South Pole bike revisted

Helen Sketon on her Hanebrink ice bike. Courtesy BBC.

Earlier this week I randomly received an e-mail from Kane Fortune, the president of bicycle-maker Fortune Hanebrink, asking me if I wanted to revisit my conclusions about British television personality Helen Skelton's 500-mile multi-sport trip in Antarctica. I thought, yes, it would be good to follow through on this. Helen successfully completed her expedition to the South Pole on January 22. Her methods of travel included 329 miles (eight days) of kite skiing, 68 miles (three days) of skiing, and 103 miles (seven days) of biking on a custom Hanebrink ice bike.

I and other snow bike enthusiasts were critical of the media coverage of Helen's expedition, which perpetuated several unsubstantiated claims (such as the "longest bike ride on snow" and "first bike ride to the South Pole," which was not even one-fifth true given the start at an arbitrary point 500 miles from the pole.) Some snow bikers also questioned the practicality of that particular brand of bicycle, which I'll address soon. However, I was enthralled by the adventure of Helen's trip, and followed her progress with interest despite what I viewed as anemic coverage on the BBC blog. I also watched parts of a couple of episodes of her television show online, but I admit I don't have much patience for the standard filters of reality television. However, if Helen ever writes a book about her adventure, I'll be the first to buy it.

She was absolutely successful in what set out to do. But after the completion of her trip, I continued to question just how much Helen and her partner really "rode" their bikes. Their final tally was 103 miles over seven days, which is an average of 14 miles per riding day. On the anemic BBC blog, Helen dropped a few hints about the difficulties, calling the Hanebrinks "push bikes" and admitting their her partner, a champion kite skier, thought the bikes were "a little silly." On the first day of the expedition, they stopped after riding 15 miles and indicated they had put in a long day to make it that far. Most of the other bike days also were depicted as long and arduous. I understand that high winds that could slow a bike down to two miles an hour might slow a walker or skier down even more. But I think even the most avid snow bikers would question this level of progress ... if it's consistently harder and slower than walking, what's the point?

I'm among the few who have wondered how viable a bicycle might be for explorations in frozen, wild places such as Antarctica, the North Pole, Greenland and Baffin Island. Not merely out of personal interest, although I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't jump at any opportunity to travel through these endlessly intriguing corners of the world. One of my big motivators for finishing the past two Susitna 100 races on foot was to experiment with long-distance foot and snowshoe travel (For me personally, walking and running are a more enjoyable, versatile and even more efficient method of travel than skiing has proven to be, but if I ever receive a serious invitation to an Arctic ski expedition, you can bet I'm going to do everything I can to develop skiing technique.) But I digress. The big question still remains: Is it possible to ride a bicycle, entirely self-supported, from the Antarctic coast to the South Pole?

A decade ago, Dan Hanebrink developed what might be the first bicycle designed specifically for an Antarctic expedition, an "ice bike" built for Antarctic adventurer Doug Stoup. The ice bike was included among Time's "Best Inventions of 2003." Stoup supposedly rode the bicycle 200 miles of a 300-mile trip before he was shut down by high winds, and hasn't tried it again. There were reports that he had been preparing to take it to the South Pole, but little information about why Stoup hasn't yet attempted another bicycle expedition amid his continuing ski trips in Antarctica. In Internet chatter, the general assumption seems to be "because the bike didn't work the way he thought it would."

Again, I don't know many of the details, but the fact remains that no person yet has actually completed a full, self-supported ride from the Antarctic coast to the South Pole — which is the generally accepted explorer's standard to qualify as "the first bike ride to the South Pole." No one has taken a bike to the North Pole or any other major Arctic winter backcountry traverse for that matter, at least not publicly. There are some who have expressed interest and others who have publicly expressed interest and put a lot of time, effort, experience, and knowledge into such an expedition. While it goes without saying that securing funding for such a major undertaking is by far the biggest obstacle, the logistics of the bicycle itself also present an interesting puzzle.

