Big Sur... Twice

During the last 2 weeks we have had the privelage of meeting a fascinating multitude of characters. All have welcomed us into their homes with a sincere and heartwarming hospitality. The beauty of life on the road is that you seem to be hurled suddenly into new situations, cast ashore each night in a new resting place like driftwood at the mercy of a mischevious wave. We play a tiny bit-part role on the grand stage of people's lives, returning to the familiar road as the sun rises. This potentially lonely existence has been made wonderful by those who were previously strangers greeting us as friends. Our story is influenced and inspired by every one.

We arrived in Santa Cruz, a very liberal town - so liberal in fact that one local described the abundance of hobos as a positive attribute, explaining that they were 'made to feel very welcome here'. We rode into town on our wounded vehicles, back wheels slithering like asthmatic snakes. After inspection by the guy in the bike store, he pointed out what we probably should have noticed some miles back - at least 4 spokes were snapped. His diagnosis was clear - brand new wheels were needed if we were to have any chance of making it through Mexico. $350 each please. Bugger...

The easiest thing to do would be to get out the credit cards and let them get on with it. But we both started the trip as self-confessed bicycle rookies, and didn't want to remain ignorant. We always said that what we didn't know we would learn along the way. Also...we're both tight arses. Our prayers were answered when we heard the legend of the Bike Church, a workshop where locals came to fix their bikes with the help of volunteer mechanics. Despite being closed, a kind mechanic said there was room at the inn for 2 weary travellers. We took a pew, he opened up the good book of bicycle repairs and imparted his knowledge. We departed 2 hours later with dirty hands and mended wheels, grinning with satisfaction.

We pedalled south, eager to experience the renouned beauty and challenging clifftop climbs which Big Sur promised. After destroying a loaf of bread, jar of peanut butter and a small bunch of bananas in our customary lunchtime routine, we rode hard up the steep incline. After rounding several bends where we looked in vain for the peak, the road eventually flattened out. Mark gave the standard 3-honk signal of celebration and turned to share a victorious 'air punch' moment with Greg (we may have been in America too long). Mark sped down the well-earned descent, looking back upon picturesque views of the route previously ridden. The road clung to the edge of cliffs which plunged violently into deserted bays, shallows streaked with intense turquoise and purple. Mark waited at the bottom of the descent for Greg, assuming that the views had got his photographic juices flowing. After 15 minutes wait, however, Mark reluctantly got back on the bike to head back up the hill, and his fears were confirmed when a passing motorist said she had seen a 'shirtless, long-haired guy fiddling with a wheel at the top of the hill'. Ticks all the boxes. Mark begrudgingly rode upwards, cursing the weakness of inner tubes. After the pesky tube was replaced we decided to camp in Big Sur rather than fight yet another losing battle with the dwindling sunlight. There were 2 small flaws to this plan; 1 - we were left with a demoralizing 105 miles to reach a shower and a bed in San Luis Obispo. 2 - the campsite was located at the bottom of the hill, right back where we had eaten lunch. A fairly inefficient afternoon all things considered. The next morning Mark treated Greg to breakfast in bed (oatmeal in a smelly tent) to compensate for waking him up in the dark. With the help of carefully chosen morning playlists we dragged ourselves over Big Sur yet again. Despite the seemingly ridiculous mileage and the hilly terrain we met Richard, our contact in San Luis Obispo, who had cycled out 15 miles to meet us. Greg made easy conversation to create the illusion that he was not totally exhausted, while Mark lagged behind, fighting a losing battle against his once again buckled wheel, which rubbed relentlessly against the brake and mudguard. We made our first 100 mile day, and felt like true cyclists!

At 60, Richard had an inspiring energy, enthusiastically talking us through his hobbies of cycling, rock-climbing, surfing and photography. Richard's passion for life was matched by our next generous hosts. Cat and Pat Patterson lived just off Patterson Drive (you can't make that up!) in Oxnard. Having recently completed a 4 year cycle around the world, the anecdotes flowed as freely as the wine. 2 wheeled travel is addictive and it is hard not to hear these fantastic stories and not dream wistfully of potential future trips. Africa anyone...?

The wealth of the area north of LA was displayed by the abundance of glamorous homes stretching into the hills. Of more interest to us were the numerous signs directing us to Malibu Pie Festival. We followed the arrows like mice eager for the cheese and stumbled across what was indeed a piefest, a smorgasbord of flavours. Fortunately we were too late for the pie-eating contest but were greeted by the locals, who upon hearing of our trip, insisted we taste a piece of each and every flavour. Our satisfied little bellies wobbled away as we left, Greg attempting to justify our indulgence - 'most of the pies had fruit in, they were probably pretty nutritious.'

At Venice Beach we parted company with a manly hug so that Mark could make it to San Diego for his first hot date in weeks. Unfortunately he misjudged the vast sprawl that is LA and was given a ride in a truck to Long Beach, where he spent the night on Jack's boat (a fellow cyclist and all round legend). He made it to San Diego in time, even managing to fit in a much needed beard trim. Meanwhile, Greg (painfully hung over after a night in LA with Will) eventually made it to Long Beach where he met Alison, a cycling enthusiast who offered a place to stay. Alison ended up accompanying him on the next 100 miles to San Diego, setting a savage pace that Greg's tired legs could barely maintain.

Southern California, although unmistakably still America, has offered us regular glimpses of what may await us in Mexico. Street signs in Spanish, the abundance of burrito stands and the people themselves make it impossible not to dream of what lies ahead. We have ridden over 1850 miles, the length of America. We are ready for the mystery, the challenge of exploring a new country, a foreign language, a distinct culture to experience. We hear stories which are terrible and wonderful in equal measure. We look forward to forming our own opinions first-hand, south of the border.

Total miles covered - 1,866