Part two: Hunger Games

There's no obstacle in biking that I fear more than mud. Snow? Fun! Rocks? Challenging. Wind? Meh. Bears? They run away. Massive landslides that take out half the mountainside? I'm sure there's a way we can walk around this. But mud? Mud chokes the drivetrain and cements tires to the frame until the whole bike is seized up, ten pounds heavier, and dangling from your shoulders as you trudge through the sticky mess, at least until it rips your shoes off and you're fully stopped in your mud-caked socks, wondering how much longer this will last. Five miles? Ten? Forty? You never really know. Mud is exactly what I was thinking about as I lay awake in my wet sleeping bag in the morning, waiting for the deluge to shatter the roof of the shower building.

If I had to put a quantity on how much precipitation fell on Arroyo Seco overnight, I would say "more than an inch" — and this is based on years of experience in Southeast Alaska. That's enough moisture to turn any clay-based road into peanut butter for more than a day, whether it keeps raining or not. That knowledge alone would have been enough to turn me around. Still, even though there's plenty of clay throughout central California, I had no knowledge of the specific sediments of the Arroyo Seco trail. Maybe it was sand — which rain can actually improve.

I thought I should at least check it out, although I wasn't terribly excited about setting out for the morning in a downpour just to discover a half mile up the trail that forward progress was impossible. I languished in my sleeping bag until 9 a.m., when the rain began to taper off, and noticed streaks of light through the window that almost looked like sunbeams. I rode all the way out there specifically for this trail, so I had to try. I packed up my gear and ate my last Nature's Bakery Blueberry Fig Bar for breakfast, mostly because it was the most healthy thing I had with me. Another 220 calories gone. Eight hundred remained: One package pretzel M&Ms, one package of Cheddar Cheese Pretzel Combos, and one king-sized Twix Bar.

The Arroyo Seco/Indians trail is a twenty-mile section of old jeep road that is closed to vehicles, and has been for years. As such, parts of it have reverted back to singletrack, and land- and rockslides have added some technical features. I'm not sure how widely used this trail is. It is fairly close to several population centers, but I didn't see a soul out there on this cool and wet Thursday morning. I got the sense of being deep in the backcountry, far displaced from the hum of civilization.

Encountered this bobcat after the gate. He was bolder than most and didn't want to move. I think he even hissed at me.

Beyond the closed gate, I saw a rusted old sign that read "Impassable in wet weather." Never a happy sign. Still, at the entrance, the road was just sandy enough to keep the clay from building up too thickly on the tires. It was soft, though. My tires dug trenches a half-inch to an inch deep, and even full effort on flat sections only netted about five miles per hour. I knew once I started climbing, I'd be pushing.

The clouds began to clear and sun was shining on the road, actual sun. I could tell it would be short-lived, as more dark clouds were already creeping in from the west. But I clung to the hope that the road would dry out a bit. The previous day's 125 miles weighed on my legs as I pedaled against the fierce resistance of the mud. I started walking when even my best effort became inadequate. At this rate, it was going to take me six hours just to cover this twenty-mile section, with only 800 calories and already nearly-depleted glycogen stores as fuel. I had already assessed my bailout options on the other side of the trail — which was more remote than this side. It involved as many as thirty-five miles of pedaling back to the Highway 101 corridor — arguably longer than just continuing on my route through the mountains toward Highway 1. Still, I was committed to seeing the Arroyo Seco trail through, unless of course I encountered real peanut butter mud. There's a lot I'm willing to suffer through during a simple bike tour, but peanut butter mud is not one of them.

Even though the late morning was still cool, about fifty degrees, the bike-push/pedal-mash was hard work, and I started dumping sweat. After three miles I developed a strong craving for salt, so I cracked into my Combos first. I placed a single pretzel in my mouth and sucked on it the way I used to when I was a child, trying to prolong the life of my treat. It dissolved into a trickle of happiness and disappeared down my throat.

