Ashley & David on Tour

Tuesday, Day 19. Because we knew today would be a short one, just under 50 miles, we enjoyed a relatively leisurely morning. Slept in a bit, then walked to the nearby Cafe One for breakfast. A very NorCal menu, organic, heavy on veggies; the so-called “hippie (loaded) potatoes” and the “hippie scramble” were solid. Lingered there working on the blog for the day before and writing postcards and Father’s Day cards.  Catching up a bit.

Walked back to our motel, the Oceanside Inn. Econo and basic but clean and decent and run by a very friendly South Asian man and his bad-cop wife, who evicted us from the room at 11am, checkout time, with a loud knocking and a curtly shouted “eleven o’clock!” Fortunately we were already packed up and rolled out into the cool, foggy morning on Ft. Bragg’s Main Street.

About three-tenths of a mile in, we passed the North Coast Brewery gift shop, which had a rack of clothes—including bike jerseys—out front. Ashley spied a sign on the rack, unreadable at a distance but likely indicating a sale, so we turned around. The bike jerseys were indeed being peddled at a deep discount, so Ashley couldn’t resist. Ain’t no swag better than beer-bike swag.

We rode south over gentle hills a few miles, detouring slightly to see (precious) Mendocino, then rejoined Highway 1. The ride was uneventful but spectacular: the coastal views are breathtakingly gorgeous.

We stopped in Elk for lunch at an overpriced but adorable local market, which included a loo with a view.

Right after lunch, rather unexpectedly, we hit the fiercest climb of the day, 10-12% at its steepest, looping northwest at one point into the 14-20 mph headwind. It wasn’t long, but it was a few intense switchbacks and it definitely raised our heart rates. Highway 1 is like that: relentless, punishing short climbs, followed by some smooth easy pedaling along a grassy oak-dotted bluff, followed again by exhilarating winding descents into coves, creek bottoms and river mouths that make you want to climb again, just for more of that thrill. And climb you will.

Note fog bank looming on the right.

Pulled into Point Arena around 5:30 PM. As the little town of bars, restaurants, art galleries, New Age healing supplies, and vacation rental agents unrolled along a steep descent, we paused to map our lodging’s location and to our horror discovered that we’d accidentally booked a room in Gualala, 14 miles and a few climbs further south. Fortunately Hotels.com came to the rescue, via a very helpful agent who sounded as if he was in India but despite the distance managed to cancel our non-cancelable reservation and book us a room in the actual town we were in, which turned out to be a mile off route down to a little cove and then a hideously (and heartbreakingly) steep but very short ride up to the lobby check-in.

Room was very comfy for a slightly inflated price but featured a jacuzzi and a restaurant/tap room a few minutes’ walk away with a lovely evening coveside view, a great beer list, acceptable food, and indifferent service, which however we tolerated in our happy post-ride mellow mood.

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Stats for today: 47.7 miles, 3440′ in 3:53.

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Wednesday, Day 20. After downing a couple of buttery, syrupy waffles in the Wharf Master’s Inn breakfast room and pocketing some peanut butter packets for riding snacks, we carted our bikes and gear down the two flights of stairs and took off around 9:30. Rode the mile or so back into town, where we caught Highway 1 again—and we were on that spectacular road all day long.

First stop was Gualala, a dozen miles into the ride. Already peckish again, we had a makeshift lunch from the friendly Surf Market—V8, nuts, cheese, deviled eggs, hummus. A local firefighter visited for a few minutes to compliment us on our hi-viz bike jerseys, flourescent knee warmers and flashing tail lights. We saw some backpackers headed north, one with a cat on a leash(!).

Another dozen miles in we stopped again, at the Stewart’s Point market, ostensibly to pee and get water, but naturally we were tempted by treats: a raspberry pie brownie (David) and a chocolate milkshake (Ashley). We sat outside on sunny benches talking to another pair of tourists, a Seattle couple riding from home to Palo Alto to watch their son graduate from Stanford. Turns out that Cliff and Nelda had camped one night near Mike and Christina, the father-daughter duo we met in Rio Dell, and last night with our German friend Kristof, for whom they had made dinner. There’s something very heartwarming about these connections: bike tourists who share a highway for a few days or a couple of weeks form a kind of temporary family, or at least a little network of temporary friends. After lunch, Kristof pedaled by us once more, hastening to catch the Seattle couple to give them his email address.

