The endless cycle

As the sun burned fog off the Pacific coast early one mid-April morning, my girlfriend, Hannah Dillard, and I said goodbye to my parents at the border of Oregon and California. My mother, tortured by the bizarre worst-case scenarios she envisioned, was tearful. My father reassured us that we were starting a grand adventure.

I asked him if this was crazy.

“People do stuff like this all the time,” he said.

Sure enough, not long after we began bicycling south along a back road paralleling Highway 101, we met a like-minded traveler. A few hundred yards ahead, a cyclist, sitting in the middle of the road, was waving at us.

From that distance, we thought he must be badly injured, flagging down the first passerby to call 911. As we got closer, though, we could see him smiling; then we could see that he was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Hey guys!” He introduced himself as Joseph, explaining that he was simply sunning himself on the asphalt as he prepared his second breakfast—a meal we would soon appreciate. “Where are you headed?”

We were less than 5 miles into our first bicycle tour, an epic 1,100-mile journey along the Pacific Coast Highway, from Oregon to Mexico. Joseph was also touring for the first time, headed north from Los Angeles to Seattle. To meet a fellow touring cyclist so quickly seemed like a gift.

We barraged him with questions reflecting our doubts and fears. What kind of gear was he carrying? How much did it weigh? Had he slept well? Which hills were particularly brutal? Had it rained? Did enraged motorists run him off the road? Had he been robbed?

Joseph asked us if we packed toilet paper. We told him we had. “Good,” he said. He shook his head, adopting a faraway look as he presumably recalled some unspeakable roadside trauma. “Oh, God. Good.”

As we chatted, a south-bound cyclist, riding a bike almost entirely hidden by bags, stopped to join the party. One could tell from the couple weeks’ worth of white stubble beneath his sunglasses that he was in his middle years, and that, by the look of his legs, the excessive baggage wasn’t much of a handicap.

He already knew our names. When he stopped at the border to take a selfie in front of the “Welcome to California” sign, my father, yet to drive off, offered to take the photo for him and struck up a short conversation. My father had told him that Hannah and I were just up the road, surely frightened, floundering and in need of an experienced hand.

And so we fell in with August Swanson, a 55-year-old contractor from Seattle on a year-long sabbatical and about halfway through his five-week ride from the Canadian border to Mexico. We would ride alongside August for most of our three-week trip, initially tapping into his wealth of road-cycling knowledge and mechanical expertise, surely annoying him with our passive aggressiveness, and ultimately becoming great friends.

As we began pedaling south again, now as a trio, Joseph shouted after us. “You’ll have an awesome time,” he said, his voice rising theatrically. “But beware!”

Even before Hannah and I became an item, we had discussed our interest in a long bike tour. We met during a pickup game of ultimate disc about two years ago.

She’s a lifelong Chicoan and Chico State graduate who’s always been an endurance athlete. I was born and raised in Fairbanks, Alaska, was relatively new to Chico, and had just recently gotten into cycling. Hannah is the stronger cyclist. When I first moved to Chico nearly three years ago, biking the perimeter of Lower Bidwell Park was my definition of a long ride.

Once Hannah and I hit it off, she promptly left for an indefinite period of time to backpack South America. We stayed in touch via email, and she eventually floated the crazy idea of biking the length of California, should she both return to Chico and find me suitable as a boyfriend. When she came home, we started talking seriously (about the bike trip).

We received approval for three weeks of time off in April from our respective employers and slowly began collecting equipment over the course of several months. We purchased matching REI-brand Novara bikes designed specifically for touring, panniers (bike bags), and, after announcing our intentions to our families, scored a good amount of clothing and lightweight camping gear for Christmas. To guide our journey, we borrowed a woefully outdated copy of Bicycling the Pacific Coast and two Adventure Cycling maps that covered San Francisco to the Mexican border.

We decided to roughly follow the mileage suggestions in Bicycling the Pacific Coast, which outlined 20 days for riding California. Even if we averaged nearly 60 miles a day, there would be no time to spare.

Once our gear was assembled, we staged a trial run to Woodson Bridge State Recreation Area. We camped overnight and rode back to Chico the next morning. The trial run reaffirmed what we already knew: Cycling is an ideal way to take in countryside. The sounds, smells, exposure to the elements, physicality of propelling yourself down the road, and occasional swallowing of a bug all provide a level of immersion you just don’t get from speeding along the highway in a metal box.

It would be painful at times and frustrations were likely to boil over, but we knew there would be no better way to enjoy one of the most scenic coastal highways in the world.

