There are other cyclists on the bridge, of course. Many are tourists, and many are serious guys trying to beat their time and or training and they have all the pro gear and are super fast and their usually dicks.
“Single file!” one of them yells at us because we’re riding parallel to each other, side by side.
“Smile!” my friend yells back at them.
Sometime I wonder if these stormtrooper-looking cyclists completely devoid of humor or understanding, even enjoy what they’re doing.
You keep riding and you move on. The “pro” bikers zoom ahead, moving in a coordinated movement like school of fish.
Coming off the bridge, the street bike lane narrows, and the hill gets steep.
We zoom down the hill, having more momentum due to the extra weight we’re carrying.
I’m going fast. Wow. Almost too fast.
The hill continues down, down. It winds in a wide arc, the street narrows. Cars coming off of the bridge are only an arm’s length away.
As you come down from the bridge into Sausalito, it’s almost like entering a small European town, and for a second the illusion holds.
Turny streets. Winding steepness.
We spot a small convenience store / grocery store, and so we stop.
Time to provision.
We pick up food that’s easy to eat, some food for the journey, some food for the camp. We pick up some beers for when the campfire is lit. We fill up on water, take a breather and have a snack.
Then it’s back on the road.
Then you’re riding parallel to the shore. Downtown Sausalito. More tourists. Lots of people. Lots of restaurants. Lots of prices higher than they should be. Lots of seafood.
We continue. Still coming down off the rush of betting free energy after the bridge. But it’s always a little frustrating to come off a giant hill will a lot of speed and momentum and immediately something slows you down. A car, a dog, a pedestrian, another cyclist. Whatever it may be.
That’s part of the ride. That’s part of the journey.
We pass through downtown. More restaurants, little shops, we pass the Sausalito ferry launch.
It seems like a distant world, the workaday world, that I am outside of, passing through.
Part of the ride. Part of the feeling.
We push on, passing out of Sausalito and on to Marin. The crowds thin further. More stormtrooper bikers with frowns passing us by.
The hills start to get more intense. Longer, and larger. The forest sprouts up around us as we ride through Marin and further north.
The redwoods begin to engulf us. We’re heading into the forest, deeper and deeper. My feet hurt, my butt hurts from all the sitting, the jeans chafing against my legs. My tee shirt isn’t tight, so the fabric chafes my chest.
Things are starting to get uncomfortable. The hand grips are sweaty. The sun is still up, and hot. It’s early afternoon. But the forest, as we enter it, provides shade. The temperature drops. The surroundings become less populated, the road narrows to a two lane road. The houses get further apart. From the density of the city to the scattering of the forested regions of Marin.
We pass through Lagunitas. We’re almost there…?