Day 1 - October 11, 2024 Richmond, CA to Samuel P. Taylor Campground
8:47am
Right out of the gate, we were talking with strangers. The older couple across from us on the train had just celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary. They beamed at each other, we played a song called, “Livin’ for the Weekend” by the O’Jays, and they gave us this piece of advice:
“Love and moving forward, that’s what it’s all about.”
We loaded our bikes into the train car and learned from the other commuters that etiquette frowns upon taking up 6 spaces with our rigs stuffed to the gills.
We knew nothing about bikepacking. It was our first time. The plan was to have an adventure to the Marin Headlands in the San Francisco Bay Area, using entirely public transit. Ride to the Sacramento train station, Amtrak from Sacramento to Richmond, CA, ride over the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge to the iconic Samuel P Taylor hike/bike campground, drop down Highway 1 to Hawk Camp, celebrate over the Golden Gate Bridge, and ferry back to the train. It was a well-documented route, overlapping parts of the Bay Area Triple Crossover.
3 days, 2 nights, 90ish miles in total, 7,700’ gain, but this time with 40 pounds of gear, camera equipment, camping accouterments, and the entire contents of your standard issue 7 Eleven. Sydney and I had become friends through cycling, but would bikes also be our demise? Would we hate this? Each other, for some parts? Most likely.
We were roadies at heart, new to panniers, frame bags and “stuff” strapped to our bikes. We overlapped briefly on a women’s racing team and I learned that Sydney had been doing triathlons and racing since she was wee. At 23 years old, I still considered her wee, and consistently made cultural references to the 90s so that we continue to educate the youth on what matters most. She, in turn, taught me about fit checks, aesthetics, and how to check my DMs.
This trip, we’d let go of the watts, the tactics, the pace, the pressure, the special flavor of anxiety that accompanies performance and racing…and just ride. The ethos of bikepacking was appealing– contemplative, slower, immersed in nature instead of hanging on to the wheel in front of you for dear life. We both needed this trip, but for different reasons. Syd to step out of the constant noise of running a business and raising a little one. Me, to remember that documenting an adventure is my highest form of joy.
Back on the train, the journey was smooth down to the East Bay and then it was time to cross the Richmond-San Rafael bridge, with its newly minted bike lane. The bay stretched before us as we got used to the weight of our rigs. A week prior, we were totally gonna do a test run fully loaded up to check the gear. You know, for safety. And then day jobs and life and family had needs. So we were just in the laboratory, experimenting.
11:27 a.m.
Weaving through some exceptionally curated bike lanes in Marin, we made it to Fairfax for lunch, where we enjoyed some tacos, talked about life and religion and how we grew up, then loaded up a couple $20 burritos for dinner later, and danced in the parking lot.
In addition to imparting sick dance skills, Syd also warned me about the dangers of salsa containers popping open and ruining your clothes. But I paid $20 for a burrito and I was committed to that salsa. I took a risk.
2:32 p.m.
The paved section gives way to fire roads and then increasingly chunkier and CHONkier gravel. I was never more thankful for my 3x on my Surly Long Haul Trucker so that I could keep pedaling furiously at .5 mph uphill. Sydney had her Liv gravel bike with a 2x, and it crossed my mind to stay in the big ring, just out of solidarity. And then the 20% grades kept on coming and it was every woman for themselves.
At a certain point, it was time to hike-a-bike and we began to mentally redirect Day 2’s itinerary off of Bolinas Ridge (more gnarly, rutted gravel) and onto Hwy 1 (paved rollers, but trafficky). At a certain point of exertion, we entered a giggly delirium. There was the singing of Phil Collins’ “Easy Lover” (me), there was the ritual cursing (us), there was revaluation of friendship (Syd).
Mercifully, the gravel began to descend into camp. It was out of a picture book–rolling through redwood canopies, twisting fire roads, lush ferns and Jurassic Park sets until we arrived at Samuel P. Taylor hike/bike campground. There we met our campsite friends–a couple from Half Moon Bay who knew the local trails as though they were birthed right onto a mountain bike, and Jacob, a Spanish guy who lived in Berlin who was just finishing up his 14 day touring trip from Portland to San Francisco.
And then it happened…the Great Burrito Incident of 2024. We began to unpack our bags, Sydney rolled open one of her panniers and it was carnage. An explosion of foil, tortilla, fillins. I covertly removed my less battered burrito and the carefully wrapped salsa container (smugness setting in) from my bags and tried not to laugh too hard about the sabor that now covered one of her camera lenses.
To add insult to bean juice, the tent I’d brought relies on a trekking pole for tension. It’s kinda the essential part of the pitch. While packing, I’d looked at the bike and tried every configuration to attach the trekking pole to the frame where it wouldn’t run the risk of somehow impaling me.
Ultimately, I convinced myself that the shortest segment of pole would be sufficient and I’d (of course) find just the right height stick in the forest. That night, setting it up, my Macguyvering was laughable. I army-crawled into my flaccid tarp and quietly read my dignity its last rites. We slept soundly with the rush of the creek nearby, burritos in our bellies, and the roof of my tent wafting in and out of my mouth with each breath.
