O'er The Land Of The Free, My Thanks To Thee

I found myself in Eureka, California, on a bright, crisp morning as we left Arcata behind — home to some of the funkiest fairytale buildings I’ve seen, the sort that almost look edible. From here we would leave the coast for a while and head inland, gratefully, back toward some warmth after the brisk sea air.

At a lunch stop in the charming town of Ferndale, Eal and I both ordered the Gardenburger, and it was incredible — perfectly sautéed tomatoes and onions, with a pesto spread worked into the underside of the bun. Thinking back to the burger place in Fargo with Flavia, I decided this cafe ought to advertise its veggie options as the kind meat-eaters would choose anyway.

The heat arrived straight after lunch, and it was back to shorts and short sleeves. We entered the Avenue of the Giants in the early evening, a twenty-five-mile stretch of quiet redwood highway that left us both a little dazed. Hiker-biker camping in the state park was busy again; Eal had handed me all coins for our deposit envelope, which then turned out too fat to fit through the slot of the deposit box, so I left it by the office instead.

I left early the next morning, having agreed a destination with Eal beforehand. I generally wake early and he prefers to get moving later, so on days when the directions are straightforward, we’ve fallen into a habit of riding separately for most of the day and meeting up in the evening. To keep things simple I stuck with Route 101, which was well shouldered if a little busy. The mornings were chilly, and by ten I’d typically be standing by the roadside, bike propped against a sign, stripping down and fishing shorter clothes out of my bags — highly amusing, I imagine, for the passing cars to see my pasty white torso on display, especially the ones that slowed down for a proper look. You’ve seen it all before, love.

The first few town stops still had a strong hippie presence, with the marijuana harvest I mentioned earlier drawing people in. Most were friendly, though a few characters seemed shadier, trying to blend in and make a quick score, and I felt uneasy enough about my flimsy lock to keep my transactions quick and my bike close by. One man offered to watch my bike while I went to get a drink — friendly enough, and we ended up talking for a while. He was making his way down to San Diego and asked if I could spare anything for food, so I handed over all the loose change in my wallet, glad of an excuse to shed it before leaving the country. He seemed genuinely delighted, and there was no trouble in it at all.

I had planned to have lunch in the town of Leggett, but on arrival found the gas stations and cafes all shut, so I made do with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before tackling the two enormous climbs ahead. I actually love climbing of this kind — short, steep climbs tend to irritate me, but I find real peace of mind in the long traverses that gain several thousand feet steadily over distance, even if they’re sweaty work. By the top of the second one I looked as though I’d taken part in a one-man wet T-shirt contest. Coming down the far side put me back on the coastline, into chilling sea air that felt even colder against sweat-damp skin. Jacket on, I found the hiker-biker camp perched on a cliff above the beach. Eal turned up not long after, and we pitched and ate. I kept waking through the night with the sensation of being swallowed into the sea — the foot of my tent sloped down toward the waves crashing fifty feet below, loud as thunder. Unsettling stuff.

Right lane ends means end of climb…:-)

Dem some big ‘ole poles.

Afternoon climbs begin, few thousand vertical feet ahead.

Sweaty face, eugh.

The light breaking camp the next morning was extraordinary, hitting me over my shoulder as it rose in the east, a reminder to keep looking back now and again. Something on the roadside ahead caught my eye, and for a moment I took it for a cat before remembering there would be no domestic cats out here. It was twice the size of one and wore an almost leopard-like coat. I looked it in the eye while fumbling to unzip my bag for the camera, and it shot off like a bolt into the bushes. I later worked out it must have been a bobcat or a lynx, present in these parts — a remarkable animal, and since I have no photograph, you’ll simply have to come out and ride this road yourself to see one.

The morning was glorious, the afternoon rather less so. A deep fog rolled in, making narrow stretches of road and bridges properly unnerving with local log trucks barrelling past, seemingly determined to make their deadlines regardless. Some brutal switchback climbs then did their best to finish off my tired, seasoned legs. We rolled into a KOA camp that evening, normally somewhere we’d avoid for the prices, but with a coastal biker rate that matched the state parks, it was a welcome find — a proper hot shower, and then a genuinely touching gesture from an older couple we fell into conversation with by the front office. They sent a worker out to our pitch on a golf cart with an envelope, wishing us well and covering the full cost of our stay, twenty dollars. With no signal at the site and calls I needed to make, I had to trek off into the foggy dark to where I’d been told reception was stronger, tripping over unseen branches more times than I could count before making it back in one piece.

