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Si Se Puede

'After months of want and hunger, we suddenly found ourselves able to have meals fit for the gods, and with appetites the gods might have envied.'

-Sir Ernest Shackleton

Sunday Bloody Sunday

'Bicycling is very much like a love affair, chiefly it is a matter of faith. Believe you can do it and the thing is done, doubt and for the life of you, you cannot.'
-H.G. Wells

There is much truth to this statement, though a love affair it is not. Not sure if old H.G. ever rode up a hill into a head wind, for that is a harsh mistress to keep. We are currently in the middle of the final punishing push south. After San Fran we spent two days getting down to Carmel and the northern reaches of the Big Sur fire and road closures. At the Carmel Safeway around 8pm the squad still had no idea where it was going to sleep. Fortune, of course, favors the lucky. Standing around the fire information board we met Carol and Calvin, who were nice enough to let us sleep on their deck (and buy us lunch in Big Sur). In the morning we readied ourselves for the 100 mile charge through the fire zone to San Simeon.

We began early and reached the charred hillsides (which unfortunately sloped primarily uphill for us). A favorable wind kept the smoke away as we rode the cliffs and beaches. A 1000 foot climb right at the end of the mountains, followed by a quick descent and another 500 foot climb completely demolished this correspondent. 7pm found me unable to get warm, shaking and dehydrated, yet we still had 20 miles to go. After a couple gatorades, cheese and peanut butter sandwiches and a long look into the depths of my soul (which is basically a daily practice on this trip), I climbed back aboard Le Renard. Within a few miles the life came back to my legs and we had one of the most enjoyable stretches of the whole trip. The land flattened out, darkness fell, Le Renard hummed along and we were the only people on the road. The moon shone out over the Atlantic, Elephant Seals barked on the beach below and Hearst Castle glistened in the distance. Elephant seals literally covered the beach; as animals they have reached a certain level of enlightenment that most men aspire to, namely they lie around, stay away from sharks, get fat and make crude noises all day.

The next day saw more of the same as we rode another 90 miles. Last night we stopped in Orcutt, CA. After searching in vain for the city park, we finally found a Lutheran Church with a hidden yard where we could sleep. Apparently 4am is the lawn watering hour for Lutherans, as we were rudely awaken and promptly soaked. And so our ragged squad was left with little choice but to pack up and ride out. We did 20 miles before 7 am. We are now holed up in Lompoc, CA attending to yet another broken spoke and filling our empty stomachs.

We should be in Santa Monica by tomorrow, though there has been talk, mainly spoken in hushed tones, of riding through the night in one last epic 150 mile day.

As we forge ahead, I leave you with a quote heard yesterday from someone amongst our ranks,
'sometimes I think about getting hit by a car just so I dont have to do this trip anymore.'

Manu Forti.

Cannery Row

'Sometimes it seems that all the world is on fire'

-Cora Munro

Our squad, back down to two, sufficiently coddled and fed, gets back on the road. Headed straight for the joys of smoke, road closures and chili out of the can. Fear not, as we are both behatted now with ultra-cool flip bill bike hats. The squad also had a rare exercise of it's mental muscles in winning the Trivia night and $30 at the Pig and Whistle on Geary Street.

photos

ill catch any frisbee you throw my way

attracting deer with corn
bagels and cheese, a classic

schank and the sea stacks

for the lads and all the scotch in brooklyn


a typical camp

Wherever there is a bike on a hill, Ill be there.

"Perhaps I lack even the simple strength to stand.

then again, perhaps I can stand after all

[stands]

Drop...Your...Sword."

-Wesley nee Dread Pirate Roberts

(To be read in your finest Scottish brogue, facing west. Like highland madlibs add aye, lad, lass, ewe, dram or a simple grunt wherever seems appropriate.)

The squad arrived busted, though victorious in San Francisco at 11:45pm July 6. Mileage totals for the past 2 days: 85 mi and 97 miles. Yesterday noontime found our daringdoers with shattered legs, covered in filth and at an all time low. 3 days of hard mountain climbing, forest fires and torturous coastal cliffs and gulches had left us staring into the pit of despair. San Francisco was still far off and our bipedal spirits were broken. The original plan was to pedal from Stillwater Cove to Samuel Taylor Park (around 65 miles) and then head to San Francisco on Monday. Somewhere around Tomales, right as it seemed we might not even make Taylor Park, we had an epiphany of the mad (we are now three as we have picked up a stowaway) and decided that the only answer for our tired legs was to cycle the 40 extra miles to San Fran. Darkness, prudence and lactic acid be damned.

We passed Taylor Park (our original destination) around 7:30 pm. We sealed our fate when I called my grandmother and told her to leave a key out as we were inbound that evening. We all ate whatever energy bars we had, coating them in peanut butter for extra sustenance. After this bitter roadside repast, we started out again. We rode into the Marin suburbs, taillights flashing, headlamps blazing, reflector vests shining. I was at the helm navigating the maze of quiet streets as we did out best to parallel Highway 101 (where bikes are prohibited). We passed quaint bistros and cafes, couples out for Sunday evening strolls as we rode deeper into the great yawning sprawl of the Bay Area. We rode through the stinking bogs into Sausalito. Women and children did avert their eyes as the haggard and bearded riders aboard their creaking steeds sauntered past. In Sausalito we caught our first glimpse of the city, with the Bay Bridge in the distance. Some in our crew thought that was the bridge we were to cross. 'Nay,' I said, 'Our bridge, she is painted red.' We began to climb out of Sausalito: up, up. up. With still a few hills to climb we saw the Golden Gate, shining through the fog. But the colossus was still a ways off. Up and up we climbed further. Finally we reached the bridge only to find the gate locked for bikes and pedestrians. Our worst fears had been realized and we readied the skindoos for Hari Kari. As a final appeal we sent Cody under the bypass to scout the other side of the road. From across the highway, we heard an alarm, and saw a flash as Cody sprinted away into the darkness. The rest of the squad was preparing for a hasty retreat when Cody appeared and said that he had found the great northwest passage for bikes across the bridge.

After carrying the bikes up and down flights of stairs (no small feat), we reached the gates. There we pressed the secret red button Cody found, and a voice spoke out of the darkness, 'Bikes are allowed to cross at night, but do not loiter and pedal straight across.' The squad vigorously nodded their helmets in unison. From there the wizard did open the gates and the squad, smelling victory, pedaled on towards Oz. We crossed the great span riding three abreast, not a non-motorized soul on the bridge save us; the glistening city to our left, the Pacific to our right, pain and misery behind us. From there we coasted the final miles through city streets. We arrived to eat our fill of Gramma's salami, beer and chocolate cake. We then slept soft and safe, beasts of our own making.

If it is that we are but pale etchings on the scrolls of history, then perhaps on that day our three riders did etch their grooves (and that of the bike saddles in their arses) just a wee bit deeper.

[Fin]
Photos to come.

photo

photos uploads are disabled on these computers. more to come as soon as we are able.

our beacon of promise for the time being is San Francisco and its warm beds and regular showers