Day 2
October 12, 2024 Samuel P. Taylor Campground to Hawk Camp
9:27 a.m.
We dissected the various route options we could take for Day 2 with our compatriots, filled up our bottles from the camp bathrooms and set off along the Cross Marin trail. The fall colors were just beginning to change and I reveled in the crisp air. In Sacramento, we’d survived the highest number of days over 100 degrees on record and to feel cold on a ride was nirvana.
We stopped for a second coffee in Olema. Out in front of the shop, a group of spandex-clad aero bros rolled into the lot from their group ride, comparing Steve’s new carbon fiber weiner to his previous one, which cut a significant .042 grams off for the rippin’ deal of ₿78 million in crypto. Sydney and I just glanced at each other and laughed, wondering if we were being punked. This was exactly the vibe we’d had enough of. For women’s road racing, it was further compounded by rolling up to the start to a frosty/petty welcome. And this was amateur racing for recreation. We were on a different trip.
10:39 a.m.
On this trip, we focused on the love of bikes and bringing what you have to the ride. Hwy 1 opened up before us and the coastline and the fog was right on schedule–thick, romantic, and mystical in the distance. Sydney captured all the photography moments and I marveled at how well she pivoted between being present on the adventure and keeping an eye out to document it all.
1:45 p.m.
We rode along Tomales Bay and avoided the weekenders going to shuck oysters. At Pelican Inn, a band was warming up for a wedding, so we sat outside and ate lunch. Heaven is enjoying three kinds of cheese while middle-aged Jerry Garcia types play yacht rock covers on a bike trip.
The fog that was so “mystical” earlier in the day started to drizzle on us and we put our layers back on. As we got back onto the Miwok Trail and connected to the Tennessee Valley trailhead, I wondered how our gear would hold up when we were wet and cold. The final stretch for the afternoon was Marincello Trail and that’s when Sydney confessed to me that she didn’t bring a rain fly. We could handle everything smelling like tacos, but sleeping in a drizzle with nothing but a mesh tent flap could be our undoing.
5:38 p.m.
Getting up to Hawk Camp, the last .4 miles was a Feat of Strength. We used our last bit of energy to push our bikes up the steep grade and set our stuff out to “dry” in and under the bear box. After a pee break, I looked around camp, only to find Sydney under the picnic table, despondent.
She’d set her tent up, but it was already pretty wet from the fog. We pulled the tent as close to the side of the picnic table as possible and threw spare and smelly clothes on top. It was then that I remembered that Hawk Camp has no water, and after dinner and breakfast rations, I was going to be starting dry in the morning. More testing of the friendship, more delirious giggling about the essentials we left behind.
2:15 a.m.
The yip and howl of coyotes woke me up in the middle of the night. Like all nighttime encounters, it felt like they were right next to the tent and irrational panic set in. I took a deep breath, listened to their cries, and hoped Sydney had not been washed away. I looked out the flap of my tent to confirm, but could barely see my hand in front of my face with the fog visibility. She’s young. She’ll fend for herself.
Day 3 - October 13, 2024 Hawk Camp to SF Ferry Building
6:49 a.m.
We were rewarded with an incredible sunrise and Sydney (though unpleasantly damp) was alive and willing to continue the adventure. Technically, she had no choice, but I prefer to think it’s because we were now trauma-bonded for life. Today was the victory lap over Golden Gate Bridge and into San Francisco.
9:08 a.m.
Climbing up the backside of Hawk Hill, we felt like champions. A few roadies see our loaded bikes, whiz by and ask if we camped out last night. Their delight when we say yes makes us feel like we’ve been touring the country for months, even though it’s been just two nights.
At long last, the Golden Gate Bridge appears and we ride into the meleé of San Francisco’s Fleet Week.
Now we’re just two souls amongst the Jump bikes, pedestrians, and hipsters of the city, all trying to avoid crashing into the odd sailor who has come ashore while marveling at the Palace of Fine Arts and riding along the Embarcadero. What a strange display, America.
We roll into the Ferry Building after a couple close encounters with traffic and take turns watching the bikes while we make 15 different trips inside for food, coffee, and treats. I enjoy the best crispy za’atar wrap of my life, Sydney picks ice cream.
When the ferry comes to take us to Richmond, we are spent but happy. On the ship, we can see the entire route before us, from bridge to bridge to sparkling city. It was just a weekend trip, but we felt like we’d conquered something epic. After all, inspiration from female cyclists was coming at us from all directions. Lael Wilcox just claimed the record for fastest ride around the world, Kristen Faulkner stunned the road racing scene by manifesting the shit out of two Olympic gold medals, and Robin Goomes had just made the lethal terrain of Red Bull Rampage look like your local pump track. It all seemed possible.
Bikes are whatever you need them to be. They get you through breakups, pandemics, dark moods. They are there when you need to get the zoomies out, when you need to barely spin through the woods, when you need to rage, and when you just have to get out there. Sydney and I had been through a few of those cycles ourselves, leaned on each other, and came through it happier. Despite the rookie mistakes and the bean juice, we made it through and started plotting the next adventure.
We still needed to ride from the ferry terminal to Amtrak and then from Amtrak, cruise towards home. It was an audacious plan. Best to bring snacks and the homies.