Our first stop after meeting August was a Safeway in Crescent City, where we stocked up for dinner. A store employee asked if we were heading south, and told us “the hill from hell” was awaiting us just outside of town.

“I can’t even get my car up there,” he said.

Bicycling the Pacific Coast confirmed that a 1,100-foot climb began south of Crescent City. August hadn’t encountered a higher peak in all of Washington and Oregon; we would be tackling it on our first day.

It was pure torture. Sure, I had climbed Honey Run up to Paradise—generally acknowledged as a serious climb—but not with 40 pounds of gear.

Thankfully, August, not much fazed by the climb, kept our minds off it by chatting amiably about his three feisty daughters, all grown and out of the house. Every so often he would identify a roadside plant or shout the reading on his GPS altimeter.

“Only 600 more vertical feet to go!”

Of course, the slow burn ended eventually. Then we were flying downhill through the coastal forest and inland through groves of giant redwoods to Elk Prairie Campground, about 60 miles from the border.

We paid $5 each for a hiker/biker campsite. Most state parks with campgrounds offer areas where touring cyclists and hikers can camp on the cheap. They would prove incredibly helpful; farther down the road, we showed up to full campgrounds and were never turned away.

On the second night, as we watched hippies twirling their hula hoops around the plaza in downtown Arcata, I felt a twinge in my left knee. Before reaching Eureka the next morning, just 10 miles down the road, I knew there was a problem. Straining up hills shot pain through my leg, forcing me to complain loudly.

I asked August what to do about nagging knee pain. He suggested keeping my bike in its low gears and maintaining a high cadence relative to my road speed, never placing undue pressure on said knee. Though it seemed counterintuitive, pedaling more furiously helped eased the pain.

We entered the Avenue of the Giants at an ideal time—before high tourist season. We were alone in a silent hall of ancient redwoods, only the odd beam of sunlight finding the forest floor. With no traffic and the road glass-smooth, our gazes fixed upward.

“Now, that right there’s a big tree,” I’d say every couple hundred yards.

“Big tree—check,” August would reply.

We fell into a rhythm. In the mornings, we would heat water for oatmeal, tea and coffee, then press on to a café up the road for second breakfast, often our biggest meal of the day. Overall, we doubled our daily caloric intake.

The bulk of our riding was in the afternoons. Though we usually kept a quick pace, we stopped regularly to snack or simply take in a vista. They were full days. On more than one occasion, we fell asleep before sunset.

On day four, as we continued farther inland, the temperature soared and Highway 101 steered us through rugged mountains. We crossed the shimmering Eel River about 17 times, poppies and lupines coloring hillsides orange and purple.

Anticipation began to build for Leggett Hill, the highest unavoidable climb along the coast at about 2,000 feet, beginning where Highways 101 and 1 meet. Given how passing cyclists and our guidebook hyped it up, we were psyched out, especially considering my knee issues.

By that point, Hannah and I had learned that climbing is as much a mental challenge as it is physical. Once you resign yourself to working hard and moving slowly for an indefinite period of time, rather than desperately hoping that each turn will reveal the peak, you find yourself in a groove. The promise of a bitchin’ downhill section also helps.

We climbed Leggett Hill rather easily, pausing at the peak to scoff, “that’s all California’s got?” before an exhilarating 20-minute descent.

Even with our newfound mindsets, the Humboldt, Mendocino and Sonoma coasts were tremendously challenging. The day after Leggett, we hit an absurdly steep series of switchbacks. The day after that, we climbed nearly 5,000 vertical feet as we made our way high along the ocean cliffs north of Jenner. Our legs never rested enough to fully recover. During that stretch, my lower body was so stiff in the mornings that each day’s objective seemed impossible.

We parted with August south of Bodega Bay, cutting inland to Hannah’s aunt and uncle’s house in Petaluma. There we showered, napped, did laundry, and ate all their food. The next day, Hannah’s uncle, an avid cyclist, escorted us just short of Fairfax and doubled back home.

Though we whooped and hollered when we first saw the Golden Gate Bridge, crossing it wasn’t much fun. Apparently, dozens of adult tourists considered this an opportunity to ride bicycles for the first time. Several collisions appeared imminent, but we managed to weave our way to the San Francisco side unscathed.

Our frustrations only mounted from that point. Being small-town nincompoops, we took several wrong turns in reaching the Great Highway, forgetting to eat along the way. Grumpiness began to set in.

