It was time to embark on an epic bicycle ride across Japan.  I had done day trips outside Tokyo, and wondered what existed beyond the concrete and steel structures that seemed to continue on forever.  Callum, my buddy from work, and I, decided to spend two weeks biking from Tokyo to Fukuoka.  The trip would be roughly 1200 KM over 13 days, with a day of rest in Osaka to heal our bodies from the ride. I did some research on different routes we could take, considering this one but ultimately deciding it was too long.  I stumbled across this website,created for Korean riders by a fine fellow and fellow bicycling enthusiast named Sora.  More on him later. Critical about this route was the GPX file that Sora made available, allowing Callum to load the GPS coordinates onto his handlebar mounted navigation unit, allowing us to follow the course and gauge elevation changes.  Conveniently, the track was very simple.  For the first 540km,  the course follows national highway 1.  For the next 540km, it follows national highway 2.  For the next 85km, it’s national highway 3.  Some things make a lot of sense in Japan.  Some make no sense at all.  This is a case of the former.PreparationCallum and I spent a day ensuring that all of our ducks were in a row before setting off on this journey.  We photocopied dozens of pages from a road atlas, as well as lonely planet for each of the cities we planned on visiting.  The course was to be as follows:Tokyo->Hakone -> Shizuoka ->Hammamatsu ->Nagoya->Kameyama->Osaka->Naruto->Okayama->Hiroshima->Tokuyama->Shizuoka->Fukuoka A GPX file is available here of all the stops. We packed as light as possible and brought only necessities.  Energy bars and dextrose goo for the first days, cycling shorts and jersey, pants and shirt for going out at night, camping towels, first aide kit, toiletries, extra innertubes, bicycle pump, combination lock, sunscreen, flip-flops, business cards, cash, sportsdrink mix, iphones and iphone chargers, ipod nano and shuffle, Garmin GPS navigation unit, a notepad, pen, Japanese phrasebook, AsiaWheeling stickers for the hell of it, rain poncho, and lights for the bicycle. We reviewed the course and inventoried our materials over breakfast at Dennys, and prepared to meet at Johnathan’s Restaurant in Gotanda the next morning at 6AM.  The meal marked the first of many high-calorie breakfasts at western Chain restaurants across Japan.  

 DAY ONE

Callum and I both love coffee, so we had a few cups and then took this photo in Gotanda before cycling to Yokohama.

 It was early enough that we were both reverse commuting AND beating whatever traffic there was, which made for a splendid ride ending at the Yokohama train station Starbucks for another espresso.   I wanted to see Toyo Ito’s tower of winds, which is pictured right below in back of me.  At night, it lights up based on the heat and sound caused by the Yokohama subway.

Next, we began the long wheel to Hakone.  We continued past Yokohama in the kind of indescribable mental state one enters when riding a bicycle over long distances.  I began to contemplate and consider Japan in the global socio-culutral-economic context.  I couldn’t help but try to wrap my mind around all the signs, people, vehicles, industries, and business I was riding past.  We took a break at a McDonalds and, famished, indulged in a cinnamon roll.

Breaking Down the Pins and Get Hot Communication While we were eating the cinnamon roll, we saw one of the many signs that caused us to giggle along the way:

We motored on and descended to Enoshima beach, where we took another break, ate some energy bars, and chatted with the locals.

Here we are at the beach

Callum practicing his Japanese.

 We would have been lost without the GPS.

 We continued on, passing town after town.

And we stopped at a delicious Italian style bakery and pasta restaurant for lunch.

Local beer was to be an important consumption habit on this journey.  This brew was both dark and sparkling.

She served us a fresh and delicious caesar salad with reggiano cheese.  Look at her tie!

Mushroom and bacon pizza.

Caramel banana pie and two more espressos!

From there, we continued on to the base of Hakone.  Hakone is a tourist hot-spot and 900 meter high mountain pass 100km from Tokyo.  We were hoping to make it up the mountain the first day, but Callum and I decided to take it easy and assault the summit in the morning.  Plus, there was an excellent Ryokan (Traditional Japanese Inn) and Onsen (Natural Hotspring) at the base of the mountains.We decided to stay in the Ryokan, and this was our view:

 Inside our room:

We let our devices feast on power:

And visited Tenzan onsen.  Below is a photo of the post-bath relaxation room.

Then, we had a drink at the Fujiya Hotel because it had elevators that belonged in a James Bond movie, and visited a garishly decorated yakisoba joint pictured below.  The proprietor looked like Carlos Santana.

Then, we visited a convenience store to drink water, stock up on energy bars, and gawk at large plastic bottles of Japanese Sake.  Then we passed out early in our bedding. 

With my iPod shuffle bumping some powerful electronic European music, I set out on a the ride.  Wheeling in Japan is very much like wheeling in California in some ways.  The physical geography, coastal landscapes, and enjoyable climate would at times take me back to the parallel universe on the other side of the pacific that I have temporarily left behind.  I remember looking out over the ocean when bicycling the California coast thinking that the next landmass far off into the distance was Japan, and I would soon be there.  Now, I looked across the ocean knowing that California was the next sizable empire.  And that I would eventually return. In the photo above, you can see some of the man made three dimensional crosses, stacked row upon row.  Whether these are to fend of insurgents who may try to storm the beaches or to eliminate erosion, I will never know.  What was different about Japan, was that save for Hakone and a few other areas, Route 1 is like one big city street.  I felt like I was just segueing from town to town, suburb to suburb, prefecture to prefecture. 

Mostly, it looked the same.  It was filled with old people.   Everywhere I went, I felt the country was a kingdom of elderly people.  It felt strikingly different than a place like India, which essentially has demographics with the opposite concentration, or even California, which imports its younger workers from China, India, and Mexico.  

Those aged 60-90 in Japan built the country from scratch after the apocalypse of WWII, and have a special place in society.  Their children were part of a baby boom, but as a developed country, the fertility rate decreased significantly.  This aging population is illustrated below, animated over a time series, with population age on the Y axis and volume on the X.  For numerous political and socio-economic reasons, Japan chooses not to allow large flows of immigration into the country to combat this ever-impending demographic crisis.  I continued to wheel, passing a port and eating a SoyJoy, the only readily available energy bar in convenience stores.  I took a photo of the containers and container chassis for Gab, who values and sells the things (as part of discounted cash flows from operations) sitting in an office in Manhattan.  Thanks to the iPhone, I sent it right over to him.  And then, the unthinkable happened.  I was riding along at about 30km/h on the road, when a casual cyclist swerved onto the street from a parallel sidewalk.  To avoid rear-ending him, I too swerved and put pressure on the breaks, causing me to loose balance and skid on the ground with powerful force.  Dazed, I got up and felt nothing was broken, though I was bleeding from both elbows, one knee, and I had terrible road rash on my calf and thigh.  My bicycle shorts had torn even torn through, and my iPod shuffle was now scuffed to hell with asphalt.  I’ll spare you the pictures. 

An elderly woman on her bicycle paused to make sure I could walk, and then took off like a shot.  Here I was in the middle of Japan bleeding in the street wondering what to do.  I wandered into a convenience store and pointed at my wounds, slightly hysterical but mostly calm.  I pointed at my bleeding extremities to the woman behind the counter, who seemed eerily distant from the moment.  She slowly guided me to a section containing small band aides, handing me the box with nonchalance.    I motioned that I needed bigger bandages, and a crowd had gathered around to jabber at me in Japanese, even after explaining I didn’t speak it and that my wounds were becoming critical.  I was going to die here in a convenience store in Shizuoka prefecture. Worse things have happened to men. 

A fellow with a Keio university t-shirt, god bless him, directed me around the corner to a pharmacy.  In the pharmacy, the clerk pointed toward some much more prodigious looking bandages, gauze, disinfectants, and surgical tapes.  I picked up a handful of supplies and grabbed a 2 liter bottle of water.  I snuck behind the building and sat down on the ground, pouring water on my wounds, ripping gauze with my teeth, and dressing my wounds.  Thank god for my Boy Scout training, which had taught me exactly what to do in this situation from both a technical and emotional standpoint.   

The adrenaline in my veins, which staves off pain, began to subside by the time I had finished administering first aid.  Some wounds were worse than others, but I had no choice but to keep wheeling across this country.  I kept riding for 30 more kilometers and a hunger inside of me for Don Katsu began to develop into a fiery lust.  In exactly the point I had intended to eat, I came across a Don Katsu restaurant.    Inside, I was giggled at repeatedly, and I did my best to strategically conceal my bandages with my helmet so I wouldn’t be thrown out of the restaurant and shown to the hospital.  You’ll never know what these provincial people may do in backwater Don Katsu joints somewhere in the highlands of Shimada.  My fears were unfounded as the waitress continuously brought me additional cabbage and miso soup.  I paid the woman and got back on my bicycle.

My medical emergency had taken a bit of time and slowed me down some, so it was now 3:30 pm and I had 40km left to ride, giving me little room for error or pause.  I zoomed up and down country roads towards Hamamatsu, fatigued from my wounds and pondering life’s big questions, as one does in a state of prolonged physical exertion.  After filling up my water bottles 20km from Hamamatsu, ready for the final push, I was once again set back.A ledge in the sidewalk had shaken my water bottle out of its holder, causing it to fall to the ground and shatter under my tire, breaking the valve off my inner-tube, rendering it useless.  My only choice was to change my tire with the old, slow leaking tube I took out of my bike the previous morning.  Doing this lasted for about a kilometer, as air slowly leaked out of it and I felt inconsistencies in the road more and more.  Finally, as the sun began to set, and I was lost in an array of off-ramps, on-ramps, and country roads, my inner-tube lost all of its resilience.  

After picking strange and incredibly sticky seed pods off my body I had somehow acquired, I wandered into a Daily Yamazaki, hoping that they could call a taxi. Without a grasp of Japanese, I used an old receipt to draw a picture of a phone and an automobile with a light on top of it, signifying taxi.  The sweet clerks at the convenience store called the taxi while I waited outside, shameful of my less-than-pristine bandages.  

The taxi came and told me the bike was too big for his car, and that he would go switch to another.  His vibrations were not ideal.  After 45 minutes, a minivan taxi returned, and the driver was an older man with whom I jived.  We loaded my bike in the back after removing the tires, and I sat in the front seat, trying to conceal the fact that I was bleeding all over the upholstery, and occasionally, the left arm of his white shirt.   I called some hotels and found one with a decent rate that spoke english, to which I had the taxi deliver me.

 I checked into the hotel looking like an insane person, wearing cycling spandex with dried blood and haggard bandages all over my arms and legs.   A woman checking in next to me shot me a nervous smile, probably out of fear and pity.  The clerk, Satoshi, kept asking me in Japanese if I was ok.  ”Daijoubu desu ka?”  ”Daijoubu desu”, I would reply.  He showed me on a map where I could get some food and a drink, and sold me some laundry detergent for ¥50 so I could do a wash.  

Great price, I said.  He added that I had been upgraded, free of charge, from a single to a double room.   I thanked him and headed upstairs.  Removing my bandages, I settled into a warm bath tub, cleaning my wounds with water and washing the day’s journey off my body.  Luckily, I had only brought a long sleeve shirt and pants, which covered my wounds which I dressed again after the bath.  

I wasn’t terribly hungry, so I headed to a bar owned by a Kurdish Turk and his Japanese wife, who served me shish-kebab. I sat at a table, but they directed me to the bar where I could have company, namely a 41 year old Alcoholic English teacher  who had lived in Japan for 18 years and seemingly new everyone in the town.  We wandered around, looking for live Brazilian music, which sadly only began past midnight. 

There’s a significant Brazilian population in Hamamatsu, and many of the public signage is in both Japanese and Brazilian.  They are mostly bi-racial Japanese Brazilians who migrated back from South America, and work in the Suzuki factories based around Hamamatsu.  Below, you can see Softbank, a mobile operator trumpeting its bilingual capabilities.  

I caroused a bit and made it home to my hotel, where I slept like a baby. 

After gawking at top-notch cycling equipment and purchasing a new water bottle and some accessories, I stocked up on energy bars and mixed a re-hydration coctail of Pocari Sweat, fiber supplement, and spring water.I put on my headphones and turned up Body Language 4 mixed by DJ Dixon. Click the link to have a listen. The Japanese countryside rolled by as I edged closer and closer to Nagoya, the day’s target.  I passed numerous abandoned entertainment and pachinko establishments, deserted and seemingly bombed out after Japan’s economic boom.  Below is the Cannon Bowl.  Eerie. Across the street was an upside down house sprinkled in graffiti.  An unlocked bicycle was parked outside, suggesting someone lives there. I continued to ride through Toyohashi the GPS navigation told me to make a rare turn onto a back road.  I followed it, and found myself in the middle of Toyohashi Festival 2008.  What luck! Here, I snacked, preempting lunch for this wonderful occasion.  Fried chicken, chocolate covered bananas, coffee, french fries (with no ketchup to speak of!), and a few other special treats. The festival had a giant blue tarp filled with people sawing wood and building structures and objects.  In Japanese culture, craftsmanship and the ability to make objects of quality is held in special reverence.  This bicycle journey was awakening me to the reality which was reflected in the numerous books and articles I had read about the concept.  The youngsters sawed and pounded away, nurtured into this culture of craftsmanship.  I was brought back to my backyard treehouse days, sawing the same two-by-fours and building all manner of skateboard furniture and miscellaneous artworks. I stocked up on water and headed onward towards Nagoya, witnessing all manner of psychedelic constructs.  After wheeling for 40 more Kilometers, I met up again with Callum in Mikawa Anjo, to where he had taken the Shinkansen.  We ate another snack at a wild west themed restaurant and began entering the urban sprawl of nagoya.After speeding through traffic for a good hour and a half, we arrived downtown. Nagoya is a city I highly recommend.  As Japan’s fourth largest city, the area is unusually wealthy compared with other cities outside of Tokyo.  This is because of Toyota and Honda choosing to headquarter themselves here, creating a gigantic supply chain of vendors also based in the area creating everything from vulcanized rubber to seat upholstery and audio systems.  Nagoya is also known for Miso-Katsu, a special type of Don Katsu fried with miso instead of standard batter.  We got a recommendation from our hotelier and ventured down to eat.  The delicacy and branded glass is pictured below.

