Day Mileage: 56
Type 1 fun: Stuff that's fun to do, and fun to talk about.
Type 2 fun: Stuff that's not necessarily fun to do, but fun to talk about.
Type 3 fun: Stuff that's neither fun to do, nor talk about.
This sort of trip is easily falls into type "1.5" fun. Maybe type "1.75," at parts, because I'm sore and tired, but my spirits are high.
I woke up at New Brighton State Beach this morning. I paid a (totally reasonable) $5 to camp in a communal "hiker/biker" plot, and coughed up $0.75 for a much-needed 6-minute shower. A couple of dudes (Mike, and Nathan, IIRC) camped near me, and we spent the rest of the night talking routes and exchanging pro-tips & tricks. I was mostly on the receiving end of the advice, but all in all, I seem to be doing things right.
We all got a kick out of the handywork of the local racoons. One of them thought it'd be cool to drop by and give my bike shorts a "good job" smack.
I only made it about five miles down the road toward Monterey when I decided to stop for a civilized breffus. I really wanted eggs for some reason --sort of like when a pregnant woman craves pickles and dirt. I stopped off at this little coffee shop situation just off my route. It was standard coffee shop fare... nothing to write home about on a normal day, but HOLY SHIT did I need what they were selling.
Not long after I made that sandwich disappear, I hit the road, making my way south. Though I wish it could have been longer, I want to hereby announce that 200 yards or so of my journey took place on FREEDOM BLVD. Coincidentally, just as I rolled down the road, a pack of Harlies blew by. None seemed interested in FREEDOM BLVD. Posers.
After stopping for that damn-near mandatory selfie, I swung south, and found myself surrounded by (unencumbered) cyclists. I soon realized why: I forgot to apply sunscreen. The smell of my skin sizzling is probably not unlike that of bacon, so naturally it would attract hungry, faster, creatures. Like the lion to the gazelle.
We rode together for a short stint, and parted ways when I pulled off to snag some much-need sunscreen.
I hit the road again, but I got turned around near the gas station, and wound up double-backing a weird off-shoot road to the 1. I wound up going in a big circle, not because I was lost, but because I ran into this weird old white guy wearing khakis, a white button-down shirt, while holding a blue walmart reusable bag, standing in the middle of nowhere. I mean, literally, there was nothing for miles in every direction. As I passed him, he held his glasses out about two feet from his face, nodding with this weird smile. Not wanting to see what he'd do on a second pass, I just kept rolling. That's not where the story stops, though... because about two miles down this farm road I happen across ANOTHER WEIRD WHITE GUY WITH KHAKIS, A WHITE SHIRT, AND A BLUE WALMART SHOPPING BAG. I'm not superstitious, but that was a creepy-ass omen if I've ever seen one. I'm sleeping with one eye open tonight.
About ten miles down the 1, I ran into two couples touring from abroad. One couple was from Brazil, the other from Scotland. They were loaded down pretty heavy, so I didn't stick with them too long. Maybe they'll show up where I'm camping tonight.
Eventually, I rolled into Marina, CA. The Pacific Coast Bike Trail runs straight through Marina. Conveniently, it separates from the road as a bike path for most of the way. It was smooth sailing until I felt that familiar sizzle on my arms, and decided to stop under a nice shady bridge to gulp down some water and reapply sunscreen. Not halfway through my second major extremity, a cop car stops on the road next to the bike trail. He throws his flashers on, as I just keep applying sunscreen. I got excited, thinking maybe I'd see some action, but lo and behold, he hops out of the car and asks me:
"What's up, man?"
"Not much. The sun's really out, today."
"Yeah, man. Where ya going?"
"Veteran's Memorial Park, just down the road."
"Oh yeah? What's that stuff in your bag?"
(Are you serious, dude?) "Camping gear, mostly... and some food."
"Care if I look?"
Not wanting to deal with the whole "I'll call a drug dog" song and dance from my last 2-wheeled encounter with a local PD, I said: "Go for it."
In no time, a second car showed up. One cop watched me, while the other went through my bags. Satisfied that I wasn't a drug mule, they let me go. I would normally post a photo, but I didn't want to press my luck by asking the cops for a selifie.
Once I emerged from Marina a free man, I noticed a familiar "ping... ping..." sound coming form my rear wheel. My spokes were singing the song of their people. If this trip had been anywhere less-populated, this would have been worrisome, but I wound up being less than four miles away from a shop called Peninsula Bike Works in Monterrey. Nestled in a hidden alley adjacent to the Naval Post Graduate School, the lone guy working the counter was totally helpful. He found two loose spokes, and fixed them for me in short order. I really need to learn how to do deal with this stuff on my own, but the equipment you need to true a wheel is cumbersome and specialized.
Having dealt with my in-town errands, I'm going to go to camp. I ran into a German couple (also on tour) after dinner. They said the hill up to the camp site is (and I quote) "monstrous." We'll see.
You handled that cop situation way different than I would have. Whereas you told them to "Go for it" I would have most likely muttered another phrase involving the word Go and the letter F. I also probably would have recorded the whole thing as well.
ReplyDelete-John