After spending nearly two weeks hanging out with our friend Cory in San Francisco, we decided that if we were ever going to finish this thing, we had to leave. The weather had different ideas though, and sent one of the biggest October storms in the Bay's history. It did rain quite a bit and we were happy to have a place to stay, but I couldn't help but laugh at San Francisco's reaction. People were talking about how bad the storm was, but all I could think about was how nice of a Spring day it would have been in Kansas.

Autumn is by far my favorite season with the crisp air and the dry crackling of leaves underfoot or in this case undertire. I was concerned that I would miss out on Fall this year being on the California coast, but I was surprised to find it just as colorful and cool as home. In fact, our first day out of San Francisco brought us to Half Moon Bay where a major crop is pumpkins. Like so many times we were just a few days early for a  festival—this time it was the pumpkin festival in Half Moon Bay. It really was too bad because we have both taken such a liking to pumpkin lately, whether it is in breads, muffins, pies, coffee, or beer, we probably could have sampled all kinds of pumpkin products. But just like all the other things we missed, we figured at least now we know they exist and can return in the future.

The state park in Half Moon Bay was right next to the beach, so we got to walk down and check out the rough surf. It was still overcast and never before on the Pacific have I felt more like I was in New England. It reminded me of a day in Maine or on Cape Cod when the air was so thick with moisture you could almost drown breathing. The waves were choppy and they mixed up a nice froth of microorganisms and deposited them on the beach. In some spots the foam had collected to be a foot thick and it rippled in the wind. I am sure it would be a very nutritious snack for some marine mammal, but it looked like it had a will of its own (To see the foam, and lots of  other cool stuff, click the top "Photo" link to the right). 

The next day of riding brought us into Santa Cruz. The week before while we were staying with Cory we had tagged along on one of her school days which included a lab in Santa Cruz, so we were already familiar with the city, which is very small. This time, however, I think we fit in a little more. People on the streets started talking to us like we were locals. We had spotted a cool sounding coffee shop the previous week—Bad Ass Coffee—and we planned to hit it up, but when we got there we found it was closed. We heard several people walking by who were equally surprised and disappointed. So, like many of the denizens of Santa Cruz, we sat on the sidewalk. We had nowhere to go so we just sat, and we found ourselves perfectly accepted as part of the backdrop. It was odd, but nice to fade into the scenery for a while.

We camped in Soquel, a town that runs right into Santa Cruz, at New Brighton State Beach. Smell is considered the most primal of senses, and for me smelling Santa Cruz, Soquel, and Aptos took me straight back to when I lived there as a boy. Smelling eucalyptus and seeing the peeling papery bark and the curved leaves and little seeds on the ground is so ingrained in me from when I was four years old and it felt very peaceful to be back. Along with the sound of the waves nearby and the smell of the salt, it wasn't hard to fall asleep that night.

The eucalyptus lined cliffs of New Brighton Beach. Photo by JK

From Santa Cruz we rode through some small inland farm valleys. We saw lots of people picking strawberries, artichokes, and leafy vegetables. A produce stand called The Whole Enchilada lured us in with cheap almonds and walnuts, but we stayed for the incredible selection of fresh fruits. On a hot dry day it was great to have a nectarine that still had dirt from the field on it. A system of bike paths took us into Monterey. The restaurants on the wharf had mastered getting their smells out onto the walkway and it was enticing, but what I was really interested in was Cannery Row. John Steinbeck has been one of my favorite writers since I was in high school, so to see the setting of one of his most famous books was an exciting prospect. Here is how he described it:

 "Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, 'whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches,' by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, 'Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men,' and he would have meant the same thing."

At times I can be a little conservative when it comes to the things I love. Sometimes I fear change. This was one of those instances. I wanted Cannery Row to be the place I read about. It wasn't. I wanted it to be as bummy and saintly as it one was. What I found was canneries converted into businesses like Bubba Gump's and Starbuck's. I saw hotels I could never afford where there once must have been junk heaps. I saw people walking around with Cold Stone ice cream and I just wanted a stick of spearmint from Lee Chongs and to listen to the Espaldas Mojadas. Maybe a bottle of Old Tennis Shoes.

But again, I get a little romantic about some things. And to be honest, maybe this change isn't entirely bad. Maybe bumminess is just relative. In that case, Joel and I may as well have been Mack and the boys, a traveling  Palace Flophouse and Grill (sorry for all the references to those who haven't read the book; I am done now).

In Monterey we met our friend Bartley from high school and college. He picked us up and took us into Salinas where he lives and works. He told us all about the dynamics of Salinas life: the frequent gang murders, the cars parked on lawns, the predominance of agriculture in the valley. We didn't see any murders, but we did get a good quick view of Salinas and got to hang out with a good friend if only for a short time. The next morning Bartley drove us back to Carmel and we continued down the coast.

Big Sur was the next area we tackled. It marked a change in the geology because we were riding over some good sized mountains that were right up against the coast. Because of this there are miles of beautiful cliff-lined coast. It also made for tougher riding conditions, but we were still riding half the miles we were in the Midwest, so it wasn't too bad. Plenty of time to stop and take it in. We also got some compliments on our beards—a woman driving by yelled from her car: “Nice beards!”—so all in all Big Sur is a pretty cool place. A place too big and beautiful to describe. It must be seen.

The Big of Sur. Photo by JK

Probably one of the best days of riding started with breakfast in a little town called Cambria. We ate at the Redwood Cafe which was really good (always listen to construction worker's suggestions for breakfast) and then headed toward Morro Bay. The ride flattened out a bit and went through some farmlands. We passed by an “Adopt a Highway” sign that just read “S.W.A.P.” Joel and I spent the next three hours coming up with phrases or names of organizations to fit the bill. Some of my favorites: Swashbucklers With A Purpose, Sex Without A Partner, Sodomites Wear Assless Pants, and a few others I will spare you all from (you should come up with your own and leave them in the comments—just keep them appropriate—or don't). We had a a lot of laughs, and a pleasant ride.

Before the day was done we passed through Morro Bay, San Luis Obispo, and ended up in Pismo Beach in a kind of run down county RV park. You'd think we'd learn lessons. Luckily we were not raped. I don't know when I started to associate the two, but county RV parks do seem like the seedy type of  place in which one could be raped. We were just invited into Dean's RV to pet his dog and talk about traveling. Dean was missing a leg and his mustache was stained yellow from smoking. He reassured us that he wasn't gay and asked us if the pussy was still good in the bay area and told us that rubbing his dog's tits (she had eight of them) was like sex to her. So I guess rape could have been closer than we thought, but we got the hell out after a while and stayed in our tent the most of the night. I know he was really just lonely—I understand that. But I still had trouble sleeping and kept my knife close.

At this point we cut inland for a while and had to climb some high steep hills and pass through more rainshadowed valleys. We passed through the Lompoc Valley and climbed one more large hill. Then we went down a huge descent that got us up to 45 mph, marked an end to California 1, and spilled us onto the loud, fast, and busy US 101. And just like that, we entered Southern California. It was so clear we had entered a new stage in the game.

Thus far California has welcomed me with a great deal of familiarity. From seeing familiar faces to revisiting familiar places, after seven straight months of being in completely foreign territory, it is strange to go back to the known. But I also look at things with new eyes. What lies ahead may be similar. I am going back to Southern California, a place such a part of me and almost completely unknown. What I do know comes mostly from family stories. Now I go to write my own chapters, fill in my own maps.