EDITOR’S NOTE: This is the final in a series of my bike ride from San Francisco to Carlsbad.
Morning sunlight cast a soothing, comforting glow upon downtown Santa Barbara as the sweet scent of fresh baked bread mixed with the smoky essence hot coffee while supply trucks squeaked and beeped as they dropped off produce to the restaurants.
The ride along the ocean felt calming, with little traffic. Fishing boats left the docks, heading into the offshore fog as the smell of the sea filled my lungs. After five days of riding with companions, the first few hours seemed a little lonely.
I made it through Ventura but got lost in Oxnard before I finally hit a stretch that I’ve never seen, on Highway 1 near Pt. Magoo. Once again it’s another part of the California coast that looks like no other area we’ve ridden through on this tour.
The next stop was Malibu, which, I’ll suggest right now, be the furthest anyone on this ride should go. Once past Malibu, you hit the beach and Santa Monica.
For the next hour it was a typical Southern California beach ride, which meant dodging joggers, skaters and walkers, not to mention the array of homeless and other bizarre characters that give places like Venice Beach its unique personality.
I didn’t have a goal to start the day, but as it wore on near 4 p.m., my goal became obvious. Make it past LAX before dark. I didn’t want to start the morning trying to negotiate around one of the world’s busiest airports.
I’ve ridden around LAX before and I wouldn’t suggest it on my worst enemy. I should have stayed along the coast through Playa del Rey, but NO! That would have tacked on another 5 miles or so.
Instead, the course I took probably tacked on 15-20 miles. I’ve ridden in some heavy traffic areas, but suddenly I found myself being swallowed alive by traffic.
I confidently hammered south when I realized that the road morphed into four lanes of traffic and not much of a shoulder. That’s when I noticed an entrance ramp to my right, and that disheartening sign prohibiting bicycles.
I made a quick dash up the concrete side of the road, not waiting for the next exit. I didn’t want any part of this freeway business. I got to the top and headed south down another road. At the end I saw a toll booth, as if it was a LAX parking lot or something. I figured the attendant could help me out.
As I approached the empty booth, a huge 747 jet taxied behind the booth, just 100 yards in front of me. Close enough to see the eyes of the co-pilot pop when he saw me. I almost took a turn on a LAX runway!
Seriously lost, I turned around, and found myself at the end of the terminal, looking down at a long string of taxis being filled by passengers carrying suitcases. I spent most of the next hour riding on the sidewalks, trying to find my way back to the coast.
Eventually I made it, and bedded down in Hermosa Beach for the night. I found a motel with a kitchenette, so I was ready to pig out. I took a shower and started to head out to the grocery, first checking the mirror.
Six days of riding gave me a raccoon tan, my eyes white from my sunglasses. Two days of growth on my beard. I knew I was going to be hassled by the cops for loitering. I could see myself heading down to the clink for being homeless. I decided not to spend a lot of time outside.
I got back to the motel, made a huge course of spaghetti and garlic bread, and hit the sack. I woke up about 9 (having passed out around 7) and went out for peanut butter and jelly. That finally filled me up, and I passed out for the night.
There was little doubt I had just one day of riding left, no matter how far I made it. From the moment I climbed on my bike in the morning my uncomfortable butt and sore knee made it obvious that wherever I ended today would be it, even if it meant having Debbie come rescue me.
I resigned myself to an easy, slow pace, figuring the moment it got to be too painful I’d just stop right there and wait for a ride. By focusing all my attention on my knee the first hour I made a critical error. I got lost on the Palos Verdes peninsula.
Then I hit a detour and had two choices. Ride straight uphill over the peak of the peninsula or turn around and make a 10-mile detour around it, with no guarantee that the detour wasn’t just as hilly. Up the hill I went. Then down the hill I went.
That left me smack in a Hispanic neighborhood near Long Beach. I made it to the beach and Long Beach, which meant a nice breakfast. It also meant about 70 miles remaining to Carlsbad, most of it along the coast. That I can handle.
There’s something about the Pacific Ocean that brings out the best in me. Maybe it’s the large body I water I needed to replace Lake Michigan, having grown up in Milwaukee among the Great Lakes.
I believe I lived in California in another life. Too many things here seem familiar and comfortable at such a deep level. Still, whenever I need to be motivated, all I need is a walk along the beach and before I know it, I’m practically running home to get going on my latest project.
That feeling returned particularly strong as I hit the areas I’ve ridden before, along Huntington Beach, through Newport Beach, Laguna Beach and San Clemente. It’s a little scary, but once I reached Dana Point, I knew I had 40 miles remaining, and my attitude was simple: I did it, the ride is over.
Somehow I forgot about my knee and I felt as though I’d been riding seven minutes, not seven hours. Before I reached San Clemente my mind turned into silly putty again.
I coasted down a hill, leaning to the side to keep my rear off the seat because it felt as though my shorts were filled with broken glass. I kept the pressure off my right knee, leaning heavily on the left. I looked down at how I positioned my ass on my bike and laughed.
I cruised through San Clemente and Camp Pendleton as I have hundreds of times in the past eight years, but this time, instead of dreaming of someday riding a long tour down the coast, I clicked through a flood of memories of the past week.
When I cruised into Carlsbad it felt like coming home after being away for years. Sights that were mundane scenery a few days ago took on new life.
The sun shining brightly.
The ocean glowing.
Life was grand.
I stopped along the beach and looked out over the same stretch of sand that has drawn me here over the years, the same parcel where I wondered what our future out here would hold, whether or not we had made a good decision or a poor one coming here in the first place. As usual, the answer from within sizzled with obvious affirmation.
I found a retired couple standing a few feet away, enjoying the view. I asked if they’d watch my bike while I jumped in for a quick dip. I explained I hit the climax of a week of riding, and they agreed, looking more surprised at my proposal than my accomplishment.
The water felt warm and refreshing as I soaked in the dozens of surfers bobbing in the water, and the herd of tourists walking along the beach.
I realized none of them knew or cared about explosions of fireworks popping in my stomach and head. Just another day in paradise. Life goes on. The only difference is there’s one less goal on my list, which makes room for a new one.
Time to ride.
