San Francisco stole my heart.
I’m not sure what I expected, but it was honestly the most beautiful, charismatic, dreamlike city I had ever visited. Previously, I would have said my favourite city in the world was perhaps Bangkok, or possibly Melbourne – but while I still love those places, San Francisco has rocketed to the top of my list.
I stayed at Hostelling International Fisherman’s Wharf, a hostel in an old military residence. Fort Mason, the larger complex within which the hostel was located, was first used by the Spanish, then by Mexico, and finally by the Americans. My other experiences with North American hostels have left something to be desired, but this one was lovely, and I would highly recommend it to anyone travelling to the area.
I took a break from biking and walked all over the city. I squeezed through crowds of tourists at Fisherman’s Wharf, stepped into another world in Chinatown, ate an epic burrito in the Mission District, gazed upon the Painted Ladies near Japantown, and visited a store that sold only tie dye in Haight-Ashbury. A strange man at the hostel gave me a long lecture on how to be an entrepreneur, and a girl in my room told me I could change my genetics with my mind, so that was all very… educational.
I almost stayed in San Francisco forever. But then I remembered that I am not rich. So after two nights, I biked away into the dreary suburbia south of the city. There are no pictures of this, as it was too dreary. Although now I wish I had taken some so that I could fully impart the dreariness to my readers.
It was a grey, foggy day. The highway had no shoulders and much of it was covered in sand that had blown off the beach dunes. At one point, the route took me up and up and up through a residential area where all the houses looked the same but in different colours, and there were no people walking around at all. The fog prevented me from seeing very far ahead or behind, so the whole world was reduced to a strange uphill pattern of repeating houses. It was like being in a simulation.
I finally made it to Half Moon Bay just before nightfall. Half Moon Bay is supposed to be a very nice campsite with a lovely sunset view, but all we found there was fog. I accidentally left a nectarine in my handlebar bag overnight, and a raccoon treated itself to a delicious snack, leaving nothing but the pit and a series of muddy paw prints for me to find the next morning.
The ride to Santa Cruz was just as cold and foggy as the previous day, but when I reached the city the weather miraculously cleared up. Even more miraculously, I saw a pod of dolphins swimming right off the shore of the main promenade. I watched them for a long time – it was hard to tear myself away. I biked through the lovely, sunny city to the campground just beyond, where I was once again greeted with nothing but fog. Apparently Santa Cruz is operating in some kind of miraculous fog-proof bubble, while everything around it is shrouded in mist.
The next day was the longest ride of the entire trip – 122 kilometres from New Brighton State Beach to Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park. The first part was flat and uneventful. I rode past strawberry fields and they smelled like strawberries. I stopped for an ice cream in Monterey. Then, I headed into Big Sur, a largely undeveloped area of the California coast known for its natural beauty.
It was wildly beautiful, and it was also a wild ride. As it turns out, we had arrived in the area just in time for the luxury car show that happens in Monterey every summer. So as I navigated epic climbs, thrilling descents, and hairpin turns on my used bicycle that I bought off Kijiji, I was accompanied by Ferraris, Mustangs, and other fancy cars that I don’t know the names of because if I’m being honest I’m not very interested in cars. Many of the fancy cars were extra loud and extra not interested in patiently waiting for cyclists. If you ever bike the Pacific Cost, I would recommend organizing your trip to not cross over with the fancy car show.
It was also extremely windy. There were a few moments when I thought I might actually blow off a cliff. At one point, I stopped to collect myself in a pullout. A friendly couple had also stopped there to snap a few pictures. The man looked at me and said earnestly – ‘Is this an easy ride?’
And I said ‘… no.’
But they were kind enough to take a picture of my very wind blown self in my very high viz safety vest.
When I finally arrived at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, I proceeded to bike right past the campground and up a hill for two kilometres because I am very clever and I didn’t see the sign. Apparently biking gives you stronger legs but not necessarily sharper eyesight.
Suzanne and I took a sleepy rest day in Big Sur. The next day, we continued on to Plaskett Creek. It was another cold, foggy day. Many people expressed concerns that it would be too hot for me to bike in California, but I’ve mostly been cold.
I arrived at Plaskett Creek just in time to hear a German man go on and on about how wonderful he was. Assured of the wondrousness of this German stranger, I went to bed at 7 because I didn’t actually care. I dreamed California dreams, and woke up the next morning ready to see where my legs would take me this time.
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