Days 41-42 (May 30-31): Carmel, San Jose, CA -- 0 miles biked

(Written from UC-Santa Clara Library)

Miles biked: 0 (1,437.9 overall)

Originally, I considered spending just one full day at my man Toad's place in Carmel, but my cyclist friend Fred convinced me that I didn't want to bike to and through Big Sur on a weekend.

So I decided to stay grounded through the weekend and get back on the road Monday morning for the final difficult stretch of riding days.

SATURDAY: TOAD'S HIKING TOUR
Toad had Saturday all planned out for me, and the man sure knows what I enjoy doing.

We started the day by driving through Pebble Beach, mostly on roads I hadn't biked on Friday. Toad showed me the "Lone Cypress," which is a famous tree sitting on the coast. It's really not that special, but I had to act the tourist for a minute and get a picture in front of it.

Then we did some walking in tide pools, since the water was extremely low. Toad said he'd never seen it so low. We didn't see a lot of aquatic life -- just a couple small crabs -- but it was cool being on the coast and looking at the fog above the water.

The scene was made even more interesting by all the kelp that was in the water. It was the ocean like I'd never seen it before.

And my day of observing the great Pacific was just beginning.

After stopping at a local deli -- Toad's No. 1 sandwich joint -- to buy an enormous sub, we began Toad's hiking tour of places south of Carmel toward Big Sur.

But first I had to throw a jacket over my head and close my eyes. OK, let me explain. ... One of the great things about this trip is that everything I've seen on the bike is new to me. So driving down Highway 1, I didn't want to spoil Monday's ride.

I did, however, feel many of the hills that I'll have to ride up and over. And Toad laughed several times as he wondered how the heck I'm going to make it to the elevated town of Big Sur and beyond.

A challenge certainly awaits me.

But on Saturday, we stopped at three different hiking spots where I opened my eyes, did a little walking and enjoyed the sights.

Toad saved the best for last -- a spot along the road, which I later figured out was between Carmel and Big Sur (in my blindfolded state, I originally thought it was south of Big Sur).

The other places had been tourist traps. I'd enjoyed fairly short walks to the beaches, and the sights had been nice -- there were even horseback riders on one of the beaches -- but they didn't have that peacefulness that you find at a unpopulated spot.

The third, and final, hiking spot was more of a local gem.

After a short walk, I found myself at a sandy beach on which waves rhythmically crashed. There were about six people there, which was six more than he'd usually see, Toad said.

I sat for a while and enjoyed the peacefulness around me. To the east, just on the other side of 1, were huge, rolling hills that almost made me feel I was in Ireland. Earlier, Toad had pointed out the hills by Big Sur that were victimized by raging fires last year.

To the north and south, the beach was overlooked by beautiful, craggy cliffs that almost appeared man-made but retained their beauty in nature just the same.

And in front of me, of course, was the water. If it wasn't so damn cold and I had my swim trunks, I'd have been tempted to run into the crashing waves.

So that was the best hiking spot of the tour, but Toad also made another stop -- it was actually before the pristine beach.

We stopped in Big Sur and experienced something that, well, you probably can't find in 99.999 percent of places -- wooden chairs in a stream.

No joke.

After buying Big Sur bars, which are absolutely delicious and hearty -- I'll get another one Monday, that's for sure -- we walked down to a stream, which was maybe a foot deep at its highest point.

And there, in the middle of the stream, sat a handful of wooden chairs. It was the perfect setting, because tall trees created shade while the sun just barely poked through to give off a little warmth.

I took off my socks and Tevas and waded into the middle of the cold water, where I sat in one chair and dropped my feet onto another. I relaxed and opened up the "Pine Cone," the free newspaper I'd picked up in the store.

Talk about chillin'. I'll have to stop there again when I reach Big Sur by bike -- if I reach Big Sur -- Monday.

Late in the afternoon, after all the touring was done, I was very thankful to Toad for the ultimate afternoon. It hadn't been strenuous, but it hadn't been dull either.

Saturday evening, we made the drive to San Jose, where Toad lives while he attends law school at UC-Santa Clara.

I didn't really experience the city, not that it's anything special, but I got my first bowl of Vietnamese soup from a local joint.

And, man, was it delicious (and huge).

If you haven't tried it and there's a place around, I highly recommend it.

Unless, of course, you can't stand the thought of eating raw meat.

SUNDAY: A DAY OF REST
Today hasn't been anything special, but it's been nice.

It's, really, the first day this entire trip when I haven't exercised. And I think it's necessary, too.

Beginning tomorrow, I'll face another difficult string of tough riding days. I've got about 300 miles to Santa Barbara, and from there the riding should be mostly flat and through urban areas. Plus, I'll be on an emotional high because I'll be so close to my final destination.

But this week should be difficult -- and I'll probably camp four consecutive nights. There are two hostels along the way, but I'm not sure I want to spend more money than I have to. We'll see how I feel.

Anyway, thanks to Toad for what's been a great weekend full of adventures, great food and, as is always the case, entertaining times.

And on a final note, Santa Clara has a really pretty and small campus. Students here are getting ready for finals, and I always enjoy being on a college campus -- especially one with palm trees.

Tonight it's back to Toad's family's place in Carmel and then back on the road early tomorrow.

Oh, and the new bike seat seems all right.

Let's hope it's my last one of the trip.

Day 40 (May 29): Santa Cruz, CA-Carmel, CA -- 62.8 miles biked

(Written from UC-Santa Clara Library)

Miles biked: 62.8 (1,437.9 overall)

Roads taken: Santa Cruz: Front Street, Soquel Avenue, 41st Avenue, Soquel Drive ... Freedom Boulevard, Bonita Drive, San Andreas Road, Thurwatcher Road, McGowan Road, Trafton Road, Bluff Road, Jensen Road, SR 1 South, Molera Road, Nashua Road, Monte Road, Del Monte Boulevard, bike path (for about 15 miles), 17-mile Drive in Pebble Beach.

Places stopped: Moss Landing (to buy cherries; the lady gave me $1.62 worth for my 97 cents), Pacific Grove (to eat lunch by the bay), inside Pebble Beach (to take pictures and watch a little golf), Carmel beach (to meet Toad, who took me, and the bike, back to his house).

This day of riding had an interesting dynamic.

I began the day later than I wanted because of an uncool act by a person -- yep, the stealing of the bike seat.

I enjoyed several miles of my ride and took a good route because of two friendly, local bicyclists -- good guys.

In the morning, I walked my bike about half a mile to The Spokesman bike shop in downtown Santa Cruz. A man there fitted the 520 with a new seat post and seat, and I got out of there after dropping a moderate $69.

The guy also hooked me up with a biker hat, which I initially didn't think I'd ever use. But, after using it a little the past couple days, I've found that it's comfortable and gives me a cool European look. (It's also extremely compact and, thus, easy to pack.)

As soon as I got on the road, I wanted to get out of Santa Cruz quickly. That wasn't easy, as I followed busy Soquel Avenue. But once I got out of town, the riding was easy and calming.

The back roads I took were flat, and the traffic was light.

I wouldn't call the ride scenic, but it was interesting and new to me. I passed dozens of strawberry fields in which hundreds of migrant workers fielded berries. I'd never seen so many strawberry patches in such a concentrated area.

I was tempted to stop and buy some berries, but all I had to spend was $0.97, including a Canadian dime. In Moss Landing, I asked a lady what kind of produce I could get with such a small amount of money. She pointed to the cherry bin, so I grabbed a few handfuls and bagged them.

When she put the bag on the scale, the price showed $1.62 and I cringed. But she smiled and said to give her what I had. She was the first of many helpful folks I'd meet throughout the day.

The second person was a local cyclist named Fred, whom I met as I was about to turn onto the bike path along Del Monte Boulevard by Marina. I was excited about the path, on which I would ride for roughly 15 miles all the way into Monterey.

Getting to ride with a partner, for the first time on the trip, was an added bonus.

Fred was from Pacific Grove, which is in between Monterey and my destination for the day, Carmel, and he led the way for 15 relaxed miles. He showed me a few nice spots overlooking the ocean and a long stretch of sandy beach. He gave me a little history lesson of the area, talking at length about the military base right by the bike path that had shut down.

That was fine with me, because the riding was fairly peaceful and not difficult. There were only a few intersections to go through and a couple spots where we had to briefly stop. The path was also, for the most part, flat.

My map told me to cut over to Carmel from Monterey via a couple roads that, Fred said, would take me over a huge hill. He suggested, instead, that I bike west through Pacific Grove and then through the large Pebble Beach community, which is the home of four golf courses, a couple of them famous for hosting tournaments such as the U.S. Open.

The route would be more miles, Fred said, but it'd be much more scenic, avoid traffic and not be too difficult. I didn't hesitate -- I had plenty of time, with Toad at work all day. I could do a few extra miles.

And, boy, was it a good call.

The road through Pebble Beach, 17-mile drive, took me past golf courses on my left and the beautiful ocean and cool rock structures on my right. At one point, I stopped and watched a group of players tee off at a par-3 nestled between the curving road and the ocean.

That's a hole that'd be enjoyable to play. I would feel some pressure, though, considering that several tourists stand and watch the players.

Not only was it enjoyable looking at the golf holes and ocean as I cruised along, it was also neat checking out the huge, million-dollar houses. When Toad and I drove through the next day, he showed me the house owned by Clint Eastwood and another that, he believed, Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt used to own (you know, when they were together).

After about 7 miles, a biker named Larry came up behind me and started riding alongside. At first, I thought he might zoom right past on his road bike. But when I sped up, we started chatting and he led me the rest of the way to Carmel.

I chilled at the Carmel beach for a few minutes, and then got a little life-is-easy service. Toad drove down from his house, which was up a huge hill from me, and picked me -- and the bike -- up.

