EDITOR’S NOTE: This is the first in a series of my bike ride from San Francisco to Carlsbad.
A hazy fog blanketed San Francisco Bay in a comforting, not smothering way, allowing enough of the majestic red guide towers of the Golden Gate Bridge to rise, then, ultimately disappear into the gray, unveiling the magnitude of the structure while leaving its true limits open to my imagination.
The sun’s early morning rays poked through the clouds to the North, slicing a sharp angle that coincides with the dawning of a new day.
A bright red line of brake lights on the right and brilliant white headlights on the left captured another typical morning commute along the California Coast. Typical for everyone, but me.
The tourist plaques embedded in the wall of Golden Gate Park on the North end noted directional arrows to follow through quarter-per-view binoculars. Beyond the fog in one direction lies Alcatraz, the Bay Bridge hides in another direction, and so on.
Direction carried much more than a simple East, West, North, South compass heading on this dawn. Down across the bridge, through the fog, farther than my eye could see and further than many minds can imagine, along the coast of the same Pacific Ocean, sits the small village of Carlsbad, the place I called home.
For more than eight years Carlsbad had been the center of my adventures, the place where I climbed aboard my bike and pedaled away for a few hours, always to return. Finally, those hundreds of hours and thousands of miles would have meaning.
Those countless hours had driven me to the edge of a dream that began along the quiet farm roads of Wisconsin, on rides to Milwaukee’s Lake Front, the shores of Lake Geneva, and the roller-coaster of Dandelion Park.
After years of waiting and refusing to let go of the single, true cycling dream that eased the pain of countless hills, the anger of endless idiotic drivers, and the frustration of life’s daily grind, my time arrived.
While the rest of the entourage lie silently in the Pace Arrow motor home attempting to get in a few more minutes of sleep sacrificed during the eight-hour drive through the night before, I stood alone at the Northern end of the grand bridge wondering what the next week would bring.
Carlsbad, by my best guess, was some 650 miles down the coast. More realistically, Santa Barbara sat 450 miles away. In either case, the highest mileage total of my life for one week was 280 miles.
My training for the adventure started briskly. The first week included my first 100-mile day in a long time, probably two years. Four 250-mile plus weeks followed, but then my work schedule got hectic.
On my road trip to Texas I could only manage 180 miles the first week, although all were mountain climbing miles at altitude forged north of Phoenix and near Santa Fe.
The next week my only major ride was 4.5 hours of hell in the hot humidity of Houston with my brother Joey. In the final 10 days before this trip, I rode just two hours. Total.
Complicating the slew of questions running through my mind: the uncertainty of the fitness of my two riding partners. Jeff, the lead singer in our band Atrocious Noyze, had two years on me and I never underestimated the value of youth. Although he hadn’t trained much for the ride, eight years earlier he was a major cyclist.
The other member of the trio, Dan, was the unknown quantity. I never met him before, but quickly learned he had done this SF-LA bicycle trip 10 times. He’s done bicycle touring throughout the world. But he hadn’t much time for much training. He planned to ride into shape along the route. I couldn’t imagine the hard days ahead doing anything but wearing a body down.
My greatest fear crept into my head: I’d figuratively die somewhere along the route, and simply abandon my quest because of exhaustion. I needed to avoid that at all costs. I’m a tortoise. If it meant watching my partners ride up the road alone and disappear over some hellacious climb to avoid that embarrassing fate, so be it.
I knew from occasional rides with Jeff that his typical rabbit pace zips along much faster than I’m accustomed to enjoying. I train alone and with my wife Debbie, so I set my own pace. I’m seldom in a hurry.
The markers chronicling the history of the Golden Gate Bridge struck a logical case for perseverance. The structure has been painted nonstop since 1937 — when they think they are done they start over again, and just keep going.
If that’s the attitude it takes to get me to Carlsbad, fine. The simple fact remained that the rest of the group had full-time jobs to return to Tuesday. They had deadlines.
This, however, was my job now: Riding my bike, writing about cycling, and carving a niche for myself. If it took two months, I was ready for the challenge.
Time to ride.
