Next morning Ken revisits Santa Monica – in the daylight. On his way to meet up with someone he’d not seen since riding into Bishkek, Central Asia
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Next morning in Santa Monica
December 3rd, 2011Heading into LA
December 2nd, 2011Malibu. A little east of LA. Its principal attraction, I suspected, was that it wasn’t Los Angeles. A narrow, twenty seven mile strip of beach houses mostly teetering on the edge. At the northern end some expensive looking plots, the sort you buy just for the land, replacing the property with something more to your own taste. But the real money was probably elsewhere. More discreet. Told actor Kevin Costner lived much further up the coast.
Angry young men
December 2nd, 2011
Santa Barbara appeared to be what you’d probably expect a Californian coastal city to be. More Baywatch than Hill Street Blues. Fit young things on roller skates. That sort of thing. Out of season though for beach volleyball.
But pause for a short while on the edge of the wide beach side cycle path and you’ll soon notice the dispossessed. Deep, grubby tans. Sun bleached, faded clothes. Shopping trolleys laden with their worldly good, gathered together in tatty plastic carrier bags. A few with bicycles and trailers, plainly not long-haul tourers.
The guidebook suggested against camping close to Los Angeles, the State Park sites drawing in those down on their lot, or tempted by the possibilities of rich pickings. The economic downturn had, I thought, spread potential miscreants further out from the city.
I’d later met Ben, a fellow rider. Seen his bike parked up outside a cafe as I’d hurriedly left Lompoc. He’d explained the place was the Federal Penitentiary. Angry young men he’d said. You were either behind bars, or you’d money but nowhere to go, nowhere to spend it.
LA nightlife
December 2nd, 2011Ken finally reaches Los Angeles. In the dark…
Beach mischief
December 2nd, 2011Ever closer to Los Angeles, bit of a warning about pilfering at campgrounds..
Final climb on the Pacific coast
December 2nd, 2011Ken takes a short break after the final major climb southbound on the Pacific Coast bike route
Bearing up on Highway One
December 2nd, 2011Getting ever closer to Los Angeles, Ken digs out the bear spray. Well, you never know what you may find in the metropolis…
Motel musings
December 1st, 2011In Australia they were called Permanents, usually living in tatty trailers – caravans – or units at campgrounds. In the US, motels. Those for whom it was their only residence, and, in all likelihood, wasn’t going to change. Mine was an impromptu stop, a single night. Gone early the next morning.
A few ground floor rooms with wheelchairs outside. I’d wandered past in the dark, glimpsing inside through doors left ajar, curtains half closed, despite the sharp cold. Mostly chaotic, possessions strewn about. In others, Hispanic families, larger than the rooms they occupied.
Pleasantries
December 1st, 2011Small motel on the outskirts of Lompoc. Clean and relatively inexpensive. Sunset was imminent and I was tired. There was supposedly a campground in town, but I didn’t like the look of the place. Moments earlier I’d passed a man on the cycle path. "Sexy bike" he’d shouted as I’d approached. Brief pause, then he added "Faggot". I doubted he’d meant firewood, and was quick to yell a suitable response.
I’d left the hostel back in San Luis Obispo feeling rather more pleased than when I’d risen. There’d been breakfast. Make your own pancakes, drizzled with maple syrup. Fresh coffee. Earlier than advertised. I’d retrieved my Comment Card from the outgoing mail and torn it up. Benefit of the doubt. But my reservations about the neighbourhood were unchanged.
A young woman had wandered up to the hostel as I’d been loading the bike up outside on the veranda. Puffing furiously on a cigarette. Was, she asked, there anyone who worked here around. Strange question I thought. Yes, I replied. Firmly. She stubbed out her smoke and disappeared inside. Two young men appeared. A little unkempt. One had a can of Guinness which he then opened.
The girl reappeared, a city map in hand, muttered something to the others and they drifted off. I left a short while later. Anxious not to leave my loaded steed unattended outside, even if secured to a post. A decent street map from the hostel and I’d little difficulty leaving town and picking up the route south once more.
Brief lunch stop on the edge of Pismo Beach and then inland to Guadalupe, forced away from the coast by Vandenburg Air Force Base. Small deli. Hot counter offering Mexican food. Signs in both English and Spanish. The odd Hola and Gracias overheard. On the magazine rack most publications also in Spanish. Women on the covers lightly clothed. Very warm further south, I surmised.
Disappointing stop in San Luis Obispo
December 1st, 2011I didn’t rate the hostel in San Luis Obispo. Filled out a Comment Card to this effect and dropped it in the mail. Often do this, usually in praise. But not this time. Restrictive Quiet Hours – until eight in the morning, the members kitchen closed until then. Seven I thought reasonable, the accepted norm. But not eight.
A small sign explained that the filter coffee machine could be turned on by earlier risers. But still contained the used grounds from the previous day. Another notice suggested a donation for the inclusive pancake and maple syrup breakfast. Three bucks. I’d be willing to consider covering costs, but not contributing to profit.
I’d risen just after five. Complete a few jobs whilst it was quiet. Eager then to leave and return to a final few days of camping before LA. Distinct feeling the hostel’s owner didn’t care much for the place. Neither did I.
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