After Fortune contacted me, he graciously answered a few questions about Helen's trip and the bike:

What feedback did you receive about the bicycles after Helen and her partner returned from Antarctica? Did they make any suggestions that you would incorporate into future designs?

Fortune: As with Doug Stoup's 2003 trip to Antarctica, the bikes were very successful on Helen's recent trip. What this teaches us about future designs is that we must continue the mission that Dan Hanebrink began in 1991 and that is to build the best bike for riding in the snow and soft terrain. We must continue to build our chassis and wheels as strong and light as possible and to build relationships with various parts suppliers for the highest quality and most durable components in all conditions. Helen's riding partner was a world champion kite boarder. You can bet that if Dan or I (champion and competitive cyclists respectively) were on the trip, we would have spent much more time in the saddle and less on the board.

Did you design the bike in order to accomodate pulling a heavy sledge?

Fortune: Designed as a backcountry snow bike, it is invariably a utility bike as much as it is a recreation bike. The Hanebrink has been pulling trailers and sleds since its inception. Before Doug's trip to Antarctica, he spent many hours pulling a tire behind his Hanebrink in the sand at Redondo Beach. Doug required Helen to do some training of her own, pulling a sled behind the bike in San Diego sand dunes.

My understanding is Stoup did not reach his goal to ride to South Pole, and has not made another attempt. Has anyone else approached you about building a bicycle for another South Pole attempt?

Fortune: Doug Stoup had a successful trip riding the Hanebrink more than 200 miles in Antarctica. His goal was a 300 mile ride of the bike (not a trip to the South Pole). Because of severe katabatic winds, Doug was forced to spend five straight days in a his tent, sleeping with his legs straight and strong to keep the tent from collapsing. Doug has since been very busy with expeditions and he would love an opportunity to ride a Hanebrink to the South Pole. In 2013, a Japanese adventure cyclist plans on riding a Hanebrink to the South Pole. We are also coordinating with a Spanish adventure cyclist about a future trip on his return from a trip crossing Greenland.

What mechanical adaptations did you make for extreme cold? Were you able to test any of the mechanics in cold temperatures?

Fortune: As an avid cyclist living in the winter resort town of Big Bear Lake, Dan first developed the Hanebrink in 1991 to be ridden on snow (much of the bike's early attention came from clients in beach communities for its ability to ride in sand) With the San Bernardino National Forest as his backyard, Dan has been building, riding, and testing in all types of conditions for over twenty years. While his focus is now solely building Hanebrink All-Terrain bikes and Electric All-Terrain bikes, he has developed many bicycle and motorcycle products since inventing the "Ice Bike." The Ice Bike is built without plastic parts and uses a mechanical brake. When Doug made his trip, Dan Hanebrink was still making bicycle suspension forks which he retrofitted for Antarctic conditions. In building the bikes for Helen's trip, White Brothers Suspension in Colorado would keep the fork legs in meat lockers during the building process to test their performance in cold conditions (these were the only new component we had not yet tested in Antarctica).

A few of the days that Helen and her partner reported riding the bicycles, they logged less than twenty miles while reportedly cycling for eight to twelve hours. To an outsider, these bike speeds appeared to average less than two miles per hour much of the time. I wondered if you wanted to comment on this or correct any misperceptions. As someone who has done some long rides on snow trails, I know that "riding" at these speeds generally means pushing the bike — i.e. walking.

Fortune: If the misperception is that she walked and not rode: We have no reason not to believe Helen when she has told us that she rode. (Living in Los Angeles, we are cognizant of how "Hollywood" can manipulate a story) Depending on the external environment, some miles may have been ridden as slow as two miles per hour, and some much faster. Built for endurance over speed, our eight-inch-wide tires can not only traverse terrain that no other bike will can travel, it also balances comfortably when forced to pedal at idle speeds unlike any other bicycle.

