San Francisco Microadventure: Over the Hills and to the Sea

Enriching life altering journeys don’t always have to be to some far away land or exotic destination. Adventure is where you find it, and more often than not, it’s more about one’s mindset than the places traveled to or the length of time on the road. Quite often, excitement and adventure can be found in your own backyard or near your home.

Microadventures are excellent journeys in themselves in lieu of or in between bigger farther, longer lasting voyages, and provide not only enriching experiences for relatively little time and capital, but can be ideal proving grounds for testing out new gear or refining one’s touring techniques prior to embarking on bigger forays farther afield.

Trek to the City by the Bay

With my time winding down in the United States and always on the lookout for opportunities to ride, I was able to cobble together a few days to bike over the Sierra Nevada Mountains, across California’s Central Valley, and spend a few days cruising around San Francisco, a trip of about 245 miles one way. The passes over the Sierras were open and the weather looked promising, though a storm would be rolling in in a day or two, but I could beat it if I got over the mountain passes before it set in. And if I got stuck on the other the side of the Sierras, I would just rent a car and drive back.

I decided to roll up and over Kit Carson Pass on Highway 88 and then work my way across the Central Valley and river Delta country along the local byways to the Bay Area. Here are few of the highlights and images from my journey:

Shakedown in the Sierras

Climbing up and over the Sierra Nevadas was an excellent opportunity to evaluate my Co-Motion Divide on climbing fairly high mountain roads under fully loaded conditions for sustained periods of time. The undulating roads and alpine passes would provide me with a good idea of how the Divide would fare transiting the towering mountain passes of central and western China later this year.

Sustained climbing through the Sierras on 6% grades increasing to 8% on stretches near the Carson Summit showed me the Co-Motion Divide could handle the rigors of ascending long, steep grades, but I found myself in want of a lower granny low. The 46T x 20T front pulley rear cog set up the Divide came equipped with was fine on the 6% grades, but a little lacking when the incline rose to 8%, an incline often found on Asian mountain roads.

The Divide’s frame was rock steady and noticeably stiffer than other loaded bikes I’d ridden, which seemed to be plagued with a pronounced wobbly, jelly like feeling when I was pumping hard on the pedals or coming out of the saddle. I could definitely feel the Divide’s stiffness from its oversized down tube and beefy chain stays coming into play.

Six hours steadily working my way up Highway 88 from Carson Valley at an elevation of 4,500 feet to 8,652 feet at the summit of Carson Pass had my heart pounding in my throat and my eyeballs bugged out ready to burst. I could have swore that I saw Jesus and he was telling me to step away from the light. My quivering, cramping legs were gassed and nearing their limit, feebly pumping up and down like the pistons on some old clanky antiquated steam locomotive straight out of the 1800’s. Fantasies of effortlessly coasting down the backside of the summit on a whirlwind descent filled my dizzy head and had me thrusting for the crest waiting above me as I plodded forward. Little did I know that I still had several miles of significant ups and downs to negotiate after reaching Carson Pass as the road snaked along forested ridges and saddles before I was truly “descending” into the Central Valley.

As I inched closer to the top, a dapper looking gentlemen sporting a well coiffed mustache and goatee dressed in a black turtleneck sweater sitting behind the wheel of a shiny black BMW X5 rolled up along side me from the oncoming lane slowly lowering his door window as he approached.

“Are you doing okay? There’s a storm coming in,” he stated under a concerned brow.
“Is that the summit up there?” I coughed out.
“Yes, it’s just up around the corner.”
“Good.” More like, “Thank God,” I thought to myself.
“Are you going to be okay up here?” he replied, still sizing me up to decide if I was for real, a local nut job, or just barking mad.
“I’m fine. I’m going to descend below the snow line before the storm hits. Thanks for asking. Have a good one.”
“You too. Be safe,” he replied and slowly rolled off raising the window and staring at me through the tinted glass in disbelief.