No, I don't think it was cheating. I still biked to Carmel, and he didn't take me any farther south. Plus, I did the extra riding through Pebble Beach.

It was a solid day on the bike. I was ready for a relaxing weekend in and around Carmel.

Friday night, Toad and I ate "chowdah" out of sourdough bread bowls on Monterey's wharf and then hit up a local pub. Despite the huge flocks of tourists, Monterey is a nice, medium-sized town with great views of the harbor and sand beaches to the north.

Saturday would bring even better sights.

Day 39 (May 28): Pigeon Point, CA-Santa Cruz, CA -- 32.5 miles biked

(Written from my man Toad's house in Carmel)

Miles biked: 32.5 (1,375.1 overall)

Time on bike: 3 hours, 12 minutes, 3 seconds

Maximum speed: 30.0 mph

Roads taken: Pigeon Point Road, SR 1, Santa Cruz: bike path, Mission Street, Laurel Street, Broadway, Ocean Street, San Lorenzo, Riverside Street, 3rd Street, Main Street.

Places stopped: Side of road (for quick break), Santa Cruz hostel (for the nigh).

The biking on Thursday was nothing to write home about. I rode on mostly flat terrain to Santa Cruz, reaching the city of about 50,000 a little after noon.

The blog material happened while I was in town and, ironically enough, has to do with blogging.

After I reached the Santa Cruz hostel, the man in charge was nice enough to let me store all my stuff there even though check-in wasn't for more than 4 hours. I thought about leaving the 520 there, as well, but Peter said that it'd be a long walk to the library.

So I decided to take the bike, with no panniers or anything, to the library to do some serious blogging -- I was a full week behind. But when I arrived at the library and locked my bike up -- using a metal lock and a cable lock, I secured the frame and both wheels -- the librarian told me that it cost $2 just to use the Internet.

I'd never heard of that at a library, but she did recommend going to a place just a few blocks away called "Bad Ass Coffee," where you can use a computer if you make a purchase of $2 or more. That sounded like a deal, so I walked out of the library and headed to the main drag -- Pacific Avenue.

I thought about taking the bike with me, but I figured it'd be fine and secure, all locked up, in front of the library -- where plenty of people were milling around.

Well, I spent the next 5-plus hours blogging, and blogging and blogging a little more. I probably wrote close to 5,000 words as I recapped a full week of life on (and off) the bike.

When I finally walked out of Bad Ass Coffee a little before 7, I was feeling good and accomplished. I'd gotten a lot done and the night was still ahead of me. I could do all sorts of fun things in the cozy college town.

And then I neared the bike...

As I did, I wondered if maybe some dirt bag had decided to grab one or both of my lights, which are really easy to unattach. And then I laughed when I saw that, indeed, the front light was missing. It was more amusing, really, than irritating.

But then I saw something (or, rather, a lack of something) that made the blood boil. My bike seat, the same seat on which I'd sat for over 1,300 miles, was missing. So was the seat post. There was just a hole in the frame.

I'd been robbed.

A couple notes on this...

1. I blame myself. People who would do such things tend to loiter outside of libraries, and seeing a fairly new and expensive bike like mine had to make for an easy target. I should have taken it to the coffee shop, which was on the city's most busy street.

Lesson learned. Especially as I get into Southern California, I'll have to be very careful with the bike. It's unfortunate, but it'll be harder for me to stop places along the way.

2. What about the onlookers? It's astonishing to me that people simply watch others do things like this and don't say a word. I can't guarantee, of course, that there was somebody watching the thief, but it's not as if the library was on an empty street. People were milling around, entering and leaving the premesis.

A day later, when I took the bike to a downtown shop to get a new post and seat, the guy there told me that just recently they'd needed to use cable cutters to snap a lock on a bike because the owner had lost his lock key. So a couple random guys had taken several minutes to cut through a lock on a downtown street.

And nobody in the area said a word.

That, to me, doesn't make sense. Maybe in New York minding your own business is the best course of action.

But in a place like Santa Cruz, locals should try to foster a crime-less downtown area.

Judging from all the bikes I saw locked up that were missing wheels, that's not the case.

And, no, I didn't treat myself to a night on the town after the incident.

Thankfully, the hostel's "Free Food" supply was large.

Day 38 (May 27): San Francisco, CA-Pigeon Point Lighthouse, CA -- 51.1 miles biked

(Written from Bad Ass Coffee, Santa Cruz, CA)

Miles biked: 51.1 (1,342.6 overall)

Time on bike: 4 hours, 23 minutes, 48 seconds

Maximum speed: 31.6 mph

Roads taken: In San Fran: Waller Street, Stanyan Street, Parmassus Avenue, Judah Street, Great Highway ... SR 35, Daly City: Westmoor Street, Skyline Drive, Crenshaw Drive, Longview Drive, Palmetto Avenue ... Pacifica: Clarendon Road, Francisco Boulevard, Westport Drive ... SR 1, Medio Avenue, bike path (in Miramar and Half Moon Bay), Half Moon Bay: Kelly Avenue ... SR 1.

Places stopped: Pacifico beach (to rest and watch the dozens of surfer dudes), Half Moon Bay gas station (to buy hot dog for lunch), Half Moon Bay library (to blog, but the librarian was ridiculous and limited me to 15 minutes despite there being several available computers), Pigeon Point Lighthouse Hostel (for the night).

After a delicious oatmeal breakfast, compliments of expert breakfast preparer Myra, I hit the road around 10 Wednesday morning. Yes, I was finally back on the bike after a great two and a half days in San Fran.

Well, first I had to get out of the city -- not an easy task.

But Myra suggested a route that helped me avoid any busy streets, or huge hills, and although it took a while to reach the Great Highway on the west side of the city, it was a rather pleasant ride.

From there, I cruised out of the city on a sizable shoulder. The ocean was just to my right, and it made for a fairly easy beginning to a never-easy "back-on-the-bike" day.

Then I reached Daly City...

From a distance, the city of about 100,000 looked interesting. Rows of houses sat on a hill overlooking the Pacific. But when I made a turn onto a city street, I was bored out of my mind -- not to mention heading uphill.

As I pedaled up a long hill, all I saw on either side of the road were identical homes -- one after another. I felt like I was living in the '50s and the birth of suburbia.

Finally, I reached the top of the hill and cruised downhill for a while into the neighboring city of Pacifica. I stopped at a beach to rest for a few minutes and observe the dozens of surfer dudes who were taking advantage of the sunny weather (at least for a few minutes; it quickly became foggy after that).

Then came a crazy stretch that I wasn't expecting. I've realized that no matter how easy a day on the bike might seem on a map, that's never really the case. There's almost always a challenge that I didn't see coming.

On Wednesday, the challenge was a stretch of about 6 miles that had my heart beating faster by the second.

First, the road suddenly narrowed and slanted uphill. I quickly found myself staying as far to the right as possible while trucks zoomed by. The hill continued as a construction worker yelled, "Almost there."

I was almost out of breath and couldn't muster much of a response beyond, "Hmphf." Then the real craziness began.

I wasn't going uphill anymore, but I was high above the ocean -- still on the skinny road -- and the wind was hitting me from all directions. I later learned that the stretch of SR 1 is called "Devil's Hill," but at the moment I was just thinking about pushing through to the bottom of the thing.

It was one of the most scary stretches of biking on the trip.

But I survived without any scrapes, bruises, lacerations, broken bones or scratches. And the rest of my moderate day of riding was pretty uneventful.

Except for what happened off the bike. Libraries, in general, have been great places for me to blog during the trip. But the Half Moon Bay Library failed miserably.

I planned on staying there for as long as I could to catch up on my blogging, but I was kicked out after a 15-minute session. It might have made sense if the place was packed, but there were several available computers.

That didn't leave a good taste in my mouth.

But it did provide an opportunity for me to call one of my good friends from back home, Bubs.

In one of those "You've got to be kidding me" stories, Bubs was in Monterey, just about 120 miles south of San Fran. He had randomly texted me Tuesday night about a basketball game, and when I texted back that I was at the Giants game, he texted back that he was in Monterey.

I was shocked, had no idea. (Shows how well I keep up with my friends' lives!)

Anyway, Bubs hoped that I could hang in San Fran for another night since he was driving there Wednesday afternoon with his wife, her sister, and their father, who lives in the city and is the reason he was out here.

I couldn't because of my reservation at the Pigeon Point Hostel, but when I called him from outside that library and he found out I was biking down the 1, we concluded that we could meet up in Pescadero, a small town just north of the lighthouse.

After arriving at the lighthouse -- the ride there from Half Moon Bay had been uneventful besides meeting a biker, Ben, who was riding with a group down to San Diego in a span of five days! They had road bikes and were planning on doing about 120 miles a day. Wow, that would kill me -- I quickly showered and prepared for Bubs' arrival.

But first I realized that the lighthouse wasn't what I had imagined. In the Hostel International brochure, it's described as having a hot tub overlooking the ocean that's open to guests.

What the brochure didn't say, however, was that the hot tub costs $7 for a half hour -- and you must have at least two people. The hostel already costs a lot for a hostel -- $28 -- so to charge extra for the hot tub was ridiculous.

Not only that, they charged $0.50 for the use of a towel.

It was a big change from the Redwood Hostel, which was very hospitable and offered a hiker/biker discount. I paid just $16 a night there.

Anyway, that was disappointing. But the dinner that Bubs' father-in-law treated me to wasn't. It's always nice to get a break from preparing cheap dinners and be treated to one, and I am very thankful to him for taking us out.

And, of course, it was great catching up with Bubs and his wife, Lia.

Didn't see that one coming.

