California is a place that is well drummed into our consciousnesses. We’ve all seen the movies, experienced the culture, seen scenes of beautiful bodies on the beaches and heard about how you need to wear a flower in your hair when you go to San Francisco.
Having pedalled across the state line from Oregon, I collected a few supplies in Crescent City and then sought out a small patch of rough ground to camp outside of town.
Knowing that was in for another night of foul weather I did my best to set up the tarp between a few tree branches. Without enough room to properly pitch my tent, I could only place the ground sheet on a flattish bit and try to shelter as best I could under the tarp.
I wasn’t exactly getting beach boys vibes yet.
Yacob and Tommy had been messaging me every now and then about their experiences of the route, so I was well aware that I had big days of climbing ahead.
The next day, as expected, involved steep climbing, low visibility and barely any shoulder on the roadside in order to take refuge from passing traffic.
I gradually hauled myself up into Del Norte Coast Redwoods State Park, spotting the first of the mighty trees through the murk.
The temperature dropped significantly the higher I climbed.
The spectacle of seeing redwoods for the first time ended up playing second fiddle to my desire to get through the cold, wet hills and descend back into the warmer valley beyond.
I rolled into the Klamath first Nations community and immediately hunted down a cup of tea.
The town was dominated by a huge casino building.
I stayed for a while to rekindle enthusiasm and dry out to some extent, before tackling the next section of redwoods.
I was immersed in truly awe inspiring surroundings, but preoccupied with staying warm in the cold and wet. Stopping long enough to really take in the scenery required messing around with layers and inevitably getting a chill. Wanderlust was wearing a bit thin.
Once again I embraced the opportunity to escape the hills, zipping down through the deluge towards Orick, wearing every bit of clothing I had.
The place seemed pretty dead. COVID had killed off a lot of the tourist industry and there weren’t many services open.
I pressed on to a wildlife reserve, which, according to my IOverlander app, ought to have a drinking water tap.
Topped up all my bottles, while getting some funny looks from the volunteers locking up for the night.
Replenished for the night, it was time for the last push to find a wild camping spot.
Possibilities had been pretty sparse, so I settled for the first decent offering, despite a distinctly unpleasant aroma. Beggars and soggy cyclists can’t be choosers.
I went through the usual routine of putting the tent up under the tarp, getting the stove going and having a good scrub down with the wet wipes.
The next day revealed that I had in fact camped right next to a deer carcass in an advanced stage of decomposition. As soon as my brain made the link to the smell it became very difficult to keep my breakfast down. I tore my camp apart in a frenzy and got out of there as quickly as possible.
Back to pedalling along the coast highway to Eureka. Plenty of rain, but no big hills.
My first sign for San Francisco! I tried to imagine the legendary, sunny city existing in the same world as my damp experience.
I had just reached four months on the road, and felt that it was time for a change. I resolved to open the piggy bank and splash out on my first hotel of the trip.
I don’t have the words to describe how good a soak in a bathtub feels after being out in the elements for weeks. I think I stayed in for about three hours, working my way through a pack of beers.
The next morning I met Ryan, a homeless bloke in the launderette, who supplemented his state unemployment benefit by biking around collecting plastic bottles for recycling.
He was a recovering heroin addict and had been in and out of jail throughout his life. He showed me his enormous comic book collection, accumulated over several years and carted around wherever he went on his bike.
A few of his mates turned up and smoked some crack around the back of the launderette.
Despite the sketchiness of the situation, everyone was pretty easygoing, and we nattered a bit to pass the time.
Eventually I collected my laundry, refused their offers for various substances, and took a roundabout route back to my motel, which was otherwise right across the street.
I could tell that they were pretty tuned in to local goings-on, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to remain relatively illusive.
Decided to stay another night and enjoy the bathtub again. Had a great chat with the motel receptionist. He used to work as a commercial diver cleaning the bottoms of boats down in Key West. Seemed to be a kindred spirit regarding all things adventure. Was very interested in my trip.
I noticed later that he had refunded my second night at the hotel. What a nice bloke! Sticking his neck out to help another.
Later, I popped into the local outdoors store to get a few bits of fishing tackle and chat to the staff about the local situation.
