Day 3 is the second shortest day of the ride (after Day 5). You hear a lot of people call it easy: “Only 65 miles,” they might say like it was nothing. Well, that’s still a lot of hours on a bike and there are a couple of nasty climbs, so it’s not like a day off or anything.
And while Day 3 doesn’t have the time pressure of Day 2, in that it isn’t likely to take ten hours or more, this year the ride had a different type of time restraint. The forecast high was in the mid-90s. Kathy was very concerned about riding in that heat. So we planned our ride to get to lunch as soon as possible in order to beat the heat.
Route: ridewithgps.com/routes/46873633
Miles ridden: 65
Feet climbed: 2,362
Total time: 6.5 hours
[NB: some photos courtesy Mel Embree and Chris Eisenberg]
King City to Bradley
Kathy and I met by the bike at 6:15, as we did every morning. We were on time, but Kathy had left something in the car. So I got the bike ready while Roger ran to retrieve it, then stood in line without the bike to save our place. It worked out that Roger returned just as I was coming abreast of our tandem. I told the people in line what was up and they graciously held my place while I retrieved the bike. And Kathy.
The path out of King City crosses the Salinas River. The riverbed here must be a mile wide, and the path across it is narrow and sandy. We rode when we could, but it was slow long trek out of camp that morning.
Once on the road, we took off. The morning of Day 3 is known for a climb referred to as the “Quadbuster.” It’s a ten-mile grade that inclines for nine miles then juts up to the peak of the climb. We moved quickly along the lower parts, the momentum of the tandem taking us easily over the rollers. Rest Stop 1 lay along this stretch, but as on Days 1 and 2, too early in the ride to entice us to stop.
The climb up the last mile was tough, but not so steep I had to stand out of the saddle. We just did what we do on climbs: put the bike into the granny gear, turn the pedals, and sit up and breathe. I was dressed lightly for the heat, the same way I dressed for my Pony Express ride. I had on an ultra-thin merino-blend t-shirt and mountain biking shorts, which allowed air flow at the sleeves, back, and thighs. Even still, I was sweating profusely at the top.
Then came the downhill. It was an epic, miles-long downhill that was never very steep. We were able to let the tandem fly and once again coasted past bike after bike. It’s not that we were hurrying. We didn’t speed the bike up by trying to peddle. Rather it was like a phrase I’ve often read in Westerns, “giving the horse its head,” just following the tandem’s lead. Rick’s Tango is incredibly stable, especially at speed. It’s as if the bike hunkers down to grab the road. I swear you can feel it grinning as it rolls along. The pavement was in good shape. There was no traffic, so we kept to the middle of the lane rather than the shoulder. The only bummer was that Kathy had left her mirror behind that morning. We had a radar to warn us of oncoming cars. But it’s still necessary to confirm that the road is clear. As a result, Kathy would occasionally shift her weight to check, which shook the bike. We were never in danger of crashing, but it did upset the flow of that perfect tandem descent.
The stretch from the top of Quadbuster to where the route turns onto the 101 is a lovely, if featureless, ride. Open fields and old oaks, hills off to the right. There are no real landmarks, no way other than an odometer to mark your progress. It’s an area you can really only enjoy if you let go of the thought of having to get somewhere. Kathy and I were keeping a good pace, so it was easy not to worry. We still had our aches, still stood at regular intervals for a butt break from the saddle. But I recall it as a pleasant, unstressful morning ride.
Soon enough we were at Rest Stop 2, situated next to the Pleyto Store. The stop was only 11 miles from lunch, so we didn’t hang out too long. We climbed some more rollers and came to where Jolon Road ends and you have to get on the 101 to go any further south. A mile later we were off again and approaching Bradley, our lunch stop for the day. And it was well before noon.
Bradley—The Beating Heart of the Ride
When we reached lunch at Bradley, Kathy’s husband, Roger, was there with his ukulele greeting riders with his music. The theme of the stop was “Beach Party,” and he fit right in.
