Section 7. Going down that long lonesome highway
Although my social circle increased slightly when I moved on to in high school, there were only two after school activities that I regularly engaged in with others. The first was war gaming (q.v. Chapter 7, section 1). The other was during my senior year, when I learned to play pinochle (“Pinochle? It’s an easy game, you can learn while you play. Penny a point?”) with (if I remember correctly) fellow classmates John Hitchcock, Fred Woodson, Louis Swisher, and Dave Eklund at the house of Grant Ross (class of 1972).
However, the time spent in these activities pale in comparison to the hours I spent bicycling, largely alone. During most of high school I rode a three speed, but I got a Raleigh Supercourse ten speed for Christmas in 1970, at which time I was able to seriously up my game distancewise.
My impetus for riding was twofold. One was (surprise!) romance. As I will relate in Section 8, in junior high and high school I had simultaneous crushes extending to five girls in my class. And as a mark of my infatuations, I’d ride past their houses (the circuit extending to La Rinconada Drive, Garden Hill Drive, and Cherry Blossom Lane) almost on a daily basis, either after school, or during summer vacation (I never actually saw any of the objects of my affections during these rides).
But my primary impetus for bicycling was a simple love of the road, or as Russell Moulds (a friend of my brother’s from the class of ’69, who as a motorcycle rider also felt that same call) once remarked when I told him of my extensive cycling through the area: “Going down that long, lonesome highway, huh?” (referring to a TV show that I also enjoyed, Then Came Bronson). So beyond cycling past the homes of my multitude of beloveds, I would ride not just in town, but also extensively through the hills above. And it was through these rides that I discovered Guadalupe College and the Novitiate. I huffed up Overlook Road, and enjoyed the stately estates in Monte Sereno. I biked up the long grades of Shannon and Kennedy Roads, assuming in my naivety that the eastward view I gained at the crest there was that of the San Joaquin Valley (of course it turned out to be no such thing, only the southern extension of San Jose). I figured out how to follow the Los Gatos Creek path south of Forbes Mill to go up the face of Lexington Dam (Fig 3.7.1). Just before you reached the face of the dam, there was some sort of a barrier that blocked the way, suggesting that this route might not be totally legal, but it was fairly easy to get past. Once on top of the dam, one could then follow a road on the east side of the reservoir south and thus get well up into the Santa Cruz Mountains, eventually attaining Summit Road. At some point, I set myself the goal of biking on every single road in town – and, except for a cul-de-sac near the intersection of Saratoga and University Avenues, I think I may just have accomplished that1. When I wrote to one friend describing my extensive riding, she responded: “You must be in great shape … if you’re not dead”.
Most of my rides were solitary, although I remember two with Kakie Hanson – once into the hills beyond Lexington, and another out to Villa Montalvo in Saratoga. Then during our senior year, Mike Franuscich founded the Bicycle Club, and I went along on a couple of rides with that group as well. One was out to the velodrome in southeastern San Jose, near Heller Avenue and Highway 101, which, although long, was not particularly memorable. A second trip took us to the observatory atop Mt. Hamilton. This was a particularly tough one, because it was heavily overcast that day (with visibility down to perhaps 30 yards), so as I was struggling up that long, long grade, I had no idea of how I was progressing, and had no idea I was getting close until I suddenly came across some giant buildings looming out of the fog (and of course, we were denied any sort of panoramic view we might have otherwise enjoyed from the summit).
The other Bike Club trip was an overnight excursion to Sunset State Beach in Santa Cruz County. I lagged behind the main group on the outbound leg because of two incidents. The first was when I unwittingly rode through some wet cement at the base of Lexington Dam, but that was no biggie as I was able to detach the wheels and rinse the cement off in the reservoir. The second was coming down the far side of the Santa Cruz Mountains. I had to brake suddenly, and while my front wheel stayed on the ground, my rear wheel lifted up and hit the side of the hill. This caused the rim to go slightly out of true, but by removing the rear brake pads I found I was able to continue on.
