San Francisco, CA to Atlanta, GA

jen and harry

After riding across the Golden Gate, I made my way up a few more hills south of the bridge.  If I had asked a few locals what the flattest way to the downtown area was, I could have easily avoided a few steep climbs.  Oh well.  I’m a man, and you know what men do…they don’t ask for directions!  Guys, guys, guys…

I was trying to meet up with Jen and Harry within the next 20 minutes.  They were going to a 48-hour film project screening down in San Jose, and I didn’t want to hold them up.  I cycled hard and fast but kept hitting lights.  Like a good cyclist, I didn’t run any red lights, but that didn’t stop others.  I had read that getting ticketed for running red lights in SF was pretty common.

I pedaled through the downtown area on my way to the Mission District.  Hipster central.  Many cyclists were wearing these new ‘fashionable’ stupid-looking helmets that couldn’t possibly keep your brain within your skull if you had an accident.  They looked like those cheap, thin plastic helmets you get when you go whitewater rafting.  There were also a lot of people on cruiser bikes.  I’d hate to be on one of those in hilly SF.

After passing Jen and Harry’s street twice, I finally arrived at their below-ground level apartment.  They weren’t too thrilled to live there since it was practically a bat cave.  No natural sunlight.  But they were moving out in two weeks.  I hesitantly asked if I could take a shower (given the time), but they told me to take my time.  Sweeties.

Jen and Harry were pretty big cyclists.  Obvious from the many bicycles in their apartment.  To get to San Jose, Jen rented a ‘zip car’.  $7 an hour (includes gas/insurance).  Awesome business idea and a great service for someone who lives in a city where a car is not really necessary.

48 hour film project

The screening was in a huge theater.  Nice turnout.  48 Hour Film Project:  Your team applies to be in the contest.  You are given a genre and key words/props you must incorporate into the video.  48 hours later your project is due.  Everyone then votes on the best video.  I’ve seen videos that have come out of these competitions.  Some are great.  Many are terrible.  The worst ones are the pretentious shorts made by ‘film students’.  Boring.  Not entertaining.  Just plain shit.

Jen and Harry gave me warning that their video sucked.  It was actually an entertaining short video.  Short.  That is key.  Other videos were way too long and seemed to drag on and on.  I’ll focus on the worst ones, since they are fun to bash.

The first short that was screened had this black guy standing in a desolate-looking industrial setting.  Then a fat white guy in a gas mask would occasionally pop up.  The narration was playback from a voice recorder.  TERRIBLE.  It was really embarrassing to watch.

Another team that entered the project was an actual studio in SF that Jen used to work with.  They had a 20+ person crew with actual 3-d effects.  Same thing.  Pretentious chalked full of serious over-acting.  It started out in a bar, and there was this ‘cool edgy’ woman with tats talking to an Indian girl at a bar.  Turns out the edgy woman is a fairy killer.  The worst part of the video was that they tried to make it edgy.  Embarrassing.

The ones that were entertaining were those that didn’t take themselves too seriously.  A group of high school students submitted a short about a bug exterminator.  They ended up winning.  Another solid video revolved around a Western-style showdown with a ghost.

After the screening, we headed back to the city in search of food.  There were only a few places within walking distance of the apartment, so we decided on a burrito restaurant.  $6 for a burrito that lasted 5 seconds.  Damn my appetite.

day in the city

I said goodbye to Harry before he cycled to work.  Jen was going into work late, so she decided to get breakfast with me.  Before leaving, she took me up to the roof of their apartment.

We went to eat breakfast at a local diner on Mission Street.  It was packed.  This place had a interesting rule:  No cell phones.  Great.  And free refills on coffee.  When the bill came, we did the awkward jig of who was going to pay for it.  She insisted on picking it up and wouldn’t let me pay for it.  Very generous hostess.

I got my stuff together and said goodbye to Jen.  I headed downtown to get fitted for a tux because my cousin’s wedding was coming up in another two weeks.  The next few hours were spent cycling downtown and through the wharf area.  I had the rest of the afternoon to kill before meeting up with John, my old VP at Cartoon Network who was now at Lucas Arts and kindly hosting me for two nights.

John worked at the Presidio, located just south of the Golden Gate, so I decided to hang out in that area.  After getting coffee, I walked to a park full of cedar trees and enjoyed the warm weather.  There were a few pet owners playing with their dogs in the park.  A man with a Labrador retriever threw a ball in my direction.  The ball rolled up to my feet, and the man smiled at me.  10 minutes later, it happened again.  The man was either a pickup artist or had bad aim.

Around 6 PM, I headed over to the Presidio to meet John.  I was excited to see John after he sent me an email while I was in Seattle.  He’s a tall guy.  Around 7 feet.  I knew a hug was coming, but I didn’t want my head to be buried deep into his chest.  I tried to devise a strategy to add on a few inches to my height.  Maybe stand on an incline?  Stairs?  By the time he walked outside, I had come up with no strategy, so I decided to just stand on my toes.  I would have loved to see what the hug looked like in third person.

We put my bike into his car and headed to his home just north of the Golden Gate.  John warned me that the house would be cramped and I’d have to sleep on the couch.  No worries.  To me, a couch was luxury.  “We had to downsize the house due to San Francisco real estate prices,” he told me.  We pulled up to his house.  The obviously humble John lived in an awesome house.  The view from the back (complete with swimming pool and fruit trees) was priceless.  It overlooked the entire bay area, and you could see the outline of the city.  And the house was plenty big.  Jennifer, John’s wife, gave me a big hug and immediately made me feel welcome.  Then I met all of John’s kids:  Charlie, Owen, Victoria, and Eliza.  I didn’t feel too bad with my big appetite because everyone around me was bigger.  And I knew John could put away some food.

fun family time

John and Jennifer adopted me into their family for the weekend.  John, the kids, and I headed to the park for some football and soccer action.  Like a cool guy, I tried teaching Victoria and Eliza some tricks with the ball.  They weren’t interested.

And then it was time for some football.  John played on one foot due to an injury.  It was me, Eliza, and Victoria versus Charlie, John, and Owen.  We crushed them.  I celebrated in the end zone by spiking the ball.  I looked back victoriously with my hands in the air.  Everyone’s backs were turned to me.  No one was watching.

We got back to the house and played a bunch of swimming pool games.  I felt like I was 10, and it felt good.  Later that evening, John and Jennifer went to have dinner with some of their friends from Lucas Arts.  The kids and I watched Lord of the Rings.  We competed to see who could guess the upcoming lines.  Owen kept cheating.  He would grunt and growl when orcs came on the screen.  Sure enough, we heard an orchestra of grunts and growls.  The worst part was that the kids all counted those sounds.  Cheaters.  They even guessed ‘battle sounds’ of swords and arrows.  Cheap.  Really cheap.

back to the city

Before John and his family headed down the coast for vacation, I was able to get a ride back to the city via automobile.  When packing up the car, Eliza told Jennifer, “He was the nicest one of Daddy’s friends.  He actually talked to me.”  Jennifer relayed the message to me, and it made me sad to say goodbye to all the kids.  I had a lot of fun, and the experience made me excited to see my family.  Before leaving, we all jumped in the air for a final photo (well, except injured John).

I said goodbye to John in town and made my way to meet up with Tony, a friend from Conyers that went to a nearby high school.  Tony met me outside his apartment located in the Tenderloin District.  He didn’t take pride in living in that district.  I guess it’s the dirtier part of town.

Tony greeted me with a smile and a hug.  I went in for a kiss.  Woops.

“Uh, the elevator is broken, so we’ll have to haul your stuff up the steps,” he said grinning.

“What floor do you live on?”

“The top floor.”  I looked up.  Damn.

finger in the butt

We unloaded my stuff in his apartment and then got something to eat at a pizza place nearby.  After eating overpriced pizza, we headed back to his place.  We walked up to the building’s front doors behind two old men.  The older guy must have been 80+, as he had trouble making it up the steps.  His friend, a guy that appeared to be in his late 60s, turned around and smiled at Tony.  He then proceeded to laugh lightly.  Odd.

The 60-something whispered into the older guy’s ear.  His hand then slipped down the older guy’s back and cupped his butt.  The index and middle fingers then collectively formed a rod of skin and bone that then entered the older man’s crack.  What was going on???  The 60-something continued to drive his fingers further up the older guy’s butt.  Was this happening?  This guy’s entire hand was practically in his ass.  I didn’t react.  I just stared.  I then looked over at shocked Tony.

