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Against The Wind

Bicycling as a punctuation for life's turning points.

August 2006 - Posts

  • Against the Wind: A bike trip across America - A nice ride along coastal California

    Day 73, August 17

     

                This day started out nicely.  The breeze of the night before had dissipated.  Inanna had lost whatever was making her feel badly the night before.  We had breakfast and packed up.  One more glance at the sea reminded us of how different it was here in the west.  Back on the East Coast, in Virginia, we would see sunrises if we were at the beach early enough in the morning—but the sun set in the west, behind the hotels and suburbs.  Here in California we had nice sunsets each evening, but the mornings were relatively undramatic.  The sun was behind the coastal mountains until 8 or 9 in the morning.

     

                We coasted down almost to sea level, then began climbing a long hill.  Two-thirds of the way up the grade we came to what we were taking for granted here along the coast highway: a public drinking fountain set up along the road, well-marked.  They were really springs that had been tapped to provide water for travelers, and bicyclists were the most appreciative group, I am sure.  We drank our fill, filled our water bottles, rested, then got back into climbing that grade.

     

                We climbed 700 feet over three miles, then coasted down 400 feet.  It was chilly to coast after working up a sweat climbing that grade, and especially so in the morning shade of the mountain.  But after a couple of miles of coasting, we were climbing again, and the grade was even more steep—but not as long as the last one had been.  Then we enjoyed a longer coast, down to sea level once again.  The sun was peaking over the mountain now, and the road flattened out somewhat, and stayed right on the coast.

     

                We came to the William Randolph Hearst State Beach, which was right below San Simeon, Hearst’s famous castle.  We stopped at the state beach and debated what to do next.  Inanna wanted to visit the Hearst Castle.  She had read about Patty Hearst, of the famous family, who had been kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army, and eventually may have joined them and taken part in crimes.  This castle was a few miles up the mountain from Route 1.  Tours, once one was there, cost $5 apiece, and supposedly it took a day and a half to see the entire castle.  I couldn’t see spending so much money, and even more, spending so much time, seeing what I considered to be a tourist magnet.  The castle had been built as a rich man’s whim, however beautiful it might be.

     

                After some debate, Inanna agreed to give up the idea of a Hearst detour.  She agreed without any evident animosity.  We rode on.

     

                The road remained relatively flat and we rode happily along the coastline.  The ocean remained beautiful, but it is funny how quickly you can begin to become desensitized to something. We had ridden all summer to see the Pacific, and now we spent more time looking at the blacktop ahead of us than we did turning to the right to gaze out to sea. 

     

                We rode toward the pretty little town of Cambria, feeling hungry, having decided to stop at the first store we came to.  We came over a rise and the first establishment of any kind was the Chuck Wagon, which I knew meant “all you can eat”.  I was starving, and we peeked in the door. The food trays were loaded, and wonderful smells wafted out to us.  That was all we needed.  We locked the bikes up, leaning against the front of the restaurant, and went in.

     

                Before we got to a table, the cook came out of the kitchen and took a look at us.  I was briefly afraid, because we were pretty ragged and shaggy.  Maybe they were going to throw us out for being ragged, or maybe because we looked like we would eat too much.  But my fears were groundless.  The cook just smiled and went back to work.

     

                Soon we were sitting at a table loaded with food: chicken, roast beef, meat loaf, potatoes, vegetables, bread, and iced tea, with deserts still up on the counter for us when we were ready.  Inanna ate conservatively, but I threw caution to the wind.  I wolfed down my food, made mental notes about my favorites, and went back for more.  Just as I got to the food counter, the cook brought out trays of more food.  He enjoyed cooking for hungry people.

     

                I wasted almost nothing, and ate for an hour.  When I got up, I could barely walk.  We paid $2.35 each—I couldn’t get over what a bargain it had been.  Right outside were the bicycles, and although I could swing my leg over the handlebar (there was always too much on the rear carrier to swing my leg over the normal way), I couldn’t reach the handlebar with my hands!  I was completely stuffed.  I could not ride.

     

                Inanna laughed at me.  I was somewhat dizzy from all the food, and the pleasure of such gluttony.  We slowly walked around the town of Cambria, with nothing else to do.  It began to dawn on me that this was a very interesting town.  Partly because of its proximity to San Simeon, it had interesting stores and shops, including art galleries, craft shops, and an amazing store filled with small historic toy soldiers.  These toy soldiers were dressed in accurately painted uniforms, and were representative of many historical times: the Civil War, the Napoleonic Wars, the Hundred Years War, the American Revolution.  They were lined up in battle formations.  I could only imagine about the person or persons who owned and managed this shop—it looked to be more a labor of love than a thriving business.

