Because, check this out, Pixies are playing next Thursday at the Henry Miller Library. Yes, just a short (30ish miles) jaunt down the coast in Big Sur. Yes, again, a spot with easy stealth camping not so very far away and dirt options for some of the ride each way. Since the tickets are $137.59, I am declining to formally attend, but reserving the option to lurk in the shadows outside while drinking pocket booze and dancing by myself. Anybody innerested? You do realize, your head will collapse if there's nothing in it.
I can see us spinning...
OH, AND THAT WILL ALSO BE A FULL MOON. THAT'S RIGHT, YOU HEARD RIGHT.
In the interest of furthering our common goals of fun and debauchery in combination with safety while cycling, I will say this: next Tuesday's Full Cold but not really that bad if you're dressed right Moon, the 17th, is worthy of a ride down Highway 1 to take advantage of the "public" soaking hours at Esalen. 1-3am ans all's you need is a reservation and $20. Or a back way in? Anyways, I can drop the race van off the day before so we sleep down there and drive back up in the morning light. Totally hard if we throw in some dark redwood dirt action, and totally worth the effort...
Also, rolling down the singletrack dropping off party favors. So, the getting is good.
Also also, if you like the westerns you will enjoy Blood in Their Eyes, by Thomas Cobb. It is outstanding.
You know what's never faded? Camping and bike riding. It is always ill. A plan (quick and dirty. Isn't it ever?) was hatched. Based on insider knowledge claimed by the FNG of the month, we thought we'd head down South and bang out a semi-moonlit Old Coast Road. This knowledge was pure speculation, and like all pipe dreams did not pan out. We did have a sweet overnight adventure anyhow, because how are you not gonna?
Plan called for meeting at the shop at a time and driving down to Bixby. That one dude invited himself along, even though I have told him to his face that I did not want to ride with him on account of (he asked, so I told him) he makes bad decisions. This is the guy who, after I told him this, related to the other guy that he had no idea what I meant by that. Yeah. So he attempted to barge this trip. Showed up with all his camping gear and a rental bike? So I told him again and specific to this ride (though it applies to all of them) he ain't coming. Some people will not learn. I am amazed. Maybe this will stick with him and he'll change his ways and grow as a person. Either way, I will not be bothered to babysit him. Crazy.
So, the 3 of us left the drama behind, and hit the liquor store for the top shelf shortcut. Booker's bourbon. After that it's nothing but get down, get up, and get started. Riding away from the truck in the 1/2 full and waxing moon is such a promise. Poor choices were made. Hills were climbed and descended and climbed and descended and climbed. We ended up in the dirt. I woke up alone in the dark by the campfire and shuffled off to my sleeping arrangement.
In the morning, before the sun had cleared the ridge, I looked to my left and there was the FNG, in his sleeping arrangement: a fleece blanket. That's it! No pad, no bag, no groundcloth, no problem. Well, shit. 21 and new to the game, there he is winning. It is a strategy for him, though. This princess needs his comforts. Then I look over to my further left and there is my loser friend, Mr P, literally shivering in his bivy sack sans bag. I LOLed. If I notice what clowns these guys I'm living in the woods with are, it means I am the only one who's not a clown, right? Isn't that the deal? If you look around and there are no clowns then you are the clown? So the reverse must be true.
It feels true.
I fired up the Kelly Kettle (wisht I'd gotten the larger size) and found a proper poo spot with a lovely view. Coffee drunk, we proceeded to ride over and down. No breakfast, no lollygagging. Mr P had to get to work by 10AM.
Achey heads make for wincing on the pedals. In spite of this, we were well on track to make it to the church on time when Mr P cracked. Got off the bike, red in the face, and attempted to recover. Shedding layers, water, and fancy packaged candy bar did not bring him back like he'd hoped. Nothing for it but to start walking.
Then the FNG got a flat on his rental hybrid with the borrowed panniers, borrowed rack, and borrowed tyres.
Timeline was all the way blown, but no one was upset.
That is a picture of failure.
And that is failure's bike. I dig the 80's everybike bleu, but do not love the white socks.
The FNG had never done any riding of this sort before. I believe his horizon is widened now. Or deepened. At least pushed around some.
Mr P made it to work about 20 minutes late- not bad! The other 2 went to Red's (since 1957!) for coffee and donuts and creepy clown portraits.
Sneaking down Highway 1 into Big Sur, the back way aboard the cross bike.
I don't love the highway. Whichever, they are all full. Full of take your pick among: tourists driving rental RVs while looking at the view, impatience, frustration, ill mannered boobs, and means to ends. I will ride Highway 1, but it is only ever a way to get to something I actually want to ride.
