Point Reyes

One realization I had a few weeks ago was that I don’t do as much crazy shit as I used to. So one of my current resolutions is to do more crazy shit. So, I did.

I’m sitting around with Ali, Marco and Josh, trying to figure out what to do with my Friday night. The possibilities are endless and I don’t want to waste a perfectly good night. I walk backwards from the most ridiculous possibilities to the more mundane options to make sure I don’t miss anything. I start off with this thought: what if I biked to Point Reyes to catch the sunrise?

I articulate it out loud. It sounds wonderful. I’m only half-joking. I think about it some more. Can I actually do that? Do I have everything I need? When does Sports Basement close? I determine it’s feasible and I think about whether or not I actually want to do it. I can’t have a resolution to do more crazy shit and then back down from something because it is too crazy… that’s the entire point. I mentally commit. There is no going back now.

I run over to Sports Basement. I grab some Shot Bloks and a small Camelbak to carry my stuff. I managed to pick the exact right size: small enough to not hurt my back or shoulders on the ride, but big enough to fit my sleeping back and hammock. I get home, cook myself a plate of pasta and start packing my bag. Hammock, sleeping bag, shot bloks, pasta, phone charger, bike repair kit, vape.

It’s approaching 10 PM. I have two options: leave now, sleep when I get there and wake up to the sunrise, or sleep for a few hours in my bed and leave at 2 AM. I have so much damn energy right now that I decide I have to leave now before I lose that energy. I do my research: Point Reyes is made up of barren grassy meadows, so where would I set up a hammock? I dig into Google Maps and find that Drake’s Beach has a stand of trees that might work. I take a bet and set that as my destination. I finish packing my shit and I set off.

Biking through San Francisco, my mind is racing. I know this is going to be hard, but I just have to stay focused and keep moving. Onwards, onwards, onwards. I get to the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s closed. My heart drops. I do some introspection: am I secretly happy, or legitimately disappointed? I’m disappointed.

Good thing I’m just on the wrong side of the bridge. I switch sides and continue. This is the point of no return, I think. Leaving San Francisco behind, with it’s lights and people for the dark unknown ahead. I’m feeling good: my physical base is strong because I do this shit every week, I am well-rested, I am determined. Let’s do this shit. I love biking at night, I think. So far.

I get to Highway 1, my first climb of the night. The streetlights are gone now. It’s tough. I power through. If I am suffering and there is no one to hear it, am I actually suffering? Yes. I get to the top of the hill and start descending. I look up: the stars are brilliant, but in an eerie way. There is no purple tinge to the sky, just black. The entire world is black and white. My light illuminates the road in front of me: more black and white. There is a cliff edge to my left: a deep black. I question myself for the first time: was this a good idea? I brake hard to control my descent because I can’t see very far ahead. I reassure myself: I am in complete control of my bike, there are no cars, I am safe.

As I get to the bottom of the hill, I am hit with a tidal wave of cold air from Muir Beach. I’m a fucking idiot. I didn’t bring any layers. Just my bike kit and my sleeping bag. I thought the night would be warm enough, and to be fair, it was… just not along the coast. Good thing I can’t do anything about it, and the only option I have is to keep going. I pedal harder in the hopes that it will warm me up.

I ascend Shoreline Highway as I approach Stinson beach. There are no more houses now. No cars. Nothing. Just me, the stars, and the cliffside. I feel truly alone for the first time. I feel scared. Not scared of anything in particular… just scared. The cliffside makes me uneasy for some indescribable reason. I think it’s the blackness of the abyss. I wish I was on a country road. Why did I take this fucking route?

I arrive at Stinson Beach. Even though I don’t see a soul, the sight of houses and shops reassures me. I zip through Stinson Beach and I’m back to nothingness again. I don’t realize it at the time, but the next sign of civilization is not for 15 more miles. Back to being scared shitless. I try to introspect myself: why am I so scared? I’m perfectly safe and in no physical danger. I think about how I enjoy spending alone time in SF. I laugh. That’s some definition of alone.