And maybe I devoured all the rest of my Combos in the next two miles because, well, I was climbing, and I needed the energy. I could start fasting once I hit the descent.

The coastal mountains of Monterey County are gorgeous — steep, fairly tall (upwards of 4,000 and 5,000 feet) and coated in greenery even on their steepest aspects. They reminded me of the spine of mountains on Oahu Island in Hawaii. I was thrilled to be riding there even if I was a bit low on food. The weather was improving, the day was cool and beautiful, the soft trail was really not all that bad, and I was riding my bicycle in the mountains. Really, what could be better?

The trail climbed to about 3,000 feet to steep cut into the mountainside. It rolled just below the ridge for several miles and the descended into the Indians drainage, where a series of short ascents and descents continued beneath impressive sandstone formations. It was like transitioning from Hawaii to Utah in the space of a few miles. Despite a few short sections of real peanut butter mud, it was a very cool trail. I'm sure it's more popular than the lack of tracks and trail maintenance would indicate — but if not, I wonder why.

Still, it did take me nearly five hours to cover twenty miles, and when I arrived at Santa Lucia Memorial Park, I was still in the heart of the mountains, in the middle of nowhere ... and I was hungry. When I have food, it is easy for me to downplay its importance. Our bodies are so adaptable, and it's biologically possible to operate just fine in a feast-or-famine cycle. We can survive for weeks on just the energy stored in our fat and muscle. Even bonking during a hard effort is manageable; it just involves the unpalatable necessity of slowing down. The psychology of hunger, however, is much more difficult to reconcile. My plan with my limited food was to ration the calories to a hundred per hour, just enough sugar to keep the fat-burning furnace cranking. I figured I'd feel low on energy, but I didn't count on how anxious, paranoid, and despondent I would feel at times throughout the day. Even though rationally I knew my situation was perfectly safe and survivable, hunger induced a kind of involuntary panic in my subconscious.

The trail dumped me out in the Fort Hunter-Liggett Military Reservation, a highly regulated region that all but assured I was going to continue to feel alone on a deserted island. After the previous night's storm, water was running high everywhere, and there were several stream crossings that ran over the road. This creek gushed over a concrete slab, which I deemed rideable before actually stopping to scout the situation. The concrete must be permanently under water, because the slab was covered in a thick film of slime that instantly washed out my tires. I fell over in the knee-deep water, briefly dunking my head and soaking my entire body. Even though I could feel the force of the steam pushing me toward the deeper pour-over, my first thought was, "Save the bike!" Although the stream wasn't deep, it was flowing fast and there was potential for the bike to be forced downstream through a rock garden. I lunged out of the water and grabbed the rear wheel just before the bike washed away. I managed to stand up and hoist the bike on my shoulder, but the slime-slicked bottom made the rest of the crossing extremely tenuous.

I turned to face the wind and pedal toward mountains, trying to savor the last of my Pretzel M&M's that I was eating for "lunch." At one point I was descending at about eighteen miles per hour when I dropped a single M&M on the road by accident. Panic! I actually stopped my bike, turned around, and scanned the road until I found it. This whole process probably took five minutes, and netted me one Pretzel M&M, which are filled with mostly air and have about ten calories each. It was worth it.

Empty gas tank: Never a happy sight. 

As I began another 3,000-foot climb into the mountains, I turned to the Twix Bar. My plan was to eat one half of a bar, about fifty calories, every time the bonky dizziness set in. The problem with this strategy is the dizzy feeling would return again after just another mile, so eventually I had to put a time limit on my half-Twix-bars: One per hour. The road just climbed and climbed. I came to the trail where I planned to turn off the main road and take a shortcut to the Coast Ridge Road. But when I got there, all I could see was a fall-line cut straight up the side of the mountain. It looked vertical from my perspective, and must have gained 2,000 feet in less than two miles. "Well, that's impossible," I thought. Maybe if I was fresh, I could push a bike up that. Maybe. I took out my paper maps, plotted the long way around, and continued spinning through my bonky haze.

