Sacramento to San Francisco

Several times I’ve taken the train between Los Angeles and San Luis Obispo. It follows the California coastline, at times just feet from the crashing surf of the Pacific Ocean. The train is fittingly called the Pacific Surfliner. I’d always thought how nice it would be to ride my bike along the route with time to stop in each of the little beach towns I’d watched pass by the windows in previous trips. This week I decided to check it off my bucket list.

Technically, my trip started in Sacramento. My sister put me on the first train to San Francisco. I wanted to be there early so that I could go to the Chinese consulate to get a visa. There’ve been several times over the years that I’ve wanted to visit China, but it’s always required advance planning as you had to mail your passport to the Chinese embassy in Washington DC.

Since then, it’s become more relaxed, but it still involves applying in person. What I hadn’t realized is that you were also required to come back in person in four days to pick up the visa. I am rarely in any place for four days, and I had a train ticket to San Luis Obispo the next morning so waiting wasn’t an option. With the extra time, I instead decided to spend the day with my friend Meredith hiking the coast of San Francisco. It was a pleasant contrast to the visa office, and I’m somewhat of the opinion that if you make it too hard for me to visit your country, I’ll spend my money elsewhere.

Morning started with another train trip that brought me closer to the beginning of my bike journey. Beginning the night before, I began receiving texts notifying me that my train was running late. The Coast Starlight begins its journey in Seattle so it departed just before I went to bed the night before.

The first message blamed the delay on a car parked on the tracks. The second message spoke of a police action, and by the time I arrived at Jack London Station, the train was running an hour and a half late. I took advantage of the extra time by grabbing a coffee and drinking it outside Heinold’s First and Last Chance Saloon, where Jack London spent much of his time dreaming of adventures. How fitting I thought.

San Francisco to San Luis Obispo

By the time the train finally arrived it was three hours late. Apparently they needed to replace an engine as well. Delays continued as we came to a crawl several times on our way south. By the time it finally arrived in Paso Robles, the wineries I was hoping to go tasting at with my friends were closed. My childhood friend, Ronelle picked me up at the train station, and we were still able to salvage a happy hour with her parents who I hadn’t seen in several years.

She drove me to my hostel in San Luis Obispo and picked me up the next morning for a hike along the coast. It’s a ritual we do annually, and it gives us a chance to catch up on each others lives. Because we are getting older, we couldn’t remember if we’d done the hike before, but it was still beautiful, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The coastline doesn’t have many trees which means overexposure to the sun but also panoramic views. We finished with coffee and said our goodbyes for another year.

San Luis Obispo to Santa Barbara

In the morning, I packed up as quietly as possible and headed to the train station that is only two blocks from the hostel. I probably didn’t need to worry about my quiet departure as one of the guys in our dorm had been snoring continuously all night. It’s ironic that the one who keeps everyone else awake is the one getting the best sleep. Honestly, I’d never shared a room with someone who snored for almost eight hours straight.

There was one time in Mexico that I’d gone into the common room to sleep because someone was snoring so loudly. One after another, others followed, taking refuge on the common room couches. Eventually we decided, why should we the ones be moving when he’s the one creating the problem. We all headed back into the room, grabbed the mattress by each corner, with him on it, and dragged it to the common area. Shockingly he did not wake up, but we were finally able to get some sleep!

The train trip to the point where I started my ride took about 2 hours so I caught up on writing and chatted with a couple who were living in an RV park where they got on. When we got to my station, I hopped off and tried to decide which direction to head. The hostel was only 10 miles away, but it was still 8:30 in the morning, and there was no way I could check in that early.

I decided to backtrack a little bit. In truth, I’d wished there was a stop about 10 miles back, but the last stop before the one I got off, would have added 50 miles to my day. Before getting off the train, I saw a few state parks and a dilapidated bike trail, but with the extra time I had, I figured I could afford to add a few miles.

I was surprised at how quickly I felt sore, having not ridden for a long time. When I got to the butterfly preserve at the edge of the town I thought I would just go visit that. It didn’t matter if I got to Santa Barbara a little early. I’d never been there, and I wanted to spend at least some time exploring the place I’d heard about frequently.