Steve Earle writes some songs I really like, and he played Fernwood (a campground/restaurant in Big Sur) recently. I figured on riding down and grabbing a campsite so as the wife and I could see the show and crash, and head home the following morning. It's only 30 miles or so down there. Plus, it offers the opportunity to leave the highway behind and head up into the hills via Old Coast Rd. Hop off at Bixby Bridge and it's fire road radness through the redwoods.
2 interactions with cyclists occurred. 1) speedy chatty fellow rolled up on me as I passed Point Lobos and wanted the scoop. Within minutes he had decided we would ride the whole way together. I told him I had to stop and smoke a lot of weed, so...he opted to see me later. Done. B) while fronting the line of traffic at the stop light at Rocky Creek, where the wait is extended, I shook my fist at the Northbound cyclist. It was funny to me to watch him wave in solidarity, only to think that I was doing some unity/fist-in-the-air gesture and hesitantly respond in kind, and to finally be very confused as he passed. Perfect.
I had driven down the day before to do some other stuff, and had stopped to stash some beers in some creeks in anticipation of this ride. SAG yourself if no one else will, I guess. It works for me.
Here is a very short film about my riding style:
So with a creek cold couple a beers, I moseyed on up the "apex redwood" trail to see what was the big deal. Turns out it was a trail to no place. You got a nice view of the soiled toilet paper pile- who are these people?
And, if you're into such things, there is a substantial fairy ring you can stand in the midst of and gently sway as you drink a cheap can of beer and think about the perspective of trees. They are stuck with one another anyway. No getting away from this shit hole if you are a tree.
That above is to illustrate the art of strategic bicycle parking. I was attempting to slither down the questionable bank of a technically off-limits creek in order that I might access a couple more creek cold beers, and who wants a bike parked right there announcing one's presence? And now, consider what your eyes would see if you were driving along there, righteously, in your king-of-the-road automobile. Nobody here but us chickens.(the bike is the orange spot to the left of the dozer)
I left a beer in both creeks as an incentive to ride down again before the rains come and warsh them away.
Topped out and looking West into the glare.
And North towards Bixby. I stopped for a sandwich I'd toted in a handlebar bag.
And East towards Pico Blanco.
I filled my pockets with empties. I think that's prolly the best use to which that particular bag could be put. I was hauling more than my own. I theorized it might be the same folks who had gone to such trouble to decorate the backish woods with toilet paper who were also so free with their colorful empty cans.
After which point, it was a quick drop and pedal over to the show. That was a Good Time.
I took a ride down to Big Sur in Smiling M___ H____'s little red truck. He keeps all manner of tools in the back and on his back. We stopped short of the avalanche shed at Rain Rocks and pointed our feet straight up Twitchel (as it changes from Road to Trail to Elevator) until we reached Stone Ridge Trail. It was the 1st time on either of them for myself, and while Twitchel was an idyllic wonderland in that valley with the glossy fire-blacked Redwoods and the generous flooring of Redwood Sorrel (oxalis oregana), the rest of it was a steep and brutal march up the face. Elevator for real.
I carried the 4' crosscut saw and my daypack containing only a small pullsaw, a jacket, some lunch, and a water bladder. Smiling M carried a shovel, a pulaski and his pack containing a lot, including but not limited to: a single jack (hammer) to drive wedges, several aluminum wedges, loppers, water bottles, and lunch. His radio pack had handset, notebook, pocketwatch, and a dangling pair of hand pruners. He was also strapped with a plastic sheathed pullsaw. Our loads were very different. He would not share the burden, but did allow use of his tools.
note: the blue background is the Pacific, not the sky...
A day off from work consisted of riding an hour in the car to hike 3 1/2 hours straight up, spending 4 hours wrassling with a laid over California Bay Laurel (umbellularia) and doing light treadwork/maintenance, then hiking 3 hours back down (the elevator shaft) to pay $4 for a bottle of Coke at Lucia Lodge.
Are you taking for granted X, Y and even Z? Does your morning coffee without that hint of woodsmoke fail to satisfy? Are your clean, crisp sheets not a luxury to be savored and regarded?
You have grown soft and your outlook is dim. You need some suffering in your life. Get on that.
2 days off. 65 miles of pavement down the Big Sur Coastline. Hot. Calm. Pleasant mindless spin- so much so that the only thing that stays in my mind is the shirtless weirdo who'd parked his stickered up 80s vintage VW van at one pullout and was cruising the pullouts in his way-too-short cutoffs aboard his 29"wheeled Rockhopper toting his Yorkshire Terrier in a home-made dishrack/basket. I played leap frog with the tourists in rental RVs- Fun Finder X?