We reached the Devil’s Slide outside of Pacifica, which our guidebook described as a harrowing mountain pass along an ocean cliff, just before dusk. This led to our first real disagreement: Hannah wanted to press on to Montara that night while I, toasted from 70 miles on the road and sensing impending doom, wanted to check into a hotel. Despite overt huffiness from both parties, we stayed the night in Pacifica.

It all seemed silly the next morning when we discovered that Devil’s Slide is no longer harrowing. In fact, there’s a tunnel boring directly through the mountain, complete with an extra-wide bike lane, constructed since our guidebook was published, in 1998.

We met August in Half Moon Bay and hauled serious buttocks to Santa Cruz, a stiff wind at our backs. After our hectic Bay Area experience, we had been let loose.

We encountered harbor seals, sea otters and one Frenchman riding his long board from San Francisco to L.A. as we made a big push through the rugged Central Coast, condensing four days’ worth of riding into three to allow a full day off at August’s friends’ house in Santa Barbara. It would come at just the right time—after two weeks, we needed rest.

We made a fateful decision over breakfast in Lompoc: We would climb the 2,200-foot San Marcos Pass, rather than take Highway 1 along the coast to Santa Barbara, because it would be more scenic.

About 10 miles into our day, my knee pain came back sharper than ever. When we stopped at a gas station in Buellton, I was confronted with a decision. August asserted that forcing the issue could end my trip altogether, and suggested taking a bus into Santa Barbara.

This was sage advice, but ultimately pride interfered. Despite the risk of long-term injury, I chose to press on—I was going to cycle the entire California coast.

It didn’t take long to second-guess myself. Highway 154 was unquestionably the least bike-friendly section we’d encountered yet; the grades were steep, the sun relentless, the shoulder nonexistent and traffic constant. Once we began the climb, my legs felt like lead. I was regularly falling behind, furthering my doubts. We ate lunch in gloomy silence.

Finally cresting the hill was an immense relief—climbing San Marcos was perhaps the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It was all downhill from there, though, and a much-needed full day’s rest was within reach.

We considered San Marcos Pass the threshold to Southern California, the land of sports cars, roller blades, women of incalculable age who look like carrots left out in the sun for too long, and unfathomable stupidity. (In L.A., some guy asked us where we were going. We told him Mexico. His next question: “So, are you headed north or south?”)

For every picturesque So Cal beach, we encountered something ugly—power plants, never-ending rows of mini-storage, the Camp Pendleton military complex, strip malls, and the L.A. “River.” We had left the sense of adventure in Big Sur.

We had a final night of camping at San Elijo State Beach, where we tossed a Frisbee in the surf and watched the sunset, and then made the push through San Diego and to the Mexican border the next day. We checked into a hostel in Point Loma, dropped off our bags, and rode pannier-free the last 20 miles to Border Field State Park, following a dirt road to the border fence.

It was anti-climactic—no mariachi bands, senoritas with margaritas, or other Mexican stereotypes were waiting for us. It was just a fence. We made snide comments, posed half-heartedly for a photo, and took a trolley back to Point Loma. (We were, admittedly, sick of riding bikes.)

As we’d stopped along the way, and strangers asked us about our trip, reactions fell into two general categories: either we were badasses of inconceivable fortitude, drawing high-fives and praise, or complete morons practically begging to get annihilated by an 18-wheeler. At one restaurant, a woman condescendingly suggested that, when in traffic, we must close our eyes and hope not to get squashed.

“We don’t leave it up to faith and prayer!” August said. He was agitated. “We take reasonable steps to stay safe!”

Indeed, we wore bright clothing and followed the basic principles of safe driving—being aware of the situation and surroundings, clearly signaling our intentions to other road users, avoiding unpredictable movements. We never felt endangered by motorized traffic.

The morning after we completed our journey, we ate breakfast with August for the last time. As we inhaled pancakes, a friend messaged him: “Congratulations on a life-changing experience.”

Looking back, the days blur together. But particular events or scenes weren’t the point. It was more about stepping outside our daily routines and settling into an entirely different rhythm—one of the road and the natural world.

We parted with August, who pressed on to Ensenada, Mexico. We cruised back up I-5 to Chico in a rental car, easily undoing much of our three-week journey in a single day.

We considered it: Had the journey changed us in a meaningful way?

While much remains to be seen, Hannah and I didn’t think so. We had always envisioned ourselves tackling big outdoor adventures; doing so simply met our expectations, and we’re already planning for more.