It was another epic club ride from Fort Funston, across that golden bridge, up both peaks of Mount Tamalpias, across the spillway of the Alpine reservoir, over the Bolinas ridge, and back thru the roads that thread between the hills of south Marin and the estuaries of the Bay.
The large group of cyclists became fragmented as we coursed along the parkways of the city, chopped by stoplights, U-turns, and woven boulevards in Golden Gate Park. At one point, there was just Sue and Alan on their tandem, Ben and I at a stoplight on 25th Avenue. We looked back and saw just two others far behind us. Ben asked, "Are we lost?" Simultaneously, Sue and Alan responded, "Yes/No." There seemed to be equal conviction in each of their synchronous voices. I consulted our detailed map, confirming that we were indeed on track. Soon the group of club tourists reunited as we entered the park as remassed tourists.
The air was unusually clear and calm as we crossed that bridge. The strong riders were anxious to proceed up the mountain. They steamed across the bridge with heady enthusiasm. Don had brought binoculars and Peggy had a camera. Lisa, Ben, and I joined them for a tourist style, midspan break. We ogled at the views to the city and to the hundreds of sailboats tacking below. The boats were awaiting the signal for their race around the Faralons. The late morning sun illuminated the city from nearly overhead with an unbiased exposure angle. Without the binoculars, the individual structures were easily distinguished. We rejoined the group in Suasalito and proceeded up that slope.
The climbing, the chatting, the lounging about the summit, the snacking, viewing, snapshooting, spotting, and early season tanning evolved in an ideal and memorable sequence. A special feature of the descent was the route along West Ridgecrest Boulevard. This scenic rolling descent was a first for Lisa, and Peggy. They whooped with joy as the vistas of the surf along Rocky Point and the Bolinas Bay opened-up far below us. We peered over the brink of the road and saw two hang gliders poised on a terrace below us. Our sensations were more like freefalling shootists as our freewheels buzzed and the wind whistled about us.
Climbing from the Alpine Reservoir over the Bolinas ridge there was an imaginative discussion of fluffy animals, bagels, and pancakes. It was agreed that it’s better to eat fluffy things than furry or fuzzy things. There was even speculation that artichokes are good to eat except for their fuzzy button that can get stuck in the throat. "That’s why they’re called ‘chokes’", quoth Peg.
As we entered Fairfax, we noticed the speedy group of our companions wheeling down Drake Avenue ahead of us. Their plan was to extend the trip with a loop thru Tiburon. Our hunger anchored us at the supermarket. What had been an imaginative discussion of fluffy food materialized into a ravenous feeding upon whole sandwiches, burritos, an entire jar of artichoke hearts, and a complete baguette. Binge eating; it goes with binge cycling.
We found ourselves entertained by a terrier that was wiry and foamy as well as fluffy. A stream of colorful Marin cyclists passed along Drake Boulevard. There seems to be a shortage of stokers in the county. We noticed three stoker-free tandemists. There seemed to be an abundance of silver beetle autos. Perhaps the stokers of Marin are all busy touring about in silver beetles.
As we rode back toward Sausalito we found many opportunities to sprint for city limit signs; San Anselmo, Ross, Kentfield, Larkspur, Corte Madera, Mill Valley, Belvedere, not that any of us was capable of creating the appearance of a sprint.
Our route curved along the inside of the gate. A close-range panorama of the city opened before us and it was another splendid shutter moment. The afternoon sun now lit the city from the West. The west sides of the buildings reflected white bars of light into the sky. These stood out from the backlit facets, creating an entirely new perspective and impression.
Some of us found that seventy miles and 6000 feet of climbing can become somewhat arduous after eight hours or so, regardless of spectacular scenery, amicable companionship, salubrious feedings, and witty repartee. As we climbed a short grade toward Land’s End in the Presidio, I overheard a plaintive muttering from behind me. "I just can’t do any more hills, Donny." Don replied in his casual tone, "What hill? I don’t see any hill." I passed the word back. "Donny says this is not a hill. You know; denial is the most powerful human psychological defense mechanism. There’s no hill, no headwind, and our hands and chamois are numb because they don’t hurt."
I did my best to distract the group. "Wow, look at that bridge. The view of the bridge from Land’s End is surrealistic. See how it appears to disappear beyond that ridge?" To me there is something inscrutable about the scene of that awesome bridge receding from view. You see the massive south footing on the right. You see that international orange superstructure spanning the gate in symmetrical curves and mile long lines. Somehow your brain leads you to believe that the bridge should be visibly connected to something on the other end. But no, a ridge cuts-off the view of the north footing. The bridge seems to be truncated. The ridge is so far away that depth perception is lost and the view is planarized. There could be anything or nothing on the Marin side. Even though we had cycled under it, up it, and over it just a half hour ago, we could see no evidence of its existence from this point.
Intrepidly, Don led us back to the Fort. The surf raged at us as we paced along the ocean beach segment of the Great Highway. The salty wind peppered us with salty sand. The sand collected in our salty right ear holes. Ravens imitated the gulls that hang-glided in the onshore gale. Just after we entered the Fort, the main group returned in their usual sequence; each rider separated by about thirty seconds, depending upon their speed from the last stoplight up the last hill. The enthusiasm of our greetings was somewhat blunted by the irritability of exhaustion, the reticence of being salty and disheveled by the sand and windblasting, and of course, by the urgency for a shower and a fluffy feeding after another epic experience.