So I rolled into the campground well after everyone else … only to discover I had missed the preliminaries of a fray (I don’t know what started it – you’d have to ask Mike) that developed into a water balloon fight between us and a troop of boy scouts. Upon my arrival though, I happily joined in, even though it was now after dark. In fact it was so dark, when I was trying to outflank the boy scouts’ position, I tripped over a water faucet and cut my knee. So I aborted my mission and instead headed to a restroom to tend to my wound. Back then, I always wore a brown wool cap2 , so you might imagine my horror when just a split second before I entered, I heard a voice from inside saying “Yeah, and one of them was wearing a dark cap.” So I made a quick 180, thus avoiding capture by a couple of our opponents by the skin of my teeth (a token nod to the work by Thornton Wilder that was the subject of our Junior Play).
On the return leg to Los Gatos the next day, I figured I was one of the stronger riders, so I purposely held back to bring up the rear in case anyone else had any problems coming back. No one else did, but our route home involved coming down Highway 17. As I was happily speeding down the hill, I was pulled over by a county sheriff, who was upset that I was taking that route. I said that it was legal to bike that section of the road, and he responded I could take the path by Lexington. I answered that there is a barrier there (so it may be illegal to go that way), and he said that one could easily hop it. Then he let me go, leaving me to ruminate on a peace officer who was suggesting that I should have taken the illegal (safer) route, rather than the legal (more dangerous) option.
Beyond exploring Los Gatos and environs, I took three longer trips, two while still in high school, and the third in the summer after my freshman year at college.
The first one was a “semi-local” day trip. And although it was the shortest of the three, this may be the one I am most proud of, because it truly involved a case of jumping off and exploring the unknown. The initiative for the trip actually dated back to 8th grade, when our class from Fisher went on a school picnic to Uvas Meadows, just west of Morgan Hill. I was thinking back on the nice time I had there, and thought revisiting the park would make a pleasant day trip. I had a street map of the area, and was able to figure out a route going out via Blossom Hill Road, Camden Avenue, Almaden Road, and then McKean Road which became Uvas Road. I figured if I left home at 8am, I should get there by noon, when I’d eat my bag lunch, and then easily cycle back home in time for dinner. Like I said, a nice pleasant trip.
Well, it turned out I OVERESTIMATED the distance, and I got to the final turnoff to Uvas Meadows about 10 am. It was way too early for lunch, so I thought I’d cycle around the area a bit before returning to the park for my noonday repast. I continued south along this quiet road I was on for a little bit, when I saw a billboard advertising a restaurant or hotel on Summit Road, apparently just a few miles further ahead. Well, this was a revelation for me: I knew all about Summit Road – I had previous gotten there going due south past Lexington Reservoir – but I had no idea one could loop around to there from my present location – to me, the space between Summit Road and Uvas Meadows was just a “terra incognita”: an empty white space on the map. Instantly I was taken with the inspiration that I had just discover the “Southeast Passage” (ie: a play on the fabled “Northwest Passage” between the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans that intrigued so many explorers in the 19th century). It made sense as a simple triangle: from my start point in Los Gatos, I had basically traveled southeast, and theoretically, all I needed to do was to travel west to reach Summit Road, and then turn north which would easily get me back to Los Gatos. However, my map did not cover the roads this far to the south, so I was basing it all on this one billboard. But it wasn’t even 11am yet, and I was full of energy and so decided to give it a try – mind you, this was decades before cell phones and any other such conveniences.
So I continued south, heading away from Uvas Meadows and familiar territory. The road ended in a T intersection – turning left put me on Watsonville Road (a I later discovered), which would take me east towards Morgan Hill, so I turned right, which was the general direction I needed to go to reach Highway 17. The road immediately began to climb, which certainly was to be expected if I was to attain “Summit Road”. But it was a long climb – at one point it got quite chilly as I rode through a foggy patch with moisture condensing on me. That’s when I stopped for my sandwich lunch under miserable conditions. After a bit further the fog cleared and then things rapidly began to warm up.