The old man giggled and giggled.  The 60-something then looked back to Tony and smiled.  Interesting.  This guy was using some pretty aggressive pickup tactics.  We hurried up the steps to Tony’s apartment.

I was hoping Tony lived next to the two men.  I would be leaving in two days.  Tony wouldn’t.  And Tony would probably run into them again.

city of homeless

I had been to SF before, and the city was fully of homeless people.  This visit was no different.  Tony and I walked around the city for a few hours and were constantly approached for money.  The city’s inhabitants must grow immune to the beggars of SF.  Otherwise, you’d quickly go broke if you gave money to every person that approached you.  An easy way to avoid being approached was to avoid eye contact and make the homeless invisible.  But that seemed dehumanizing and I was hesitant to do it.

One guy was trying to sell a Christmas wreath.  Note it was late August.  But at least he had a product.  Something unique to offer.  Tony was curious to see how much it was and made eye contact with him.  Of course the guy jumped on the opportunity.  I asked him how much.  “Twenty-five,” he said.

“Sorry.  I don’t have it,” I said as we walked off.

It didn’t end there.  The guy followed us for two blocks.  We gave him an opportunity, a glimmer of hope to make a buck, and like a shark to blood, he went into a begging fury.  It was terrible.  One local told the guy to ‘leave them the fuck alone’.  I ended up sprinting for a block to escape money-lusting man.

The rest of the day we spent walking around the city.  I noticed gay men raping Tony with their eyes.  Man, it felt great to be an ugly cyclist.  Tony was getting all the attention.  And gay guys are very different than those in Atlanta.  The guys in SF are incredibly aggressive.  Due to the large gay population, I guess guys assume every other guy is gay.  Or the water in SF makes you really horny.

On the way back to Tony’s, we ran into a female friend of his.  He introduced me, and I had a lot of trouble with her name.  I kept repeating it and getting it wrong.  It was more than two syllables.  Something foreign.  Not like Jenny or Kelly.  Finally I just mimicked how it sounded in a mumble.  She smiled and nodded, obviously tired of repeating it.

They were making small talk when I interrupted with, “So how do you guys know each other?”

A moment of awkward silence.

“We know each other from work,” Tony said.

“Oh, you guys work together?” I asked, stupidly ignoring the uncomfortable body language given off by the two of them.

“No, not really,” Tony said.

Woops.  I quickly changed the subject, finally realizing they had a history (confirmed later by Tony as we walked off).

packing the bike

The next day Tony went to work, leaving me alone in his apartment.  I wanted Tony to take me with him to work, but I didn’t want to embarrass him again.

The day was spent breaking down my bike and trying to stuff everything in a bike box.  I called a few bike shops to try and find a spare bike box.  One shop wanted to charge me $15.

I biked a mile to the north end of the city to get a box from a shop.  There was no way I would be able to cycle back with the box in hand, so I had to walk the bike back.  Pain in the ass.  A lot of wind.  I hit a few pedestrians with the box by accident.

Boxing my bike and all my stuff took me 2.5 hours.  It would only cost me $80 to carry my bike on the plane, and I wanted to make sure I got all my stuff in the bike box to avoid additional luggage fees.  It was a little sobering to be packing up my bike after spending so much time on it.  The trip was actually coming to an end.

When Tony got home, he quickly noticed I got bike grease on the carpet.  White carpet.  Shit.  I felt like an asshole.  It was dark, and I had been careless.  I had tried packing my bike in his tiled kitchen, but I guess I had been a klutz.  I went to buy some carpet cleaning stuff.  Like a good guest, I watched Tony clean it.

tony got a job at KFC

My last night before returning home.  Tony and I decided to take a walk around the city.  He pulled out his solid black New Balance shoes and put on his swishy nylon pants (it was chilly that night).  And he put on a big shirt.  He looked ridiculous, but so did I.  I was wearing the same shirt three days in a row.  But I was OK with that.  I had gotten used to being an ‘ugly guy’.  I was just glad to have some ‘ugly guy’ company.  I even wished I was wearing convertible pants.

We walked a few blocks in silence.  Swish, swish, swish.  If Tony was talking, I couldn’t have heard him.  His pants were loud.  Swish, swish, swish.  Finally, Tony looked down at his shoes.

“Dude, I think I’m going to take these shoes back.  They look ridiculous,” he said, sticking his feet out.

I laughed.  A lot.  It was great that he was verbalizing something I didn’t want to say.  Who knew if he was really sensitive about his jet black New Balances.  He kept criticizing his ugly guy shoes.  “I look like someone that works at Burger King or KFC.  They wear solid black sneakers.  I don’t know what the hell I was thinking when I bought these.”

I took a picture of him in front of his workplace.

We walked the city and looked at the ‘beautiful’ sky line lit by the downtown buildings.  Then we walked around Little Italy and got some pizza.  We laughed.  We smiled.  It might as well have been a romantic date.  We even got a fresh cinnamon bun at a bakery.  Smiling ugly guys at a bakery.  On the inside we were both really sad.  Tomorrow I would be gone.

We went back to Tony’s place and settled in for the night.  An ugly guy doesn’t kiss and tell.

airport

I had a few options to get to the airport.  A) Push my bike box to the BART, SF’s local rail system, and pay $12 to get to the airport.  B) I can pay for a zip car and beg Jen to drive me to the airport.  C) I could pay an airport shuttle $20-25 to take me and my bike to the airport.

I called Jen to get her input regarding the zip car option.  She said she was able to get a truck and had no problem taking me to the airport.  Awesome.  Very hospitable.

The next morning Jen drove over to Tony’s.  I said goodbye to Tony.  Long hug.  Jen and I drove off.

Two minutes later, we got on the interstate.  Bumper to bumper.  There was no way Jen was going to have the car back within the allotted hour, so she called Zip Car and asked for additional time.  Not possible.  Someone had the truck booked after her slot.  Damn.  We had less than 20 minutes to get to the airport and get the car back to the parking lot.  It wasn’t going to happen, and I didn’t want Jen to get charged an extra $50.  Looks like I’d be riding the BART to the airport.

A car in front of us slammed on brakes.  Jen did the same.  The power brakes kicked in and we slid to within an inch of the car in front of us.  I heard a loud collision behind us.  I looked back, but Jen was already speeding off to the exit.  The woman in the car behind us was waving her hands angrily in the air.

She sped to the BART station in the Mission District and dropped me off.  Jen slipped the zip car money back in my pocket and hugged me goodbye.

The bike box was heavy.  I resorted to sliding it on the cement.  I would later realize the chain ring had been poking out through the bottom of the box.  Three of the chain ring teeth were ground down to the nub.

I pushed my bike for what seemed like a mile to the airport terminal.  I was excited to get to the gate.

I boarded the plane and sat down.  I had nothing to read.  No video game system to play.  No DVD to watch.  I had my iPod, but I had already listened to the songs  hundreds, if not thousands, of times.  I was OK with sitting there.  Doing nothing.  I was mostly thinking about how to surprise my family.  The only person that knew I was coming home was my dad, who was picking me up at the airport.  The five hour flight passed quickly.

Novato, CA to San Francisco, CA – The Final Ride

unnecessarily long ride

While staying at Curtis’s house, I had ordered two Schwalbe Marathon tires to replace my old bald ones.  I was anxious to get back on the bicycle after being in Novato for a few days, but I was happy I didn’t have to be paranoid about getting a flat on my final ride.  I said goodbye to Curtis and his friend Arden.

Google maps said that my ride would only be 25 miles if I took 101 the entire way.  Well, that wasn’t really an option since 101 was a 4-lane freeway.  ‘Bicycles Prohibited’ signs were located at the entrance ramps to the freeway.  When I approached the ramp and saw one of the signs, I shrugged it off and decided to wing it.  All I really had to do was stay off the freeway and cycle southeast.

Wrong.  What I didn’t realize was the amount of waterways I would have to cross before getting to the Golden Gate Bridge.  After getting through the town of San Rafael, I looked at my GPS and turned it off in frustration.  It was just a huge clusterfuck of roads without any hint of terrain.  The most annoying part of this ride was the huge ass hills that would pop out of nowhere.  I would rather go a mile out of my way than to cycle up 250 feet only to come speeding back down to the base of another hill.  Needless to say, that was exactly what happened for the first 20 miles.

Later I told myself ‘no more hills’.  If there was a hint of an upcoming incline, I would make a turn to avoid it.  This didn’t prove very advantageous to me, as I ended up cycling the entire peninsula of Tiburon, which added on another stupid 5 miles to my ride.  When I completed the ride around the peninsula, I had to come back…to where I started. Frustration was on the rise, and I had to make it to San Francisco before 6:30 PM.  That’s when my hosts, Jen and Harry, were leaving to go to a 48 hour film project screening.  I also wanted to cycle up to the headlands to get a good picture of the Golden Gate.  It was 3:30 PM.

head-on collision

After a few more frustrating miles, a local cyclist gave me some solid directions to the bridge.  I made my way on the crowded bike path towards Sausalito.  I was going about 14 mph when I approached a family on stupid looking rental bikes.  They were all in single file and following bike path etiquette until a young girl started swerving back and forth for her own enjoyment.

BAM!  She swerved right into my front-left pannier.  I shifted my body weight downwards to brace for the impact, but she was flung off my bike like a gnat.  Looking back, it’s pretty funny how hard she bounced off me.

“Shit!” I yelled as I squeezed my brakes.  I turned around to make sure she was OK.  She just stared at me, with her legs sprawled on the bike path.  She didn’t attempt to stand up.  I didn’t know if she was in shock or just stupid.  Her parents stood there and looked at me unapologetically, as if the collision was my fault.

Again, I looked at the girl and asked her if she was OK.  She didn’t speak but nodded her head.  Her dad walked over to help her up, and I looked at her mom.  In a heavy accent, she assured me her daughter was OK.  Then they all rode off.

I was confused.  Looking around, I was hoping to see an onlooker that was as confused as I was.  No one saw it.

I watched the dad lead his children further down the path on his stupid bicycle.  He had some flag sticking off of the back that was made out of tin foil.  The other kids started weaving back and forth on the path, clueless to what had just happened.  Bastard foreigners.

golden gate

I made my final push towards to the Golden Gate and cycled through the posh town of Sausalito.  There were lots of pedestrians and rental bike cyclists on the sidewalks.  Really smart cyclists.

A mile away from the bridge, the wind picked up and was blowing hard in my face.  What was frustrating was seeing people on rental bikes pass me.  “Oh yeah!  Well, I rode from Atlanta!” I wanted to tell them in an effort to preserve my ego.  As the bridge came into view, I made a right-hand turn and cycled up a 12% grade hill to the headlands.  It was hell, but I wanted that victory shot.

I stopped at a crowded viewpoint.  A few curious people laughed at my sign and asked me about my trip.  I had been riding with a message from my cousin Kelley Howard.

The message was ‘After 5200 miles:  useless arms, terrible tan line, dateless for 5 months, stupid sign’.  I guess Kelley doesn’t like me very much.  But I did get a lot of laughs during the ride, and throughout the day, I had cyclists asking me if I had really cycled that far.  It felt great to tell them it was my final ride.

One cyclist asked me if he could borrow my multi-tool.  In turn, he took a photo of me on my bike with the Golden Gate in the background.  I doubted he would be able frame it correctly…somehow cutting off my head or putting me directly in the middle of the frame, obstructing any view of the bridge.  The victory shot ended up pretty good.  Thanks guy!

I cycled back down to the bridge and made my way across it.  On the Golden Gate, there’s an entire sidewalk dedicated to cyclists.  I could see why.  There were a huge number of speeding cars to my left.  No shoulder.  I looked at the middle of the 101.  Insane.  No median or wall to stop two 65+ mph vehicles from a head-on collision.  Just a yellow line.  I later found out the middle lanes are called the ‘death lanes’.

I crossed the bridge and entered San Francisco.  In victory, I raised my hands into the air.  No one cared.

Novato, CA

livin’ large

Curtis told me the previous night, “How long are you staying?  A few weeks?”

I laughed, overwhelmed by his generosity, and said,  “No, no…just a few days.”

“Man, you can stay as long as you want,” he assured me.  He made me feel very much at home, and it was nice to be in the company of a fellow Georgian.  Curtis told me he was going to have an ‘End of Summer’ cook-out for all his friends on Saturday, and he wanted to celebrate the end of my bike tour. His neighbor Cathy and her daughter Ashley came over to help us with some yard work to prep for the cook-out.

car show

Everyone in Curtis’s neighborhood is pretty sociable with one another.  Homeowners tend to congregate in the cul-de-sac while their kids play out in their front yards.  John, one of the neighbors, had an old car in a show that weekend, so we all went to downtown Novato to give him some support.

I walked up and down the street looking at cars, not really knowing what was what.  “Whoah, this is a 19XX model,” someone would say.  “Look at that finish!”  I would look, nod, and say ‘cool’.  I have zero knowledge about vintage cars (or all cars at all for that matter).  They’re just not interesting or impressive to me.  For me, they’re hunks of metal to get me from Point A to Point B.  I couldn’t care less what year it was manufactured or how many horses it has under the hood.

Curtis told me John’s car wins an award whenever it is entered into a contest.  Even though I knew jack shit about his car, it did look pretty sleek.

bolinas, a town of annoying kewl wannabe’s

Curtis felt like getting out of Novato and going on a day trip to somewhere interesting.  The destination:  Bolinas.  Bolinas is a town tucked away in a lagoon 10 miles to the northwest of the Golden Gate Recreational Area.  Its ocean waters are home to some of the highest concentrations of Great White Sharks in the world.  The people of Bolinas don’t like their place thought of as a tourist location, so the locals notoriously tear down street signs that lead to the town.  Jared, Bob’s roommate in Arcata, warned me that they’re pretty malicious to outsiders.  He told me that one time he camped on the Bolinas beach, and a few locals banged on his tent and yelled for him to get out of there.  He didn’t go anywhere.  They were just acting like dicks and trying to get a rise out of him.

Cole, Cathy, and her kids all came with us.  Trapped in the tiny back seat of Curtis’s SUV, I started getting nauseous on Route 1 once again.  Thankfully, Curtis let me drive the rest of the way.

We all went to the one restaurant in town.  The food was great, but everything was at a premium price because all the ingredients were organic.  And they were the only restaurant in town.  Just looking at the servers and the people at the restaurant reminded me of Atlanta’s Little Five Points, and not in a good way.  This was the ‘kewl’ spot in this area, where people wanted to look like an artisan, vagabond, or musician.  It was pretty annoying and came off as pretentious.

Our waitress was terrible and had a huge attitude.  I guess she has the liberty to treat customers like crap because there is nowhere else to eat in town.  That and she looked really cool and different.  Curtis has a big personality and likes to joke around with people, so naturally he joked around with the waitress when she came to the table.

“Let me guess your name…is it Bertha?” he said playfully.  I wasn’t sure how the name Bertha popped into his head.  When I think of that name, the big fat fish from Mario comes to mind.

“Oh, is that a cheesy way to find out your waitress’s name?” she said with her back to him.  She was getting some drink pitchers for another table, and Curtis was just trying to get her attention so that he could make a change to his order.

She had some other bitchy remarks throughout the rest of the meal and flaunted her unadultered pretentious attitude.  She brought Curtis wine when he asked for beer (I don’t know how that happened), and she insisted that he was in the wrong.

After dinner, we all went to the beach.  I wanted to sit down with some grungy hipsters and talk about the local indie music scene but later decided against it.

stalkers

Curtis’s friend Diane invited us to a chocolate party at her house.  Sounded good.  Jude and Sean, the stalking duo I stayed with in Eugene, Oregon, were headed back home from San Francisco and stopped by to see me in Novato.  Curtis insisted that they go to the chocolate party with us.

We walked into Diane’s house and saw a table full of chocolate.  Everything in some way involved chocolate in the recipe.  After a few hours of talking and eating, nearly everyone felt disgusting.  I felt like I had to have a salad just to let my body know I wasn’t in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

It wasn’t until a few hours later that the headache subsided and I agreed to go play a game of tag outside with the neighborhood kids.  The game had some sort background story revolving around monkeys and gorillas.  I can’t really remember how it was relevant, but all I know is that I whooped some ass in tag.  I started to get really into it, and at one point I had to tag all four kids before they touched base.  The last kid was about to hit base with their foot, so I stupidly made a dive to touch their ankle.  I guess I forgot I was on asphalt.  The kids were laughing, and my hand was bleeding.  And I didn’t make the tag.

cookouts

That weekend, Curtis had a huge cookout for all his friends and neighbors.  About 80 people showed up, and Curtis was able to feed them all for around $100.  Pretty good.  Ribs, vegetables, potatoes, steaks, desserts, and drinks.  When people showed up, Curtis would announce them as if they were royalty.  When some of his shyer guests arrived, he would announce them and offer a piece of background information on them.  That way, his more talkative guests would have some starting point for conversation with them, leaving the shy guests unable to retreat to a corner and remain awkwardly silent.

Two days later, Curtis, his friend Arden, and I were all invited to another cookout at Jean-Luc’s house.  I felt like I was getting the royal treatment in Novato.  It was easy to talk to people once they found out where I was from and how I got to Novato.  It felt good to have a story define who you were in that moment.

There was a French kid there that thought giving peace signs was still cool.

browned

Later that night, I made my special dish.

Yo Curtis and Arden, you got BROWNED! (Note that Curtis is too busy for browning.  He’s all business.)

Bodega Bay, CA to Novato, CA

sad ride

After stuffing my face with a complimentary breakfast, I said goodbye to Cesar and headed east on Route 1.  My 45 mile ride that day would take me to Novato.  There, I was planning on staying with Curtis, a guy I had yet to meet.  Curtis owned a market back in Conyers, and when my parents went in to sell some of the vegetables out of the garden, they mentioned my bicycle trip to him.  He told them he’d open up the doors of his home to me if I traveled through.  When my parents told me this, I was in Montana and didn’t think too much of it.  I figured my route was probably far off from Novato, and the timing wouldn’t end up working out.  Well, my ride would actually take me by Curtis’s house on the same day he is flying in from Atlanta.  Destiny.

I was a little anxious about the day’s ride.  It was going to be my last big scenic ride without being in a huge metro area.  The ride was actually pretty nice.  There were farms nestled in between the steep hills of the bay area ‘desert’.  The road didn’t give me much of a shoulder because huge flowering weeds covered the side of the road.  It was painful not because of the weeds but because of pollinating insects that were colliding against my face.  I tried getting closer to the middle of the road, but Route 1 had too much traffic.  I closed my mouth and suffered through it.

“what the hell?”

The ride was a sad one for me.  I spent the first few hours thinking about the trip and what I had learned…about what Eoin and I had learned.  ‘Flow like water’.  I had been thinking about something to ride with on my bike board, but I didn’t want to ride with a joke.  I wanted to cycle with a message of substance, but those usually end up being embarrassing.  Oh well.  I wrote a meaningful message and dedicated it to Eoin.

I didn’t realize it, but when I was writing the on the board, I was standing beside a sign that had arrows pointing left and right.  I had already written the message:  Keep an eye out for purpose and flow like water.  That was the thing I wanted to keep with me after the bike tour.  It had relevance to nearly all the decisions I made on my trip.  And I believe it dictated a lot of Eoin’s decision-making as well.  The street sign only confirmed that I should ride with it.  Eoin, this one’s for you, my guy.  Sir Eoin of Grosch.

I still felt a little embarrassed about a “deep” message on my bike board.

While taking a picture, a lady in a car pulled up to make a turn.  She rolled down her window and yelled with a thick country accent, “What the hell?”

I walked up to the car and raised my eyebrows.  “What the hell are you doing?” she said.

I was confused.  Was this message to Eoin offensive to her?  Should I put my shirt back on?  “Oh, I’m just taking a picture,” I stuttered with a stupid boyish smile.

“Oh, I thought you were stuck.  OK then,” she said as she pulled back onto the highway.

What a weird way to go about asking someone if they needed help.  And why did she think my bike was stuck in grass?  It’s not like I was sinking into a mud pit or yelling from a Burmese tiger trap.  My bicycle was propped against a street sign.

flat on the freeway

After cycling through the town of Petaluma, I returned to Highway 101.  But the 101 didn’t look like the highway I was cycling on through Northern California.  This was a damn freeway with 4 lanes on each side.  I had looked at the map and didn’t remember an alternative route.  I decided to take a risk and quickly cycle the 9 miles to the Novato exit.  If I got caught, it probably meant a $100+ ticket.

Ever since getting my last flat in Oregon, I had become paranoid of either getting another flat or blowing out my tire.  I had stopped at some bike shops, but they didn’t have the Schwalbe Marathon tires I wanted.  I started thinking about all the shit I was riding over on the side of this dirty ass freeway.  It wasn’t but a few minutes later that I felt my wheel wobbling.  I didn’t want to look down because I knew what happened.  I had ridden through some glass 500 feet back, and it probably worked its way through the cracks in my bald tires.

I only had 1.5 miles to go until the exit.  I tried hopping off my bike, quickly pumping up my tire, and riding it until the tire was flat again.  I didn’t this until I was breathing hard from all the quick movements.  It was hopeless.

I pulled over next to a barbed-wire fence and threw down my helmet in rage.  The sun was beating down on my black jersey, and the sound of speeding cars was only pissing me off more.  It was deafening.

Still pissed off and dying in the heat, I slowly peeled off the tire.  As I was doing this, a car passed me and I heard a laugh.  This wasn’t a normal laugh.  The bastard took so much enjoyment out of my struggle that he had to laugh like Nelson off The Simpsons.

“HAAAA HAAAAA!” laughed the driver.

I ignored him.  As I went to go get a tube out of my bag, I looked over at the Holiday Inn across the access road and saw an employee enjoying my suffering.  What is wrong with these people?  During the entire flat repair, he just stared and sipped on a cold beverage.

Happy the repair was done, I got back on my bike and made my way into Novato.

homeless guy that has lots of sex

Curtis wasn’t flying into San Francisco until midnight, so I had to find somewhere to hang out for a few hours.  I cycled around town looking for a cheap place to eat.  I saw a shirtless guy covered in tattoos walking around, so I asked him where a  ‘cheap but good place to eat’ was.

“Dude, nothing is cheap around here, but man, there’s a $14 buffet down the street.  It’s off the damn chain,” he said.  He was putting off some cool guy’ vibes on me, trying to impress me with his kewl words from the 90’s.  He looked like he was from a Limp Bizkit video.  Keep rollin’, rollin’, rollin’, what?

“Oh, nothing else?” I asked, hoping to hear the words Pizza Hut.  I wanted a $5.99 buffet.

“Well, there’s the McDonald’s, but man, you should check out the buffet,” he said.

I felt pressured to go to this all-you-can-eat buffet simply because this guy kept pushing it.  I thanked him and cycled off, headed towards the McDonald’s.  $14 vs. $3.  McDonald’s won.

I propped up my kickstand-less bike on a tree and walked in.  Stares.  Lots of them.  I guess the people inside had never seen a guy in tight cycling shorts.  There were some 13-year-olds making fun of me in the table area.  Bastards.

As I was about to order, the Limp Bizkit guy walked in.  I was busted.  I felt guilty and ashamed for choosing McDonald’s over his recommendation.  He smiled at me knowing I had gone with the cheaper option.  I went on to make some terrible small talk.

“So are you from here?” I asked.

“Yeah, born and raised.  I am not working right now and live in the bushes by the water tower,” he said with confidence.  “Dude, you should check out the public pool after you eat.  I go there every day.  Lots of fucking hotties,” he said.  This guy had no filter.  Other people in line were blatantly eaves-dropping.  Or maybe it wasn’t eaves-dropping since he was talking so loudly.

“Oh, really?  That’s cool,” I said, feigning interest.  I didn’t want to go to a swimming pool with this guy.

“Man, And I’m still pullin’ in the hotties.  Tons of them at the pool.  I just bang ‘em out in the bushes.  Every day,” he said smiling.

This guy was Fred Durst.  He kind of looked like him too.  I exited conversation by going up to order, but he did some bumbling cool guy handshake with me before I left his company.

I ate my $3 extra-value meal and watched the McDonald’s manager kick out the group of loitering teens.  Ha Ha.  I spent the rest of the afternoon drinking coffee at Starbucks.

backyard stranger

Curtis had told me I could hang out in the backyard of his house until he got home.  I pushed my bike into his backyard and sat at a picnic table for three hours until he pulled up in his car.  The entire evening, I was paranoid that I wasn’t in Curtis’s backyard.  I had written down his address, but it had been quickly scribbled.  I was just waiting on someone to come outside and freak out about me being there.  That or a suspicious neighbor calling the cops on me.

I walked around to the front yard as Curtis and his two sons, Cole and Curtis Jr., hopped out of the car.  Curtis was pumped to see me, even though I had never met him.  He instantly made me feel at home and showed me the bed I’d be sleeping in.  Awesome host.

Curtis had worked for Food Network hosting his own TV show.  Evidently he was a pretty big food celeb.  I could understand why.  He had a pretty big personality and was incredibly charismatic.  A few of his accomplishments included having a show on PBS and publishing a book.

