California: The Final Stretch
Twenty-three years ago, my friend Gina and I biked from Lincoln City, Oregon, to San Francisco. Riding that same stretch again on Pedal to the Pitch was like tracing old steps with new eyes. Some towns and climbs felt familiar, but many places felt brand new—as if the memories had faded, making space for fresh ones. I’m grateful I had the chance to ride it again.
California began in Crescent City, where I checked into a motel and finally tackled a mountain of laundry. From there, one of the highlights of the whole trip unfolded: cycling through the Redwoods. I’d done it before, but the quiet, low-traffic roads and the soaring trees felt magical all over again. Except for the tough climb out of Crescent City, it was days of easy terrain, flat stretches, and long, downhill rolls through natural cathedral-like groves. Small towns like Trinidad offered cozy lunch breaks, snacks, and ice cream before heading back out. Much of this stretch meant camping, which I loved—even if the daily routine of setting up and breaking down took its toll.
It was also the longest haul I’ve done without a rest day: sixteen straight days on the bike. By the time I reached the Bay Area, I was ready to pause. I stayed with my friend April in Mill Valley, met her daughter Hazel after nearly 15 years, and met a new friend literally at a traffic stop—Silvia, a Brazilian American cyclist who joined me for a few miles into Sausalito. That night I headed to Hillsborough to stay with the Berg family—friends connected through a chance meeting in Rurrenabaque, Bolivia back in 1999. Afterward, Los Altos gave me a long weekend of family time: pickleball, hot tubs, home-cooked meals, a SF Giants game, and the gift of catching up.
Mentally, I could have stopped there. I wasn’t done, but I felt like I could have been. Yet looking back now, writing this on the eve of my final day into San Diego, the San Francisco-to-San Diego leg has been the most fun of all.
That stretch was a tapestry of people and generosity. In Santa Cruz, my friend John played sherpa and we had quality time catching up since his retirement. In Monterey, Kathy detoured me around the Big Sur landslide—an excuse to linger at a winery and the San Luis Obispo Farmers Market. In Aptos and Ventura friends-of-friends opened their homes. I shipped my camping gear home in Santa Cruz, so their hospitality became essential.
I reconnected with Todd, a high school friend I hadn’t seen since 1993; with an old friend Dana in Santa Monica, while the city offered rest and self-care; with Mike in San Clemente, who wasn’t home but left me a key anyway; and now with Joe in Encinitas, a snowboarding buddy from the mid-’90s I hadn’t seen in decades. Joe took me surfing this afternoon before we meet up with Nick, another old friend from Ithaca, for dinner. Again and again, this stretch has reminded me: the best part has always been the people—old friends, new ones, and the kindness of strangers.
People keep asking how I feel. The truth? I don’t fully know. A part of me doesn’t want this adventure to end. The last two weeks especially have been pure joy—good weather, ocean views, swims, reunions, laughter, freedom. But it’s also time. Time to head home, settle back into rhythm, and reflect on what this journey has meant.
What I do know: I don’t feel stuck. I don’t feel weighed down. I feel open. I feel free. I feel happy. I feel healthy. And I can’t ask for anything more.
