"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.
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