Discovered that there was quite a bit of support for the north of California to split away and form a separate state.
The State of Jefferson, first proposed in 1941, would combine 23 rural counties in northern California with southern Oregon.
While the majority of California’s population resides in urbanised regions in the south, a great deal of the state’s natural wealth, including water and forestry, exists in the north.
The profits of this wealth are enjoyed by the state as a whole, rather than just the regions where it is generated.
A division would require convincing the Californian people to vote for something which would reduce the economic standing of the majority.
Time to get back to the pedals again…
I rolled out of Eureka for the redwoods once again. Eventually entering the iconic ‘Avenue of the Giants’.
This was without doubt the best cycling I’d experienced since returning to the USA from Canada.
Truly awe inspiring surroundings, a pleasant, gently winding road and reasonably compliant weather.
I pedalled past a campsite where I spotted two touring cyclists having a late breakfast near their tent. They later caught up with me a few miles down the road.
Matt and Hannah were both from Dorset, the first British cyclists I had met so far.
Having finished their Workaway placement at an organic farm they were now riding down the west coast to Mexico.
While Hannah was very chatty and excited to meet another rider, Matt became progressively withdrawn and apparently grumpy. Eventually he started motoring on ahead and called over his shoulder for Hannah to keep up.
Having spent several months travelling solo I had instinctively leaned into the opportunity to socialise. It didn’t occur to me that three cyclists doing essentially the same thing wouldn’t want to get to know each other a bit more!
I had made the assumption that we would be spending the evening together, we had discussed which campsite we were heading to after all.
What I didn’t appreciate was that there were three separate campsites with the same name. I had no way to contact either rider and spent a fair bit of time riding up and down hills eliminating each option.
Eventually I rolled into the correct pitch and found both in the process of pitching up. I could tell immediately that Hannah was really embarrassed with Matt.
I guess Matt was getting all the communication and emotional nourishment he wanted from Hannah. He was perfectly happy to insulate himself from the world and travel in his own personal bubble. From his point of view there was no incentive to seek out more.
I suppose it’s likely that he wasn’t happy with me getting on well with his partner either.
I realised how similar I am to Matt in many ways. Being an introverted sort of person, I often take the opportunity to back off and do my own thing, rather than natter away in the office or similar.
Admittedly, spending a whole day as the centre of attention in an often loud and chaotic classroom environment is far more draining of social stamina than spending months riding a bicycle alone.
I probably came across as something akin to a half crazed mountain man coming out of the wilderness, or that overly chatty pensioner visiting the grocery store, for whom this was likely their only social interaction in their whole day.
If there is one thing I will take away from this journey, it is that decent people are everything. Having a five minute natter with a stranger while waiting for a bus could lift both of you up for the entire day.
Matt remained withdrawn in camp. After dinner I returned to my tent to give them some space.
The next morning I took a freezing cold shower, which left me without any sensation in my feet until I began pedalling.
Big day of climbing ahead. First an easy 15 miles to Legget, then turning right onto the famous highway one, which would take me over a mountain pass and down onto the Pacific coastline once again.
I surely needed some kind of boost to carry me through.
Fortunately, I had a secret weapon on hand.
The whole nutrition game for endurance activities can be greatly simplified to the point where you are looking at how many simple carbohydrates you can get to diffuse across the lining of the small intestine and into the bloodstream over a period of time.
Apparently, the average cyclist should aim for 40 to 60 grams of carbohydrate per hour.
This is why those little energy gel sachets you see in the shops (or littering the trailside…) contain about 20g of sugar and are supposed to be consumed three times per hour.
According to a cycling magazine I picked up in an airport once, recent trials indicated that ingesting a mixture containing fructose could lead to a much greater rate of carbohydrate uptake, perhaps as much as 120g per hour.
All very scientific.
My solution involved the cheapest bottle of pancake syrup, consisting mostly of high fructose corn syrup. At the beginning of the climb I necked a generous portion from the bottle.
The cold, wet, physical ordeal receded from my consciousness as the sugar rush took hold. My earphones pumped out beats while my legs spun a high cadence on the pedals.
Pine trees chugged past as I clawed my way up switchbacks and carved my way down descents.
After an hour I paused to attack the pancake syrup again, before resuming my advance.
