Monterey to Monterey – 29 miles

It turns out that 17-Mile Drive is about 24 miles long, if you keep getting lost the way I do.

Rising at six, I resolve to ride 17-Mile Drive around Pebble Beach.

“We thought we were getting the day off,” my legs complain.

“You are.”

“Not if we’re pedaling seventeen miles. Probably more.”

“I’m leaving the heavy luggage in the hotel room. It’ll be just me and the bike.”

photo credit: KSBW 8

They aren’t fooled in the least.

Anyway, by eight o’clock I have a breakfast of pancakes, eggs, bacon and hot chocolate in me. By eight-thirty I have made my first wrong turn of the day, missing the approach on Lighthouse Avenue in Pacific Grove. A resident out for her morning walk graciously gives me directions and I correct my course, passing several yard signs warning about the presence of local deer during fawning season.

Even following the resident’s directions I manage to get lost again, then finally reach the main attraction of the drive—the Pacific Coast—at The Restless Sea point of interest.

The drive deserves all of its fame. It’s a series of sharply manicured golf links, craggy rocks adorned with the guano of ages, long stretches of roadside ice plant, the stately mansions of celebrated exploiters and ordinary zillionaires who just got lucky, numerous pull-outs for parking to enjoy the coastline and a winding path with plenty of pedestrians even on a cloudy Monday morning.

At the south side of the peninsula, the drive goes inland and travel alternates between short climbs and dips. Baronial estates crowd the shore side, obstructing the view of Pebble Beach and Carmel Bay. Signs of construction—new homes, remodels, add-ons—abound. Along the route is the main entrance to The Lodge at Pebble Beach, the renowned golf course, the resort and the shops. Naturally, I fit in perfectly.

Then comes the unexpected, grueling climb to the Pebble Beach Highway 1 Gate and the end of 17-Mile Drive. I’m pleased that the bike is only lightly laden but worried about how many similar hills I’ll face over the next few days with the bike fully laden. Fretting and sweating over that, I miss yet more turns and log several unnecessary miles attempting to return to my hotel.

Monterey is also my opportunity to do something about dirty clothes, and with 17-Mile Drive behind me, I turn my attention to laundry for an hour. Other business includes grabbing a nap, sourcing the next day’s meals and dealing with the unexpected loss of a credit card somewhere along the route. “I picked a bad day to get lost in Pacific Grove,” I mutter, watching my day of rest tick away.

At dinner in a fast-casual Italian place downtown, I sit near a table of energetic but well-behaved teenagers tended by their responsible adult. They depart after eating, leaving one of their number to wait for a to-go order. Seeing me scribble away in a diary, he starts a conversation with me about keeping journals. He and his mates are on the golf team of a San Francisco high school and their coach is showing them Monterey’s courses for a couple of days. The lad, Jade, asks what I’m writing about.

“Mostly notes about the bike trip I’m on,” I reply. I tell him briefly about the route and the miles.

“What’s the best thing about journaling?” he asks.

“Nothing now, really. It’s just a stream of notes and things I want to remember.”

“Huh. Will you write about this conversation?”

“Maybe. If you say something I want to remember.”

Jade thinks a moment. “Why are you doing the ride?”

I laugh out loud. “Now that I will write about.” I laugh again.

“Why is that funny?”

“Because I don’t have an answer to that question. On one level, I’m doing it as a fundraiser. On a deeper level, I’m doing it just to do it. Because it’s harder for me not to do it.”

I can see that I sound like somebody’s ridiculous Uncle Wally, so I back off and ask Jade about sports in high school and college. He believes he’ll land a golf scholarship to a four-year school in the coming year. At length, the restaurant staff hands him his to-go boxes, so he and I shake hands and wish each other good luck.

I watch him walk across the room and out the door. He conveys the cool discipline, strong ambition and great expectations that we prize in young people. We too had those characteristics when we were that age, but we didn’t think them extraordinary. They were just part of who we were.

Limekiln to San Simeon – 43 miles

I sleep about five hours, lie awake for 90 minutes, then fall back asleep for a couple more hours. Thinking back to the elevation profiles I glanced at on my cycling map, I’m pretty certain there are some merciless climbs waiting for me on today’s ride.

“Maybe not,” the optimist in me counters. “Maybe the toughest hills are behind me and today will be a gravy lick.”

But the ride starts ominously. The road out of the campground back up to Highway 1 is like a ladder, and I need to push the bike along, one of the few times on this entire trip that I have to resort to that.

Again the sky is clear and the air is cool. Wisps of fog drift over the coast as the morning sun warms the canyons.

After a half-hour, I come upon a queue of cars stopped at a one-way controlled traffic break. Knowing that the flagman will treat a slow bicycle differently than fast vehicles, I pedal up to the front of the queue and greet him with a wave.

“How’s it going?” he asks. “Where you headed?”