It was here I was bitten by a rabid dog. Well, it wasn’t exactly rabid, but it did have foam around the mouth (probably due to the warm temperature, as someone later told me). And it didn’t exactly bite me, but it DID get close enough that when it shook its head, some of the foam landed on my pants leg. But I kept going, even though I wasn’t finding any restaurants or hotels. In fact I hadn’t seen any signs to assure me that this was indeed Summit Road, so I began to get a little worried. This road ended in another T intersection (which turned out to be Hecker Pass Highway), so again I chose the option leading west. Then I came across ANOTHER T intersection, with no signage indicating road names. The left fork seemed to go south, while the right one appeared to go west, so of course, that’s the one I chose. By this time the grade had largely flattened out, so whereever I was, at least I was at the summit. It was now afternoon, and the trees had thinned out, thus offering little shade. But soon the pavement ended, and I found myself riding on a dirt road … in the middle of nowhere. I went on for a considerable distance, which got me worried that I must have gone off the rails and had stumbled upon a logging road that went no place. Meanwhile, I hadn’t seen a car or truck for some time – just where the hell was I? But I figured I had now traveled so far to the west, it wouldn’t make sense to backtrack, so I kept on going. This was the worst part of the ride – by now the sun was baking, I was out of food, the road was not conducive to bicycling, and I didn’t know where I was, or where I was heading (and I had just been bitten by a rabid dog to boot).
Finally, the pavement started again, and then my road joined another – the sign post read Loma Prieta Avenue. Well, I had never heard of that street before, and I was dismayed because my decision to go this way was predicated that I’d be on Summit Road. Still, at least I knew I was headed in the right direction, and being on pavement again was somewhat reassuring. And then after a little while, I came to another road junction – and this time the signpost read Summit Road. Wow! – the relief was overwhelming. After that, it was all downhill (literally and figuratively): I quickly reached Old Santa Cruz Highway (a road I’d been on before) where I turned right, and before you know it I had reached Los Gatos, and was back home in time for dinner.
And I didn’t even need any rabies shots.
My second long trip involved almost no exploration whatsoever – using a road map, I planned out my route as a four day trip, and I never got lost. But it was remarkable for its length, as well as being my only ride that ended in failure.
In August 1970 (the summer between my junior and senior years), I decided to visit Paula Hollister3 who was now in Davis. My bike was a three speed, so I knew the 120 miles between Los Gatos and Davis were going to be tough ones. I left Los Gatos early – I don’t remember the exact time, but it was dark, so maybe 4-5 AM? I took the San Jose-Los Gatos Road into San Jose, then other surface streets to Milpitas. I then rode north on Calaveras Road until it joined Highway 680. This was the first tricky bit of my ride, since I had to ride on 680 (which is illegal for bikes) for perhaps 1/16th of a mile to get to the junction with Route 84. Luckily, it was still dark, so by pedaling furiously for a moment or two, I was able to exit onto 84, without getting spotted by any law enforcement officers – whew! Highway 84 took me into Livermore, and thence I rode east along the frontage road bordering Highway 580. I crossed the freeway at Vasco Road, and continued up that bucolic route into Brentwood, then through Oakley and into Antioch, where I crossed the Sacramento River on Route 160 and into the delta.
My original plan was to camp (I had a sleeping bag with me, but no tent) at Brannan Island State Park on my first night, and then continue onto Davis on day 2. But, like my trip to Uvas Meadows, I severely underestimated my travel time, and I reached Brannan Island in midafternoon. I decided there was no reason to stop there – I had covered at least 75% of the distance to Davis, and had plenty of sunlight left. Besides, Brannan Island did not look at all inviting – at the entrance I just saw a lot of dry grass in the baking sun. So I didn’t even stop pedaling, but continued on north. I cleared Rio Vista and proceeded on to Route 113. That road ran pretty much north and south, but there is a one-mile stretch where the road makes a 90 degree turn to the left and heads due west. This was the worst mile of my cycling career. Due to the geographic (read: flat) features of the delta, there often is a strong wind blowing east from San Pablo Bay in the afternoon. So here I am riding north when I suddenly have to turn left … and run into the strongest headwind it has ever been my displeasure to encounter. It was like riding into a brick wall. So I dismounted and walked that mile stretch. Also, this was in August, and I was in the middle of the Central Valley, and I was parched, having run out of drinking water. It was so bad, I fell to the temptation of taking a few swallows of water from an irrigation ditch lining the road, and began to have worries of dying from the plague, or whatever other organisms or chemicals that might have been in the water.
Then the road turned north again, and the headwind was no longer a factor, and the rest of the ride became easier as the heat began to lessen. From Dixon I crossed 80 on Road 98, cycled north to Russell Blvd, where I turned east for the final leg. By now it was approaching dusk – a beautiful time of day, with the wind at my back. I can’t tell you how much my spirit soared when I reached the Davis City limits, and was greeted by a sign that said “Welcome to Davis, home of 10,000 bicycles”. What a marvelous feeling.
Regretfully, the return ride was a failure. My original plan was to leave Davis late on day 3, and spend the night on Brannan Island, then back to Los Gatos on day 4. But because I made the full 120 mile journey up to Davis in one day, I figured I could just as easily make the return journey in one day as well. Big mistake. And although I left Davis early on day 4, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t as early as 4-5 AM like when I left Los Gatos. By mid-morning I still hadn’t cleared Dixon, and realized I didn’t have it in me to get all the way back home that day. So instead I returned to Davis, where Paula’s father help me box up the bike and ship it back home, while I caught a Greyhound bus back into Los Gatos, my tail between my legs.
But at least I never developed the plague.
And my bicycling days didn’t end with high school. As I will relate in Chapter 4, I spent my summers during college living at my folks’ house in Los Gatos. In 1972, I decided to undertake another major bike trip, a multiday ride focused on visiting Davis a second time. Again, this was not really an exploratory ride, because although I was travelling on roads new to me, I was able to map out my entire tour using AAA road maps, while the last leg was the route I had travelled in 1970. But now I had a ten speed bike, plus experience maintaining and repairing it, and thus was much better prepared for whatever travails might arise.
So that June I left Los Gatos for a six day tour. One of the people I met in the dorm at Berkeley was a guy named Larry Bardoff 4 who hailed from San Francisco, and he had agreed to let me stay the first night at his family’s house in the City. This was only 50-60 miles from Los Gatos, so I didn’t have to leave especially early. I stopped off briefly to visit Dion Osika5 in Mountain View and then continued up the El Camino towards the City, when I had my first problem. I think I was in the city of San Mateo when my handlebar assembly gave way, and I fell heavily upon the top tube of the bike frame. Luckily the blow was cushioned by my landing on my scrotum (hmm, well, maybe not so lucky after all). After the pain subsided, I set about fixing the handlebars. Although I had a toolkit with me, I knew a needed a rubber mallet – something I had NOT packed. But the incident occurred right next to a Chevron service station, and mechanics there happily lent me a mallet, so I was able to effect repairs and continue on my way.
I reached Larry’s house in decent time, and was treated to dinner by his family. The next day he loaded my bike into his parent’s car and drove us across the Golden Gate into Marin County. In Mill Valley, we met up with Al Meacham6, and we drove up Highway 1 until we reached a crest – the turnoff for Muir Woods. There we unloaded my bike, I mounted it, Larry gave me a push, and I was off cruising downhill on the second leg of my journey. My goal that day was to stop at a campground at the mouth of the Russian River, near Jenner.
On the way there, probably at Point Reyes Station, I stopped at a store for victuals. The guy who served me was nice, and his long hair and general demeanor suggested to my naive brain someone sort of hippie-ish. And although I had never used the expression before, upon leaving I thought he’d appreciate it when I wished him to “Have a nice day,” which was then just becoming a popular saying. But his response of “Yeah, right,” instantly made me realize that already that phrase was kind of vacuous, and so I seldom used it since.
Unfortunately further up Highway 1, my rear derailleur cable broke, so my ten-speed effectively became a two-speed. Darkness descended on me while I was still on Highway 1, and I had a not-very-strong headlight to help me find my way. Luckily traffic wasn’t heavy, and I reached the campground safely enough. But because it was after hours and quite dark, I wasn’t able to find the campsite I had reserved. So I just threw my sleeping bag down at some random site (again, no tent), and that was the end of day 2.
The next day was a Sunday, and I despaired of finding a place open that day that could sell me a replacement derailleur cable. So with a heavy heart I started on my third leg: cycling on Route 116, heading inland paralleling the Russian River – a beautiful ride. I reached Guerneville in midmorning and was overjoyed to find a bicycle shop that was open (I should have realized this before: weekends are key times for bike shops to be open). So I bought a replacement cable, and now was back up to full strength. From Guerneville I cycled through Santa Rosa, then up the east side of that city across a mountain into Calistoga, and bedded down in Bothe Valley State Park.
Day four was the most beautiful one of the trip, as it involved cycling down through the vineyards of the Napa Valley. It was slightly overcast, so not hot, and the scenery was sublime. After clearing Saint Helena, I headed east on Route 128 crossing another mountain and rode past Lake Berryessa and on through Winters. This was the second tricky part of my ride, as there were no parks or other legal places to stay. I pedaled until it got dark, and eventually simply pulled off to the side of the road, and bedded down in a wooded area, perhaps 20 or 30 yards from the roadway. I suspected I was trespassing on some farmer’s land, but I figured the odds of getting caught were miniscule as the vegetation sheltered both my bike and me from the road.
On day 5 I was up and gone by sunrise (I certainly didn’t want to get caught by a farmer toting a shotgun) and pedaled the last couple of miles into Davis. I visited Paula there, but didn’t do much else except to rest up, as I knew the next day was going to be a big one for me. I chose not to ask to stay at her house, since I felt guilty for showing up early and staying later during my visit two years before. So instead I presented myself to the Davis police station and told them I hoped to spend the night in my sleeping bag in a city park, in the hopes that by being upfront with them, they would not lock me up or fine me. And guess what? They were OK with that.
This brought me up to day 6, which was going to be the big one. My plan was to pedal from Davis to Los Gatos in one day, thus making up for my failure two years earlier. It is a little anticlimactic, but I confess: I have no strong memories of that ride, other than I got an early start in the dark (I sure didn’t want to press my luck with the Davis cops), and successfully got back into Los Gatos sometime that evening. No spills, breakdowns, or legal problems of any kind – just goin’ down that long, lonesome highway.
Final ruminations
Back in the early 70s, when I wanted to go somewhere on my bike, be it a short hop or a multi-day tour, I just did it … well, with a little advanced reading of road maps. And at the time it didn’t seem out of the ordinary to me. But 50 years later, I have now come to realize just how unusual that must have been. How in the world did my folks let me do what I did? I was a “good kid” (never drank or smoked, or got into any other trouble) and did well in school, so I guess they had a basis on which to trust my judgment. But still, I was 17 years old when I made the first Davis trip. Perhaps my folks realized that this hobby was a part of growing up and becoming an adult, and at least it was better than some of the other things that 17 year old boys might get into. And my rides pale in comparison to my father’s experience – after all, he had to quit high school to help support his family during the Depression. Still they must have been worried when I jumped off into the unknown so many times, although they never made a fuss. So it is only now that I have come to appreciate how much they offered me, when they gave me my freedom to explore.
And nowadays? I still try to take a half hour bike ride each day, but the constraints of traffic (in an urban area near several arterials) and geography (at the foot of some steep hills which cover the eastern 180° of options from my house) severely limit my choices.
1 It is only now when writing these memoirs that I realize that I had been deceiving myself as to the “thoroughness” of my bike explorations of the town. It turns out that there is a rather substantial amount of land (“Rinconada Hills” – off to the northwest by Pollard Road), that was part of the town of Los Gatos, of which I had no knowledge, and thus never biked.
2 See Chapter 7, Section 3.
3 See Section 8.
4 Pictured in Fig. 4.2 in Chapter 4.
5 See Chapter 7, section 1.
6 Introduced in Chapter 4.