Eventually I found myself facing the Pacific Ocean.
I set off down the coast. The rain was back, along with a sturdy wind coming in from the sea.
Picked up some provisions in Westport and rolled a short distance out of town to camp.
Spent half the next day rolling to Fort Bragg in the drizzle feeling very unmotivated and aimless.
Stopped at Taco Bell and ate a substantial quantity of imitation Mexican food.
Decided to knock off for the day and do another Motel instead of going any further.
Sunk pretty low mulling over my crap performance that day, amplified by the miserable weather.
Bought some beers and cigs, knowing full well that I would only smoke a couple before soaking and binning the rest of the pack.
Unfortunately this time the hot bath didn’t quite have the same magic as before.
Tommy messaged me to let me know that he would still be in San Francisco when I arrived. He was hoping to go clubbing with me in the weekend.
I resolved to dust myself off and press on. The big city was now just a few days away.
Aggressive, but brief hills along the coast. Virtually no flat road. Scrabbling up one side on my lowest gear and then rolling down the other.
My phone played listen and repeat Spanish lessons while I plodded on. The weather began to improve the futher south I travelled.
In contrast to Oregon much of the coast land was private property. Wild camping required a bit of lateral thinking and low standards.
The days were pretty similar. Just getting the job done. Keep pushing for San Fran in time to see my mate.
I was just one sleep away when I spotted a stocky bearded man standing in the road. He had a large shopping cart loaded to the brim and a dog on lead.
He watched me as I slowly approached. I could tell that he was homeless.
I had no idea that I was about to meet the most badass traveller on the Pacific Coast Highway.
We traded smokes and beer and talked about everything and nothing by the side of the road.
Dawid was hauling all his worldly possessions from Portland Oregon, down to Southern California to visit his mum for Christmas.
The cart didn’t have any breaks on it, so when he went downhill it was constantly trying to pull away from him. He had to use the muscles in his back, engage his core and legs to prevent the trolley from rolling away from him.
When climbing, he needed to push with his pecs, involving his core and legs to keep pushing the thing upwards.
The result of all this was a thorough resistance workout, combined with an intense cardiovascular one to boot.
Before he left Portland he had had some issues with his back and heart, but after a few weeks on the road he noticed that a lot of these ailments seemed to go away. At this time he was feeling in excellent physical condition.
I was battling with hanging out with this legend, or pressing on with my mission.
I almost made the dreadful mistake of doing a Matt, but eventually resolved to mellow out and go with the flow.
When you are a freak amongst all the immaculate people on the west coast, you oughtn’t pass up the opportunity to hang out with a like-minded individual.
As an old hand at tramping, Dawid was a real wealth of experience. He taught me plenty of tips and tricks for sleeping rough on the road. Not the sort of stuff you pick up on a backpacking forum online.
California has an enormous homeless population due to offering one of the most generous unemployment benefits in the United States, so it’s entirely normal to see tents all over the place.
Dawid recommended that I don’t try to hide, otherwise landowners might come looking for me.
We camped in plain sight by the roadside and had no issues whatsoever.
I took advantage of the opportunity to showcase my dirtbag kitchen skills, assembling peanut butter, banana and honey sandwiches.
Dawid became nostalgic, as they apparently reminded him of his childhood.
He wasn’t sure how he was going to fare with the homeless community in San Francisco. Half of the people he had spoken to had told him that they were awful, the others had said that they were great.
Dawid had weathered the Portland riots by organising a quasi-vigilante group in a homeless encampment on his street corner. As an experienced man on the streets, he could more easily earn respect without having to resort to violence.
He ensured that certain behaviours, such as visible drug taking on the streets, were curbed.
Any individual who was aggressive to other residents was expelled from the community.
This put them in good stead with the local police, who left them alone while they scoured the streets of rioters.
Jocelyn, his dog, was apparently lethal if need be. I noticed that he also carried a machete strapped to the cart.
Surely he ought to be more than capable of handling San Francisco.
The next day I really needed to smash out the miles, having come up short to meet Dawid. It was going to be a big day.
Obviously I had a puncture…
I started to see day-tripping cyclists out of the city.
A bit like how an oceangoing sailor notices seabirds as they get near to land, the lycra clad start to crop up as you approach large population centres in North America.