     

                I was brought back to my childhood, when my bother Jack and I would always succeed in getting our parents to give us soldiers, forts, pirate ships, etc. for Christmas.  We would fight imaginary wars.  Then I took up war gaming as an adolescent, and finally took a class in war gaming at the Naval Academy, and wrote a major paper which was published in the Academy professional journal in which the reader could refight the Battle of Jutland.

     

                Finally, after perhaps another hour, the food had shifted, I found a public restroom, and we were ready to ride.

     

                We moved on down the coast, and noticed that the wind, which had been from the ocean, and then was calm, was now from the east.  This was out of the ordinary.  At least it wasn’t a cursed headwind, we thought, and let it pass out of our minds.  We continued pedaling south, with the terrain relatively flat.

     

                We saw signs of a forest fire up ahead.  There were fire trucks, a bus filled with fire fighters, a few police cars.  They were turning off on roads leading eastward, toward the mountains, away from the sea.  We never saw any flames, but at one point we rode through thick smoke which was being blown across the road.  Then, we were past the fire, and saw fewer clues that anything was amiss.  I was more interested in Morro Rock, which I had seen before and which I wanted to show Inanna. 

     

                We did pedal along Route 1 to a point from which we could see Morro Rock.  From the road you could see the majestic rock, jutting out of the ocean to a hundred feet in the air.  It was all the more dramatic because there are not the usual hills and cliffs there, and the beach is flat.  The rock just seems to come out of nowhere.  We could see many birds making their nests on the rock, which is itself a National Park.  It is the only National Park I know of which consists of a single rock.

     

                It was now getting late, and it was time to find a place to camp.  We camped at a high school in the town of Morro Bay—nobody was around, and we did find a secluded spot with some grass on which to pitch the tent.  I was not hungry that night, and neither was Inanna.  She must have eaten more than I thought.  We went to bed without dinner, the only time we did that on the entire trip.  We had covered 55 miles that day.  We were finally beginning to pick up some speed.

  • Against the Wind, Day 72: A bike trip across America - the best camp site of the summer!

    Day 72, August 16

     

                The next day was somewhat warmer than the previous one, with still negligible winds—the prevailing winds were still from the west, and we were pedaling south, so a crosswind didn’t bother us.  The terrain was a little steeper than the day before, but none of the grades was long, and each was followed by a downhill as we stayed on the coast.  It was another nice ride.

     

                At one overlook, we heard barking.  There were no dogs around, and it sounded like a pack of them.  We looked closely, and saw a group of seals near the rocks below us.  It was their barking we were hearing.  I had rarely seen seals in the wild, and Inanna had never seen them.  It was fascinating to watch them and listen to them.

     

                Twenty-four miles later, we were at the small town of Lucia.  There was a nice restaurant and for five bucks we had a nice lunch on their deck, overlooking the sea.  We dallied as long as we could there, enjoying the fresh salt air and the warm sun, to go with the spectacular view.  When we could no longer decently stay on their deck without ordering more food, we moved on.

     

                Thirteen miles later we were at Gorda, another small town, and it was close to time to stop.  Inanna was not feeling well, perhaps a little sick.  The air was starting to cool, and the sun was going to be nearing the horizon soon.  We saw Plaskett Creek Campground on the map up ahead, so bought groceries at Gorda and pedaled on.  We hadn’t gone more than a mile when I saw the perfect campsite.

     

                Plaskett Creek was still a mile or more ahead, on the land side of the road.  But this was on the ocean side.  There was a point of land stretching a quarter mile from the road to the edge of the cliff.  I could see a trail leading from the road to the point, where maybe one could look over the cliff.  There was a little tree there, at the end of the trail.

     

                I told Inanna that we should camp there, but she was doubtful.  She liked the amenities of a state campground.  She was sick, and in no mood for adventure.  But she consented to walking the bikes out to the end of that trail.  When we got there, we were both flabbergasted.  We were on a cliff, 300 feet above the ocean below.  The tree we had seen from the road was an evergreen that had been twisted by the constant sea breezes.  It was curved around a perfect spot for the tent—a thick bed of pine needles.  Perfect but for one awful detail: A large black mound of animal feces was piled up in the middle of the pine needles.

     

                We were both simultaneously repulsed and attracted to the sight.  I couldn’t stand it and immediately went into the bed of pine needles—I found I could easily pick up the offending mound in a handful of pine needles and toss it over the cliff.  Suddenly we had a truly perfect campsite.

