysterious.

The riding, of course, was far from easy. There was a good amount of traffic, which forced me to stay as far right as possible (remember, I didn't want to ride off the road) and it was curvy.

But I was able to steal plenty of glances toward the ocean well below me, and here's a sight that you just don't see in many places: At one point along the way, there was a group of cows grazing to my right in a tiny patch of grass high above the ocean.

They must have been the good-behaving cows to get a spot like that.

After bike-sprinting through a construction zone (I had to push it as fast as possible once the cars went so that I wouldn't face oncoming traffic), I reached the midway point of the stretch and met a pair of cyclists from New Zealand.

They told me to prepare for some switchbacks during the ensuing 5 miles to Jenner. What they didn't tell me, and what was a pleasant surprise, was that it was almost entirely downhill for me.

I pitied them for having to weave their way up about 7 consecutive switchbacks (and they were steep, too), but I loved zooming down them and then rounding each curve. I felt like I was playing a racing video game where I had to time when and how hard to brake before accelerating again.

(On a sidenote, I continue to pity those who are riding north; thank goodness I actually made a good big decision for once.)

After reaching Jenner, I had a steep climb out of town and the riding wasn't easy. It also wasn't as exhilarating as the Fort Ross-Jenner stretch. Additionally, I started feeling the burden of the day's goal.

I've realized that when I set a large goal for a day, I can't help but think about the final destination several times while on the bike. This is tough when I've only gone 35 miles and still have 55 to go.

The stretch right after Bodega Bay was particular difficult. I was biking inland, with views of nothing but rolling fields filled with normal, not-so-lucky cows, to either side of the road. Traffic was heavy and I was getting no help from the wind.

Which is why I was on Cloud Nine when I cruised down a hill into the tiny town of Valley Ford (population: 126) and saw a general store. A sandwich, cookie and trail mix rejuvenated me and helped me get up several hills as I headed toward Tomales and Tomales Bay.

I was also helped by a dog: As I was making my way up a huge hill, going about 5.3 mph, a sheep dog (I think) started running toward my from inside a large, gated field. Once it reached the gate, it started running (and barking) alongside the gate.

I yelled at the dog several times, "Good dog!" And then, "C'mon, keep running!" And, just like that, I was nearing the top of the hill (as was the dog). Sadly, the dog stopped at that point -- I don't know if it was tired or sick of my yelling.

Anyway, thanks to that dog.

I had visions of stopping somewhere along Tomales Bay, but I encountered a stretch of road where I just kept riding and riding. This happens to me occasionally. I'll pass waysides, but find reasons not to stop.

Maybe the wayside is made up of stones and I don't want my tires to have to ride over them. Maybe I'll tell myself, "Let's wait for the next one."

Whatever the case, the miles started piling up and, just like that, it was mid-afternoon and I was nearing 80 miles for the day.

And I started seeing San Francisco bikers (there are thousands of them, maybe tens of thousands). A pair of day cyclists caught me from behind and stayed with me for a few minutes before continuing on. I passed cyclists going the other way.

I was energized by all the bikers, and I could smell the city.

Just a little past 5, after a few pleasant miles on the Marin Trail bike path, I arrived at the Samuel P. Taylor State Park campground after 89.7 miles. I was just 30 miles, give or take, from San Fran.

I had originally told Myra, a friend of a friend whom I was planning on staying with in the city, that I would arrive Monday. But Saturday evening, I was much closer to San Fran than planned.

I called her, and Myra was nice enough to say I could come a day early. So that had me excited.

My night at the campground was fun, too. Being Memorial Day weekend, it was packed with people, and I shared the hiker/biker site with two couples and an older man who had all done day trips on their bikes to reach the site.

They provided great company, not to mention food, and we sat around the fire for a few hours talking about everything from the city to movies (I could only sit amazed at the knowledge a couple of the guys brought to the conversation).

They also had great knowledge of the city, and even provided me with a list of food places that I HAD TO check out. There were about eight places -- Mexican joints, Asian joints, bakeries and ice cream joints -- on the list.

I hoped my stomach was ready. I had some serious eating to do (if not biking).

Day 33 (May 22): Cleone, CA-Gualala, CA -- 70.1 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Thu, 28 May 2009 21:18:00 +0000

(Written from Bad Ass Coffee, Santa Cruz, CA)

Miles biked: 70.1 (1,163.7 overall)

Time on bike: 5 hours, 46 minutes, 37 seconds

Maximum speed: 34.1 mph

Roads taken: SR-1 South.

