From Wednesday, October 8 1997 through Monday, 10/14 I toured Northern California on my Tour Easy (recumbent bike). This was a "credit-card" tour, staying in motels and eating in restaurants.
The purpose of the trip was to find out whether I like solo bike touring in reality (as opposed to liking the idea in imagination), and whether I can physically do it. For this test tour I had gotten out a map (CSAA's excellent "Bay and Mountain Section") and looked for a reasonable destination I could reach in 3 days at about 60-80 miles a day. The destination turned out to be Lakeport, a resort town on the shores of Clear Lake, a large lake a couple of hundred miles north of San Francisco.
Actually, my completely arbitrary destination was a much smaller lake, Lake Pillsbury, located deep in Mendocino National Forest north of Clear Lake. However, there are no motels near that lake, so I figured to ride to Lakeport and lay over there one day as a rest day. On that day I would ride north in the direction of Lake Pillsbury as far as I felt like going, and return.
Another goal of the trip was to ride the fabled Kings Ridge road in Marin County, said by local cyclists to be the most scenic road around. Here is the itinerary as I originally planned it.
|
Day |
Plan |
|---|---|
| 10/8 | Golden Gate Bridge to Guerneville on the Russian River, via rural roads in central Marin County |
| 10/9 | Guerneville to Cloverdale, via Kings Ridge road and Stewart's Point - Skaggs Springs road |
| 10/10 | Cloverdale to Lakeport, crossing the Cow Mountains on Mill Creek and Scotts Creek roads. |
| 10/11 | Lakeport layover, out and back toward Lake Pillsbury |
| 10/12 | Lakeport to St. Helena in the Napa Valley, via the lonely Morgan Territory road through the ghost mining town of Knoxville. |
| 10/13 | St. Helena to the Golden Gate Bridge |
Of course in the days before it became increasingly clear that the first rainstorm of the winter was arriving late Wednesday 10/8. I couldn't shift the tour more than one day later, owing to commitments at home the following week. However, Marian pointed out that I had enough slack to lay over one extra day to wait for better weather.
Through Sausalito along Bridgeway, which leads to a nice bike trail across the salt marsh into Mill Valley. From there, a confusing and poorly signed set of bike routes and bike trails leads north to the next town, Larkspur. I continue on through Ross into San Anselmo, where the first drops of rain fall. When I stop to check a map here, a nice policeman gives me directions and warns me that "a mile or so ahead there's White's Hill, a pretty steep climb." Actually it wasn't too bad, about 300' at a reasonable grade.
(All vertical measurements are from an Avocet 50 bike computer. Whenever I have a long hill to climb, I switch from the speedometer display, with its depressingly small and unchanging number, to the altimeter display which at least shows steady progress. I spent a lot of time looking at the altimeter on this trip.)
Continued through the rustic valleys of Marin County, with many other short, 200-400' climbs. The steepest one, probably on Chileno Valley road, has me grinding past a crew installing a new retaining wall. The road is so steep I think about walking, but can't with those guys watching. Passing Nicasio reservoir, the sun pokes through a hole in the clouds and I briefly see my shadow. I stop to eat at the Cheese Factory, a pleasant farm store with a nice picnic area. Sprinkles of rain are falling so I eat hastily while sitting on a rail fence under a tree.
Around 2:30 steady rain closes in, varying from light to moderately heavy. Fortunately, the air stays warm (60's), and I can ride comfortably in shorts and jersey. It's true: you can only get so wet; then the excess just runs off. If I stop pedalling for more than a minute I begin to shiver, but as long as I keep going I am fine, a great incentive to cover miles.
The biggest problem is my glasses, which get wet on their front surfaces and also steam up on the back surfaces. Every few seconds I reach up and rub one or another of the four surfaces with a finger. The roads ae narrow, but the passing cars all seem to notice me -- I have a red blinking Vistalite on the back -- and give me a ample room. The only vehicle that doesn't is a large yellow school bus. It gives me a scary moment: I am doing at least 15mph in the rain, riding right down the white fog stripe with nothing to the right of it but a narrow band of grass and a ditch, and this monster roars by at most a couple of feet left of my elbow.
Along one back road the pavement bisects a farmyard: barns on both sides, and a wide band of cow poop showing where tractors and animals cross. I slow down to maintain traction on this wet muck, but still get a liberal spattering of brown stuff on my legs and the bike.
