
The crowds thinned further. Funny thing about Fisherman’s Wharf at that time: no matter the day of the week, it was always crowded and bustling with tourists.
We left the crowds behind, riding along the Embarcadero. Passing tourists in bike-drawn chariots.
It wasn’t so bad. After the rest on the ferry, it felt like the trip was just getting started.
And it was.
IThinking back on it now, I laugh at how ill-prepared I was, wearing jeans, regular sneakers, no bike gloves, a belt with pouches. Pouches! What the fuck was I thinking? I had too much shit, like I thought I was Batman.
But, it wasn’t bad at all. I laugh because I learned so much, just on that first trip alone.
We rode through Fort Mason, continuing on our way to the Golden Gate.
More tourists, everywhere tourists. Coming up from Fort Mason to the entrance to the Golden Gate, there are hundreds of people. No matter the weather.
We weaved our way through, the sun beating on our foreheads.
I was thankful to have a friend along. I think doing it alone is it’s own, different way.
The closer you get to the Golden Gate, the more the topography changes. Now we’ve got hills, swooping lines of concrete, winding paved paths through parks.
The hill before the bridge was our steepest yet, and it was a lesson on learning to shift early when your bike is weighted down.
Lots of little lessons. So many I can’t remember them all. But I’ll try, and I’ll put them down here.
The Golden Gate suddenly looms. There it is. Cars whizzing by, zooming through the huge arches and tunnels, spit out onto the bridge.
At that time, the bike and pedestrian traffic were mixed along the bridge, but has since changed (and probably changed again).
The bridge looms. It’s a presence. People mill about, walk, saunter along near the massive red rail. Tentatively looking over. Looking at the water far below.
We push on, weaving through the crowds, the sun insistent.
The bridge is abuzz.
It’s a particular feeling. If you’ve been there, you know.
The panniers are heavy. The bike is holding up, but going is slow.
The portable speaker we had blasting music earlier is turned off.
The sounds of the crowds, the cars whipping base, the distant shore, and the sound of my creaking pedals.
Weight bending metal, forces stressing the joints. The bike was holding up. The panniers were secure and tidy.
My hands were sweaty, the handlebar grips already pilling.
The odometer was working, my phone on and secure, the brakes and shifters working great.
The Golden Gate bridge swoops in a shallow arc across the water, and so halfway over the bridge we could rest a little as we were now on the way down.
Soon we’d be plunging into Sausalito.