Delicious.  We wandered around a bit looking for an Australian pub featuring an ale brewed in Callum’s hometown.  Incredibly, we walked by an office building where dozens of baseball fans had gathered to watch a game. The team they rooted for is owned by the corporation headquartered in this office building.  During games, the company invites fans to sit in the lobby and watch the game on their plasma television.  The crowd cheered and whacked sticks together to make noise and generate excitement.  I’ll never understand spectator sports.  We strolled around Nagoya passing through dodgy districts flush with pachinko parlors and seedy bars.  Circus Circus game and coffee pictured below. After some digging on Wikitravel and local recommendations, we stumbled across a nightclub that seemed to be miraculously hopping this Sunday night.  The DJ quickly befriended Callum and began to play some of the best dance music I have ever heard in my life. We danced around vigorously in sandals with the other Sunday night party-goers and stretched out our muscles from the day’s ride.  The DJ gave Callum a promotional mix CD, and we headed off to the hotel in a Taxi.  Nagoya will forever hold a special place in my heart and musical education.

 We continued to ride…into the evening…  

 Into the sunset… Finally, before a sizable hill climb, we found a small town called Kameyama in which we could find lodging and sustenance.   Also, in the parking lot of a convenience store, was parked a single engine propeller plane.  We took this as a good omen. After checking into our hotel room and exploring the doo-dads, devices, and ecoutrements that vary across Japanese hotel rooms, we headed down to the “Relaxation Room and Public Bath.”  The hotel’s public bath was essentially a gigantic Sento, or hot bathing tub.  Also were sit-down shower stalls and soap.  We cleaned ourselves up, and shaved in front of a gigantic mirror with razors provided by the hotel.  I choose a clean shaven look, while my partner in crime Callum shaped his beard, which was growing more attractive and robust as the days wore on. After we had sufficiently dried ourselves, we headed to the relaxation room after a quick visit to the vending machine.  The relaxation room had a massage chair, two foot massaging machines, and a strange vibration platform with elaborate usage instructions.  Each device had a coin slot, where feeding in ¥100 bought you 10 minutes of bliss. Here are some photos. 

 The foot massage machine was warning me I had overly large feet, but the added pressure was a bonus (I’m 31.5 cm while the specified maximum is 30) Amazingly, the magazine rack contained a publication with an article rating pork buns at various convenience stores.  Here I am in Kameyama, sipping a beer, getting a robotic Chinese foot massage, and reading pork bun reviews.   After we had sufficiently drained our pockets of ¥100 coins, we headed to the hotel reception-cum-concierge  and asked for a good Yakiniku restaurant where we could grill our own meat and enjoy a fine meal.  She called a taxi and directed us about 10 minutes away. I let callum peruse the menu and make the ordering decisions, as his experience far outstripped mine. He ordered high quality beef and normal quality beef, one of each, as well as some appetizers and beverages. When the food came, it just kept coming, so we kept grilling.  We thought that it was so cheap to order so much high quality beef out here in the country side.   Callum and I ate until we were very full. And then the food coma began. Note that we hadn’t finished but a third of the total beef.  How could this be? Then the bill came.  Not only had we eaten a third of our beef, but the bill was about four times more expensive than expected.  We quickly consulted with the waitress.  She noted that we had ordered five of each beef plate. Callum corrected her in Japanese that we had ordered ONE of each beef plate.  She corrected him again that no, we had indeed ordered FIVE of each beef plate.And then it hit us.  We had actually ordered five of each, as the Japanese for “Five of each” and “One of each” are very similar.  Callum called a friend to confirm the mistake.  So we felt a little aggrevated that we had so much uneaten food, and that we couldn’t take it home and have it for breakfast because it was thinly sliced RAW beef.  Well, the meal had been spectacular, and we couldn’t be bogged down by such things. So we went home to rest and digest. 