At the motel in Guerneville, I find that all the gear in the panniers has stayed dry in plastic bags, even though water did get into the panniers. Also the main part of the rack pack has stayed dry. However, the top compartment of the rack pack, which has a zipper on top, is soaked. Its contents include my wallet. I lay everything out to dry on every flat surface of the room, including my money spread out on a towel to dry.
The motel I was in was OK, but I would recommend instead the Russian River Resort, a nicely-maintained motel with a good restaurant attached. It was next door, and I had a good supper there.
|
Miles (km) |
avg mi/hr (km/hr) |
Ascent feet (m) |
Max Speed |
|---|---|---|---|
| 84.1 (135) | 13.7 (22) | 3430 (1055) | 39 (63) |
I wake at 6:15, same as at home. On the cable, The Weather Channel is pessimistic. On how many vacations have I spent time in motel rooms watching TWC, looking for good news and not getting it?
I walk the streets (all three of them) of Guerneville. One deli, one coffee bar, and one restaurant are open. I eat french toast and sausage in the restaurant, and read the entire SF Chronicle, and do the crossword puzzle. Guerneville is under a thick fog, I assume from being in a river valley, but there is a hint of sun above. Back at the motel, TWC is still gloomy. I decided to stay over and hope for better weather Friday. I tidy the room (my money is now dry). When I move the bike outside to make space, I realize it is filthy! Coated with sand and bits of cow poop. I wipe it down with tissue. I call all the motels on my itinerary and reschedule them one day later. It is now 9:30 AM; this is going to be a long day. I visit a bookstore and buy a used copy of what proves to be an indigestible SF potboiler (one of Ben Bova's weaker efforts). I spend two hours in the public library skimming books on my current interest, ethics. I eat lunch, skim some of the potboiler and finally discard it; and take a nap.
There's bright sunshine outside. I ride upriver to Freeport and Rio Nido under blue skies, but there is heavy cloud on top of the hills to north. (Back home in Palo Alto, it is raining.)
|
Miles (km) |
avg mi/hr (km/hr) |
Ascent feet (m) |
Max Speed |
|---|---|---|---|
| 16.9 (27) | 15.6 (25) | 380 (116) | 41 (66) |
In the night, I wake to rain at 1 and at 5:30am. At 7 I go out for breakfast: there is river fog again but there are brighter areas above in all directions except west, where I'm going. Riding downriver on SR 116 there is fog drip from the trees and the road is wet, but no real rain falling. I turn north on Cazadero Hwy. This is a gentle climb alongside Austin creek. Despite the rains, this creek is a rippled sheet of glass on a gravel bed. I can see blue sky above the tops of the redwoods. Fourteen miles out of Guerneville I reach the start of Kings Ridge Road.
I had planned to take Skyline Ridge road, shown on the DeLorme computer map and also on the DeLorme atlas, but I never see it. If it exists at all, it's gated, or starts in a farmyard. The first signed junction is the point where King's Ridge intersects Hansen's Bridge road. I turn right, following a sign to Stewart's Point, on what turns out to be Tin Barn road.
By now I am out of water. I had passed several farms, all guarded by barking dogs. I ride along Tin Barn looking for any source of water. One possibility is a big Buddhist Retreat Center, but it has high fences and a locked gate with a very polite sign saying what amounts to "Get lost."
At another farm with a barn and a mobile home, there is no guard dog but also no people around. There is a faucet sticking up out of the ground. I turn it on and water trickles out. I stupidly stand there wondering about the slow flow and feeling the temperature with my fingers, and finally stick my bottle under it just as it stops running entirely. Apparently the pump is off. From the final few seconds of pressure, I've captured about an ounce.
Further along this road I see what I think was a wildcat: like a large, burly orange housecat with a long tail that it holds erect as it bounds across the road in front of me. Maybe it was an ordinary housecat on steroids.
Finally I reach Stewart's Point Rancheria. (Only days later do I realize that "Rancheria" is code for "Indian reservation." There are lots of Rancheria place names around Northern California.) There are several houses, obviously occupied. I pick one at random, a place with a yard littered with children's toys. A tiny, yappy dog salutes me. I stop by the gate and call a tentative "Hello?" A panicky young woman sticks her head out the door, and when I ask if I can get water, she runs across the yard and turns on a garden hose whose end lies on the ground near my feet. Then she runs back into the house and shuts the door. I fill both bottles and yell "thanks." Slightly rattled by the unfriendly reception, I go straight on without taking a drink. A few yards brings me to the junction of Tin Barn road with Stewart's Point - Skaggs Springs road (SP-SS). I turn right.