We spoke a while about organic gardening and his market back in Conyers.  After an hour of converstaion, he insisted I go to bed and get some rest.  “We can rap in the morning,” he said.

Fort Bragg, CA to Bodega Bay, CA

cheater

I cheated.  I cheated bad.  I’m a bad boy.

Cesar offered for me to stay an extra day.  “Sorry Cesar, but I’ve got to get back on the road.  I’m planning on meeting someone in Novato on the 12th,” I said.  Cesar was obviously disappointed.  He had told me he enjoyed my company and doing stuff because he was a workaholic.  I wasn’t.  I didn’t have a job.  Cesar wanted to be me.  And I wanted to be Cesar.

After a few minutes of thought, Cesar looked as if a light bulb had gone off.  “Hey, I have an idea Ryan.  I will drive you to Bodega Bay.  I will get a place.  Come on…it will be fun,” he urged.  Man.  That was a lot of Route 1 to skip, but by then, I was getting tired of being on a bicycle…especially on Route 1.  It was nonstop up and down.  Nothing was flat.

I agreed.  Cesar was happy.  He jumped and clapped his hands together giggling through his teeth.  Well, I wish he did that.  In a flat voice, he said, “Good.”

I felt like I was cheating on my bicycle.  I was nearing the end of my trip, and I didn’t want to regret riding in a car just to save some calories.

jude and sean, my stalkers

Jude and Sean, the couchsurfers I stayed with in Eugene, had told me they were driving to San Francisco to see Depeche Mode that weekend.  They decided to drive through Fort Bragg and see me on the way down.  Sweet.  It would be a big couchsurfing get-together.

Sean and Jude drove to Fort Bragg from Willits, a town 35 miles to the east.  They had stayed with a friend of theirs.  His name was also Cesar.  Yes.  It was perfect.  I wanted to have a Cesar vs. Cesar cage match.  When they showed up with their Cesar, it was obvious who was going to win.  He had tattoos, piercings, and a pick-up truck.  My Cesar hated getting dirty.

My Cesar had to work, so the rest of us went to eat breakfast at Cafe 1, a diner that served over-priced organic food.  Yum yum.

Afterward, we hung out at a beach in Mendocino waiting for my Cesar to get off work.  When he did, I introduced him to Sean, Jude, and their Cesar.

look at those dogs…man…look at those dogs.  they’re crazy.

There was a point at the beach where everyone was staring at two dogs playing.  This was some of the filler conversation:

“Wow, those dogs are crazy.”

<laughter and forced smiles>

“Man, those dogs…look at them go…in that water….crazy dogs.”

“Those dogs…”

All of this ‘filler’ was an attempt to break up the awkward silence that had swept over all of us.  My Cesar had become creepily quiet around all of them, which ended up silencing everyone else.  I didn’t know what to do, so I just stared at the dogs too.  My Cesar looked uncomfortable.  Was he only outgoing around cute cyclists with pretty eyes?

Later, Jude and Sean asked us if we wanted to caravan with them down Route 1.

carsick

The ride down Route 1 to Bodega Bay was torture.  Yes, the scenery was great, but Cesar drove incredibly fast.  The road was constantly winding up and down.  It was like being on a 2 hour roller coaster.  I kept looking behind us worried that Jude and Sean were miles and miles behind us.  It was only 10 minutes into the ride that I felt like throwing up.

“Cesar, can you drive a little slower?” I begged as I held my mouth shut with my hand.  Vomit came halfway up my throat, but I was able to force it down.

“Sure Ryan,” he said.

5 minutes later, he sped back up…obviously impatient with the slow pace that I asked from him.  And I asked him again to slow down.  He slowed down, only to speed up minutes later.  This went on for 30 minutes until I decided to throw out a bunch of “ughs” and “aghs” every minute or so to ‘remind’ him.

All of us celebrated getting to Bodega Bay and said our goodbyes.  Cesar, again, was awkwardly quiet.

dinner

Cesar and I decided to get dinner at one of the few restaurants in town.  We walked into the posh restaurant and heads turned.  We looked pretty stupid.  I was in my mountain shorts with a tee-shirt and unkempt facial hair.  My sockless feet with New Balances didn’t help either.  What was even more stupid looking was the fact I was with a short Costa Rican with a pony tail and club clothes on.  Cesar looked fine, but as a pair, we looked really stupid.  One guy looked our way and whispered to his trophy wife.  She turned her head to look our way  and laughed.  There was no discretion on her part.  Whatever.  I didn’t give a shit.  We sat down and got the same thing from people at surrounding tables.  I thought it was pretty funny, so I gave a big fat stupid smile with all teeth to those I caught looking my way.

During dinner, there was an odd couple in the back corner that was doing some sort of meditation at the table.  Every minute or two, their hands would be touching, palms against one another, and they’d close their eyes whispering something.  It wasn’t a prayer because, well, a prayer doesn’t go on for 5 minutes.  I couldn’t help but pull out my camera and take a picture.

There was also a stupid young couple out on their ‘anniversary’ date sitting behind us.  They were dressed up in really formal attire, but they were hanging spoons off their noses and giggling loudly.  When we got up to leave, they looked at us and made it a point to loudly laugh our way.  Damn.  Good thing I wasn’t in high school or I’d go cry myself to sleep.

Fort Bragg, CA

really nice guy

I cycled through the residential area of Fort Bragg to Cesar’s home.  Most of the houses in Fort Bragg were small and quaint.  No McMansions.

Cesar’s house had a nice garden in front with a bunch of flowers.  He was waiting for me with the door open, so to get in his good graces, I complimented him on his yard.  I wanted him to be my friend.  Be my friend, Cesar…Be my friend!!!  Cesar’s house won some Fort Bragg award for the prettiest yard.  It went well with my pretty eyes.

Cesar asked me if I wanted to go eat lunch, but I told him I had just eaten at a Mexican restaurant.  He was a little let down because he wanted to take me to his favorite place to eat lunch:  Taqueria de Ricarda.  Woops.  I told him I could force down more food, and I caught a glimpse of a smile from Cesar.  He was happy again.

I asked him about the picture of the beautiful woman of the 80s hanging up at the restaurant.  He said, “Oh yes…Ricarda.  She is very, very nice.”  Woops.  I felt like an asshole for laughing at the picture.  He went on to tell me a story.

“See this chair?  It saved my life.  I was fixing something and suddenly fell to the ground.  My side hit the corner of the chair, and I went to the hospital.  The doctors looked at my side because it felt like I broke a rib, but they happened to find a cancerous tumor.  The chair had a purpose.  It saved my life,” he said with his hand on the chair.  I wondered if standing on the chair would bring me the same luck, but he would probably think I was being an asshole.  He continued, “After my surgery, I was very sick.  Ricarda brought me lunch every single day, and she was very kind to me. “

Damn.  Ricarda had a beautiful bod and soul.  I was in love.

I didn’t want to let Cesar down, so I stuffed my face again with some tacos.  I saw Ricarda and said in an annoying voice, “I’m baaaaaaaack!”  She was confused.  She was wondering what the hell I was doing there with a local.  Cesar explained in Spanish.  I nodded and said, “Si, si.”

After spending the afternoon with Cesar, I quickly learned that he was a really nice, hard-working guy with a huge heart.  He was born in Costa Rica and moved up to the Bay area at the age of 20 to find work.  Since then, he’s been working in the posh town of Mendocino, 9 miles south of Fort Bragg, at the Moosse Cafe.  He told me how rich some of the customers were that came into the restaurant.  The town was chalked full of million dollar homes.  I assumed that Fort Bragg was the ‘working class’ town that provided all the service employees for Mendocino.

Cesar saves a portion of his income from the Moosse and sends it back to Costa Rica to support his parents and siblings.  Really nice guy.  He also travels to the small village of San Antonio in Colombia every year and contributes his time and money to rebuilding dilapidated homes.  He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper with a list of soccer jerseys he was getting made for all the children in the village.

Damn.  I thought I was staying with a saint.  And it wasn’t like he was openly volunteering the information and sounding the trumpets announcing his good acts.  I kept asking him about this and that, which led to more stories.  He was very humble when I complimented him on his good deeds.

some time off in fort bragg

At the time, I was on track for hitting San Francisco with two and a half weeks of down time.  I wanted to slow down my ride and spend some more time on the coast.  I asked Cesar if it was OK if I could stay another day, and he immediately said yes.  In fact, he wanted me so stay 3 or 4 days.  Damn!

