The Passage of A Pilgrimage

The morning ride out of Davis was spent on a bike path for a solid 10 or more miles. It's been strange being in large cities again because of the way I look. Obviously, when I'm in a small town, it's unlikely that I'm homeless because who would choose a small town of 100 to beg in? However, in Davis, I got lots of staring and when I nodded my head out of respect toward a person, it was usually met with a questionable glance. However, the ride was fairly lovely.

A few miles out of the city of Davis, I was met by two older men cycling past me.

"Where you coming from, buddy?" yelled Jim into my musical space.

I undid my headphones and turned toward the man, "What's that?"

"Where you coming from?" he repeated.

"New Jersey", I'll admit I said rather smugly.

"Holy Hell! That's a long way".

Jim and I would chitchat for the next mile or so as I accidentally neglected the other rider behind him. I tried to involve him on the conversation but the man, Jack, was rather an introvert. He had just met Jim a few minutes ago and it seemed like I knew Jim better than he did. Jim was a rather portly fellow at 73, and was a retired professor from California at Davis University. He asked if he could buy me a little snack at a local cyclist's hangout in the town of Winters. I agreed and a few miles up, we turned off onto a small bridge. Another bridge running parallel had netting attached to the bottom. Upon questioning its purpose to Jack, he told me the bridge was set for demolition within the year. Jim and I rode up to the cafe of "Steady Eddy's", while Jack briefly murmured something and disappeared. Jim waved it off.

We sat down and had an intriguing conversation about, the normal topics: religion, philosophy, and history. Jim graciously bought me a smoothie and a "puck", which is a small muffin-looking thing filled with carbohydrates. As I finished my smoothie and the conversation continued to venture into deeper materials, I reached for my bag of tobacco, rolled a cigarette and lit it. I noted the slight discomfort in Jim's face, and he turned toward a large group of cyclists across the road in a park.

"Uh, let's go catch these guys over here before they leave. I want to introduce you to them".

We walked over to the group with our bikes and Jim, rather awkwardly, made an "announcement".

"Hey everybody! This guy over here just cycled here from New Jersey".

I looked toward the ground sheepishly and drew another drag from my fix of nicotine. I was startled to see the whole group actually turn toward me with curiosity and interest gleaming in their eyes. I babbled about the distance, my plans for the future, and the fact I was finishing that very day.

"You smoke too?" one of the cyclists asked.

"Hey, we can't all be perfect".

Someone asked me what my last name was so that they could try to find my book. I responded saying that it wasn't out of the question. Quickly, no more than after 5 minutes, the group was on their way into the sunshine. Jim was out too but not after giving a firm handshake and friendly smile. I threw my cigarette away and went off in pursuit, my head still dizzy from the last puff. Back on the bridge, Jim was sitting idle on his phone. I got his e-mail, thanked him again, and set off joyously for my final destination.

Fresh out of Winters, I saw a few deer eating from the green grass and trees rising out of the nutritious earth. I was deep in the winery area of California (they're everywhere) and followed acres of grid-like farms for miles. About 10 miles out of Winters, to my absolute displeasure, I realized I'd left my wallet and Camelback in Winters... again. Desperate, I called the cafe and stupidly asked for them to send it in the mail to San Francisco. To my amazement, the one woman was willing to do it. I thanked her and kept on pedaling. A few miles later, I realized how silly the whole ultimatum was, and regrettably headed back toward Winters. The ride was rather miserable as I'm not used to seeing the same things in one day. It was still a lovely day and beautiful ride but the fact I had to travel back 10 miles, then 10 miles forward to get to the same location was maddening.

Back in Winters, I took the time to eat my last peanut butter sandwich, refill my water, and pump up my back tire, which has somehow been flat every single morning for the last week. Eventually, I was on the road again.

The ride went up and down but not as drastically as the erratic geography of Western California. Surrounded on both sides by huge hills for much of the last 15 miles to the town of Fairfield, the winds became magnum. Fairfield was a strange town, looking like a utopia with bright, freshly mowed grass next to the gigantic sidewalks that doubled as bike paths... or I used them as such. There was a plethora of planted trees equally spaced from one another and appearing at the apex of their lives. I left the town and stepped back into the real world. I pulled out my map as I looked to see what street I took next amongst the labyrinth of choices. That would be the last time I grasped that map. Less than half a mile later, I realized it was gone but only 20 miles out of Vallejo, I added it to my rather large casualty list.