Lucia at sunset and climbing Nacimiento Ferguson in the dark. I dropped the backside in the dark, too- passed the 1st campground and stopped at the 2nd. I misremembered there having been a spigot there. The fee was $15. The camp host was still there (this late in the season? at that out of the way spot?) so I put $10 in the envelope because it was $5 over or $5 under, and I opened with under. I figured I could bluff if it came to it. Settling in for the night was quick, and I will tell y'all this: the instant garlic mashed potatoes from Trader Joe's are conveniently packaged in 2 2person servings and are super easy/great camping food! I was tired enough (that Nacimiento Ferguson is a hard climb!) that I really appreciated the ease.
That picture there is from breakfast, when I was done cooking and just wanted a cheery twig fire. The Kelly Kettle boils some water like no other. It requires far less time spent gathering/snapping/sorting twigs than I am used to, and uses way less fuel to bring a given amount of water (say, a large water bottle's worth) to a rolling boiling in about 5minutes. It is worth looking into if you like that sort of thing. It is very bulky (it took up the entire front rack) in comparison to the Esbit, more in line with your gas powered JetBoil. Everything is a trade-off. It is of little use to actually cook on, because the water inside boils and spits out the spout (some of it dribbling into your fire pan base) and you either have to keep refilling the reservoir as you cannot use it dry, or figure out what you want to do with your boiled water and then refill, etc. So- cooking not so much. Boiling? Hell yes.
I liked it quite a bit for making coffee happen so fast. But, I will likely not be taking it on solo outings in the future. For that application, the trade-off is not worth it. Now I know.
Anyhow, after breakfast I had to leave as quickly as possible. I didn't want that camp host coming over for his $5. All the long and hot way through Fort Hunter Ligget I distracted myself with scenarios involving disgruntled camp hosts seeking retribution. And it was a long long and hot way. Every ride through there it seems like they add a section. By the time I had taken a wrong turn and ridden several long and hot miles out of and then back into my way, my shirt was stiff and salty.
That's my crowded handlebars. No pack, so the water bladder was in the frame bag and it's hose you see. The white cable is the USB cord to recharge the iPhone via the Plug (worked like a charm). I listened to Ry Cooder's I, Flathead on repeat.
I have, now, in my possession, a plastic spoon which is the spiritual equivalent of a Golden Eagle feather. That's what you get, on your vision quest, when you hassle a wild Golden Eagle. Right? When you actually make the effort to get offa your bike and walk over to underneath where said magnificent bird perched. Right? If a feather from your (ahem) totem is unavailable, then you must avail yourself of the spiritual equivalent in situ. Probably, there is more personal magic in that sun hardened plastic spoon on account of giving a hoot and stopping pollution and all. Anyways, I have my mojo working.
By the time I stopped for lunch, at Escondido Campground, I had made several bad choices regarding water. I had a hard time focusing. It took a while to sort out the order of doing things to make food. The new cook system wasn't helping. Coffee and space packaged Indian food.
I had enough water to last to the spring past Hanging Valley, so I just decided to keep pushing. Once there, I laid in the shady spot in the dirt for 20 minutes while sweet, cold water trickled into my bottle. Dripped down from the very finest ferns and muck, that water is the best in the whole world. It is sweet and cold. The best.
That right there is the Good Place. Seems like ever time I'm there, though, I'm too worked to appreciate it fully. The Ventana Wilderness is magic.
Then it was all downhill for a while. Then pavement and dark to home. Somewheres in the neighborhood of 140 hot, hard miles in 2 days. I am relishing the comforts of home today.
Words and pictures regarding one of the finer Full Moon Performances witnessed here along the Central Coast. My features contorted into a ridiculously appropriate grimace/smile which the bracingly chill wind cemented into place. For really real, at one point I became aware that I was drooling through the open grin as I pedaled smooth, even circles down an abandoned HWY1 with the Full Ass Moon high above and the Pacific Ocean of fog immediately below. If I'm not careful, my face may get stuck this way.
Man, did you Suckers blow it.
We were only 2, leaving COTSRHQ sharply at 7:45. Hammers and tongs to the Rocky Creek Bridge. Pushing. I was nervous we'd miss the closure at 9PM. It was needless anxiety. At 8:30someodd we rolled up to the one lane stoplight and waited our turn. By 8:30alittlemore we were off the bikes with cold Hamms in hand at one of the nastier pullouts/pit toilets at which I've ever had the pleasure to stand around at drink beers on a night time bike ride. We lurked as far from the toilet paper shrine as we could and watched the last minute scrambling to make it past the closure. There were some folks hanging it out there. We listened to the fox up the slope scream at the moon along regular intervals as it climbed.