Places stopped: Mendocino Bakery (the best bakery I've ever been to, where I got a lox bagel plate AND a blueberry danish for breakfast), Manchester market (for bread, peanut butter and ice cream bar), Point Arena library (to blog), Gualala county park (for the night), in Gualala: Roadside restaurant (for dinner and to watch Cavs-Magic Game 2 -- LeBron's game-winner).

To be as vague as possible, I wanted to get out of my campsite about as early as possible on Friday morning.

So despite the heavy dew that soaked my rain cover, I got up a little after 6 and packed everything -- including the soaking-wet stuff -- as quickly as I could in clumsy, tired fashion.

And I was on the road before 7, eager to get more than 10 miles done before I even thought about stopping (if you want more specifics, please ask me via e-mail or a phone call).

Anyway, there was the perfect stopping spot about 15 miles down 1 in Mendocino. Thanks to my friend Toad -- whom I'd meet twice farther South -- I knew about the Mendocino Bakery, for which he had great praise.

So that's where I stopped, around 8, to get some food in me and take a quick breather before continuing my journey south.

And, man, was Toad right.

The bakery in the town of not more than 1,000 was easily the best I've ever been to -- yes, Ann Arbor folk, better than Zingerman's (and much cheaper). I helped myself to a lox bagel plate, which included a toasted bagel, lox, cream cheese, raw and cooked onions and a tomato.

Not only that, I also got a blueberry danish, which actually accomplished a rare feat for a danish -- not only was it delicious, but I didn't feel like I was eating pure junk. It actually tasted, in a way, organic.

Yeah. Best. Bakery. Ever.

Well-satiated, I continued down route 1 toward Point Arena, where I knew I'd make it to a library. This was key considering the lack of libraries on the northern California coast.

(It must be said that in a competition of libraries -- in terms of quantity and how nice they are in giving out Internet time -- Oregon takes California in a blowout.)

Anyway, I knew I needed to do some serious blogging in Point Arena, because it'd be the last one I'd taste until San Francisco.

The riding, all morning, was peaceful and not too difficult. There were a few switchbacks, but nothing extreme -- except for one RIDICULOUSLY STEEP HILL, which deserves a mention.

When I reached the bottom of the switchback, I knew I needed to switch into my lowest gear. This isn't always the case with hills. I climb many of them by simply switching into the lowest or second-lowest gear of the second ring -- my 10th or 11th out of 27.

But that would have been suicide on said hill.

Even on my lowest gear, I had doubts as I ground my way up the first section and made a sharp left turn only to see an equally steep second section. That's when a lady in an SUV passed by and laughed.

Thanks, lady. How's that gas mileage?

(Sorry for the negativity; she actually looked very nice.)

Anyway, to finish the story, I only made it to the top of the hill by reciting the NBA's scoring champions (let's not forget that Bob McAdoo won three scoring titles from 1974-76).

And when I reached the top, I had a nice conversation with a man in a Penn State sweatshirt (random fact of the blogpost).

From there, the going was relatively easy.

My only real difficulty was staying comfortable. For most of the trip until that point, my bike shorts had done their job and kept me comfortable for hundreds of miles. But beginning on this day, I started to feel a bit uncomfortable as I neared 50 miles completed.

Then I stopped at the library for a good 3 hours, hoping that I'd feel better after the long respite.

But that wasn't the case. Because of this, I decided that I wouldn't try to go another 36 miles to the Salt Point State Park campsite. Instead, even though it was just after 3, I'd do just another 13 miles or so to the Gualala county park.

I felt uncomfortable the entire ride, which was unfortunate considering how much of a breeze it was. The wind was with me, the weather was perfect and pretty girls lined both sides of the road (OK, I made that last one up).

Oh, well. I made it to Gualala and instantly felt better. It was an actual town with restaurants. I'd be able to get my basketball fix that evening, with the Cavs and Magic playing Game 2 of the Eastern Conference Finals.

After a final steep hill, I found the campsite. It was my first county site, and I discovered they're not quite the deal that California state parks are. They're $5 a night instead of $3, and this one was a bit buggy, but still a decent bargain.

In the evening I biked back into town to the Roadside restaurant, got a cool drink and a sandwich and watched, in wonder, as LeBron sank a long 3 at the buzzer for the Cavs. I enjoyed the end of the game with a cool, surfer-dude bartender and a few young surfing cats, one of whom bought me a local brew.

It would have been nice to hang out for another hour or two, but it was getting dark and I had a mile of biking to do.