I finished the Twix Bar before I arrived at the top of the climb. Maybe if I had more experience with rationing food I would be better at it, but I had officially depleted everything with no knowledge of where I'd be able to get more food. This in itself was a harsh psychological blow. I had already decided I was going to have to cut the Coast Ridge Road out of my route, as I no longer had the energy or desire to push through the bonk anymore. But I still didn't know what Highway 1 would bring. I pulled out my paper maps and saw exactly one name listed between where I was and San Simeon — Plaskett. Whether it was a town or not, I had no idea. I convinced myself it was a town, because if not, that meant there was nothing for more than forty miles from where I stood.

 The dream of Plaskett took hold, and I convinced myself of authentic Mexican Food restaurants, of roadside coffee stands, of spacious gas stations with a wide selection of gummy snacks and Babybel cheese wheels. There was so much happiness in these dreams and I was a fool to indulge in them, but they gave me a burst of energy just the same. I pedaled more forcefully toward a thick bank of fog, and the wonders that surely awaited me on the coast.

The descent was fast and fun, and so cold that I was able to forget about my empty stomach and focus for a while on my numb toes instead. With the exception of neglecting to bring a tent, I actually brought a smart assortment of gear for this trip. I always had dry clothing for camp, and I rarely felt cold or too wet while riding even during the heavier rain and hailstorms. But I fell in the stream while wearing my vapor barrier socks, so my feet were still soaked.

Near Big Sur, Highway 1 cuts into steep cliffs and traverses drainages on elaborate bridges. In other words, there's little actual usable land in the region. After five miles on the highway, I could tell my chances of seeing much in the way of commercial property were slim. The occasional vehicle passed and I thought if I had a pen, I would make a sign that read "Hungry: Will Pay For Food" and stick it on my backpack. But I did not, so I stopped thinking about it.

I approached Plaskett at 6:30 p.m., which was a lot later than I expected to reach that point. Originally my plan had me passing through Plaskett in the early afternoon and pushing all the way to Morro Bay that night. I was still fifty miles short of that target; my day's tally was seventy miles and I already felt thoroughly cooked — probably in my own juices from forcing my body to burn muscle and fat. I passed a campground, which seemed like a good sign, then rounded a tight corner through an outcropping of trees to arrive at ... nothing. Just steep cliffs and a thin ribbon of pavement as far as I could see. Plaskett was a Forest Service campground, and nothing more.

Looking back, this scene is humorous to me; it already makes me laugh. But at the time, it was an all-encompassing moment of hopelessness. I had to take a few deep gulps to quell the panicked sobbing that threatened to erupt from my throat. My maps didn't indicate any other towns until San Simeon, which was still 25 miles away. I had no reason to believe I would see any businesses before that town, and no hope of reaching it before late that night. I could see dark clouds over the ocean, indicating the approach of another big storm, so I knew I would have to push for San Simeon that night just to seek some kind of shelter. But I understood it was going to be a hard ride, probably cold and wet, I was going to feel awful, and didn't even know what I'd find when I got there. I hoped I could make it before I hit a really bad bonk, the kind of "falling asleep on my bike" bonk that I worried might happen. I knew I had no one to blame but myself so I didn't feel anger, just sadness. Surprisingly deep sadness, given that it certainly wasn't the end of the world.

I pedaled back to the campground to collect water for the late-evening push. I watched happy campers barbecuing hamburgers, eating chips, drinking wine, smiling and laughing. I lingered for a few minutes, watching them, wondering if I could collect the wherewithal to sacrifice my dignity and ask one of them to give or sell me some food. But I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. Even through my sadness, for whatever reasons, I didn't want to resort to that. I gulped down the bile, accepted my fate, and pedaled toward the sunset.

