The trail ended. I walked out of the bushes and brush that enveloped this thin strip of land bordered by the San Francisco Bay on one side and Highway 101 on the other. I carried the Surly Cross Check I borrowed from my soon-to-be brother-in-law on my shoulder up the embankment. The highway emerged in front of my eyes.
I decided the best coarse of action was to bike to the nearest exit and hope that no cops saw me.
The day had begun with some earlier missteps. My plan was to bike the entire 55 mile stretch from the southside of San Jose to San Francisco. I quickly realized this was impossible. The night before I had adjusted the seat, but it was still not nearly high enough for these long legs.
I biked towards the Capitol Caltrain station, stopping at a strip mall dominated by Mexican and Vietnamese restaurants, bakeries and other assorted establishments.
I decided on a Bahn Mi from Hoa Sen, a tofu-dominated hole in the wall.
I went next door after finishing my sandwhich and picked up a donut from the neighboring Mexican bakery.
This strip mall is something foreign to my Midwestern education. It’s what one could imagine Minneapolis suburbs like Brooklyn Center and Richfield could become as they march towards a more diverse future that’s fueled not by big box retailers, but small, one-of-a-kind, family owned businesses.
I continued on along Monterey Road to the Capitol station only to find out that the only train that stopped there that morning had left hours ago. I was directed to the Tamien stop, four miles up the road only to find that station also had limited service.
I headed north and watched San Jose morph from suburban to something that at least approaches Minneapolis’ urbanity. I stopped in a bike shop and adjusted the bike seat. The repair man yelled at me for using the tool that was sitting on the counter without asking. At least the rest of my journey I would bike comfortably.
I continued to bike past each stop, ending up at the Santa Clara station. Finally on the train to San Francisco my four mile bike ride to the nearest Caltrain stop had morphed into 17 mile trek from San Jose’s southern point to it’s northern border town.
I still wanted to bike into San Francisco, rather than arriving in the city.
The journey was the days goal, so I got off at South San Francisco and biked along the trails that follow Oyster Point until I ended up where this story started.
After biking along the highway for long enough I hit the exit off the 101 and onto a road towards Candlestick Park.
I was hopeful after the strange sprint along U.S. 101 that the rest of the day wouldn’t be as surreal. Candlestick was an uninteresting monstrosity and I biked past without any eagerness to gaze at its unimpressive edifice.
I lucked out riding right toward Smokin’ Warehouse Barbacue.
I was still frazzled and explained what had just happened to this barbecue impresario. I asked him for the best thing on the menu and he obliged with beef brisket, baked beans and corn bread.
Gatorade and BBQ? Why not?
The industrial land around Candlestick was very un-San Francisco, no hills in sight. I was relieved and excited to see the first incline.
My stomach dipped a few times as I biked past fixie riding messengers (or at least hipsters riding fixed gear bikes in a city that begs for gears), looking down a second too late. Though I didn’t bike the entire 55 mile stretch from San Jose to San Francisco that day in May, I did end up biking 30 plus miles before I met my brother in what was once his home. I’ll always be able to say, “I biked the 101.”