The next day, I drove Cesar to work in his car.  It felt a little odd driving a car after being on a bicycle for 5 months.  In fact, on the way to the Moosse Cafe, we passed Sasha and Tim, the two touring cyclists I met in the Redwoods.  I felt guilty.  They were struggling against the wind while I was in a car.  I honked and gave them a thumbs-up, hoping to throw a little positive energy their way.

Cesar asked me to come to the restaurant around 2 PM to eat lunch.  I hesitated after seeing the menu.  Expensive.  But Cesar really wanted me to enjoy the food that the locals raved about.  I conceded and figured I could swallow a $20 expenditure.

The food was great.  Cesar insisted I order a burger, side salad, and a dessert.  I’m sure the people dining there were wondering what an ugly bearded guy in a ‘Montana Western’ shirt was doing there.  I waited for the bill, but it never came.  Cesar took care of it.  He told me to ‘just leave a tip’.  I started worrying about the tip.  Should I tip him a lot for picking up the bill?  How much is enough?  I didn’t want to look like an ungrateful dick.  I gave him a $5.  I felt like an ass, but that’s all I had.  I decided I would buy him breakfast to make up for it.

After Cesar finished his shift, we left Mendocino to go back to Fort Bragg.  The next day, Cesar’s coworkers thought he had picked up some hot guy with pretty eyes and took him back to his place.

He did.

romantic date night

That night Cesar  and I went to watch the sunset at Laguna Point Beach.  We were two grown men watching the sunset together.  There were about 50 seals sitting on an outlying rock at the point, so I decided to climb over a bunch of slippery rocks to reach them.  20 minutes later, I realized it was a stupid plan and there was no way I was getting across the rocks as the strong tide rushed in and out.  I clumsily made my way back to the pier.  I came to the last rock I had to clear to get back to land.

I slipped on an algae-covered rock and fell in.  Stupid.  I watched the rest of the sunset wet.

After watching a romantic sunset with Cesar, I felt like I had to prove my manliness by renting a really bad action movie.  The movie was Dragonball Z.  Terrible movie.  I was cringing the whole time, embarrassed with my action movie selection.  Meanwhile, Cesar was reading stuff on his computer.  He was uninterested in the shitty movie.

manuel

One of Cesar’s friends, Manuel, came over late at night and stayed in Cesar’s bedroom until 5 AM.  Interesting booty call, considering Manuel was in his low 20s.  In the morning, Cesar told me that Manuel had been coming over the past few weeks because he was having nightmares.  Hmm.  I had nightmares but didn’t want to share my sleeping bag with another man.  Or maybe I did.

Manuel’s friend had recently committed suicide with a gun in right front of him, and ever since, Manuel has not been able to sleep at night because he keeps reliving that moment.  Cesar has been keeping him company and letting him come over.  Nice guy.  Cesar even bought him McDonald’s.  Nothing intimate going on as I initially suspected…just more saint-like behavior.

pee in the toilet

Due to my small, crappy bladder, I had to wake up every couple of hours to pee.  I found out that no one in the house flushed the toilet.  I was worried that they didn’t flush because it would wake everyone up.  Or maybe they were really big into water conservation?  I didn’t know whether to flush or hold my breath and suffer through it.  A toilet full of three men’s smelly urine tortured me as my pee entered the acidic, dark yellow abyss.

I almost vomited as some urine splashed out of the toilet onto my bare foot.  Disgusting.  I flushed it.

glass beach

The next day, Cesar decided he wanted to show me a spot in Fort Bragg called Glass Beach.  Up until the 70s, a huge junkyard dumped trash into the ocean without worry.  This deserted parking lot used to be home a lot of garbage.

After decades of dumping glass bottles into the ocean, the trash washed back up on the beach in the form of small, colored glass pebbles.  The small beach was covered with small bits of brown, blue, white, and green shards.

Cesar and I enjoyed another sunset with the multi-colored glass pebbles shining in the sunlight.  Romantic.

Standish Hickey Recreation Area, CA to Fort Bragg, CA

two hot shirtless guys with a third wheel

I woke up to the sound of Anson packing up his sleeping bag.  I got out of the tent, peed, and crawled back inside.  “Maybe Anson will see me go back to sleep and he’ll do the same,” I thought.  Nope.  Stupid thought.  Gordon had joined him in packing up.  I guess we’re going to start early.

After two unsatisfying bagels and an apple, we all agreed to head over to the small store across the recreation area.  It was already blazing hot, and the sun was piercing down on Gordon and Anson’s hot bods.  They usually rode shirtless.  How did I know?  They didn’t have an ugly tan line like myself.  I caved to the unsaid peer pressure and removed my jersey.  Brown arms and hairy white torso.  I was the ugly one.  I imagined being in a bar with them.  All of the girls had to befriend me, the third wheel, before taking one of these hotties home.  I was the ugly fat girl that demanded a pickup artist have a wingman for the fat girl sacrifice.

I went inside the small convenience store to get coffee.  Inside, there were a bunch of older guys filling up their paper cups.

“I gotta fill up before the big drive today!  Headed to Arcata,” one of guys said, shaking his head and smiling.  I had just cycled from Arcata the previous day on bicycle.  He was in a car.

“Yeah…I came from Fort Bragg today,” the other guy said, trying to get some sympathy.  That’s where I was headed.  They knew I was on a bicycle.  I imagined all of this was contrived, a planned strategy, just to tease the tired cyclist.

Actually, they probably didn’t even care about me.  I wasn’t important.

riding back over the coastal range

I hadn’t been looking forward to turning onto Route 1 and riding back over the coastal range.  That and I was cycling with Anson and Gordon.  Would they like me?  Would I be too slow for them?  Did I annoy them?  LIKE ME ANSON AND GORDON…LIKE ME!!!

We started the morning off with a pretty brutal climb.  Anson and Gordon were fast, but I managed to stay with them.  My heart felt like it was ready to explode out of my chest.  The 100 mile ride to the recreation area had really pushed my legs, and the only nutrients they had were from Nutella and bagels.  Pretty pathetic.  My body hated me.

After a 3 mile climb to the summit, we descended pretty quickly to the base of yet another climb.  This time my frail heart was prepared, and I ascended without a struggle.  I did let out an occasional ‘AGGGGGHHHHH’ when we would make a turn and continue to see the road go up.  There’s nothing as mentally defeating as being tired, making a turn, hoping the road flattens out, and seeing it continue to ascend for another mile.

In the middle of the ride, Anson asked me what I was going to write on my sign.  I had remembered seeing a few cars pass me the past week with ‘Just Married’ written all over them.  Really annoying overly happy people celebrating their love.  I was jealous.  But it gave me an idea for the board.  “How about ‘Just Divorced’?” I asked Anson and Gordon, looking for their approval.  They laughed and said I should draw the bells too.  It was settled.  The message was dedicated to my friend Roger Burggrabe back in Atlanta.  He’s not divorced.  He’s just got beautiful eyes.

The first driver that passed after the message was on the board slowed down and yelled, “Yeah man!  You’re free!  You’re free!  Me too!”  I laughed and gave him a thumbs-up.

“Yeah man.  We’re free!” I yelled, playing along.  He thought he was bonding with a fellow divorced guy.  I dared not tell him the truth:  I was a single guy wanting to find love and a wife…maybe even have a few kids with pretty eyes to play in my front yard with a white, picket fence.

The sign continued to get more reactions.  Tons of honks from guy drivers and cat calls from passing babes.  Out of all the messages I’ve ridden with, this one got the most reactions by far.

On the final descent, the Pacific Ocean finally came into view.  It was the first time in weeks I was able to see the coast on a clear day.

The ‘wows’ and ‘oh’s’ soon came to an end when we found out that Route 1 was full of quick descents and even quicker ascents.  It was nonstop, and there wasn’t much flat road.  Bullshit.  The worst part was descending quickly into a sharp turn and going once more up a hill with all momentum lost.  I kept thinking a car traveling far above the speed limit was about to ram me off the cliff just to my right.  There was no shoulder.  The white line was our home.

We stopped at a ‘Kampground of America’ for a break 5 miles into riding on Route 1.  KOA’s are overpriced camping spots that I refused to stay at during the entirety of my tour.  For me, my bike, and my tent, it would cost $25.  Ridiculous bullshit.  They had all the amenities any red-blooded American would want on a wilderness camp trip:  showers, junk food store, heated pool, wifi, and a restaurant.  RV parks are the same way.  After a night of stealth camping, I’d often ride by them and show them my middle finger.  Of course, no one saw me, and if they did, I was just a weird guy on a bicycle with an odd anger towards harmless campgrounds.

