I started the day in Hayward, CA just outside San Francisco. I spent the day yesterday visiting with my friend Sara while recuperating from a long ride through that headache inducing fog bank they call northern California. I had called her on the 1st from a coffee shop in Ft Bragg, about 200 miles north of San Fran. She was in the middle of traveling back from the east cast and would not be home until 10:30 or so. So I decided it would be a great opportunity to sit around, drink some coffee, write in my blog, drink a little more coffee...maybe I'll have just one more cup, you get the picture...I wasn't in any kind of hurry. I figured why rush down there and get kicked out of the coffee shop near her place at the 9 o'clock closing time when I have a perfectly good place right here. I thought if I procrastinated just the right amount of time I could ride slow down the coastal route and arrive at her place just about when she was getting home from the airport. Mind you the weather was perfect at this very moment. But not really in the next moment...
After fueling up with enough caffeine to power LA for about 30 seconds I straddled my trusty steed and headed off into the sunset...Oh wait thats right... I couldn't see the sunset through the cloud that must have been overcome by the excessive force of gravity of the full moon...which I also could not see. While I was whiling away my time in Ft Bragg, the clouds had united and planned a full on assault of the coast. And they brought along their most powerful weapon...the wet stuff they secrete that relentlessly coats your helmet visor or windshield in an attempt to disorient their prey.
It wasn't until I became frustrated with riding in only second or third gear for about 2 hours that I pulled out a map and realized the song Hotel California may have been written by someone in a very similar situation. Once committed to the coastal route, you can never leave, the road goes on forever with zillions of turns but no escape to highway 101 further inland. My only hope was a road some 40 or so miles ahead (translated into 2.5 hours). So I took it easy, went super slow, and told myself that next time I would get there 3 hours early and twiddle my thumbs on the doorstep instead of subjecting myself to this sort of ridiculous misery.
As it turns out, I arrived within 2 minutes of Sara; a true testament to my keen route planning and exceptional time management skills...(much, much, much sarcasm)
What about the German? Well I spent the next day with Sara, eating real food (not that weird block of lowfat swiss and cheddar mixed that I bought for 99 cents), washing the clothes that I had not removed since I left , and driving to Vacaville to pick up her dog and have lunch with her Dad and Stepmom. I rolled out from her place on the morning of the 3rd. thankful for her kindness and generosity.
I have been trying to realize that minor frustrations are merely signposts and signals rather then some form of roadblock to the journey. They are in fact the stoplights and directional signals that are indicating the correct path or choice ahead. On this day the signs led to an unlikely encounter. About 75 miles south of the bay area my outer jacket became unzipped all the way and began flapping annoyingly in the 70 mph wind, something that had never happened before. I stopped on the hwy, fixed the problem, started off and immediately noticed that plastic body piece that covers the radiator was about to fall off. This time I was forced to exit the freeway to repair bike. I figured these were sure signs of something so I spent a little extra time adjusting the tire pressure (which was also low) and giving the machine a good looking over.
Satisfied, I zipped up my jacket and got ready to head off when a newer, but heavily ridden version of my bike rolled in and pulled up next to me. The helmet came off and speaking in a thick German accent the man indicated he was on his way home to Canada from Nicaragua. His intent was also to ride to Argentina, but the pangs of missing his family were too much and he decided to turn around in Nicaragua. A great reason I thought. I asked if he had felt safe in every country. "Every country I feel very safe" he replied.
His only problem...having his camera stolen in Nicaragua. I imagine it must have been about the time he decided to turn back. He said that he was out for dinner and drank way too much wine. Laughing at himself and turning red in the face, the 55 year old businessman, said "I was drunk, I couldn't remember my hotel, so I slept in the street." And someone stole his camera from his pocket. All I could picture on my long 4 tanks of gas ride to the Arizona border was this big, gregarious German dude stumbling out of the local taco shop and passing out in the next available alley. Don't worry I'll avoid the wine. Thank you all.
Passing out drunk in a ditch with a well traveled German sounds like college. Have him look me up on his way through Oly. Tell Art I said hi!
ReplyDelete