Not a Disney California adventure

Part One: Cruising

In the realm of outdoor experiences, there is something deeply satisfying about making my own route and then following it. It's as though, by taking an orange felt-tip marker and drawing squiggly lines on photocopied maps, I'm actually outlining these distant mountains, these lonely highways, these rugged trails. My bicycle is a sort of paintbrush, pressed into the blank canvas of the unknown to make these visualizations a reality. There's art in discovery. More than miles, elevation, and other tangible statistics, this creative process leaves me with a sense of accomplishment — even when riddled with mistakes. Actually, it's satisfying because it was riddled with mistakes. I took some chances and colored outside some lines, and the finished product was beautiful.

My ambitious plan: pedal from Los Altos to the start/finish of the Santa Barbara 100 in three days, alone, having no experience with any region south of Los Altos, and with little more to go on than a vague blog post by people I do not know, and the computer-generated recommendations of Google Maps. Bridging several leaps of faith and one terrible weather forecast, I drew out a route of approximately 350 miles with unknown climbing, unknown services, unknown trail conditions, unknown road conditions ... many unknowns. I finished my tour with 280 miles, 24,000 feet of climbing, 27 hours of moving time, a lot of wet gear, really sore quads, and a big smile. As it turned out, Beat's hundred-mile race was cancelled due to hail, rain, and unworkable mud on the course ... all things I encountered during my tour. He picked me up Friday afternoon in San Luis Obispo, about a hundred miles short of my goal. But I couldn't be happier with how it turned out. I was mentally prepared to ride through the night to make it to Santa Barbara before the race finish, but I'm glad I didn't have to.

I set out Wednesday morning in light rain showers and a buzz of excitement. It's been too long since I embarked on a bike tour, with everything I needed (or at least I over-optimistically hoped it was everything I needed) stuffed into a few bike bags and a backpack. I followed the GPS track I created toward Los Gatos and up into the mountains. Google Maps made a few interesting recommendations for skirting around the busy corridor of Highway 17, including muddy singletrack and nonexistent trails around Lexington Reservoir. At one point I was shouldering my bike, clawing through the mud up a nearly vertical slope, and I hadn't even left the Bay Area yet.

I put a lot of faith in Google's software in order to stay off of main roads, and I was sometimes rewarded with a quiet path through the forest. So much green.

The weather on the first day was mostly pleasant — cool with rain showers, and the occasional deluge. I was pedaling along Summit Road when the sky unleashed a shock-and-awe hailstorm. I think I even missed the worst of the storm, but it was frightening nonetheless — complete white-out, couldn't keep my eyes open, had to pull off the road, put my arms over my neck, and hope a car didn't hit me.

 Although exposed to the worst of the weather, the Summit ridge also afforded great views of the Santa Cruz Mountains. I couldn't believe I was still less than 25 miles from home. Because I usually either ride west or north of my home on most of my regular bike routes, every part of this tour was new to me, and full of great discoveries.

Highland Road — a ripping descent and not a single car.

 I had been throttling the brake levers when I rounded a tight corner and saw this rock. I found its advice to be sound on both a philosophical and literal level.

I was loving my new bike from the beginning, and the love affair only increased as the miles passed. Highland Road was technically paved, but not the kind of road I would want to rip down on a skinny-tire carbon bike. This is the main advantage of having a go-anywhere bike for touring. The Moots is fully capable as a mountain bike, but an easily overlooked advantage is how comfortable it is over long distances, over any terrain. Speed is such a coveted value in cycling these days that even touring bikes come equipped with 23c tires. But when I'm planning to spend nine or more hours each day on a saddle, for days on end, I think I would choose the comfort and flexibility of the Moots every time. Not only do I have capability to dart off the road onto the nearest piece of muddy singletrack whenever I so desire, I can feel fully comfortable on pavement. I could go on for paragraphs extolling the virtues of using a soft-tail mountain bike for all touring purposes, but I admit it's simply a personal preference. I love ending a long day with little more than tired legs — butt, back and arms felt great. The Moots fits me like a glove.

