GOLDEN GATE NATIONAL RECREATION AREA: Pedal Powerin' Across the Golden Gate Bridge, from Berkeley to San Francisco to the Marin Headlands & Back
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How? Easily. With a bit of creative planning, an imaginative spirit, the right attitude, and plenty of time on your hands, all you need is a little help from public transportation – BART, bus and ferry – and a good set of wheels (only two required).






In such instances – and heaven knows, I love the ease, comfort and convenience with which a car can get us places! – we have signed up for CityCarShare, or we rent a car for weekend camping getaways, or a friend has generously loaned us his vehicle on more than one occasion.

And so it goes that I suggest to Gambolin' Gal:

“Let’s get off our lazy duffs and haul our bikes over to the city on this perfectly gorgeous day and bike across the Golden Gate!”
This is a singular escapade that everyone must experience at some point (and it sure seems like everyone in the world has decided to experience it all together at the same point today).
At first, she demurs, but I press her and describe what the fun and adventure, the novelty of it – and, oh, the horrors and hassles of it! – entails, and it doesn't take much more convincing than that, before she leaps up off the sofa and prepares for the impromptu outing.


And for its fantastic scenery, dishing up one fabulous view after another, on the approach, from on high, looking back, from whatever your vantage point may be, of the iconic, world-famous, hugely admired and photographed Golden Gate Bridge connecting San Francisco to the rugged Marin Headlands.


The Waterfront is electric with people strolling through aisles at an outdoor fair, gathered around a mercurial drummer performing a blazing hot routine in the plaza bangin' on a motley assemblage of pots and pans, and the boulevard ambience is hoppin’ with rollerbladers, skateboarders, joggers, bicyclists, Segue operators, and pedestrians all out enjoying the lovely day.












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And bedazzled by that shimmering vision of urbanity – Baghdad by the Bay – and beyond, beyond, to the East Bay Hills and the faint triangular eminence of Mount Diablo itself probably thirty-five miles distant on the hazy horizon.
Continuing our ascent, we’re suddenly stopped in our tracks about a mile up by a serious road barrier with a NO BIKES sign posted. Looks like they're repairing the road higher up toward Point Bonita Lighthouse, but no matter to us, since our plan all along has been to ditch the road for the spur shortcut, Coastal Trail.
This is a fab stretch of legal dirt single-track that suddenly transports us off the asphalt world of cars, cars and more cars, and into an entirely different realm.
And yet another contrasting world of hills, hills and more hills, partly enshrouded in a veil of lifting fog to create a mysterious ambience as such you might expect to encounter in Scotland's Southern Uplands region (at least how I imagine it might appear).
Looking west, it's clear enough to catch a glimpse of a gleaming patch of tantalizing blue ocean stretching to the infinite horizon – Rodeo Beach in our shimmering dreams.





The sense of liberation from all earthly cares and concerns is intoxicating. Freedom shoots through our veins as we whiz down the rocky trail in this suddenly pristine, wild setting; long gone, light years behind us, is any and all traces of civilization.
Now hemmed in by the unbounded hill country of the glorious Marin Headlands, the sudden and immediate contrast couldn't be greater. One minute city, steel and concrete, the next nature, big open sky, plants and earth.
California poppies, Indian paintbrush, monkeyflower, sweet purple vetch, and silver-leaf lupine abound, the latter an endemic species critical for the larva of the endangered and also endemic Mission Blue Butterfly.
Many other "lesser" unidentified wildflowers are in bloom, a smattering of color creating a painterly vision of paradise along the trail and across the hillsides. We stop to admire a small bluffside, decorated with succulents popping with tiny yellow blooms, and happen to look up and see a big doe standing motionless staring down at us during a pause in her grazing routine.
Nonchalantly, she continues chewing and chomping on her little cud, then saunters behind some boulders.
The route continues another mile or so down to the flats of Rodeo Valley, a winding descent where it's easy to pick up speed at a dangerous clip.





The trail conditions are slippery and rocky, with ruts and holes, so we moderate the thrill of an unbridled whooshing reckless descent – the thrill of the “downhill bomb” in mountain biker parlance. But what's the everlasting hurry, for goodness sakes? Every step – or revolution – of the way presents an eternal moment to take in the sights, to observe our intimate and long-view surroundings.
We’re down sooner than we want to be, and from there it’s an easy haul. We come to a big meadow off Bunker Road and the first thing we see are two stiffly frozen, elegant statuesque blue herons on the hunt, probably for snakes. Unconcerned by our presence, we drop our bikes for a few minutes of viewing.