Although the ride has winded me, it has not yet exasperated me, so I’m amenable to chatting. “Today, San Simeon,” I say.

“Oh, yeah. That’s mostly downhill.” I doubt it, but I nod anyway. He smiles. “Hey, you want a water? I got some.” He points at an ice chest by the side of the road.

“No, but thanks for offering.” I point at the logo on his orange vest. “I’ve never heard of Avila Company. You guys do a lot of work on this road?”

“Yeah, we’re pretty big. I’m based in Paso.”

“Robles? That’s a long way from here. You drive out every day?”

“Only when it’s a close job, like this one. Hey, you don’t have all the cool gear that most cyclists have.”

It was only a matter of time until somebody had the candor to mention it. “Well, they know a lot that I don’t. I’m still new at this.”

His walkie-talkie crackles as his colleague at the south end of the break updates him on the northbound queue of cars. “Okay,” he replies into the microphone. “Listen, I got a cyclist up here. I’ll send all the cars first, so wait for him, right?”

“Copy that.”

The northbound cars stream through and the flagman flips his sign from STOP to SLOW. After the last car, I start pedaling. It is gratifying that the universe is taking such good care of me on a narrow, two-lane road several hundred feet above the rocks and surf, so I fist-bump the flagman as I pass. Within seconds I am whistling downhill, eyes riveted to the pavement in front of me and hands riveted to the brake levers.

There is little commerce on this stretch of Highway 1—the last shop I passed was two days ago—so the tiny store, hotel and restaurant at Gorda stand out. I stop for groceries. Multiple signs announce, “No public restrooms. Access with minimum $2 purchase.” I don’t need to use the restroom, but it’s obvious what most passing travelers value Gorda for. On the deck outside the store stands a coin-operated pay phone that charges $2 for three minutes, a lifeline for telephonically desperate motorists in a region where cellular service can be spotty.

Inside the store I pick out a muffin and three bananas.

“Ten-fifty,” says the proprietress, a wisp of a woman who has surely seen travelers of all stripes come through. I hand over the money without flinching, aware of shopkeepers’ economics in this part of the world but nevertheless relieved that I don’t have to buy gasoline here.

“How’s your season going?” I ask. “Better now that the highway is open?”

“Yes, better.”

“That must have been a rough spot for you. How long was it closed?”

“About three and a half years. Yes, it was a tough time indeed—” her voice catches briefly “—for all of us here.”

Outside, I spot a stone bench and have a mid-morning meal of muffin and banana, psyching myself up for the hills that I’m vaguely aware are out there waiting for me. I resume the ride.

At plenty of points along this stretch, The Road toys with people on bicycles.

“Lovely shoreline, isn’t it?” The Road says flirtatiously.

“It is,” I agree. “But you’ve got some hills in store for me, haven’t you?”

“Maybe. See that one off to the left, curving out of sight?”

“Yes.”

“Think you can handle it?”

“No problem.”

“Good. Remember that about an hour from now.”

Sure enough, just south of Gorda and inland are the M-hills. Slowing to 3 or 4 miles per hour, I climb about 700 feet in a mile, dip 500 feet downward in a nerve-racking plunge, then have to claw that 500 feet back again in another mile. With the day warming up, the climbs wear me out. Finally, raw gravity sends me plummeting back to sea level near Ragged Point. In total, it’s four or five of the kind of miles that only crazy people on bikes would travel.

The return to sea level also heralds a county change, from Monterey to San Luis Obispo (SLO), as the squiggly road straightens and flattens out. The hardest pedaling is behind me and the mountains and thick forests give way to vast, grassy hills that roll on for miles, tan and waterless under cloudless skies. Cattle dot the landscape in small herds of a dozen or two head. The shoulder magically broadens from negligible and forbidding to eight feet wide and welcoming. Best of all, a strong tailwind propels me southward comfortably, past Point Sierra Nevada and the Piedras Blancas Northern Elephant Seal Rookery, a series of long beaches populated at the water’s edge by basking elephant seals.

The state makes it easy to observe the seals, which naturally array themselves perpendicular to the shoreline. A large parking lot, graphic explainers and wooden benches encourage passersby to stop and see what the wildlife is up to.

“Nice,” say my thighs. “Now, can we get back on the road and take advantage of that booming tailwind? We can use the break.”

“Very well,” I reply, remounting the bike and pulling back onto the road. But a few minutes later, another irresistible photo opp presents itself: barely visible in a dense, green patch on the crest of a hill is Hearst San Simeon State Historical Monument, or Hearst Castle.

