May 10th, 2009
The more I travel in California, the more I realize that the best cycling can be had right here. I grew up in Southern California, and like a lot of kids from “down south” went to school in the Bay Area, where arts and culture abounded with less restriction. In my repeated migrations up and down the state, somehow, I missed the central coastal region from Monterey to Santa Barbara. I sought to see it for the first time by bicycle.
Like many native Californians, I was so spoiled by weather and easy access to beaches, mountains and forests, I didn’t know how good I had it until I tried to live in Seattle. I thought I could handle the constant rainy drizzle; after all, I had survived a year in Portland without committing suicide, but I grossly overestimated both my patience and my ability to withstand constant moisture. I am at heart a native Californian- reptilian in nature. I warm myself in the sunshine, let my hair blow freely in warm offshore breezes and scutter about in dust and sand. You can find me at my best in full daylight coasting on two wheels past scrub brush, oak trees and eucalyptus, with the sound of leaves rustling overhead and miles and miles of rugged coastline in sight. All of this, I feel, belongs to me.
Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH, is considered one of America’s scenic by-ways and is unchallenged in scenic glory and alarming splendor in its traverse across the state. Highway 1 was an old wagon route trail connecting homesteads in some of the most unexplored and unmapped wilderness on the California coast. In the region of Big Sur, where the Santa Lucia mountains meet the Pacific Ocean, the road clings to the mountainside with its fingernails, and I gripped by bike handlebars with my eyelids.
My tour began in Carmel with a fresh from the sea send-off of Cajun fish tacos at the Sea Harvest Fish Market. With a bit of sunshine peeking through the marine layer, my first stop was Point Lobos, an appropriate glimpse of the region up ahead. I took a short walk on trails, marveling at the power of the sea to mold the earth into freeform shapes. Devil’s Cauldron churned with white foam, and the sea lions called from the distant perches. Pelican dove into the water and an otter buoyed himself among the giant sea kelp. It was still a shoulder season in May, so the area was uncrowded.
South of Point Lobos on Highway 1, the road enters the Los Padres National Forest, a ninety-mile stretch of preserved forest; typified by the lone town of Big Sur. While a popular driving route for motor-tourists and campervans, the best way to experience this road is by bicycle. Gliding up and down the hills, on my right were steep drop-offs to the raging ocean and my left the elegance of redwood forest. The drama of this meeting place is alarming, and there was little room for error. Above all, the most astounding feature is the remoteness- no cell phone service, no public phones, and few water and food stops. It is not surprising that electricity did not arrive to this area until the 1950’s.
Many of the state parks feature hiker-biker sites for individuals who enter the park by foot or bicycle- rates are a standard $5 a night, and many of these sites are the best in the campground. Hiker-biker sites are typically off-set from main roads and closer to the beaches and cliff sides. Andrew Molera, Kirk Creek, Morro Bay, Pismo Beach and Refugio State Beach all feature these accommodations for cyclists, and you can camp peacefully on your own among the blooming red bottlebrush trees and wildflowers. Many nights I fell asleep listening to the ocean waves breaking on the shore, and awoke to early morning birds outside my tent.
Nothing is static, and continuing southward, the region changes again near Hearst Castle and the area of San Simeon. Gone are the mountains as the area flattens out, the hills turn ochre and contrast with a perfect azure-colored sky. Follow the green Pacific Coast Route cycling signs as you pass the many beaches littered with sea lions like bleached driftwood. Morro Rock appears like a volcanic beacon, and the campground features an informative and interactive display about the ecology of the area.
I wandered through the back roads of Morro Bay into the outliers of San Luis Obispo; traffic picked up and temperatures climbed into the 90’s scorching my tan-less arms. It was a push through the hills to reach Pismo Beach, and afterwards, I took some time to kick some sand in the windswept dunes, watching tourists march along the beach with horses and dogs.
After Pismo Beach, the route leaves the coast for agricultural fields in Guadalupe, Orcutt and Lompoc. Strawberry field workers labor in the sun, and so did I; the highway riding is not ideal. The 18 miles from Lompoc to the coast is demanding with roaring trucks and little shade. The descent into Santa Barbara County where the 1 and the 101 intersect is a whirlwind of rocks and runnels, your brakes frying on the spinning rims and tires melting into the asphalt. You have to continue on the 101 for the last leg into Santa Barbara, but there are many beaches worth stopping at for beachfront camping at Gaviota, Refugio and El Capitan.
I reached the train station easily, bumping over the tracks diagonally and stopping in front of the ticket computer for the return fare home. I ambled about the adjacent bike shop and then meandered about the beachfront, noting my fellow homeless cyclists with over laden bicycles, collecting bottles and cans on the beach and selling trinkets on patchwork blankets. It’s a typical southern California scene: the smiling and mumbling drugged out freaks, the tourists looking lost and sunburned among power-walking mom’s and strollers.
Boarding the Amtrak for San Juan Capistrano to go back home, I watched the passing scene of the Los Angeles basin, which exemplifies the broken and bankrupt state of California: the failing and miserable schools, the shocking violence, the disparity of wealth, the multi-cultural people, the obsession with fitness and overabundance of gluttony. It’s a state of over-caffeinated and ultra-busy people all living together in the glorious sunshine while the walls fall down around them.
The land does push back; weeds creep up through the cracks in the pavement and purple wisteria explodes next to the shipping yards. Oranges plop on the sidewalks and bougainvillea spills along the sewer that is the Los Angeles river. Passing by the nameless concrete apartment blocks, you have to wonder who has been beaten, tortured and maimed in some unsolved mystery? The only constant is the anonymous hands that scribble across all surfaces, misspelling and reconstructing words in colorful graffiti with the illusions of light beams and shadows.
It’s all California, and it’s all here, just where I belong.