The night was uneventful until I met a trio of older guys who were hiking up and down the coast. They were doing something I've never heard of -- they'd hike 15 miles, or so, a day and then get back to their car(s) and stay at nice accomodations. Sometimes their wives would pick them up, other times they'd use two cars, sometimes they'd hitchike. Once in a while, they'd camp out.

It wasn't your traditional hike, but I can't blame them. Two of them had done almost the entire stretch from Mexico to San Francisco along the coast.

That was my conversation of the night. I was ready for bed.

But first, I had a night-time snack. Yes, there was one positive about the hostel.

The "Free Food" cabinet was stocked with bread, peanut butter, honey, jelly and chips.

A silver lining to cap off an up-and-down, back-on-the-bike Wednesday.

Days 36-37 (May 25-26): San Francisco, CA -- 0 miles biked

(Written from Bad Ass Coffee, Santa Cruz, CA)

Miles biked: 0 (1,291.5 overall)

DAY 1: WALKING THE CITY, SOLO STYLE
I didn't bike Monday, but don't think that I didn't exercise (as long as walking fits in that category).

I slept in and enjoyed a relaxing morning at Myra's dining room table. She lives in a great neighborhood. Haight Street is quite the scene, with just about every kind of store and restaurant you could want (from smoke shops to organic grocery stores).

I chose to visit the organic store, where I bought some granola, sourdough bread and bananas for my breakfasts. I planned on doing plenty of eating out, but three meals a day (or more) seemed a bit extreme. I didn't want to put the budget into a tailspin in just a couple days.

After a relaxed morning, I turned down Myra's gracious offer to attend a Memorial Day barbecue nearby (it was very tempting, believe me). I wanted to do some exploring in the city, see as much as I could in an afternoon.

I also needed a baseball fix. I was already planning to see a Giants game the next night with my man, Toad, who would get us tickets. But I figured I'd head over to the ballpark Monday afternoon and check out the scene.

So after taking the No. 71 bus downtown, I walked/ran several blocks on 2nd Street until I reached AT&T Park, which is right on the bay. And while I quickly realized that I wouldn't be getting a really cheap ticket despite arriving 20 minutes after first-pitch time, I enjoyed walking around the stadium.

One of its coolest features, besides the kayakers in the bay behind right field who wait for long home runs (yes, there were even a couple despite Barry Bond's absence), is a free, standing-room-only zone behind the right-field fence.

Yes, you can actually walk up -- with no catch -- and stand right behind the outfield fence for free. It's not perfect watching a game through the fence grates, but you can still follow the action from field level.

For free!

It was an amazing thing, considering how ridiculous most modern stadiums are when it comes to charging fans for everything and being strict about where fans can venture.

I felt good about the stadium, and I hadn't even been inside yet.

Then I began a long, long walk in the sun and along the water. I passed pier after pier and got numerous looks at the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, which doesn't get the attention of the Golden Gate but is huge -- a double decker -- and so long that an island serves as a midpoint.

Fortunately, I'd say, bicyclists are not allowed on the bridge. That would be a long, long -- and probably windy -- ride.

Something that I'd never envisioned seeing in San Fran is a palm tree, but, sure enough, such trees lined the main drive along the harbor. I guess I've always thought palm trees are a Florida and Southern California thing. Silly me.

I thought about taking the ferry tour to Alcatraz Island, but then quickly dismissed such an idea. Not only were the tours $26, but they were booked until Tuesday. Talk about your ultimate tourist trap. Plenty of fun can be had without such a tour.

Somehow, despite wearing a fleece in the sunny weather -- nice one, Jake -- and Tevas, I made it to Fisherman's Wharf and walked amidst thousands of tourists for a few minutes past dozens of restaurants and shops that could afford to spike their prices.

No, not much fun.

The most entertaining part of the wharf was seeing the dozens of sea lions, who were a popular sight for tourists. I stood atop a wooden bench and observed the large beasts. According to a sign, they came to the harbor in the hundreds after the huge 1989 earthquake (historical fact of the blogpost).

From the wharf, I wormed my way back through downtown, stopped at a deli for a sandwich and drink and then reached Chinatown. I'd never walked through a large Chinatown, so it was a fun experience traversing San Fran's substantial neighborhood.

I observed large groups of older Asian men playing a game in a little plaza. I had no idea what the game was -- it looked a bit like Checkers -- but it was extremely popular. Two men would be playing, with about 10 others peering over their shoulders at the board.

(Myra later told me the game's name, but my memory hasn't held up.)

Then I walked past hundreds of Asian restaurants and stores. I bought a bag of sweet-tasting sesame cookies and continued on. I was tempted to buy some San Fran T-shirts for $1.89, but such purchases will have to wait until San Diego. (Can't add anything bulk to my panniers for now.)

When I got back to Market Street, I was ready for my highlight of the day.

I was ready to play chess.

No, that's not a typo. San Fran's shops didn't interest me. Nor did the tourist-trap trolleys. Nor did much of anything else in the downtown area.

Except for the chess boards, which were set up at the intersection of Market and 5th. Similar to Central Park in New York, there were boards set up where homeless men, mostly, played all day.

Some played with a clock, which, after some observation, looked intense. Each player got just 5 minutes and 30 seconds -- to make all their moves. If a player's clock ran out, they lost.

I wanted to play a game, but not against the clock. I was thinking just this when the man in charge invited me to play. And, just like that, I found myself sitting across the board from a regular -- an older man with a fisherman's hat and cigarette dangling from his mouth.

The deal was this: I paid $1 to get an hour at the board, and bet my opponent $2 a game. It seemed fair enough, and worse case scenario -- the man, whom appeared homeless, would get my money.

It was game time.

I could tell right away that he played all the time. During my moves he stared at the ground, his eyes almost shut. It looked like he was barely breathing. But he knew whenever I moved, and he made mostly solid moves.

Still, I played a very strong first game and was in control until a couple dumb moves doomed me. After almost an hour, I lost.

Never before had I played a board game nervously, but that's how I was against this dude. I had butterflies. I learned that each move must be intensely studied, because as soon as my piece hit the board -- even if my finger was still on it -- the move was official (this happened on one of my worst moves of the game).

I paid another dollar for another hour and prepared for Game 2. And it was a blowout. He efficiently finished me in about 11 minutes.

OK, I thought, I'll give it one more crack, put forth a good effort and try to create a highlight of my trip.

And then I played the game of my life, not making a single careless mistake. The chess regular, on the other hand, made a rare error, allowing me to split his queen and king with a knight.

From there, I played smart enough to close him out. And when I made the final move, I could finally relax my muscles.

I had beaten a very, very solid chess player.

The money didn't matter. I only had a single $1 bill, so I gave him a $5 and felt good about it.

The win was what mattered. (I'd pass by the spot the next afternoon and, sure enough, my man was there again staring at the ground as an opponent thought about his move.)

I think it's a great setup. Living homeless can't be easy, but getting to play chess outside and making money from it is better than begging or, in my mind, playing music all day long and trying to get tips.

After my chess experience, I walked several blocks up Mission Street toward the restaurants that had been recommended by my camping friends. After 10 mostly empty blocks, I reached the very ethnic food stretch of Mission.

Both sides of the street were lined with ethnic restaurants -- tons of Mexican joints, some Asian spots and others. There were also handfuls of outdoor markets overflowing with fresh fruit.

It was a food lover's paradise.

I was able to contain myself until I reached the corner of 18th Street, where I stopped in a hole-in-the-wall Asian place called Yamos. It was tiny -- there was just a counter and, behind it, a row of stoves and counters where all the food preparation was done.

But the food was super cheap -- $5.50 for a meal -- and delicious, as I would find out.

Since it was getting late, I decided to walk with my dinner for a little while. My walk took me to Castro Street, where I went through San Fran's popular gay district.

I knew I was in it because of all the striped flags hanging from buildings. And it was quite crowded on this Memorial Day evening.

I stopped at a little area of tables to eat my mango chicken dinner and observed, entertained, as a Prop 8 puppet danced to music in the street. I'll go out on a limb and say that I'll never eat a dinner to such a musical act again.

After dinner, it was 20 more minutes of walking, over a few hills, back to Haight Street.

Pretty tired from my day of walking, I crashed fairly early.

DAY 2: WALKING THE CITY, DUO STYLE
Tuesday marked my long-awaited reunion with "Toad," Part 1. He lives in San Jose and, occasionally, at his parents' place in Carmel, where I'll meet up with him again this weekend.

After another relaxing morning -- Myra makes great tea and honey! -- I met up with Toad for the first time in nearly two years. He had driven in from San Jose, but after having quite the time traversing the busy streets by car, he decided to park the SUV for the day.

It was time for another walking tour.

We began by heading up Mission Street -- the second time I'd done that.

But I hadn't eaten at La Taqueria, which is known as arguably the best Mexican joint in the city.

It lived up to expectations. I had a couple delicious tacos -- one chicken, one pork -- smothered with the works, including, as Toad noted, real guacamole. It was the kind of delicious, ethnic meal you hope to get in a big, diverse city.

Then we headed across 25th Avenue to Mission Pies, which was one of the bakeries on my list of places to hit up. My strawberry-rhubarb pie was delicious, don't get me wrong, but it simply wasn't enough pie to warrant the $3.83 price.

Pie is hard to buy by the slice; the slices just aren't big enough most of the time.

We shook off the minor disappointment and took the train, BART, back downtown to the government buildings. That's where most of the city's energy was contained that afternoon.

I haven't followed national news at all this trip, except for sports, so I didn't even know about the Prop 8 decision. But, Toad informed me, a decision had come down Tuesday morning.

And as a result, there were thousands of protesters outside of the large city hall. It was cool observing the large, calm but energized crowd. Many people had original signs, such as "Hetros for Homos."