From Fairfield to Vallejo, I navigated my own way, stopping frequently, looking around with confusion, and becoming lost more than once. I didn't mind. Everything was more than okay today.

Eventually, streets became more crowded, different neighborhoods started to formulate, and I could sense I was closing in on the bay. As opposed to speeding up with urgency, I slowed up and began to really take my time. It was all coming to a close right on the shoulder of that busy intersection.

Before I knew it, I had purchased a ticket on the ferry, which was leaving in approximately 7 minutes. I attempted to get a discount with my story but the lady simply said, "Oh, congratulations! Another cyclist!" So I wasn't very special, huh? I boarded the ferry and promptly fell asleep. Suddenly, the ferry ride was over and I had basically missed the entire thing. I took my time, got my things together on board and stepped out into the frigid, dark, overcast city of San Francisco.

Upon walking out with my bike (and flat tire), I was utterly disoriented. There were thousands of people crowding the little boardwalk and a myriad of different languages echoing out into the bay. I walked toward wherever I thought there might be a beach. I found one, took off my shoes and looked for someone to snap a picture of me. I found two younger looking guys wearing college sweaters and told them what I'd done, and the favor I needed. They were pretty cool about the whole thing.

I walked over to the water and to my surprise, it didn't seem very cold. Still shivering, however, I bent over my bike and looked up toward the two young guys.

"Alright, I'm gonna attempt to lift this behemoth up but I'm not really sure I have the strength. As soon as I get this thing even remotely off the ground, snap that picture."

They laughed and raised the camera. I breathed in and out for my little snapshot of accomplishment. I gave a shout, wrapped both hands around the frame and lifted. The weight distribution immediately shifted, the front wheel turned and the frame dug into my right hand. Grimacing still, I smiled? The picture was taken and I was assured it was a good one. The two men walked away.

I sat down on the wooden stairs leading down to the beach with my shoes still sitting in the sand. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, searching for some kind of awakening, some kind of... something. It didn't come. I stared out into the bay, and eyed the Golden Gate Bridge, shrouded in the rolling mist. It was a dark day. In a sense, I'd already learned and changed on the journey. As I'd told myself before, this was just a place. Sure it was my "destination" but I'd already gone through the transition as a person on the road. This was just the place where I stopped biking. I took one last drag of my cigarette, snubbed it out, picked up my shoes, and disappeared into the funnel of people on the sidewalk.    

A bridge absolutely covered on every facet with graffiti. Very cool to ride over. Fresh out of Davis.

Literally, as soon as I took this picture, Jim and Jack came up to me from behind.

Jim leading the way, signaling a left hand turn at the bridge. Jack following silently behind.

On a path running parallel to a major interstate. The wind really started here, outside Fairfield, and wouldn't stop until the ferry.

San Francisco.

Half cheering, half grimacing, but triumphant. 

Now what?

The day after my expedition was over, I went for a victory lap over the Golden Gate bridge. Whom from the Bike the US for MS team did I rendezvous with, you ask? Keep scrolling to find out.

My good friend, biking companion, and exploring buddy: Duncan Moore. The two of us biked up an overlook across the bridge, trespassed into abandoned pillboxes/bunkers from time's past, and got dinner at an In N Out. It was truly a joy to see this rugged dude again. We have plans for checking out UC Berkeley on Thursday.

Sketching a fire truck. Big kudos to Duncan for capturing the moment as it happened.



To everyone that followed this adventure, I thank you deeply for staying in touch. This was an absolutely intricate and important aspect of my adventure. I don't know how I would have done it without this outlet. Sorry for some of my offensive language, and such... but not really. This was more a journal than something I wrote for people to read. It became more and more difficult to keep that in mind as I went on but I tried to keep that thought in check. So... thank you. This is the final post of "Into the Mystic".