The first thing that SP-SS does is to drop like a rock, just plummet down, at least 800' in less than 2 miles. The descent is twisty, the road surface broken, and the road runs through heavy forest so the surface is still wet. If you took this road going toward the coast, this would be a killer climb. It's an ugly descent. Also using this road every half hour or so are double-trailer trucks loaded with finished lumber, headed inland from the coast.
Somewhere near the bottom of the hill I take a first drink of the water. It is vile; it tastes like stewed rubber hose!
After the awful drop, SP-SS ambles along the Gualala river, rising and falling a couple of hundred feet at a time. Not too far along I come to "Camp Gualala," shown on the CSAA road map as "Berkely YMCA." Out front is a banner saying "Welcome Goddesses!" An amiable-looking woman (but not noticeably divine... on the other hand, do we ever notice the divine among us?) points out a faucet, and I replace the nasty water with good.
Further along, the road rises above the bed of the river. I take a break and eat most of the food I have while sitting on the edge of a steep cliff 100' above the river. It is so quiet I can hear the water burbling over rocks below me.
When SP-SS pulls away from the river and starts up for the ridgetops it does so with an unbroken climb from 400' to 1890'. This is still an old road, adequately wide but quite twisty. It would be pleasant except for a surprising amount of truck traffic. While I am resting near the top, eating my last power bar, one incredibly large tractor-trailer rig comes through headed for the coast. I can't image how he will negotiate that climb at Stewart's Point.
From this peak on, I am on the eastern part of this road, much newer than the western half. This road was built, I believe, by the Army Corps of Engineers when they built Lake Sonoma, a large artificial lake that dominates the views to the north of the road. The road is very wide, usually allowing an 8-foot bike lane, and the surface is excellent.
Even so, if I could ever meet the son of a bitch that designed that road, I would do serious mayhem on him. This road crosses contour lines for practice! It was built over absolutely empty country. There was obviously no shortage of equipment or money. Yet the road, which I soon come to detest, deliberately takes steeper climbs and goes over higher crests than it has to do. Easier alignments are obvious at every point: the road could have gone around a hill, but goes straight up; it could have circled around a crest but goes right over, for no reason but to get a shorter mileage or (maybe) just to give a more scenic look at Lake Sonoma.
From 1890' the road drops fast to 900', then climbs back to 1500'. By now I am again out of water as well as food. From the 1500' summit I can see how the road plunges down and right up again to a crest even higher, a demoralizing sight! I walk some of the steepest parts of this climb, which tops out above 2000'. During this climb the only rain shower of the day catches up with me, but just as I am passing from "damp" to "wet," the cloud evaporates into blue air and disappears.
And steeply down again, and up again. While walking this climb, I notice a bottle of water, a one-litre size bottle of Calistoga brand spring water, three-fourths full, half-covered in sand in the gutter. I pick it up and brush off the sand. The water inside looks clean. I drink most of it then, and finish it as I continued up the hill.
And down again and up again; then finally down past the dam that makes the lake. At a park below the dam I find a drinking fountain and refill my bottles. Then I spot a visitor center across the road, and there find a soda vending machine. I drink a can of Dr. Pepper (which I choose as probably having the most sugar of the sodas on offer). Within a minute I feel the sugar hitting in a wave of good feeling -- similar to, although different in quality from, the happy wave of looseness that runs through one's body shortly after downing a glass of wine on an empty stomach. It is good, but it wears off too soon.
The last 7 miles into Cloverdale seem to take forever. As I approach the town alongside the US101 freeway, I see a freeway sign that says "FOOD NEXT EXIT" and shows the logos of McDonald's, Burger King, and others. I follow that sign straight to the Golden Arches for a nice pre-supper of a milkshake and an order of Chicken McNuggets.
Thus fueled I can ride on to the north end of Cloverdale to my motel, which proves to be a relic of the 40's, with no phones in the rooms, a quaint steel shower stall in the bathroom (but enough hot water, so who cares?), the sound of next-door's TV as clear as your own, and teenagers revving the engines of their cars in the Qik Stop next door. No problem, I sleep very well.
