Coasting (USA Day 128)

Each evening over the past week or so, I’ve rolled into the campsite and proudly declared, “Well, that was the most beautiful day of cycling yet.” Then, the next day has gone to prove that wrong. Today I’m saying it again, with more assertion than ever, and I promise that won’t change. No backsies. Today was the best.

We left early (for once), cycled the first ten miles and then left the route to climb a mile in the wrong direction in search of coffee. I found coffee, but lost Amy, who had travelled halfway down the other side of the hill where there’s very little coffee indeed. Once re-united, and with the sort of post-camp latte that inflated-mattress-dreams are made of, we defrosted in the heat of a California morning, watching the well-to-do locals of this dispersed village come in for pastries and show off their highly-fringed dogs. In America, fringes are known as bangs. I learned this today after one furry dog owner quizzed me about in what respect her dog was fringed and how such a thing could be avoided.

Convection did its darndest to pull cold sea air inland, creating a wagging tailwind that tugged us along by the collar. At some point after Timber Cove, the road became steep, treacherous and absolutely brilliant. We traced the outside slope of a steep hill with a precipitous drop on our right shoulders, straight down over pampus grasses to the rolling surf far beneath. Occasionally there was a barrier. Often there wasn’t. Cars, with a clear and present reason to be careful all of a sudden, became extra respectful and really rather nervous around us. To our left, the barren hillsides regained the chamoix quality that we hadn’t seen since eastern Oregon, occasionally populated by cows, often just by rocks and wild grass. The sea was relentless glitter, spotted by rocks, broken by the occasional whale spray, pelican flypast, or spotty array of blubbery beached seals.

At the base of one remote bay, we encountered some roadworks that took up one lane, and a set of traffic lights to let one or the other stream of traffic file through. When it was our turn, we let the cars pass and sweated up the nigh-on-vertical road. Amy was pushing on pretty fast, much more than usual, and suddenly I realised why. What happens when the other side turns green?

I’ll tell you what happens: first you hear the roar of an enormous truck engine and the rattle of its wheels as it accelerates down the hill towards you. Then you see it appear around the blind corner and you panic, pulling out into the middle of the tiny lane, waving your arms, shouting, trying to appear big and un-run-over-able. Then you gasp in relief as the truck slams on its brakes, honks, shrugs, then ends up smiling as you pootle past, dodging its wing mirror with athletic grace.

“We did our best!” I yelled through the window as we passed.

We arrived in Bodega Bay breathless, and not because of the hills. In the last five days we’ve climbed just over 21,000 feet. By this point, hills aren’t even an inconvenience, they’re merely part of the road furniture. Our finish line was at the Bodega Dunes campsite where all the usual gang sat about, equally stunned by the day. As the sun hung low, we power-walked to the other side of the peninsula, across dunes laden with crunchy red grass, thick like cabbage, and emerged over the final hill in time. I felt compelled to accompany the sunset with a “fsst” noise, as the sun presumably went out, landing in the ocean and all.