Upon returning to my campsite, biking through the dark and finally using my lights for the first time on the trip, I met a pair of bikers, one of whom was also going to San Diego.

I left early the next morning before Matt and Jordan were up, but I still have hopes of meeting up, once again, with at least one of them and having a riding partner for a day or two.

Day 32 (May 21): Weott, CA-Cleone, CA -- 88.3 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Tue, 26 May 2009 18:38:00 +0000

(Written from Bad Ass Coffee, Santa Cruz, CA)

Miles biked: 88.3 (1,093.6 overall)

Time on bike: 7 hours, 25 minutes, 3 seconds

Maximum speed: 35.9 mph

Roads taken: Avenue of the Giants, 101 South, SR-1.

Places stopped: Garberville gas station (to buy gorp and chocolate milk and prepare delicious and cheap oatmeal-and-tea breakfast), store just south of Leggett (to relax for a few minutes before the tortuous riding began), side of road on SR-1 (to prepare for the killer climb), side of road on SR-1 (to fill my empty water bottles from a spring), side of road on SR-1 (to celebrate having survived the pair of devastating climbs), Westport general store (to buy several food items and enjoy them as a reward for you know...), Cleone general store (to buy Gatorade and candy and finally exhale), Mackerricher State Park (for the night).

I woke up Thursday morning with a pretty good idea of what was ahead of me: The hardest day, probably, so far of the trip.

Not only would it involve more than 70 miles on the bike, but I'd also face two monster hills during a 28-mile stretch that the conservative Adventure Cycling map calls "arduous."

At the end of that stretch, however, I knew what the reward was -- I'd be back on the coast, riding down SR-1 all the way to San Francisco and then beyond.

So I beasted through the morning session of my ride, doing 48 miles up into Leggett by noon. And then I turned onto SR-1 ... and the climbing began.

It actually didn't make much sense, considering that my map listed Leggett as the highest point of the journey -- and SR-1 began at Leggett.

But I wasn't thinking about that as I went up, and up and up for 6 miles. Not only that, but it was steamy outside -- I even stripped down to the T-shirt, a rare occurrence -- and in a typical Jake goof, I hardly had any water in my two bottles.

The miles came very, very slowly. It probably took me an hour just to do the 6 miles straight uphill.

Then, however, I reached the peak of the mountain. Being pessimistic, like usual, I didn't think my climb was over. But when a nice lady parked on the side of the road said that it was all downhill from that point, I rejoiced inside.

She probably deserved a hug, but I simply didn't have the energy to walk the 26 feet to her and embrace her.

And she wasn't done in helping out a tired biker. When I asked her about available water down the road, she told me of a hidden spring on the side of the road just a few twists of 1 from where I stood.

I couldn't believe my good fortune. I had thought I'd be waterless until I reached the next real town, Westport, which was 22 miles away.

Sure enough, I kept a lookout for the spring, which she had described perfectly. That's a good thing, because it wasn't easy spotting the orange-painted, little stream of water just off the left side of the road.

I wasn't positive it was clean water, but I risked it. I downed about 20 ounces and then filled up both bottles.

And then I cruised downhill ... for 12 straight miles.

It was about 8 miles down the hill when I told myself, "If I were going north...."

Yes, the hills were killer in both directions, but I don't know if I could have handled 12 consecutive miles of uphill riding. That might have required a little cheating.

About midway down the curvy hill, I passed a tandem bike on which a man and woman rode. The woman, in back, waved to me. I'm not so sure what the man's expression was through his dark sunglasses.

I'm thinking he was cursing the hill, wishing he were sitting in a cool office somewhere. Just a guess, though.

Anyway, I laughed my way throughout the 12 miles, although I had to use the brakes constantly because of how curvy the road was. Still, there was hardly any traffic -- maybe a car every 2 miles -- which allowed me to take many of the sharp turns from the middle of the road.

When I finally reached the bottom of the hill, I knew I had one more steep climb ahead of me before Westport. I told myself that if I could survive this final ascent, the ocean awaited me.

Thankfully, it was only about 2 miles ... and then another great, downhill cruise. And even better than the last time, when I emerged from the hill at the bottom, the blueness of the ocean spread out in front of me.

Finally, after 70 miles of riding in one day, I had reached the ocean and wouldn't be leaving it for several days. I stopped, gave a Tiger fist pump, ate some gorp, snapped a few pictures, smiled and then mounted the Trek 520 again.

Of course, nothing on this coast is easy. So the 7 or so miles to Westport, where a large snack awaited, was far from an easy task. But it was nothing compared to what I'd done earlier.