Several spooky bridges this afternoon.

The fog seemed to have settled in for good, and leaving camp meant more of the same narrow roads and close calls with traffic. I really wasn’t feeling this stretch of riding. Eal was ahead of me, and neither of us had eaten, so I was surprised to see he’d ridden straight past the first cafe a few miles in. I kept going, expecting to find him at the next one, but he wasn’t there either, so I stopped anyway, hoping the sun might break through a little while I ate. It hadn’t made much progress by the time I left, so I climbed up and over the coastal bluffs, only escaping the smothering cloud once I rose above it onto a high lookout point.

Scary descents followed, back into fog again, and we were joined that night at camp by Tim from Maine, an older man I’d seen at breakfast. He had covered a hundred miles that day over what was genuinely tough terrain — kudos to him.

A dangerous and grim morning to be riding.

Finding coffee and a proper cooked breakfast felt essential on yet another foggy, bone-chilling morning. This would be our last day of riding in the USA, our destination for the evening being the home of John and Jessi, friends of Flavia’s in San Francisco. Judging by the surroundings that seemed hard to believe. The riding itself was fairly glum, nothing to look at but cardboard-brown grass, irritating short climbs, and rough road that made the whole thing feel like treading water. I was mentally beaten that morning, probably running on fatigue and too little sleep. Whatever the cause, I stopped for second breakfast just fifteen miles in, looking for answers at the bottom of a coffee cup, followed shortly by a pesto twist from the bakery next door. Somewhere between there, some borrowed wifi, and just sitting with my thoughts about the last few months crossing the USA, I got back on the bike and started riding again. I’ve ridden long enough now to know the road takes care of the rest, and it did: the sun came out, and the town of Point Reyes made for a delightful lunch stop. In the afternoon Eal and I rode together for the final stretch, something we hadn’t done in a while.

As we drew closer to San Francisco, traffic thickened through Marin County, stop signs every fifty yards slowing our progress to a crawl. We wound along several bike paths, quietly aware of the milestone approaching, just as the Golden Gate Bridge came into view. Crossing it was thrilling — the wind, the bustling traffic, the view out over the bay, the fog, all of it felt like the ending of a film. We navigated toward downtown with me pedalling one-handed, phone open on Google Maps since the Garmin had stopped cooperating. John had told us he would be taking part in a Critical Mass ride and that we should meet him at his apartment afterwards. Instead, we rode straight into the ride itself: hundreds of cyclists, gathered for a special anniversary of the event, taking over the streets and bringing the traffic to a complete halt. It was the strangest, most surreal, and somehow most perfect way to end the American leg of the trip.

Difficulty getting motivated this morning.

Marin County traffic.

Critical Mass ride!

We had a few days at John and Jessi’s to sort out bikes and bags, arrange accommodation in Auckland, and generally rest our legs while soaking in our last days in the Northern Hemisphere. It was a reflective time. I thought about all the wonderful people who had put us up along the way, the incredible generosity and hospitality shown to me time and again, the bad towns alongside the good ones, the barren stretches against the beautiful vistas. From Massachusetts to California, by way of an entire summer of small kindnesses, and not forgetting meeting Flavia — the absolute highlight of the ride, and a friend I will cherish until we meet again, which I am already looking forward to, and the same goes for Joe C Meyer and Coop. Days on a loaded bike are so densely packed with physical and mental effort, whether it’s my legs slogging up a hill or my eyes taking in a thousand pictures with every blink through a new town or landscape, that it’s easy to forget to step back and let it settle. That’s why I find experiences like this are best shared afterwards.

You may have a fancy pants stadium AT&T but I suggest you work on your North Dakota coverage.

J & J Trail Angels. Thank you!

Toodle-pip, USA. I’ll be back again, or maybe you can come and visit me.