 After descending Eureka Canyon, I entered the rolling farmland beside Monterey Bay.  Pedaling through the communities of Freedom and Watsonville, I could see the more intriguing side of California farming culture — such as businesses whose signage was only in Spanish, and workers sitting on the side of the road eating their lunch. I also had to contend with a fierce headwind blowing from the south. Grinding away on flat pavement at full throttle, my GPS was only registering speeds of eight or nine miles per hour. At one point I texted Beat to let him know why I wasn't making better progress. I braced for a late night into my planned stopping point for the night, the Arroyo Seco campground.

 Luckily, once I turned inland toward the Salinas River Valley, the powerful wind diminished to a stiff breeze, bringing the temperature down with it. I settled into a meditative rhythm, listening to music and observing the small details of the valley: orange poppies swaying in the breeze, patterns in the cultivated fields, purple light on the eastern hills, a haunted house. A crowded freeway cuts through the valley less than two miles to the east, but I would have never suspected it — quarantined as I was on a quiet farming road on the other side of the river. Rural bliss.

I purposely routed my course around the city of Salinas, and planned to get dinner in a town called East Garrison. When I rolled through and there was nothing there, I simply shrugged it off. "I have enough trail food to get me through mid-day tomorrow," I thought, having not given a whole lot of thought to exactly what food I was carrying with me or where my next food supply was actually going to come from. I thought I was carrying something in the range of 4,000 calories of high-calorie-density (i.e. junk) food. However, this was taking into account three king-size candy bars that I thought were in my pack, but which I actually accidentally left at home. I wouldn't discover this until I actually laid out all my food later that night, only to discover I was many miles from anywhere and 1,500 calories short.

I arrived at the campground just after 9 p.m., with 125 miles for the day. The campground was partially closed and the bathroom building was locked, which was discouraging because I had planned on using it as an emergency shelter option. I made a bad judgement call by setting out on this tour with only a bivy bag for shelter, even given forecasts that all but assured me I didn't stand a chance of dodging wet weather. Still, after the morning rain and hail, the storm cleared up in the afternoon. I could see stars splattered across the entire sky. I laid out my sleeping gear and assessed my dinner options, which is when I discovered the missing candy bars. I counted my calories and realized I only had a little more than 1,200 total — for all of that night, the next morning, and an unknown portion of the next day into a rugged, difficult, and remote section of my route. Panic.

I pulled out my paper maps to assess my bailout options. The closest community was Greenville, twenty miles away. I knew I couldn't manage forty miles of backtracking and still make my schedule by any stretch — it was already too ambitious as it was. If things went well for me the next day, I believed I would reach Highway 1 by mid-day and probably find some source of food along the highway. Using all kinds of creative justifications, I convinced myself 1,200 calories was probably enough. This delusion was harder to manage after I finished my sad dinner of two fig bars (220 calories) and still felt ravenously hungry. And yet, I still held on to this hope that I could make do.

I curled up in my bivy sack just as the wind started to blow with much more intensity. The temperature was probably in the mid-40s, and the windchill was just enough that I could feel a bite through my 40-degree sleeping bag. I snoozed for an hour or two before soft sprinkling woke me up, and managed to doze off for another couple of hours before I woke up to the feeling of cold water dripping through my hat, directly into my ear canal. At this point, rain was coming down hard. I managed to sleep through it long enough that water had soaked through my bivy sack, and also leaked in through the zipper, forming a large puddle around my head. Panic.

I wrestled out of the sleeping bag and dragged the whole damp mess over to the awning of the restroom. I tried all the doors another time and found the shower room was actually wedged open just a bit, and the deadbolt wasn't entirely set. I pulled with desperate force until I yanked the door free, opening the way to warm and dry shelter. Elation!

I rolled my bike inside and rearranged my wet gear on the floor. It was so clammy and cold that I couldn't fall back to sleep after that. I just shivered softly and listened the deluge outside, which occasionally strengthened into what sounded like marble-sized hail pounding the roof with a deafening clatter. I was glad to have shelter; if it hadn't been for a loose deadbolt, I would have had no choice but to escape to Greenville in the middle of the night. Despite my relief, I couldn't help but lay awake, nervously wondering what tomorrow would bring.

