I went to the beach

Has anyone else been reading headlines and news articles as if they were from The Onion during regular times? The video of the guy cleaning his groceries is classic and will be watched in disbelief by incredulous audiences many times in future years (but honestly, it is helpful, and right now we are following some of his guidance). The Point Reyes Light's "Sheriff's Calls" is full of people reporting other people doing very normal things, like going to the beach, surfing, etc. On social media too, from people's reactions, you'd think going to the beach was somehow dangerous--for people who only are familiar with crowded Southern California beaches on summer weekends, this attitude is excusable--but the world is full of lightly-traveled beaches with few virus-carrying humans where it is perfectly safe to be (and probably one of the safer places to be in the spectrum of risk).

So last weekend I went to the beach (yes, this used to be normal and acceptable behavior). And I wasn't going to let anything stop me--not the dirty dishes (partially dealt with), screaming kids (handled), lovely wife, cute cats, social media shamers, poorly-worded closure signs, or lingering symptoms. I'm so done with being sick. After seven months of sickness and disease (with two kids in two schools we get plenty of colds), and having had the latest cough for over five weeks, I was finally feeling well enough for a big day of exercise. I needed to get out.

By the way, my SARS-CoV-2 antibody test came back negative. So I had the flu shot last fall, plus I probably had the flu or something similar twice since January. But I digress.

The bike ride from San Geronimo to Limantour Beach is about 20 miles (40 miles round trip). After passing through the Samuel P. Taylor State Park campground on the Cross Marin Trail, I was catching up to three cyclists ahead of me. Not really wanting to deal with passing, I followed at a slower pace, then at Platform Bridge they disappeared and I merged onto Sir Francis Drake Blvd adjacent to another cyclist. I tried to get ahead but couldn't, then fell back, then passed, then was passed. This was my first time over Olema Hill on a bike, and it was hard to find my pace while at the same time trying to be adequately physically-distanced ahead of or behind the other rider, who was much older but frequently rides long distances. He disappeared ahead before I reached the top.

The lupines near the top reminded me of the impressive white lupine bloom earlier this spring on White's Hill. They appeared to be artificially-seeded in roadcuts--I wondered if they were native.

The long grade down to Olema and Highway 1 was fast and fun. Halfway there. The morning traffic was light. The ride to Limantour Road didn't take long. MMWD barriers blocked vehicle access to the road--with no indication if nonmotorized access was okay, and I began formulating the excuses I'd use if I were stopped. I wasn't letting anything stop me--yet these unsigned barriers were intimidating.

Poor signs #1: No indication that non-motorized traffic is okay.

Pretty soon I came to the locked gate, this time with a closed sign. But the sign wasn't helpful--it did not say anything about non-motorized access being okay. Brief panic. Luckily, I had cell service, and went to the Website, where I saw mention of closures to motorized traffic, and I was on my way!

Poor signs #2: Pedestrians and cyclists without Internet have no
way to know they are allowed to go past this sign.

As I climbed the grade ascending Inverness Ridge, I thought of the only other time I rode my bike this way--from Point Reyes Station to my wedding. That was a cloudy, wet, drippy day, and this was a warm and sunny one. Since moving to San Geronimo, I had not yet ridden or walked to the ocean--today was an important milestone. To understand one's place in the world, I have always found it helpful to walk or ride to the nearest large body of water. I suspect that has always been so, since the dawn of humanity.

I saw three different yellow and black caterpillars heading northeast across the road, as well as one dead one.

I brake for caterpillars.

At the top, hazy ocean views did not include the Farallon Islands, indicating the presence of a fog bank and the slow return of the marine layer following the previous hot day. Multiple drivers drove up to the ridge, sitting in turnouts--presumably local residents using the cell service. Two pairs of hikers were in separate places on the road near a trailhead.

And then the fast downhill--and I mean fast! A 17% grade got me to a top speed of 43 mph. Letting go of my brakes resulted in sudden acceleration, as if I had a stuck gas pedal on a car. It was fun, albeit a little scary and bittersweet--every steep hill came with the knowledge that I'd have to climb it later on my way home, in the heat of midday. I swooped down the final steep hill to the intersection, braking hard, then a left turn to the hostel and the Coast Trail.

Back on dirt, but cruising fast, I passed soggy alder bottomlands bordered by steep brushy slopes, and very soon was at the open coast. A turkey vulture stood on the road ahead with its wings spread wide open, reluctantly departing as I approached.

At the pine tree, I went down to the beach. Not a single person as far as the eye could see. Appropriately physically-distanced, I jumped in the ocean. It was freezing--of course, it is May, and thanks to the upwelling the temperature was in the low 50s. The tide was low and the swells were mellow. The sound of crashing breakers interspersed with silence was calming.

No humans as far as the eye can see.

All I needed was a case of Corona.

After air-drying in the sun, water and a snack, I headed home. A solo runner ran past me toward the coast--I raised my mask to my face as I passed--this was only the third moment of the day when my physical distance to another human approached anywhere near six feet.

Bishop pine forest along Inverness Ridge.

Back on Limantour Road, I cranked up the steep hills, and at one point when I was only going 2.6 mph, I tried walking, but it wasn't any faster, so I got back on the bike. There are places where the steepness is so great that where it ends you'd swear the break in steepness is downhill, but the effort required to move forward betrays the truth--it is flat at best, and probably still slightly uphill. At this point in the day, several cyclists were headed the other way, booming down the hills I was slogging up. After a brief break at the bishop pine forest near the top, I coasted down the sweet, muscle-salving downhill. I got on a conference call for the rest of the ride home, a distraction that causes me to have little memory of how hard it was to climb Olema Hill from the west.

I was going to jump into Lagunitas Creek to cool off, but I forgot that the incubating Coho Salmon can be in the gravels until mid-May, protected by closures to swimming. Many people were hiking along Sir Francis Drake Blvd from Lagunitas to The Inkwells, but little did they know the bedrock pools between the waterfalls were already at capacity. Not a smart place to go during a pandemic--they should have gone to the beach.

Poor signs #3: No indication of timing or duration of closure (Dec. 1 through June 15).