Alone again, I pushed on to the summit about a half a mile up the road. At the top of Kit Carson Pass I eased the Divide to a halt in the gravel along side the road and leaned it up against the summit sign post listing the elevation at 8,652 feet. After a few moments of rest, I snapped a few pictures for the memory books and took a leak. Not wanting to waste anytime in the fast fading light, I jammed down a couple of fig bars and chugged about half of a water bottle for energy, hopped on the Divide and started to descend. My stiff, frazzled legs struggled to turn the pedals, but were oh so grateful to be finally going down hill. I’d been climbing non-stop for six hours for the first time in months, and I felt it.

Whizzing along the edge of the road, pines flashing by at a blur, cold wind in my face, and pieces of gravel picked up by the treads of my tires pinging against the bikes fenders, I felt relieved to be making some time. My cycle computer was ticking off 65 kph and the Divide’s handling was steady and stable. I was blowing through the trees like a rocket sled on rails. At this speed, I would be to Pine Grove in an couple of hours or so and well below the snow line to camp before the storm hit, whose clouds had now enveloped the pines and cut my visibility down to a few hundred feet or so.

Much to my chagrin, my long-awaited descent proved to be short-lived. Soon I was climbing again and back to grinding out a paltry 7 kph or so as I worked up and down and in and out of a series of bowls and along a mountain ridge toward Carson Spur, another summit nearing 8000 feet. The cycling gods were not smiling on me today.

Forced Bivouac at 8000 Feet

Snowflakes started falling and soon a light skiff of snow covered the ground. The once tiny flakes were getting bigger and thicker by the minute, growing to the size of quarters and streaking to the ground with no let up in sight. Not wanting to get soaking wet, I quickly dawned my rain gear and pushed on thinking to myself that this could be the makings of a “Donner Party of one” if I wasn’t careful. My little microadventure was threatening to become a “micro-epic” of the nastiest proportions.

Before long all I could see was streaks of snow flashing through the glow of Divide’s headlight as I kept my head down to shield my face and peered from under the brim of my hood. The storm had beset the mountains with its full fury and showed no sign of letting up. In no time, a couple of inches of fluffy white snow completely blanketed the pine needles on the forest floor. Fortunately, the the pavement was still bare and wet as the Divide hissed along through the rivulets of icy water and I continued to push for lower ground. Thank goodness for fenders, which directed a flume of frigid water back to the ground.

Gradually, the gray light closed in and everything around me became pitch black save for the beam of the Divide’s headlamp and the flashing red glow of the taillight casting long red streaking reflections on the road behind me. The tall pines to my left and right became inky black sentinels standing post on my periphery just beyond snow speckled beam of my headlamp.

The sky was black and was nearing 8:00 p.m. Time to call it quits and hold up for the night and ride the storm out. Best to resume the descent in the morning. No sense in pushing on. Much better to get safe and warm for the night. “Any port in a storm,” I thought, squinting to see through the constant barrage of flakes and scanning the black voids in the tree line in search of a place to bivouac for the night. All I needed was a little patch of ground among the tall black pines. Any nook would do.

Out of the darkness up the road ahead, the headlights of an oncoming vehicle shown on me through the flurry of snow as it approached and slowly rolled to a stop at my side. A pretty girl in a stocking cap cracked her window just enough to peer out and cautiously look me over.

“Are you all right?, she said. “You better be prepared. You’re on your own up here riding high in the mountains at night during a snow storm. A lot of the drivers coming down from Kirkwood have been drinking.”
“I’m prepared. No worries. I have water to drink, food to eat, and gear to stay warm an dry. My gear has lot’s of reflectors. I’m doing fine. How far till I get off this ridge?”
“You’re almost there. About another mile or two of up the road and it should be down hill from there. Best you stay up here tonight. It’s raining hard down lower and you’ll get all wet. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay, just peachy. Do they keep the roads plowed? Storms can really dump up here.”
“Yes, snow plows should be coming through anytime. Semi-trucks travel this road all the time, so it should stay open.”
“Good, I’ll be just fine then, just as long as I can ride out in the morning.”
“Do you want some water?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Have a good one.”
“You too. Thanks for checking on me.”

After the glow of her taillights disappeared in the falling snow and darkness, I pedaled up the road a piece and found a stand of towering Ponderosa’s to tuck in under located just off of a turn-off in the the road overlooking what I figured was Liberty Lake down below to the south. “No sense in riding down to the lake,” I thought. It was dark and I would just have to climb back up an unplowed road to the highway in the morning if it snowed all night.