Unfortunately there were no butterflies at the Goleta Monarch Butterfly Grove this time of year, but the flowers were in full bloom, and the bird calls so loud it felt like I was in an aviary. The path that led through the preserve was soft dirt so my ride was comfortable as the tires glided along the smooth ground. Every once in awhile I’d hit a root that darted across the path, and it would knock my backpack off the rack.

With my previous bike, I’d attached a milk crate that I could put my backpack into, but bringing a milk crate on the plane with me wasn’t really feasible so I had to come up with a way to secure the pack to my seat post using straps. It was a lot better than having it hang off my shoulders!

The butterfly preserve turned into an estuary, and while the birds were less noisy, they were much more visible. There were mallards, egrets, herons, and cormorants all enjoying the crisp sunny California morning. Some were fishing, others were swimming, and others just stood in trees taking in the bucolic scene.

The estuary road led to a cliff with a view down the shoreline. Constant waves crashed upon the sand with surfers gliding just in front of the crest. I found a rocking chair conveniently located on the ridge top and sat down to enjoy my discovery.

After about an hour, I hopped back onto the bike and headed south. Nature’s beauty was abruptly replaced by man’s crudeness. Sadly, the greatest housing boom in California history occurred during its worst architectural period, and no matter where you go in the state, you cannot avoid the Brady Bunch style California rancher house. As if placing those along a pristine coastline wasn’t bad enough, it had been graduation weekend for UC Santa Barbara two days before, and all the students were moving out.

It looked like a scene out of a disaster movie, where everyone on the street was loading their cars with all they could before they had to escape a natural disaster, only in this case, they were the disaster. Many things didn’t make it into the cars and were left beside overflowing dumpsters or front lawns. The opportunistic scavengers had already begun to show up with their pick up trucks, loading up anything salvageable.

As busy as the residential area was, the campus was deserted, and I enjoyed riding the bike paths that wound around the ocean inlet that juts into the middle of the campus. From the edge of the campus, there is an almost continuous bike trail to take you to downtown Santa Barbara, about 10 miles away.

When I reached town, I rode down the main street, which had been converted to a pedestrian mall, and it reminded me of several other California coastal towns with boutique shops and fancy restaurants along a tree lined street. All of the world’s most beautiful people stood around laughing or sitting at a street cafe. Despite riding through the middle of town with my backpack, I hoped that my folding bike would suggest I was a retiree from a nearby campground coming for a bite downtown and not a vagrant looking to settle down for a spell.

I arrived at the hostel, which was located just two blocks from the beach. In front of it were several chairs beneath umbrellas where you could sit in the ideal California climate, a constant 70 degrees and sunny. The hostel was on the modern side with capsule style beds instead of bunks. That made for much more comfortable sleeping, but it was warm inside, and I spent as much time as I could outside.

It wasn’t your usual hostel crowd. Most of the staff were foreign, but they seemed to have taken on the California surfer vibe. I.e., if you don’t surf, you’re not worth talking to. There were a couple outliers, and I hung out with them and talked about travel. We even headed out to get ice cream and take it to the pier to watch the sunset.

What I hadn’t realized is that in that part of California, the sun rises over the water and sets behind the mountains. Because the coast makes a sharp eastward turn at Santa Barbara, you’re actually facing south when looking at the ocean. It was a little disorienting having to look away from the ocean to watch the sunset!

Santa Barbara to Oxnard, 40 miles

40 miles didn’t seem too long a distance to travel, and I’d planned to leave around 8am. I was even thinking about having the pancake breakfast at the hostel, but once I started to review the bike routes on my laptop, I got so excited that I slammed the cover, packed my things, and headed out the door five minutes later.

It was a beautiful day, and I quickly shed my jacket. My ride began along an isthmus in Santa Barbara, passing by the ocean on my right and a lagoon on my left. Towering above me were the palm trees lining the bike path. This particular segment of my trip looked to be primarily bike trails.

Bike trails aren’t always beautiful, and when I reached the end of town, it began to parallel the freeway. One bit of satisfaction I had is that I was not stuck in the morning commute crawling below me on highway 101. My route took me through a couple quaint towns that looked like they might be lively later in the day, but my first planned stop was a place named Carpenteria.