Then, as I was wheeling ahead, Callum lost a spoke in his back tire.  I sipped a machiato at Starbucks next to Kyoto station and waited for him to arrive by Taxi while iPhone Google helped locate bicycle repair shops.  We had planned to reach Osaka, but this would mean I would have to Cycle late into the evening while callum caught a train and repaired the bike in the morning in Osaka.  So we decided to repair the cycle in Kyoto and spend a night there.  I called numerous Ryokan, including a wonderful one I had stayed at over a year ago.  

 They were all booked.  In fact, because of a festival in Kyoto the next day, everyone was completely booked.  We finally found a vacant room next to the Shinkansen station called “El Inn Kyoto” which lacked a southwestern/Mexican feel despite the name.  Callum fixed his bike and tied it up next to mine in the back parking lot.  As it grew dark, we sought a meal.  Up until now, we had eaten Don Katsu in Tokyo, Miso-Katsu in Nagoya, and now Kyoto was known to specialize in Kim-Katsu, which was thinly sliced pork, fried with different flavors at the center.  

The restaurant recommended to us, was also known to be “especially popular with young ladies”, which confused and intrigued us.  As we waited for a table outside, we saw no less than ten school girls with stylish backpacks and nike shoes exit the establishment.  Welcome to Kyoto I guess, home of hip katsu loving school girls?

 We sat down and ordered a variety.  Cheese, Garlic, and something with green vegetables in the middle. 

 It also came with unlimited cabbage, which you should know by now is my weakness.

Here you can see the layers of the Katsu.

 Callum’s proud the bill hadn’t reached last nights unexpected levels.

And then there was none… We walked around Kyoto for a bit and popped into the Sent James Club for some single malt. I watched the bartender expertly mix frozen drinks while Callum chatted outside on the phone. From there, we bounced around a bit and found ourselves in a tiny basement bar with Alien Vs. Predator playing  on a gigantic projector.  The barkeep was dressed with hip flair and a trucker hat, and gave off marvelous vibes.  Kyoto is a surprisingly great place on a Tuesday night. We had been searching all night for a famous but secluded bar called “Hachimonjia,” a name with no immediate meaning owned by a local photographer who had been living and shooting photos in Kyoto for decades.  We asked everyone we saw but no one knew it.  After writing the name in different combinations of Kanji and Hiragana, we located it on google maps and made our way up the stairs.  The bar smelled foul and looked like it hadn’t been cleaned.  Ever.  It was empty except for the owner and a young fellow wearing a green hat with yellow lettering explaining a leftist Japanese political movement.  This fellow had purchased a gigantic bottle of Sake and was pouring the clear liquid in his class over gigantic rock-like pieces of ice.  The center of the room held a table which was stacked high with tons of black and white photography books by the owner.  His most famous series is the following:

 We didn’t feel comfortable shooting photos in the bar, so Callum snapped one in the bathroom.  Rank and excellent.

So Callum and I sat down, sipped ale, and flipped through the mans amazing books picturing Kyoto city life and the women that walk them.  The owner, Kai, shared stories of each photo and his loving and open aura spilled onto us.  Kai drank sake as if it were water, toasting with us often.  Callum bought a book, and I think the title is “Kyoto Without a Map.”  After laughing with Kai and his patron for a while, we headed home and practiced some break dancing in the Hotel Hallway.

 Sometimes I think what I perceive as natural and important to be exceedingly strange to normal people. 

Callum and I both napped hard for a few hours, exhausted from the five hour ride over a mere 40km.  Osaka was a hard city, and difficult to navigate in the rain with a tired head.   We discussed the fact that the rain would continue for three more days in the stretch between Osaka and Fukuoka.  This meant we would have to ride in poor weather, at low speeds, for long hours, with reduced scenery.  We both knew that this night in Osaka would be our last on the trip, and that a Shinkansen the next day would be our return journey.  With no remorse, we ventured out into the night. And ate a ton of Sushi. Then we took photos of strange things.