And, man, did the sandwich, chips, banana and the other item I can't remember taste amazing.

I finished off my afternoon of riding with another 13 miles, mostly along the ocean, to Cleone and Mackerricher State Park. The riding was far from easy, as I got my first taste of riding on the 1 along the coast.

The most difficult parts were the switchbacks. I'd be going along the water and I'd see the road up ahead. But then I'd realize that there was no road in between the two sections.

So instead of continuing straight ahead on a mostly flat road, I'd make a huge U. It would start with a nice downhill stretch to the left. But as soon as I rounded the sharp curve to my right at the bottom of the hill, there'd be a rather steep hill to get back to the ocean.

And I'd quickly have to downshift to keep any kind of momentum.

Heavy traffic and nonexistent shoulders made the switchbacks even more difficult. And, I surmise, I was pretty tired after all those arduous miles.

But I made it to the state park by 5, exhausted and ready for a shower.

At my campsite, which was nothing special, I met another biker, Scott, who had rode more than 25,000 miles around the world (and wrote a book about it).

I'll never do anything close to close to comparable, but that didn't -- at least in my mind -- take away from my beast of a day.

Getting to sleep was the easiest task of the long day.

I was out by the time darkness enshrouded the site.

Day 31 (May 20): Arcata, CA-Weott, CA -- 70.6 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Tue, 26 May 2009 17:26:00 +0000

(Written from San Francisco Haight branch library)

Miles biked: 70.6 (1,005.3 overall)

Time on bike: 5 hours, 26 minutes, 56 seconds

Maximum speed: 30.0 mph

Roads taken: In Arcata: 11th Street, G. Street, 7th Street, Bayside Road, Buttermilk Lane, Old Arcata Road ... Myrtle Avenue, in Eureka: 101 ... Tompkins Hill Road, Hookton Road, Eel River Drive, SR-211, Ocean Avenue/Grizzly Bluff Road, Blue Slide Road/Belleview Avenue, Wildwood Avenue, 101, Avenue of the Giants.

Places stopped: Revolution Bicycle in Arcata (to make sure I hadn't done irreparable damage to the bike), side of the Grizzly Bluff Road (for my first food stop), bench of closed general store in Redcrest (for cheese and crackers), Humboldt Redwoods State Park (for the night).

This began what will definitely end up being the toughest five-day stretch of this trip.

And it didn't start out smoothly.

First off, I'm really bad at goodbyes, so it wasn't easy -- after a large, filling breakfast in Arcata -- bidding adios to Dad from Marnin's driveway a little after 11.

To make matters worse, I thought I had somehow lost my camera case, which has my old memory card with the first 300 pictures from the trip. And then, as I was trying to saw off a band from the handlebars remaining from the tuneup I had gotten the bike, my knife slipped and I instead almost cut the break cord.

Not knowing if I'd caused any damage, I rode up to the bike store prepared to hear the worst. Thankfully, everything was all right and I could finally get on the road -- a little after noon.

Oh, and, of course, I had found that camera case in my jacket pocket.

So all was bliss, right?

No, not really. My rough day continued.

As much as I loved Arcata, its southern neighbor Eureka gave me no positive vibes. Heading into town, I lost my route and ended up on 101, which bisects the city. And unlike Arcata, where 101 is a bit outside of downtown and is underneath the city's streets, it runs right through Eureka.

And it provides hardly any biking space for poor souls like me. Which is why at one point, I actually felt that I had zero biking space. It was as if I was back in Durham, riding down 15-501.

So I got off the road, letting my pride take a hit -- not that I have much -- and navigated the city's sidewalks as I bypassed disgusting shopping mall after disgusting shopping mall.

It was far from scenic, but at least it kept me on the bike. I felt no reason to stop, no reason to take in anything that I was seeing. So I rode a good 40 miles, roughly, before finally pulling over to the side of Grizzly Bluff Road, taking a much-needed leak in the bushes and then devouring a Power Bar.

And I still hadn't seen anything pretty.

That would continue as I biked past vast fields littered with cows -- I think I've seen about 8,493 of them now -- and farmhouses. At least there wasn't much traffic, but my map sure wasn't helping me.

It told me to take a right on Blue Slide Road, which would then become Belleview Avenue, but I never saw a Blue Slide Road. So as I continued to climb hills and see nothing ahead of me -- and I'd been on what I thought was Grizzly Bluff for 10 miles when I was only supposed to be on it for 7 -- I started worrying that I was lost in the middle of nowhere.