I've never seen so many expertly thought-out signs at a public parade or rally (not that I've attended many of them).

After a lot more walking, Toad and I finally reached AT&T Park -- ready to sit down and watch some baseball. We had upper-deck seats parallel to first base, compliments of Toad, that provided an excellent view of the bay behind all sections of the outfield.

As the sky grew darker, I could notice the lights from Oakland's stadium across the bay. It was quite the backdrop to the stadium -- who needs to watch the game?

Of course, it is a modern stadium, so we were pretty far back from the field. But it being my first game at the ballpark, it was quite enjoyable as I watched the Giants cruise to a 4-0 win in a little over 2 hours.

(Credit to the lower-deck usher, who helped us find two empty seats from which to watch the last inning. There aren't many ushers like her out there these days. She realized the situation -- there were plenty of empty seats -- and helped us enjoy the game from close-up for a few minutes.)

Toad had to get back home for a morning interview, so it was a short night for me. But that was fine -- I needed some rest before continuing my journey the next day.

As I hit the sack, I felt I had done a solid job of enjoying San Fran.

There's always more to do -- and hopefully I'll be back -- but it wasn't a bad experience for two and a half days.

Huge, huge thanks to Myra -- and her housemates -- for letting a stranger (at least initially) stay for three nights and for being so hospitable and outgoing and friendly and caring!

Day 35 (May 24): Lagunitas, CA-San Francisco, CA -- 38.1 miles biked

(Written from Bad Ass Coffee, Santa Cruz, CA)

Miles biked: 38.1 (1,291.5 overall)

Time on bike: 3 hours, 55 minutes, 18 seconds

Maximum speed: 30.3 mph

Roads taken: Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, several roads that I don't remember through small towns en route to San Francisco, Magnolia Avenue, Corte Madera Avenue, Camino Alto, SR-1 (scary for a minute), bike path, in Sausalito: Bridgeway Boulevard, Richardson Street, Second Street ... East Road, Murray Circle, Golden Gate Bridge, in San Fran: Lincoln Boulevard, 25th Avenue, a bunch of roads on which I got lost.

Places stopped: In Sausalito by side of road (to take pictures of San Fran, shrouded in mist across the bay), at north end of Golden Gate Bridge (to chat with a family from Chapel Hill), at middle of bridge (to take a breather and take pictures), at south end of bridge (to take more pictures), on Irving Street (to stop at Internet cafe and figure out how to get to Myra's and also get some food), at the long strip of grass by the basketball court right near Myra's (to watch some hoops, do some reading and wait for Myra to return home), Myra's row house (for the first of three nights!).

I slept in Sunday morning -- at least for camping -- and then relaxed for a couple hours, enjoying a filling breakfast with a couple of my new friends.

While I don't exactly remember their names (and don't want to mess them up), they were great company. They served me eggs and sausage as well as fresh cherries for breakfast and also left me with that aforementioned list of food joints to visit in San Fran.

When I finally hit the road after 10, I felt satiated and excited about my upcoming stay in the city.

And then it got hot, really hot.

Within 7 miles, I was down to my long-sleeved Lakes of the Clouds shirt and I applied sunscreen (yes, you got that right; just outside of foggy San Francisco).

Then I started a journey through small, trendy towns. Thankfully, there were bike-path signs that directed me, because it would have taken several stops for me to follow my map.

On one side street, I was joined by a father-and-son, mountain-biking pair for a couple miles. I chatted with the father, which helped pass the time as we continued on side roads through the towns of Fairfax and Ross.

All the towns were small, but obviously got plenty of attention from people biking north from the city. Yes, there were hundreds of bikers on the road, maybe even thousands.

I didn't go a mile without seeing a few bikers just out for a nice Sunday ride. I didn't need to get to San Fran to know that it's a very popular town for cyclists. There were also many bike stores along the way, included one at which I stopped to get some much-needed lubricant for my chain.

As is the case with all of my short days, the miles seemed to take longer than I thought they would. I continued to follow the signs and think about the bridge. How could I not? It was the ultimate destination.

Just before the last town I would go through prior to reaching the bridge, Sausalito, I met up with a pair of young, female cyclists, one of whom said she had gone to North Carolina State University in Raleigh upon noticing a sign of my most recent living spot.

She said they were biking to the city, so I followed them as well as I could through the tourist-dominated streets of Sausalito, which was packed with vehicles and patrons on the sunny afternoon.

It was dangerous riding, especially when I was clipped in and even more so when we had to contend with an aggressive bus driver who made several stops. At one stop, I heard a man arguing with the driver and then calling her a female dog as she slammed the door on him.

I raced past that mess.

I wanted to stay with my companions, but I couldn't breeze past the walkway along the bay. I had to stop, devour my last PB&J and take some pictures of San Fran, just across the bay, which was -- no surprise -- shrouded in fog. I could also see, vaguely, Angel Island to the east.

After the short break, I got back on the Trek 520 and began my final push to The Bridge.

And when it came into sight, folks, it was magnificent. No wonder it's such a popular suicide destination. It is, I must say, the most beautiful bridge I've ever seen. (Yes, Aussies, even better than the one I climbed in Sydney.)

I had to climb a final hill to reach the entrance to the west sidewalk of the bridge, which is only open to cyclists (all the camera-wielding, walking pedestrians are relegated to the east side).

Before beginning my ride across, I ran into a family from Chapel Hill. I figured it'd happen at some point -- these things always occur on such trips. Still, it was pretty cool talking to them. One of the kids, actually, is a writer for UNC's "Daily Tar Heel."

After a little North Carolina talk, I bid them adios and prepared for a crazy ride over the bridge. From my previous experiences going over bridges this trip, I knew it wouldn't be easy.

And when a man coming in the opposite direction warned me of some crazy wind, I prepared for the worst.

This was the scene: I was riding on a sidewalk that was just wide enough to fit cyclists going either way. And there were hundreds of them, including many tourists who had rented crappy mountain bikes.

I didn't trust the tourists, who sat upright and were, thus, very susceptible to the strong winds. I stayed low in the drops and didn't clamp in my right foot in case I needed to suddenly stop.

And I pedaled as hard as I could in an effort to keep from swaying to the side. I did manage to stop a couple times to take pictures of the misty ocean and headlands to the west.

But for the most part, the main objective, believe it or not, was to get across the bridge!

After a couple miles, I had survived it without a catastrophe or, really, a close call. I exhaled and then joined the throng of tourists to be one of them for a minute and snap some pictures of the bridge and my handsomeness in front of it.

I did that for about 7 minutes -- I can only play the tourist part for so long -- and then got back on the bike with the goal of figuring out how the heck to get close to Myra's place in the Haight-Ashbury district.

I didn't have a legitimate city map, just some small sections on my biking maps, so I kind of winged it. Luckily, I didn't have to climb too many hills to reach an Internet cafe on Irving Street, where I figured out where the heck I was.

Here's the thing about San Fran. On a map it might appear very narrow, but when you're on a bike or walking -- ouch -- it seems just as wide as Los Angeles. You're not going to get from one side of the city to the other quickly. It's still got the feel of a big city.

Anyway, I figured out where I was and, after getting lost a few more times, finally found Myra's street. She was still out, though, so I hung out in the little strip of grass just a block away from her place.

Contrary to the morning, it was quite chilly. I layered up and lied down, dreaming of the two and a half days I'd have to relax off the bike. I watched some cats hoop, rode a few loops and then Myra called.

Just minute later, I had found my home for a few days.

I left the bike in the garage, where it would get a well-deserved rest, and headed inside.

Myra rents a cool, little row house along with with two other young adults. And I can't say enough about her hospitality.

I got a warm bed in the dining room, which was perfect. And Sunday night, I went out on the town with Myra and her friends to a trendy, small dance club on eclectic Mission Street.

Tired from biking but nothing else, I danced (if it deserves to be called that) for most of the night knowing that I didn't have to wake up at any particular time the next day.

It was a great feeling after five long days on the bike.

And I had a great place to stay, too.

Day 34 (May 23): Gualala, CA-Lagunitas, CA -- 89.7 miles biked

(Written from Bad Ass Coffee, Santa Cruz, CA)

Miles biked: 89.7 (1,253.4 overall)

Time on bike: 7 hours, 20 minutes, 32 seconds

Maximum speed: 35.7 mph

Roads taken: SR-1 South, Pt. Reyes Petaluma Road, Platform Bridge Road, Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, Marin Trail bike path.

Places stopped: Fort Ross (for an oatmeal, bread and tea breakfast, and to prepare for the killer stretch), Jenner (to catch my breath and eat a banana), Valley Ford (for a much-needed lunch break: PB&J sandwich, cookie, gorp), Samuel B. Taylor State Park (for the night).

I thought about making this an easy day, considering the three consecutive difficult days I'd had.

But, of course, there was a problem.

There was a campsite in Bodega Bay, but that was only about 45.7 miles down SR-1. With an early start, I could reach that before 1. And then what? I love Bodega Bay as much as the next guy, folks, but it doesn't deserve an entire afternoon. Not when the smell of San Fran is in the air.

The next campsite, however, was another 45 miles down 1.

Damn, I thought, how can there not be a single spot in-between?

But my decision was made. I'd suck it up, "man-up," whatever you want to call it, and suffer through another long day so that I could relax, finally, in the days after it.

I didn't get the earliest start, not getting on the bike until just before 8, and the going wasn't fast either. But after what seemed like 6 hours, I made it to the tiny, tiny town of Fort Ross and stopped for a much-needed breakfast, which I hoped would also serve as a Red Bull.

That's because the toughest, most crazy stretch of my day was in front of me -- 13 miles between Fort Ross and Jenner of biking 300 to 400 feet above the ocean on a road with narrow shoulders and, at times, no guard rails.

