(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.
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