Day 1: San Diego, CA to Chula Vista, CA

February 23, 2013

Not to belabor the point, but I'm tired of driving. Through the Valley and on to Los Angeles and Orange County, the freeway in several places runs eight lanes wide. But I don't have much time to dwell on that, or else I'll lose focus on the speeding, swerving, tailgating chaos that surrounds me on every mile of the drive to San Diego. When at last I reach the airport, I can't toss the keys to the rental car attendant fast enough. From the comfort of my desk chair during November, there was a romantic appeal to loading up an SUV with all of my gear and enjoying a laid-back cruise down the West Coast. Better still, it meant that I didn't have to ship anything, box the bike, or deal with airport hassles. Instead what I found was the most stressful, boring, and expensive way to travel between two points. I can't dis-recommend it enough.

After I load up the bike, things change in an instant. The car rental office sits next to a path that takes me from the airport to downtown along a quiet bay that glints in the sunlight and provides a home to hundreds of anchored boats that rock relaxed with the waves. It's a Saturday and both tourists and locals are out in force, but it's hard to become annoyed by the crowds of people because everyone who's ever pedaled a bike more than 30 miles in a day comes up to ask where I've come from and wish me good luck and safe travels on the way to where wherever I end up. Within half an hour, the memories of the drive that brought me here fade from the rear-view mirror stuck to the left side of my helmet.

San Diego sits on the east side of San Diego Bay. To the west, across a narrow gap of water, is Coronado. If you're not in a car, the quickest way between the two is by ferry. Not long after the ferry leaves the dock, it motors past the U.S.S. Midway, a nearly 1,000-foot-long aircraft carrier designed to house more than 100 aircraft and more than 4,000 people. On this trip it will be a rare day when I ride through a town that big. The thing is a marvel of modern engineering, a symbol of American naval dominance. It's responsible for the death of thousands.

"Eh," says the fat old guy who sits in front of me in an off-hand way, "I thought it would be bigger."

I bet he gets that a lot from his wife, too.

Afterward he goes back to worrying about more important things, like his in-depth conversation about Tim Tebow.

The ferry landing at Coronado is a crush of people and action and money: women pushing strollers, packed cafes, a line of 20 bicycle riders all yelling at each other in energetic Spanish, a Navy helicopter above, and an Italian restaurant with a mariachi band in navy blue suits trimmed with gold tassels playing and signing on a patio that looks out on the towers of downtown San Diego.

I cut out as soon as I can. I pass modest million dollar homes, a golf course, and Navy installations on the Bayshore Bikeway. It runs on a narrow strip of land called the Silver Strand, with the bay to its left, the ocean to its right, and dunes and a highway filling the rest of the space. The sun shines, the temperature hits 65, and a gentle tailwind pushes me forward. The apprehension I felt for weeks falls away and shatters under my wheels as I head south.

The Bikeway spits me out in Imperial Beach. It's a town of small ramblers and 70s-era apartments, full of working class people and a lot of military folks. I pass a truck with a sticker in the back window in the shape of Florida, with an American flag background, that reads "Cracker to the Core." Farther on I see a car with a license plate frame that says, "If you're gonna ride my ass, you might as well spank it." Along the beach, the joggers and volleyball players aren't attractive in a TV star sort of way. The number of liquor stores per capita seems high. It doesn't fit with other places on the coast like Malibu, Santa Monica, or Newport Beach. It's like developers somehow overlooked Imperial Beach and forgot to turn it into a place only for people with money.

A few miles south of town, past dormant fields of strawberries, a dozen horse stables, and a large community garden sits Border Field State Park. The U.S. side is empty, low-lying marsh land. The Mexican side is much different. From the beach you can see the highway traffic, hear the sirens of police cars, and almost make out the muffled words of the bullring announcer. Houses and apartments and businesses line the hillsides and slide all the way down to the border fence that runs from the land, along the gentle slope of the beach, and at last dives into the ocean, where it helps keep out illegal immigrant snorklers.

So there I am — the start. It's not as inspiring as I thought it would be. Then I realize that's because starting is the easy part. Anyone can start. If you measured my accomplishments by what I've started in life instead of what I've finished, I'd be the world's most successful man. All I've done so far on this trip is make it 20-something miles without crashing. In fact, the strongest thing I feel is tired — tired from following through on the stupid idea to push the bike through a long stretch of sand and out onto the beach, dodging tall piles of horse crap and shallow lakes of horse piss along the way.

I watch the weather forecast for tomorrow at the motel. It's not good — at all. A high wind warning is posted for the mountains and foothills and valleys, with 25 to 35 mile-per-hour sustained winds and gusts as high as 60. 60! I head to sleep with unease in my stomach, trying to decide whether it's worth the risk to ride on tomorrow.

Today's ride: 36 miles (58 km)
Total: 36 miles (58 km)

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