Leaving LA was about as much fun as
entering it. 5th of July and the city was distinctly hung
over. People wandered around in the late morning haze peering at the
world with bleary eyes. The beach as I rode along it on the quiet
bike path, was covered in trash. Apparently there was a beach party.
Oh darn I missed it.
Big trucks rumbled their way across the
sand, sucking up crap and excreting freshly cleaned sand back onto
the beach. I cycled swiftly by them trying not to get caught in the
resulting sandstorm.
The path left the beach went into the
city. Wound around a harbour. Spat me out near a channel and then
went back to the ocean for awhile.
Ended up near yet another fisherman's
wharf. Like many fisherman's wharf's there was a distinct lack of
fishermen. Apparently once a place is gentrified the people that made
it interesting aren't allowed to stay there any more.
I ate lunch by the wharf and earned
some odd looks because I was leaning against a pot plant peeling a
boiled egg.
Something about peeling a boiled egg in
public, offends or embarrasses some people. I'm not sure why.
Maybe they think I'll do something with
a boiled egg that only unfortunate women in Thailand do with ping
pong balls....
…..or maybe they just think I'm going
to spread egg shell everywhere. And I only do that in really
expensive neighbourhoods.
It gives the gardeners something to do.
Two middle aged men/cyclists stopped to
give me advice.
“We've gone to the border.” They
told me.
“Uh-huh.” I said feeling completely
unimpressed.
“We can tell you the best way to go.”
They plunged into lengthy 'go left' go
right lecture. I ate my egg and stared at the ocean and wished they'd
go away.
I had a map.
Did they think anyone could retain six
thousand directions?
I'd sort hit my limit on taking advice
from condescending cycling folk.
Just north of LA, an older spandex boy
had drifted by on a two thousand dollar road bike, peered down his
nose at my bike and it's load.
I could see him thinking, 'she won't
get far with that set up.'
“Where have you come from?” He
asked.
“Canada.” I shrugged nonchalantly.
The guy looked less smug as he cycled on ahead of me.
Fuckwit.
The two guys eventually left me in
peace. I finished lunch and pedalled on.
Two seconds later I'd missed my turn
off and caught up with the two cyclists I'd just been studiously
ignoring. Who were more than happy to point out where I needed to go.
“I didn't think you were listening.”
One said good naturedly.
“I wasn't.” I assured him.
We parted ways laughing.
The afternoon sucked.
I rejoined the highway south. Cars
everywhere. Road was a potholed piece of crap. There was no bike lane
just a lane that mostly full of parked cars. Suddenly it was maybe
thirty five degrees in the shade and raging hot on the tarmac.
Traffic lights kept stopping me so I couldn't keep any momentum
going.
Everything looked dodgy as hell. Rough.
Dirty. Trash everywhere.
It was the type of road that made me
question the benefits of civilisation and evolution.
I got so hot and frazzled I had to pull
over and cool down. Ended up in a little park sitting near a couple
who talked in that slurred and nonsensical rhythm of the truly drug
abused. If I had to guess I'd say they'd taken every drug known to
man and a few that even Satan hadn't heard of.
I refilled my water bottles and pushed
on.
The neighbourhood got more expensive.
Prettier. The litter disappeared and I didn't see any more ruined
people. Probably because this is where all the people that sold the
drugs live. After all you'd have to have a plantation of something to
own a house there.
Soon I was cycling along little beach
towns like Long Beach and Seal Beach. They moved so seamlessly from
one to another that it was impossible to know where I was. Of course
there wasn't any signs. Only business signs indicated that I was
moving through different locals.
Huntington Beach appeared before me at
about half five. I'd cycled fifty uncomfortable miles and was about
ready to stop.
I went over to the hostel indicated on
my map. Found a deserted building. Looked in the dusty windows and
checked the address six times. I was at the right spot.
Curiously I wandered over to the
information centre and was told that the hostel had been shut for
three years and that there was no other hostel in town. The best I
could hope for was a hotel. The cheapest of which would be sixty
dollars. If I had thought about it, I would have checked the hostel
out online the night before. Alas that type of forward planning has
never come easily to me.