I pass familiar landmarks across the highway from Hearst Castle Road, including the pier, the thickly forested Donnay Point and the beach parking lot where I was cited for doing a doughnut in my sports car, back when I knew what to do with a compliant accelerator pedal. But the seat of my pants won’t allow me to stop for nostalgia now, eager as it is to get off the bike and celebrate the end of the hard work. I roll into Hearst San Simeon State Park, where a volunteer in the kiosk greets me enthusiastically. I head for the unoccupied hike-and-bike, pitch my tent, take a needed shower and then rest.

After an REI cook-it-in-a-pouch pasta dinner, it’s time to revel in having put behind me the part of the bike tour I most dreaded: the stretch from Monterey to San Simeon. I’ve made it through that stretch in one piece, my limbs all operate as before, the bike still functions reasonably well and I’ve seen things I’d never have seen from an automobile.

Remember the one about the guy who keeps hitting himself in the head with a hammer because it feels so good when he stops? A long ride is in that same category. However, the only thing more difficult would be to stay home and not go at all.

And as I drift off to sleep, I’m already forgetting how difficult it has been.

New Brighton to Monterey – 43 miles

I welcome the return of cloudy skies. Sunday morning traffic through Aptos is light and hills are few as The Road takes me on its 40-mile crescent around Monterey Bay.

Today’s leg is brought to me by agriculture, notably by hundreds of acres of strawberry fields forever, starting from Manresa Uplands State Beach to well past the Pajaro River.

Artichokes abound as well, nearing the point of harvest.

The bike route makes a detour to keep me away from Watsonville and Castroville, sending me instead along eerily quiet roads, their asphalt beaten by generations of tractors and agricultural machinery.

The detour is meant to shave off a couple of miles, but the end of the day’s ride begins to feel farther and farther away, and even the change from Santa Cruz into Monterey County doesn’t make me feel any closer. I rejoin thunderous, two-lane traffic on Highway 1 through Moss Landing to reach Del Monte Boulevard and the Monterey Bay Coastal Recreation Trail.

The trail is a triumph of rails-to-trails planning, stretching 18 miles from Castroville in the north to Pacific Grove in the south, over the Southern Pacific railroad tracks that used to serve Cannery Row. Today it is a priceless urban asset, accommodating joggers, cyclists, pedestrians and young families.

Well thought-out though the trail may be, I manage a wrong turn on it and spend more time studying the map than pedaling. Worse yet, an afternoon tailwind has turned into a strong crosswind, less vexing than a headwind but equally unwelcome when you’ve lost your way and are already doubting The Road’s benign indifference. The mile markers for Monterey don’t help; they never appear often enough and when they do, they don’t count down fast enough. It’s Nature’s way of reminding me how far 43 miles really is.

Eventually, signs for Monterey’s tourist attractions appear, and my mood improves. So much so, that I pause for a selfie at a tiny pop-up protest on the outskirts of town.

I’ve planned a two-night stay in a Monterey hotel on the inland side of the peninsula. My nephew treats me to dinner at a Mexican restaurant and schools me on the personal trainer’s approach to balanced nutrition for physically hellacious endeavors like the one on which I’ve embarked.

“Fats and proteins, Uncle John. Your body makes energy from those. That’s what you’re gonna need to get through this.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“May I have your beans, then?”

“Sorry. I need them. I’ll order another side for you, though.”

Later, in my hotel room on Munras Avenue, I look forward to catching up on sleep and functioning more or less normally for a day and a half. I also intend to give my legs a break the next day.

Nevertheless, I intend to take the excursion that every visit to the Monterey Peninsula should include—especially when cyclists get to take it at no cost.

Half Moon Bay to Costanoa (Pescadero) – 29 miles

It is a short ride today, with only one tough climb, near San Gregorio. Skies remain overcast, with occasional drizzle—ideal for riding—and a strong tailwind pushing me up gentle slopes.

There is plenty of forest on this stretch, and plenty of long, broad fields on both sides of the highway. There is also a remarkable variety of commonplace but somehow significant things I wish my memory could permanently photograph: the endless road border of wildflowers (mustard, thistles and a dozen others I can’t identify but would probably call “weeds” if they were in my yard), the occasional military installation marked by U.S. flags and huge antennas, the ad-hoc roadside memorials to the faithful departed, the deltas where coastal creeks both wide and narrow merge with the ocean, the beach scenes and rugged cliffs.

I stop at the side of the road for a mid-morning meal when along rides a couple my age, catching up to me from behind. Cyclist camaraderie prompts them to pause their ride, and we chew the fat for a while.

Mind you, I’m riding out of some kind of misguided allegiance to an item on a bucket list; but unlike me, this couple rides because they revel in it. 

“We live in Alaska,” they tell me, “and we’ve ridden the ALCAN Highway, through the Yukon and British Columbia to Vancouver. This time we’re riding from Seattle to San Diego.”

They also breathlessly describe their cycling trips to Minnesota and Wisconsin, where mosquitoes are more of a problem than hills are. After a few minutes of their enthusiastic tales, they rise, remount their bikes and resume the road. I feel inspired but in sudden need of a nap.