The more I travel in California, the more I realize that the best cycling can be had right here. I grew up in Southern California, and like a lot of kids from “down south” went to school in the Bay Area, where arts and culture abounded with less restriction. In my repeated migrations up and down the state, somehow, I missed the central coastal region from Monterey to Santa Barbara. I sought to see it for the first time by bicycle.
Like many native Californians, I was so spoiled by weather and easy access to beaches, mountains and forests, I didn’t know how good I had it until I tried to live in Seattle. I thought I could handle the constant rainy drizzle; after all, I had survived a year in Portland without committing suicide, but I grossly overestimated both my patience and my ability to withstand constant moisture. I am at heart a native Californian- reptilian in nature. I warm myself in the sunshine, let my hair blow freely in warm offshore breezes and scutter about in dust and sand. You can find me at my best in full daylight coasting on two wheels past scrub brush, oak trees and eucalyptus, with the sound of leaves rustling overhead and miles and miles of rugged coastline in sight. All of this, I feel, belongs to me.
Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH, is considered one of America’s scenic by-ways and is unchallenged in scenic glory and alarming splendor in its traverse across the state. Highway 1 was an old wagon route trail connecting homesteads in some of the most unexplored and unmapped wilderness on the California coast. In the region of Big Sur, where the Santa Lucia mountains meet the Pacific Ocean, the road clings to the mountainside with its fingernails, and I gripped by bike handlebars with my eyelids.
My tour began in Carmel with a fresh from the sea send-off of Cajun fish tacos at the Sea Harvest Fish Market. With a bit of sunshine peeking through the marine layer, my first stop was Point Lobos, an appropriate glimpse of the region up ahead. I took a short walk on trails, marveling at the power of the sea to mold the earth into freeform shapes. Devil’s Cauldron churned with white foam, and the sea lions called from the distant perches. Pelican dove into the water and an otter buoyed himself among the giant sea kelp. It was still a shoulder season in May, so the area was uncrowded.
South of Point Lobos on Highway 1, the road enters the Los Padres National Forest, a ninety-mile stretch of preserved forest; typified by the lone town of Big Sur. While a popular driving route for motor-tourists and campervans, the best way to experience this road is by bicycle. Gliding up and down the hills, on my right were steep drop-offs to the raging ocean and my left the elegance of redwood forest. The drama of this meeting place is alarming, and there was little room for error. Above all, the most astounding feature is the remoteness- no cell phone service, no public phones, and few water and food stops. It is not surprising that electricity did not arrive to this area until the 1950’s.
Many of the state parks feature hiker-biker sites for individuals who enter the park by foot or bicycle- rates are a standard $5 a night, and many of these sites are the best in the campground. Hiker-biker sites are typically off-set from main roads and closer to the beaches and cliff sides. Andrew Molera, Kirk Creek, Morro Bay, Pismo Beach and Refugio State Beach all feature these accommodations for cyclists, and you can camp peacefully on your own among the blooming red bottlebrush trees and wildflowers. Many nights I fell asleep listening to the ocean waves breaking on the shore, and awoke to early morning birds outside my tent.
Nothing is static, and continuing southward, the region changes again near Hearst Castle and the area of San Simeon. Gone are the mountains as the area flattens out, the hills turn ochre and contrast with a perfect azure-colored sky. Follow the green Pacific Coast Route cycling signs as you pass the many beaches littered with sea lions like bleached driftwood. Morro Rock appears like a volcanic beacon, and the campground features an informative and interactive display about the ecology of the area.
I wandered through the back roads of Morro Bay into the outliers of San Luis Obispo; traffic picked up and temperatures climbed into the 90’s scorching my tan-less arms. It was a push through the hills to reach Pismo Beach, and afterwards, I took some time to kick some sand in the windswept dunes, watching tourists march along the beach with horses and dogs.
After Pismo Beach, the route leaves the coast for agricultural fields in Guadalupe, Orcutt and Lompoc. Strawberry field workers labor in the sun, and so did I; the highway riding is not ideal. The 18 miles from Lompoc to the coast is demanding with roaring trucks and little shade. The descent into Santa Barbara County where the 1 and the 101 intersect is a whirlwind of rocks and runnels, your brakes frying on the spinning rims and tires melting into the asphalt. You have to continue on the 101 for the last leg into Santa Barbara, but there are many beaches worth stopping at for beachfront camping at Gaviota, Refugio and El Capitan.
I reached the train station easily, bumping over the tracks diagonally and stopping in front of the ticket computer for the return fare home. I ambled about the adjacent bike shop and then meandered about the beachfront, noting my fellow homeless cyclists with over laden bicycles, collecting bottles and cans on the beach and selling trinkets on patchwork blankets. It’s a typical southern California scene: the smiling and mumbling drugged out freaks, the tourists looking lost and sunburned among power-walking mom’s and strollers.
Boarding the Amtrak for San Juan Capistrano to go back home, I watched the passing scene of the Los Angeles basin, which exemplifies the broken and bankrupt state of California: the failing and miserable schools, the shocking violence, the disparity of wealth, the multi-cultural people, the obsession with fitness and overabundance of gluttony. It’s a state of over-caffeinated and ultra-busy people all living together in the glorious sunshine while the walls fall down around them.
The land does push back; weeds creep up through the cracks in the pavement and purple wisteria explodes next to the shipping yards. Oranges plop on the sidewalks and bougainvillea spills along the sewer that is the Los Angeles river. Passing by the nameless concrete apartment blocks, you have to wonder who has been beaten, tortured and maimed in some unsolved mystery? The only constant is the anonymous hands that scribble across all surfaces, misspelling and reconstructing words in colorful graffiti with the illusions of light beams and shadows.
It’s all California, and it’s all here, just where I belong.
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