     

                All our doubts erased, we unpacked.  I pitched the tent on top of the pine needles.  We would have the best sleep of the trip on that thick mattress, I thought.  Inanna fixed us a dinner of the best they had to offer at that small grocery in Gorda: hot dogs and canned beets.  But we didn’t complain.  We sat on the edge of the cliff and watched the sun set into the ocean from our perch.  We could hear more barking, from seals out of sight around the point to the north.  We watched giant pelicans circle in the wind, catching updrafts near the cliff from the westerly winds, gain altitude, glide out to sea as they slowly lost altitude, then turn back to the north and let the wind bring them in to the cliff from which we watched.  They never seemed to use their wings for anything more than gliding.  It was totally effortless.

     

                Then, down below, on the side of the cliff, Inanna saw something moving.  It was not a shear cliff, but rather a 60-degree slope, one only a skilled climber could have safely negotiated.  She saw small, slender 4-legged animals grazing on the foliage that grew abundantly there.  Were they goats?  Surely only goats could live on the side of a cliff.  But after watching them closely we realized we were watching a group of very small deer.  It looked like they were very comfortable on the side of that cliff.  With a strong breeze blowing up the cliff, we were downwind from them, and they could neither hear nor smell us.  We were no bother whatsoever to them.

     

                We watched the deer and pelicans and heard the seals as the sun set into the Pacific Ocean.  The breeze remained, and the temperature dropped.  We withdrew into our tent, in sleeping bags on a thick bed of pine straw.  We zipped up the tent and slept soundly.

  • Against the Wind: A bike trip across America - fighting with a racoon in Big Sur

    Day 71, August 15

     

                Next morning the motorcyclists were gone, and they had thoughtfully placed their beer cars in the trash can near the picnic table.  We had our breakfast at that table, packed up, and it was time to leave Carmel. We had a strenuous climb up Ocean Avenue, without being warmed up, and right after breakfast, but it was not a long climb and we were soon back on Route 1, heading south.

     

                We coasted down from 500 feet to almost sea level, then gradually climbed back up into the Carmel Highlands.  The road was easy, with the grades being shallow and the traffic sparse.  There was no wind to speak of.  We were now in what is called Big Sur, with some of the most spectacular views in the country.  To the right was the ocean, and to the left were rugged hills.  The road wound through the hills, along the coast, with another breathtaking view around every bend.  The sky was blue, with no fog, and the sun rose to warm us.

     

                This is the section of road where many automobile ads are filmed for television because of the dramatic beauty.  We stopped often, not to rest, but to admire the views.  I regretted not bringing a camera.  We were enjoying our ride, taking our time.  We came to Big Sur, a small settlement with a couple of stores, and the Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park.  We had only covered 26 miles from Carmel, but the setting was so nice that we had to stop. 

     

    The State Park system in California was a gem for bicyclists.  For a dollar we camped in a nice spot next to a creek, in the trees, with a nice picnic table.  There were hot showers a short walk away.  Car-campers had to have reservations, arranged through Ticketron, but cyclists could just ride on in and camp.  We picked up some groceries at the camp store, set up the tent, and relaxed.

     

    I felt a little restless—I wasn’t used to all that relaxation, although it shouldn’t have been that hard, since we had done more relaxing during the California phase of our trip than any previous section—so I took a little stroll along the creek. It was actually the Big Sur River.  I found out that the area had been settled by Michael Pfeiffer and his family in 1869.  At that time there were no roads from Monterey, and supplies had to be packed in after a four-day trip.  When the first wagon road was built, it took eleven hours to get to Monterey.  We had just made the trip in 4 hours on bicycles—but of course the road is now much better.  Michael Pfeiffer’s son John sold 680 acres to the state in 1934 and it became the park. 

     

    After that short hike we made dinner.  The sun was going down, and we bedded down with it.  But we didn’t sleep soundly.  I kept hearing noises, and I vaguely became fully conscious of them.  I quietly reached for the flashlight and unzipped the tent flap.  Shining the light on the bicycle, leaning on the picnic table ten feet away, I saw a large raccoon reaching into the pannier on the handlebars.  He was eating some of our food right before our eyes!

     

    I yelled at him and he ignored me.  I put on my shorts and shoes and got out to chase him off, but he still ignored me, still kept reaching into my pannier, taking handfuls of bread.  I yelled at him again and he stood up on his hind legs, bared his teeth and his claws, and hissed at me.  I wasn’t going close to him, that was certain, so I shined the light at the ground and found a large stone.  I picked it up and threw it at him.  It sailed over his head by a few inches and hit the table behind him, making a loud noise.  He jumped off the table, onto the ground, and again did his threatening act with claws and teeth bared.  He was scary, but I had to get rid of him, so I found another stone and tossed it at him.  Again, it missed by inches and he quickly climbed the nearby tree.  I could see him on a branch about 8 feet over the creek which was next to our campsite.  A third stone was on the mark, and he fell into the creek with a loud splash. 

