Bike - Specialized Roubaix
Miles ridden - 84.6
Total elapsed mileage - 911.3
Time in saddle - 6:22
Average speed for day - 13.2 mph
Max speed for day - 41.8
July 15, 1961: Slept well in motel and ate cereal there. I don't know when I started; watch stopped. Rode through 17 miles of rough mountains before I reached the Bridge. Very foggy and windy. The Bridge routed me onto a freeway, which nearly panicked me, and made my only aim to get out of town. S.F. is not for bicycle tourists. Really moved from Half Moon Bay to Santa Cruz with tail winds and good road. Bought more sourdough bread and honey. This park is actually full, but the ranger fitted me in. For the first time, it cost - a dollar. But at least I'm legal and I won't be turned out at 10:00.
A man gve me a Presto-log and I cooked soup. My left knee sure hurts at times. I am only forty miles from Monterey. I sure hope I can get hold of Hilda (my mother's first cousin) tomorrow.
Made 100 miles; passed 1,000 mark south of Frisco (apparently including the over-the-Sierras-to-Yosemite leg).
Still have $29. I should have the $20 left when I get home. I am running over a dollar a day, but living well, and that is what matters.
Got under way around 9:00 on the Sausalito bike trail, well known to me already from rental-bike rides during visits to the Bay area. Called Lynda at about 10:00 from the Golden Gate bridge. A much smoother and safer crossing that 50 years ago this month, when riding a BIKE acros the bridge was an outlandish proposition. Since the west, usually southbound, sidewalk was closed for maintainance, the eastern sidewalk was crowded with riders and walkers, especially in the last couple hundred yards, where Chinese tourists ruled the pavement.
The first thirty miles were Sausalito trail, bridge, urban, suburban and slow, eating up the first three hours of riding time of the day. The steepest and longest climb of the day, reaching 600 feet, was through a residential neigborhood of suburban Daly City. The first section ended with a slow slog around the backside of a headland. The danger of the extremely narrow shoulder was tempered by the equally slow speed of the bumper-to-bumper traffic, and revenge was mine on the descent as I overtook and passed the same vehicles which had edged past me on the ascent.
As long as the wind is at my back, I do not dread hills. I gear down, focus on the front wheel and the shoulder lane, and remind myself that every foot climbed is a foot taken back on the descent. No matter how fast you descend, however, your average falls, because you spend so much more time climbing than descending.
The coast then flattened out somewhat, population decreased to almost nil and the wind increased as the afternoon advanced. Windsurfers and kiteboarders were having a field day as I continued south past accessible beaches. I was making 25 mph on flat ground and 15-plus uphill, and covered the last 30 miles to Santa Cruz - meeting up with Bob once for an urgently-needed topping up of fluids - in about half the time the first 30 miles had cost me. Linked up with Bob in Santa Cruz at about ten to five and we made our way to our lodgings in Watsonville.
We're gaining time over my projected itinerary. Rather than overnighting in Monterey tomorrow as originally planned, I'll ride to Big Sur and we will car-shuttle, as in 1961, to Morro Bay, gaining several hours. We may arrive in Long Beach with usable time available on Friday the 8th rather than Saturday the 9th.
And now the burning question you've all been waiting to ask: Do cyclists wear underwear under those lycra tights? It is conventional wisdom among serious recreational cyclist that they do not, and professional racers certainly don't. I did, most of the time, until this ride - it seemed... well, cleaner to do so. However, to use the words of former Miami Herald humor columnist and book writer Dave Barry, my underwear zone, especially the part of it where the leg-opening seams rub against some of the body's most sensitive flesh during the 14,000-or so pedal strokes I make during the average riding day, was paying the price. Thus, today I ditched the Fruit of the Looms and the difference, and relief, have been remarkable.
Also, to quote, in its entirety, the poem Babies, by that most succinct of American poets, Ogden Nash: A bit of talcum
Is always walcum
1: Alex - Cape Perpetua
2: Cousin Jean's, Seal Rock
Regards, and until tomorrow,
Roberto
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