After Muir Beach, I began working through a pretty significant, but beautiful ‘mountain stage’ in the Golden Gate national recreation area.
Late in the day, energy levels flagging. Back to slurping liquid sugar from the bottle. Overtaking road cyclists heaped on encouragement, almost there!
Eventually I found myself thundering down the final descent, which spat me out in the rather picturesque Sausalito.
The place really gave me a Mediterranean vibe, and I would have loved to spend more time getting to know it better, but San Francisco was now clearly visible across the water.
Hills, downpours, and endless cars zipping past my ears over the last month had all done their best to erode my enthusiasm for this adventure.
My first sight of the golden gate bridge brought on a surge of emotion.
No one could take away the fact that I had earned this the hard way.
Last push! Don’t get run over now.
Eventually, after a bit of navigational faffing around, I rolled into Fisherman’s Wharf Hostel. Locked the bike up and hit the showers. Victory beers waiting in the fridge. Sorted.
Cinema sets the bar pretty high with places like this. I wasn’t sure how the reality would live up to expectations.
I messed around in town for a bit, before making rendezvous with Tommy outside Costco.
Tommy rolled up with another cyclist in tow.
Ruby had flown in from the Netherlands to pedal around California for her summer holiday.
She started out in Los Angeles, climbing up into the hills, before finding herself insufficiently equipped for night temperatures.
She bailed out and instead caught the train up to San Francisco. Her new plan was to cruise down the Pacific Coast Highway.
Having made our introductions, I proclaimed the virtues of the high calorie to cost ratio of the Costco restaurant, and flashed the doorguard Ted’s defunct membership card to gain entry.
We rolled up our sleeves and got stuck in, feeling very American ploughing through our enormous plates of cheap greasy brown food.
Standing up to leave was a bit more of a challenge. We paused outside to formulate a plan of action.
While we had been eating, an animal rights protest had assembled in the street, facing the store.
A megaphone was being passed between speakers, who took turns shouting about the inhumane treatment of livestock by farms associated with Costco.
Other members of the protest chanted to music, handed out information flyers and engaged spectators in discussions about the poor agricultural practices of the supermarket chain.
We exchanged sheepish glances and collected our bikes.
Off to a nearby charity shop. The aim was to turn Tommy and I into something presentable enough to hit the nightclubs in the evening.
I could tell that Tommy was betting on things working out with Ruby, but Ruby was clearly interested in someone else…
Tommy wasn’t getting this message, and I didn’t want to upset him, potentially causing him to zoom off ahead, never to be seen again.
After a few days, Ruby announced that she was going to get going. I decided to stick around to make a few speculative applications for teaching jobs in Latin America.
Tommy followed her, as I guessed he would.
I spent the next few days going through the joyful experience of updating my CV and crafting various cover letters.
San Francisco is hardly a disagreeable place to freewheel in for a while anyway.
It is without doubt my favourite city of the trip so far, and a very strong contender for the best I’ve seen in the world.
Somehow, despite its size, the place has maintained a kind of laid back vibe. People don’t behave in that cold, big city manner, like you might experience in London.
There was a nice quote in the hostel by Twiggy: ‘I’m just mad for San Francisco. It’s like London and Paris stacked on top of each other.’
To put the place into perspective, single tenants earning less than 104,000 dollars per annum are classified as ‘low income’ by the Department of Housing and Community Development. A salary of 147k is considered a ‘moderate’ income.
It’s no longer the sort of place you can bum around with a flower in your hair. Silicon valley casts a shadow here. I’ve never seen so many Teslas in one place.
The homeless community is large and very prominent in many districts.
Tommy had told me about how he saw someone smash in a car window and start rummaging around inside in broad daylight.
He kept his bear spray within reach at all times. Not a bad idea. I made sure to have mine on the handlebars while exploring the city.
Eventually I received a text from Tommy. He had finally given up on any romantic aspirations with Ruby.
By my reckoning, I could now join the pair without being seen as the obstacle.
Spending two weeks in San Francisco was great, and I would have definitely been happy to stay longer. Quality time with good people and a lengthy immersion in civilization had done good work.
The drive to stamp on the pedals was now back in force.