     

    I was breathing hard and my heart was pumping.  I had been quite scared during that brief encounter.  I kept imagining those ferocious teeth tearing at my bare leg.  But now he was gone, and I inspected the damage.  He had actually unzipped my pannier, reached a long arm in, torn the bread wrapper, and was grabbing handfuls of bread to eat.  We threw away part of the loaf and brought the rest of the food into the tent with us.  We had violated the first rule of camping: don’t leave food out where wild animals can get to it.

  • Against the Wind: A bike trip across America - Carmel, California, and not working too hard!

    Day 70, August 14

     

                We were back on the road again the next morning, having recovered from our gluttony of the night before.  We coasted down the hill and out of the park, back on Route 1, slowly climbing a hill.  We came to the intersection of Ocean Avenue and saw the most enticing view.

     

                We were looking down the hill into Carmel.  I had heard about this little town, but never been here.  It was a beautiful bay, with the famous Pebble Beach golf course on the point off to our right.  We could see where the Carmel River emptied into the ocean.  The fog was gone, and we could see the beautiful blue ocean off into the distance.  It was still morning, we had only ridden a little while, but we decided to take a detour.

     

                We coasted into the prettiest town we had come across.  Steep hills surrounded it, the ocean was below it, and it had many quaint houses and shops.  We locked up the bikes and strolled through the streets, going into the shops.  Inanna, especially, was taken by the town and couldn’t leave.  We spent hours taking in all the sights, and sitting at the rocky beach watching the waves.  Finally it was time to decide—would we spend the night here?  We had only cycled 6 miles!  But it was already late, and we had to climb a steep hill to get back up to Route 1.  We decided to stay.

     

                But where would we camp?  This was decidedly not the kind of town to welcome campers.  We asked around, and nobody could think of anywhere.  We decided to have dinner is a restaurant, and found an attractive Swedish place, the Scandia Restaurant where we spent almost as much as we had the night before, but for another nice meal.  We asked a young busboy about a place to camp and he could only think of one place—there were picnic tables near the beach, and he suggested we look there.

     

                We cycled to the picnic tables he had mentioned and there was only a parking lot and a couple tables.  But we walked into the scrub brush behind the tables, and found a nice spot about 30 feet back, completely hidden.  We pitched the tent and felt lucky to have found this place in a town that is built for people with money, not for people spending less than $10 a day for two.

     

                Before we slept we mused about how our trip had slowed down.  Instead of 60 miles a day, we were doing much less since we had entered California.  We had cycled 44, 10, 36, 30, 10, 45, 49, 40, 20, 8, 36, and 6 miles in our last 12 days.  Plus, we had eaten in several restaurants.  We were definitely taking it easy, and enjoying ourselves, as much as a couple of cyclists on a budget could do.  Inanna said she liked this pace, we had suffered through a lot to get here, and we should enjoy this gorgeous state.

     

                But after we fell asleep we were awakened by loud noises.  It sounded like a motorcycle gang, gunning their bikes, talking loudly.  They must have had lots of beer with them, because they got more boisterous as the night wore on.  They had no idea we were sleeping 30 feet from them.  I was anxious, but Inanna was not.  She reminded me of her experience being married to a biker.  Nevertheless, I didn’t sleep a bit until they left, after what seemed several hours later.  I really hadn’t thought I could get out of our tent and tell them to keep it down like I did with those tennis players back in Kansas.  Tennis players and motorcycle riders are probably different breeds.

     

                Odd that in this little, rich and beautiful town I was more scared than at any other place in our ride across the country.  The town fathers might have been scandalized at the thought of drunken motorcycle riders and poverty-stricken bicycle riders hanging out at their picnic tables.

  • Against the Wind, Day 69: A bike trip across America - Too much seafood in Monterrey

    Day 69, August 13

     

                It was cold and foggy when we awoke.  The cold made it difficult to get out of the sleeping bags, so we got another late start. The moisture beaded up on the tent, and it had to be put away wet again.  However, it had once more protected us from the elements.  After breakfast, we were out on the road again.

     

                I kept expecting the fog to lift as the sun rose, but it didn’t.  We headed south on Route 1, and it was eerie and uncomfortable to ride in the fog—the second time this had happened on our trip, after Rocky Mountain National Park and our climb up to the continental divide.  We couldn’t see the ocean we had seen the evening before because of the fog.  At first we could hear the ocean as we rode, but the sound grew fainter and stopped.  A glance at the map explained that we were bearing away from the ocean.  The map was the most marvelous one of the whole trip.  Put out by the California Department of Transportation and the California Bicentennial Committee, it was a long, thin booklet full of detailed maps of a bicycle route from Oregon to Mexico along California’s coast.  We had carried this map the whole way, and it had been useless weight until now, when it proved its worth.