It was one of the Amtrak stations I’d seen along my trips up the coast and the reason for my trip in general. It was also about a quarter of the distance I wanted to travel that day. I’d mentally broken the trip up into four ten mile segments, thinking I would take an hour break between each one. I figured it would make the ride seem easier and give my body some rest since I hadn’t really done anything to build up to the ride.

While looking for coffee shops in Carpenteria, I saw a doughnut shop on the map, and the knowledge percolated in my mind as I rode through town. It wouldn’t hurt to go look anyway. I was working pretty hard, and I could certainly reward myself with a little sugar! If I entered the doughnut shop with any resistance, it melted away when I saw the maple coated buttermilk bar. I ordered it with a cup of tea and sat outside to enjoy the cool air.

A couple minutes later, I was joined by John. He had started his trip in Valencia, and the doughnut shop was his goal for the day’s ride. We shared stories about our lives and our cycling history. He assured me that I would enjoy the ride to Ventura and encouraged me to ride down main street in Carpenteria.

After we finished our donuts and conversation, we headed our separate ways. I rode down the main street in Carpenteria, and I’d say it looked better from the train, but it does have a nice beachfront. There is a state park campground located there, and there were plenty of people enjoying their morning breakfast when I rode past. I definitely could have stopped in for a little grilled bacon.

I’d chosen the wrong line on the map, and instead of cycling on the bike trail, I ended up cycling down the hiking trail. It provided great views of the ocean, but according to the map, it would dead end eventually, so I made my way back to the road. My next goal was a place called Faria beach.

The bike lane dropped me onto highway 101 for about a quarter of a mile then became a dedicated bike path for several miles. The path followed the edge of the surf passing by a couple private communities before dropping me onto a frontage road.

The frontage road was actually California highway 1. In this area, US highway 101 and State highway 1 merge and part several several times. Coastal highway 1 is usually a two lane road with winding curves and narrow shoulders. The stretch before Faria Beach, however, was straight and lined with RVs the whole way. There are some spots along the California coast where you are allowed to camp along the highway, and there are designated pay spots as if you were in a campground.

I saw two trucks parked beside one of the RVs, and I thought it was being towed until I got closer. One truck was a waste disposal truck and the other was a potable water truck. This brilliant duo had figured out they could service the RVs along the highway since the parking strip campground did not offer wastewater dumping facilities. I think an added feature was that it allowed the RV to keep the space since there was probably no way to reserve it if you weren’t parked there.

At the end of the parade of RVs was a county campground. Due to its steep winding entry, only smaller RVs could make it down. I headed down because they had a sign for coffee. It turned out to be a satellite cafe of a restaurant in Ventura, and they had a delicious breakfast offering, but I had already had my doughnut, and I was saving lunch for my third stop. I did see a guy walking away with a blackberry smoothie and decided to order that instead of a coffee.

It was nice to take a break and look out over the campground. The location was right on the ocean, and there was a beach at the north end of the parking lot. There were probably about 30 spaces, and most of them were filled with RVs. Though there were a couple larger ones I was surprised had made it down, most were innovative smaller ones, like a Sprinter van with one side that pooped out, or a trailer that popped up and out. When fully opened, it quadrupled the space of the trailer!

It was a nice little community, and some people seemed to know each other. About the time I left, there was a line at the cafe of people who’d all come to eat together. I pedaled up the entrance ramp and continued down the highway. There were more private homes along the coast and the bike path picked up again outside of Ventura.

The smoothie had been filling, and I wasn’t really in the mood for lunch when I entered Ventura. I thought I might just eat closer to dinner and let that meal cover both. I did stop for a little while to put my feet in the ocean. It was delightful as my body really overheats when cycling, and the cold water rushing over my feet acted as a conductive cooler.

The bike path followed the beach through Ventura before dropping me into a neighborhood near the harbor. At that point, I had to take the main highway between Ventura and Oxnard. It was surprisingly desolate, and the heat coming up from the pavement made it feel like I was cycling through the desert. The road was no longer near the ocean so there was no breeze to cool me.