Once the flashing lighted truck swept, we began to roll with no lights and no cars. I cannot say enough about how nice that is. Moonlit Big Sur all to oneself on a street bike ride. Yeah.
I was overdressed in my rain gear and booties and neoprene gloves and all. It could have been heavy fog the whole way, so I rolled out prepared. Drizzly cold to begin...
Safe, like Tron chillaxing in this virtual world with a warm road-side Hamms.
I ended up wearing my rain pants tied around my middle just above my over-loaded pockets. The plasticky bike doesn't support a frame pump well, and I will NOT use CO2 (laaaaaaaaaame and wasteful and what happens when your little waste canisters are all used up and you get another flat?), so it was minipump in the pockets along with all the rest. Loaded. And since I had borrowed L's bolt-on! generator hubbed front wheel, for the full electrick treatment, I had to carry a 15mm box wrench too. I enjoyed both the lighting and the cobbled together fancy electrick jalopyfication.
The Shimano light has a lot of exposed bulbage on top, so I booted it with an old 26" tube. Makes for pleasanter riding not having that shine in your eyes. Plus, it really ties the race bike together.
Esalen was delightful. Back and forth between the very cold and the very hot 50' above the edge of the continent until you are wrung out and content. Tired smiles, 40miles.
Sleep in the dirt by the side of the road? Sounds fine to me.
The long and the short equals this is a must do repeat. The road closure is in effect Sun-Thur until February (Rocky Creek Viaduct Project) , so let's make it happen at least a couple more times, whether the moon is full or not. With the no cars? Tell me something better.
It is time we check ourselves. Fresh off the road, 1st driving the race van the 40miles down Big Sur to Esalen, and 2nd hitching back with nice people.
I had some time to think (think hard) about hitching technique. Can't be sitting there all slumped and dejected, else folks will assume you are a lazybones.Why should they stop for a serial killer who won't even put in the effort? Stand up straight, put your shoulders back, and extend your arm a ways out. It shows Respect. I like a thumb tilted a little in the direction you are heading. I feel it is inviting. It's cool, we're all friends here.
So. Now we we await the coming Darkness. Roll out is at 7:30PM from COTSRHQ. Sharpish. We gots to get past Rocky Creek before they close the road for the nighttime construction going on there now. The bad news? That fog may or may not be patchy and/or settle. The good news? There's variously stashed Hamms at the 15, 25, and 40mile markers and due to the road closure we will have the whole highway to our ownselves! So, there simply cannot be any losing. It's a gauranteed Good Time.
There are still 3 spots open if any a you people want to do something with your life.
I'm feeling the street bike stoke today. Full of the vim and of the vigorish, that comes from a bright and temperate Indian Summer day riding Big Sur(ish).
Every time it comes up, the idea of rounding my knowledge of the trail options in/around Ventana seems shiny and buoyant. Problem has been, it fizzles in the face of my knowledglessness combined with the easy lure of the known quantity of my local loops. My local loops are only qualifying rides, though. They lack the scale and visual impact of Big Sur (or the Santa Cruz Mountains) and I am so much more heartened by the big loops available there.
This day I took it upon myself to get out of a rut by getting onto the cross bike and pointing it South with a pocket full of possibles. I also brought a map, extra tube(s), patch kit, space food, a jacket, phone, a multi-tool. And, plus a frame pump. Who knew what I might pull off on a day like today.
And it was everything for which I could hope.
No dirt (that's real hard to square in the Wilderness), but I did make it out to the end point of Palo Colorado Road and learned several things about trail passability and campsites of particular interest from the head of the USFS trail crews (out of King City), P__ B_____, who was at the trailhead with a horse-trailer wrangling volunteers clearing several sections out from Botcher's Gap. If these names strike your ear like a wake-up gong you should get at me in the Real World and we can lay some best plans type ish. I got some real interesting beta on what and where. He was a super nice guy, who as soon as I mentioned taking kids camping became excited and we sat down for 15 minutes or more, 1st with my map (a Wilderness Press, which L___y, the camp host at Botcher's says is mistaken in several instances) and, so, 2ndly with his (a USFS copy of which I have got to get a hold for future outings). We talked of many things, and I may have some brand-new plans, including volunteering for trail maintenance through Ventana Wilderness Alliance. Who's up for some adventure on the scale of "this may be a real bad idea"? Those are the ones which really pay.
