Bike Trip into the Mountains

Because large ships need to travel up and down the river the bridges all have to have big humps in the middle of them. And, because bridge roadways are very expensive, especially on the long bridges required to span the delta, the engineers used to use narrow lanes with no shoulders. Ordinarily this is fine -- if you are traveling in a car at 65 miles per hour. Loaded down with packs, on low-tech Schwins, we could sprint at about 25 mph. Well, that is, we would have been able to sprint at 25 mph if it had not been for having to ride uphill over the hump, and especially for having the the brisk delta wind which cut us down to about 15 mph, flat out.

What we also had not accounted for was that this was a highly traveled truck route. Sitting at the apron of the bridge, in the sun, with the delta wind blowing past us, we calculated our chances using the following variables: (1) at best it would take us each several minutes to get over the bridge, (2) trucks coming around the curving approach to the bridge would not be able to see us very far in advance, even if they cared, (3) trucks going up the near side of the bridge hump would certainly not be able to see bicyclists going down the far side of the hump, (4) up on the bridge, over the middle of the water, was likely to be very windy, and a good gust could bring us almost to a stop, greatly increasing the time it would take to traverse the bridge, and -- in our favor -- (5) even if a truck came over the bridge it might be able to pull over the double yellow line to pass if there was no one coming the other way.

The options were: forget our calculations, ride like hell over the bridge, and hope for the best, or give up and turn back. Naturally, being young, and foolish, we opted for the former.

After pausing long enough to get up our courage, and straining to listen for any sign of trucks, we committed ourselves. With hearts pounding, and adrenaline high, we set out. The first thing that struck us was that it really was windy on the bridge, and that progress was almost halted several times. Since I was youngest, and smallest, I fell to the back of the back. It was a fabulous day, and the windy, sun-baked, beautiful California colors reflecting calmly off the bleached pavement never look better --- because it meant no trucks. Pedaling madly we made it over the hump -- Norman and Joe pretty far ahead, when we could hear a car coming around the bend. It passed us fast and close on the way down, honking, at about sixty. However, at that moment none of us was worried about the car because we could hear the sound of a diesel semi approaching.

From my perspective, any sense of relief at being on the down slope was immediately banished by the cannon-like shot of adrenaline that I was experiencing, and that the others, now quite far ahead, presumably must also have been experiencing. Norman and Joe made it off the bridge and into the dusty apron. Peter was not far behind and would be O.K., but I was in question. As the truck crested the hill, Peter made it too, and they all began to cheer me on.

The truck let out a blast with its air horn, and I heard the bang-bang-bang sound they make from their exhaust when they are decelerating, or going down hills. But these sounds were muffled as though they were in the distance -- I suppose because of the beating of my heart.

I made the apron of the bridge just in time as the truck roared past. It was close --- very close. What I remember most clearly was a flattened aluminum coke can that was being whipped along by the suction from the truck. It came within two feet or so of my head and made an odd sound. The sun sun reflected off it and the whole moment seemed to go by in slow motion as I listened to that sound and watched the can disappear into the distance.

During the fight a mountain thunder storm began, and it was a beautiful thing to experience. We felt blessed that we could be there to see it, with no car, and clear senses from all our riding. We sat down next to our bikes, and admired the view over the mountains as big fat drops of rain fell on us, and incredibly loud claps of thunder echoed nearby off the rocks. Because we were right at the summit we could see for miles and miles in most any direction. It was a special moment.

Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to both of us at the same time, and our heads snapped around as we looked at each other with pie-shaped eyes and foolish grins. My thinking went something like this, and I know that Peter's did as well: Here we were at the top of a mountain. We are sitting next to large metal objects. Gigantic bolts of lightning are crashing into the earth all around us. Hmmm. This might not be optimal.

We leapt to our feet, ran across the rocky summit area and dove for cover behind some rocks, laughing.

Sitting at our campground picnic table I split the pickle in half and Peter and I shared it. Apparently we were quite salt-depleted from all the sweating we had done while riding. Eating that salty pickle was like tasting manna from heaven. Nothing before, or since, has ever tasted as good, or even come close.