Getting passed, once again, by Kristof in his tennis shoes.

We also met a few other travelers while sitting outside the market. One was a gruff-looking but sweet-natured older motorcyclist wearing tattered Carharts and opining about those who drive too fast on the road: “on any California rode you have to expect to come across bicyclists,” he said, and he was clearly mystified by those too impatient or too reckless to slow down and enjoy this beautiful place.

Then we met a retired man and his grandson, whom we’d seen leaving Gualala. They were riding a motorcycle and carrying a little trailer, meandering with deliberate slowness from Idaho to Texas, where the boy—thirteen years old—would return home to his parents, having spent a month seeing 11 states with his granddad. The kid was surprisingly into the trip, seemingly aware of the incredible opportunity he was being given. His granddad, a cheerful and enthusiastic talker, explained that from Texas he’d carry on until September; he unrolled a map of the US with his route laid out with great precision.

He’d cover all 48 states in the continental US, taking his time, seeing memorials and historically significant sites, chatting with locals, and fraternizing with fellow passersby on the patios of little markets in small not-quite-even-towns all across the country. This chap, whose name we never got, was a delight and an inspiration. We all left at the same time; he waved a big wave as he disappeared over a hill we were climbing a little more slowly.

Fort Ross, early 19th-century Imperial Russian outpost north of Jenner.

The other highlight of the day was the road itself, the endlessly interesting and dynamic Highway 1. There’s a reason this is widely regarded as one of the great road trips in the world, a bucket list journey, 655 miles of mostly splendor. It’s even better, we think, on a bike. There are no huge climbs, just one after another, each a little different. The engineers who designed and built this epic expressway created a thing of beauty, and even when one is humping a heavy bike up a steeper stretch it’s hard not to be a little amazed.

The thrilling winding dips, the sharp turns that become new climbs, the long knuckle-whitening descents are spectacular. And all the while you’re playing peek-a-boo with the Pacific. Southern California gets a lot of love, but the north coast is a marvel. The coastline is indescribable; we hope our pictures will do it some justice.

You have to imagine the shadows of circling hawks, the calling of doves, the crashing surf, and the accompanying smells of the sea, of spicy eucalyptus trees, and that winelike tang of dry yellow grassy California , all swirling in the roar of the coastal breeze.

It was another beautiful day, blue skies forever, the Pacific fog bank keeping well offshore, a perfect temperature. It was windy, though, and the wind picked up as the day went on. A tailwind blew us along, and as the road twisted a headwind more than a few times all but stopped us in our tracks (always, of course, while climbing), and occasionally a sidewind rocked us and our bikes back and forth on the road.

After countless ups and downs, we finally arrived in Bodega Bay (where Hitchcock’s The Birds was set), our stop for the night.

Checked into the very beautiful Bodega Bay Inn and set out walking the shoulder of Hwy 1 into the town of Bodega Bay, once again in search of seafood and ale.

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Stats for today: 63.1 miles, 4,549’ of climbing, four hours and 56 minutes.

David: “It was the best of rides, it was the worst of rides….”

Ashley: “It was just the best!”

The Leggett climb is notorious among Pacific coast bike tourists, winding up and out of the south fork of the Eel River and over the southern end of the King Range, of Lost Coast fame. We spent at least two days dreading it—which turned out to be a mistake. Yes, it’s a long climb, and at some point during the triumphal descent you discover that there’s yet another long and seemingly steeper climb. Yes, there’s no shoulder and traffic can be heavy.  But it’s a beautiful cycling road, well-graded, with serpentine curves that are exciting going up and perfect going down. The forest wall of redwoods offers little vista but some shade, welcome when it’s hot—and this was the hottest, sunniest, stickiest day we’ve had.

Before Leggett, we climbed a couple thousand feet along 101 out of Garberville. We were using alarmingly low gears from the get-go, and by the time we reached our lunch stop—The Peg House, just at the base of the real climb—we were feeling overheated and out of gas. But the cop in Rio Dell had promised that The Peg House’s double fudge brownies would do the trick. So we took a long lunch break, downed half of our substantial brownies for dessert, and took off.

