Archive for September, 2012

You really don’t notice 1989 silver Honda Civics on the road until you drive one. Likewise, I had no concept of bike touring or bike camping until I starting doing it. And now I can’t cast a sideways glance towards a highway or campsite without catching sight of someone proceeding merrily along, leaden with panniers.

I say this because I (and the very bike-and-camp capable girlfriend) rode the 30-some miles to Samuel P. Taylor state park this weekend. For me, it was the final simulation run before my real tour. For her, the first bike camping adventure. Not only did we run into other bike campers on the way, we actually knew nearly everyone at the campsite by coincidence. Yes, San Francisco is a small city. But even more so, bike touring is a community.

The bike ride from San Francisco to Samuel P. Taylor is mostly a pleasant one. It goes something like this: You leave your apartment with a very heavy bike and collect strange looks as you wind towards the Presidio. Once you make it there, you enjoy the relaxing atmosphere of open roads and actual trees. But more and more you notice the fog creeping in. Nearing the bridge, you would be appreciating startling views of the bay were it not for the blanket of fog fully obscuring said views (this, obviously, is not always the case).

Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge on a bike will either be a battle against the elements, a battle against the tourists, or both. If you’re lucky, you’ll face intense fog and gale-force crosswinds. If you’re not, you’ll be shouting at tourists to please move and trying desperately not to send them into the cold abyss when they casually walk into the path of your bike.

Notice: The Elements.

After the bridge, you descend steeply into Sausalito. By most accounts, this was once a cool bohemian town. In the Kingston Trio era, it was probably a really great place to get a reasonably priced drink, and a meal, and absorb the near-impossible beauty of the bay. These days it’s about as crowded with tourists and over-priced restaurants as a town can get.

Sausalito ends by placing you on a long flat bike path along the marshes outside of Mill Valley. In my experience, heading north is casual and pretty and almost begs you to take your ride at a slow pace. The folks headed north wonder why all the folks heading south look so tired. That is, until they turn around and face the constant headwind blowing in from the bay. Then they look tired to all the folks heading the other way, etc. etc.

The bike path ends and you take a small detour to The Ugliest Bike Path in America (nobody calls it that), which skirts the 101 for a short stretch before putting you mercifully onto some neighborhood streets. For several miles, you take a combination of main streets and back roads through Larkspur, San Anselmo and Fairfax. If you’re shortsighted like me, you’ll grab beer in Fairfax. Then you’ll hop onto Sir Francis Drake and climb the only major hill on the entire ride with a needlessly heavy bag. If you play things a bit smarter, you’ll wait until you descend the hill into Lagunitas to buy beer.

Then, you’ll hop onto the Cross-Marin Trail. It’s an old railway line that was converted into a dirt and gravel bike path. It is smooth enough for road tires and tucked under the trees along a river. There are side paths you can walk down to swimming holes along the way.

The Trail drops you off right in Samuel P. Taylor campground where you can grab a hiker-biker spot for $5 and sleep comfortably in a redwood grove.

We did, it was nice.

I went bike camping in Marin again, this time I did the trip alone. I found the same rocky beach as before and sat drinking a strong stout. The black water lapped against the rocks. It was slightly less foggy than last time, which only meant that you could see some things. A dozen feet out, a few seals popped their heads out of the water. They gazed at me curiously. I gazed back, feeling about the same. I thought about how differently special moments are received alone and with others. When there’s company, you might point, act excited, exclaim the wonders around you. But when you’re alone, you receive the potent gleam of every moment in reverent silence. The very world itself seems different because of how differently you receive it.

E.’s rock cairn had fallen down. I built a new one and headed back to camp.

Rocks + Man = Cairn.

I went ahead and bought a Martin Backpacker before this trip. This small travelling guitar isn’t exactly ideal for bike touring, but it’s close enough. The ideal instrument is probably a harmonica, and the only stringed instrument you’d really want to bring on a bike is a ukelele. The Backpacker straps onto my rear rack and hangs off the back. It probably looks a bit sketchy, but it’s worth the awkwardness to have something to play at camp. And anyway, cars tend to give you more clearance when they think you’re unsafe.

The Backpacker sounds roughly like someone else playing a beautiful guitar and holding it up to the phone for you. Slightly better than six wet noodles and an empty cereal box, in terms of acoustics. And while the sound is lousy, holding the thing is even worse. But again, this is what you get when you want to play a guitar, but don’t want to bring a guitar with you. And it’s worth it to me, to have something to play.

While making my dinner, I scanned my headlamp casually across the campground and caught the eye of a small fox. He was a cute little guy and trotted around a bit before running off. A few minutes later, I was chomping on my food and glanced off to my right. A skunk, who I had not invited to dinner, was milling around several feet from my table. For the next hour or so, he sniffed and tumbled around.

After reading in my hammock for about an hour, I dozed off comfortably. Several hours later–let’s call it 4am–I awoke to a terrifying shriek. At first, being roused from sleep by the sound, it struck me as a woman’s scream. But as I became slightly more aware, I realized it was just a Banshee. You know, the mythological creature.

Actually, I spent some time on YouTube today watching horrifying videos that people had shot in the dark of their own campgrounds. They usually consist of about 2 minutes of a camera pointed towards the darkness, at nothing, and occasionally a blood-curdling wail. It was through these YouTube videos (YouTube is amazing), and the comments thereupon, that I learned that the awful sound I heard was nothing but an owl, or a fishercat, or a mountain lion. In fact, it sounded the most like a mountain lion. But don’t worry, they don’t attack humans who are just lying there asleep. Except when they do.

I woke up, drank coffee, and played a song or two before heading out. San Francisco is beautiful:

It really is.