     

                We were actually joining the 1000-mile route about halfway between its two endpoints.  The northern part of California, from San Francisco to Oregon, is a huge, beautiful area through which I had traveled only once, during my childhood.  It was the southern section which now drew my attention.  I had driven it with my family, and with my friend Bill.  I remembered a train ride in 1958 from San Francisco down to San Diego: we had just arrived on an MSTS ship, the Barrett, from Kwajalein via Honolulu.  The train ride had stood out primarily because of our cat, Likiep (named for a local island but pronounced licky up).  She had been a stray we adopted in Kwajalein, and we shipped her back on the Barrett—she had a special crate and we went down to the hold to feed her twice a day.  At the train station in San Francisco we found out that no pets were allowed, and no arrangements could be made to ship a pet.  We smuggled her onto the train in a wicker suitcase exactly like David Niven had used in Around the World in Eighty Days.  Our entire day on the train had been organized around successfully bringing this little cat to San Diego.  Since she made scratching noises inside her wicker suitcase, we had to take her into the men’s room.  My father, my brother Jack, and I took turns cat-sitting in a stall.  Luckily, she was not a meower. 

     

                I told Inanna about the train ride and she was interested—she was a cat-lover and had three cats back at the house, which our renters were feeding.  I had already told her about our family adventure in Kwajalein.  This was a tiny island in the mid-pacific, 2000 miles southwest of Hawaii.  It had been a navy base and my parents, schoolteachers, signed on to teach in the navy school.  They had figured that since they could never afford to take us traveling on proper vacations, this was an alternative way to see the world.

     

                And what an adventure it had been for me, a seventh-grader.  One square mile, on the edge of a lagoon seventy miles in diameter, it was home to about a thousand people.  The lagoon was warm and clear, and I swam there daily with a mask and snorkel.  I could pick up seashells, the animal still living inside.  I had to avoid the other kind of shells, those from the war, which were a distinct danger, but could pick up other World War II memorabilia.  This had been a Japanese-held island and the U.S. had taken it in a bloody fight in 1944.  I had been there only thirteen years later.

     

                The most dramatic reminder of the war was the Prinz Eugen, the heavy cruiser which had broken out into the Atlantic with the Bismarck in 1942.  While the Bismarck was sunk, the Prinz Eugen escaped and made it through the war.  After the war, many captured ships were brought to Bikini and Eniwetok, only a couple hundred miles from Kwajalein, and an A-bomb was detonated on them.  Only the Prinz Eugen had survived the blast, and according to the story, had been towed to Kwajalein for inspection.  Once safely inside our lagoon, the damaged Prinz Eugen had capsized in shallow water.  Every day I could walk to the beach and see its rusting keel rising from the light blue lagoon, about a half-mile away.  It had been heavily contaminated with radiation, of course, and we were not allowed to eat fish caught in the lagoon because of that.  But we were reassured that in the years since the great ship had been brought to Kwaj, the waters of the lagoon had flushed most of the radiation away.  We could safely swim in those waters.

     

                How about in these waters?  Our route had brought us back to Monterey Bay at Manresa State Beach.  I remembered my brief sojourn aboard the USS Coral Sea, and the three aircrewmen lost right out there in Monterey Bay.  It was still too foggy to see much, but we knew the sea was there.

     

                The route turned back away from the ocean on San Andreas Road, paralleling Route 1.  We crossed the Pajaro River and soon were back on Route 1 proper, and the traffic became very heavy.  We stopped in the town of Marina to have a late lunch.

     

                Out of Marina we found we were on a section of roadway in Fort Ord.  They had marked out a very nice bike path.  Then we were in the suburbs of Monterey.  We cycled past the U.S. Naval Postgraduate School, where several of my friends had gone later in their careers.  It was supposed to be a great school in a great town.  We had heard about the restaurants and soon found fisherman’s wharf.  We both loved seafood, and since Chinese had won in San Francisco, there was no debating this time.  We spent more that evening than for any other meal on the trip, $12.66, and were served huge portions.  We ate much more than we should have, and we could barely walk after that meal.  Luckily, there was a state park nearby where we could camp for 50 cents each, but unluckily it was at the top of a hill.  We staggered to the top and sat for a while before pitching the tent.  But the meal had been worth it.  We had cycled only 36 miles that day.

  • Aganst the Wind, Day 68: a bike trip across America - a short ride through Santa Cruz

    Day 68, August 12

     

                Dorothy wouldn’t let us ride out the next morning.  She said the traffic and mountains were very difficult and insisted on driving us to the coast.  We strapped our bikes to the back of her Volkswagen Beetle, after stashing our panniers and other gear into the trunk and back seat.  The three of us, plus the two bikes and gear, was absolutely all that car could carry.  I was very anxious about how low the wheels hung over the back of the VW—I was worried that they could hit the ground if we drove over a serious dip in the road.