To add to the challenge, it was foggy (when is it not around here? Answer: never). I even turned my front light on as a precaution. And then I headed up my first hill...

And I actually, somewhat, enjoyed myself. Sure, I did a whole bunch of climbing. And, sure, a bad turn to the right could easily send me off the bluff and down into the cold, unwelcoming Pacific far below.

But the riding was cool, almost mystic.

The fog obscured my view to the left, where large, vast, green hills loomed. At times, I even felt like I was hiking on an early morning in New Hampshire's White Mountains. It was cool, foggy and mysterious.

The riding, of course, was far from easy. There was a good amount of traffic, which forced me to stay as far right as possible (remember, I didn't want to ride off the road) and it was curvy.

But I was able to steal plenty of glances toward the ocean well below me, and here's a sight that you just don't see in many places: At one point along the way, there was a group of cows grazing to my right in a tiny patch of grass high above the ocean.

They must have been the good-behaving cows to get a spot like that.

After bike-sprinting through a construction zone (I had to push it as fast as possible once the cars went so that I wouldn't face oncoming traffic), I reached the midway point of the stretch and met a pair of cyclists from New Zealand.

They told me to prepare for some switchbacks during the ensuing 5 miles to Jenner. What they didn't tell me, and what was a pleasant surprise, was that it was almost entirely downhill for me.

I pitied them for having to weave their way up about 7 consecutive switchbacks (and they were steep, too), but I loved zooming down them and then rounding each curve. I felt like I was playing a racing video game where I had to time when and how hard to brake before accelerating again.

(On a sidenote, I continue to pity those who are riding north; thank goodness I actually made a good big decision for once.)

After reaching Jenner, I had a steep climb out of town and the riding wasn't easy. It also wasn't as exhilarating as the Fort Ross-Jenner stretch. Additionally, I started feeling the burden of the day's goal.

I've realized that when I set a large goal for a day, I can't help but think about the final destination several times while on the bike. This is tough when I've only gone 35 miles and still have 55 to go.

The stretch right after Bodega Bay was particular difficult. I was biking inland, with views of nothing but rolling fields filled with normal, not-so-lucky cows, to either side of the road. Traffic was heavy and I was getting no help from the wind.

Which is why I was on Cloud Nine when I cruised down a hill into the tiny town of Valley Ford (population: 126) and saw a general store. A sandwich, cookie and trail mix rejuvenated me and helped me get up several hills as I headed toward Tomales and Tomales Bay.

I was also helped by a dog: As I was making my way up a huge hill, going about 5.3 mph, a sheep dog (I think) started running toward my from inside a large, gated field. Once it reached the gate, it started running (and barking) alongside the gate.

I yelled at the dog several times, "Good dog!" And then, "C'mon, keep running!" And, just like that, I was nearing the top of the hill (as was the dog). Sadly, the dog stopped at that point -- I don't know if it was tired or sick of my yelling.

Anyway, thanks to that dog.

I had visions of stopping somewhere along Tomales Bay, but I encountered a stretch of road where I just kept riding and riding. This happens to me occasionally. I'll pass waysides, but find reasons not to stop.

Maybe the wayside is made up of stones and I don't want my tires to have to ride over them. Maybe I'll tell myself, "Let's wait for the next one."

Whatever the case, the miles started piling up and, just like that, it was mid-afternoon and I was nearing 80 miles for the day.

And I started seeing San Francisco bikers (there are thousands of them, maybe tens of thousands). A pair of day cyclists caught me from behind and stayed with me for a few minutes before continuing on. I passed cyclists going the other way.

I was energized by all the bikers, and I could smell the city.

Just a little past 5, after a few pleasant miles on the Marin Trail bike path, I arrived at the Samuel P. Taylor State Park campground after 89.7 miles. I was just 30 miles, give or take, from San Fran.

I had originally told Myra, a friend of a friend whom I was planning on staying with in the city, that I would arrive Monday. But Saturday evening, I was much closer to San Fran than planned.

I called her, and Myra was nice enough to say I could come a day early. So that had me excited.

My night at the campground was fun, too. Being Memorial Day weekend, it was packed with people, and I shared the hiker/biker site with two couples and an older man who had all done day trips on their bikes to reach the site.

They provided great company, not to mention food, and we sat around the fire for a few hours talking about everything from the city to movies (I could only sit amazed at the knowledge a couple of the guys brought to the conversation).

They also had great knowledge of the city, and even provided me with a list of food places that I HAD TO check out. There were about eight places -- Mexican joints, Asian joints, bakeries and ice cream joints -- on the list.

I hoped my stomach was ready. I had some serious eating to do (if not biking).

Day 33 (May 22): Cleone, CA-Gualala, CA -- 70.1 miles biked

(Written from Bad Ass Coffee, Santa Cruz, CA)

Miles biked: 70.1 (1,163.7 overall)

Time on bike: 5 hours, 46 minutes, 37 seconds

Maximum speed: 34.1 mph

Roads taken: SR-1 South.

Places stopped: Mendocino Bakery (the best bakery I've ever been to, where I got a lox bagel plate AND a blueberry danish for breakfast), Manchester market (for bread, peanut butter and ice cream bar), Point Arena library (to blog), Gualala county park (for the night), in Gualala: Roadside restaurant (for dinner and to watch Cavs-Magic Game 2 -- LeBron's game-winner).

To be as vague as possible, I wanted to get out of my campsite about as early as possible on Friday morning.

So despite the heavy dew that soaked my rain cover, I got up a little after 6 and packed everything -- including the soaking-wet stuff -- as quickly as I could in clumsy, tired fashion.

And I was on the road before 7, eager to get more than 10 miles done before I even thought about stopping (if you want more specifics, please ask me via e-mail or a phone call).

Anyway, there was the perfect stopping spot about 15 miles down 1 in Mendocino. Thanks to my friend Toad -- whom I'd meet twice farther South -- I knew about the Mendocino Bakery, for which he had great praise.

So that's where I stopped, around 8, to get some food in me and take a quick breather before continuing my journey south.

And, man, was Toad right.

The bakery in the town of not more than 1,000 was easily the best I've ever been to -- yes, Ann Arbor folk, better than Zingerman's (and much cheaper). I helped myself to a lox bagel plate, which included a toasted bagel, lox, cream cheese, raw and cooked onions and a tomato.

Not only that, I also got a blueberry danish, which actually accomplished a rare feat for a danish -- not only was it delicious, but I didn't feel like I was eating pure junk. It actually tasted, in a way, organic.

Yeah. Best. Bakery. Ever.

Well-satiated, I continued down route 1 toward Point Arena, where I knew I'd make it to a library. This was key considering the lack of libraries on the northern California coast.

(It must be said that in a competition of libraries -- in terms of quantity and how nice they are in giving out Internet time -- Oregon takes California in a blowout.)

Anyway, I knew I needed to do some serious blogging in Point Arena, because it'd be the last one I'd taste until San Francisco.

The riding, all morning, was peaceful and not too difficult. There were a few switchbacks, but nothing extreme -- except for one RIDICULOUSLY STEEP HILL, which deserves a mention.

When I reached the bottom of the switchback, I knew I needed to switch into my lowest gear. This isn't always the case with hills. I climb many of them by simply switching into the lowest or second-lowest gear of the second ring -- my 10th or 11th out of 27.

But that would have been suicide on said hill.

Even on my lowest gear, I had doubts as I ground my way up the first section and made a sharp left turn only to see an equally steep second section. That's when a lady in an SUV passed by and laughed.

Thanks, lady. How's that gas mileage?

(Sorry for the negativity; she actually looked very nice.)

Anyway, to finish the story, I only made it to the top of the hill by reciting the NBA's scoring champions (let's not forget that Bob McAdoo won three scoring titles from 1974-76).

And when I reached the top, I had a nice conversation with a man in a Penn State sweatshirt (random fact of the blogpost).

From there, the going was relatively easy.

My only real difficulty was staying comfortable. For most of the trip until that point, my bike shorts had done their job and kept me comfortable for hundreds of miles. But beginning on this day, I started to feel a bit uncomfortable as I neared 50 miles completed.

Then I stopped at the library for a good 3 hours, hoping that I'd feel better after the long respite.

But that wasn't the case. Because of this, I decided that I wouldn't try to go another 36 miles to the Salt Point State Park campsite. Instead, even though it was just after 3, I'd do just another 13 miles or so to the Gualala county park.

I felt uncomfortable the entire ride, which was unfortunate considering how much of a breeze it was. The wind was with me, the weather was perfect and pretty girls lined both sides of the road (OK, I made that last one up).

Oh, well. I made it to Gualala and instantly felt better. It was an actual town with restaurants. I'd be able to get my basketball fix that evening, with the Cavs and Magic playing Game 2 of the Eastern Conference Finals.

After a final steep hill, I found the campsite. It was my first county site, and I discovered they're not quite the deal that California state parks are. They're $5 a night instead of $3, and this one was a bit buggy, but still a decent bargain.

In the evening I biked back into town to the Roadside restaurant, got a cool drink and a sandwich and watched, in wonder, as LeBron sank a long 3 at the buzzer for the Cavs. I enjoyed the end of the game with a cool, surfer-dude bartender and a few young surfing cats, one of whom bought me a local brew.

It would have been nice to hang out for another hour or two, but it was getting dark and I had a mile of biking to do.

Upon returning to my campsite, biking through the dark and finally using my lights for the first time on the trip, I met a pair of bikers, one of whom was also going to San Diego.

I left early the next morning before Matt and Jordan were up, but I still have hopes of meeting up, once again, with at least one of them and having a riding partner for a day or two.