At Leggett, we took a right turn to join Highway 1 for the first time, the road that will take us most of the way to the Mexican border. In contrast to our expectations, this turned out to be as fun as long sustained climbing gets, and traffic was lighter than we’d feared. It’s the constant variation in grade, the succession of varyingly sharp curves, the aesthetic pleasure of a narrow and winding road, especially after bustling and noisy 101. You might have a plan to shift back and forth among your lowest gears to adjust for slight variations in the grade, but in the end you drop into the most venerable of granny gears and settle in for the long haul.

Typical of David’s view during the climb (though the picture doesn’t do justice to the grade).

Signaling the first descent.

We stopped several times to reapply sunblock and chug water—or at least sip it, since there are zero services between Leggett and just north of Fort Bragg and we didn’t want to run dry. The road is narrow and curvy, so you never know what’s about to happen, and the steepest sections were often in the bends themselves. A few passing cars and trucks chose a more dangerous moment than we would have liked to pull into the oncoming lane, but we ourselves never felt in danger — we only feared for any oncoming vehicle. But there were few if any really close calls, most drivers erring on the side of slowness and caution. Not a road you’d want to be texting, or DUI on.

Waiting at a lane-closing construction site; luckily there was only one such hold-up on the climbs.

Both the first and the second descents were spectacular, the road exquisitely banked for speed. The curves came one after another, and every one was a put-your-bike-on-its-side kind of curve. We were going as fast as any motorized traffic could, so we felt no pressure to give up the lane.

Note the fog bank, keeping well offshore

Just north of Westport, Highway 1 emerges from the interior and the mighty Pacific explodes into sight. We stopped half a dozen times within a mile or two to take pictures and to try to process the sudden splendor.

Looking south at the steep coastal cliffs you can’t not imagine San Francisco, Santa Cruz, Santa Barbara, Malibu, San Diego…. Not for the first time this trip, we were almost speechless.

We are so lucky to get to ride these roads, to smell the primeval redwoods, to feel that sea breeze day after day, to smell the salt, to live this life.

In Westport we reconnected with Kristof, a young German tourist riding from Seattle to San Francisco. We flagged him down while lunching at The Peg House, warning him to eat there before tackling the Leggett climb. He pushed on instead, but in Westport he admitted the mistake. “I’m killed,” he exclaimed, wiped out from the ride. He’s been solo for the whole trip, so suggested that we ride together to his camp site just north of Fort Bragg. Kristof—wearing gym shorts, a black sweatshirt, and sneakers, a rubber dry bag bungied to his rack—kept us moving at a brisk pace, but we stopped him twice for pictures. We took a few of him with his camera, the only ones—he told us—he had of himself on this epic voyage. “My mom will be so happy,” he beamed.

Four miles outside of Fort Bragg, having said goodbye to Kristof, we turned off Highway 1, not sorry to be done with its relentless short climbs for the day. We joined a mostly level and somewhat gravelly bike path that took us right along the beach in perfect early evening light. Starving, and racing to get into town before the brewpub closed, we were hauling tail—though we did stop to give a desperate stranded fellow cyclist a patch kit.

Checked into our basic-but-clean-and-friendly $70 motel, showered up, and walked down Main Street to the North Coast brewpub in good time for a hearty dinner and a couple of gigantic IPAs.

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The numbers for Monday: 68.8 miles, 5972′ of climbing, in 6:43. Total for Sun-Mon (days 16 & 17): 161.1 mi, 10,011′.

California’s official Avenue of the Giants stretches from just south of Eureka nearly to Garberville, though smaller groves and isolated stands continue south for another 200 miles. Much of today’s record-setting (for us) 92-mile ride took place along this touristy but delightful, shady and sun-dappled alternate route paralleling Hwy 101, peacefully pedaling along galleries of towering redwoods like columns in a Gothic cathedral.

Traffic was surprisingly light.

The south fork of the Eel River frequently popped into view, its gravel beaches and bars sometimes speckled with bathers and boaters on this sunniest of days — in short, one of our loveliest riding days, and a reminder of how lucky we are to be here, and how lucky humanity is to have these last remaining groves of very large living things.