 Apparently this chap is famous:

 After a good night’s rest, we found a bicycle shop that sold bags so that I could pack my cycle into the Shinkansen.  We rode across a large highway and bridge, which delivered us directly to the station.

 Then, we packed up our bikes.

 And sat down in the back row next to our bikes for nearly three hours of watching our 540km rewind at high speeds.

And just like that, we were back in Tokyo.

One day soon, we will return to the south of Japan and complete our route.  Maybe we’ll start in Fukuoka and head north.  But regardless of heading and direction, we will wheel the distance between Fukuoka and Tokyo. 

So after a deluxe contenental breakfast buffet, I hit highway 1 again and climbed for 13.5 miles to a small summit right before descending onto highway 101, which took me to the Hollister exit at Goleta.

James’ parents pried him away from Santa Barbara for the weekend at the last minute, so my dreams of having a beer with him were shattered. All just aids reminding me that the journey is the reward. From the Hollister exit, I made my way to Del Playa and crossed the finish line at the beach.

Then I hopped in the car with my Dad and we drove to an old Danish settled village of Solvang, which was incredbly strange. All the architecture is danish, but of course, all the labor is Mexican. It made of the kind of wonderful socio-economic non-sequitor that I’m here to study and we had bratwurst at a Danish/German restaurant.

I’m currently on the road, heading back to the Bay Area. I feel great and my wheeling muscles are at the next level.

Here’s today’s map, about 48 miles:

View Larger Map

The map of the full trip lies below. If you want a closer look, here is the Google Earth file you can download to see the entire route. I reduced the resoltuion of the gpx files to 100 to decrease the file size, so some detail is lost, but you can still open it up and see the entirety of my journey. If you want a higher res version because you’re actually planning to do the trip, send me an email or comment on this post.
The whole trip (~367 Miles):

View Larger Map

Ok, now back to this blog being a reblog for my browsing as I eat cereal and worry about Chinese class in providence, RI.

“Well here we are, pismo beach, and all the clams we can eat”

Then central coast wine region to Guadalupe, a city in the middle of nowhere.

Guadalupe: In the middle of nowhere

I was hoping that Guadalupe would be Virgin Mary themed and I could do a little photo essay about having visions but they just had old advertisements and farm equiptment. Its cool to think about how time and trade has changed these places. One day LA will be only last century’s city.

“Why Not Now?”

From Guadalupe, I headed through more ranch and farmland, inland from the coast, which is occupied by Vandenberg airforce base. Above horses, peacocks, and cattle, shrill jet engine noises raged in the sky. I wish I had a shot of the vapor trails, but I’ve just got these horses to show you.

Climbed 950 feet before entering lompoc. Rough on the way up, but during the descent I clocked about 50mph.

These two pictures below were taken at the crest of the hill before entering the town.

What did I eat?
Breakfast: Two slices of french toast with apricot jam and cream chese in between them, two slices of rye bread with boisenberry jam, and a cup of coffee.
Lunch: Grilled chicken sandwhich with gorgonzola cheese and peach preserves, and a salad.
Dinner: Chicken Fajitas in Corn and Flour tortillas at Don Pipo’s Mexican Restaurant. And a salad.
Music: Listen to ZWEIHUNDERT TECHNO-RADIO PODCAST #54

Staying at the Quality Inn in Lompoc, already exited for their “Deluxe continental breakfast” Hopefully deluxe continental includes eastern europe. Sorry that joke was so shameless it had to be removed by your correspondent’s editors.

Today’s Map (Total of ~90 Miles):

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Tomorrow is the final stretch into Isla Vista. Plan to have a big breakfast here and get there by 2. Woooooo!

Breakfast in Big Sur was a potato fritada with Coffee and a protein bar. Lunch in Raggad Point: milk shake and french fries. That powered me until dinner of barbecued oysters, salad, atlantic salmon, mashed potatos, and creme brule.

It’s also starting to look less like northern california. I saw my first “W’04″ sticker since providence meaning that figuratively, “We’re not in Kansas anymore” or literally, “We are in Kansas.” Yuppies with USC license plate frames and surfers begin to saturate the coast at these warm latitudes.

Coming over a bridge in the morning.

More beautiful sea coves.

To give you an idea of the biking terrain.

More terrain.

A great ascent.

Elephant seals chilling.

Evolution.

Today’s Map (Total of ~53 Miles):

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Tomorrow is hopefully Cambria to Lompoc, which is 87 miles. If not, then to Guadalupe which is about 20 less. The road is much flatter now so I think it’s feasible. Then the final stretch to Isla Vista.