Santa Cruz

Bill Bushnell, Saturday June 20, 1992

June 20^th, the longest day of the year! Or is it the second longest day? Anyway, Frank and I have planned to ride the “Grand Santa Cruz Loop” since we have so much daylight. This ride travels some of the same roads as the Sequoia Century that we rode two weeks ago. Since the ride will be long, we will try to be out the door at 6:00. With luck we’ll get out to the coast before it warms up too much and then catch the nice tailwind down to Santa Cruz. We should have time for a nice, long break in Santa Cruz before heading back via what we think is the lazy man’s road back from Santa Cruz: Soquel-San Jose Rd. We’ll assess how we feel and how much time we have left before dark before deciding whether to head down via Old Santa Cruz Highway or to head northwest on Summit Rd. and down via CA-9.

The morning is foggy and cool as we start out, slowly at first. With some 120 miles to go, we don’t want to push things yet. The streets are quiet but not empty. As we cross Alameda de las Pulgas at Sand Hill Rd., we see what looks like Frank’s dad driving a late-model Mercedes wagon with a well-dressed lady in the passenger seat. We stare, rudely, trying to figure out if the man in the driver’s seat is Frank’s dad. They stare back, smiling, and wave, wondering why they’re getting so much attention. We smile and wave back.

“That wasn’t your dad, Frank.”, I say. “What would he be doing at 6:45 in the morning? And he doesn’t own a Mercedes.”

“But it sure looked like my dad!”, Frank exclaims.

We ride on, still trying to figure out if we actually saw Frank’s dad or his dad’s double.

A little further up the road near Monte Rosa drive we stop to stretch. Another cyclist rides by up the hill. He’s pedaling a little bit awkwardly.

“Good morning!”, he says.

“Hello.”, we reply.

We look at each other, and almost simultaneously exclaim, “Mr. Hilton!” The voice was a dead ringer. Mr. Hilton is the father of some friends both of us knew back in the ‘70s. What’s he doing out here this time of the day? Does he even ride a bike? Let’s see if we can catch up to him and find out if that really is Mr. Hilton.

We continue on faster now, but the bicyclist who we think is Mr. Hilton is too far ahead. We’re catching up to him, but we won’t reach him before we turn off on Portola Rd. Now we’ll never know.

We decide to ride up the east side of CA- 84. Usually we only ride down this way, preferring Old La Honda Rd. for the ascent, but since it’s still early, we figure it’s safe enough to ascend. There’s almost no traffic, and the hill seems so easy. By the time we reach the clear area with a view about 2/3 of the way up, we have risen above the fog. The view is great with the white/gray fog like a lake formed in a basin ringed with mountains. The inversion layer must be around 800 feet.

We reach Skylonda before any of the stores are open. The greasy smell of bacon and sausages frying at Alice’s Restaurant across the road wafts through the air. We stop for a few minutes near the closed store while Frank eats the second half of his breakfast. The air is sunny and warm. A couple of cyclists riding north on Skyline make the hairpin turn onto CA-84 and head down toward Woodside.

After a short break, we begin the long descent down toward La Honda and San Gregorio. As soon as we’re in the trees, the air is cold. We stop a mile from the top to put on our windbreakers and longs. We continue descending, this time, unlike on the Sequoia Century, we’re unmolested by cranky motorists. Not one car passes us the whole way to La Honda.

We fly right past the store in La Honda, but a few miles later we both start to get warm. The road has leveled off, so we’re working harder now. To offset this, we’ve descended back into the fog, so the air is cooler.

We continue on to the San Gregorio Store, arriving there just after opening. Since we both have plenty of food, we just refill our water bottles. The next water stop is Davenport, or maybe Pigeon Point if the hostel’s open. I call a friend of mine, Len, in Santa Cruz to let him know we’ll be in the area, but he’s not home. Darn! He’s gone up to Lake Tahoe for the weekend. We continue on CA-84 and turn left at CA-1. A highway sign reads: Santa Cruz 38 [miles].

Unlike CA-84, CA-1 is more crowded. Not only is it more crowded but large trucks cruise at high speeds up and down along the narrow road.

“Semi!”, I yell out to Frank. I have a rearview mirror that comes in handy in situations such as these.

