Day twenty-three
My motel room does not have a coffee maker. Some have, and some have claimed it’s a COVID risk. I think this motel has never had one, so I use my camp stove to heat water for instant coffee. I ran out of stroopwafels about a week ago—I thought they would be a convenience store staple and have come to terms with the fact that I am out of touch about these sorts of things.
The ride to San Diego is uneventful. After about an hour I reach the tell-tale signs of being in the outskirts of a metropolis: mostly-empty six-lane roads, office parks of anonymous beige boxes with mirror-glass windows, tile and flooring wear-houses, highways with three digits.
The terrain is rolling, trending down as I approach the ocean. Someone told me once that he thinks it takes a certain type of person to do much road biking. I think about that as the traffic increases and the bike infrastructure does not. I’m of the mindset that it’s not up to me to not get hit, but up to all road users not to hit other people. That does afford me a certain confidence as I point my arm to the left and cross several lanes of traffic to get to a turn lane.
It’s not until I’m just a few blocks from it that I see my fist glimpses of the ocean between houses in La Jolla. I grew up on Lake Michigan, always knew the direction of the waterfront when I lived in Chicago, and can see Lake Washington from my house in Seattle. I thought I might have more of an emotional response with my reintroduction to abundant water after my time in the desert, but the comfort and satisfaction I feel are subtle, more like seeing a good friend after a few weeks of quarantine than a reunion with a long lost relative.
I lock up my bike at La Jolla Cove and stand for awhile looking out at the horizon and listening to the waves. The weather is cooler than I had expected. I get lunch at a rooftop cafe where I can keep staring at the ocean, then get turned around and take a roundabout way to my Airbnb.
Along the way, I pick up a doughnut and coffee. I had a doughnut on my way out of El Paso, so thought it would be fitting to end with a doughnut in San Diego.
Someone waiting in line asks me about one of my bike bags and about my trip. He says it doesn’t look like I packed much. This has been a common refrain along the way, leading me to wonder each time what it is that I must be missing, and when I’ll have the misfortune of finding out. This time I’m able to maintain my confidence, knowing that I had everything I needed for the 1,000+ mile journey.
Exploring San Diego
With long distance biking behind me for the next few days, I decide to eat. My strategy becomes finding a couple restaurants that look good and have outdoor seating or take out, then charting a bike route between them, and an outdoor site or two to stop at along the way.
I have one errand for my time in San Diego, which is to get a box to pack my bike in for the flight home. I get that out of the way and—after carrying a large box nearly two miles from the bike shop to my Airbnb—bike a half hour north to an out-of-the-way food truck only to find it closed because of propane issues. By the time I’m back to my Airbnb I’m grumpy and it’s getting dark and I decide to order delivery. The vegan pulled pork and mac and cheese that arrive do not disappoint.
The next day is more successful. I have a liège waffle topped with avocado and candied bacon, and immediately after leaving, stop at a taco shop for two tacos to-go. I ride downtown to a catch a ferry to Coronado. I’m expecting a large car ferry and am looking for the queue of cars when a mid-sized motor boat pulls up and asks if I need a ride. I’m the only passenger for the 10-minute crossing. On the other side of the bay, I catch a bike path that leads to the Hotel del Coronado and a beautiful white-sand beach.
Somewhere on the beach I lose my rear bike light, which had been clipped to my backpack, so stop at a bike shop on my way to dinner to get a new one. I’m still early for my dinner reservation, so roll through Balboa Park and wonder why I hadn’t come here earlier. The park hosted the 1915–16 Panama–California Exposition and is home to some architecturally-stunning buildings in a Spanish colonial style, with nothing held back when it came to the detail work on the façades.
On my final full day in town, I venture to Cotija’s Cocina in the Point Loma neighborhood for what I’ve read in several sources is the best breakfast burrito in town. I eat it at Sunset Cliffs, looking over the ocean with the sound of the waves washing over me. On my ride back toward downtown, I find what I think might be the steepest hill of the entire trip, on a street fittingly called Hill Street.
I order delivery for dinner and pack up my bike. I’m starting to feel a sense of loss from my trip coming to a close, and the knowledge that this sun and warmth is unlikely to follow me back to Seattle. But I’m looking forward to getting back to my home, to seeing people again (albeit still infrequently and at a distance because of the pandemic), and to cooking.
I already know that this won’t be my last bikeventure, though the next might not be quite so epic. At the very least I know that I’ll put my bike back together when I get to Seattle, dress a little differently to account for whatever drizzle there is on any given day, and pedal through familiar terrain while remembering the challenges and triumphs and these last few weeks and dreaming about where the road might take me next.