On the morning of January 10th I shuffled all my gear into my trailer, and for the first time of many donned one of the two pairs of spandex riding shorts I brought. We walked our bikes down the elevator, saddled up and set off. It was clear skies and 65 degrees at 10am for our maiden voyage. Weaving between walkers and other cyclists along the popular coastline boulevard, we made our way in the general direction of the Golden Gate Bridge. "To the bridge, get to the bridge!" It reared up fire-orange in the morning sun, and we reached it before long without directions. The bridge has a pedestrian lane on both sides; we took the right lane which turned out to be used more by walkers, so we slowed often to pass them. It was a singularly windy experience, intense, noisy, and thrilling. We were afforded fantastic views of San Francisco and Angel and Alcatraz islands. It didn't take long to get across, we stopped, took a group photo by a sign marking the San Francisco coastal trail, 775 miles to Mexico (we will be taking a longer, roundabout way). I am cameraless, but Andrew has been posting photos on his blog at www.lifebybike.blogspot.com. And then we were off, heading south back over the bridge, this time on the side unofficially designated for cyclists (we didn't need to go over the GGB to begin our journey, but ya got to!)

Once out of the city, we tracked onto Highway 1, soon passing a sign reading "Hills next 74 miles." Great. The road was good quality, smooth with few imperfections. You don't notice this so much in a car, but on a bike you feel on your rump every single crack, bump, loose stone, dip, drain, tire shred or any other debris you hit, and we avoid these relentlessly. Highway 1 is frequented by cyclists, and has a wide shoulder and often a designated bike lane. Still, it takes a good deal of concentration to keep trained on the shoulder with a good distance between passing cars, avoid pock-marks in the pavement, and adjust gears for the road grade, all simultaneously. And changing gears was something we did a lot of that first day. There was no easing into this touring business, from the start I was thrust into gruelling hills. Shift into the highest gear, nothing for it but to spin away, panting at a 4-7mph sprint for several minutes to the top until the sweat drips off my face and soaks my shirt. But then, hallelujah we immediately coast down the other side, flying at a maximum speed of 36.8mph, tucking down to reduce drag, until my clothes are nearly dry by the time we reach the bottom. We go so fast a little bit of dribble leaks out the right corner of my mouth; I train myself to close my mouth on the downhills. But alas, soon my brow is pouring sweat again up the next hill, exacerbated by the sun beating down (sorry everyone back in Michigan). Up, down, up, down, repeated all day. Darn those tectonic shifts. But the California coast is stunning, cliffs on our left, always the ocean on our right as we orient south. Crescent bays with patches of sand seventy-five feet below us, a wispy layer of condensation suspended halfway up. Stone nuggets of all size dot inlets of water, dominating the breaking waves for no reason at all. We shoot through Devils Slide, a pair of towering spikes between us and the sparkling Pacific, pinching the road to the sheer rock on the other side. The narrow shoulder caused one friendly motorist to remark out his window, "You guys are idiots!" Ah, the everlasting friendly rivalry between those who burn fuel and those who burn carbs.

Around 3:30pm the sun casts long shadows of our bikes, stretched-out to look like one of those old wooden bicycles with the huge wheels that you have to climb a latter to get onto or else rebound off another strongman. Alyup!

It's 4:30 and almost too dark when we pulled into Half Moon Bay state park and got a campsite for $9. It's right on the beach and we watch the sun set, just a glowing ball becoming a thin line, not too dramatic without any clouds. Afterwards, while we cooked and wolfed down our dinner, we were presented a bottle of wine from our charismatic neighbor Sean. He was a middle-aged self-chosen homeless man who was "done with society." Sean wore boots and pedalled around on a heavy-duty mountain bike pulling his belongings in a single-wheeled trailer equipped with a shock absorber. He was very friendly, loved to talk and could go on for long stretches without stopping except to laugh. He was generous and truly likable, if a little rough around the edges, but maybe just because he was half drunk, which he kept apologizing for. I joined him after dinner by his fire, and we talked about life. His was almost unbelievable, clean of hard drugs for 15 years, imprisoned for equally long, disenchanted with society, a lover of technology (he had a 3" TV which picked up shows in Japanese, and talked half the night about the projector screen he wants to power from a generator in his trailer). But he was not bitter, he told me that; he absolutely loved life and you could tell because it bubbled out of him as he repeatedly remarked on the beauty around us, the bright big moon and canopy of trees we were under, waves lapping in the distance, fully in the moment.

Our talk turned more philosophical, with me agreeing with nearly everything he believed, except what he referred to as "universal balance" I called Peace. He was equally animated in discussing God and surfing. The fire dwindled. No problem, he switched on his headlamp, stumbled from wine as he hopped on his bike, "See you in 15 minutes." He was back in 10, his trailer loaded with scrap wood from a nearby house under construction. What a riot. Our fire burned on, and so did the good time. Our conversation became heated over the topic of appearance - he thought that personal looks mattered, I disagreed. He did tell me I should thicken up my eyebrows and grow my hair out, which I think I will. I was glad to meet Sean. He said goodbye the next morning as we left the campsite.

We rode 62 miles the second day, more of the same draining hills, well worth it for the endlessly varying epic coastline. We opted for a state park in a redwood forest to camp, but it turned out to be farther than we thought. It grew dark and dangerous to be on the road. We were finishing the day up a steep climb, shadowed by the towering trees, when I "bonked." I think "bonking" is cyclist jargon for "hitting the wall," when your energy is completely drained and you cannot push one more pedal. I ended up walking my bike up the steep hill as the cars whisked past. Finally, sometime after 6pm, we pulled off into what ended up being a system of trails, and ended up camping under a warm canopy of mossy trees. Andrew went for the half-hour round-trip back to town and got 2 gallons of water for cooking and drinking. We slept in the open, full of good food and happy to have made it safely. We were off to a good start.