Bradley is a very small town, population less than 100. The town hosts ALC lunch at the elementary school. They offer a hamburger (or garden burger) lunch for $10. They also offer a special deal: for $100, you get lunch and the privilege of eating it in an air conditioned building. The ALC lunch is the school’s biggest fundraiser by far, and riders donate generously.
When we were discussing our day-by-day ride plan, Kathy told me to expect to spend a lot of time here. “Non-negotiable” is the word she used. “The beating heart of the ride” is also her phrase. For her it encapsulates the spirit of the ride on some level. I had also heard about it from Susan Gishi, a rider I know in Davis. Gishi and Martha Gegan, both of whom had ridden the ALC multiple times, sat me down to give me some survival tips for the ride, the kind of insider information you wouldn’t know without experience. They both praised the fundraising lunch at Bradley. Gishi went further: she told me she’d kick my ass if I didn’t buy a burger.
So I paid $20, double the asking price, for my cold garden burger. Roger and Kathy offered to treat me to the $100 special, but I declined. Very generous on their part, but I declined . . . though I have to admit, the air conditioning would have been nice. The temperature was in the upper-80s. There was not much shade to be had. I had been forewarned about that, so I’d packed along a small battery-powered fan for Kathy to keep her from overheating. Luckily we found enough shade—she and Roger on a bench, me on the grass—and were saved from the worst of the heat.
I read afterward that the ALC raised $44k for the school that day. I haven’t verified the amount, but if true, it seems like a good haul for an honest day’s work.
Bradley to Paso Robles
The road out from Bradley was old and cracked. This was a pretty stretch, keeping along the riverbed, but hot. After the road crossed the 101 it entered onto Camp Roberts. There was very little traffic all along here, but ahead of us loomed a terrifyingly steep climb. Steeper than Quadbuster, longer than Rio Del Mar. The road we were on was at river level. To our left were bluffs, and the numbnuts who laid out the road up the bluffs didn’t think to take them at an angle (as the road does at California Incline in Santa Monica, for instance), but just drew a perpendicular line that went straight up and over the top.
This climb was another bugaboo of Kathy’s. She’d described it to me, but I couldn’t believe it was as bad as she’d said. I was wrong. And I can only imagine how much more intimidating it would be if you were a few hours further back in the pack, as she usually was, and the heat was in the mid-90s rather than the mid-80s. We rolled up to the bottom of the grade, took a breath, and powered up. Once again I was out of the saddle the entire climb. Other riders were walking. One rider had an mis-shift half way up and stalled in the middle of the road. We swung into the empty oncoming lane to avoid them and pressed on. It was a stupid-steep climb, and I was pissed off at the ALC for throwing it in our way.
But we got over it and were rewarded with the pleasure of riding mile after mile of crappy, broken payment on the Camp Roberts base. We crossed under the 101 again and found ourselves in San Miguel. Rest Stop 4 was here at San Miguel Park, not far from the mission (No Rest Stop 3 on Day 3).
But lo and behold, there was another stupidly-steep climb to get to the rest stop. Plus, this one had a stop sign at the bottom, so we had to start from a full stop. Once again, Kathy dropped the bike into the granny gear, I rose out of the saddle, and we powered up the goddamned thing. All this time remembering the phrase I’d heard so often: “Day 3 is easy.”
The theme of the rest stop was something related to Christmas, and the volunteers were all dressed as Santa’s elves. They’d set up a stage for a “Summer Talent Show.” Kathy found a seat in the shade and watched while I grabbed us some snacks and topped off our water. In a way, getting things for Kathy as well as myself was a benefit to us both. Kathy, obviously, gave her back a chance to relax a little. And it gave me something to do. I can’t sit when I’m on a ride. I love having rest stops to look forward to, but as soon as I get there I can’t wait to leave again. I can’t relax. I almost always stand unless it’s a longer break, like at lunch. Having errands to run kept me busy, gave me purpose. It prevented me from nagging Kathy to get back on the road sooner than she might have been ready to.
After a few musical numbers, we got back on the bike and had a gentle 11-mile ride to our finish in Paso Robles. Kathy and I had ridden this stretch as an out-and-back on the tandem from Paso Robles, so we knew the road well. The pavement was decent, there was plenty of shade, the scenery nice, and the traffic light. We took it easy, no longer having to hurry to beat the worst of the heat.