Thankfully, that wasn't the case. I guess teenagers tore down the sign that would have told me I had merged onto Blue Slide, but I was going the right way.

And then, finally, after about 55 miles of nothing special, I exited 101 -- yes, took an actual exit; that's the 101 I've biked on in California -- onto the Avenue of the Giants.

I quickly stopped to admire the beauty around me.

On both sides of the shaded road were huge redwoods, the same kind of trees Dad and I had hiked through just three days before. Some of the enormous trunks sat just inches from the side of the road as if to say to wild drivers, "Ya swerve off course and it ain't gonna end well for ya."

I let my muscles relax for the first time all day and cruised through the forest, occasionally emerging into sunlight and tiny towns before pedaling back into the trees.

The behemoths also provided much-needed shade after a long afternoon of pedaling under a bright sun. And they made the time seem much later. Even though there remained about three hours of daylight, I felt like I was biking in the evening -- my favorite time of day, so it all worked out.

At about 6:27 (real time), I pulled into the Humboldt Redwood State Park campground just south of Weott, a town I knew was there but never saw. As I unpacked my stuff, I was prepared for a night alone after four days spent in Dad's company. It was time to transition back to the the isolated camping phase.

But then a guy who looked to be about my age biked into the hiker/biker site, a big smile plastered on his face. As I would learn, he was from Sweden and was doing a long trip in the U.S.

He'd never been to the country before, but was living it up. He'd started in Las Vegas, worked his way past the Grand Canyon and into California, and was prepared to head up the coast through Oregon and Washington and into Canada before ovaling his way back down to Salt Lake City.

I enjoyed his company throughout the evening, as well as the s'mores he shared with me. He told me that he'd learned about them just days earlier while staying with an American he'd met along the way.

Clearly he was taught well, because he whittled a couple sticks and made sure not to burn his marshmallows but to get them nice and crispy.

And when I crept into my tent, full and content, I was in a much better mood than I'd been in at the start of my biking day and throughout much of it.

Credit the trees, my new Swedish friend and, of course, the s'mores.

Hiking pictures by a good photographer with a good camera

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Tue, 26 May 2009 05:42:00 +0000

Hey all,
Sorry it's been so long. I know most of you have put your lives on hold while waiting for my next post. A poor computer situation and doing other things, such as biking, has gotten in the way.

Anyway, I should have posts up soon about my hectic week of riding and my time here in San Francisco.

But in the meantime, check out my Dad's pictures from our hiking adventures. He actually has a non-tourist camera and is really talented at photography (unlike this guy).

The pictures are in the top three albums at http://picasaweb.google.com/JohnJLloyd

Cheers from the Bay Area,
jake

Days 27-30 (May 16-19): Hiking with Dad -- 0 miles biked

noreply@blogger.com (Jake Lloyd) — Fri, 22 May 2009 19:44:00 +0000

(Written from Point Arena Library, May 22)

Miles biked: 0 (934.7 overall)

On Saturday, Dad finally arrived.

Of course, he didn't fly in until 9, so I had an entire day to kill first. But it was a long-waited happening that I had looked forward to for over a week. I had managed to kill a good chunk of time during which I didn't have many miles to bike.

On Saturday, I was ready to spend some more time off the bike -- with a hiking companion.

I spent the first part of the day getting our rental car -- all the service had left was a big, ugly, hideous, white Chrysler Town & Country. (From this point forth, I'll call it the BUV, or Big Ugly Van.)

Then I drove the thing back north along 101, which was a bit weird. I had, after all, biked along the same road just two days earlier. It didn't take me long to make the obvious realization that you can observe much more of the beautiful scenery from a bike seat.

I then set up our campsite at the Elk Prairie site -- yep, there's a prairie where you can see elk there -- and got back on the road heading south, again, with several hours to kill.

I stopped at the Big Lagoon and read a bunch of the book I was trying to finish before falling asleep. Upon waking up, I decided to check out Trinidad, which I had skipped when biking south because of the rainy conditions.

That was a good choice.

The beach was gorgeous, with soft sand all around as well as interesting-shaped rocks. And after grabbing dinner, I took a trail up a hill overlooking the ocean and found the perfect overlook -- not roped or fenced in.

I sat there for several minutes, looking down at the waves crashing below and the bright sun getting ready to set, and thought how lucky I was. But I also realized how much cooler it would be if I could share it with someone.

I decided, time permitting, that I'd take Dad to the same spot Sunday night.