A short two-day ride down to Santa Cruz.
Lisa and Josh (from the previous blog) were offering to let me stay for a couple of nights in their campervan.
They operated a business which cleaned boats berthed in the marina.
Being well-known and trusted locally, they were permitted to live there aboard their sailboat.
We drove into the hills to explore the redwoods and visited several bars in the area.
I spent most of my day off filling in an application form for a job in Chiapas, Mexico.
I eventually decided not to pursue anything further at this time. The responses I had received were encouraging: three schools wanted to take the process further with me.
It was comforting to know that perhaps in the near future I would be able to step off the saddle for a while and live a comparatively stable life and save up some cash, without having to limp home to the UK.
Back on the bike and down towards Big Sur.
First up, Monterey and its stunning 17 mile drive, finishing up in Carmel.
I grabbed some supplies in Carmel and met Paul, a homeless chap who was also planning to pedal southwards to some hot springs in Big Sur. He warned me that all camping was strictly prohibited outside of state park campgrounds, with exorbitant fines given out to anyone caught in the act.
Lots of big money in this part of the world. He pointed out some expensive-looking houses on a nearby hilltop and told me that Clint Eastwood had once been the mayor there.
I was certainly going to stick out like a sore thumb amongst the expensive houses, flashy hotels and fancy restaurants.
I came to terms with this when I pulled off into a gravel lay-by, where I set up my stove to make a cup of tea. A car drove past and leaned on the horn, followed a few minutes later by a fire engine.
Crap…
They got out and strode over. I prepared myself for the inevitable bollocking.
‘Yeah so first of all you are not doing anything wrong… How far are you going on your bicycle? Is it possible for us to follow you online?’
They were both absolutely solid people. Got a decent briefing about what I could expect in the upcoming sections of the Pacific Coast Highway.
There had been a huge risk of wildfires earlier in the year, prior to the rainy season the whole West Coast had been totally parched. Now everything was lush and green and the risk was minimal.
Some twit had obviously flipped out when they saw me and called the emergency services. Thankfully the firefighters didn’t have anything more important to rush off to.
Reached Big Sur State Campground bright and early. Lisa and Josh had recommended doing short days hopping between campsites and then exploring trails on foot.
In the evening another Chris arrived by bike. We pooled our alcohol resources and shared stories of our respective bike trips.
He had found someone’s personal journal lying by the roadside. Unfortunately the owner had neglected to provide any kind of contact information, so Chris had set himself on a quest to figure out who it could be from the evidence within, in order to to return it.
The writer had a very poetic, perhaps slightly pretentious style of writing. Considering it wasn’t a creative work being targeted at any particular audience, this seemed odd to us.
He appeared to spend a lot of time travelling all over the USA and had a rather juicy love life, which seemed to be tormenting him.
Having made no real headway, we resolved that a hefty bit of internet detective work would be needed.
We headed our separate ways the next morning. Unfortunately he was going north, which was a shame as I would have welcomed a teammate. He seemed like good people.
I don’t think I did much more than 25 miles or so most days. Just as well, the hills were nothing to sniff at.
Found myself running late one evening. Pushing on into dusk towards that all-important campground.
My bike light batteries turned out to be flat.
Still 7 miles to go to Limekiln State Park.
Now what?
I stuck my smartphone into one of the boots I had hanging over the handlebars and turned on the flashlight. Voila!
Feeling rather clever with my ingenuity, I carried on to the state park.
There was a steep descent at the entrance. My lighting arrangement wasn’t sufficient to pick out the potholes, which I smashed directly into at speed.
I didn’t go flying over the bars, but the phone got launched from its resting place, hitting the ground in front, before getting run-over by my front wheel.
Now blind and panicked from the impact I grabbed both brakes and came skidding to a halt.
Completely forgetting to unclip my feet.
Chris and bike slowly fell over and ended up in an ignominious, sweary heap on the tarmac.
Untangled myself from the wreckage, scooped up my phone and walked the bike down to reception.
‘We are closed, you can’t camp here’
The next park campground was miles away.
No bloody chance. 200 – 1000 dollar fine if I get caught camping by the road? Bugger that.
I explained my situation, but they remained firm.
I asked if I could at least top my bottles off at the facilities, they agreed.