Based on this last question, do you believe your bicycles or any bicycle for that matter can actually provide an advantage on the wild terrain of Antarctica over walking on snowshoes?

Fortune: There is a momentum gained when riding that is just not possible when snowshoeing; especially pulling a sled.

The snow bike industry is taking off right now, with a number of different "fat bike" offerings in North America. All of these bicycles' designs favor a style more similar to a traditional mountain bike. In lay-person's terms, could you explain a bit why you believe the features of your design are better for Antarctic riding? Also, do you think your bikes would perform well among traditional fat bikes in, say, an Iditarod Trail race across Alaska? Or are they specifically designed for the kind of conditions one might encounter in Antarctica, which from my understanding can be quite different from packed trails in North America?

Fortune: Every type of bike —road, mountain, bmx, etc. — is suited for a particular type of terrain. Hanebrink is the only bike that rides in all terrains: deep sand, snow, streets, steeps. The standard "fat bike" is a mix between a standard mountain bike and a Hanebrink All-Terrain bike. A standard "fat bike" will ride better in the snow than a standard mountain bike and a Hanebrink will ride better in softer terrains (snow and sand) than either a "fat bike" or a mountain bike. Riding successfully in soft terrain is a matter of tire floatation. The less pounds per square inch, exerted from the tires over the terrain, the more success you will have riding over the soft stuff. Our bikes at three pounds per square inch, fully loaded, have the lightest footprint of any wheeled vehicle in production. In the softest possible riding conditions, the air pressure in our tubeless tires is let out to 4 psi and when traveling on paved roads our tires are pumped to 18 psi. For any surface in between, the tire pressure can be adjusted accordingly. Fat bikes are designed for snow packed trails and have proven successful over many years in the Iditarod traveling on the frozen rivers and hard-packed snow. They are not designed for the deep backcountry snow that our bikes are designed for. There have been some years (at least one) where the bikes were walked more miles than ridden during the Iditarod because the snow was too deep. We would love to see a Hanebrink in competition during one of these years.

....

I appreciate Mr. Fortune taking the time to answer my questions. I realize winter backcountry expedition cycling is a highly esoteric subject, but if you have an opinion on the matter, please comment. Perhaps Mr. Fortune will check in and answer more questions as they come along.

Part three: Serendipity

Over the next three miles, I worked through my misery to reach a sort of numb acceptance. After my mind was wiped free of angst and cloaked in haze, I saw a crow picking at a bag of Doritos on the side of the road. Animal instinct prompted me to hit the brakes hard to scare the crow away, stop the bike, and reach out to grab the bag of chips. But human consciousness intervened. "Are you really going to eat discarded, rained-on, bird-pecked chips?" I smiled in spite of myself. Is it possible to so quickly fall from grace? The crinkled bag just rustled in the wind, taunting me, until I couldn't bear my own curiosity. I grabbed the bag and looked inside. It was empty, and the question remained unanswered.

I pedaled another half mile around two tight corners when I came to a straightaway, and ahead I could see a building. "Probably just someone's house," I thought. But as I came closer, I could see hints of a neon sign. And were those gas pumps? Those were definitely gas pumps. Oh joy! Oh joy! I started hyperventilating and had to compose myself. "Don't get your hopes up. It's nearly 8 p.m. The place could be closed. Don't get carried away."

The place was the Whale Watchers Cafe, which has a ranking of 1.5 out of 5 on TripAdvisor.com. Obviously I didn't care if the place had cockroaches or served only haggis, as long as the menu included food, it was the best restaurant ever. I parked my bike and rushed inside. There was only one other party in the dining room that appeared to be leaving. The server, a small Hispanic woman, looked up from behind the counter. "We're just about to close," she informed me. She must have sensed my crestfallen demeanor, and continued, "but would you like to see a menu?"

I nodded vigorously, and grabbed the menu. My vision was blurring and I could barely read it but I managed to pick out chicken fajitas from the swirling overload of options. A plate cost $19.95. Crazy bargain! I pointed to the listing. "I want these," I said. "And a Coke. Do you sell candy bars or anything like that?"

