I got up before most of the others and packed up camp quickly and quietly. I then set to the task of repairing the spoke, which I was now able to inspect in the light. Again it wasn't the drive side, so I was able to replace it. By the time I left, most of the others had gotten up and I said my farewells. Again it was quite foggy, but not so cold, but I did want to get a cup of coffee to start the day off. Pedalling seemed harder than usual, and it wasn't until I had gone about ten miles to a gas station (sadly the source of my first cup of the day some days) I noticed that my back wheel was terribly warped, and that with each revolution of the wheel I was making contact with the brake pads for about 1/8 of the revolution. This explained the difficulty pedaling and displayed my limited knowledge of replacing spokes. I had tightened the new spoke or spokes too much and thrown the whole wheel out of whack. So for the next half hour I sat outside with my gas station coffee (made only slightly better by the grace of some International Delights® French Vanilla creamer) and [sort of] trued the wheel. By the time I was done it still had a little wiggle in it, but it was almost straight and most importantly it was off the brake pads. I rule.
The route cut inland to a town called Guadeloupe, a quaint little farming town which seemed strangely bright and cheerful. I don't know why, but I always get a sort of desperate, hopelessness when I'm out in farm fields, even when just driving or riding by. It's something about the seemingly endless expanse of low, often dusty land and the sense that the work, the honest sweat-evoking work, is unending each season as the seasons are unending. In my imagination, Sisyphus drives a John Deere. Anyway, Guadeloupe and it's surrounding fields seemed for some reason less dreary to me despite it's agrarian nature. Perhaps it was merely an effect of having been along the foggy coast for so long, that the sun and warmth along with their associated colours now that I was inland picked me up a bit. And it finally was really warm, maybe even hot. I was officially in southern California. I stopped along the road and changed into my sleeveless journey as a desperate last measure to counteract 17 days of a short-sleeve tan line.
Today I would encounter my two last big climbs for the trip, both nearly 1000 feet, but both also very long climbs. The first was stretched out over 4 miles, and pretty gradual, but still quite steep at times. Just over the first climb I descended into the town of Lompoc, a flat, but wide town with tons of grocery stores and restaurants and car dealerships. I stopped at a supermarket and stocked up on food for the day/evening. There I met an older gentleman who struck up a conversation with me as I ate some rice cakes outside the market. He introduced himself with his full name, a series of three or four Spanish names pronounced with the added flourish of his native accent that sounded more like a song than a formal address, after which he winked and told me I could call him Frank. We talked initially about biking and directions, as I've found people LOVE to volunteer directions, which is nice, but typically unnecessary. He then went into talking about his faith and then politics. He was a proper Christian and a proper Republican, that is to say he's a Christian who doesn't compromise his want for peace, Republican that is upset with the current administration's irresponsible handling of the economy. I only wish there were more like him. He seemed to be something of a local celebrity, having worked behind the scenes in local and state politics for decades (he bragged that he had once driven Ronald Reagan to an event in his now aging Lincoln Continental) and as we stood outside talking he seemed to know everyone going in and out of the store. He also knew all the names of the young workers at the supermarket explaining to me how he wants to know them and talk to them because if they don't have his good influence they'll get in trouble and start smoking. Frank is a treasure.
Outside of Lompoc, was the next and last big hill of my trip. Again nearly 1000 ft. climb, but over 13 miles, so while I knew I was going uphill, it was so gradual, that I could still get a bit of speed going up and I wasn't wiped out by the time I got to the top. Before I got to the top however I got my second flat of the trip. It was my front tire, which is easier to fix, and I'm pretty good at changing tubes at this point so I repaired the flat, casually enjoyed an apple, and was rolling again in under 15 minutes. Sadly with the last big climb of the trip, I met what would be my last long fast downhill of the trip. Unlike the climb, the descent was much more steep and it always feels good to go 40 mph with no effort.
After the downhill, I took the last 11 miles to my campsite. It wasn't too late, maybe 6:00 and I had enough energy to go a bit further, but I was only about 15 outside of Santa Barbara at this point and the next campsite wouldn't be until another 10 miles past, so I had little choice but to stop. It would mean that I would have a very long tomorrow (110 miles) if I wanted to get into L.A. that night. I was getting nervous as to whether I could get there in time, especially considering my ordeal of biking in a panicked darkness two nights ago. I called Beau that night asking all manner of paranoid questions as to where the street-lights began leading into L.A. I planned on getting up early so as not to find myself in a spot the next day. If worst came to worst, there was a campground 30 miles outside of L.A. where I could stay giving me a short last day, but the promise of a proper bed and hot meal and many beers would be worth a longer ride.
For the Day:
Rolling Time: 6:12:47
Distance: 79.48 miles
Avg Speed: 12.47 mph
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