It was twenty five miles to the next
camp ground.
'Bugger it.” I said to the
information woman. “I'll keep going.”
The sun was high in the sky and it
would get dark around half eight.
To give myself a fighting chance I went
to Subway and inhaled a foot long sandwich. Drank Fanta and took off
down the road.
In the way of things, that part of the
ride was the best of the day.
The weather cooled off. I hit Orange
County as the sun was turning the sky a deep....well orange actually.
I shot up and down the moderate hills glimpsing the ritzy little
towns with their Mediterranean style from the corner of my eye.
Mostly I just cycled. Fast for once.
Cause I had to get off the road before
dark.
Somehow I managed to find energy to
sing the theme song to The OC. The television show that was based in
the area.
“CAAAAAAAAlllllllafoooooooooooooorrrrrrniiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Heeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeee
weeeeeeeeeeeee
coooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeee!”
I sang hurtling down a hill and shooting up the other side.
A spandex cyclist flagged me down as I
was slogging up yet another middle sized incline.
He hadn't seen any bike tourists in his
home area in over a year and wanted to know my story. He'd cycled
form San Francisco to San Diego four times and was sick of the
traffic. I told him that he needed to cycle in Oregon and north
California. South of San Fran the road is much less fun.
He told me I show tour in France.
“France is eleven out of ten.” Said
he. “Cycling in the US is not even a one.”
….Interesting.
I carried on.
The sun set.
Praying that my reflective jacket was
keeping me mostly visible I rushed through Dona Point and it was just
getting to true dark when I pulled up in the campground.
“You look done in.” The ranger
commented.
“I feel done in.”
Putting up my tent was hard.
It was the staying awake thing that was
the true problem.
Then a bloke appeared nearby and wanted
to talk.
I like people. I do. But not after I've
just cycled 72.4 miles. [116.5kilometers]
Pretty soon all I could hear was a low
droning noise, much like the roar of the highway.
I made inarticulate grunts by way of
answers.
It was some time later when I'd just
made a sort of general agreement sound when I noticed that the dude
was gone.
Gratefully I crawled into my tent. I
was asleep before my head hit my sleeping bag stuffed with clothes.
Hot.
Nine months in Canada had made me a
stranger to the sensation.
It was the way I woke up the next day.
At dawn.
A part of the day I only know exists
because I've heard other people talking about it.
And noticed that my panniers were
entirely covered in ants.
Good morning world.
If I could have gotten my mouth to work
I would have got out of bed swearing.
As it was I got up making the types of
noises a grumpy monkey makes.
The good news was that the ants didn't
bite.
They crawled all over everything and
got in my hair but at least they didn't bring me out in big red lumps
like the Australian ants do.
I knew there was a reason I liked
America.
Sometime later I'd gotten the whole ant
situation under control. As wiped ants off all my food and shaken out
my panniers and repacked everything. Packed up my tent and eaten
something. The sun came up and glared down straight into my campsite.
It was far too early to be awake, let
alone cycling. But there wasn't anything else to do. I mean I could
have gone swimming at the beach. The thought of doing so included
pitfalls like unpacking towels and having showers and finding
quarters to feed the shower.
And swimming is just such an 'awake'
activity.
I did three laps of the campground
before I found a way out. Then I spent some time moving very slowly
along the bike path.
A middle aged woman on roller blades
passed me.
She scooted by me easily and suddenly I
was awake.
Groaning and swearing I pushed myself
and managed to overtake the rollerblader. Maintaining that lead was
embarrassingly painful.
It took hours to wake up.
The day was bright and happy and hot.
Just the type of weather I had been
craving so long.
It was good. It was hot. But it was
good.
I went by a nuclear power plant. Hoped
that long overdue earthquake wouldn't strike while I was cycling by
it. It didn't.
Then I entered a park and cycled on an
amazing bicycle path for about ten blissful miles. Waving to the road
bike cyclists as they shot past me. Then I entered the Marine base.
