City cycling.
It's only fun if you're not actually
trying to get anywhere.
It doesn't help that everything is in Spanish.
I shouldn't be surprised, California
was part of Mexico once.
Until [as my friend Nick says] 'The US
came and stole it!' Nick mimed shooting invisible California's with
pistols, with associated 'bang bang' noises.
Now whenever I see street signs that
start with 'San' 'Los' or 'Las' I get an involuntary image of a
cowboy Nick swaggering around in riding leathers, shooting cactuses.
[Though my imagination is PG rated,
because I doubt the US shot cacti when they took over].
“And what's with all the Del Mar's?”
I asked Sydney after Nick had put away his air six guns. “Every
town since San Francisco has had a Del Mar road, boulevard or street.
I think there is even a town or a suburb I passed somewhere called
Del Mar.”
“I think it means 'near the ocean' or
'of the sea'.” Sydney explained.
“Oh.” I thought about home and how
everything ends in 'up'; Gelorup, Dardenup, Dalylup. Doesn't it mean
'near water'?
People like to name things after water.
San Francisco disappeared from my wing
mirror on the 20th of June. It's the second of
July....meaning that I spent twelve days getting to Los Angles. My
cycle computer tells me I've done 470 miles, which
is....urgh..um...about 720 kilometres right?
No. The internet says 756.39
kilometres....so I wasn't that far off. [Don't push me ok, I'm still
suffering from my last maths lesson. I ran out of the room crying
hysterically].
The road south of San Francisco has
been more intense. Not physically. The terrain slacked off
considerably with few awful hills and a humongously strong tail wind.
Nope, the road has been great. The issue for me has simply been:
Cars.
You always know you're in trouble when
you come across a road that is named after the Prince of Darkness.
I mean, people don't name the lane way
that heads through a rose garden 'Satan's Way' do they?
'Seven Devils' road' back in Oregon was
a long steep road that dipped and rose like the chest of a
hyperventilating hypochondriac during an outbreak of swine flu.
Anyway as I left San Francisco I had to
cycle a road called 'Devil's Slide'.
As the name would suggest it wasn't a
happy little bit of tarmac lined with daffodils and pansies.
Devil's slide is Highway One at it's
most sinister. It goes into a steep five hundred foot climb, not a
problem in itself, but it does it without any place for a cyclist to
ride. As in, no verge. At all! Again not too much of an issue, until
you add a single north bound lane and single south bound lane. Then
laughing in cruel amusement the Devil clogs the road with swift,
impatient, rush hour traffic.
It was that day that I decided anyone
driving black overgrown utilities needed to be taken out and run over
by a thousand bicycles.
Slowly I slogged up the rise with cars
zooming by next to me. It wasn't a cool day and I was hot and tired.
I was sitting just in off the edge of
the road when a black overgrown truck blasted his horn as if to tell
me to get off the road [though I had nowhere to go] as a second car
was coming North in the far lane, Mr 'black overgrown utility' over
took me with barely a centimetre between us.
For those that don't know what it feels
like to have someone almost hit them because they couldn't be
bothered to slow down: the feeling isn't awesome.
Unfortunate for the rest of the rush
hour traffic instead of getting scared like any sane person.
I got Angry.
Really Angry.
Watching my mirror I waited for enough
of a lag in the traffic. Made sure they could see me in plenty of
time.
Then I rode out into the middle of the
lane and cycled there instead.
Because that is what one does when they
are on a busy one two lane road and they are truly irritated.
It had the desired effect. The traffic
in my lane slowed down, jammed up behind me. When the road was safe
they pulled out, into the far lane and overtook me with lots of
polite space between me and them.
“YOU. Will. WAIT!” I yelled to the
world in general. “I have a bloody right to be here and you will
wait you.....” I went on to explain just exactly what types of sons
of whores they were.
When a verge reappeared I graciously
went to the side and allowed all the polite and slightly baffled cars
to pass.
Which, in hindsight probably wasn't the
most clever thing to do really.
I was watching them in my mirror I made
sure they had enough time to see me and slow down.
But still.
It wasn't the last time I would vent my
rage on this particular leg of the journey either. Whilst riding
through strawberry farmland I heard a clack of nails on the road
behind me. Turning my head I caught sight of a dog roughly the size
of Shetland pony, tearing towards me. It's hackles were up, and I
noted distantly, that it's teeth were huge.
You had to feel sorry for the poor
animal really.
“GETONBACK!” I roared at it.
The dog's sprint slowed to a confused
wary trot and it actually glanced over it's shoulder to see if it's
mates were coming too. I could hear the other dogs barking from the
driveway but they didn't follow.
It growled at me and barked again, but
there was a lack of true feeling in it.
