Part 19: Ocean, Sky, Freedom: West Coast Bicycle Adventure—Canada to Mexico—California Beaches

By Frosty Wooldridge

“After an epic moment on your bicycle during a long-distance tour, whether it manifests as two condors gliding down to check you out on the El Camino Highway in Bolivia at 15,000 feet, or riding your bicycle when a family of penguins waddles up to you in Antarctica, or you meet with an emu named George in the Australian Outback, or you strike up a conversation with a man walking across America on his hands—and a hundred other magical moments—you don’t want that ‘moment’ to end. You want to live in it for as long as possible.  After riding Big Sur, I didn’t want those two days to terminate, but as I stopped at Gorda, California at the end of Big Sur, I knew my ‘moment’ with that wondrous ride concluded.  Yet, I knew that by continuing to pedal my bicycle, I anticipated yet another ‘moment’ because life always moves forward.  Movement constitutes the lifeblood of bicycling.  Life moves with you and opens to you on an adventure. Pedal into it, live it, love it and thank your lucky stars that you ride your two-wheeled iron steed to the four corners of the world. Sheer magic.”  FHW 2015, West Coast Tour

(Para-surfers along the West Coast.  They rip past the waves out toward the open sea, only to turn around and ride more waves back into the beaches while flying into the air with the aid of the wind.)  Photography by Frosty Wooldridge

One thing occurred when I camped out at the San Simeon State Park north of Cambria: park personnel stuck Porta-potties in front of the locked bathrooms stemming from the lack of water.  Additionally, at a restaurant in the morning, they didn’t serve water unless asked.  Along the route, brown grass dominated the landscape.  The Los Angeles Times reported that 12 million trees died in 2014 from lack of rainfall.  They said, “California faces an ‘exceptional drought’ with no end in sight.”

After pedaling to Morrow Bay, I witnessed 10,000 seabirds circling a piece of the ocean about the size of four football fields pieced together.  They flew in such a manner as to resemble a tornado splashing down on the ocean.

“My God,” I gasped.  “That’s incredible!”

“Takes your breath away,” said a fellow cyclist who pulled up beside me with his own camera.”

“What causes such a gathering?” I asked.

“Mostly food,” he said.

I continued toward Arroyo Grande where I met an old cycling friend Jim Twentyman and his friend Susan Ratalo, a fabulous Italian culinary chef.  We shared an evening of food, wine and tremendous conversation.  It’s amazing that each of us carries the stories of our lives around us like a suitcase only known to ourselves.  At any given moment, we blurt out our joys, sorrows, frustrations and political persuasions.

From Grande Arroyo, I pedaled through unending fields of strawberries, celery and cabbage.  Many of the crops grew right up to the ocean cliffs.  I watched many field hands working their fingers to the bone as they installed irrigation systems, picked fruit and crated farm goods.  Talk about hard work with no let-up! I remember my youth picking cucumbers for two cents a bushel.  I cut, baled and mowed hay from dawn to dusk.  One thing hit me: your birth lotto number could easily be unfortunate or fortunate depending on your parents and the location of your birth.

While I have pedaled through third world countries, I thanked my lucky stars I wasn’t born into such unending poverty with no hope of climbing out of it.  Fate plays a huge part in your life.

By the time I reached the beautiful city of Santa Barbara, I wore myself out climbing and descending 2,200 foot mountain passes as well as riding through a lot of dry, hot desert. I carried two gallons of water at all times.  For all of California’s beauty, it features some pretty arid territory.

At Santa Barbara, I noticed Lamborghini’s, Ferrari’s, Bentley’s and Rolls Royce’s.  More than a few folks enjoy huge bank accounts in that neck of the woods.

I camped out 12 miles south of Santa Barbara: Carpintaria State Park.  They charged $10.00 per night instead of the usual “Hiker-biker” $5.00.

“Why double the hiker-biker charge?” I asked.

“It discourages the homeless from trashing the place,” said the ranger.

“Why penalize the rest of us?” I asked.

“No other way to stop them because they have equal rights to camp here,” she said.  “But they stink of alcohol and drugs and they trash the place every time.”

“Great,” I said.

In the campground, I met German riders, Swiss, Canadian and Dutch.  Additionally, I met 39 year old 6’7”, lean, handsome, college graduate Travis who yearned to make the pro volley ball circuit, but instead got drunk too much and lost his youth.  He didn’t know what to do with himself.  I hopped into my tent, but he slept in the grass to avoid the camping fee.

(Bike and rider at the end of the day when the shadows grow long as the sun goes down.) Photography by Frosty Wooldridge

I woke up early and packed. As I stepped onto my pedals to head south, Travis staggered out of the brush to ask me if he could go with me.

“You look like hell,” I said.  “Are you okay?”

“I got drunk last night,” I said.

“Listen, I’m going to hammer a lot of miles today and you’re not in any shape to stay with me.”

“You’re right,” he said.

“Take care of yourself,” I said.  “Please find a job, purpose and passion for your life.  It’s a lot easier to wake up to a positive day instead of recovering from being drunk.”

I blew by Huntington, Pismo, Malibu and more beaches.  Each featured volleyball nets, bikini-clad women, dogs, beach balls, surfers and silly looking people.

At one beach, colorful para-surfers harnessed the wind to ride out on their surfboards while they leapt over incoming waves and upon their return, screamed back over them inbound. Their sails colored the sky.  As a windsurfing veteran myself, I knew they enjoyed one heck of a wild and crazy time out on the ocean.

In Los Angeles, I pedaled through Venice Beach with all its variety and Muscle Beach with all its Arnold wannabee’s.  Thousands flocked to the beaches and thousands more sold trinkets, presented acrobatic shows and, the religious folks tried to persuade everyone that “sin” didn’t pay.

No question, southern California fits the Beach Boys’ classic songs like, “I drive a ’34 wagon and I call it a woody…surf city, here I come…two girls for every boy…surfin’ safari….”

One of the things you notice along the beaches of Los Angeles: great disparity of rich and poor folks.  Big money and no money.  Good life and life on the streets.  Living on lots of money while others live on scarce money.

(Fun way to make a living on the beaches of California.  Yes, he landed on his feet to the roar of the crowd.)  Photography By Frosty Wooldridge

After watching a particularly excellent acrobatic show, I pitched a buck in the bucket before pedaling south toward San Diego.

##

Frosty Wooldridge
Golden, CO

Population-Immigration-Environmental specialist: speaker at colleges, civic clubs, high schools and conferences

Www.HowToLiveALifeOfAdventure.com

Www.frostywooldridge.com

Six continent world bicycle traveler

Speaker/writer/adventurer

Adventure book: How to Live a Life of Adventure: The Art of Exploring the World

Frosty Wooldridge, six continent world bicycle traveler, Canada to Mexico summer 2015, 2,000 miles, 100,000 vertical feet of climbing: