Santa Rosa Creek

Given the choice, would you rather bike on a road named Green Valley or California State Highway 46? [Let me guess ...]

But that's a trick question, because they're the same road.

I've admired these very hills from the comfort of a tour bus each September, returning from the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge. I didn't expect that I might ride my bicycle here. Ever.

Today was the queen stage of our little getaway, the route with the most climbing and the longest distance. I decided I was up for it. Then I checked the forecast.

We were headed for the coastal town of Cambria, and the weather service had posted a wind advisory. Strong winds in the afternoon, gusting to 35 mph, from the northwest. That would present crosswinds on the return trip; so far this week, I'd wobbled twice in crosswinds that were far weaker.

Time for Plan B.

My wise roommate had been planning all along to drive to the end point for today's climb. I joined her. When I saw that the return to Paso Robles on Highway 46 would have involved more climbing, I was ever-so-glad that I would not be biking it today.

As we parked, we met a couple of guys setting up a rest stop of sorts. They said they had about 20 riders coming through and asked where we were headed. “Oh, you're coming up the wall,” they said. I asked them about the steep bits on Santa Rosa Creek Road. 20% grade, one explained; a steep section, followed by a steep switchback. [I see some uphill walking in my future.]

Heading west entailed a bit of climbing to earn a creamy downhill to the coast. We turned right onto Highway 1 ... right into the wind.

It was too early for lunch. But it was not too early for a warm slice of olallieberry pie at Linn's. (Thanks, Ms. C., for the recommendation.)

Santa Rosa Creek Road was spectacular. See the tree trunk heralding a bend in the road?

Segments reminded me of some Bay Area favorites: Tunitas Creek (though without the redwoods). Lobitos Creek. Bear Gulch West. After several miles, the steady gentle climb ticked up. And then ...

There were two steep (but short) ramps in succession, each affording a (more or less) flat bit for recovery. Was that it, or would it get worse? Where's that nasty switchback?

The road took a bend to the left, and ... [gulp]. Unclip, unclip now! My left cleat would not release. I'm going to topple over. Rotate the pedals, steady, steady, unclip. [Whew.] Turkeys, unseen, cackled nearby. [Funny, very funny.]

The support van had relocated to (effectively) the top of the climb, and the racers were arriving as I got there. As I prepared to roll on, a bunch of them clipped in to do the same. Should I wait, let them pass? [Nah.]

And, we're off! Downhill, curvy, one lane, through the woods. One guy was ahead of me, and I wasn't losing ground. [Hmm.] Thoughts buzzed through my head. You don't know this road. The guy ahead of you does, follow him. We're really moving. Don't give chase. But he knows the road. Chill out. A couple more guys joined the first one, but the gap between us did not expand. When there was enough of a straight stretch, I checked my mirror. Maybe I should sit up and let the rest of the group come together.

They were nowhere in sight. Nowhere.

I could see the road ahead tilt up. Ah, that must be the “one more climb” a rider had foretold. I didn't want to crawl uphill. Aerodynamics and some mad pedaling paid off: not only did I make it up the hill with little effort, I actually closed the gap to the racer guys! [Thank you, Cervélo, thank you.]

The road leveled out and a spread of lupines called for a photo. I sat up and slowed. As they passed, one of the women called out “You did a great job descending back there!” I smiled. “That's why I climb.”

Our ride leaders for this trip were clever indeed. With each day's loop out of Paso Robles, we explored a new direction: southwest, southeast, northeast, saving the best for last: 32 miles, 2,795 feet of climbing west, to the coast (and back).

Santa Margarita Express

I've come to believe that there are two varieties of hillsides in this area: those that are covered with grapevines, and those that will be covered with grapevines in the future.

With today's route, we left the vineyards behind and passed through ranch lands. Horses and cattle, mostly. A few goats.

We paused to admire an impressive private narrow-gauge railway along the way, complete with a trestle and working signals. Not surprisingly, this being a weekday, the train wasn't running.

We stopped for a snack (freshly baked cookies!) at the Creston General Store.

Over the years, I've developed something of an affinity for Aermotor windmills. I just have to stop and take a picture. It's a thing, I guess. A harmless thing. Today was a four-Aermotor day (though I skipped photographing the fourth one, which was planted in the parking lot of a farm supply business).

This little eccentricity of mine paid an unexpected dividend. Just as I climbed back on the bike after admiring my third Aermotor, a bald eagle glided just overhead. A few moments earlier and I would have had my camera at the ready. I kept my eye on the soaring bird as I pedaled on, hoping for another chance but expecting it to fly out of sight.

Then I got lucky.

The bird circled back. I stopped and pulled out my camera, just in case it would pass nearby. I pointed and shot, hoping for the best: one shot in flight, the second with tail feathers fanned out as it prepared to land in a tree. For much of my life, these birds were nearly extinct; seeing one in the wild will always make my heart race. I've never been closer to one than I was today.

We rode into Santa Margarita looking for lunch at the Mercantile, but it's apparently out of business. We invaded the Southern Station instead, where they accommodated our crowd with grace and good humor. Their outdoor seating was perfect for our small herd of cyclists.

The general profile of our return route was downhill, but along the way we gained 600 feet in elevation as the hills rolled up (and down).

The locals were mostly tolerant, though I wondered at two signs along one rural road: a picture of bicycle, with the words “PASS 3 FT MIN.” It is the law, but it left me curious about what led to those signs [which I'd never seen before] being posted on this road. Then there was the pea-brained troglodyte in an oversized pickup truck, backed up in traffic in some small town, who deliberately belched a huge cloud of black exhaust as he passed the core of our group. I'll bet he doesn't give bicycles three feet on any backroad.

At the end of the day, we'd covered 53 miles and climbed some 2,230 feet along some beautiful back roads. It was the bald eagle, though, that made my day.