When I arrived in Oxnard shores, I was a bit surprised how isolated it was. The area was surrounded by sand dunes, and if it weren’t for the ocean, it would have felt more like the Sahara. Never to be deterred, these southern Californians had no reservations about building a community on top of a desert. It made for an odd suburban community, and at points, the sand completely covered the bike path.

I was craving vegetables and found an amazing Indian restaurant to answer those cravings. He brought me a vegetable curry and sweet naan bread that tasted surprisingly like the doughnut I’d had that morning. In addition to the chai tea, I finished an entire pitcher of water. While my thirst could not be quenched, my appetite was not as great and I ended up taking the rest home for dinner.

It was a rather bland AirBnb, but there weren’t a lot of options in Oxnard. Certainly there were no hostels, and the hotels were overpriced, so I ended up sharing a room in a suburban house with two other people. We interacted minimally, but I did enjoy sitting out in the backyard with my glass of wine, before heading to bed early.

Oxnard to Santa Monica, 50 miles

I’d vacillated on the final segment of my planned ride. Not because the Pacific coast highway from Oxnard to Santa Monica had only a shoulder for me to ride but because the distance is over 50 miles. I had planned to stay at a friend’s house in El Segundo that night, which would have added an additional 12 miles. To tempt me into laziness was the fact that there is a train from Oxnard to Los Angeles.

That prompted me to look into bus options in case I didn’t feel I could complete the coast route. While there is no bus line between Oxnard and Malibu, there is a bus line from Malibu to Santa Monica, and that bus stop was only 25 miles away. Knowing I had an escape option, I made my decision to attempt the ride.

As if fate was giving me one last chance to reconsider, I awoke to find I had a flat tire, but I denied the omen and used my portable hand pump to inflate the tire. I hadn’t bothered to patch it since I’d noticed the tire beginning to slowly lose air the day before. I figured if I could fill it, I could finish my trip before having to deal with the hole in the tire.

It’s not that it’s difficult to patch a tire. I can do it in about 2 minutes, but I’d never had to do it on my folding bike. The difficulty is that the wheel is bolted on to the frame using regular nuts that require a pair of wrenches to remove and replace. I’d been bragging to John the day before how easy it was to change a flat without taking off the wheel. Granted this wasn’t something I’d done in 25 years, but I knew I’d done it once.

Not wanting to try that just now, I added enough air to get me to the closest gas station. Hand pumps can get enough air in the tire to get you to a real pump, kind of like the doughnut spare tire in the back of your car can get you to a tire repair shop. The gas station had an air pump, but for some reason it was not working with my tire. I wondered if the hole was bigger than I thought. Still, undeterred, I removed the tube without removing the wheel. Running my hand along the inside of my tire, I found the cause of my woes: a tiny piece of metal that appeared to be the broken off piece of a staple. At least I was correct in my assessment of it being a slow leak.

I removed the staple and patched the tube. Just about the time I finished, the oil change shop I’d been working in front of opened, and I asked if they could pump up my tire. The guy happily obliged, and I tipped him $5 for his kindness. I figured he needed everything he could get since he’d been sleeping in his van outside the place. That was just part of the cost of trying to make a living on minimum wage in California.

I was happy to be headed on my way, even though in the back of my mind, I’d been wondering how much it would have cost to get an Uber to the train station. The first part of the ride was pretty disappointing. The coastal highway, as it runs through Oxnard, is more of a freeway, and you can’t ride your bicycle on, depriving you of your most direct route. Instead I had to ride surface streets at perpendicular angles to the highway.

At one point I rode along the strawberry fields that Oxnard is known for. They were filled with migrant workers doing the back breaking work of picking strawberries under the unrelenting California sun. I wished I could go pick a couple for my morning ride, but there was a barrier between the road and the fields to prevent just such a thing. Probably even more than strawberries, I wanted access to the port-a-potties located in the fields.

With all the time it took to deal with my flat, I was ready for a toilet break. It would come a little later, but I didn’t know that yet, and I was beginning to feel uncomfortable since the bushes on the side of the road were now barricaded by a fence with warning signs saying, “No Trespassing. US Government Property” It was the Naval Air Station at Point Mugu.

