The Ballad of Ol' Whitey and Jeremy Thwacker (USA Day 135)

We’ve become decreasingly effective at leaving early, so this morning was an attempt to break back to the kind of punctuality that would make our mums proud. Our lovely host Judit had left pancake ingredients on the side, so we rose before the sun (lazy) and fried up a couple of squidgy nasties all covered with California strawberries.

Before we had the chance to spend three hours brushing our teeth or whatever we end up doing, we’d fallen out the front door and landed on our bikes, then used that momentum to cycle all the way to Moss Landing before realising what had happened.

I looked around and noticed a distinct lack of Amy, but the road was too busy for me to turn around, so I hovered anxiously for about five minutes until I saw her shape come around the corner.

She looked bothered. “I thought I saw an otter when we crossed the bridge. And then the sign said there were otters.”

The bridge was a couple of miles back, and cycling back along this road, even for ten minutes in the wrong direction, felt like an unpleasant proposition. Also, we’d agreed to attempt most of today’s miles before lunch, and this would set us back quite a lot. And what were the chances we’d actually see the otter again? They’re such flighty creatures. Anyway, it was probably a seal or a sea lion. They’re everywhere along this coast.

Despite all this, I knew what the right choice was. Find the fun, Ivan. There was a quieter lane that led back to a harbour across from the bridge. We’d be able to see the same stretch of water as we had, with a chance to spot the otter.

We leant our bikes against a fence and skiffled across the sand to a tidal barrier made of stone, over which we’d see the water. And there were the otters.

I immediately ducked down, terrified to scare it off before Amy got a good look. But she was a little way off, calling over for me to keep an eye on the bikes.

The otter hadn’t spooked. In fact, she was floating on its back with the tide, licking her paw with a tiny pink tongue. Her head was fluffy and white, her eyes tiny and beaded. Her movements were slow and studied, very ponderous. Her name was Ol’ Whitey. We locked eyes as she rotated in the swell, but nothing happened. A little further along the harbour, Amy had met her own otterful friend: Jeremy Thwacker. He was a much busier individual, swimming out to a rockpool where he’d grab a juicy old mussel, then rolling back on an incoming wave and bringing it to his favourite rock, right below where we sat. There, he’d smack it down with both paws until the shell cracked, then flip over, resting the mussel on his chest and feasting on the gooey surprises within.

Boats came and went with passengers who, for whatever reason, weren’t bothered by the otters. It was mutual. Pelicans flew overhead without turning their heads to take a beak at us. A nosey sealion, Pop-Up John, appeared right by us at one point, cocked a look at Jeremy Thwacker and Ol’ Whitey, coughed quite obnoxiously, then disappeared for good.

I have no way of telling you how long we stayed with the otters. At one point there were four of our furry friends, but the other two went about their business before we could catch their names. We probably could have stayed all day, but Jeremy Thwacker had begun his post-meal washdown and Ol’ Whitey, who’d floated right up to us, was now floating away again. Perhaps the tide had changed.

We floated the rest of the way to Monterey, like two otters in a swell. Halfway down a farm road stacked on both sides with fields of artichoke and strawberry, we met Paul, who hailed us down with a cry of “Stop! I have something to give you!”

Normally, we’d be quite suspicious of such an opener. Even more so when he asked us to park up our bikes and accompany him to his van. But his face was kind, his beard untangled, his camper clean and he’d left out a big sign that read ‘Help For Bicyclists. Road Angel.’

Paul had done his own cross-country tour a few years back, but wasn’t so mobile anymore so had taken to repaying the kindness he’d been dealt by stopping right here, on the Pacific Coast cycling route, every Tuesday, and giving energy bars to bikers. He was the most magnificently kind gentleman. He’d collated tables of the destinations and home countries of every rider he’d helped (hundreds!) and had maps, ice water, freshly baked cookies…

Listen. Hold us to this. We’ve been treated to some of the most unexplainable kindness over the past four months, and it never seems to end. We’ll be open for guests on WarmShowers until the day we die. If we can, we’ll do exactly what Paul does. Cycle touring sustains one of the best, most supportive communities I’ve ever been lucky enough to be a part of. We’ll be paying it back for the rest of our lives, and take joy in every moment of it.

The hits didn’t stop coming: in Seaside, just outside of Monterey, we stopped for our first In-N-Out burger, a Californian fast food chain so legendary (at least in my mind) that I’ve been looking forward to it since we booked our flights to New York. They have a bare menu (burger, cheeseburger, fries) and an enormous secret menu passed only by word of mouth. We had double-doubles, animal fries and Neapolitan milkshakes, with a great big pot of pickled chillies. I’ll be honest, I probably played it up a little too much in my head, but it almost lived up to those expectations, which is quite an achievement.

Monterey’s lovely. It does all the same things as Santa Cruz, but we spent longer on the beach watching sandpipers and dipping seals, so I guess my fondness springs from there. Today’s been really good. I hope you can tell that.