Vanity

I thought this would be a suitable topic seeing as I'm in LA. However I don't want to talk about the wonderful individuals, native to these parts, who have occasional difficulty seeing past their new nose job or pec implants. Instead I want to talk about the vanity of cyclists. Again you get the LA type, who care more about how they look on the bike than about where they cycle it, in fact the more crowded an area the more people to see them look absolutely super in their white bib shorts and on their $3500 carbon racer. However the tour cyclist suffers from a different type of vanity. For starters the men of this group look like bums: unwashed, unshaved, a mad glint in the eye; the women (somehow) manage to always appear clean and fresh, never too sweaty or exhausted, however they do not bother about make-up, their hairstyle is dictated by fitting under a less than fashionable helmet and both sexes are clad in supremely unattractive, practicle outdoor gear. So a tour cyclist doesn't (and definately shouldn't) suffer from vanity of apperance. However they definately suffer from ego of their trips. The common questions: Where did you start? (shit - early than me) Where are you heading? (Ha - I'm going further) How much weight are you carrying? How many miles are you doing a day? Take any detours? Every cyclist you meet is weighed and measured against yourself. Those who deny this are either Buddha like individuals, who have foresaken human nature, or full of bull. I have two things to say about this habit of nature. Firstly it is a good thing: it inspires and makes you want to push yourself to go that little further, take more of those little detours: in fact experience more and have a better trip. Secondly, it is pointless: every trip is completely different, even if you've headed down the same roads. The people you meet, the weather you encounter, the thoughts you have, the songs you sing, all are utterly different and no one is better than another.

San Fransisco, Big Sur and The big smoke (Oct. 24 - Nov. 2)

San Fransisco passed by in a blur. I spent my first day rebuilding my back wheel (I'd had it re-trued (professionally) twice, had three broken spokes in a week and was re-truing it myself 3 times a day). Only took me 4 1/2 hours, when the bike shop could have done it in 40 mins but apparently they were too busy to help out an itinerant English pedal pusher. However they did let me use their tools and gave me advice; since then I've had no trouble with it. After this the next couple of days past me by, I just enjoyed the sights, sounds and people of this amazingly characterful city. In San Fransisco I'd been staying with Cyndi, who it seemed opened her beautiful house to a stream of cycle tourists, with huge trust and generosity. The first night I stayed there I met Amaya and Eric, a couple who have been cycling round the world for the last three years. They were hugely inspiring and I loved to hear their stories, hopefully I will run into them again in southern Mexico or Guatemala.

As I'd come into San Fransisco the traffic had rapidly increased and it did not diminish again till I reached the Big Sur coast 120 miles south. During these miles I passed through Santa Cruz, Monterrey and Carmel; I'd stayed in a lighthouse, got sandblasted by a big wind whipping across the sand dunes skirting Monterrey bay, had a picnic on the white sands at Carmel, and met countless more great people (including Jacob my riding partner for a day). However despite this I longed for a little space, I missed the freedom I'd felt up in the Casscades on the way to Crater Lake. It was OK, I got that in spades when I reached Big Sur: a 90 mile stretch of coast running from Carmel to San Simeon with the most dramatic and beautiful cliff roads I had yet been treated to. I camped in the redwoods there and spent a day walking some of the trails and relaxing, that gave me the space I needed. In San Simeon I met Greg, touring by motorbike. I hoped on the back (which made think perhaps I had chosen the wrong transport for this trip) and he treated me to a great supper and offered to sort me out with a friend of his in Laguna beach, a very generous guy, who loved to meet new people and chatted up just about everyone we came across that evening, your typical extrovert Yank.

At this point I'd like to point out a cultural difference between us and them. In England Halloween is a minor blip in our lives merely an excuse for Pykies to chuck eggs at houses and little obese kids to add an extra tyre to aid their Michelin man impersonation. In America however it is their 2nd largest holiday (in retail terms), they go to town on this night. Little children will be preparing their costumes for months in advance, houses will be decked out in cobwebs (fake naturally, a mere $4.99 + tax), skeletons will hang from trees, while ghouls stalk the front lawn. And apparently this is also the night for getting hammered with a fellow English man and a Frenchy. I met this anglo-franc alliance: Francis and Steph at Refufio beach (I got there for a glorious sunset over the channel islands - the Yanks love to steal our names), which was packed out for the festivities. They generously shared with me their booze, their cheese and their stories of living in the US and travelling in Central America.

Two days later, after driving through Santa Barbra (a remarkably beautiful town but containing some questionable individuals - "I'm sorry I can't help you, its the day after a holiday, this is SB and we know how to party, my head is just everywhere"- tool), I arrived within sight of a brown smudge on the horizon, my first glimpse of LA. I was in Malibu and I for one was massively disappointed by the paucity of scantily clad young ladies frolicking on the white sands, could it be that Bay Watch was a sham? I entered this ridiculously large sprawl of habitation (it covers an area of 470 Sq miles), along a six lane highway - a mere pup compared to their twelve lane freeways. I had had a growing feeling of the bike being a rarer and rarer form of transport (the cloud of smog supporting this) but in LA I felt like an alien. It didn't help that I was covered in bike grease, a healthy beetroot colour from the attention of the sun and dripping with sweat. You could see the hesitation in all the drivers, they just did not know how to cope with this freak on their beloved asphalt. After taking a wrong turn and having to stop to ask directions a couple of times, I started to climb away from the smog and into the hills of Brentwood and eventually arrived at the house of Catherine's (a university friend, who could teach angels how to be graceful) parents, my home for the next four days.