And, finally, it was time to go get him. I enjoyed another picture-perfect sunset before hopping in the BUV and heading to the tiny, quaint Arcata airport...

SUNDAY (DAY 1 OF HIKING): THE REDWOODS
After sleeping about as soundly as I could in the BUV -- Dad got the tent -- I awakened to his tapping on the window early Sunday morning.

We ate a delicious granola breakfast, threw everything in the BUV -- it is, I must say, very spacious -- and headed to the trail head, which was less than a mile from our campsite.

Our plan was to hike the James Irvine trail through redwoods to Fern Canyon and then the coast, at which point we'd walk along the beach for a mile or so before looping back to our starting spot via the Miner's Ridge trail.

It was a solid plan that didn't fall apart.

And it didn't take long for Dad to start snapping several pictures of the gigantic redwoods that surrounded us. Our progress was slow, but I couldn't really blame him for taking so many shots (he's an excellent photographer with a spiffy camera).

The trail was pretty easy -- not too steep and very wide.

We walked along several switchbacks through the trees, which were thick and reached into the sky a couple hundred feet. We had the forest to ourselves, and it was quiet save for the occasional bird chirping.

The cool thing about the trees -- beside them being bigger than just about any in the world -- was that they were all different.

Some shot straight up into the air, with a single trunk extending up to a few branches high above the top of your average tree. Others angled upward, almost leaning toward the sky -- I wondered how they've stayed rooted all these years (many are up to 2,000 years old) ... then I looked at the massive roots.

Other redwoods had mini trees growing out of their trunks. Others had bushes or what looked like large nature nests attached to their trunks.

And then there were the trees that had taken a fall. Many of them leaned up against other trees, creating many interesting pictures for Dad and chances to walk on huge logs for the adventurous (I took a pass this time).

It was an amazing, yet easy walk that never really went far up or down. But when we reached Fern Canyon after about 4.3 miles, we felt the trail had been well worth the hiking.

Even if we hadn't had to, really, earn the beauty we saw.

Then the landscape changed drastically.

When we entered Fern Canyon, we thought we had lost the trail upon arriving at a stream. Then we realized that the short trail was the stream.

So we started walking along the edges of the water, having to hop over rocks to the other side every couple minutes. And then we saw why the canyon got its name, because on either side of us there were bright, green ferns covering the canyon's walls.

It was a sight to behold, like nothing I'd ever seen.

And the walk was interesting, too, as we had to navigate several logs and rocks to keep from getting our shoes -- Dad's hiking boots and my Adidas -- wet.

Balance was very key, and the "Trekpod" walking stick that doubled as a tripod helped as well.

Upon exiting the canyon, fairly dry, we emerged onto the beach and were immediately warmed by the bright sun. That continued to be the case for over a mile as we walked, barefooted, along the ocean and then up in the hot sand to the Gold Bluffs campground and the entrance to the Miner's Ridge trail.

The beginning of the hike back to base camp wasn't very interesting, as the path wove through regular-sized trees, and overgrowth brushed our clothing. A second respite for cheese and crackers helped break up the monotony.

But then we got back into the Redwoods, Dad got the camera out again, and for a final time we walked in awe, craning our necks to view the tallest, widest trees we'll probably ever see.

We stopped at a beast whose bark, near the base, was shaped almost like a dragon or some kind of animal. We took a few final pictures there before finally converging with the James Irvine trail and finishing our Day 1 adventure.

In all, we hiked about 11.5 miles, but it was relatively easy and we finished just a little after 4.

That gave me a chance to show Dad the bluff in Trinidad before we got on 299 for the long, scenic drive inland to Weaverville.

And what a drive it was. We knew it'd take a couple hours to get to the small town and motel, which would be our home base for three nights as we hiked in the area, but the time passed quickly because of the views.

The road was mostly a two-lane highway that twisted and turned alongside a raging river with huge hills on either side. Then we would climb several hundred feet, all of it curvy, and suddenly be looking down on the river far below.

It was particularly beautiful in the evening, and we timed our trip very well -- after stopping in Willow Creek for dinner and to watch the fourth quarter of Orlando's Game 7 win over Boston, we arrived in Weaverville just after dark.

MONDAY (DAY 2 OF HIKING): THE TRINITY ALPS
It's hard to explain just how beautiful the Trinity Alps are, but I'll try.

I've hiked in New Hampshire's White Mountains every summer since I started hiking, and they might always be the most beautiful, pristine mountains to me.

But the Trinity Alps sure give them a run for their money.