Day 32 (May 21): Weott, CA-Cleone, CA -- 88.3 miles biked

(Written from Bad Ass Coffee, Santa Cruz, CA)

Miles biked: 88.3 (1,093.6 overall)

Time on bike: 7 hours, 25 minutes, 3 seconds

Maximum speed: 35.9 mph

Roads taken: Avenue of the Giants, 101 South, SR-1.

Places stopped: Garberville gas station (to buy gorp and chocolate milk and prepare delicious and cheap oatmeal-and-tea breakfast), store just south of Leggett (to relax for a few minutes before the tortuous riding began), side of road on SR-1 (to prepare for the killer climb), side of road on SR-1 (to fill my empty water bottles from a spring), side of road on SR-1 (to celebrate having survived the pair of devastating climbs), Westport general store (to buy several food items and enjoy them as a reward for you know...), Cleone general store (to buy Gatorade and candy and finally exhale), Mackerricher State Park (for the night).

I woke up Thursday morning with a pretty good idea of what was ahead of me: The hardest day, probably, so far of the trip.

Not only would it involve more than 70 miles on the bike, but I'd also face two monster hills during a 28-mile stretch that the conservative Adventure Cycling map calls "arduous."

At the end of that stretch, however, I knew what the reward was -- I'd be back on the coast, riding down SR-1 all the way to San Francisco and then beyond.

So I beasted through the morning session of my ride, doing 48 miles up into Leggett by noon. And then I turned onto SR-1 ... and the climbing began.

It actually didn't make much sense, considering that my map listed Leggett as the highest point of the journey -- and SR-1 began at Leggett.

But I wasn't thinking about that as I went up, and up and up for 6 miles. Not only that, but it was steamy outside -- I even stripped down to the T-shirt, a rare occurrence -- and in a typical Jake goof, I hardly had any water in my two bottles.

The miles came very, very slowly. It probably took me an hour just to do the 6 miles straight uphill.

Then, however, I reached the peak of the mountain. Being pessimistic, like usual, I didn't think my climb was over. But when a nice lady parked on the side of the road said that it was all downhill from that point, I rejoiced inside.

She probably deserved a hug, but I simply didn't have the energy to walk the 26 feet to her and embrace her.

And she wasn't done in helping out a tired biker. When I asked her about available water down the road, she told me of a hidden spring on the side of the road just a few twists of 1 from where I stood.

I couldn't believe my good fortune. I had thought I'd be waterless until I reached the next real town, Westport, which was 22 miles away.

Sure enough, I kept a lookout for the spring, which she had described perfectly. That's a good thing, because it wasn't easy spotting the orange-painted, little stream of water just off the left side of the road.

I wasn't positive it was clean water, but I risked it. I downed about 20 ounces and then filled up both bottles.

And then I cruised downhill ... for 12 straight miles.

It was about 8 miles down the hill when I told myself, "If I were going north...."

Yes, the hills were killer in both directions, but I don't know if I could have handled 12 consecutive miles of uphill riding. That might have required a little cheating.

About midway down the curvy hill, I passed a tandem bike on which a man and woman rode. The woman, in back, waved to me. I'm not so sure what the man's expression was through his dark sunglasses.

I'm thinking he was cursing the hill, wishing he were sitting in a cool office somewhere. Just a guess, though.

Anyway, I laughed my way throughout the 12 miles, although I had to use the brakes constantly because of how curvy the road was. Still, there was hardly any traffic -- maybe a car every 2 miles -- which allowed me to take many of the sharp turns from the middle of the road.

When I finally reached the bottom of the hill, I knew I had one more steep climb ahead of me before Westport. I told myself that if I could survive this final ascent, the ocean awaited me.

Thankfully, it was only about 2 miles ... and then another great, downhill cruise. And even better than the last time, when I emerged from the hill at the bottom, the blueness of the ocean spread out in front of me.

Finally, after 70 miles of riding in one day, I had reached the ocean and wouldn't be leaving it for several days. I stopped, gave a Tiger fist pump, ate some gorp, snapped a few pictures, smiled and then mounted the Trek 520 again.

Of course, nothing on this coast is easy. So the 7 or so miles to Westport, where a large snack awaited, was far from an easy task. But it was nothing compared to what I'd done earlier.

And, man, did the sandwich, chips, banana and the other item I can't remember taste amazing.

I finished off my afternoon of riding with another 13 miles, mostly along the ocean, to Cleone and Mackerricher State Park. The riding was far from easy, as I got my first taste of riding on the 1 along the coast.

The most difficult parts were the switchbacks. I'd be going along the water and I'd see the road up ahead. But then I'd realize that there was no road in between the two sections.

So instead of continuing straight ahead on a mostly flat road, I'd make a huge U. It would start with a nice downhill stretch to the left. But as soon as I rounded the sharp curve to my right at the bottom of the hill, there'd be a rather steep hill to get back to the ocean.

And I'd quickly have to downshift to keep any kind of momentum.

Heavy traffic and nonexistent shoulders made the switchbacks even more difficult. And, I surmise, I was pretty tired after all those arduous miles.

But I made it to the state park by 5, exhausted and ready for a shower.

At my campsite, which was nothing special, I met another biker, Scott, who had rode more than 25,000 miles around the world (and wrote a book about it).

I'll never do anything close to close to comparable, but that didn't -- at least in my mind -- take away from my beast of a day.

Getting to sleep was the easiest task of the long day.

I was out by the time darkness enshrouded the site.

Day 31 (May 20): Arcata, CA-Weott, CA -- 70.6 miles biked

(Written from San Francisco Haight branch library)

Miles biked: 70.6 (1,005.3 overall)

Time on bike: 5 hours, 26 minutes, 56 seconds

Maximum speed: 30.0 mph

Roads taken: In Arcata: 11th Street, G. Street, 7th Street, Bayside Road, Buttermilk Lane, Old Arcata Road ... Myrtle Avenue, in Eureka: 101 ... Tompkins Hill Road, Hookton Road, Eel River Drive, SR-211, Ocean Avenue/Grizzly Bluff Road, Blue Slide Road/Belleview Avenue, Wildwood Avenue, 101, Avenue of the Giants.

Places stopped: Revolution Bicycle in Arcata (to make sure I hadn't done irreparable damage to the bike), side of the Grizzly Bluff Road (for my first food stop), bench of closed general store in Redcrest (for cheese and crackers), Humboldt Redwoods State Park (for the night).

This began what will definitely end up being the toughest five-day stretch of this trip.

And it didn't start out smoothly.

First off, I'm really bad at goodbyes, so it wasn't easy -- after a large, filling breakfast in Arcata -- bidding adios to Dad from Marnin's driveway a little after 11.

To make matters worse, I thought I had somehow lost my camera case, which has my old memory card with the first 300 pictures from the trip. And then, as I was trying to saw off a band from the handlebars remaining from the tuneup I had gotten the bike, my knife slipped and I instead almost cut the break cord.

Not knowing if I'd caused any damage, I rode up to the bike store prepared to hear the worst. Thankfully, everything was all right and I could finally get on the road -- a little after noon.

Oh, and, of course, I had found that camera case in my jacket pocket.

So all was bliss, right?

No, not really. My rough day continued.

As much as I loved Arcata, its southern neighbor Eureka gave me no positive vibes. Heading into town, I lost my route and ended up on 101, which bisects the city. And unlike Arcata, where 101 is a bit outside of downtown and is underneath the city's streets, it runs right through Eureka.

And it provides hardly any biking space for poor souls like me. Which is why at one point, I actually felt that I had zero biking space. It was as if I was back in Durham, riding down 15-501.

So I got off the road, letting my pride take a hit -- not that I have much -- and navigated the city's sidewalks as I bypassed disgusting shopping mall after disgusting shopping mall.

It was far from scenic, but at least it kept me on the bike. I felt no reason to stop, no reason to take in anything that I was seeing. So I rode a good 40 miles, roughly, before finally pulling over to the side of Grizzly Bluff Road, taking a much-needed leak in the bushes and then devouring a Power Bar.

And I still hadn't seen anything pretty.

That would continue as I biked past vast fields littered with cows -- I think I've seen about 8,493 of them now -- and farmhouses. At least there wasn't much traffic, but my map sure wasn't helping me.

It told me to take a right on Blue Slide Road, which would then become Belleview Avenue, but I never saw a Blue Slide Road. So as I continued to climb hills and see nothing ahead of me -- and I'd been on what I thought was Grizzly Bluff for 10 miles when I was only supposed to be on it for 7 -- I started worrying that I was lost in the middle of nowhere.

Thankfully, that wasn't the case. I guess teenagers tore down the sign that would have told me I had merged onto Blue Slide, but I was going the right way.

And then, finally, after about 55 miles of nothing special, I exited 101 -- yes, took an actual exit; that's the 101 I've biked on in California -- onto the Avenue of the Giants.

I quickly stopped to admire the beauty around me.

On both sides of the shaded road were huge redwoods, the same kind of trees Dad and I had hiked through just three days before. Some of the enormous trunks sat just inches from the side of the road as if to say to wild drivers, "Ya swerve off course and it ain't gonna end well for ya."

I let my muscles relax for the first time all day and cruised through the forest, occasionally emerging into sunlight and tiny towns before pedaling back into the trees.

The behemoths also provided much-needed shade after a long afternoon of pedaling under a bright sun. And they made the time seem much later. Even though there remained about three hours of daylight, I felt like I was biking in the evening -- my favorite time of day, so it all worked out.

At about 6:27 (real time), I pulled into the Humboldt Redwood State Park campground just south of Weott, a town I knew was there but never saw. As I unpacked my stuff, I was prepared for a night alone after four days spent in Dad's company. It was time to transition back to the the isolated camping phase.

But then a guy who looked to be about my age biked into the hiker/biker site, a big smile plastered on his face. As I would learn, he was from Sweden and was doing a long trip in the U.S.

