The Wild Wild West

The locals are so welcoming on Bay Area backroads.

As we turned west onto Bear Gulch Road, there was one to greet us. With his faded brown sedan parked next to the cluster of mailboxes, he shouted:

You're not going through to the coast!

“No,” I replied; “we turn around at the bottom and ride back up.” (The public road is a dead end, with a well-marked gate demarcating private property.)

He continued:

If I find you on my ranch I'll fill you full of buckshot!

So noted.

Here in the 21st century, we have plenty of detailed maps to guide us. It would be stupid not to consult them. And it would be even more stupid to trespass on private property.

I can only imagine that, to this paunchy redneck with his stringy hair grazing his shoulders, that the stupidest idea of all would be that two women on bicycles would coast effortlessly to the bottom of a really steep hill just to make a u-turn and pedal back up.

Nah, we're really cattle rustlers in disguise.

I half expected him to drive back down the hill and park at the end of the road. I picture him sitting on an old lawn chair somewhere on his property, his shotgun across his knees, still waiting for us to arrive. Disappointing, on so many levels.

I hadn't climbed Old La Honda Road in awhile. I wasn't trying for a personal best, but I will say that it took less effort to pedal the new bike up the hill. Reaching the summit on this penultimate day of Le Tour de France, it was fitting to discover that someone has created a traditional French-style road marker and planted it there.

Snacking at the top of Kings Mountain before starting our descent, we overheard a conversation between some nearby cyclists and a very lost motorist. When they told him to head down Kings, my ride buddy and I looked at each other. Go, now, before we get stuck behind this guy who has never seen Kings Mountain before.

I'd forgotten how long that descent is. There was only open road ahead of me, as I took care not to let the fast bike accelerate to warp speed. An SUV appeared behind me; I had a clear advantage on the curves, and there were no straights long enough for him to pass me safely. He'd just have to wait. Besides, I was doing the speed limit (or better).

For the day, 3,440 feet of climbing over about 26 miles. And no buckshot.