I waved a threatening hand. “GO On
Home.” I yelled.
Clearly confused the animal retreated a
little.
I remounted, ready to cycle off. But
the dog made as if to run after me. So I turned my bike around and
rode deliberately towards it.
“Follow me and there'll be trouble.”
I promised it firmly.
The dog decided that I was chastened
enough and retreated meekly to its' yard.
I think something about the constant
close contact with lots of heavy traffic has made me unnecessarily
aggressive.
Or maybe I'm just used to the calm
quiet of Northern California and Oregon. In the South of California
time caught up with me. Gone was the quiet little towns existing in
their time bubbles of long ago. Gone was the long empty roads winding
through silent hills by the sea.
In its place raging freeways, over
populated suburbs and gimmicky tourists traps posing as towns.
Ooooh that was harsh.
Ok it's not that bad.
It was pretty. People were still friendly, if an alarming number of
them seemed to be a few volleyball nets short of a beach.
To be frank the reason I'm being so
critical towards southern California because everyone is always
telling me how it's the 'best place in the world'.
Which is....actually pretty funny.
These unfortunate bastards think a
beach is a place you share with five thousand other people. They
think a holiday involves spending every cent you have on paper
weights and t-shirts with the name of the town you visited scrawled
across it by some ten year old in China. And they are convinced that
if you put an amusement park right by the ocean that it will somehow
improve the ambience.
Why am I being so mean?
I can't help it.
I'm sorry south California but you just
aren't as good as you seem to think you are.
So I left San Francisco; the place
where people wander around doing their shopping in the nude.
“Is it legal?” I asked a stranger
as the naked couple strolled by us in the centre of the city.
“It's disgusting!” The man
exclaimed unhelpfully.
“Don't they get a ticket or
something?” A girl in the hostel wanted to know when I recounted
the event later that night.
“....where would they stick it?” I
pointed out. Then we spent the next ten minutes pretending we hadn't
all had the same distasteful mental image.
I left San Francisco went over Devil's
slide, got caught up with all the traffic and ended up in a little
campground called Half Moon Bay. Spent the evening chatting to a
couple of boys from Utah. Two boys my age and their dad who had
cycled from....Portland I think [inland Oregon]. We were sitting
around a campfire talking when a figure erupted from the darkness
yelled:
“BAH!”
and vanished into the night.
All five of us jumped a
foot. The old bloke who had got the fire going for us shook his head
and informed us that you really shouldn't do that type of thing to a
Vietnam veteran.
The next day, after being
inspired by my new Utah friends. I declared I was going to do 60miles
to New Brighton Beach.
60Miles is 96.56
kilometres [thankyou google].
I had bought a new cycle
computer [lost the other one under Golden Gate Bridge]. The guy I got
it off said that if I wanted him to put it on for me, it would cost
$15. Filled with trepidation I decided to program the darn thing
myself.
Surprisingly I followed
the instructions and the device [notorious for being impossibly
complicated] worked perfectly for me. I know, I'm awesome you don't
have to tell me.
Filled with confidence I
charged off in the morning. And finally reached New Brighton at 7pm.
And I was absolutely
starving!
63.26miles, my new cycle computer told
me. I programmed it to be in imperial because it made life easier.
It was a warm day. I stopped about four
times to reapply sunscreen and still got a little singed. I have the
silliest tan lines every now. Tanned fingers. White hands. Brown arms
with sleeve lines and glove lines on my wrists.
I went through farmland by strawberry
fields full of Mexicans bent in half and the smell of jam. Saw the
first of many porta potties.
Porta Potties. [Portable toilets]. It
is as though the people of southern California have some sort of port
potty surplus. They are in fields, by beaches, in golf courses, near
sports fields or often just sitting around in the middle of nowhere.
Don't get me wrong, for a cyclists
there can never be too many toilets in the world. But often where I
would expect someone to build a permanent bathroom there is it's
place a porta potty. Or there is a shell of bathroom with a porta
potty inside.
“Should we put the plumbing in?”
“Nah we'll just whack a porta potty
in there.”
If you own a porta potty business this
is the place to be....for some reason?
Toilets aside, I reached Santa Cruz and
promptly got lost amidst all the sideshow junk they've stuck on the
beach. Why is there a roller coaster on the shoreline? And a casino?
And I don't know, a pier covered in tourist traps? Isn't being at the
beach enough?
It was colourful. Old hippies strummed
guitars. Latino and African American boys stood in lazy huddles
looking arrogantly self assured. I noted with some fascination how
everyone was on a bike that perfectly matched their personalities.