     

                Dorothy drove carefully, however, and we went over another range of hills that would have been considered mountains back in Virginia.  The summits were over 2000 feet high, yet we were now only 20 miles from the Pacific.  These mountains were covered densely with Redwood trees, a vast difference from the Diablo range we had crossed three days earlier.  That stretch had been barren and rocky, yet was only 40 miles from where we were today, as the crow flies.

     

                She let us out in Santa Cruz and helped us put our gear back onto our bikes.  The bikes had made the trip on the VW no worse for the wear, and soon we were set to go.  She hugged us both and we headed south.

     

                But it was hard to make much headway.  The winds were not bad, nor were the grades.  The traffic was passable.  No, things were not too difficult, they were too attractive.  Inanna had never seen the Pacific before, except from under the Golden Gate Bridge the day before.  Now we were on the beach, looking out to sea.  Santa Cruz had an amusement park right on the beach, and we dallied.

     

                I told Inanna about the last time I had been to this amusement park, during the summer of 1965. I had been aboard a destroyer out of San Diego for the summer.  We pulled in to San Francisco, where then had a dance for us.  I met a girl named Sally there, and she had me up to see her family in Novato, north of San Francisco, the next day.  Sally promised to find a date for my friend if I came back up to visit her, so Bill Speckmann and I had spent a week on the road.  We set out that August, heading north in my parents’ second car.  It burned a quart of oil every 50 miles, so we bought ten quarts of oil that had been drained out of other people’s cars to cycle through this old beast.

     

                We had some memorable adventures that week, and one of them had been at this amusement park in Santa Cruz.  We met the most beautiful young woman we had ever seen, and she was working in a booth there.  She had a puzzle: you were given 5 metal discs, and you had to cover a larger circle painted onto the counter with these 5 discs.  It looked easy, and we thought we could impress her with our superior intelligence by solving her puzzle.  Each try cost a dime, or three for a quarter, and we lost quite a bit of hard-earned money at that booth.  Never did solve it, and never did impress this young woman.  Yet it had been a breath-taking evening on the beach at Santa Cruz, and I hadn’t forgotten it.

     

                Now we were at the same beach, the same amusement park, almost exactly 12 years later, and it was almost as exhilarating as before to me.  On one hand, nothing is as romantic at age 31 as it is at age 19.  But on the other hand, at 19 I failed at connecting with this beautiful girl, whereas now I had Inanna, sticking with me through thick and thin. 

     

                Inanna liked hearing this story, liked hearing that she was a part of a happy ending, and squeezed my hand and smiled at me.  We strolled through the amusement park.  There was a Ferris wheel, a merry-go-round, other amusements typical of such a place.  We gazed out to sea in the warm sunlit afternoon.  But we didn’t find the puzzle of the five discs.

     

                We rode a little farther south.  It was still hard to be serious about riding.  We found a place to camp at Seacliff State Beach, atop a cliff, overlooking the ocean. We could hear the ocean down below us as we relaxed.  We had only ridden 8 miles that day.  What a lazy day!  As the sun set, it became colder, and the wind picked up.  I wrote the postcard I had picked up in San Francisco.  On it was a photo of the Golden Gate Bridge, rising from the fog at sunrise.  “We finally have seen the Pacific!  Visited Berkeley Friends (Lettens) and Los Gatos (Macaulays and Cleggs).  Spent one day in S. F.  Now we’re in Santa Cruz, a state beach.  Getting ready to fry Red Snapper in butter & lemon & mushrooms with cheap white wine.  We’re beginning our trek down the coast—Monterey, Carmel, Big Sur, etc.  Feeling great except for a surprising chill in the air.  The terrain will be rigorous next few days, then flatten out.  Should be in San Diego in 10 days.  We can hear the breakers below the cliff from us—and see a wide arc of bayshore/hills from here.”

     

    After that nice seafood dinner, with wine, we warmed up in the sleeping bags on the edge of the cliff and slept well.

  • Against the Wind: a bike trip across America - San Francisco tourists! Bike again tomorrow.

    Day 67, August 11

     

                We slept late the next morning—and I had expected to be awakened by the normal bustle of people preparing for work and school.  When we rose, Jason was already at work, and only Dorothy was around.  She helped us with breakfast and gave us the bus and BART schedules.  She was very much in charge, and we were only too happy to let her make the decisions.  We were looking forward to seeing San Francisco.

     

                We were shocked at the high cost of the bus tickets to the city: $6.70.  But we paid and were soon being whisked through the traffic, past Palo Alto, Redwood City, San Mateo and Candlestick Park into San Francisco.  I told Inanna about my romance with the Los Angeles Dodgers back in the sixties, and their hated rivals, the Giants, who played at Candlestick.  The Giants would water down the infield to slow down Maury Wills and the other speedy Dodgers, and Willie McCovey and Orlando Cepeda would swing for the fences.  The Giants won the pennant in 1962, but the Dodgers won in ‘63 and ’64.  I talked about the winds in Candlestick, and how Stu Miller was once blown off the pitcher’s mound.  I told her about the ’63 World Series, the Dodgers won 4 straight from the Yanks, with great games pitched by Sandy Koufax, Don Drysdale, Johnny Podres, and Koufax again.  Inanna didn’t much care about baseball, but she listened politely.

     

    In San Francisco we wandered around for most of the day.  We took the cable cars, walked around Market Street, and went into lots of tourist shops.  In one shop, buying postcards, I saw a postcard of the famous Transamerica Building.  I asked the clerk, who looked to be Chinese, where it was, wondering if we could walk to a place from which we could get a good view of it.  She smiled with good humor and pointed over my shoulder.  I turned, and there it was—or at least there was the bottom of it.  We were right next to it!

     

    We went outside and gawked at this elongated pyramid.  Then we went on with our touring.  We went to Chinatown, where we bought lunch.  We walked along Fisherman’s Wharf and walked to the base of the Golden Gate Bridge.  By this time we were plenty tired, and it was time to make our way across to the other side of the bay.

     

                We found the BART station, and were amazed at how easily we were transported under the San Francisco Bay toward Berkeley.  Soon we were walking in Berkeley to the Holy Order of Mans. 

     

                John and Diane Letten had been Lloyd and Barbara Letten when I first met them back in Virginia Beach.  Lloyd had recently retired from the Navy, in which he had been a Presbyterian chaplain, and a Commander.  He was white-haired, burley, and jolly.  Before my divorce, we had met him at the Friends’ meeting—he had stopped being a minister, and instead was trying to find himself spiritually.  He began working as Director of an alcohol rehabilitation program for the City of Norfolk.  Barbara, a career Navy wife, had raised her children and then gone back to school.  She had recently received her masters in guidance and counseling and was working with problem adolescents.

     

                Lloyd and Barbara had been friends with my former wife and I, and during our breakup they had been supportive of both of us.  A year later, Lloyd threw Barbara for a loop: he told her he was changing his name to John, joining the Holy Order of Mans, and leaving her.  Barbara resisted him as long as she could, then let him go and began to grieve.  At about that time, perhaps when I should have been the one to support Barbara, I was more self-absorbed, and lost close track of her.  Then I heard that she had changed her name to Diane and also joined the Holy Order!  When I learned that they were in Berkeley, I thought we should pay a visit to my old friends, now monks.

     

                The Holy Order of Mans was described to me as a proto-Catholic order; they followed Catholic liturgies and most other practices, but did not follow the Pope.  That was all I knew, except that these two people were loving, mature, and genuine people who had made a crucial life choice.

     

                John greeted us at the door with a great big hug for each of us, even though he had not met Inanna before.  Diane was close behind him, never as effusive, but clearly happy to see us.  We must have seemed as odd to them as they did to us.  We were ragged, hirsute, and tanned, having just ridden bicycles across the country.  But what were they doing?

     

                John described their lives as devoted to prayer and service.  They each had jobs in the community, but they were menial jobs compared to what they were trained to do:  John was a sandwich-maker in a local sandwich shop, and Diane was an assistant librarian.  They worked full workweeks and gave all their earnings to the Order, as did the other monks.  The money went to pay for their big house, food, health care, and other expenses.  And it was an interesting house: big, two stories, almost no furniture, but nice, new wall-to-wall carpeting in every room.  I imagined a group of monks sitting in a circle on the lush carpet, praying.

     

                John described his success as a sandwich-maker.  He was learning the value of service, and how to put love into every movement of food preparation for a stranger.  Here was a Navy Commander, a Presbyterian minister, a director of an alcohol program, learning how to prepare a loving sandwich—and thriving on it.

     

                They were obviously enjoying their new lives, and proud, in a sense, to talk about it.  They had sold their house, left their grown children and their friends, almost lost their marriage, and taken up a non-traditional life.  I couldn’t help but compare their communal arrangement with that of Dorothy and Jason.  What they had in common was an unwillingness to let their lifestyles be ordained by society.  They were making their own choices, and living by their own rules.

     

                We arrived late back at Dorothy and Jason’s house, and bedded down again on the sofas.  Next morning, we knew we would be back on the road again.