The Marine base was less exciting than
I'd hoped. Ok, so I was passed by a small convoy of army vehicles and
watched a bunch of tanks churning along the road next to me. But I
didn't have to cycle across a mine field or dodge missiles. Which was
slightly disappointing.
I rode by dry scrubby territory, past a
small town, by fenced off housing and a school. There was some
ankle-biters playing in the yard and they waved furiously as I went
by. I waved back.
Other cyclists told me that the base
had been closed for four years after September 11. I wondered if the
families and kids living on the base had been much affected by the
tightened security. Or what it was like growing up in a place like
that.
Some miles later I cleared the base.
Cities. Towns. Long roads covered in
Then I decided to get food, have lunch
in a park and have a sleep for a few hours.
I only had ten miles left to go so that
is exactly what I did.
Grass, tree, shade and food. I dropped
like a stone and dozed for three hours.
The Elijo state beach was a dusty
little bit of land above the ocean. I went swimming.
It. Was. Freaking. Amazing!
White sand. Hot weather. Cold salt
water.
The way a beach should be.
I swam around and watched the sunset
from the water.
Sheer bliss.
Some people from the east coast have
been trying to tell me that sea water is better when it's warm. Like
it is in Florida and Cable beach.
I've swum in warm sea water and it is a
complete waste of time.
If the air is hot and so is the water
so how are you ever going to get cool?
The cyclist sharing the campsite with
me bought me a fish burrito. It tasted like chicken.
It was the last day of his trip so we
had a celebratory....burrito?
Free food, who's complaining.
I should have really stayed at that
campground for another day. I mean I was tired for that huge seventy
mile day. It was in my muscles and in my brain. My body wanted to
sleep.
The next day, with forty miles to the
Mexican border. I pushed on.
Through the pretty outer suburbs of San
Diego. Climbed La Jolla hill. It wasn't even that big of a hill. The
map said it wasn't even five hundred feet. I'm pretty sure the map
was wrong.
That hill was distinctly unfriendly.
The sun came down. Hit the road bounced back up at me. The sun hit
the limestone cliff on my right, radiated straight at me. I got
cooked.
Then I plunged on through busy back
roads. Climbed more small hills than I felt was entirely necessary.
By one o-clock I'd reached Mission beach and crashed out in a park
surrounded by boats.
After an hour I kept going. Only got
five more miles when my body told me that any more cycling would be
met with extreme opposition.
I found myself draped over a park bench
talking soothingly to myself.
“Ok body.” I said gently. “I get
it. We won't go to the border today, alright?”
“Too bloody right we won't.” My
body informed me.
“We'll just go to the KOA campground
ok?” I asked.
“You're pushing it.” My body
warned.
“Well where else are we going to
stay?” I wanted to know.
“Humph.”
I pulled myself together and pedalled
through San Diego.
Distantly I noticed that it was a
pretty little city. But I wasn't paying much attention.
Somehow I got to the KOA. Put my tent
up and passed out.
Ten miles short of my goal. It rankled
but I didn't have the energy to push on in me.
I slept in the next day. Until eleven.
When I had very slowly gotten my gear
together, I made my very slow way down to the border.
It was a pretty dull ten miles. Road,
traffic. Shops. The border was a concrete, fenced off metal jungle.
Feeling oddly anti-climatic I rode up
to the pedestrian crossing and touched the fence.
I didn't cross. Because I didn't want
to take the Delinquent Caribou over to Mexican. My bicycle would
probably corrupt the place.
[Exert from my journal] 8th
of July 2011
'Well I done it!
3,198.2kms or 1987.3miles
THE MEXICAN BORDER
10.04 shitty miles from
the KOA and that was it. I went up right up to the big fence
and....like touched it.
And now,
I feel
mostly hungry.
So I am eating an apple.
And that is the story of
how I went from Canada to Mexico on a bicycle taking just over two
months and spending an awful lot of time reading.
Now I have to think of
something to do next:
Shit!
