"Mountain Bike Adventure to Marin"

I'd been couped up inside for days and had the night to myself. It was a blue Monday evening in spring and I figured it was the right time for a serious mountain bike adventure.

A freshly chilled ocean breeze rushed past as I jumped on my trusty black stallion and rode for the Golden Gate Bridge. Dusty orange sun rays peered through the pine trees next to me, branches swaying with the rushes of wind. Sweeping around a corner out of the shade, I felt the warmth of the evening sun on my face.

Soon I was riding across the bridge on the ocean side walkway. I was the only biker going toward Marin; the traffic on the bridge was sparse. It was a Monday after all, 6:30 or so. Commuters always seem to get out of work miraculously at 4:00 instead of 5:00 on Mondays.

Small storage sheds along the bridge path (which the maintenance workers use for long breaks) created wind barriers as I passed them. The ferocious gusts of wind disappear behind them only to suddenly blast through just past. I was soon across the bridge and threw the bike onto my shoulder and hiked up a steep uneven trail into a tiny forest. I emerged at the top of the hill and sped far down the other side to a hidden beach with a small, uninhabited campground. Marin is like that. There are so many private wonders and the best way to see them is on foot or with a good bike.

I looked for a water fountain but all I could find was a small muddy stream trickling down to the beach. I gathered a small handful of miner's lettuce, the Marin Hiker's best refreshment from the trail. Not bad.

I found a moulding on the ledge of a rocky beach cliff where I stretched out, crossed my legs and listened to the waves. The bridge loomed giant in the sky, with the setting sun casting a deep, brilliant rust onto the towers. The city stretched low and flat across the horizon, just far enough away to be distant.

After a spell, and after a very cold ocean breeze crept up, I got back onto the stallion and gently rode the gravel road back up the switchback. The full moon shed an indigo glow on blooming chaparral on the hillsides. Back at the top, I took the hill back toward the bridge at full speed, coasting effortlessly down to one of my favorite shortcuts, underneath the bridge, noticing a construction crew was working there with flood lights. "Road Closed" signs can block cars from getting through - but not bikes. A friendly crewman waved from a truck and struck up a conversation, explaining what they were doing (he must have been on break). They were driving support beams 60 feet deep into the ground, replacing the old ones with stronger, newer iron. Earthquake preparedness.

After dinner at Sausalito's waterfront Mexican food joint and a quick flick at the Marin Cinema, I was pumped up for the long trip back. By this time, it was close to midnight. No one else was on the road, and I used more than half of it, huffing up the steep Sausalito Grade and weaving like a fatigued drunkard. Then down a dark deserted road, past the Coast Guard station and back to the bridge construction area. A small skunk was lapping up water trickling down the road from the work crew's ground pumps. His thick white tail pointing to Heaven was enough to awaken a special, timeless sense in me. I stopped immediately - at a safe distance - and talked to him a little, having known a few skunks in my time. Polite as they end up being when given a chance, he waddled off into some debris and let me pass without a hassle.

Now it was all up. Way up. With the slight hum of vehicles passing over far above and the strange yellow tinted light that only exists underneath the Golden Gate Bridge, I gradually worked up the hill. The Scotchbroom and cool Spring mystery scents urged me on as I wheezed for oxygen. Finally at the top, it was an easy coast toward the bike path gate which was …uh, locked for the night.

With no other choice but cuddling up with my skunk buddy in his little hideaway (wasn't gonna happen), I hoisted my bike over the fence and rode casually onto the bridge. Before long, I was almost back to the city. Around about this time, a well-marked Park Police vehicle slowly passed me and I got to thinking. Yo, I could be busted! No, it doesn't matter that I happen to be a Presidio Mayor and up-standing member of my community, I could get fined if I didn't think of something quick. Well, actually I was Thought-Out from the last few days, so I just let instinct take over and my legs pedaled the last stretch at 3000 RPM.

Sure enough, waiting for me at the very end of the bridge, behind a locked gate, was a flashlight motioning for me to "Come 'ere!" I don't think so! I waved smugly at the officer, who was obscured by a tightly woven fence and, with an agile fling, lifted my bike over a cyclone fence to a secret Golden Gate shortcut only bikers know about. I hopped onto my tough stallion and heartily sped off into the blackness down to the beach. I always loved a good clean getaway!

My senses were piqued as I swiftly maneuvered down historic coastal trails, past old army bunkers and cannons into a eucalyptus forest - I was a soldier in my own mind, battling what I do not know. The moon shone through in patches, which I tried to avoid; every night prowler knows that! Now, considering it was a Monday night, these fellers were probably bored! So I figured I couldn't be too careful. I rode the trail through the thick trees for a long time until I got around a bend. I got off my bike and slowly turned the corner, trying to avoid the moonlight. Sure enough! A patrol car waited with his lights off, trying to be sly maybe! I ain't that easy. (Of course, I now admit: who knows if they were even waiting for me!)

I raced back through the forest to my alternate route, down a long flight of aging wooden stairs to the dark beach below. Onto the beach I rode, my knobbied tires quickly treading over the moist, packed sand at the low tide's edge. One thing about most cops: They don't like to get out of their vehicle unless they really HAVE to. And these guys weren't going to be combing the beach for me! I mean, what was I after all, the Escaped Fugitive That Snuck Across the Golden Gate Bridge One Monday Night!??

Anyway, my fun wasn't about to get spoiled, I just wanted some good old-fashioned action. I rode quickly down the tide line, making headway silently but steadily. Grit soon formed between my brakes and chainlinks. Before long, I noticed large boulders on the beach ahead blocking my way. I figured I could make it: it was low-tide and, even if my feet did get a little wet, it wouldn't be a big deal. I slowed down, watching the timing of the breaking waves - 1,2,3, GO! …Got thoroughly soaked. A wave broke halfway up my front wheel up to my knees. But you know? I kept riding. I think it was all those Westerns I used to watch, the whole rugged cowboy thing. Anyway, at least I had my waterproof hiking boots on.

Soon I was at the newly renovated wetlands along the beach and a nice dry domesticated bike path drew me in. I figured as long as I stayed on the perimeters of the beach, I'd be fine. Sure enough, I rode out to freedom past the St. Francis Yacht Club, which is the end of Park Police jurisdiction. I calmly rode to the racing sailboats' dry dock, where I utilized the gratuity of a harbor water hose to clean off my workhorse.

It was a calm ride home now, amidst the serenity of the Palace of Fine Arts lagoon, ducks all asleep and most everything else asleep with them. All except for one grumpy city skunk, who hurriedly crossed my path and, as I slowed down to pass it while keeping my distance, it left a squirt of ghastly mist just downwind. Wasted musk for sure! Jerk.

Finally I was back to my house. I wheeled the stallion into the hallway and stripped my battle uniform.

Ó William R. Buck, 1999