Rolling up onto the crunchy needles and pinecones, I leaned my bike against a large Ponderosa and quickly set about erecting the tent and getting camp set up for the night. In record time, I had the tent up and my gear inside. Warm, dry and out of the storm, I downed several fig bars, a bottle of water and called it dinner. Sitting up in my down bag, I did a few toe stretches to draw out my knotted hamstrings and then slipped into the bag to call it a night. Dawn would come soon and what it would bring had yet to be seen.

From the warmth of my down bag, I began to hear the spatter of rain on my tent fly, the monotone of which lulled me to sleep. The snow flurry had turned to rain that pattered on the rainfly all night long. With nightfall, the temperature must have rose a bit, turning the snow to cold rain.

Sleep came quick and the night passed quicker. Occasionally, the rumble of a big truck stirred me from my slumber. Other than that I was dead to the world, with the wind and din of rain against the tent walls the only sound. The second great think about cycle touring next to being able o eat whatever and as much as you want, is that a long day’s riding helps you sleep like a log, regardless of the conditions. I was dead to the world.

The night passed quickly and soon I was awake. The fuzzy pale blue glow from my watch said it was 0445. Rain still spattered against the tent. A wet ride lay ahead. There was no time like the present and rain was showing no signs of letting up. Might as well get suited up and go for it and get off this mountain and out of the storm. The sooner I got down meant the sooner I could dry out in some coffee shop or laundromat. Even if it was raining in the valley, it would still be warmer than it was up here in the hills.

It took me about thirty minutes to choke down a couple more fig bars for breakfast and get my gear packed up and stored in the panniers under the vestibule, with only the tent remaining. No time like the present. I jumped out, dropped the tent, stuffed into its stuff sack, which I stuffed into a dry bag and strapped it over my rackpack after I hung the panniers.

Being careful packing my gear, the tent was the only piece of kit that got wet besides my bike and panniers. My camera gear and electronics were safe and dry in the rackpack and front panniers. I’d stashed at the first sign of snow the day before. Having solid waterproof panniers and dry bags is key to keeping your sensitive items safe when you’re stuck out in the rain.

Rolling out of the pine trees and onto the road, the rain steadily fell on my face. I turned my bike uphill and started to climb. Stiff and sore muscles in my legs started to complain as I struggle to establish a light spinning rhythm. I was glad I popped a four 200 mg Ibuprofen tablets with breakfast. I was going to need them. The Garmin GPS registered 0545. In the white light of the Divide’s headlamp, I could see large rivulets of water running down the road into torrents of water along the sides. The conditions were excellent; they had the makings of an epic day.

A Rainy Descent

Riding in the rain is an experience all its own. The next two hours, I spent climbing and descending against a steadily falling rain. Sheets of icy water cascaded off the front of my jacket and down my legs like I was cycling in a carwash. Gray clouds lay flat on the mountains limiting my visibility to a few hundred feet. I had to dip and cock my head so as to peer from under the hood’s visor to see down the road and the occasional car passing me by.

The forest was silent, save for the falling rain, trickling ground water, and the swoosh of spray from the Divide’s tires as they cut a foamy path across the shimmering asphalt. In the fog, the air was dead calm. Not even the slightest breeze could be felt during short stops. Still warm and pretty dry, I pushed on along the spines of ridges gradually dropping lower with each small descent, and wondering each time, if this would be the last climb. Though the Sierras a beautiful sight to see, I was so ready to get on the flat grasslands of the Central Valley.

My Goretex rain pants and a top shell with a snuggly fitting hood kept me dry and warm, making the riding pretty enjoyable all things considered. The steady rain provided an interesting twist to my little trek. Goretex booties and vapor barriers kept my feet from getting wet, with only my gloves eventually soaking through. Though my hands were wet, they were still warm, so the riding tolerable, if not a little pleasant. I was genuinely enjoying the ride. Adventure is where you find it.