On Monday, we hiked about 8 miles up the Canyon Creek trail to the lower Canyon Lake, which sits around 5,700 feet up in the midst of the Alps.

We couldn't reach one of the range's summits for a variety of reasons.

1. They were all capped with snow.

2. There are no trails up them.

3. We weren't equipped to camp.

Usually, that would be a huge bummer to me.

But not this time. The hike among the mountains, most of which are between 8,000 and 9,000 feet, more than satiated my appetite for adventure.

The trail wasn't that difficult. We started at around 3,000 feet, and the climb was gradual.

But it didn't take long for the walking to become interesting. For one, we did most of our tramping alongside or close to a raging creek, with a high water level, that stayed with us all the way to our turnaround spot at the lake.

And when we weren't right by the creek, we were walking on a narrow path dug into a hill that looked down, a couple hundred feet, to the creek.

One thing we had to be careful of was to make sure we'd be able to cross the creek and all its side creeks -- both on our way up and down. After all, Dad pointed out, the water would be higher later in the day after snow from the mountains was melted by the sun.

At the first crossing, we walked over a log that had clearly been placed above the raging water. We knew this because a taut rope was hung above it to help hikers like us.

A few miles into the hike, we walked along a series of switchbacks that crossed a little stream about three times. This was when we had to excel at going from rock-to-rock across the water.

Oh, and all this time, by the way, we were looking up to both sides -- the East and West -- at beautiful, snow-capped mountains that never got old to admire. Dad, of course, was taking dozens of pictures, and he couldn't be blamed.

It was that amazing.

Since we were still relatively low, the mountains appeared intimidating. They seemed to be way, way above us. The thought of reaching one's summit, even without snow, would be quite the task.

Luckily, we didn't have to think about that. Rather, we simply continued to hike north along the creek, getting higher and higher.

And were only three (minor) negatives about the trail:

1. It wasn't clearly marked, with no blazes on trees or cairns -- until we nearly reached the lake and were walking on exposed rock. That's when we started to follow small cairns that weren't always easy to spot and were, at times, a bit confusing. We had to pay close attention to the trail.

2. As Dad pointed out, it seemed worn down. It is, according to guide books and maps, extremely popular during the summer months and feels a lot of feet. Also, I think, people don't always follow the trail, exactly, because of what I just mentioned. That's never good for a trail's well-being.

3. Because we were hiking so early in the season, the level of the creek was extremely high. While it was cool to view, it also meant that parts of the trail resembled a stream. On the way up, we managed to walk around most of the water. On the way down, we decided to slosh our way through it.

Still, those were minor issues. They didn't put a damper, at all, on our day.

Before we got up near the lake, we passed a couple of raging waterfalls, and I mean RAGING. When we got up close to the middle falls, about 6 miles from the trail head, we got a little bit wet -- and we were standing 5 feet above the water.

Then we had to cross the very active creek before the upper falls. Well, I guess we could have continued up the east side of the falls and then crossed -- to get to the lake -- but the map said that people have died trying this.

And we were having too much fun to try that.

Still, when we reached the crossing point, I quickly noticed that while a walking log extended out into the middle of the creek, there remained about 12-15 feet of water between the end of the log and the other side.

I looked up and down the waterway -- there was no other option.

So we rolled up our shorts, put our cameras in our backpacks, and proceeded to ford the creek -- grabbing onto a rock about midway across it to steady ourselves and then making a final push for land while standing in knee-deep, rushing water.

It was an adrenaline rush, and, to be honest, having wet shoes didn't feel so bad afterward.

That's because, it should be mentioned, it was quite hot. Despite the elevation, we hiked under a bright sun the entire afternoon and temperatures that were probably in the 70s.

We hadn't been sure if the lake would be unfrozen, but when we finally arrived, at the spot where it meets the creek, it was glistening in the sun -- with not a patch of ice to be seen.

(There were, however, a few snow banks above the water.)

We considered hiking another mile, and 400 feet, up to the second lake. But then we stopped at a comfortable rock overlooking the lake, where three brothers we had met -- Gregory, Joe and Tony -- were hanging out, and thought, Why push it?

The view was amazing -- we could see Mt. Sawtooth to the east, Mt. Hilton to the west and Mtns. Wedding Cake and, we think, Thompson to the north.

Oh, and the lake, and the rocks surrounding it, was pretty cool, too.

So we took it easy for a while, exchanging stories with the brothers from the Bay Area, taking a few, warm swigs of their bourbon -- the best hiking liquor -- and just admiring the scenery around us.