Traffic worsened in town, and we mixed with other riders who were more and less sure of the route. Some confusion, but no accidents, so all was good in the end. The campsite was in the parking lot of the county fairground, and it was as unwelcoming as a campsite could be. Hard-baked decomposed granite, windswept, and utterly exposed to the sun. Bleak. I half-expected to see a tumbleweed blow by. Kathy and Roger took off and I went about my usual ritual of getting gear, etc. A lot of people who usually camp on the ride take this night off and get a room in town. It’s the third night of six, a good time to take a long shower, machine wash your laundry, and have a great meal indoors. There were a lot of empty camping spaces that night.
Kathy had talked about taking my laundry into town. I think we forgot about it, and in any case, I didn’t have it to give her when she and Roger left (I needed to unload my gear from the truck first). I texted Kathy and she offered to take care of it if I brought it to the motel. Unfortunately, the ALC does not allow bikes to leave once they’re parked, and it was too hot by then to think seriously about schlepping on foot. Besides, I learned that Roger would be the one to wash it. That felt like too much of an imposition. I’d brought laundry soap, so I just washed it in camp and hung it on the tent to dry. No big deal. This was part of my routine nearly every afternoon on my Pony Express ride.
Tent pitched, clothes drying, shower taken, I had nothing to do the rest of the afternoon but to rest in this unrestful spot, and hours and hours to do it before dinner. I took my electronics to the charging tent then waited in a long line for a root beer float (hold the root beer, please). I met a rider in line who told me she’d heard she heard she should deflate her bike tires because the heat may cause the air to expand and, I don’t know, pop the tire? She shook her head because she foresaw long lines of cyclists in the morning trying to reinflate their tires, and I shook mine wondering how many other harebrained rumors spread through the ALC camp.
Later that afternoon fell into a long conversation with a rider who was feeling down because he hadn’t ridden as well the day as he used to. Depressed because he was feeling his age. Even at 65-years old, I wasn’t one of the old guys on this ride. There are younger riders to be sure. But there are also a lot of people still riding the ALC decades after they lost loved ones in the 80s. We parted, both in better spirits. Still with time on my hands, I brought out my camp chair and iPad, found some shade with a breeze, and spent the afternoon re-posting Kathy’s Facebook updates on this website as blog posts.
When the time came, I ate dinner alone. For some reason, the ALC has fallen into the common misconception that loud music = good times. Everyone I stood or sat near at every meal was willing to talk, seemed to want to reach out. But the music at dinner—not just here but every night—was so loud it made conversation painful for having to yell to be heard. I chose a spot as far from speakers and as close to the breeze as I could find and hurried through it.
And as far as that goes, I have to say I was not impressed with the meals in general. I’m told the ALC used a new caterer this year, that the ridership is down and this was a cost-saving measure. Whatever the reason, dinner was a lot more about sustenance than substance. Unable to hold a conversation easily, and unable to relish the food, it was far more of an exercise in consuming calories to get me ready for the next day’s ride than about enjoying a meal. I always had great conversations while waiting in line, but that’s about the extent of the enjoyment I got out of the evening meal. I’d also heard that there were snacks available after dinner, but those seem to have gone away too. By Day 3 I was squirreling away snacks from rest stops so I wouldn’t go hungry in the late evening.
Before the day was done I had taken three showers due to the heat. I reluctantly put the rain fly on the tent just before bed because I knew we’d have moisture by morning. The breeze had dropped and it was hot in the tent. I pulled out the fan I’d brought for Kathy. It was a lifesaver that evening. I woke sometime around midnight, cool enough at last, and turned it off hoping I’d sleep soundly until 4:30 came around. And I did . . . after a fashion. One of the tents near me had an alarm that went off at 3 am every day. They must have been roadies. The next alarm always went off at 4 am, and the next at 4:15. I’d guess all were Apple products by the sound of the alarms. It went like this every day. Part of life in camp I suppose.
