Copyright 1995 David E. Cortesi
This is an account of a ride from my home in Palo Alto, CA to the waterside village of Sausalito, north of San Francisco. I planned the ride as a fairly easy century, partly in order to test the state of my right knee (pain in which had forced me to bail early from a century last month), and partly to have a nice day on the road (which it proved to be).I began at 7AM. My route north toward San Francisco was basically "straight up El Camino," undoubtedly the most boring, but also the flattest, way to go. El Camino Real is anything but royal; it is a commercial arterial maintained, or rather not maintained, by the cash-strapped state of California. (No need to travel in order find out what it must be like to ride Paris-Roubaix.) For long stretches I could use parallel industrial streets that, while not much smoother, had zero traffic early on a Saturday.
An hour into the ride I began to feel a brisk, cold headwind out of the northwest, and noticed tufts of cumulus sailing down from the north, as if all the stuffing was blowing out of San Francisco. This was ominous. That northwest wind off the Pacific Ocean is the normal summer weather of San Francisco. Civic boosters call it "our natural air conditioner," but it made Mark Twain grump that the coldest winter he'd ever endured was a summer in San Francisco. Although I was riding under blue sky, I began to prepare myself to reach the Golden Gate under a solid, racing overcast blown by a chilly, searching gale. Never mind, I told myself, think of the tailwind coming home...
Happily none of my gloomy anticipations came true. As I crossed the SF city limits, the sky was clear again, although the wind was still boisterous. My usual route from south to north across the city includes a few of the short but very sharp inclines that are frequent in SF. One defeated me yet again: 14th avenue between Quintara and Pacheco, a one-block rise that must be at least a 15% grade. I got half way up it before my heart rate got inadvisably high and I stopped to breath. (To gasp.) And then -- I couldn't start again. The grade was so steep, I couldn't catch the second pedal stroke before the bike had stopped. "This is a pleasure trip, you fool," I told myself, and walked up the remaining half-block.
In the Presidio there was a ceremony under way on the parade ground, possibly an ROTC graduation exercise. When I noticed an officer frozen in a salute on the sidewalk, I belatedly realized that the band was playing the national anthem. I stopped in a respectful attitude with one foot on the curb, contemplated removing my helmet but decided that was unnecessary. Instead I spent a few moments enjoying the sight of the old red-brick barracks, surrounded by gnarled cypress, overlooking the Bay, which was steel-blue and ruffled by the wind.
When the anthem was over I rode on through the woods of the Presidio to the base of the Golden Gate Bridge. Here the view was simply incomparable. I've never seen a prettier day on the Bay, and I've lived in these parts for, my gosh, 25 years, off and on. A clear blue sky, a cold blue bay flecked with whitecaps, the abrupt northern hills still green, the graceful bridge brick red. A fleet of racing sailboats, close-hauled into the stiff breeze, heeling dramatically as they passed out under the bridge. Ranks of wooded hills fading to the north. The City to the right, backlit in a salt haze, looking like a mirage. Gosh. I tried to say something friendly to a tourist couple who were blocking the bike path, and had to clear my throat before I could speak. I admire Seattle, and Vancouver BC looks fine on a sunny day; I've seen nice photos of Sydney harbor; I've listened to friends rhapsodize about the Greek islands. I don't care. If anywhere there's a more splendid arrangement of salt water, hills, and the works of man, its denizens must be happy folk indeed.
And countless blessings on the heads of the cycling activists who badgered the Golden Gate Bridge District until it permitted cyclists to cross freely on the western (ocean-side) walkway. This was my third time to cross. One can stop anywhere and hook an elbow over the red-painted railing, and look down 200 feet at the shadow of the span on the water, and out past the Marin headlands to the endless Pacific. Or, on this occasion, down into the cockpit of each yacht as it came out from under the bridge.
From the north footing of the bridge there's a sweeping descent around a miniature mountain to Sausalito, a small town built up the sides of an amphitheater of hills over an arm of the Bay. The bottom-most street, Bridgeway, is all that most visitors ever see of it, and really all that I knew. Where to eat lunch? In among the other tourist temptations there are several large seafood restaurants built out over the water. But I hadn't brought a lock, so I wanted a place where I could eat outside and watch the bike. I rode past a monstrous marina which appeared to be packed full of moored boats. Why do people go to the vast expense of owning and mooring a boat and then not sail on a day like this?
This was apparently also the day of the San Francisco "AIDS Bike-a-thon," and there were a number of riders passing along bridgeway. When one greeted me in passing, I asked her for lunch suggestions, and she told me to try a block further up hill, "the real town, where there are some smaller places." And so it was. I finally ate at a sandwich shop, sitting on a bench on the sidewalk in the sun. (If you should take this ride, bring your sandwich down to one of the benches on the shore at the entrance to the town, and eat looking across the water at San Francisco.)
I was surprised to find that this, my turn-around point, was only 44 miles from the start. I'd averaged 12.6mph against the headwind, and climbed 1370'. The return route wouldn't be as flat.
It began with a run down the City's western edge along the so-called Great Highway, a beach boulevard perpetually under threat of disappearing under sand dunes. The last time I'd ridden it had been July 5th last year. That time the road had been littered along its entire length with scraps of gray and red paper, the debris of what must have been tens of thousands of firecrackers let off the night before. Then I picked up an unopened packet of firecrackers which is still in my desk drawer, awaiting an appropriate occasion.
This afternoon the road was only strewn with blowing sand. I'd been ready to take the wind on my starboard quarter, hang out my flying jib, and scoot for home, but instead found myself on nothing better than a beam reach, which is pretty much useless on a bicycle. My road south climbed up onto the coast range south of SF, and included two long stretches of hike/bike trails that pass through a deep, wooded valley lined with two blue lakes. The scenery, grasped in the moments of calm between dodging inline-skaters, was lovely. The straight, narrow valley is the visible scar of the San Andreas Fault, but we don't dwell on that around here.
When I was two miles from home I checked the odometer: only 93 miles! Consulted with my body parts. Knees: fine. So kept going an extra four miles before turning back, to arrive at my doorstep with exactly 100.1 miles on the clock.
Distance: 100.1 mi
Total climbing: 3850 feet
Rolling average: 12.8 mph
Elapsed time: 9 hours 2 minutes.