  • Against the Wind: A bike trip across America - An earth-mother in Los Gatos

    Day 66, August 10

     

    Next morning, we headed north on Highway 101.  This highway had been a major artery back in Southern California when I was growing up in the fifties and sixties, but now there was a paralleling interstate which took most of the traffic, and the road wasn’t too bad to ride on.  Then we turned off on Santa Teresa Boulevard and headed north, and then northwest, toward Los Gatos.

     

                We were soon in the suburbs.  We pedaled past wall-to-wall ranch-style homes, unlike any area in which we had ridden all summer.  We stopped to call our friends, Dorothy Macaulay and Jason Clegg, and got clear directions to their house in Los Gatos.  I was worried about the traffic in the San Jose area, but we seemed to be able to steer clear of it.  Soon we pedaled up to their house—a rented brick ranch in a typical California suburb, just a little nicer than my neighborhood in El Cajon, when I was growing up.

     

                We were greeted with hugs and smiles and invited in to meet the family.  It was more of a communal living arrangement, and very non-traditional.  Jason had just arrived home from his job managing a local Salvation Army thrift store.  He was about 30, good-looking, with that same shy smile we remembered from Virginia Beach.  Dorothy was the classic earth mother, with smiles and twinkling eyes, a warm hostess.  She was a generation older than Jason, with graying long hair, a muumuu, and sandals.  Jason’s brother was there, as was Dorothy’s teenage daughter.  Dorothy explained that they had recently done some moving around in the house to accommodate to all the family’s needs:  Dorothy was now in a small bedroom by herself.  Jason was sleeping in the garage “so that he can work on his music,” she explained.  Her daughter shared the master bedroom with her live-in boyfriend.  Dorothy explained to me that this arrangement seemed to be the best way of coping with her daughter’s independence and love life.  She implied that it had been difficult to accept, but that it was a compromise that was the least harmful arrangement they could agree to.  At least her daughter was safe.

     

                This shocked me.  Who would let a boyfriend live in their own house with a teenage girl?  But as I thought about Dorothy, I wasn’t too surprised.

     

                Back at the Outreach Clinic, we had had a mini-crisis.  Avis Parsons (sister of rocker Gram Parsons), our secretary and receptionist, had resigned.  She was a sweetheart and had been a uniting influence on the staff.  We couldn’t think of how to replace her.  I had spoken of the problem with Louise Wilson of the Virginia Beach Friends Meeting.  Louise was a founding member of the Meeting, and a faith-filled and spiritual person.  She thought about it quietly, then said she knew somebody and would call her.

     

                A couple of days later, Louise called me and told me about the perfect person, Dorothy, who lived in California.  I was skeptical, because the job was not highly paid, and most people would hardly think it was worth flying across the country for an interview.  I told Louise that, and she understood, but asked me to talk with Dorothy on the phone.  She said that Dorothy would know if it was right.

     

                I did talk with Dorothy, and she seemed quite qualified for the job, and also seemed like a warm and friendly person.  But I explained that we couldn’t pay for her flight for the interview, and that the staff would have to interview her, too.  We didn’t hire anyone without a staff consensus.  Dorothy said she would think on it and call back.

     

                A few days later she did call back, and committed to flying that next week for the interview.  We still didn’t have a suitable candidate, so I agree with trepidation.  I would have hated to say no to her after all that expense and trouble, and I wondered if Louise would forgive me if the answer was no.  But I knew Louise would never be that way.  I resolved to be cruel and say no if she didn’t fit with the staff.

     

                Dorothy arrived, and was as non-threatening as could be.  Although most of the staff—including myself—were skeptical at first, we quickly warmed to her.  It was a miraculous fit, and we hired her.  Soon, Jason flew out to join her, and he got a job as manager of a local thrift store.  Dorothy became a healing and uniting influence with an all-too-often fractious staff.

     

                After a year she had felt the call and returned to California—certainly her daughter was one of those pulls—but she had been very good for the Outreach Clinic, and I was happy to have hired her.  Now, after another year, we were back with Dorothy and Jason, on the opposite coast, and perhaps under different miraculous circumstances: we had ridden there on bicycles.

     

                Dorothy and Jason told us about our other friends, John and Diane who were living up the road in Berkeley, and we made plans for the next day.  We would visit San Francisco via public transportation, cross the bay on BART, visit John and Diane, and then another bus would return us to Los Gatos.

     

                We went out to dinner at the Live Oak, a little folk club where Jason Clegg was the entertainer.  He played the guitar and sang for those who were having dinner.  He really had been working on his music.  Dorothy was obviously very proud of him.  After chatting into the night, we went home and bedded down.  We were on the fold-out bed in the living room as everyone else went to their respective places.

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