Inspired to ride

 I'd be lying if I said I had an easy weekend of mountain biking. I set out Saturday for a four-hour ride and became so tired midway through that I actually laid down beneath a tree to take a nap. A cold ridge-top breeze woke me up less than five minutes later, but the power nap really did give me a nice boost. The back half of the ride was more peppy.

On Sunday morning, I woke up so groggy that I felt like I was under water, but I'd already made plans to ride with a new friend, Jan. I'd already bailed on Jan once before, so I made myself rally to Windy Hill in the late morning. We motored up to Skyline Ridge on a lung-searingly steep fire road while being baked by the April sun (literally. I always have that one spring ride where I forget sunscreen and come home the color of a cherry tomato. Then I slather multiple layers of SPF 50 on myself for the rest of the year, and my skin never attains any real hint of color.) We kept a mellow pace but our ride was five hours long. Still, I did feel better after this longer ride than I have in a while. As a woman, I often can't tell whether my slumps are mostly hormonal, or if they're rooted in a deeper physical problem. I've decided to blame the former, because adventure is calling with a siren song I can't ignore.

Ever since the Moots came into my life, I've been struck by a strong desire to set out on bike-splorations, at a level I haven't experienced in a couple of years. I've got a big one coming at the end of the month, the Stagecoach 400. I wanted to do a shakedown ride with my new bike anyway, and I thought — why not counter that hot ride across the Southern California desert with a cool, wet tour along the Central California coast? I've lived in California for a year and yet I've seen so little of this state. Inspired by the recent Condor Ride, I mapped out a route that rolls through the Santa Cruz Mountains, snakes along a series of dirt roads that the Condors scouted, cuts down Highway 1 beside the coastal cliffs, wends around Morro Bay and through Montana de Oro State Park, then cuts southeast toward the Santa Barbara Mountains where Beat is racing the Santa Barbara 100 on Friday. The route is about 350 miles and probably somewhere between 60 and 80 miles of dirt  — and likely a lot of climbing. I'm planning to leave Wednesday morning and hopefully finish late Friday evening, or perhaps early Saturday. It's ambitious and the weather is likely going to be cold, wet and difficult — but I can't seem to talk myself out of it. I figure I can at least set out on Wednesday and see how day one goes. If I feel strongly like I need a nap after two hours of riding, I can always cut my tour short and ride back home via Santa Cruz. But if day one goes well, why not go for broke?

I've been so inspired that much of the last two evenings were dedicated to preparing for a multiday ride. I created my Google map route and uploaded it via .gpx conversion to my Garmin, so I even have a GPS track of my intended route. I retrofitted my bikepacking bags to work with the Moots. It took some cramming to get the custom Fatback frame bag into Moots' tiny triangle, and that 2007 prototype seatpost bag has now been through a few wars and back. Beat sewed a new bottom into the bag because the tires rubbed holes in the material during the Tour Divide. The straps are worn and it doesn't hold a pretty shape any more, but it still supports an overstuffed configuration of clothing, tubes, bivy sack, and a sleeping bag. The bags' creator, Eric, expressed embarrassment at its state when he saw me using it in the White Mountains 100. I am planning to order new bags from Revelate Designs soon, but for now these will work. I loaded the bike with sleeping gear, extra clothing, a lot of rain gear, repair kit, med kit and 4,000 calories. Even fully loaded for touring (with exception of the hydration pack) it weighs in at a svelte 37 pounds. I can't wait to hit a few back-to-back centuries with this bike! Oh wait, did I just write that?

I don't really know what to expect, and I can assure you I'm not doing this for training. Actually, I think it's a bad idea for training, but too intriguing from an adventure standpoint to resist. I spent much of this past winter pretending I was still a resident of Alaska. Now I'm finally going to see some of this big, beautiful state in which I reside.


Update, mainly for my mother: I'm carrying the SPOT on my tour this weekend. View my shared tracking page here.