Hobos on rusted over mountain bikes. Young boys trying to look tough
on black beach combers with Harley style raised handle bars. Young
women on pastel coloured graceful beach cruisers [single speed
bicycles with the wide handlebars-popular in the seventies and
eighties] College students on artfully dated looking road bikes with
steel fenders. Everywhere I looked people were distilled to a more
pure aspect of themselves and had a bicycle to match.
So interesting were the people that I
ended up with twelve miles to go and no idea of where I was.
I met a girl.
She told me where I was, where I needed
to do in order to be where I was going.
Then she told me that she had cycled
from BC to San Francisco last summer in the company of two German
boys. She said it was one of the best things she's ever done [she
didn't specify if it was the cycling or the two Germans or both]. Now
she's finished College and is trying to get her comic books
published. And she was going home to watch Dr Who.
I think I would have married her. A
cyclist how writes comic books and watches Dr Who! There can be more
perfect a human than this? I think there could not.
Reluctantly I left her to return her
library books and carried on.
Even with several people's instructions
and vigorous study of the map it took ages to reach the campground.
Highway One gets too big near a city
and I have to fend for myself on the side roads. As my navigation
abilities are about as good as a Canadian Goose's are when the goose
is in France, I tend to find myself doing many stressful and
unnecessary miles.
Anyway doing 60miles in one day was a
stupid idea. I was so tired that after the next days ride I was an
exhausted mess. After getting to Monterey [about 30miles] I took a
day off to recover.
The ride to Monterey was awful. Head
wind, flat farmland with nothing to look at and only the snarl of
endless traffic to occupy my thoughts. It was the ugliest, boringist
stupidest day of the trip. That was the day I met that poor dog.
In Monterey I met some more
ex-soliders. Two guys from San Diego doing a bike tour from San
Francisco. Both of them were living on disability pensions from the
military. One of them had been next to a car that had been hit by a
mortar bomb. [still unsure if it is a mine or a bomb. Think it's a
bomb]. His leg and hip had deep twisted scars next to a tattoo of the
bomb that had given him the injury.
“Why do you have a tattoo of the
thing that hurt you?” I asked.
“Helps tell the story.” He
explained. They were both Marines. Or had been. Now one of them
taught music and the other lived a life of relative leisure. If these
guys were anything to go on Marines are big teddy bears. Though they
said other people they had worked with were huge scary idiots.
I was surprised when Markus told me
that he rode a scooter for a while.
“A scooter?” I asked laughing.
Markus was an impractical size for a scooter.
“Hey don't laugh they're really fuel
efficient.” He began.
“Yeah but you're a Marine.” I cried
unable to contain my prejudice. “Marines don't ride scooters.”
Then he tried to tell me that my 250
Honda isn't much bigger than a scooter.
“It is. And it looks like a
motorcycle.” I defended my bike.
People. I am discovering. Are simply
people. Where ever they live and whatever they do as a job.
The scariest thing about anyone I
think, is how similar they are to me.
I got up at noon the next day. My phone
woke me at 7.20am but I whacked it with my fist a few times and it
decided to be quiet. When I did decided to go find some food, around
four in the afternoon I found Monterey to be a cute little beach side
spot. Touristy as usual, but quaint. Without quite decided too I
found myself in yet another bookshop.
Food and books.
As long as I have food and books I'm
alright. If I don't have one or the other or both I will destroy
anything in my way to get them.
Maybe I should have gone to aquarium.
Monterey has a fancy famous aquarium.
I didn't.
Couldn't eat it.
Couldn't read it.
What's the point?
Ah I'm a terrible traveller. Sometimes
I think the reason I decided to go travelling was simply to find good
places to read my book in peace.
The next day I cycled on, carrying a
novel and two hard cover graphic novels [comic books published as
books-they weigh lots].
I ended up 30 miles south in Pfieffer
Redwoods Big Sur state park. I'd been vaguely concerned about Big
Sur.
“Oh the hills!” People told me.
“So steep!” They said.
“And the ROAD!” Acquaintances
exclaimed.
“So narrow!” They cried.
Until I was thinking I was going to
fall off the edge of a goat track, after climbing Everest sized
mountains.
Despite popular belief Big Sur was
fantastic riding. The road was wide. The traffic was polite. I even
got applause when I reached the top of one not horribly big hill.
“Good job!” A fellow smiled as I
slogged up to the hill's crest. The cliff lined coast swept off below
and before us in orange, green and emerald. It was breath taking.
Which was a bit of a problem since I was still trying to get my
breath back after the climb.
Later a woman leaned out of her car's
window, I braced myself for an insult. The woman cheered.
Big Sue is seventy miles of road that
runs right along the spectacular coast. I liked it.
It was a good place to be a bicycle
tourist.
With all the cheering and clapping I
felt like a celebrity.