The motel lady suggests a Mexican restaurant, La Hacienda, which proves to be big, noisy, busy and very good. I order a huge plate of Chile Verde and polish it clean.
|
Miles (km) |
avg mi/hr (km/hr) |
Ascent feet (m) |
Max Speed |
|---|---|---|---|
| 79.2 (128) | 10.3 (16.5) | 6290! (1935!) | 47.5 (77) |
At dawn (7am) I walk down Cloverdale Boulevard again in chilly air looking for breakfast, but have to settle for a cinnamon roll, juice, and coffee at a Konshusly Kute Koffee Shoppe. I promise myself a "B2" later, and set off west on SR128, and realize that I know this road. I'd forgotten that this past spring we had twice driven up to Fort Bragg, and had taken this way from 101, through Booneville, to the coast. It's a narrow road, offering little outside the white fog stripe, a few inches of asphalt or nothing. There's a fair amount of traffic. I turn on my blinking red light and concentrate on riding exactly on the white stripe. (Yes, I know all about "taking the lane." I can also see that these cars are moving at 60mph and do not expect to find their lane taken on a blind corner by a slow-climbing bike.)
Mountain House road leads into Hopland, where I want to find brunch. And I do, at the most excellent Bluebird Cafe -- strongly recommended to anyone passing through these parts. A friendly, sunny place with a menu of superb "scrambles." I have the basic Hopland Scramble, a huge dish of eggs scrambled with cheese, green onion, and spinach, with a mountain of roast potatoes alongside. And a good chocolate shake.
My destination now is Lakeport, on the shore of Clear Lake, on the other side of a mountain range. I had originally planned to go further north and take a very thin gray line across, but after yesterday's ordeal, I opt for the most direct route along SR175.
Again the shoulder is nonexistent in many places, and there are frequent small spills of sharp-edged gravel from the steep banks onto the pavement. Before each right-hand bend, where cars would tend to move in close to me, I listen behind. If I hear a climbing engine, I wait until it passes, then dash around the curve. At one point I am on a straight stretch with minimal shoulder and hear the unmistakable sound of a heavily-loaded Diesel engine turning high RPMs, coming fast up the hill behind. My imagination presents me with a picture of a huge double-trailer truck. I stop and actually move the bike off the pavement to let this juggernaut pass.
What comes around the bend is a little old gray Volvo station wagon! A damn Volvo Diesel with a worn-out muffler, flogging itself up the hill trailing a cloud of blue smoke, making exactly the sound of a highway behemoth.
Thanks to the hilly route, the whole day's climb averaged over the day's distance is about 2%.
My motel, the Clear Lake Lodge, is a large, impersonal, place with a completely empty parking lot when I arrive at 3pm. When I go to bed there are at most a dozen cars.
|
Miles (km) |
avg mi/hr (km/hr) |
Ascent feet (m) |
Max Speed |
|---|---|---|---|
| 38.1 (61.5) | 9.9 (16) | 3860 (1185) | 36.5 (59) |
Coming into Lakeport I hadn't seen much in the way of useful commercial development. I need a laundromat , and a grocery for travelling food. After breakfast at the next-door motel, which has a restaurant, I go looking on foot where a Safeway is supposed to be. Jackpot: a complete little shopping center with a laundromat. I return to the room and put on cycling clothes, and go for the planned run up toward Lake Pillsbury.
It's a mostly-flat 12 miles to Upper Lake where the road north starts. This road, too, rises only imperceptibly. It appears that Clear Lake was once much larger, and the road is tracing out an old shoreline. The open areas on either side are sometimes large orchards of huge old walnut (?) trees. In one of these a group of migrant workers is preparing to pick, and a crowd of little kids discusses me and the recumbent excitedly in Spanish. Mostly the road is bordered by huge gravel flats. As I approach one of these flats, I observe a group of cars and trucks parked on a gravel bench on the far side, a quarter mile away. Just at that moment, an extremely loud explosion takes place! Much louder than a gunshot or firecracker, much sharper than the "crump" of a dynamite explosion. A blue cloud ascends from the middle of the gravel flat. What are these people playing at? I have visions of a secret militia on manoeuvers, and I pedal right on out of there, pronto.
Shortly the road starts to climb up the surrounding hills. I grind on up, sweating in direct sun, until the altimeter shows an elevation gain of 1000' for the day. The true altitude is near 2000'. The crest of the ridge is at least another 400' above me, probably more. I decide that I don't care all that much to know what's beyond it, and with mixed feelings, give up on Lake Pillsbury and turn back.
Not far beyond the gravel flat where the militia (?) were playing, I spot a red-tailed hawk sitting in a tree beside the road and stop. The bird just watches as take his picture.
