The Lost Coast and Highway 1 (Oct 17.-Oct.23)

So being a typically foolish individual, I followed the advice of Paul (from Eugene) and some guys in a bike shop in Eureka and took the Lost Coast road south from Eureka. I should have known better when I saw the glazed look in their eyes and the talk of these deserted roads with spectacular views. There is only one reason why cars do not follow a road and that is because their is an easier way. However in my naivety I happily clipped into my pedals and pottered off to Ferndale, about 20 miles south, and the jump off spot for this legendary route. Knowing I was letting myself in for a bit of a climb I had a quick beer in a victorian pub in Ferndale and then went to find the road. It did not even wait to get out of the town before it began to snake skywards into the clouds, for an hour I pounded away even having to resort to my granny gear at times. Eventually the road began to flattern and I paused to take stock, this is when I came across Winnie driving in the opposite direction. We chattered and when I said I'd find any old place to camp she advised me that the locals don't take kindly to trespassing and I should ask in Cape Town (a megatropilis of 4 buildings). As I reached the top of this first climb the sun burst through the cloud and hit the mists curling up from the pine trees in the valleys below, eagles and vultures were circling overhead and to say I was euphoric is a slight understatement. I hit some beautiful switch backs descending down onto a plateau of grassland and a higher than average density of no trespassing signs (Violators WILL be prosecuted), maybe Winnie was right. As I descended into Cape Town with the sun setting over the ocean I began looking for lights in the three houses I could see, there were none. I knocked on each door, no response - shit. I looked up the road and saw another near vertical climb, I did not fancy facing it in the gloom. I had just strapped my rear light on and was preparing to pedal on, when I noticed 500 yards down a dirt road smoke and light. I headed down the dirt track (past more no trespassing signs) and began to get nervous as I heard laughing and shouting, maybe it was a lynch mob getting pissed up before heading out to find trespassers to punish? Then a dog started barking and I was committed. I headed up to the house and was greeted with "What in the hell are you doing?", I excused my interruption and asked if I could camp on their land next to the river. Jason as soon as he realised what I was after, told me it was his 30th birthday, that I'd stumbled into the middle of his party and that I should grab a plate and join in. I hesitated but as soon as I saw the food I got heavily involved. The rest of the evening past by in a flash of red wine, debate about everything from health care to which are harder Rugby or Football (American) players and a lot of laughter. Joyce and Mike (Jason's parents) couldn't have made me feel more welcome in their home and I am blown away by their kindness to a complete stranger. The next morning I woke with a splitting headache and a mouth that tasted like home to a badger. I set about punishing myself for my excess with an immediate climb out from the farm. This climb was a lot shorter than the one the day before but a lot steeper and my cold mussels screamed at me, I screamed at them to man up and they eventually complied. Then came the descent down "The Wall", my speedo was broken so I'm not sure how fast I was going but I'd topped 44 mph a couple of days before and this felt faster, I then breakfasted next to the sea before heading inland. I had two major climbs left before rejoining the highway, the first wasn't too bad but the second was relentless. For an hour and a half I climb through countless switchbacks - after 40 minutes I could still see vertically below me the place I'd had lunch, as the crow flies I had gone less than 1/2 a mile. Eventually I reached the summit and headed into my final redwood forest where I stayed that night. The next morning I awoke at 3.30 to rain falling on my face, I hadn't bothered to pitch my tent as it had been dry and warm that evening. After trying to keep as much of my stuff as dry as possible as I packed it away I headed off into the rain, I had an 110 mile day ahead of me and had to keep a good pace to achieve it before night fall. By 5.30 I had reached Fort Bragg 20 miles from my camp spot and I was confident of reaching it before it got really dark at about 7. I had not factored in the hills and after an hour had done a little over 10 miles, it was getting dark and a sea fog was rolling in. Well I was up shit creek and my paddle allowed me to see approximately 2 meters in front of me with the density of the fog. The road was hanging on to a cliff edge with lots of nooks and crannies for cars to hide in. After 45 minutes of adrenaline (brought on by utter terror) pumping through me, I eventually crossed a bridge and got off the switch backs, my pace had slackened to a crawl so that I could see the edge of the road ahead and when I turned up after 8 having finished my mileage I was utterly exhausted. At this point the author would like to recommend not to cycle at night, in a dense sea fog along a cliff face with an under powered head torch, it is a rapid route to gray hair and stomach ulcers and I for one will not be repeating this experiment. The next three days took me down highway 1 and into San Fransisco, parts of this road were some of the best cycling I've ever had the pleasure of doing: beautiful views across the pacific, with descents that felt like they were going to throw you into the ocean before curling round themselves into a tight hairpin and always a gusting tailwind to help ease you up those climbs, I would like to give particular praise to the section between Fort Ross and Bodega Bay, during which I couldn't wipe the grin off my face...More pictures to follow!