The server indicated there was a small convenience store next door so I rushed over to restock my supplies. The experience was reminiscent of the Tour Divide, where I just wandered around the displays in a shocked daze, grabbing everything that struck my fancy: Two Clif Bars, two Babel cheese wheels, one small package Fig Newtons, one bag of Doritos (ha ha), one king-sized Twix Bar, and two giant vegan cookies. It was way more food than I was going to need until the next day, but I did not care. With Whale Watchers as my witness, I was not going to go hungry again.

Back at the cafe, the server brought me a steaming plate of peppers, onions, chicken, rice, and beans. I stared at it for a few seconds with rapt fascination before animal instinct took over, and then I tore into the pile of vegetables with barely civilized urgency. The warm food settled in my stomach and triggered all kind of intense pleasure sensors: Relief, satisfaction, bliss. My memory understood that this was a rather mediocre plate of $20 fajitas, but my present state made it the most awe-inspiring, gratifying meal I had consumed in a long time. There's that old adage that hunger is the best seasoning, but more than that, there's a deeply satisfying value in experiences like this. I certainly didn't set out to run low on food, or ride my way into a distressing hunger — but because I did, I experienced a rare, truly appreciative enjoyment of food, and an understanding of just how much the simple act of eating means to the experience of being alive. It's the same sensation that compels me to ride long hours or run long distances. By enduring a little bit of pain and suffering, I open myself up to the rapture on the other side.

The server came to clear away my scraped-clean plate. "You're on a bicycle?" she asked. I nodded. "And where are you going to right now?"

"I'm headed toward San Simeon," I said.

The server looked perplexed. "That's very far," she said. "It's too late to go there tonight."

"I have bicycle lights," I said. "And I have a tent (liar). I may just pedal for a while and camp. Anyway, I'll see what's available."

She bussed my table and when she returned with the check, she said, "You know, I have a motor home in my driveway where you could sleep. I live just a half mile up the road, back the way you came. There's no electricity and you would have to come inside the house to use my bathroom. But, you are a girl and you are alone. I think it would be all right for you to sleep in my motor home."

"Really?" I said, taken aback by this unexpected generosity. "If you didn't mind, well, it's supposed to rain tonight. I'd be really grateful. Of course I don't require electricity or water. Just a roof overhead would be so wonderful. Oh, thank you."

She gave me directions to her home, in a cluster of small houses behind a fire station that I had failed to notice in my excitement of seeing gas pumps. The small motor home was as much of an oasis as the cafe had been, and I was filled with gratitude for this kind server whose name I forgot to ask. Shortly after I laid out my sleeping bag on the upper bunk and ate a vegan cookie for desert (yup, still hungry), a streak of lightning shimmered through the plexiglass window and thunder shook the whole vehicle. The sky opened up and it rained and rained, not more than a half hour after I serendipitously found my way to shelter. It continued raining most of the rest of the night, and thunder woke me up at least a half dozen times. I didn't sleep well, but I'm not sure I could have been any happier.

I set my alarm for early the next morning because I knew no matter what, I was in for a long day. Everything was quiet in the server's house and I didn't want to wake her up, but I couldn't even find a pen to leave her a thank-you note. It was still raining and the temperature felt cold, probably in the low forties at sea level. This made me wonder if it was possibly snowing at the higher elevations where I had ridden the day before. Probably not, but I wonder. As it turned out, this was a major low pressure system that continued to wreak havoc during its sweep east across the United States.

