2400

Trabajo 

"Do you smell that?" I grin as I look at Jon and point my nose up into the air. Enticing fragrance fills our nostrils. The wind billows over each row of strawberry plants. I'm eager to reach the fruit market in Moss Landing that I went to on my last tour. Some of the most fresh and tastiest fruit lives there. It was so good that it was a highlight of that trip!

The miles between us and the market seem to go on forever. I recognize the Moss Landing smoke stacks and they don't seem to be getting any closer. We crest a hill and see dozens of people -- all Latinos and Latinas -- working the strawberry fields frantically. The expression on the workers' faces was not one of ease. Jon and I ride by in silence, making no mention of what we had mutually witnessed. The fruit market was ahead.

We gaze in admiration at the rows of colorful produce as we circle the market. Jon always jokes that grocery stores are dangerous. Our metabolism curses us with a ferocious appetite. We always do a couple laps of the aisles to make sure we didn't miss out on any opportunities. We calorie count and weigh packages in our hands in order to find the foods with the most density. If it passes "the test," we scan for price tags for the final stamp of approval. We spend far too long doing all of this.

We feast on plums, pears, strawberries, mangos, and kiwi. Even more satisfying to know we only paid three dollars. I swallow a bite of strawberry and pause.

"That's so messed up."

"Wha-- Oh..." Jon pauses and remembers."

"Did you see those workers? They were running. I wonder if they're told to do that or --" 

"Yeah, fruit's not as innocent as you think it is."

I recall the scene from an hour ago. The rapid fire of a staple gun puts together cardboard crates. A man aboard a truck yells urgent directives in Español. One woman runs with a shouldered basket of harvest. I have this cultural instinct to look at the scene the same way that I look at roadkill. Ignore. Look away. The almond farms near Modesto, the orchards of Watsonville, the rows of artichoke and lettuce in Monterey County. The land tilled, planted, and picked by brown hands. This is America, the land I choose to travel.

'Za

"I think I'm gonna go dumpster diving," I chuckle to Jon. I shake my head at my bill as I settle up for a pint, cocktail, and fries. 

My head feels airy and the handlebars especially wobbly. We sometimes joke about how easily our adventure could be ended by injuries and/or poor judgment. 

Biking drunk? Broken collar bone. Tour over.

Sprinting for the California State sign and failing to see a curb? Eating cement. Tour over.

Balance thrown off from the case of beer we're carrying? Broken parts. Tour over.

I see a Papa John's across the street and get a lucky feeling. The gate to the dumpster easily unlatches and we peer in. Pizza boxes lay on top of leftover dough the size of a human body. I open one... two... and --

"ZA!" Jon exclaims. Artichoke pizzas and barbecue pizzas. We laugh giddily as we precariously carry a box of assorted slices up the switchback climb into camp.

40 Dates and 40 Nights

"So do you guys have girlfriends?" Patrick asks out of the blue. We've ridden with him for a few days since Monterey. He's good company and offers a refreshing change up to our chemistry.

McWay Waterfall, Cabrillo Highway

Jon and I look at each other. I can tell we are both hesitating and waiting for each other to start. We've told the story a few times. My ex is probably somewhere within 50 miles of us, touring the coast, and Jon just broke up with his girlfriend. I open my mouth, about to say something --

"Well, uh, are you guys dating?" Patrick raises an eyebrow. We hesitated too long.

I grin from ear to ear. Yes. Yes we are. I'm tempted to play along just to screw with him. This isn't the first time someone has made this assumption. Jon's mom read my blog and asked him if we're having a bromance. I think it's hilarious. If anything, it speaks to our friendship and compatibility as traveling partners.

"I mean, basically. We're on a forty day date," I chuckle.

Our ticket out of Big Sur -- Nacimiento-Fergusson Road, which climbs from sea level to 2800 feet in less than seven miles

Figueroa

Sunset, Refugio State Beach

We are "sleeping" on the patio of a coffee shop in Ventura, California. A semi-truck charges through Highway 101 less than a block away. I know that if I looked up at the sky, the stars would be extinguished by all of the light pollution. Several sets of bicycle tires skid on the sidewalk just as soon as pairs of eyes fondly look at our bikes.

"What?!" Jon yells.

I roll over in my sleep. He repeats himself. The inkling of consciousness in me freezes. I hear Jon talking to someone. It's three in the morning. I hear a gruff voice mumbling. Concern and defensiveness arise in my gut, but sleep beckons me back.

"I'm glad I was awake and our bikes were locked up." Jon says in the morning. Apparently many people were eyeing our bikes, then left in a hurry once they realized Jon and I were in our sleeping bags nearby. The sounds of the city made for a poor night's sleep. Thankfully we only have one more day to go. Jon has a quad shot of coffee and we are off.

Barrelhouse 101, Ventura CA -- 101 beers on tap!!

Arrival

The In-N-Out fries and shake don't sit well in my stomach. After all, I am lactose intolerant. It's a "treat" that I've been waiting for in order to reward myself at journey's end. Quite evidently I have poor self control.

We arrive at the Santa Monica Pier. End. A flock of tourists flies through the theme park, gawking at the street performers.

"What now?" He asks. "It looks like everyone just comes here to take a selfie."

"Yeah..." My eyes glaze over. Somehow this seems anticlimactic. Somehow this seems like it hasn't been hard. Should it have been? I internalize all of the obstacles we took to get here. The roaring winds in the canyons. The failing equipment. The dried up riverbeds of the Oregon high desert. The hunger and knee pain and back aches. The blistering heat of Nevada. The fight against gravity in the Sierras. The lungfuls of smoke at altitude.

I feel these things in my past and I know they made even the most mundane experiences blissful and exhilarating. Some people shook their heads at us when they learned what we were doing. I would have doubted myself too if I hadn't known that nobody got anywhere in life by taking the well-travelled road. It takes a little oomph, a little grit, a little crazy.

I get a few ideas stirring in my head. "I think I know what's next," I grin at Jon.