CalTrans wants to remove redwoods from this iconic grove in order to widen Hwy 101 to accommodate larger tractor-trailers.

Breakfast came in Eureka, just 10 miles in; more guac-and-lox and another scramble at the other Los Bagels. Here we were panhandled for the first time, and offered probably sound advice from a nevertheless dubious source: a somewhat sketchy local recumbent cyclist who looked a tad like Robin Williams in his bushiest-bearded phase, but sounded all too much like Peter Lorre (“heh-heh, you want a route with less traffic? heh-heh, come to my house”). These encounters left us ready to bid Eureka adieu.

These far-northern coastal towns seem a little like their transcontinental northern New England cousins, bearing traces of extractive-industry pasts — fishing and logging– and playing sometimes a little uneasily the new role of providing services — espresso, gourmet cuisine, luxurious lodging — expected by passers-by and affluent migrants. The waterfront mills, canneries and rail yards lie vacant or, in some cases, are repurposed into arts centers, breweries (like Redwood Curtain in Arcata) and other entrepreneurial retail.

In the little town of Rio Dell, right before the redwoods, we had lunch at a local cafe called The Green Bean, a couple of paninis and–a this-will-be-a-long-day treat–milkshakes. After lunch, heading out of town by way of a memorable historical marker (picture below), we stopped to chat with a father-daughter pair of bicycle tourists from northern Virginia, Mike and Christina.

David talked with Mike, a sensible friendly guy with touring experience. Ashley chatted with Christina, recent college graduate who admitted/bragged, “I’m not much into cycling.” Also Christina: “We’ve learned to keep a lot of snacks, because I’m a real b*tch when I’m hungry.” Christina requires coffee within five minutes of waking up and can’t handle any caffeine after that; Christina has struggled on this tour. They’ve got a hard deadline for San Francisco (where they’re to connect with the rest of their family), and, Christina said, unapologetically, they had to cheat “a little,” apparently taking a 150-mile cab ride to skip half of Oregon.

A local cop stopped to chat, and to offer some friendly advice to bike tourists–how to avoid a nearby long bridge you have to walk your bike across, where to get the best brownie to power you up the notorious and daunting Leggett climb, etc. Taking his advice, we four returned to 101 for a few miles before cutting back to the Avenue of the Giants, which we followed with few exceptions for the next 45 miles.

Our new friends stopped to camp pretty soon after we met up with them, so over the last few hours of the day the shoulder was all ours. We passed through a few tiny towns (populations circa 300), but it was a relatively rural, quiet Sunday until we got into Garberville, our home for the night.

The climbing today was gentle, almost always, steady and gradual, and after a couple of rest days we felt better than ever 75 miles in. The last few miles the climbing picked up, and we were a little more relieved than usual to see our hotel come into view.

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Daily totals: 92.3 miles, 4039 feet of climbing, in 7 hours and 40 minutes.

Trip total: 947.5 miles–a little more than halfway.

Rest day(s)! We got into Arcata CA Thursday evening, were warmly welcomed by our hosts Travis and Katie Ramsey May and spent Friday doing laundry, working on the bikes, and relaxing. Bought a new rear tire for Ashley’s bike, repaired her rear view mirror, rewrapped handlebar tape, tightened bolts, lubed chains. For breakfast we devoured a couple of innovative gourmet bagels at Travis’s Los Bagels, and later borrowed Katie’s car to pay a visit to Six Rivers brewery in McKinleyville, a few miles north.

Top: guac & lox on a “slug” bagel. Bottom: housemade chorizo & egg on the slug

After all that, Travis took us to Redwood Curtain, one of Arcata’s newest breweries, located in a repurposed industrial park, where many varieties of beer are available only on tap in limited quantities, never in cans or bottles.

Afterwards, with Katie, we drove up the Mad River to the town of Blue Lake (where there is no lake) and the aptly named Mad River Brewing Co, for live “rockabilly soul” in an outdoor garden. and good food & drink.

Katie & Travis’s “Bigfoot”: a snugger home we couldn’t imagine, with the rain rattling romantically on the roof.