Train Ride

At 4:45am on Tuesday we departed from Ann Arbor, dad drove, while I sat in the back corner of the van, on a small rectangular area on the floor surrounded by boxes. Sitting backwards, I watched home recede, and knew I would miss Michigan at least a little, despite the weather.

An hour later we were at the Toledo train station, buying luggage insurance as we warily handed over our bike boxes to be checked on the train, hoping they arrive intact. Then it was a four hour nap to Chicago Union Station. In the Windy City we had a four-hour layover which we spent ambling from restaurant to bookstore to any random place to keep out of the cold. At two o'clock we boarded again, and I started my watch chronograph as the train's wheels turned out of the station. I took another nap, read a short story by Tolstoy, dinner, nap, shared a beer with my bros. Lincoln, NE my chronograph read 10 hours, and I tried to sleep, which is easier than on a plane; the train seats tilt back pretty far with lots of leg room, but still it's difficult. Sooner or later I drift from ethereal thoughts to sleep, waking much through the night. I felt pretty refreshed in the morning though. We had 45 minutes in Denver, so we quickly walked and got a hot breakfast, enjoying the warmer weather and beautiful morning above the Denver skyline. 20 hours 37 minutes, Granby, CO, right next to the YMCA of the Rockies where I spent last summer working.

The hours crept by. Our activities are eat, sleep, and read, so I mix and match for variety: sleep when I'm bored, eat when I'm restless. Later, the fading sun swept the horizon in pink and yellow and reminded me of two days earlier running on the dirt roads near home and watching the Michigan sunset, and it occurred to me what we were: a snake of captive fish, mostly unmoving, but sometimes swimming back and forth in the sterile air. But the thought is not an unhappy one, since it carries hope and possibility. Since I could run and enjoy the sunset back home, I can do it here too. This new thinking is comfort to the stark impossibility I've watched slide past the windows for the last few hours - the impossibility of exploring every nook and cranny, climbing every craggy slope, rocketing down each valley like I want to. The slant dimness revealed less and less of the landscape: endless rusty crowned plateaus, crumbling eonic layers of scree, miles of rolling hills like a bunched up sheet with pebbles poured over it, yet the possibilities of doing, of achieving, were actually opened up. The burn to achieve just one orange highlighted peak is more powerful than the petrifying immensity of thousands of them that the view from our 35-40 mph clip affords. Our world is one small hill at a time.

Salt Lake City, UT, 33.5 hours. Reno, NV, 43 hours 5 minutes and another night of tossing and turning, getting up to put on long johns and my coat for the cold of the coach car. Finally, 5:40pm on Thursday, 53.5 hours later, we arrive at Emeryville, CA, after riding the entire length of the California Zephyr route and passing through two time zones. We boarded a half-hour bus that stopped at the famous Fisherman's Wharf of San Francisco, our final destination. Whew, it feels great to be here. We assembled our bikes right on the touristy pedestrian boulevard, while walkers and bikers watch us unload our boxes, luggage, and bikes until they are strewn across the pavement. After an hour of attaching wheels and handlebars, inflating tires, adjusting seats and throwing our gear in panniers or trailer, we took a wonderful evening ride to our hotel, and walked our bikes right into the elevator, first class. Man, it felt great to lay out on a bed. We walked the wharf, eyeing the fresh-caught lobster and smelling all the other fishes, but settled on a carry-out pizza in our room. We all slept on the bed like three peas in a pod.

Next day, we took a six-hour walking tour of SF, enjoyed the pastel colors and embellished architecture, and checked out Haight-Ashbury, the center of the hippie movement in the sixties. At night, we shopped for groceries, divided up the group gear, and repacked everything properly for departure the next day. The weather is gorgeous.

Two Hours Before Departure

The time has come. We have received our shots and have malaria pills for when we reach mainland Mexico. Two days ago Andrew, Dave and I packed our gear. To carry all our stuff Dave and Andrew have panniers (bicycle saddlebags), and I am using Dave's trailer which he pulled coast to coast two years ago (Andrew also completed a trip across the U.S. a few years before Dave, while this will be my first ride longer than an hour and a half). Besides helmets, water bottles, cycling gloves, and maps, we have basic camping gear - two tents, a stove and pots, sleeping bags and mats, and a first aid kit. We are each equipped with tools for minor bike repairs, several spare inner-tubes, an air pump, plus one spare tire which squeezes awkwardly into my trailer. Since our carrying capacity is greater than travelling on foot, we are afforded some luxuries - books, including a workbook to improve my Spanish, an extra pair of shoes, a cellphone (which I will use until we cross the border - call me!), and nail clippers...stuff I would never take backpacking. Still no pillow though.

Last night we packaged our bicycles into boxes for the train. This required removing the front wheel, handlebars, and saddle, and placing them alongside the bike in the box. The rest of the space was filled with panniers, my disassembled trailer, and bike shoes and helmets. We filled three more smaller boxes with our gear and taped everything closed with "Yapp" and our final destination written on the outside - our boxes will be checked all the way to San Francisco. We are each using a pannier for our carry-on bag. I've stayed up all night to take care of a few last-minute things, and so I can sleep on the train. The boxes are in the minivan, we've had the last shower for a few days, and we are ready to go!