They begin to unwind in stealthy motions, taking on awkward gestures, craning their long, curvy necks forward in exaggerated fashion, lifting one spindly leg high and then the other, stepping deliberately in a slow stalking trance. I could watch them all day in their patient diligent search for a tasty appetizer.
Only once have I seen a heron snatch a snake and fly away with the dangling prize. This side of the Marin Headlands is where the forts and military installations and scientific establishments are – historic Forts Cronkhite and Barry, the eerily abandoned Nike Missile Site, the Marine Mammal Center, Headlands Center for the Arts, and the Marin Headlands Visitor Center.
The other side – approaches from Tennessee Valley – is pretty much all open space, miles and miles of interconnecting trails for endless hiking and biking and horseback riding, leading to high ridges with stunning pay-off views of the ocean and Mount Tamalpais, and secluded immersions in back hollows where coyotes howl and bobcats prowl, where hawks and harriers soar, and, if lucky, where you might hear a mountain lion roar.
We end our ride – actually, it's the halfway point – at Rodeo Beach, a very pretty, curvaceous stretch of brown sandy shoreline fronting a cobalt blue, roiling ocean whipped up by strong winds and crashing white-tipped waves popular with wet suited surfers.
We sit on a bluff with legs dangling over the edge, enjoying a well-earned lunch and watching the dudes ride the waves – mostly just enjoying the sensation of being where we are, right here, at the very edge of the West Coast, staring out into the Pacific void – and relishing in the satisfaction of having gotten here by our own means, of our own volition and human-generated pedal power.
We could linger forever in the magical light of the late afternoon, but it's time to gear up for the long ride back.
As we're passing by Rodeo Lagoon, Gambolin' Gal lets out a gasp of excitement when she spots a skulking young female coyote slinking around a picnic table (sadly scavenging for some scrap of victual to whet her corrupt appetite).
I move in, probably too close for comfort, for a more intimate look and photo op, and she seems very unconcerned, to the point of nonchalance, about my presence, so obviously, the little "kai-yote" has been around this block before.
Snapping away (my camera, not her gnashing teeth), she delicately lifts herself up on the table to scoop up in her jaws a discarded half of an Oreo cookie. Not good. But she thinks it is, judging from her lip-smacking approval.
She's really a beautiful creature, sleek if a bit gaunt, with piercing eyes that radiate an intelligent and sensitive nature. This is probably the closest I've ever been to a wild animal. (The park service, of course, would have a conniption fit over it, but I have done no harm and the animal does not seem bothered or testy.)
No sooner does she figure she's scavenged the lot of potential bounty around and off the picnic table, than off she scampers, across the road, up into a nearby field, and out of sight to, hopefully, happier hunting grounds.
The climb back up the trail isn't as bad (hard) as we suspected, and in no time, we summit the crest of the ridge and are back on Conzelman Road.
The fog over the bay and bridge has completely dissipated giving way to a blinding cerulean brightness, revealing from our high vantage point the full panoramic spectrum of the prettiest and largest bay in the world. (Some, those from Rio and Hong Kong harbor, would protest)











Stellar views: From nearby Bird Island Overlook and Point Bonita Lighthouse, across the expanse of open ocean to Land's End, China Beach, Baker Beach, the Presidio, the Shining City, and, of course, exposed now in all its naked glory, the great span and towers and cables of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Truly breathtaking stuff – which explains the log-jam of cars inching slowing up and down the road, looking to pull off at Hawk's Hill, Spencer's Bunker, or some other spot to get out and soak up the views.

Truly breathtaking stuff – which explains the log-jam of cars inching slowing up and down the road, looking to pull off at Hawk's Hill, Spencer's Bunker, or some other spot to get out and soak up the views.

By now we're really tired and butt sore from so much seat time, and the day is getting on – it'll be 7 pm before we make it back to our doorstep in Berkeley – so we opt against our original plan of taking the Sausalito ferry to the SF pier, and instead retrace our route by cycling back across the bridge.
Good decision: we're treated to those prevalent views denied us on the approach. For some morbid reason, I stop to inspect the signage and emergency phone for would-be suicide jumpers to call for last-second help.
This is the dark side of the beautiful bridge. I peer over the edge of the four foot high railing, my eyes falling 250 ft. in a dizzying plunge of speculative fright, trying to imagine the pain and horror over 1300 individuals have experienced who have made the terrifying four second long, seventy-five miles per hour jump.



"Bones shatter, ribs are snapped like they were twigs, internal organs are ruptured, blood gushes out of bodily orifices, and the body keeps going down, deeper and deeper, into the hellish water. For those still alive, the plunge to the frigid water has decimated their body, but now they are so deep underwater that they drown." (Suicide Prevention)

Notwithstanding such a horrific, certain fate, about thirty people have survived. I freeze in my tracks for several moments of spacey contemplation, my gaze oddly rapt at the blanket of awaiting sea below, a pacific calm that greets jumpers' bodies like "a truck smashing into a brick wall."
It’s hard to imagine, but this beautiful setting is the most popular place in the world to self-destruct – averaging one every two weeks. On that grim note, we ride on, and I send out a last-second thought and prayer on the wind for the poor depressed souls who come to this spot for a very different reason from most of us.
Soon, we’re back at the Embarcadero BART station, no longer charmed and enthralled by all the urban activity and frenetic comings and goings and doings.



Reflecting on the day's expansive and diverse adventure, it will be difficult to ever again feel "trapped" or "bored" by the same old routines or passing laments of "being stuck" without a car.

For in such moments, I will recall Arthur Conan Doyle's words to the wise:

"When the spirits are low, when the day appears dark, when work becomes monotonous, when hope hardly seems worth having, just mount a bicycle and go out for a spin down the road, without thought on anything but the ride you are taking."
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Stress melts away, worries and cares are vanquished, problems dissolve, and the batteries of hope and optimism are recharged, and the shrinking spirit is emboldened to face the coldhearted and brutal world with courage and fortitude another day counting.


8 Comments:
What beauty lays in my old backyard! Great writing as usual!
Amazing photos as usual, Tom! I hope you were (not) wearing your sunscreen!
Beautiful, Tom. We are so blessed in Northern California...
DoooooooooD ! Your pictures of the Coyote ? Did You take those ? They are way cool ! Great Post Gambler...
My favorite Blog posting so far. Inspirational with emotive writing and great photos.
-Ted and Grace
Tom, another excellent journey. Great pics as usual.
Great shot of Ms. Ki-yote satisfying her sweet tooth. Wonderful read all the way through.
Glad you gave John Francis a call-out. He's such paragon of integrity. How can it be that he and his accomplishments, travels and singular life style were never followed with rapt attention by the news media, while Britney Spears' every movement commanded worldwide coverage?
Hey, that sounds like a wonderful trip! So jealous! You have done it once again! Incredible post.
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