Anson and Gordon bought some overpriced snacks, and we went on our way.

ricarda, a woman of the 80s

Tired and hot, we cycled into the town of Fort Bragg.  Now that we were in a small town with more traffic, I was getting tons of honks and thumbs-up due to the sign.  More guys kept yelling ‘yeah man’ to me out their car windows.  Should I have told them I was ‘Just Divorced’ because I liked men?

We were on the hunt for a place to eat lunch, and after stopping at three ‘locally recommended’ restaurants that were closed, we arrived at a little Mexican place called Taqueria de Ricarda.  It was a small place that was packed with locals, and it was warmer inside than outside.  What I loved about this place was its decor:  a portrait of a beautiful woman of the 80s.

I later learned that this was Ricarda, and she was a very caring, giving lady…not to mention sexy.  She brought us our three ’super burritors’, and we all quickly devoured them.

After lunch, I said goodbye to Anson and Gordon.  They were headed to Mendocino, a few miles south of Fort Bragg.  There, they were meeting a friend of theirs and working on an organic farm.  I was going to stay in Fort Bragg a few days with my couchsurfing host Cesar.  Before we parted ways, we took the standard jump shot with my bike board.

Arcata, CA to Standish Hickey Recreation Area, CA

11 am and 100 miles

The previous night, I had kept telling Bob and Alex that I had a huge day of cycling the next day and should probably turn in early.  That thought eroded quickly as Bob came home from band practice and told me, “I think you should send out an email and go out.”  I shut my laptop and went out with him.  I had been working on the blog for nearly 5 hours that day trying to type in detail my journey down the Oregon coast.  If I didn’t do it then, then the small nuances of my rides would slip away from my memory forever.

Needless to say, we got home late, so I decided to just “leave when I leave” the next morning.  The plan to start cycling at 6 AM was dead.  I ended up leaving around 11 AM, which was not good for my intended 100 mile ride to Standish Hickey Recreation Area.  I decided to leave my goal up in the air that day.  Humboldt Redwoods State Park was only 55 miles away.  If I was really tired, I’d just stop there.

I got on my bicycle feeling great.  My knee was not giving me any more problems, and I had a renewed energy from my day off in Arcata.  It also helped that I had a slight tailwind.  After traveling 10 miles on the 101 south from Arcata, I went through the moderately-sized town of Eureka.  My brief ride through Eureka gave me a view of every chain imaginable, and it made me appreciate Arcata that much more.  In all honesty, I’m sure I would have fallen in love with Eureka if I had spent more than 30 minutes cycling through the city limits.  One guy with long dreadlocks did give me a highfive as I cycled by him.  I didn’t look cool and rad, but I felt cool and rad.

quaint burly beanie guy and a petite monster coffee girl

30 miles into my ride, I decided to stop for a sandwich and coffee.  I figured I would need the energy because 100 miles seemed very doable, especially with no headwind.

I stopped on the sidewalk and looked around, scouting for a decent place to eat.  I had asked some locals where a good place to eat lunch on the cheap was, and they suggested a nice-looking Chinese restaurant.  It looked a little too nice, so I headed down the street to look for something else.  There was a large, red-haired bearded guy sitting outside a coffee shop and knitting beanies.  He didn’t look like he should be knitting beanies, but, rather, he should have been making fun of a gay, ugly cyclist like myself.  Maybe while chopping wood with a blue ox.

I pointed inside and asked if the coffee shop was a good place to eat.  “Yes.  Why yes it is,” he said in a meek, soft voice.  He stared at my bike and asked, “Nice ride?”

I didn’t understand the question.  He said it so softly that I didn’t hear the inclination in tone to emphasize an interrogative.  I thought he was complimenting me on my ‘nice ride’, as if I was leaning against my 1965 Fastback Mustang with my arms crossed at the gas station.

“Thanks,” I said.  I realized he didn’t mean that.  I wasn’t cool.  He was asking me about my damn ride.  Idiot.  “I mean, oh, yeah it’s going great,” I stuttered.

He nodded and continued to stare as he knitted quickly.  I walked into the coffee shop, still confused by what had just happened.  The awkward aura of the knitting burly man had just collided with the awkward aura of an ugly cyclist and created a huge awkward explosion.  But the pedestrians continued to walk by and not notice the stupid situation which was happening only in my head.

I was greeted by a petite blond girl at the coffee shop.  She was all smiles until she saw I didn’t tip her on my card.  Her face melted off and I watched in horror as huge fangs emerged from her once cute mouth.  Mammoth, monstrous wings busted out the back of her shirt, and she hovered above me spitting fire and scorching my receipt, leaving only the ash of the line where I should have written down a tip.  She was angry.

That might as well have happened.  Her human bitchiness was the equivalent of some B-flick monster.  I asked her for cream, and she intentionally gave me a container with only an ounce of cream inside.  I smiled and asked for more.

She had an evil grimace on her face and actually made me feel bad for asking.  She slammed down a carton of cream on the counter and walked away.  I thanked her and sat down.  I was scared to look her way in fear of turning to stone.  I could hear the hiss of the snakes on her head.

I got out of there after finishing my cup of coffee.

redwoods highway

I felt like a machine after Fortuna.  I was Fred Flintstone as my legs formed blurred circles below me.  I was able to enjoy the ride and take in the scenery.  Most of the highway followed the South Forks Eel River to the southeast, but it wasn’t a consistent grade.  Big, rolling hills filled the day.

The Redwoods gradually gave way to grassy hills, and the yellows of the grasses popped sharply in the late afternoon sun.

I was at 75 miles before I sat down for the first time.  After getting a few supportive honks, I was ready to get back on the bicycle.

I went another 15 miles before I really started to feel it.  The air was hot, and my stomach was ready to devour itself.  Up and down.  Up and down.  Fatigue was setting in, but I was less than 10 miles to the state recreation area.  I pushed onward and finally got to my destination.

gordon and anson

I started setting up my tent as soon as I got to camp.  Sundown was approaching, and I wanted to enjoy a bagel and $0.50 shower before falling asleep.  The hiker/biker camp was in a pretty wide open area next to the bathrooms.  All the passers-by stared at me in curiosity as they went to unload their bladders, but none of them approached me.  Bored of standing alone, I made conversation with one of the nearby motorist campers.  The conversation was boring and ended up revolving around the weather.

Lonely and tired, I soon heard the familiar clicking sound of a chain and cassette.  I eagerly looked around hoping it was touring cyclists.  And it was!  I clapped my hands giggling, my mouth forming an O-shape, and jumped up in the air 4 inches repeatedly until they saw me.

I introduced myself as they pulled up to camp.  I was a wide-eyed annoying cyclist that was way too eager to talk to someone.  Gordon and Anson were their names.  They were friends from high school and were touring from the east coast, specifically New York and Boston.  They were also ending in San Francisco.  It was good to see other cyclists doing a similar Trans-Am route.  Anson just graduated and, after spending some time in San Francisco, was continuing his adventure by flight to Mexico City where he would see his brother.  Gordon, a soon-to-be teacher, was meeting up with his dad in San Francisco and flying home.

After speaking with them for a while, I made my way to the shower.  After getting clean, I walked back to camp and was greeted by the smell of cooked food.  I had eaten my dinner: an apple and two Nutella bagels.  Shitty.  I tried maintaining eye contact with Anson as I fought off glancing at his food.  I didn’t want him to see my wandering eyes and feeling guilty that he was eating in front of me.

We spoke a while before I retreated to my tent.  Anson and Gordon just rolled out their sleeping bags with no cover.  I should have done that.

Redwoods National Park to Arcata, CA

depressing weather yet again

I woke up to the sound of Sasha, Tim, and Simon leaving camp.  Simon, the young Swiss cyclist, was the first one out.  I just sat in my tent not wanting to move, but the sun was beaming into my tent and scorching my face.  I climbed out of my tent and quickly packed up while eating a bagel and dodging the clouds of mosquitoes.

I went to the restroom and didn’t get to say goodbye to Tim and Sasha before they left.  I was hurt.

