Jim and Dave - bike riding and hitchhiking partners
Recently I decided to revisit my glory days with a bike ride in west Marin. As I huffed and puffed up the hill to Nicasio on a weekend morning, throngs of Marin bicyclists passed me by wearing space age helmets, skin tight suits, on bicycles made from carbon fiber aircraft alloys. Although the hills seemed steeper than I remembered, even at my turtle’s pace there was something very special about gliding through the bucolic green hills and meadows on an elegantly simple machine, powered only by human legs.
My bike riding did not have an auspicious start. One day when I was toodeling around the deck at 37 Ethel on my little red bike with training wheels my dad suggested that we go to Boyle Park for a lesson. The training wheels came off, and my dad seated me on my bike at the top of the grassy knoll. Down the hill I went, hurdling toward the bottom of the knoll until the bike flew one way and I the other.
Although I was not a “natural”, the following weekend my dad suggested we try the lower yard at Old Mill School. Here the stakes were higher. A fall off the bike meant cuts and bruises on the asphalt. After several spills, I began to control the bike.
Soon I graduated to a larger bike, still a one speed, with big balloon tires. I rode my bike to school, bypassing the large goose that terrorized me each day as I walked to school. The bike and I were inseparable: there was no need to ask mom for a ride to Little League, the swim club, or a friend’s house. I was still riding my one speed several miles up the Ethel hill when our family moved to Mirabel Avenue.
In middle school I was introduced to gears, my first 10-speed bike with thin road tires. And oh, how the world opened up! I could ride over the hill to Corte Madera or up the Mountain. By high school, my best friend Jim and I were riding 40-50 mile loops through Marin. We’d head over to Point Reyes and back home by Bolinas and Stinson Beach for a final climb over Mount Tam.
Then our idea came: we added a small metal rack on the back and a canvas bag between the handlebars in the front. We strapped down a sleeping bag, pair of jeans, and jacket to the rack with bungee cords. In the bag, we put food, a one burner backpacking stove and small aluminum pot. There was no stopping us now. We headed over to Point Reyes and just kept pedaling north on Route 1.
The craggy coast north of San Francisco was spectacular. The mornings were often covered in a cool blanket of fog, as we silently whirred over the two-lane road-heading north. We pedaled along the winding highway, passing the beautiful bays and beaches of Marin and Sonoma counties.
Most afternoons the sun came out. As we pedaled we had deep blue Pacific views to our left and steep green hills dotted with poppies on our right.
We measured our journey in 10 mile segments. Our long days were 60 to 100 miles. Strong headwinds confined us to short days too, of 50 miles or less.
In the evening, we contributed a dollar or two to a state campground. If none existed, we unfurled our sleeping bags in a cow pasture or a clearing near the road. We used our backpacking stove to heat up dinner: soup, spaghetti, or chili from a can. And we lit it again to warm our frozen hands on cold evenings or mornings.
Up the coast we went. After several days, we reached Mendocino before we turned around, retracing our journey for home.
At Tam High School bicyclists faced a great debate: road bikes versus mountain bikes. A small and adventurous group of my classmates invented mountain bikes. They salvaged old balloon tired clunkers that we road as kids and outfitted them with gears to ride the dirt trails of Mount Tam. Their exploits became legendary and several of these classmates became the fathers of the Mountain bike craze, complete with frames, bikes, and even companies named after them.
It was a tough choice, but I chose the road bike. And so, to prove the superiority of our sport, our exploits had to become bigger, better, more exciting than our mountain bike competitors. It was in this context, that I announced to my parents that I would be riding my bike to Mexico. And somehow I convinced them to let me go.
The summer between my junior and senior year, I headed down the California coast to LA, pedaling south instead of north on route 1. The real excitement began on the train in northern Mexico, where we traveled third class. We had our bikes; pigs and chickens accompanied the farmers riding the train. Each stop vendors would sell us local delicacies through the train windows.
Once we reached Guadalajara we hopped back on our bikes and traveled through the small towns of central Mexico. People in the villages were so nice, often sharing their meals with us. Mexican teenagers wanted to talk with us about rock’n roll bands, despite our broken Spanish. In the evenings, we relaxed with a stroll around the town square or watched the fireworks celebrating Saint’s Days.
When we reached San Miguel de Allende, I attended language classes for a couple of days. But the lure of the open Mexican road became much too strong. Back on our bikes, we headed north to the historic city of Guanajuato. Down the long mountain road to the beautiful cobblestone city we road.
Some of our explorations were by bus. For example, we went to Mexico City, visiting the murals at the Presidential palace, the national museum of anthropology and the Pyramids of the Sun and Moon at Teotihuacán.
Once I conquered the southern border, I wanted to ride my bike to the northern one. I set out for Canada from the Bay Area. It was a beautiful ride, but not without perils. We dodged logging trucks on the narrow Redwood Highway and fought headwinds on the Oregon coast. As early bicycle touring pioneers, we didn’t have the benefit of biking guides, which now always instruct Pacific Coast riders to start their journey in Seattle and ride south to avoid headwinds. Who knew?
In my late 40’s I began bike riding again. There were conditions. My kids asked me to forego the skintight shorts and shirts of today’s bicyclists. My wife didn't want me to buy a bicycle currently in stores that cost as much as our car.
For my 50th birthday, Marilyn suggested that Jim and I relive the bike rides of our youth. I planned a week of rides in northern California. We loaded our bikes into Jim’s BMW.
We packed light. No sleeping bag or camp stove necessary. We had reservations at some nice hotels, with a hot shower and meal at the end of our day. No back rack or front bag for gear on our bikes, just a slim little credit card in the back pocket of my riding pants.
We rode our bikes down the beautiful old Redwood Highway, through the trees and along the river, on an elegantly simple machine, powered only by human legs.