As cars and pickup trucks whooshed past, I could see the drivers and passengers staring hard at me through foggy windows with telltale “WTF” look or “Are you out of your f-ing mind?” expressions on their faces as they slowed enough to confirm what they thought they were seeing and then sped up to pass me by. Little did they know, I was doing just fine, and was safe in the adage that there is no such thing as bad weather, just soft people and bad clothes. Gradually dropping out of the pine forests and into broken scrub brush, I knew the riding would only get better.

Breakfast at Ham Station

After about two hours of climbing and gradually descending through steady rain getting lower and lower on the western side of the Sierra Nevadas, I rolled up on a quaint green little shack on the side of the road with a sign that said Ham Station, a dew drop inn that turned out to be the leftover remnants of an old toll station from the 1800’s which collected fees for use of the road over Carson Pass to get back and forth from Virginia City in Nevada.

Enough riding. It was time for a break. My big guts were starting to eat the little ones, so I decided to stop for some well-deserved grub before continuing on my journey to San Francisco. Neon Coors and Budweiser lights lights glowed shack’s windows. Porch lights threw a yellowish cast onto the wet asphalt parking lot under the gray morning light. There was single car parked front of the building. I could see someone’s silhouette through the window being backlit by lights deeper inside as I rolled past. I whipped a u-turn and rolled up under the porch to stop and leaned my bike against the wall near the front door out of the rain.

As I swung my leg over the soaked saddle I heard an elderly women peering through the screen door croak, “Are you out of your ever-loving mind? Come in and warm yourself by the fire. I’ll get you some coffee. You must be soaking wet. Have you lost all your senses?”

Once inside the musty little cabin, I hung my soaked rain gear and perspiration sodden sweater on chairs by the fire and took a seat a little closer to the flickering flames. There were two small rooms up front and a kitchen in the back. One was a bar lined with stools and the other a small room with about a half a dozen tables with chairs. Both were dimly lit with yellowish ceiling lights and smelled of bacon fat and smoke.

I was the only patron in the rickety little joint, the first customer of the day. Before I could get seated the waitress had placed a cup of steaming coffee on the table. In no time, she had cooked me up a hot plate of bacon and eggs with side order of hash browns, which I immediately wolfed down. That greasy breakfast never tasted so good.

Finishing a fourth cup of coffee, I paid my bill, left a hefty tip, and bid the woman farewell. Suiting up in warm and dry clothes, I hopped my soggy Divide continued on down Highway 88 winding my way through the thinning pines and gradually onto the widening valley below. Whizzing through lightening rain, my belly was full and energy high.

Eventually the rain abated and I rolled up to a crossroads in the little burg of Plymouth. It was about noon, so I pulled in to Marlene’s & Glen’s Diner for a spot of lunch and to dry out a bit. Bustling with patrons, the clank and clatter of dishes and silverware rising above the din of customers’ small town gossip gave the little cafe a real small town country flavor, and the cheeseburger followed root beer float and hot coffee never tasted so good.

Central Valley Transit

Once off of the western foothills of the Sierras and out on to the rolling plains of the Central Valley, the riding was smooth and easy. Staying on the backroads and infrequently traveled byways, traffic was light and the scenery pleasing as I wove my way across open grasslands criss-crosse with single lane roads and patch-worked with farms, ranches and small communities.

The agricultural region of the rural Central Valley gave me a real small town feel. Picturesque farmhouses and horse farms dotted the landscape. Occasionally beat up old work trucks puttered past me with the drivers giving me a nod or an occasional finger wave from the steering wheel as most rural folk do. Most drivers were obliging and gave me wide birth as they passed by.

It was smooth sailing along the Twin Cities Highway over to the farming community of Galt, where I spent the night in a campground on the banks of a manmade reservoir oat Rancho Seco Park for $10. After cooking up a chili-mac dinner, I jotted a few notes of the day’s adventure in my journal, and drifted off into a deep slumber that a long day of riding will do to you. I slept so soundly that I didn’t notice a couple of raccoons rummaging through my trash bag until the following morning. Wrappers were scatters all over my campsite.