When I returned, they admitted to having a spare pitch. I could stay free of charge.
What a 180…
I thanked them profusely, and got the hell out of there before they changed their mind.
I got a bit cut up in the fall. Sore, but nothing broken.
The phone fared well considering the circumstances. It still functioned, although the glass in front of the main camera had been shattered.
Pressed on the next day.
Spotted a colony of elephant seals on the beach near San Simeon.
Watched pairs of males rutting, looking like two angry sausages getting up in each others’ faces.
Tried a spot of fishing at the pier in town.
Nearby, a lad about 13 years old was industriously pulling surf perch out of the water left right and centre. I didn’t get so much as a nibble.
I couldn’t figure out how I could be messing it up so badly. He gave me some of his live bait and some patient instruction, but still no joy.
Once the other anglers figured out I was actually trying to feed myself, a bit of a production line was started.
I left the pier with a shopping bag full of donated perch. Just needed to get some instant noodles and beer to assemble a truly gourmet camp dinner….
Ended up pitched next to Alex, another bike tourist. We did the usual natter over beverages, until it got too cold to be standing outside.
The next day I discovered that Tommy and Ruby were actually well within a day’s ride of me. I had assumed that they would be getting close to LA by now.
I gave them a call and established a meet up at a campground, with its own hot spring fed spa.
I motored through the relatively flat landscape. At the outskirts of Morro Bay I passed a sign finally releasing me from the stringent roadside camping restrictions, and breathed a big sigh of relief.
After a few more miles I rolled into the spa, feeling very ready for a change of sensation and the reunion of the San Francisco pelotón.
Maybe I’ve been getting this whole bicycle touring game completely wrong… what a way to live!
We visited REI for various bits and pieces. It had been getting pretty chilly at night by this point, so I needed to beef my sleep system up a bit.
I made a couple of much-needed purchases of both an inflatable sleeping pad, and a sleeping bag liner. Ruby was using the same quilt as me, so she could point me towards the kit that had worked for her after her chilly episode a few weeks earlier.
We had a nice big cheerful communal dinner around the fire that night.
This really set the tone for the next week or so. Ruby was clearly interested in taking it easy and casually pottering between places to hang out.
Being able to combine our cooking equipment meant we could actually come up with relatively sophisticated cuisine. We had a campfire going most nights too.
Ruby was a very interesting character. She had built her career in the police force in Amsterdam.
Having studied psychology at university, she had applied her knowledge to train coppers in using research-based psychological approaches during criminal investigations.
Ruby told us that unfortunately, like many people, police detectives often convince themselves that they have an intuition for ‘reading people’.
Unfortunately this is usually heavily subjective and influenced by personal bias. It is in fact very difficult to determine whether someone is guilty or innocent solely by reading their body language and unconscious movements.
She had found it a real struggle being a young woman with ambition trying to encourage the old guard to learn new tricks.
Ruby had recently spent a lot of time in a department fighting human trafficking. They took a ‘To Catch a Predator’ approach, with her posing as an underage girl online.
Our progress to LA was probably a bit slower than what Tommy and I would have wanted. We often got started after lunch, rolling perhaps 20 or 30 miles to the next campground and arriving around an hour after sunset.
Solo travel is great and all that, but it’s easy to get too used to having things your own way all the time. Got to learn to compromise again. Try not to get stressed out.
Traffic in LA was mad. Tommy got knocked off by a turning van at a set of lights. He was unharmed, but it twisted up his rear rack. Certainly put us all on a defensive stance.
We spent a couple of weeks in our hostel in Hollywood. Universal Studios was a really surreal experience that didn’t correspond in any way to our norm.
Ruby decided she didn’t have time to continue to San Diego, but hoped that we could wait in LA in order to celebrate Tommy’s birthday as a group. We stuck around and did the thing.
Visited a games arcade, ploughed through an all you can eat Chinese and then hit a karaoke bar. Solid template.
We had a bit of a language exchange going on at the time. Tommy, being from Quebec, could share French, Ruby had spent some time living and working in Latin America, so she could help out a lot with Spanish. Everyone more or less spoke English already, so my niche revolved around teaching naughty words and idioms you might use in colloquial chat in the UK.