“Whoooompf!” The truck passes within a couple of feet and we get blown about a foot or two to the right and then back.

Maybe we should’ve taken Stage Rd. There’s a little more climbing on Stage Rd., and it’s a little bit longer, but it’s probably much safer. But, I’ve never ridden all the way down the coast on CA-1, and I want to do it at least once.

Four miles later we pass a fully-loaded touring cyclist. He’s struggling along on a Specialized Rockhopper with semi-slick tires loaded down with packs, water bottles, sleeping bag, bedroll, Kryptonite lock, and other utensils. Later, while we’re stopped at Pescadero Rd., he catches up to us.

“How far is it ‘til the next water?”, he asks.

“Oh, the next opportunity that I know of is in Davenport, though there may be water at some of the beaches. I don’t know.”, I answer. “If you need water now, the nearest is a couple of miles inland in Pescadero.” I point down Pescadero Rd.

“I don’t need any now, but I might later on.”

“Well, we could spare a little bit, if you need it.”

“Sure. I’d like that.”, he says.

Frank and I both open our bottles, but Frank beats me to it and gives the fellow traveler half of a large bottle.

“How far are you riding today?”, I ask.

“I was planning to ride down to Greyhound Rock, spend a little time there, and then continue on into Santa Cruz. How far is Greyhound Rock?”

“Oh, I think it’s about 17 or 18 miles. I don’t have a map handy.”, I reply.

“O.K. Thanks alot for the water.”, he says riding off.

“Bye.”, we say.

A minute later we pass him for the last time. We’re riding in a two-man pace line. There’s a wind, but it’s blowing from 2 o’clock. There’s supposed to be a northwest wind, not a southwest wind! What’s the matter with the weather? The air isn’t cold, but it’s cool and foggy. The fog should lift by the time we reach Año Nuevo, certainly.

We stop briefly at Gazos Creek Beach and eat a snack. The fog is thicker here than it was in San Gregorio. Thin wisps reach down to the ground in places. A gray-bearded bicyclist pedals by northbound. We wave at each other and continue on.

After pedaling at a comfortable but not lazy pace, we reach the short descent past the county line and the steep cliffs marking the edge of Big Basin State Park. Just beyond the cliffs we reach Waddell Creek State Beach. We pull into the dry dusty parking lot, and resting on the large rocks, we eat the first third of our lunches. A Boy Scout troop and their packs are resting by the outhouses. A double-decker Gray Line tour bus with huge windows top and bottom goes cruising by. Heads all swivel in our direction as the bus hurtles by, eyes and brains attempting to appreciate the scenery in a few fleeting seconds.

After resting for twenty-five minutes or so, we continue on across Waddell Creek and up the short hill on the other side past Big Creek Lumber and past Greyhound Rock Beach. We continue along the coast. The waves crash unheard far below steep sandstone cliffs. The air is cool and thick with fog. Without further stops, we reach Davenport. We stop at the blinking light at the center of town and stretch for a few minutes. Since we have enough water, we continue on toward Santa Cruz, now eleven miles away.

The highway has become more crowded. The beachgoers are starting to drive over the hill, and they seem to be driving up and down the coast searching in vain for a sunny patch of beach. The road surface is rougher now. The local farmers must have driven their metal-treaded machinery along the shoulder, making a washboard of the asphalt surface. When the highway widens for a passing lane, the shoulder becomes very narrow, and what little shoulder left is covered with gravel, glass, and other debris. In places the road is unevenly surfaced making riding more difficult. We pass one mountain bike cyclist pedaling furiously toward Santa Cruz.

At long last, we see a traffic light in the distance. That must be Western Drive, the edge of the city. We reach the intersection and stop to stretch. Then we continue. The traffic is thick, and soon we discover why. The traffic light in front of Safeway cycles too quickly, favoring the local streets over Mission Street (CA-1). As bicyclists, we manage to squeeze past in the gutter and ride across the next green. A half mile later, a couple blocks past Bay Street on the left we reach the Saturn Cafe, our resting place for the next hour and a half.