Rolling Through the Delta

I spent day three rolling along the sloughs and levies of the Sacramento and San Joaquin River Delta. The riding was flat and smooth with wide open vistas, which was a nice change from the ups and downs of the thickly forested cloud covered mountain passes of the Sierra Nevadas. Bike lanes were thin to none and the traffic was moderate, but there was usually enough of a shoulder to keep the riding safe and enjoyable. Small towns and weekend tourist stops nested along the banks and backwaters of The Delta were replete with local coffee shops and mom & pop cafes worth checking out and sampling local fare. Meandering along the maze of backroads I made several stops for espresso, craft smoothies and even a banana split.

The end of the day brought me to the small Delta farming town of Rio Vista, where I laid up for the night at Sand Beach on the banks Sacramento River at the south end of Rio Vista. A night’s accommodations ran a mere $5.00, which included showers, a soft spot on the grass to pitch my tent, and a beautiful sunset and sunrise to boot. Dinner consisted of two enchiladas washed down with a couple of Negra Modelo beers at Tortilla Flats, a local authentic Mexican food restaurant.

Breakfast the following morning at the Stripper Cafe in downtown Rio Vista was old school, with an order of bacon & eggs, hash browns and cup of hot black joe, all serenaded by four old-timers jawing over their cups of coffee about local goings on, farm commodity prices, and the present state of The Union. They warily eyed me my bike, but politely nodded goodbye as I headed out, most probably thinking, “Who’s the crazy guy on the bike and what the hell’s he doing out here?”

Climbing over the Antioch bridge provided sweeping views of the river delta and of the industrial cities of Antioch and Pittsburg, suburbs of Oakland and San Francisco. Factories prevented the landscape from being the most picturesque, but they were interesting nonetheless. Swinging west, I left The Delta and worked my way along the factories and towering smokestacks of Antioch through worn down sometimes sketchy suburban neighborhoods to the westside of Pittsburg where I hopped on the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) with bike panniers and all, and rode it to Market Street downtown San Francisco. My trek to the City by the Bay was complete.

Cruising City by the Bay 

Rolling around San Francisco on a bike was a true pleasure and a great venue to explore. As with any big city, the streets could be congested, but were pretty much bike friendly nonetheless. I spent several days on my Divide exploring the many cultural and ethnic enclaves San Francisco had to offer, a city that I’d been many times, but never on bike, which was a completely different experience.

San Francisco has a huge bike culture with lots of cyclists cruising the streets and riding on the mass transit services. Hipsters on clean fixies continually darted in and out of traffic. I could get pretty much anywhere I wanted to go by bike. For longer distances, bikes are allowed on the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) and MUNI buses, which are simple and straightforward to ride. My ride in from Pittsburg, about 50 miles, was only $10.80. Additionally, I took a round trip from downtown San Francisco to Berkeley and back for $7.80.

In keeping with the adventure cycling spirit, I rode out to the Marin Headlands across the Golden Gate Bridge and camped free at the Bicentennial Campground, one of several in the area run by the National Park Service. The tent camping was great. I had the campsite all to myself, save for a few grazing deer and a petulant raccoon insistent on gnawing at my panniers in the middle of the night, and who begrudgingly faded into pines after I shooed him away several times. At night the rushing wind whispered through the pines lulled me to sleep. In the early mornings from the comfort of my tent, I could hear the relentless crash of the ocean waves below greeting me when I’d wake.

While taking on water at the Visitor Center one late afternoon, a Canadian couple with their two children asked to take a photo with my bike. “That’s a nice bike. Do you have a website?” the dad inquired. “We’re from Toronto and I’ve got an old Rock Hopper that I’m building up as a touring bike and I’d like to check out your site.”

A couple mornings, I took in some beautiful sunrises from my campsite, pedaled around the Headlands and then worked my way back across the The Golden Gate Bridge to Fort Point and along Crissy Field to the Marina District to a local coffee shop for a quick espresso and toasted bagel with cheese to get the morning going.

The Marin Headlands were an adventure in themselves, with beautiful green hills to climb and old Army artillery emplacements to explore, one could spend the entire day there, winding up with walk along the beach at Rodeo Cove to check out the surfers.

Heading north on of the Headlands and coasting down the hill and pedaling through Sausalito to catch a ferry across the bay to the Port of San Francisco and then ride through the financial district up to Chinatown and over to Telegraph Hill proved to be another exciting day rolling through the numerous cultural enclaves.