I was almost unworkably groggy. I never sleep well in the midst of hard efforts, unless I drug myself the way I did in the Tour Divide. I was now working on three nights of minimal sleep, two hard days of biking, one on minimal nutrition, and it was before 8 a.m. (This is early for me. Don't judge me.) I could barely keep my eyes open on the bike, and yet I was so enamored with the ride. Highway 1 continued to wend along the steep coastal cliffs. Because of the rain and early hour, the pavement was entirely empty of traffic. I listened to the patter of rain, screams of sea birds, and gushing waterfalls around every corner. The air smelled of fresh greenery and salt, like a tasty salad, and every tight turn held the most breathtaking views of the ocean. The road climbed to 800 feet elevation and rolled high above the gray water before screaming back to near sea level, then climbing steeply again. "If I rode this last night, I would have been so grumpy," I thought with a grin. But this morning, I loved every climb and water-blasted descent. This morning ride on Highway 1 was another gift that server gave to me by letting me stay in her motor home. I wish I knew her name.

Besides feeling groggy that morning, I also continued to feel hungry. I couldn't shovel in food fast enough. This was more annoying than a pleasure, because it's difficult to eat while riding a bike, especially when it's raining. At one point I decided that if I was willing to eat bird-pecked Doritos, I could definitely eat soggy Doritos, and placed the open bag in my gas tank so I could munch as I pedaled. After a couple of hours, the rain began to dissipate and blue sky emerged once again. It was a beautiful day on the coast.

By the time I approached the town of Cayucos, I was fighting a raging headache. At first I wondered if something was off with my hydration or electrolytes. Then I remembered — except for that one Coke, I haven't had any caffeine in two days. Usually I consume a lot more than that. I decided to stop at a small coffee shop and order a huge mocha, which is the perfect recovery drink (chocolate milk with a kick.) Since it was already noon I decided to get a sandwich, too. Wow, a second meal in three days. This really was becoming a decadent bicycle tour.


After about seventy miles of happy Highway 1 riding, I crossed into Montana de Oro State Park, where I was hoping to ride some dirt again. I checked out a few singletrack trails and continued toward the route I'd laid out in Google Maps, based on recommendations the software made in its "bike" setting.

Until, that is, I came to this. A dead end. My paper maps didn't indicate that any of the bike-legal trails went through, and apparently bikes were not allowed on the only through-route around the park. Frustrated, I sat down at a picnic table to assess my options. My entire route was based on getting around this peninsula; I planned to stick close to the coast and not actually head inland until farther south. If I headed inland north of the park, like I was going to have to, I would have to ride through the busy Highway 101 corridor and all of its traffic, with only my paper maps to use for direction. I didn't expect Google Maps to be infallible but this was discouraging. I already thought I was looking at a 170-mile day to reach the Santa Barbara 100 start/finish, and this was definitely going to push me beyond that distance.

I was sitting at that picnic table, stewing over my options, when my cell phone rang. It was Beat, who told me that his race had been cancelled. Hail, rain, and higher-elevation snow of epic proportions fell on the course, causing widespread mud and flooding. Rangers were closing roads left and right, volunteers couldn't reach aid station spots, and also couldn't put up course markings. They started the race anyway despite the lack of markings. Beat and his friend Steve were running at the front with two other runners. Without any way to know whether they were on the right course, the group of four continued up a muddy trail for twelve miles until they were nearly out of food and water, with no aid stations or race markings in sight, and decided for safety reasons to turn around. As it turned out they did run for 25 miles off course, and by the time they returned, the race was cancelled and the organizer and most of the runners had left. It sounded like a real mess, but Beat was in good spirits and happy for the chance to run a scenic if muddy and cold 30 miles in the mountains. Now, he said, he was coming to pick me up.

"Perfect timing," I replied.

I backtracked out of the state park and rode a tailwind into San Luis Obispo to meet Beat at Highway 101. It was a lot of fun to mash the big gear at 25 miles per hour while dark storm clouds chased me in from the coast. I was finally recovering from the previous day's energy deficit, and feeling great. I ended with 85 miles for the day and 280 total for the trip, and 24,000 feet total climbing. All-in-all it was a fantastic, dynamic ride, and a great shakedown for the Stagecoach 400 (except, of course, for the complete lack of heat training.)

California really is a cool place to ride a bike.

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.