I spent three days cycling it. Met a
number of bikers who had started in San Francisco. They thought Big
Sur had big hills. I kept my mouth shut and felt superior. If it
doesn't take an hour to climb then it isn't a hill.
Of course more experienced cyclists
than me probably say that if it doesn't take a day to climb then it
isn't a hill. But there is always someone who's done something more
extreme.
The land flatterned out after Big Sur.
Treeless rolling brown hills. Oh look, South Australia. Except as far
as I know SA doesn't have elephant seals. Elephant seals aren't very
pretty. They lie on the beach like blubbery, sandy, black and grey
tubes of rubber. When they move the blubber ripples in unlovely
grotesqueness. They are huge! Much bigger than they look on a tv
screen. Bigger than a cow. And they make a noise that sounds a bit
like a boat wallowing near a jetty. A sound of air and water mixing
around in a big pipe. A sort of Gullllunk Guuuulunk noise.
In the campgrounds the average size of
RV's diminished dramatically. Most people had tents and the trailers
were modest. Up north everyone was in a giant bus. Must be weather
related.
Weather is glorious.
Down to Los Angeles I stayed on the
coast. Sleeping by the beach and watching sea lions and pelicans
eyeing off small children playing in the surf.
I met the first solo woman cyclist I've
encountered on the trip. She was built like a race horse. Tall,
muscular, pretty. She'd come down from Vancouver in 21 days.
Had one day off.
“I'm just really enjoying cycling.”
She exclaimed.
She teaches full time and has a part
time job at REI. Just talking to her was exhausting. I went to bed
early. When I woke up she was gone.
As I went south the land got dryer, the
air got hotter. there were more homeless people.
Trivia question for you people.
Q: When is the best time to cycle into
a major American city?
A: Not on the Saturday of the
4th of July long weekend.
The next question is:
Q: When did Kym cycle into Los Angeles?
Well the answer is pretty obvious and
fairly stupid. Yes I did know that it was the 4th of July.
But I couldn't be bothered sitting above LA waiting for the long
weekend to be over. So I cycled into the hideous mess that is LA.
Cycling into Malibu I passed a sign: Los Angeles city limits
pop 3 795 589
I gaped at the sign and carried on.
The thing about cycling in a place that
is home to three million people is that you constantly have to make
decisions. And the decisions are never very fun.
Do I take out the nice Asian couple and
avoid being hit by that SUV or do I breath in really hard?
Do I pull out into the lane and risk
the cars or do I challenge the woman with the pram for the foot path?
Do I speed up to get passed that
surfboard or do I hit the brakes and hope the group of cyclists
behind me have good brakes too?
Do I snap that guy's door off or do I
wait until he shuts it and stops blocking the bike lane!
There was a bike lane in LA. The issue
was that there was cars parked in it! Parked cars are scary. Doors
open. People step out from behind them. They pull out.
Cars.
They really do vex me at times.
It was a great relief to get on to the
LA bike path that runs along the beach. Only that was frighting as
well.
People on rental bikes seriously need
to learn about cycling in logical straight lines. Wobbling from one
side of the bike path to the other is only acceptable when 2000000
people aren't on the path with you. And kids on trainer wheels really
need a big plastic bubble around them. Teenagers walking four abreast
across the path need shooting. And racers, cycling at sixty
kilometres an hour while 2000000 people are wobbling, walking,
trainer-wheeling on a piece of concrete two meters wide....well they
should probably slow down.
LA bike path was certainly,
interesting.
I ended up in Santa Monica's HI hostel.
The same one I stayed in last year when I flew into the country. I
had intended to go to Universal Studios or Disney land. I didn't.
Couldn't eat it. Couldn't read it.
And it was the fourth of July and
everyone I met had already been or didn't want to go. I'm not a needy
person but the idea of wandering around an amusement park by myself,
surrounded by the holiday crowd didn't appeal.
On the 4th of July I tried
to find the parade. It wasn't where I left it. So I missed it.
I bought a six dollar Captain America
t-shirt and wandered around Santa Monica attracting amused comments.
I gave up on having a 4th of
July and went to a book shop and read graphic novels in a corner
until my eyes got sore.
Then I went and drank beer.
It was one of those days that I missed
my family. Tammy and Xander would be fabulous to go to Disney land
with! Mel and Jim would have found a party or started one of their
own. Jacob and Charise would be at the beach playing volleyball and
swimming. Mum and Dad wouldn't be in the city. They'd be out climbing
a mountain or something.
That night me and some strangers ended
up having a few rather unexciting beers in a pub just down from the
hostel.
Independence day. Not a day to actually
be independent.
And that is the abridged version of my
trip to LA.
All I gotta do now is get to the
boarder.