Fortunately, once I passed the Air Station, the highway turned to public land, and there were several state beaches and hiking trails leading into the Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area. Most had restrooms.

I continued along the highway, pleased that I’d had the foresight to choose the southbound direction. Though one of my friends commented that it put me closer to the cliff while riding, I also knew it would be much easier for pulling off to take photos. It also meant I rode with traffic on one side and the ocean on the other instead of feeling bound between traffic and a mountain on the other had I been riding north.

Parts of the coast here were really similar to parts I’d ridden in the northern part of the state near San Francisco. I passed a couple construction areas where they were trying to shore up parts of the highway that had begun to fall into the ocean. Highway repair on coastal highway 1 is a non-stop process.

By mid-morning I’d reached Malibu despite my delayed start. I grabbed a coffee at Starbucks since that was the only coffee shop available, but I did enjoy their covered outdoor patio. It gave me a chance to pull out my laptop to consider my options.

I knew the bus stop to Santa Monica was across the street so I had my exit strategy close by. I really wanted to complete the ride though so I began to look into lodging opportunities. Unsurprisingly there were no hostels in Malibu. There were a few AirBnB for just over $100 a night, but they required riding up into the Santa Monica mountains. All hotels in my price range were already booked.

As I expanded my search, I found a hostel in Santa Monica right at the pier, and there was a bed available in an 8 person dorm for just $40. I booked it. I know I was just 12 miles from my final destination in El Segundo, but I challenge any of you to consider adding 12 miles to a 50 mile day!

I was happy with my decision, though the ride through Malibu was particularly hilly. While I loved the downhill coasting, the uphill climbs were laborious. At the top of one, I met up with another cyclist who called himself Gilr. To look at him in the face with his toothless smile, you would have thought him homeless, but he was dressed in lycra cycling gear from top to bottom and riding a 15 thousand dollar carbon fiber bike.

Ignoring the inequities of our bicycles, we chatted a bit about cycling. He was on his return from doing what I was halfway through and found an excuse to keep the conversation going for longer than I preferred given how much I still had to ride. I think it was simply to give us a longer break from putting our sore butts back onto those bike seats, and I appreciated that relief.

After my short break, I powered through the Pacific Palisades and onto Santa Monica. The increased density and traffic and surfers told me I was getting close to the city. Strangely the overcast sky ended just about the time I rolled into greater Los Angeles. I had to stop and apply some sunscreen even though I only had about 30 minutes left to ride. It was also clear I hadn’t been drinking enough water so I decided that I would have a Vietnamese pho (soup) for lunch.

I found a place on the way into town and needed to kill an hour before I got to the hostel anyway. The pho was perfect with plenty of broth and veggies, and I even ordered some dark meat chicken to help rebuild all the nutrients I’d been burning the past three days.

The hostel was ideally located just two blocks from the Santa Monica pier, and the afternoon ocean breeze was beginning to cool the area when I arrived. Once I checked in, I headed out to the pier to take in the amusements. It’s fun to watch tourists realize their dreams about California.

People were cycling and skating in bikinis, both men and women. Families had large tents set up in the sand where they’d spent the day trying to tire out their children during their summer break from school. The aroma of corn dogs, funnel cake, and other fried foods tempted me more than I would have expected. I watched the sunset and headed back to the room to rest my body. I was able to write for a little bit but decided to just enjoy a movie to relax on my bunk bed before falling off to sleep.

Santa Monica to El Segundo, 12 miles

The next day I rode the final 12 miles to my friend Mary’s house. It brought me along the promenade of Venice beach and all the bodybuilders working out at muscle beach. It had been many years since I visited, and the theme song to Three’s Company played in my head as I cycled the bike path darting between the perfectly fit population of Los Angeles beach culture.

When I arrived in El Segundo, I repeated a section I’d ridden the summer before. At the time I had no idea that the next year it would be the last segment of a ride I’d been dreaming of doing for a long time. I was excited not just to have visited the beautiful towns I’d seen from the train but to have done it on a folding bike, something designed more for getting around a campground.