Gilroy, California

I’m generally adverse to riding on bike paths, preferring the usually smoother pavement of roads and not having to slow for intersections, oftentimes having to negotiate barriers, but here in California I welcome bike paths, not only to escape the din of traffic, but also the assurance they give that there is a bikeable route to my destination.  

When I study the map and fail to spot a viable alternative to the Freeway, I am always nervous as I approach an on ramp if there will be a “Bicycles Prohibited” sign,  and if so what I will do.  My heart sinks when I see such a sign, but occasionally it is a false alarm, as some say “Bicycles Permitted.”  What a relief that is.

Along the coast south of the Bay Area “Bike Route Pacific Coast” signs guided me from Santa Clara to Monterey, alternating between bike paths and side roads and occasional incursions on Highway One.  I kept hoping to encounter other cyclists doing the coast who might be traveling with an Adventure Cycling map, but it is too early in the season for there to be other cyclists.

Luckily Hilary in San Jose advised me against taking the direct Highway 17 to Santa Cruz, saying it was traffic-riddled and that she doesn’t even like to drive it, and to take the longer but much less traveled Highway 9.  It was also through more rustic terrain and less developed, making it easier to camp.  It was a ten-mile climb out of San Jose over a 2,500 foot ridge, my most demanding climb so far. A light drizzle moved in just as I began the climb late in the afternoon.  It was still raining when I peeled off down a grassy track below the road to camp behind a cluster of trees.  

The sound of traffic didn’t penetrate my campsite, but if it had it would have been drowned out by the sound of rain pelting my tent all night, as it had intensified into genuine precipitation. I was camped on a thick bed of leaves, so no rain gathered to flood me out or seep into the tent.  The rain was coming down so hard I didn’t want to leave the tent to make water of my own and return with a dripping wet rain coat.  My jar of peanut butter was nearly empty, so I scooped the remainder into my bottle of grape jam and used the peanut butter jar as a mini-chamber pot.

The rain had slackened to a drizzle by morning, so there was no reason to linger. I knew I had more climbing to do, but I didn’t know how much.   It turned out to be three miles to the summit, more than I would have liked, but it allowed me to fully warm up as I climbed the six per cent grade, even pausing to remove a layer and my wool cap.  I quickly cooled down on the descent and put them back on after a couple of miles as well as adding plastic bags over my wool gloves.  Near the foot of the descent after passing through a couple of small Western-style towns I was treated to a canopy of Redwoods through Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park, not as towering or forbidding as those further north, but dramatic enough.  

By the time I reached Santa Cruz on the coast I was out of the rain and into blue sky.  It wasn’t warm enough though for anyone to be patronizing any of its wide beaches.  My first destination was the Garfield Park Carnegie, one of four libraries Carnegie provided Santa Cruz, though only two remained.  It was one of three Branch libraries funded by a $9,000 grant, with the demolished Main Library receiving $20,000.  The Main Library has the distinction of receiving a visit from Carnegie when he happened to be passing through in 1910.  The Branch in Garfield Park still functioned as a library.  The cozy stucco building blended into the neighborhood, though it attracted attention with a row of red rental bikes out front. 

 It was little more than a mile over the San Lorenzo River to the East Cliff Branch overlooking the ocean.  It was slightly larger, and now a museum of natural history.

From Santa Cruz I curled around a large bay to Monterey over fifty miles away connected by the bustling, four-lane wide Highway One, prohibited to cyclists most of the way.  Vast flat, muddy fields were awaiting the planting of artichokes.  Some already had strawberries poking up from mounds covered by plastic sheets.  Finding a place to camp wasn’t going to be easy.  Periodic signs announced State Beaches, but there were no trees to camp amongst.  Near dark I came to a slough with high bushes that provided a perfect place to disappear into for the night, other than the din from frogs and other creatures that persisted well after dark. 

I was joined by throngs of morning commuters slowed to a crawl at times the twenty-two miles remaining to Monterey.  I was able to take advantage of a veritable bike path for much of it, though I was forced to ride the highway a few miles.    Monterey’s Carnegie bore no evidence of it having been a library. It now housed administrative offices for the Middlebury Institute of International Studies. It had a plaque, but it referred to the local who the building had been renamed for—Barnet J. Segway.  A rock in its garden also had a plaque honoring another local.

It was two miles to the next Carnegie in Pacific Grove.  I biked Lighthouse Road out of Monterey, which became Central Avenue, the road the Carnegie resided on across from the Center for Spiritual Awakening (Ancient Wisdom in a Modern Way).  It was a large stucco building filling its odd-shaped block. It had been expanded four times—in 1926, 1938, 1950 and 1978, all seamless and undetectable.  

The librarian, who grew up in Oak Park outside of Chicago, showed me a detailed plan of each addition.  One had been to the front of the building, as there was no room to the rear, which included a most becoming rotunda, a choice spot for reading amongst a row of den chairs and loads of light from its high windows.  The Carnegie portrait hung over a door in a room that served as an art gallery.  The spacious, high-ceilinged library was in for $2.4 million makeover that she promised would be faithful to its lineage.

I had the pleasure of repeating the twenty miles I had just biked to Pacific Grove along the Bay on my route to the next Carnegie in Gilroy, back north and inland.  On my way out of Monterey I passed a Salvation Army truck dispensing a hot lunch to the homeless, including quite a few bike hobos.  They hailed me saying there was plenty of food.  The ham and scalloped potatoes and broccoli was as nutritious a meal as I’ve had and filled my Tupperware bowl.

It was more mind-numbing, high-speed, bumper-to-bumper traffic the final twenty-five miles to Gilroy, some of it on 101.  There were less than five miles where there was a forced, but most welcome, alternative.  Parked in front of the Carnegie, now a museum, was a car bearing Illinois plates and a bike on top.  It was Tim, last seen in Woodland, two weeks and forty Carnegies ago.  He was on his way to San Jose, less than a hour away for him, to look after Gemma, who would have a heavy dose of chemotherapy the next day.  Tim was well-tanned from his sojourn in Southern California.  We didn’t have much time to catch up as it was after five and I needed to get down the road and find a place to camp.  Tim expects to be on duty until Tuesday or Wednesday, then will track me down again.