In Part II the author describes: a bridge crossing, his hand, the beauty of Sausalito, his hand, the joys of cycling in Northern California, and his hand...
Getting On with Getting On
There was nothing for it but to keep going. I (sort of) new where the 12k start was, and I figured they would have a first aid tent. Someone was bound to take pity.
I got the camera out to take a few sunrise snaps. The sun was rising with alarming speed—either that or the previous five minutes had distorted my sense of time. Either way, Alcatraz was bathed the warm yellow and orange of the new dawn.
Alcatraz's silhouette in the dawn's light
My right hand was stuck to the brake hood, so I held the camera in my left hand, pedaling all the while. (Whenever I take shots like this I pray that something turns out, and that I don't just get a closeup of my nose hairs.)
I think I can...
Right about now (the funk soul brother...) my finger started to throb.
I think I can...
A-ha. Yep, that hurts.
I think I can...
Sardonically, I muttered aloud: "You've got to be kidding."
Despite the planning, yesterday's scouting, and this morning's commitment, I realized that I might need to cancel my ride...because I fell over like a newbie and got a boo-boo. Unbelievable.
I stowed the camera, finished my crossing, and started the descent into Sausalito. Yellow school buses were dropping off runners ahead, so I slowed. A race volunteer saw me and directed me to the start area. "Just old up your hand when you see the cops, they'll let you through."
Dutifully, I headed for help. As I rode in I caught 1,000 stares from the runners. Nothing belligerent ("Back off, roadie!"), just...stares.
I found first aid and approached the EMT. He was a dark-haired, mustachioed gent, about 5'5" x 4"4'. Seriously, he looked like a one-hundred-pound overweight, height-challenged Brooklyn firefighter. He had a New York accent.
Appreciatively, I made small-talk as he cleaned my hand. And my face. He examined both with a professional eye. "You look like hell," he said as he wiped my cheek.
That explained the staring.
Unconsciously, I had brushed my hand across my face. I had a streak of blood from lip to ear. It doesn't even show in the photos...it was on the other side from the camera. (I guess I was taking portraits of my "good side".)
He bandaged me up, applying pressure the whole time. The wound was essentially a blood bluster that had burst. Some skin was lost, but it was nothing serious, and the bleeding was entirely explained by my hydration and heart rate.
He gave me some extra band aids and a roll of compression tape. "Just in case," he said.
With many thanks, I went on my way, hoping that would be the last of the distractions.
Sausalito and Camaraderie
The morning mist obscures some of the detail, still the view of the San Francisco from Sausalito harbor is wondrous. The Bay Bridge frames the horizon, and the spires reach for the sky like jagged teeth of some mythical beast.
Looking back to San Francisco from Sausalito.
Bonus Photo! (I included both, because I couldn't decide which I liked better...)
Warmed by the beauty, I rode on.
The Bay area is ridiculously bicycle-friendly, at least from what I experienced. I rode from downtown San Francisco through Sausalito on bike paths, and there were plenty of other cyclists to chat with along the way. Local riders shared their knowledge of all the little details you won't find on the map...like where to fill water bottles and other necessities...
It had already been eventful, and I was well-behind schedule. Even so, I thought it best that I make sure that I was ready for the journey's next leg. I stopped at a public toilet for a quick constitutional and wash, making sure that my bandage was in place. It felt weird under the wrap, like it wasn't quite on correctly. But it looked OK.
Accommodating...and convenient!
Along the path that parallels the shore road I caught up to a skinny, serious-looking guy on a Cannondale CAAD5. I introduced myself as a tourist and told him that I was heading for Fairfax (not, VA...CA!), and I asked for any advice or route information he could share.
Generously, he told me that we was not going all the way to Fairfax, but that he could guide me part of the way. We rode two-across and chatted for the next half-hour or so.
He explained that he would love to join me further, but that he was recovering from an accident. "Just trying to get some base miles in," he said, grinning toothlessly.
Let me repeat that: toothlessly.
He was missing his four front teeth.
It turns out that his accident resulted in some dental damage. He proceeded to warn me about the descents—especially as we don't have anything like them in DC.
"I'll be careful!" I told him. "Between the 30 mph wobble on this bike, my bloody hand, and your teeth, someone is sending me a message."
Subtle, my guardian angel was not. He probably was compensating for my density.
The road turned upward and I said a hearty good morning to My Granny. Meanwhile. my whippet partner turned around at the top of the climb and we bid each other adieu.
I descended into
At the bottom I looked down and discovered that
I got scared. I couldn't find the source of the blood, and I had officially crossed over from Hitchcockian Hershey's syrup to Rob Zombieland's hyper-realistic gore. Feeling around, I realized that inside my tubular wrappings was all liquid. The source was the original (modest) wound. The problem was that I simply was not clotting.
What was I to do? Turn around? Re-bandage? Ride on? I decided to ride on. I knew it wasn't a serious wound. I had ridden with much worse.
But it sure was ugly...
Fairfax, Gateway to Adventure
All the way to Fairfax I passed lovely small towns and escarpments of homes nestled into the sides of the valley.I climbed over hills and descended through gorgeous valleys, passing spectacular homesteads and immaculate bungalows. There's a lot of money in this area, and it shows...
The beauty of the area is intoxicating. Spring blooms were blossoming all around, and I was taken by the care with which the residents tended their landscape.
I got into Fairfax and passed a Java Hut that was doing a brisk business. Californians are serious about their coffee. It was around 0900 and the only people about the town were cyclists and coffee-seekers. Often, they were hybrid coffee-seeking cyclists. The parking lot was a meeting place for caffeinated cyclists; there were bunches getting geared up for rides.
Busy, busy, busy! I could have used a nice cuppa...
I reached the intersection of Broadway and Bolinas Roads and made the left turn that would lead me into the heights. I pulled over again to take a look at my hand. By this point, the inside of the wrap was wet while the outside was sticking to the brake hood. As long as I kept my hand in one place I was fine. But as soon as I moved it around, things got ugly.
I was something out of a horror movie...
This photo fails to do justice to my dripping plasma...
This photo fails to do justice to my dripping plasma...
I was at the northernmost point of my ride, I was about to start climbing in earnest, , and my damned hand was not cooperating! I was pained and pissed. as I arrived at the road sign that marked the final intersection before the climb into Mt. Tamalpais. Two miles straight up to the Meadow Club, a private golf course in the hills. Seven miles to the reservoir's dam. Nine miles to Mount Tamalpais. Here we go!
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