Eventually it was time for us to move on. Tommy aimed to be home with his family for Christmas, but he really wanted to touch the Trump wall and peek into Mexico before finishing. Ruby was going to fly home to Amsterdam from LA.
While riding out of the city I noticed one of my bottle cages was flopping around a bit. I guess the bolt needed tightening?
I took a closer look and found that the bolt had actually ripped right out of the frame, taking a fingernail-sized piece of the seat tube with it!
I was absolutely poleaxed. Having deliberately purchased what I believed to be the most rugged expedition bicycle available in the UK, the one thing I had relied upon was that the frame was going to remain in the same shape for the duration of my trip.
The highway between LA and San Diego was very built up. Little in the way of unspoiled countryside.
Paid the most exorbitant camping fee of the trip so far, 64 dollars. Thank you California State Parks.
Arrived in San Diego late the next day and rolled into our hostel. Tommy pretty much immediately fell asleep, so I went out to explore our new neighbourhood.
Downtown San Diego was a completely different animal to Hollywood.
Someone completely out of it was waving a knife around, shouting jibberish and stabbing picnic tables.
Met some locals on a night out and they invited me along to hit the bars. A highlight of the night involved a mechanical bull controlled by an apparently sadistic attendant.
The next day I discovered that Anna and Yacob were about to arrive in town. Having finished their respective stays at different organic farms in Oregon they had found the weather too cold and wet up in the redwoods, and had caught the train down.
We arranged to meet them for a pint or several. Once again downtown San Diego didn’t disappoint in showing true class.
Yacob invited Tommy and I to come and join him and Anna at their organic farm near the outskirts of the city. He reckoned the host would appreciate extra hands on site.
Our evening wound up standing outside the hostel, watching a drugged up shirtless man hopping aimlessly around the sidewalk in a crouched posture, occasionally howling in anguish at the sky.
Actually, living on a farm sounds like a wonderful idea.
Tommy zipped to the border and back, then boxed up his bike.
Very mixed emotions. He was distraught to be ending his adventure, but really looking forward to seeing his family again.
I had tried my best to chivvy him into sticking around to pedal down Baja with me, but his mind was set and the flight was booked.
After Tommy left, life slowed to a rhythm of digging holes and carting around wheelbarrow loads of organic material and rocks.
Stephen, our German host, planned to have a fully functional organic farm in a few years. Permaculture was the aim of the game. Essentially a ‘food forest’ with different levels of food-producing vegetation emulating a natural woodland ecosystem. In theory, once established, it would require very little additional input in order to be productive.
Stephen was apparently rather impressed with Yacob, Anna and I. He often complained about how so many young volunteers seemed to envision the experience as a magical wander through the land, picking delicacies at leisure.
The reality mostly involved manual labour and handling excrement.
Anna and Yacob made easy company. We established a common ground with regards to Rammstein, and pooled our MP3 collections for future pedalling motivation.
I heard from Chris, of Big Sur, that he had somehow tracked down the owner of the diary he had found. I wonder how that conversation went, given the contents…
Christmas away from home was certainly much more cheerful than it would have otherwise been. Since it was a mostly German environment, we celebrated on Christmas Eve.
I introduced a British twist with buck’s fizz, and we had a classic seasonal German meal of potato salad and sausages. The evening involved plenty of drinking, dancing and silliness. Just the thing to fight homesickness.
On Christmas day Stephen invited us to join him at an interpretive dance.
Apparently you are supposed to get into the essence of the music and just move your body however you feel.
I was initially a bit apprehensive, but all three of us really got stuck in and ended up having a lovely experience.
Eventually it was time to roll on once again. More than two weeks off bike and the feet were itching to spin the pedals again.
We felt really fulfilled with our time spent on Stephen’s farm, being able to clearly see the physical impact of our labour upon the land.
Anna and Yakob needed to get to Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula by a certain time in the near future; they had planned to stay at another organic farm down there, before returning home to Germany. Consequently, they opted to quickly take a bus down the entirety of the Baja peninsula, followed by the ferry from La Paz to Mazatlán, before resuming their pedalling on the mainland.
I left for Tecate and they headed for Tijuana. Another goodbye.
What would Mexico bring?