Along this stretch near Pescadero there are few towns and even fewer campgrounds. Just inland from Año Nuevo State Reserve is Costanoa, a glamping (glamour-camping) resort surrounded by tall forests of pine and eucalyptus, with a dedicated area for pitching tents.

By early afternoon, the north wind that was so welcome while I was riding has become a cold, gusty nuisance in the campground, and I just can’t get warm. By early evening, the tent area around me is filled with young families huddled in blankets, the children making smores over the fire.

It’s reassuring to think that AI will never replace any of that. Probably.

Costanoa to New Brighton (Santa Cruz) – 34 miles

The north wind persists deep into the night. I listen as it charges up from the shore, rattles through acres of eucalyptus branches and leaves, then finally spills into Costanoa. In the morning, heavy fog drifts up from the coast, but early dawn light glows behind the hills to the east.

The youngest campers wake first. Their parents follow groggily, and the campground comes slowly to life. I wolf down a breakfast of oatmeal and banana, strike camp, load up the bike and resume the route to the south.

The brisk north wind persists, and on this Saturday morning, clutches of cyclists are plying Highway 1. Like me, the southbounders enjoy a 15-to-20-naut tailwind:

The northbounders, well, not so much. Those without panniers on their bike are recreational cyclists, probably from the Santa Cruz area, out for exercise. They know what they’re in for, so they curl themselves over the handlebars and contend with the elements. But the heavily loaded northbounders have either not gotten the memo about prevailing north winds or have chosen to ignore it; they are long-distance traveling up the coast straight into the wind. I appreciate their lot but am glad I do not share in it.

Every change of county is a milestone, however small. By mid-morning the sky has cleared and I have crossed the county line from San Mateo into Santa Cruz.

The easy ride prompts me to notice yet more things I wish I could remember permanently: large ponds and reservoirs randomly located on either side of the highway, bird songs (when the absence of passing vehicles allows me to hear them), offshore rock formations sculpted and beaten by millennia of tides and swell, volleys of Spanish-language conversation I pick up among people working in the fields and farm buildings.

I don’t recall ever having been in Santa Cruz, but I immediately see what all the fuss is about. A well-marked bike path starts on West Cliff Drive then hugs the cliff as it passes the lighthouse, the Municipal Wharf, the Beach Boardwalk and the Giant Dipper roller coaster. The whole place looks like weekend fun for thousands of people, even though the afternoon sun is prodding temperatures into the seventies and cycling is beginning to feel like real work.

But by the time I reach the campground at New Brighton State Beach, I’ve long since exited the fun zone of Santa Cruz. I have traversed the town of Twin Lakes and gotten lost near Capitola Beach, so I’ll have to wait for a future visit to properly enjoy Santa Cruz.

Besides, the bike wants attention.

“Kinda taking me for granted, aren’t you?” it asks.

“Whaddya mean?”

“Have you looked at my front tire lately?”

I look. No tread left. “I’ll get another year out of it,” I say with a shrug.

“Yeah, but maybe I won’t. It’s a pothole away from blowing out. And what about my brake pads? You think they’ll make it through all the hills on this trip?”

“Hope so.”

I have to admit that the bike is the unsung hero of this adventure. It’s a touring bike I bought in a pawn shop for $250 about ten years ago. I bought it mostly because it has 27 speeds, and I’m easily impressed by large numbers like 27. The bike is not poorly made at all, but I’ve worn it down. I’m not fastidious about maintaining it, and now it’s something of a heap, a relic, a blunderbuss on wheels, a mechanical picture you’re supposed to find ten things wrong in. Plus, it’s as slow as the seven-year itch. Especially when I’m on it.

It’s not the bike’s fault that I don’t feel sentimental about it; it’s my fault. In unguarded moments I sometimes cast a fond glance in its direction and think about the thousands of miles I’ve racked up on it. But at the core, I regard it as little more than a soulless frame and tires that connect the determination in my head with Planet Earth.

Somehow, it knows.

“I’d run better if you took care of me.”

“I see. Is that why you’ve been slipping gears? And dumping your chain just when a hill gets serious?”

“My chain’s a mess.”

“But I cleaned, tuned and lubed the whole power train before we left.”

“That was a hundred twenty miles ago. Look at it now.”

I flip the bike onto its back and wipe a section of the chain with a rag; the rag comes away pitch black with road dust and old oil. Even I know that’s not right, so I invest the entire rag in wiping down the chain, then apply some light oil to it. But it’s a palliative measure; after all, I can’t deep-clean a bike chain in the middle of a trip.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll do better when we get home.”

“Hope so,” the bike sighs.

Then, the counseling session at an end, I turn my attention to the ocean soundscape and splendid afternoon views of the coast from the cliffs near the hike-and-bike.