(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.
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