EDITOR’S NOTE: This is the second in a series of my bike ride from San Francisco to Carlsbad.
There was finally movement in the Pace Arrow, the motorhome that would be our support vehicle at least until Monday. Suddenly the adventure came to life. Coffee steamed. Bagels creamed. Before I knew it, we were posing for the sendoff photo ready to pedal into the unknown.
The fascination of beginning our ride with a 1.5-mile trek across the Golden Gate Bridge was quickly lost on more pressing factors, sizing up my partners and deciding just where I would fit in on the performance scale.
Still, the bridge seemed to project an aura, a sense of victory over the elements, a strength that quickened the pace of my heart. I could only imagine how many drivers sat idle in the traffic jam with incredible envy, watching us leave them behind to endure another mundane day at the office.
It seemed like we crossed the bridge in a flash. Indeed my partners were off to a little quicker pace than I would have preferred, but the adrenaline rush made up for any trouble. Typically it takes me an hour to warm up. Five minutes into the ride, I was prepared for anything.
Few cities display such a distinct personality as San Francisco, the Golden Gate Bridge just a colorful outfit in a wardrobe closet filled with more options than any socialite could imagine.
From the Bridge through the Presidio, we rode in relative peace. The traffic jams were saved for the major arteries. An uplifting parade through the energy of the Bay Area architecture gets sacrificed for time by local commuters. Time is firmly on our side, something to cherish.
The fog got worse before better, but it blanketed the city a calming manner, as though we were welcome visitors not to be disturbed. The vast, abandoned beaches boasted the abundance of physical beauty that the locals take for granted, much the same way we do in Southern California, or, for that matter, the way I used to do back in Wisconsin.
For anyone with the time to appreciate it, the world is full of natural wonder. It’s not to be seen through the windows of a car speeding along the interstate at 55 mph, but rather to be experienced, first hand, at man’s speed, which I have determined has a maximum limit equal to that of a bicycle.
It didn’t take long to get to the smaller towns of the coast, to climb the hill outside Daly City, to get lost en route to Seaside and ultimately venture inland from Pacifica and face the ride’s first true climbing test.
I’m not proud. I spent most of the morning behind Jeff and Dan, savoring the spot in the draft where I conserved energy for such occasions as the hill. A moment of truth had arrived. There’s no hiding on a hill. It’s man and machine vs. Mother Nature. There’s seldom a winner.
The others quickly dropped back, cranked their chains into easy gears and settled in for a long climb. My legs had other plans, and in matter of moments I was well in front, climbing alone like I always do. Not that I’m a strong climber. I just usually ride alone.
After an hour of coastal brush at the start of the ride, the highway turned up the mountain into the shade of a vast evergreen cover. Soon the clouds had burned away and the bright sun beat down, heating up the climb. I could only hope the rest of the climbing ahead, the endless up and down through the Coastal Mountains, would be this satisfying.
There is a rush that accompanies hard work, a personal experience that can never been fully explained nor appreciated by an outsider — moments when the sweat pouring down your cheek feels as soft and caring as a lover’s hand.
When the burning deep within your leg muscles feels like the warmth and security of a quilt on a winter morning. When each deep draw of breath has purpose, and rings like the roar of an engine screaming away from a stop sign.
Just when you’ve finished running down that physical checklist to gauge your progress, confident in your triumph, you find the time to transcend to another level.
To glance to the side down the rocky face of the mountain to a valley below wondering if some long lost wanderer years ago looked up the same cliff and pondered if man would ever appreciate a view from above.
To look at a cut of sandstone and recognize its uniqueness, like the first time you studied the wrinkles across your grandfather’s face.
To feel the cool shade of a towering tree and feel as though you are sucking in the fresh, clean oxygen as quickly as its green leaves can pump it out.
The true beauty of being in top shape is the relationship with your own body. It’s impossible to decipher the exact swirl of senses that make you know exactly when to drink and how much to drink, when to find food and when to wait.
By the top of the hill my body screamed for sugar, and the comforting gap between myself and the others allowed for a quick stop at 7-Eleven for some Twinkies, donuts and a refill of water.
At that moment, just three hours into the adventure, I knew everything would be fine. The base miles in my legs, even though they hadn’t been called upon for 10 days, were ready and waiting for the journey and the challenge, like eager puppies sensing a move toward the door.
Time to ride