The clear, blue sky that I woke up to was all but gone.  In its place was a cloud, dark, somber sky.  Depressing.  I rode out alone and in tears.  The town of Orick only amplified the melancholy mood.  It was full of trailers and really old, unkempt buildings.  I felt bad for Brad and Aaron, the two cyclists traveling unloaded down the coast.  They stayed in a a shitty motel in this town the prior night.  It wasn’t even worth stopping to get a cup of coffee.

free hugs, free homo

My friend Trish wanted me to ride with the message ‘Free Hugs’.  I didn’t know what reaction to expect from drivers, but I followed through with the message anyways.  Initially, I got a few honks and waves.  OK.  Cool.  Maybe this was going to be a positive experience.  I stopped at a rest station to enjoy the view.  A burly guy with a goatee walking two huge dogs came up to me and said, “I’ll take one of those hugs.”  We embraced.  I giggled and blushed.

And then I got called a homo by a fat guy on a motorcycle.  Somehow I knew it wasn’t all going to be positive reactions, but I was OK with that.  I was on the 101 when two Harleys surged past me.  One of them turned his head and yelled out, “FREE HOMO!”  I would have been so pissed if he wasn’t so right.  I cycled up an exit and a truck full of male teenagers pulled up next to me.  I smiled at them, but they drove away quickly.  I was a lonely homo with a hippie sign on the back of my bicycle.

arcata

I cycled needlessly up a few huge hills before descending to Bob’s house.  Bob was a grad student at Humboldt University, and his friend Alex had just arrived from Mexico to turn in his 200+ page thesis.  Bob lived with a young couple, Jared and KB, who were also grad students.  They were really into wildlife, and after going on a walk on the beach, they brought home an oil-covered Common Murre, a bird that can dive to depths of 50 feet to catch fish.  Jared’s fun fact:  The birds don’t drink water because their bodies are able to metabolize it.  Fun.

I helped them feed it tuna, but unfortunately, the bird wasn’t able to survive the night.  A lot of oil probably got into its system while it was trying to clean itself.  Poor guy.  Jared put it in the ‘bird graveyard’, also know as the freezer.  Jared pulled out another frozen bird and showed it to me.

Over dinner, I learned that Arcata is home to a lot of marijuana ‘grow houses’.  Home owners can legally grow up to 99 plants.  However, the city passed a law that required these grow houses to have permanent tenants.  Because of that, Jared told me that it’s possible to find a free place to live.  The added benefit to having tenants is that ‘bud theft’ is less likely when someone is in the home.  It’s common for there to be break-ins during the curing stage.  Thieves will just come in and grab as much marijuana as they can.  Thousands of dollars just sitting there waiting to be stolen.

Bob told me he’s had couchsurfers that just come to Arcata to try and find ‘trim jobs’.  Growers will often start newbies out at an hourly wage, but as the trimmer becomes more skilled, he will then be paid by the pound.  Growers want trimmers to work as much as possible, and Jared described these houses as sweat-shops.  It sounded shitty.

While cycling through town to get more supplies, I saw a lot of dirty hitchhikers.  One lady was sitting outside the Safeway begging for money with her two kids and dog.  Right next to her were empty soda boxes and junk food.  Depressing.  I’ve met a lot of hitchhikers on this trip, and many of them are clean, well-groomed backpackers.  But all of the ones I had encountered so far in California were dirty and groveling.

Later that night, I went out with Bob (above), Alex, and a few of their classmates to celebrate Alex’s thesis turn-in.  I was so proud of Alex.  So proud.

Brookings, OR to Redwoods National Park, CA

california

I was looking forward to today’s ride.  I would enter California and cycle through the Redwoods forest.  I ate a few bagels and an apple and made my way out of Brookings.  10 miles later, I hit California.

The ride was scenic and rolling.  Ken told me it would be like this until I passed Crescent City, where I’d begin to hit pretty big climbs as I went into the Redwoods area.  As I rode into Crescent City, I started scouting a cheap place to get a sandwich.  And then I saw it.  $2.99 meal at Jack in the Box.  You get a burger/chicken sandwich, taco, fries, and a fountain drink.  You couldn’t make it cheaper than that.

vince

I was eating my food at Jack in the Box when this really loud, cheerful guy dressed in tattered clothing walked in.  He ordered the same thing I did and told the employee his name was Obama.  He just wanted to hear her say it when she called out his order.

Seeing my bike, he walked up to me and started conversation.  He told me it was great to see young folks traveling, but out of nowhere brought up a young Canadian guy that got hit by a car in town.  Weird change in dialogue.  He then gave me a bit of advice.  Vince said, “My dad always told me to think positive.”  He cupped his hand upwards to mimic someone asking for money and said, “Some people are like this.”  He flipped his hand over, flattened it, and made a jabbing motion and said, “And others are like this.”  I guess he was saying some people go through life asking for hand-outs and others poke people with their hands.  Who the hell knows.  He was still cool.

On the way out, he told me a few generic jokes.  “Hey, a mushroom walked into the bar.  The bartender wouldn’t serve him because he was a fun guy [fungi],” he said laughing.  Terrible, but it was funny coming from Vince.

hitchhikers

Cycling the 101, I’ve seen a lot of hitchhikers on the road.  A lot of these hitchers are young kids who seem to be rebelling against their parents.  They’re all needlessly dirty and grungy.  They could easily clean up in a convenience store bathroom and even handwash their clothes in a body of water.  I guess they’re trying to put on some front.  Either way, I ran into these two annoying kids:

They were crying out for attention.  I stopped just to take a picture of them, and they loved it.  They asked me for money, and but I denied them.  The two teenagers had expensive backpacks and gear.  The pair were probably from middle class families and were crying out to have some sort of hip experience waving their ‘Tits’ and ‘Weed’ signs about.

Another pair of hitchhikers yelled out to me, “Hey!  Do you have any food?”  I stopped and gave them two apples.  Same scenario.  A lot of these hitchers are takers.  It was obvious because they wouldn’t even ask about your journey or even your name.  “Hey, do you have — ?” was the first question out of their mouths.  If you decide to hitchhike, learn how to start a dialogue with somebody without being a blatant beggar.

the mystical redwoods

The first climb out of Crescent City was a monster.  There was no shoulder, so I decided to just take the lane and force cars to the passing lane.  As I approached the top of the hill, I looked back and saw a cyclist without any panniers.  I challenged myself to not let him pass me, and pass me he did not.  I stopped for a rest at the top.  I was curious to see if it was the Mel.  Nope.

His name was Brad, and he told me he was trying to catch up to me.  “You were my inspiration to get up this hill,” he said, “but I couldn’t catch you.”  He was traveling with just a backpack and a few extra clothes.  Brad let me know that his friend was just behind him.  We looked down the hill, and we saw a cyclist walking his bike up.  I laughed and said, “That’s not him, is it?”

The other cyclist’s name was Aaron.  As soon as he saw me and Brad, he hopped back on his bike.  Man.  I wished I was on an unloaded bike.  Greg and Aaron were from Michigan and doing a two week tour of the Oregon coast down to San Francisco.  They had just graduated from school and were ‘credit card touring’.  That’s why they had no panniers.

They went on their way, and I decided to write the message ‘Trees Save Hobbits’ on my bike board.  It seemed fitting for the area that I was cycling.

The next 30 miles took me through some amazing forest and coastal areas.

And one more…

the three amigos

I finally arrived to Prairie Creek, a campground located in the heart of Redwoods National Park.  It was $3 for a biker site and $0.50 for a 5-minute hot shower.  Damn.  California camping rocked.  I made my way towards the campground and saw a few other young cyclists that had already set up camp and eaten dinner.  The hiker/biker camp was nicely secluded in a Redwoods grove away from all the other motorist camping spots.

They all came over and introduced themselves to me.  I’ve found that the camaraderie amongst touring cyclists is pretty strong, and most of them will just walk up to one another and begin conversation.  Tim and Sasha were two guys from the south that were moving out to the west coast.  The two of them had started a Trans-America tour a few months ago, but due to some tendinitis, they had to stop only 5 days into their tour.  They shared with me a pretty cool story about them getting kicked off a campground by a fat guy and his son in the Appalachians because they thought the pair were loitering at their lodge.  Now, the two of them were touring the Pacific coast down to San Francisco.

Simon, the third cyclist at the camp, was also a pretty interesting character.  The Swiss cyclist was only 19 and touring an unfamiliar place.  The guy definitely had balls.  He was telling us stories about how unbelievably hospitable Americans were to him and recanted a story of a guy in Washington who gave him $20 for lunch.  Simon was shocked to see how Americans always said ‘hello’ to one another with a smile on their face.  “In Europe,” he said, “this is not the case.”

We sat around the fire sharing a few more stories.  I really enjoyed my time hanging out with them and hoped I’d run into them again on the way down to San Francisco.

It was a little past midnight by the time I crawled into my tent.  As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out cold.