By 2pm I am back at the shopping center with all my cycling clothes to run a load of laundry. Then I go into the Round Table pizza and order a small combination pizza. Although I can't eat the whole thing at one sitting, I take the remaining third back to the motel room. Over the rest of the evening, while watching baseball on the TV, I nibble it all away.
|
Miles (km) |
avg mi/hr (km/hr) |
Ascent feet (m) |
Max Speed |
|---|---|---|---|
| 43.5 (70) | 13.3 (21) | 1070 (330) | 29 (47) |
I had planned today as another big day, circling southeast on Morgan Territory road through Knoxville to Lake Berryessa and back to St. Helena, nearly 90 miles, much of it through very lonely country. I've packed plenty of food and water (2, 20-oz bottles plus a 1.5L bottle of Calistoga -- which will be my brand of bottled water forevermore!). However, as I work my way around the southwest margin of Clear Lake, I realize I don't feel very good. I feel only so-so physically, not particularly strong; the chondromalacia (or something like it) that has been developing in my left knee is hurting steadily even though I started the day with two ibuprofen tablets; and most serious, my motivation is in tatters. Every upgrade seems like a huge tedious chore, and every downgrade seems to lead immediately to another upgrade.
By the time I've gone ten miles I am certain I am not going to take the long Knoxville road, but rather go straight down SR29. By the time I've gone 20 miles and climbed another couple of hills, I have a whole new plan. I'd intended to ride from St Helena to meet Marian at the Golden Gate Bridge tomorrow. Instead, I call her from a pay phone and suggest that she come up and meet me at St Helena this afternoon, and she is pleased to agree.
From Lower Lake down to Middletown there are several very enjoyable descents that cheer me up. On one long straight slope I get down behind the fairing and set a new personal speed record. But the run from Middletown down to Calistoga is nasty (this is clearly spelled out on the Krebs cycling map for Northern California). SR29 climbs up a steep grade starting at the Lake/Napa county boundary. The road is twisty, narrow, and very busy. It was a long, hot hour and a half to get up this. However, from the top there is an even longer descent into the Napa valley. I run down this at the speed of the traffic. Only twice does the road straighten out enough that cars can catch up, so I need to slow down and let them pass; the rest of the time I stay a turn ahead of the traffic. This is what the recumbent bike does best: the low center of gravity and long wheelbase make it stable; the fairing (and, to be honest, the weight) make it fast, and it just scorches the descents. Now, if I could get a helicopter assist package to get me up the hills in the first place...
Calistoga is busy. Coming in, I plan to stop for a milkshake, but there doesn't seem to be anyplace where I can get one and watch the bike. So I wander on down SR29 toward St. Helena. In its two-block downtown, which is actually more attractive than Calistoga's, I find an Olde Time Ice Cream Parlor type of place, and have a shake. A few miles down the road I find the motel and tell them I won't be using my reservation. They are full, so they don't charge for the late notice. Half an hour later Marian arrives with the van. We load the bike onto the carrier (which involves removing the front wheel) and return home via a scenic detour through the Wooden Valley, and down US680.
Cleaning out the truck the next morning I realize that I never put the front wheel of the bike inside. I leaned it against the bumper and then had a problem getting the bike seated in the carrier, and we just drove off and left it. I call the motel; they go out and look but of course it isn't there any more. Call the St. Helena PD, but there's no report of a bike wheel in the night's log. Call Easy Racers and order a new front wheel, sigh.
|
Miles (km) |
avg mi/hr (km/hr) |
Ascent feet (m) |
Max Speed |
|---|---|---|---|
| 68.9 (111) | 13.4 (22) | 2970 (910) | 48 (77.5) |
|
Miles (km) |
Ascent feet (m) |
|---|---|
| 331 (534) | 18000 (5540) |
So what did this test show (other than that I'm a doofus)?
I guess it's good to know these things.
A Tour Easy standard-frame recumbent with fairing. The standard TE comes with a 7-speed rear cluster and Grip Shifts. Just before the trip I upgraded to a new rear wheel having an 8-speed (11-30) XTR cluster, and 8-speed Grip Shift XRay shifters. On a Tour Easy the rear derailleur is controlled by a very long cable -- as long as a tandem's cable. In quest of crisp shifting I got the advice and help of a friend and bike-hardware expert, Greg Davis, to replace the standard cable with a teflon-lined cable, and a "bassworm," and an Avid Rollamajig. This worked well.
I had no flat tires, which is my normal experience, thanks I believe to "Mr Tuffy" in both wheels and to good-quality tires: Avocet Armadillo on the back, and Haro on the front.
The bike was equipped with two smallish panniers and a rack pack (visible in some of the pictures above). In them I carried the following items:
I should also have packed black street socks. To save weight, I wore cycling socks with the street shoes, and I was always aware of those little white ankle socks twinkling away under my pants cuffs..