4/2/15 – Stinson Beach to Monterey
Up at 4 again, still dark but not raining yet. After a cold water shave in the half bath (no hot available), I sneak over to the main house for the showers before anyone else gets in. There are no towels, just a hand towel on the sink that folks have been using when washing hands. Well, any port in a storm. There’s also no soap, so I wash with my shampoo, which should mean that all my body hair is now silky soft, shiny and voluminous. TMI ? I’m writing this by the light of the screen, sitting outside at a rusty patio table, since there is no place to sit in my room. I’m waiting for daylight so I can hit the road.
At first light, I free the rig from its precarious perch by the gate and I’m off, keeping the ocean on my right. Highway 1 climbs sharply out of Stinson Beach, winding tortuously up the steep slope on a narrow shelf cut into the rocks. Much of the road is still dark, since the sun is struggling to get above the rim of the mountain but it already has illuminated the ocean a ways out from shore. It is spectacular, this chiaroscuro view of rocks and sea, a light show that would cost a fortune to imitate with technology, but here it happens every morning. I can’t watch as much as I’d like for the road is narrow, not much if any shoulder in many places and occasionally there is a large rock that just couldn’t cling to the heights any longer and has come down to the asphalt to rest.
The curves are, as always on this north coast, tight and endless. As I reach the top of the mountain nearest San Francisco, there are more housing clusters, very expensive, beautiful constructions ingeniously engineered, the occupants hope, to cling to the sides overlooking the sea. These occupants work in the big city to pay for these homes and they are in a hurry to drive their Bimmers and Volvos and exotic Italian cars down the mountain to get to the job. The racers who ascend Pikes Peak would have serious competition from these workers if the race was back down to the bottom. I pull over at every turnout to let them go by.
Sitting in the Dipsea Cafe near Mill Valley, having breakfast and waiting for the rush hour to die down a bit on the Golden Gate. I remembered the intersection of 1 and 101 here when I saw it, probably because Brenda and I missed it the first time 20 years ago going north and had to “tour” Mill Valley until we could get turned around. We had pancakes for breakfast that morning at a restaurant in Sausalito, so I’m having pancakes here today. Can’t find the other restaurant and the traffic at 8 AM is too heavy and frantic for me to explore much. I dread the thought of going through San Fransisco, but it must be done.
The staff here at this cafe is ignoring me, probably because a travel-soiled Aerostitch doesn’t fit in well with the obviously upscale clientele they are used to serving. Three guys at the table behind me are talking about investors, debentures and who knows what in techno-speak lingo. Not sure what it all means, but if they were talking to me, I’d cover my wallet.
The Dipsea is named after a trail that departs near here and goes up over the mountain to end in Stinson. There is a footrace held on the trail every year. If it crosses the road in the morning hours, I suspect some of the competitors end up on the grille of a Volvo in an office park in the city.
Getting through San Francisco was easier than I expected. Crossing the Golden Gate bridge, the railings keep the gorgeous view occluded so that motorists don’t lose track of what they’re supposed to be doing. Still, it’s impressive. I know it’s just a bridge….but it isn’t. I’ve ridden across it twice before and I still get a bit of a thrill from it. Just over the bridge a sign points the way to Rt. One and even though it changes street names often (Veteran’s Way, Presidio Way, etc) there are green highway number signs often enough to keep on target. It takes me up and down some of the city’s famous hills, past street names I’ve seen and heard in the movies, in novels and old TV shows. I keep expecting a speeding Mustang to come flying over the next hill, or perhaps a berserk VW beetle with a number on the side.
After clearing the city, Highway 1 calms down and the curves become more gentle and much less frequent as the land flattens out a bit. I pass through Half Moon Bay, the place where Brenda and I rented the K75 for that trip about 20 years ago. It doesn’t look too familiar…but then I doubt they remember me there either.
I stopped at a State Beach south of Half Moon Bay, where two teenage boys, probably 15 or so, were playing in the surf watched over by what I assume was their mom. The boys ran at the waves, ran from them, ran through them and all the while whooped with the sheer joy of being young, healthy and at the beach. It’s cold and a harsh wind is driving in the breakers, but when you’re 15 or 16, none of that matters a bit.
Gas and chain lubing at Santa Cruz. A young man on a sport bike zoomed into the lot, took off his helmet freeing an astonishing amount of hair, and said in a perfect “Valley” accent, “Cool Bike !” I said I agreed.
At the Beach on the way to Monterey
From Santa Cruz on down to Monterey 1 is a four lane for the most part and there is a cold biting wind blowing right at me, carrying a wet mist that isn’t rain and isn’t fog, but sort of is both. The land here is flat and arid looking, more like desert within sight of the ocean. Scrub bushes pop up here and there, with a lot of bare yellow earth in between. It is, despite the arid appearance, agricultural land with the help of irrigation, and the traffic is a mix of tourist cars and large pickup trucks.
Monterey finally appears. This place has held a magical image in my mind for years, since reading Cannery Row when I was a teenager. Not sure why I waited this long to get here. I took a slow tour along what passes for Cannery Row now, but even with the “development” of the canneries into tourist shops, I still can see the accuracy of Steinbeck’s description.
Along the shoreline drive at Pacific Grove
The afternoon snack is at a bakery on Lighthouse Ave in the contiguous city of Pacific Grove. After polishing off my pastry, I drop down to the shoreline to cruise along the bay. I see the Borg Motel, across the street from the bay with a vacancy sign and on an impulse, ask about a room. I can have one for $72. I take it. This is an early stop, but from here on down I don’t think there will be much lodging and if so, it won’t be at this price. I proceed on with my tour of the bayshore, and it takes me to the
Across the street from the Borg Motel in Pacific Grove
Scenic Seventeen Mile Drive, a private road around the Pebble Beach resort side of the peninsula. The terminus of the Drive is by the Pebble Beach Golf Club, where the prestigious Concours motorcycle event is held each year ( I think they play golf there some too, but who cares about that part?). However, motorcycles are not allowed on the drive, the gate attendant tells me. Another result of the “loud pipes save lives” brigade.
Dinner tonight at the Beach House, around the corner from my motel room. An excellent grilled King Salmon filet with polenta and some veggies. The waitress even got it for me at the “early bird” price (about 1/3) even though I wasn’t there in time for that. I guess she felt sorry for the old white-haired geezer eating alone. I tipp
ed her on the full price, of course.
On the way back to the room, there is a full moon hanging over the bay on this cold and windy night and there are young men out there surfing in the freezing water Ah, youth.