That evening, we made a game time decision, as the rain started to fall, to rest up 24 more hours before the next two riding days, which promise lots of long climbs (and few services) on the way to CA Highway 1. It wasn’t a hard call, given the gracious hospitality of Katie, Travis, Reyna & Zara.

David, Reyna, Zara (emoting) and Katie

Besides, Travis went deep-sea fishing early this morning and returned with salmon and halibut for dinner …

Travis prepares sashimi from the salmon he caught a few hours earlier.

The second rest day, after a savory breakfast at T’s cafe, we walked into town to mail home a box of pint glasses, used maps, and … gasp! … our cooking pot, cups, and camp stove, figuring that we can save the weight, should we camp, by stoically feasting on whatever room-temperature goodies we’re carrying, if a cafe or other eating opportunity isn’t nearby.

We took our hosts’ very well-behaved Cooper for a run in a nearby field.

Arcata’s Saturday market on the plaza was in full swing, with food booths, live bluegrass music, and plenty of dancers. We feasted on crab cake and corned beef hash benedicts, browsed a couple of bookstores (each buying the smallest lightest cheapest paperback we could find that we wanted to read: Henry James for David, PG Wodehouse for Ashley). In classic bike tourist style, we’ll be tearing the pages out one by one as we read them.

Ashley borrows Jasper for some power-lounging on the lawn (but he’s no replacement for Lassen and Patxi).

Showered, bikes tuned up and partially packed, we relaxed on the Mays’ front lawn in the Saturday afternoon sunshine with a kids’ party raging across the street, complete with inflatable bounce house. What a great neighborhood! The second such party in as many days!

Tonight, Reyna and Zara at Girl Scouts camp, we finished off Travis’s salmon sashimi and halibut skewers, then the four of us went out to have Humboldt Pie for dessert and a nightcap plus pinball at Dead Reckoning Tavern, Ashley & David thinking all the while about the summits awaiting us tomorrow, and tomorrow …

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The 78 miles from Crescent City to Arcata, our first day on the tour entirely in the Golden State, also earned us the most feet of elevation in a single day, just about 400 feet shy of a mile.

But the rewards for all that stolid low-gear grinding were considerable: beautiful mostly empty beaches, piled high with huge silvery driftwood logs; the sounds of crashing surf and barking seals; vistas across rocky bays to distant capes and ridges; and the Del Norte redwood groves, through which we rode avenues lined with trees the length of battleships.

We paused at the world-famous Trees of Mystery to buy postcards and marvel at three visiting school groups from Portland climbing all over Paul Bunyan and his blue ox Babe.

Today gave us probably the roughest roads of the trip so far as well, especially along some scenic coastal drives that provided occasional relief from once-again busy Hwy 101. Coming out of Crescent City we climbed gradually but steadily more or less all the way to Klamath, sometimes with no shoulder, always with the ominous rumble, over the left shoulder, of some load-bearing rig.

After Klamath, more climbing, through one construction zone after another. One flagger sent us through, while holding up the cars, which was very peaceful until we met, simultaneously, the asphalt-laying tanks and the pilot truck and its attendant caravan. After that we descended briskly through new, sticky, hot asphalt. Had to stop to clean all the debris collected by our tacky tires.

Lunch was nuts, cheese, a pre-made packaged sandwich, and Cokes, sitting curbside in front of the Orick general store.

After, we crossed the Klamath river, climbed more, and eventually refilled water bottles in Trinidad. The coastal track past Trinidad included several gravel stretches as the price of an epic view, and the Hammond Trail from there to Arcata, a hiker-biker-horse path, surprised us with an 8% gravel climb which we triumphantly managed, high-fiving as we panted at the top.

We rolled into Arcata at 7:15 or so, met by our friends, their two little girls, and two neighborhood kids. Eventually cleaned up, deposited our bikes in the garage and our bags in the camper that would be home for a couple of days. Enjoyed a delicious home-cooked meal and local microbrews with our tremendously thoughtful and hospitable hosts, Katie and Travis, Reyna and Zara, and then to bed.

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Day 14: 77.9 miles, 4756′ of climbing, 7 hours and six minutes.