He'd never been to the country before, but was living it up. He'd started in Las Vegas, worked his way past the Grand Canyon and into California, and was prepared to head up the coast through Oregon and Washington and into Canada before ovaling his way back down to Salt Lake City.

I enjoyed his company throughout the evening, as well as the s'mores he shared with me. He told me that he'd learned about them just days earlier while staying with an American he'd met along the way.

Clearly he was taught well, because he whittled a couple sticks and made sure not to burn his marshmallows but to get them nice and crispy.

And when I crept into my tent, full and content, I was in a much better mood than I'd been in at the start of my biking day and throughout much of it.

Credit the trees, my new Swedish friend and, of course, the s'mores.

Hiking pictures by a good photographer with a good camera

Hey all,
Sorry it's been so long. I know most of you have put your lives on hold while waiting for my next post. A poor computer situation and doing other things, such as biking, has gotten in the way.

Anyway, I should have posts up soon about my hectic week of riding and my time here in San Francisco.

But in the meantime, check out my Dad's pictures from our hiking adventures. He actually has a non-tourist camera and is really talented at photography (unlike this guy).

The pictures are in the top three albums at http://picasaweb.google.com/JohnJLloyd

Cheers from the Bay Area,
jake

Days 27-30 (May 16-19): Hiking with Dad -- 0 miles biked

(Written from Point Arena Library, May 22)

Miles biked: 0 (934.7 overall)

On Saturday, Dad finally arrived.

Of course, he didn't fly in until 9, so I had an entire day to kill first. But it was a long-waited happening that I had looked forward to for over a week. I had managed to kill a good chunk of time during which I didn't have many miles to bike.

On Saturday, I was ready to spend some more time off the bike -- with a hiking companion.

I spent the first part of the day getting our rental car -- all the service had left was a big, ugly, hideous, white Chrysler Town & Country. (From this point forth, I'll call it the BUV, or Big Ugly Van.)

Then I drove the thing back north along 101, which was a bit weird. I had, after all, biked along the same road just two days earlier. It didn't take me long to make the obvious realization that you can observe much more of the beautiful scenery from a bike seat.

I then set up our campsite at the Elk Prairie site -- yep, there's a prairie where you can see elk there -- and got back on the road heading south, again, with several hours to kill.

I stopped at the Big Lagoon and read a bunch of the book I was trying to finish before falling asleep. Upon waking up, I decided to check out Trinidad, which I had skipped when biking south because of the rainy conditions.

That was a good choice.

The beach was gorgeous, with soft sand all around as well as interesting-shaped rocks. And after grabbing dinner, I took a trail up a hill overlooking the ocean and found the perfect overlook -- not roped or fenced in.

I sat there for several minutes, looking down at the waves crashing below and the bright sun getting ready to set, and thought how lucky I was. But I also realized how much cooler it would be if I could share it with someone.

I decided, time permitting, that I'd take Dad to the same spot Sunday night.

And, finally, it was time to go get him. I enjoyed another picture-perfect sunset before hopping in the BUV and heading to the tiny, quaint Arcata airport...

SUNDAY (DAY 1 OF HIKING): THE REDWOODS
After sleeping about as soundly as I could in the BUV -- Dad got the tent -- I awakened to his tapping on the window early Sunday morning.

We ate a delicious granola breakfast, threw everything in the BUV -- it is, I must say, very spacious -- and headed to the trail head, which was less than a mile from our campsite.

Our plan was to hike the James Irvine trail through redwoods to Fern Canyon and then the coast, at which point we'd walk along the beach for a mile or so before looping back to our starting spot via the Miner's Ridge trail.

It was a solid plan that didn't fall apart.

And it didn't take long for Dad to start snapping several pictures of the gigantic redwoods that surrounded us. Our progress was slow, but I couldn't really blame him for taking so many shots (he's an excellent photographer with a spiffy camera).

The trail was pretty easy -- not too steep and very wide.

We walked along several switchbacks through the trees, which were thick and reached into the sky a couple hundred feet. We had the forest to ourselves, and it was quiet save for the occasional bird chirping.

The cool thing about the trees -- beside them being bigger than just about any in the world -- was that they were all different.

Some shot straight up into the air, with a single trunk extending up to a few branches high above the top of your average tree. Others angled upward, almost leaning toward the sky -- I wondered how they've stayed rooted all these years (many are up to 2,000 years old) ... then I looked at the massive roots.

Other redwoods had mini trees growing out of their trunks. Others had bushes or what looked like large nature nests attached to their trunks.

And then there were the trees that had taken a fall. Many of them leaned up against other trees, creating many interesting pictures for Dad and chances to walk on huge logs for the adventurous (I took a pass this time).

It was an amazing, yet easy walk that never really went far up or down. But when we reached Fern Canyon after about 4.3 miles, we felt the trail had been well worth the hiking.

Even if we hadn't had to, really, earn the beauty we saw.

Then the landscape changed drastically.

When we entered Fern Canyon, we thought we had lost the trail upon arriving at a stream. Then we realized that the short trail was the stream.

So we started walking along the edges of the water, having to hop over rocks to the other side every couple minutes. And then we saw why the canyon got its name, because on either side of us there were bright, green ferns covering the canyon's walls.

It was a sight to behold, like nothing I'd ever seen.

And the walk was interesting, too, as we had to navigate several logs and rocks to keep from getting our shoes -- Dad's hiking boots and my Adidas -- wet.

Balance was very key, and the "Trekpod" walking stick that doubled as a tripod helped as well.

Upon exiting the canyon, fairly dry, we emerged onto the beach and were immediately warmed by the bright sun. That continued to be the case for over a mile as we walked, barefooted, along the ocean and then up in the hot sand to the Gold Bluffs campground and the entrance to the Miner's Ridge trail.

The beginning of the hike back to base camp wasn't very interesting, as the path wove through regular-sized trees, and overgrowth brushed our clothing. A second respite for cheese and crackers helped break up the monotony.

But then we got back into the Redwoods, Dad got the camera out again, and for a final time we walked in awe, craning our necks to view the tallest, widest trees we'll probably ever see.

We stopped at a beast whose bark, near the base, was shaped almost like a dragon or some kind of animal. We took a few final pictures there before finally converging with the James Irvine trail and finishing our Day 1 adventure.

In all, we hiked about 11.5 miles, but it was relatively easy and we finished just a little after 4.

That gave me a chance to show Dad the bluff in Trinidad before we got on 299 for the long, scenic drive inland to Weaverville.

And what a drive it was. We knew it'd take a couple hours to get to the small town and motel, which would be our home base for three nights as we hiked in the area, but the time passed quickly because of the views.

The road was mostly a two-lane highway that twisted and turned alongside a raging river with huge hills on either side. Then we would climb several hundred feet, all of it curvy, and suddenly be looking down on the river far below.

It was particularly beautiful in the evening, and we timed our trip very well -- after stopping in Willow Creek for dinner and to watch the fourth quarter of Orlando's Game 7 win over Boston, we arrived in Weaverville just after dark.

MONDAY (DAY 2 OF HIKING): THE TRINITY ALPS
It's hard to explain just how beautiful the Trinity Alps are, but I'll try.

I've hiked in New Hampshire's White Mountains every summer since I started hiking, and they might always be the most beautiful, pristine mountains to me.

But the Trinity Alps sure give them a run for their money.

On Monday, we hiked about 8 miles up the Canyon Creek trail to the lower Canyon Lake, which sits around 5,700 feet up in the midst of the Alps.

We couldn't reach one of the range's summits for a variety of reasons.

1. They were all capped with snow.

2. There are no trails up them.

3. We weren't equipped to camp.

Usually, that would be a huge bummer to me.

But not this time. The hike among the mountains, most of which are between 8,000 and 9,000 feet, more than satiated my appetite for adventure.

The trail wasn't that difficult. We started at around 3,000 feet, and the climb was gradual.

But it didn't take long for the walking to become interesting. For one, we did most of our tramping alongside or close to a raging creek, with a high water level, that stayed with us all the way to our turnaround spot at the lake.

And when we weren't right by the creek, we were walking on a narrow path dug into a hill that looked down, a couple hundred feet, to the creek.

One thing we had to be careful of was to make sure we'd be able to cross the creek and all its side creeks -- both on our way up and down. After all, Dad pointed out, the water would be higher later in the day after snow from the mountains was melted by the sun.

At the first crossing, we walked over a log that had clearly been placed above the raging water. We knew this because a taut rope was hung above it to help hikers like us.

A few miles into the hike, we walked along a series of switchbacks that crossed a little stream about three times. This was when we had to excel at going from rock-to-rock across the water.

Oh, and all this time, by the way, we were looking up to both sides -- the East and West -- at beautiful, snow-capped mountains that never got old to admire. Dad, of course, was taking dozens of pictures, and he couldn't be blamed.

It was that amazing.

Since we were still relatively low, the mountains appeared intimidating. They seemed to be way, way above us. The thought of reaching one's summit, even without snow, would be quite the task.

Luckily, we didn't have to think about that. Rather, we simply continued to hike north along the creek, getting higher and higher.

And were only three (minor) negatives about the trail:

1. It wasn't clearly marked, with no blazes on trees or cairns -- until we nearly reached the lake and were walking on exposed rock. That's when we started to follow small cairns that weren't always easy to spot and were, at times, a bit confusing. We had to pay close attention to the trail.

2. As Dad pointed out, it seemed worn down. It is, according to guide books and maps, extremely popular during the summer months and feels a lot of feet. Also, I think, people don't always follow the trail, exactly, because of what I just mentioned. That's never good for a trail's well-being.

3. Because we were hiking so early in the season, the level of the creek was extremely high. While it was cool to view, it also meant that parts of the trail resembled a stream. On the way up, we managed to walk around most of the water. On the way down, we decided to slosh our way through it.

