It started with a simple wish. "Let's take the ferry and ride our bikes by the Bay."
He went for it. Pumped up his tires and met me at the pier. And even if we'd gone to his gym for the bring-a-friend-for-free morning, and even if I'd already done long hauls on the eliptical and then an hour of a yoga class, we thought, Heck, yea. We can do this.
And thus it began.
One of the best experiences of living here is taking the ferry across the Bay where it winds from the ocean. My first experience with it was when (then called) PacBell Park opened, with Bonds working to tie the home run record. It was my first visit to the City and I headed straight for the ball park, watching from outside the right field fence and hoping Bonds would tie it while I stood there with my easy view. Innings and the sun came and went, and before I knew it, it was a dark quiet hour after the trains and pedestrians seemed to have all headed off and I was ... lost. I asked the Blue & Gold Fleet for best directions.
The sailor thought about it for a few minutes, and then said, "Well, we're about to dock for the night near – well, around there. I guess we can give you a ride."
So the first time I experienced both the Bay’s ferries and San Francisco at night was via a free, private ride from the great folks of the Blue & Gold Fleet. Since then, I've been a grateful and loyal customer (even if Bonive has had to accompany me, to alleviate the seasickness my mind never wants to acknowledge but my stomach is always quick to share).
So naturally last weekend, I drag Mustacho to Tiburon. Have the much delayed burger at Paradise, take in my favorite new book shop – Corner Books, the local library's volunteer run shop - and ride off across the trail. A few weeks before, I’d met two older German women from San Rafael as I pondered whether to take the steeper path.
“There are some slim, steep hills up there,” one said, nodding her head behind her to what looked like a cliff into Richardson Bay. She laughed. “I wouldn’t take it.”
“We know a nicer path,” her companion said. “If you want to follow us?”
Like the Blue & Gold introduced me to the City, my new San Rafael cycling companions took me on a tour of the streets and soft hills of Tiburon. We chatted and rode, chatted and rode, until the bay came out across the other side. The road thinned and my smile widened.
The clock had run out on me that day, but this time we had the whole afternoon (and I had a companion dragging most of my stuff on his back). After the bookshop stop (and an irresistible Chabon purchase), we began on the windy shaded trail until it opened to the sun and bay I remembered well. We passed soccer games, big and little dogs, and long lines of bikes.
“Which way?” he asked. I shrugged. It was as far as I’d ridden.
“Over there,” I said, pointing to the docks in Sausalito, the next town over. And we rode on.
We rode on as the wind decided to act like an extra passenger, not pedaling its own weight. Heads down and stops to gaze at the bay subdued early tinges of knee pain and gave the wind a break. We followed the trails that snaked the bay, and then after some guesswork, headed onto the main road, hidden back inside Marin County hills. We checked our directions a few times and wandered on anyway.
"How far are we?"
"No clue," and we laugh. I winced at my inflamed knees. I walked the bike up some hills, but otherwise we ride on. Mill Valley and finally Sausalito appears. I stopped to practice my Spanish at the Chevron and see how many different versions of directions we can get, as Mt. Tam is looking closer than it should. We find our way through marshes, under highways and back to the road. Finally, we wind in to the ferry dock at 5:49 – for the 5:50 boarding time - and I close my eyes for a restful, ideally anti-nauseating trip back to the City.
It's only when we hop on the bikes for the final blocks home that it hits us. Raw and bruised and screaming are our behinds, refusing to sit, happy for the respite we gave it on the boat and starting to feel robbed. My thighs start to pull away from my knees, vowing vengenance. Somehow we make it home and sleep and I even bounce back the next morning to head up to Russian Hill for the newstand, to peek at my travel article printed in the Sunday edition. I reach the bottom of Vallejo Street and I get my first hint - my ankle starts to sting. I remember Mustacho’s words, supine from the couch: “Maybe take the bus.” I returned with my haul, sadly missing the walk I'd planned but suspecting I should slow it down. I plot to walk later, visit the shops I profiled and give them a copy of the paper.
And then every bone, ligament, and joint collapse. I fold into my legs and it becomes a Sunday of a lot of Rick Steves’ travel videos. Work of course, because that will sting you anywhere. And lots of ice.
The cat was glad to see us sitting still.
"Do you know how far we rode?" Mustacho asked.
I let my head fall off the pillow.
"At least eight and a half miles."
"NO way."
"Check for yourself."
I did. It was at least 9.5 and over 10 miles in some estimates. My knees will start working again anyday now.
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