41miles out-and-back. Palo Colorado Road is waaaay steeper than Nascimiento Ferguson, and climbing (and speedingly descending) through the redwoods on a single lane (as soon as you are off HWY1 it's shady and quiet) is as Good as it gets. I don't especially dig the no-loop, and the HWY1 legs are not my favorite (with the rushy rush and the tourists gawking and straining for sights of the Pacific/condors/anything but me), but it was glorious and sunny on the way there and foggy and tail winded on the way back.
You knuckleheads need to quit phoning it in. Rep your sets, yo.
Whatevah. I do what I want. I rode my SS again today; someplace you were not. And it was some kind of long assed pave climb followed by hello tight fire road cruising and capped off with the benchest of singletracks overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Side hill for days. Large feeling in scope. Though the vividly purple irises seemed incongruously domestic, it is some big country.
I need to remember that it is possible to swap out my cog and not only to run what I brung lowland roller gearing. And I need a new rear tyre. Anyhow, Feelings are set to GOOD.
Permit me to expound. Climbing on the SS is a matter of making as much peace with the hill as you may. Spin and spin and spin and be nice. "Until it's time to not be nice." When it is that time, you must stand and giver. There is nothing but momentum. When there is no momentum, there is the walking. Back country singlespeeds is where it's at.
"It seemed like a Good Idea at the time" is words to live by, friends.
Big Sur this day. I forgot the camera, so take my word it looked like it did then, only cold.
Singlespeeds. I love to hate that ride. The climb is relentless; it starts out steep pavement and delivers several kicks then falls back to solid tempo riding with occasional short steeps to keep your hand in, as it were. Hurtful.
The albino redwood is thriving. We took that hike up the drainage to check on it. That region is such a fantastic place to be. It's a privilege riding through it.
"Let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious." - Jack Kerouac.
From the saddle, the route becomes dirt, and further punishes you via some sections necessitating BMX style stand and thrust, but with enough pitch and grit that the balance required to keep the rear wheel from letting go is no small feature. Good stuff. Just when you (I) feel as though you've worked enough to be at the top, the skibbly decayed asphalt drops appear. Then it's a matter of a few more juuuust doable (if you bury yourself on the attack) steeps to be got through before the summit, at which point you begin to wish you had a suspension fork and don't cease wishing this until you have ridden all the meandering and stuttering singletrack back down to the coast.
In which our merry band had disbanded, leaving our hero bereft of drinking companions and the solace of friendly company. Day 3:
I awoke with the sun, as you will out of doors. It took a while to clear the ridge East of me. I used the time to realize my lack of coffee, to curse the entire group I'd been camping with, and to really freak out. I'd been surprisingly (to me) sorry to see them go the night before, but that changed in an instant. I checked every nook and cranny in my bag(s) multiple times. I vowed to henceforth be even more rigidly accountable with my camping coffee preparedness.
It's a Big Deal.
Then I noticed that I'd been pouring my pee bottle (don't drink out of the clear Joselyn's bottle) just up hill of my shifter in the night. So that really helped my temper.
Then I made a bleak, coffee-less breakfast.
Packed and up the road.
The ridge.
Looking down slope. It was at that point that I realized how J__ had made such a long term wizened choice of rig.
Mid-slope.
This is the spot where I came off. I hadn't really given much thought to crashing (it happens) until I landed down slope with the (heavilyish) loaded rig on top. If those chainrings had been several inches down...that's a lot of potential ugliness. Technical touring is best done with a partner.
This is one of several nice potential camping spots.
Looking back up to the knob. It's a lot of steep drop right away.
Real singletrack. As you progress, it gets more shaded and Redwooded in the narrower canyons.
Back out into the oaks, and Maritime Chaparral.
Highway 1 and the Pacific.
The whiskey ran out with the final bubble at the trail head.
Whooooooooole lotta this. Highway 1 North.
51 miles to go...
Then those rotten hippies at Esalen wouldn't let me in on account of my super secret squirrel contact wasn't working that day. I was so charming and pleasant- nope. Next time I'm just barging the back gate, and the hippies can try and throw me out if they think they can.
It quickly passed the point of whooping and hollering, at which I settled in to pedaling and pedaling. Just past Andrew Molera State Park, The Wind began in earnest. Pedaling as hard as you can to go downhill type earnestness. I truly dislike riding in the wind. Your ass will eventually go numb and then it stops hurting.
By Carmel Highlands I no longer cared about anything but food and being off the bike. I texted my Sweetie and she came and rescued me and had spring rolls and a chimichanga, too!