I see headlights behind me. My heart jumps. People, I think. Real life people. The car approaches and passes and I feel the same reassurance I felt passing through Stinson beach. I identify the feeling. The thought of other humans is reassuring. I think about how wonderful the human voice would sound. I curse myself for not having any podcasts on my phone. What I would give to hear some idiots talking about something I don’t care about.

I think about my phone, and the fact that I have a charger with me that could last weeks. It’s a reassuring thought. Even here, in the middle of my darkness, I could probably stop and call my closest friends or my family. It’s fascinating that with a cellphone you can effectively prevent ever being alone. I don’t know how people did it, especially those living alone, before telecommunications. I think about the camps and retreats to help people put down their phones and connect with the people around them. I wonder if there is an equivalent but minus the other people. Even if you become a silent Buddhist monk, you’re still among other monks.

I reach another set of hills. I remember these fucking hills. Sloping gently upwards, among redwoods, they’ve caught me off guard before. Not this time. I mentally prepare myself for the uphill slog. It is marginally reassuring that I recognize the road I am on, even though it’s been a while. Not being familiar with the road at night would’ve been another layer of despair I don’t need right now. Similar to the cliffside, something about the redwoods is unsettling. In this black and white world, all I see is the thick trunks illuminated by my headlamp, ascending to the infinite. I hear the leaves ripple in the breeze, and the squeal of bark rubbing against bark. Thinking back, the uneasiness might have been claustrophobia. I felt like the trees were encroaching in on my space.

As I push through I wonder: is this what depression feels like? A feeling of extreme isolation that you don’t have direct control over, with no end in sight? If so, then fuck.

I arrive in Olema and see a roadside hotel. Everything is quiet and dark, and there is a “No Vacancy” sign up, but I linger in the hopes that maybe there is a vacancy, and that maybe the front desk is open at 1am. I’m cold and I’m tired, and if I was presented with an escape hatch to this hell, I’d take it in a fucking heartbeat. Good thing there isn’t one I think to myself, sardonically.

I finally make it out on the peninsula, traveling west on a road in the middle of a vast open plain of rolling hills. I think about how awesome it would be if there was a full moon. I look up and can’t even find the moon. The stars, though, they’re brilliant. That was probably the last time I thought about the beauty of that barren place because the wind kicked in shortly after: strong, relentless, and bitterly cold. I’m writing about this outside of Stanza Coffee, and a slight breeze chills me to the core, remembering that.

I eventually arrived at Drake’s Beach, still in disbelief that I made it. It’s approaching 3 AM. I’m in even more disbelief when I find two trees that can hold my hammock. My hands are shaking as I set it up. I pull out my sleeping bag, get in the hammock, and dive into my cocoon of a sleeping bag. To my shock and surprise, it was instantly warm. I can’t think of a better feeling. I wish the story ended here, but I soon realized that I had forgotten a sleeping pad, which is important to isolate you from the air and wind. My butt and legs get cold. I try to curl up into a ball for warmth, but my legs start to cramp. I take a hit of the vape, burrow into my cocoon and try to sleep.

It was a long night, but one of the times I woke up it was sunrise. The supposed reason I did this in the first place. I take a peek out of my cocoon. My first thought: I guess this is cool. My next thought: It’s fucking cold. Fuck the sunrise. Fuck Point Reyes. I go back to sleep. Nature is only relaxing if you are relaxed. Point Reyes is absolutely stunning, but largely in part because it is an incredibly harsh and minimal environment. You kind of forget that when you travel around in a moving air conditioned bubble (or car for short).

Reading over the above, I wonder, why the fuck would I do this to myself on a random Friday evening? Why do I like pushing my limits in general? Primarily, I want to feel something. Biking is a (mostly) safe environment where I can test how I react to incredibly low lows, and feel a great sense of achievement. It also acts as a hard reset. A chance to take a big step back and reflect on the things I am grateful for. For example, my close friends and family: just knowing I could reach out to them helped me push through.