Still, those were minor issues. They didn't put a damper, at all, on our day.

Before we got up near the lake, we passed a couple of raging waterfalls, and I mean RAGING. When we got up close to the middle falls, about 6 miles from the trail head, we got a little bit wet -- and we were standing 5 feet above the water.

Then we had to cross the very active creek before the upper falls. Well, I guess we could have continued up the east side of the falls and then crossed -- to get to the lake -- but the map said that people have died trying this.

And we were having too much fun to try that.

Still, when we reached the crossing point, I quickly noticed that while a walking log extended out into the middle of the creek, there remained about 12-15 feet of water between the end of the log and the other side.

I looked up and down the waterway -- there was no other option.

So we rolled up our shorts, put our cameras in our backpacks, and proceeded to ford the creek -- grabbing onto a rock about midway across it to steady ourselves and then making a final push for land while standing in knee-deep, rushing water.

It was an adrenaline rush, and, to be honest, having wet shoes didn't feel so bad afterward.

That's because, it should be mentioned, it was quite hot. Despite the elevation, we hiked under a bright sun the entire afternoon and temperatures that were probably in the 70s.

We hadn't been sure if the lake would be unfrozen, but when we finally arrived, at the spot where it meets the creek, it was glistening in the sun -- with not a patch of ice to be seen.

(There were, however, a few snow banks above the water.)

We considered hiking another mile, and 400 feet, up to the second lake. But then we stopped at a comfortable rock overlooking the lake, where three brothers we had met -- Gregory, Joe and Tony -- were hanging out, and thought, Why push it?

The view was amazing -- we could see Mt. Sawtooth to the east, Mt. Hilton to the west and Mtns. Wedding Cake and, we think, Thompson to the north.

Oh, and the lake, and the rocks surrounding it, was pretty cool, too.

So we took it easy for a while, exchanging stories with the brothers from the Bay Area, taking a few, warm swigs of their bourbon -- the best hiking liquor -- and just admiring the scenery around us.

A little after 3, it was time to head down. And while it's never quite as cool having to backtrack as opposed to taking a loop, it's not so bad when you're doing the trail for the first time.

For instance, there were a couple sections of the trail that we didn't even remember from the hike up -- including a really neat part right along the raging creek -- and the waterfalls deserved a second look.

The water level seemed a little bit higher at the creek crossings, but we found them much easier to bypass since we no longer cared about keeping our shoes dry.

Dad continued to take pictures, many of the different creeks and flowers we passed, and then we cruised through the last couple miles and reached the BUV with a good hour to spare before darkness.

It was Dad's longest one-day hike -- about 16 miles -- and the third-longest of my hiking career.

It won't be forgotten, that's for sure.

TUESDAY (DAY 3 OF HIKING): MT. LASSEN
For our final day of hiking, we knew we wanted to see a volcano -- the question was which one.

Mt. Shasta is the highest in California -- and on the West Coast, for that matter -- at over 14,000 feet. But it stood a good two and a half hours away, including many miles on uninteresting Interstate 5.

So we chose, instead, to visit Mt. Lassen, which still stands over 10,000 feet and, we were pretty sure, could be reached by a more scenic drive (and, as we found out, a shorter one).

And, boy, was it worth seeing.

It was a hot day in the valley, with the BUV telling us the temperature in Redding -- where we had a delicious breakfast -- was 80. But as we neared Lassen National Park, I watched in amazement as the temperature dropped to 70 ... then 68 ... then 67.

Not that the drop should have been surprising. By the time we reached the park, we were over 5,000 feet.

Unfortunately, only 10 miles of the roadway through the park was open -- the rest won't be opened until mid-June probably -- but that didn't keep us from reveling in being so close to the tallest mountain I've ever seen up close.

First we took a 1.7-mile walk around tranquil Manzanita Lake, which gave us several views of Lassen and the peaks around it. I don't think anyone was hiking it that day, because it was covered in snow.

The white stuff blanketed the mountain probably from about the 7,500-foot mark up to its peak at 10,457 feet. I thought it was cool looking at one of its ridges, which appeared to be completely smooth.

Of course, it might look much different at 7,000 feet.

The park wasn't just populated by a huge mountain. As we were beginning our hike, Dad spotted an eagle that was hovering high above. An eagle -- just like that.

He took pictures of it and many other birds, and wildlife, as we circled the lake.

Then, for our main entree, we drove as far down as we could and decided to hike along the park road and possibly take a trail that led closer to the mountain from there.

That plan was going just great -- we were excited, pumped up, enthused! -- until we started along the Hat Creek trail and noticed huge piles of that white stuff in our way. At that moment, it dawned on us why the road was closed.

We turned around and continued walking down the road, hoping to find a great view or some kind of neat area. And, sure enough, a couple walking in the opposite direction said that there was such a spot some "300 to 500 yards" ahead.

Three football fields, I thought, that's nothing!

But then we started walking, and walking, and walking ... and saw nothing but the road, the snow on either bank and the trees blocking any views of Lassen and its comrades.

We kept going, though, because Dad was telling me the amazing story of the movie "Adaptation," which I now, of course, must see -- even if I know the script from start to finish.

Anyway, he kept telling the story -- and we plodding along.

And we saw nothing.

Finally, he finished describing the movie and we decided to turn around. I thought that we'd been played by the innocent-looking couple -- and they were probably driving off to Vegas in the BUV (which had Nevada tags, by the way).

But we broke up the walk with some cheese and crackers and finally arrived back at the parking lot, where we took a neat half-mile walk on the tourist-friendly interpretive trail.

The trail wove through the area where rocks had rolled to during a period of earthquakes beginning in 1915. It was amazing thinking that rocks from that far away had gotten so far from the peak.

According to one of the signs along the tour, there is a mix of rocks from 27,000 years ago -- when Lassen formed -- and from the recent earthquake around the mountain.

As we drove out of the park, we noticed large piles of rocks on both sides of the road. It was, like the days before, a part of nature we had never seen before.

On the long drive back to Weaverville, we stopped at a few places where Dad, and his expensive camera, was able to take some great pictures of the 14,162-foot Shasta, which loomed -- high, snowy and intimidating -- to the north.

When we arrived at the La Grange for a final, delicious dinner, I felt like we'd experienced it all.

The Redwoods.

The Trinity Alps.

A large, historic volcano.

It'd been an amazing few days.

Thanks to Dad for making it happen (and, of course, for feeding me and giving my credit card -- and the Trek 520 -- a break).

Day 26 (May 15): Arcata, CA -- 0 miles biked

**Note: I didn't take this picture (it's from the Internet). But I can attest to palm trees being in the downtown Plaza.

Miles biked: 0 (934.7 overall)

I awakened Friday morning with no specific agenda in mind. There were a few things I needed to do in preparation for three days of hiking with Dad -- buy crappy tennis shoes, do laundry, ask Marnin about camping spot for Saturday night -- but nothing that would take up most of the day or night.

(Except, of course, blogging the trip and uploading pictures.)

Anyway, I rode downtown early in the morning to drop the 520 off at a small bike shop. Especially since I'm no cycling expert, I wanted to get the bike a mid-trip tuneup to ensure it won't start breaking into pieces as I'm riding along the Pacific Coast Highway, 300 feet above the Pacific with no guardrail.

So I dropped the bike off and then did some exploring by foot.

And it didn't take me long to fall in love with Arcata.

It's a small town, with my bike map listing a population of 16,651, but it certainly doesn't feel like a boring place. It has the eclectic feel of a town where there's always something interesting happening.

As Marnin pointed out, Humboldt State University is a big part of the town. The Division II school has an enrollment of 8,500 and sits just northeast of downtown and The Plaza, where most of the bars and popular shops are.

The coolest thing I noticed from walking around is that all the stores, from shoe stores to pizza joints, are locally owned. Marnin later explained that an ordinance was passed a few years ago that prohibited chain stores from eating up any of the downtown space.

If only every town did something similar.

Because tell me if this happens in your typical Foot Locker...

As mentioned, I needed shoes for hiking, so I walked into a local place on G Street. I didn't want to pay more than roughly $40, but everything I saw on the shelves was $54.99 or up.

The one guy in the place, though, was clearly one of the owners and helped me stay within my budget. When I explained my situation, he brought out three pairs of adidas -- decent shoes, really -- that he offered to me for $40 each. He even brought out a pair of Nike's, a pair that felt like $80 shoes, and offered them for $50.

We chatted for about 13 minutes, talking mostly about the university and its sports teams -- according to the guy, the hoops team is good every year and attracts lots of local attention -- and I walked out of the store with a pair of $40 shoes (only after he let me use his private bathroom).

I felt better after the experience, and I felt full a while later following a large, and, not to be forgotten, cheap lunch at a local Mexican spot.

I also briefly explored the Redwoods, which are on the east side of town in a city park.

With a university, a forest, Humboldt Bay -- which I didn't make it to -- and, let's not forget, the ocean just minutes away, Arcata seems like a great town.

And, I should mention, a health-oriented place.

There are natural food stores all over the downtown, even more than I know of in much bigger Ann Arbor. And there are restaurants aimed at Vegetarians, soup lovers and organic-food enthusiasts.

I could definitely see myself in such a place.

I'll add it to my growing list of Western cities I've quickly fallen in love with...

But I'll leave it Saturday morning to pick up a rental car from the airport, with which I'll pick up Dad at night and prepare for three full days of hiking in the Redwoods, Trinity Alps and possibly the Mt. Shasta area.

Stay tuned for my hiking tales (and for sure-to-be beautiful pictures from them).

And be sure to check out all my other pictures, which are posted at: http://picasaweb.google.com/jakeblloyd