Out of Half Moon Bay with a full sunrise tailwind, that’s how the day began. I took Cameron’s advice and went through the Devil’s Slide; it was spectacular as promised. There wasn’t much I could do about the cracked seat stays but pedal on.
In San Francisco I got lost trying to find the Golden Gate Bridge, but when I did find it and pedal across, it was magnificent. The sun was out, the anti-suicide monitors on the bridge were in fine spirits, and I zipped across.
The moment got into Marin County, which is basically the South Bay of NorCal, a profamateur zoomed by, shouting, “Put on your fucking mask you fucking asshole!”
I stopped in Sausalito and enjoyed eggs, bacon, and toast, and unlimited hot cups of coffee. I planned to hole up somewhere near Fairfax but didn’t know where. After I got going I saw Mike’s Bikes. It is a big shop with a fast road racing team; I knew the name and figured I’d stop by and get a second opinion about my cracked frame. It was worrying me.
As I wheeled up a masked man said, “Seth! Is that you?”
“Ethan. Ethan Frankel!”
I’d never have recognized him with the mask; Ethan is a UCLA student who is pandemicking back home in Mill Valley, where he’s from. What are the chances?
We talked about options but there weren’t any good ones. They didn’t have any touring bikes and I wasn’t keen on dropping $3k even if they had. “Hey,” Ethan said. “Let me call a buddy. He’s a roadie but originally a tourist; he’s toured Central Asia on his bike; he rode the length of Chile in like two months. He makes his own bike carbon bike frames and might be able to help.”
The guy’s name was Bryan Kevan, and when I finally connected with him by text asking for help, he texted back: “My purpose in life is to help tourists with broken carbon frames get back on the road asap. It’s my dream, actually.”
I thought he was kidding …
He lives in Berkeley, which I learned is like everything else in the Bay Area, that is, it’s nowhere near where you actually want to go. The Bay Area is not a conglomeration of cities in a single area, contrary to popular belief. Rather, it is an ocean that separates everywhere you want to go with bridges and traffic jams.
It was a solid 20-mile ride from Mill Valley to Berkley but I got to cross the Richmond Bridge, which had only opened to bikes in November. I had a huge tailwind and felt sorry for the Oakland area to which the bridge led. Whereas the Golden Gate has all the jumpers, crisis hotline placards, and anti-suicide monitors in golf carts, the Richmond Bridge has nothing. It’s kind of like, “Go ahead, jump. We DGAF.”
Bryan welcomed me into his 3rd floor Claremont loft and immediately began stripping the paint off the seat stays. He worked on it for three hours straight before the two patches had been affixed. “They will be beefier than they ever were at the factory.”
Best of all, Bryan taught me a neat trick. When you are cycling, every time you see an RV, put the word “anal” in front of the name for endless amusement. Anal Airstream, Anal Bounder, Anal Freedom, Anal Open Road, Anal Road Master, Anal Winnebago, and my favorite, Anal Cruiser.
Bryan also is a sourdough baker, so he fed me, then insisted I stay at his place overnight since I was clearly without lodging because, bike tourist. I wondered what the chances were that I’d happen into a bike shop, meet someone I know, and then magically be led to a carbon frame expert whose dream was to patch a stranded tourist’s carbon bike.
Bryan didn’t think it unusual. “Happens all the time when you tour,” he said. “I spent five months in Central Asia and had the most unusual coincidental meetings. Or in Patagonia, where I met the same person multiple times. There is something about being on the road. These happenings aren’t as rare as you think.”
It turned out that Bryan and I had friends in common, notably Head Down James and Leo Rusaitis. Again, he wasn’t too struck. “It’s a small community. We all know each other.”
But still … the first bike shop I go into, I get recognized by a friend and get hooked up with someone who’s dream is to repair broken tourist bike frames?
“Nah,” Bryan said. “You’ll see.”
I wasn’t going to argue with a guy who’d ridden through most of Southeast Asia in flip flops, who rebuilt my rear triangle and refused payment, who gave me a place to stay, fed me, and let me take a hot shower. No. I wasn’t going to argue with him at all.
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