One sunny afternoon, I pushed my fully loaded bike up Hyde Street, a 22% grade, followed by a left at the top to descend the serpentine cobble path of the world famous Lombard Street, a little ride I’ve always wanted to do on a bike. Tourists hanging from the Trolly Cars snapped pictures of me as I grunted alongside my Divide humping up Hyde Street, and then again as I slowly weaved back and forth negotiating my way down Lombard street in between the string of cars doing the same thing.

Culinary delights abound. Snacks and meals ranged from sipping an espresso and nibbling a pecan pie at Cafe Sappore at the bottom of Russian Hill, to winding up the day with Fish & Chips with an Anchor Steam Ale at Nick’s Lighthouse down at Fisherman’s Wharf. Cruising among the tourists ambling along the docks, piers and shops, I overheard comments like, “Look, that guy’s living on his bike.” People in Chinatown stopped me to get a quick picture with me and my bike. At night, I rolled along The Embarcadero to Pier 39, checking on the lazy, squawking sea lions lounging on the docks. It was a great place to take in views of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz and Angel Island. Massive ocean going container ships were entering or exiting the bay, periodically blowing their one-note horns. Fisherman’s Wharf was replete with spray-painted street buskers, singers, artists, and would-be musicians all looking to make a buck off of the throngs of tourists packing the sidewalks and streets. Compared to what is available to see in San Francisco, my time was short. One could spend a couple of weeks riding around the city and still not see it all.

Tweaking the Divide

It was time to increase the low-end gear range on the Divide, which came set up with a 46 tooth pulley on the front and a 20 tooth cog on the rear. I wanted to increase the low-end range of the bike to augment long rides in the mountains.

Neil Flock, founder of Cycle Monkey in Albany, California, is a distributor and North American service partner for Rohloff, and is located just north of Berkeley. He and his staff were only too happy to help me out. I jumped on the BART and road it to Berkeley and cycled the rest of the way to his shop. Neil and his super friendly team totally hooked me up.

I ended up going from a 20 tooth to a 22 tooth rear cog that decreased the low end granny gear from 17.5” gear inches to 15.9″, which is about a 10% increase on the lower end and  will come in handy on longer, steeper climbs.

In no time, Neil an his team installed the shinny new 22 tooth cog on the Rohloff Speedhub and had me happily on my way. Two thumbs way up to the Cycle Monkey Cartel, Neil, and his team. You can check out his site at: http://cyclemonkey.bigcartel.com.

It’s Where You Find It

In the end, the trans-California microadventure was an incredible experience. Several days on the road with my bike was a veritable smorgasbord of high mountain passes, epic-like weather, open rolling valleys, simple country roads, small farming towns, hospitable people, topped off with an eclectic mix of big city ethnic and cultural enclaves that I was not only able to experience and explore, but to deeply exhale and to suck the marrow from. San Francisco is truly an international city and a cultural melting pot well worth exploring by bike. Moreover, I was able to test out and tweak my venerable Co-Motion Divide and work on my hill climbing technique and fowl weather bivouacking to boot. Riding the Divide the diverse conditions I encountered increased my confidence in the bike and gave me a better understanding of it’s mannerisms and idiosyncrasies. Trekking over the mountains to the bay was an excellent adventure cycling microadventure on all accounts that was made possible with a little time and the desire to seek adventure. Two thumbs way up and highly recommend. Cheers.

Nuts & Bolts

• Consider building your routes in Google Maps and importing them into GPS. If you select “bicycle” as your mode of transport, Google Maps will select routes best suited to bicycle travel.
• Reservations for free tent camping at one of the several campsites in the Golden Gate National Recreation Area (Marin Headlands) can be made through the U.S. National Park Service Visitor Center at (415) 331-1540. Camping is year round.  Additional information can be found at:  http://www.nps.gov/goga/planyourvisit/outdooractivities.htm
• Check the weather. San Francisco’s weather is fairly mild year round, being warmer in the summer and cooler, but still rideable in the winter. Bring your rain gear, as it can rain fairly often. Crossing the Sierras is a little different story. Winter storms can rolling in fast and dump several feet of snow. In the time honored tradition of the Boy Scouts: Be Prepared.