A little after 3, it was time to head down. And while it's never quite as cool having to backtrack as opposed to taking a loop, it's not so bad when you're doing the trail for the first time.

For instance, there were a couple sections of the trail that we didn't even remember from the hike up -- including a really neat part right along the raging creek -- and the waterfalls deserved a second look.

The water level seemed a little bit higher at the creek crossings, but we found them much easier to bypass since we no longer cared about keeping our shoes dry.

Dad continued to take pictures, many of the different creeks and flowers we passed, and then we cruised through the last couple miles and reached the BUV with a good hour to spare before darkness.

It was Dad's longest one-day hike -- about 16 miles -- and the third-longest of my hiking career.

It won't be forgotten, that's for sure.

TUESDAY (DAY 3 OF HIKING): MT. LASSEN
For our final day of hiking, we knew we wanted to see a volcano -- the question was which one.

Mt. Shasta is the highest in California -- and on the West Coast, for that matter -- at over 14,000 feet. But it stood a good two and a half hours away, including many miles on uninteresting Interstate 5.

So we chose, instead, to visit Mt. Lassen, which still stands over 10,000 feet and, we were pretty sure, could be reached by a more scenic drive (and, as we found out, a shorter one).

And, boy, was it worth seeing.

It was a hot day in the valley, with the BUV telling us the temperature in Redding -- where we had a delicious breakfast -- was 80. But as we neared Lassen National Park, I watched in amazement as the temperature dropped to 70 ... then 68 ... then 67.

Not that the drop should have been surprising. By the time we reached the park, we were over 5,000 feet.

Unfortunately, only 10 miles of the roadway through the park was open -- the rest won't be opened until mid-June probably -- but that didn't keep us from reveling in being so close to the tallest mountain I've ever seen up close.

First we took a 1.7-mile walk around tranquil Manzanita Lake, which gave us several views of Lassen and the peaks around it. I don't think anyone was hiking it that day, because it was covered in snow.

The white stuff blanketed the mountain probably from about the 7,500-foot mark up to its peak at 10,457 feet. I thought it was cool looking at one of its ridges, which appeared to be completely smooth.

Of course, it might look much different at 7,000 feet.

The park wasn't just populated by a huge mountain. As we were beginning our hike, Dad spotted an eagle that was hovering high above. An eagle -- just like that.

He took pictures of it and many other birds, and wildlife, as we circled the lake.

Then, for our main entree, we drove as far down as we could and decided to hike along the park road and possibly take a trail that led closer to the mountain from there.

That plan was going just great -- we were excited, pumped up, enthused! -- until we started along the Hat Creek trail and noticed huge piles of that white stuff in our way. At that moment, it dawned on us why the road was closed.

We turned around and continued walking down the road, hoping to find a great view or some kind of neat area. And, sure enough, a couple walking in the opposite direction said that there was such a spot some "300 to 500 yards" ahead.

Three football fields, I thought, that's nothing!

But then we started walking, and walking, and walking ... and saw nothing but the road, the snow on either bank and the trees blocking any views of Lassen and its comrades.

We kept going, though, because Dad was telling me the amazing story of the movie "Adaptation," which I now, of course, must see -- even if I know the script from start to finish.

Anyway, he kept telling the story -- and we plodding along.

And we saw nothing.

Finally, he finished describing the movie and we decided to turn around. I thought that we'd been played by the innocent-looking couple -- and they were probably driving off to Vegas in the BUV (which had Nevada tags, by the way).

But we broke up the walk with some cheese and crackers and finally arrived back at the parking lot, where we took a neat half-mile walk on the tourist-friendly interpretive trail.

The trail wove through the area where rocks had rolled to during a period of earthquakes beginning in 1915. It was amazing thinking that rocks from that far away had gotten so far from the peak.

According to one of the signs along the tour, there is a mix of rocks from 27,000 years ago -- when Lassen formed -- and from the recent earthquake around the mountain.

As we drove out of the park, we noticed large piles of rocks on both sides of the road. It was, like the days before, a part of nature we had never seen before.

On the long drive back to Weaverville, we stopped at a few places where Dad, and his expensive camera, was able to take some great pictures of the 14,162-foot Shasta, which loomed -- high, snowy and intimidating -- to the north.

When we arrived at the La Grange for a final, delicious dinner, I felt like we'd experienced it all.

The Redwoods.

The Trinity Alps.

A large, historic volcano.

It'd been an amazing few days.

Thanks to Dad for making it happen (and, of course, for feeding me and giving my credit card -- and the Trek 520 -- a break).