“I’ll have the cream of broccoli soup and a hot cider.”, I order. Since I brought my lunch with me, I’ll eat my sandwich with their soup and cider. That way they’ll be less likely to complain about my bringing in my own food.

“I’ll have a bagel with cream cheese, a hot chocolate, and a mud pie”, Frank orders. I don’t know how Frank can continue riding after eating such a sweet, heavy meal. A mud pie is a pie with ice-cream for filling and a chocolate frosting-like crust. It tastes very good, but it’s very sweet and heavy—not bike riding food, for me anyway.

Since it’s still foggy outside, we relax indoors. The Saturn Cafe is a favorite hang-out with students at UC-Santa Cruz. I used to visit occasionally when I was a student there some years ago. The decor is decidedly non-mainstream with the motif being the planet Saturn and other stars and celestial objects painted on the walls. The chaotic paint jobs in the restrooms is something to see, and the doors are labeled “US” and “THEM”. Despite its off-beat character, I like the place. It’s relaxing and low-key—typical Santa Cruz. I’m glad they managed to reopen back in the summer of 1988 when a fire damaged the rear of the building.

After eating, drinking and refreshing ourselves, we start outside. It’s still foggy, but we’re blinded after sitting for an hour in the dark cafe.

“Bill, why don’t you wait here. I’m going to get a frozen yogurt.”, Frank says as he walks to the awful looking bunker across the street. I stretch for a few minutes while Frank enjoys his goopy dessert.

Finally, about an hour and a half after our arrival, we depart. The traffic on Mission Street is horrible as usual on a weekend. The short section between Walnut and King Street is the worst: one lane with very rough pavement, and gravel on a sloped gutter-drain shoulder. I almost slipped off my bike the last time I had to ride this section. We continue on down the short hill past the clock tower, over the San Lorenzo River, and up Water Street. About a half-mile later we continue on Soquel Drive.

Soquel Drive is a frustrating street to ride a bike on. There are just enough stop signs and ill-timed traffic lights to drive a cyclist nuts. We got caught by just about every single light from Santa Cruz to Soquel. In addition, the traffic department has seen fit to place 3- and 4-way stop signs at the bottom of each little downhill. Finally, after much frustration, we reach the center of Soquel and the turnoff for our road home: Soquel-San Jose Rd. The sun is out now, just in time to warm us up on the uphill. We turn left and begin the long ride up to Summit Rd.

Soquel-San Jose Rd. must have been one of the main roads between San Jose and the Santa Cruz area. Old Santa Cruz Highway up from Lexington Reservoir and Soquel-San Jose Rd. down the other side makes for one of the lowest crossings of the Santa Cruz Mountains, lower than Patchen Pass on CA-17. [Old Santa Cruz Highway continues south across Summit Rd. to CA-17. CA-17 was built on top of the old highway as far as Glenwood Highway, which was the old highway, which continues into Scotts Valley.]

After a short hill, Soquel-San Jose Rd. rolls along Soquel Creek past farms and ranches. The road has an adequate shoulder, but traffic is busy. We don’t see any bicyclists, but we see and smell plenty of cars speeding by. As we travel further up the road, the little hills become somewhat larger, though still up and down. When we cross Hester Creek at a right-hand 30mph corner we downshift and begin a long, unbroken climb.

“Darn! My chain has fallen off the rings.” I stop on the narrow shoulder and try to remount the chain. The passing cars don’t seem to be slowing to 30 mph. Frank wants to stop and stretch before the long hill anyway, so I run my bike across the street to the large driveway and join him.

At just the wrong time the road has suddenly become narrow. There’s little shoulder, and traffic seems even heavier than before. Two bicyclists pass by riding quickly up the hill. We start out again and make our way slowly up the hill.

I’ve descended Soquel-San Jose Rd. once before. The descent was fun, and there wasn’t much traffic. But ascending on a warm summer afternoon is not fun. There isn’t enough shoulder, and traffic is heavy and rude. I seem to remember that the road tops out around 1450 feet and then descends 100 feet or so to the junction with Summit Rd. Frank and I are disappointed to learn that I was off by about 100 feet. The road appears to top out at 1550 or so according to our instruments, and then descends very briefly to the junction.

“Where’s the store? You said there was a store up here?”, Frank complains.

“Yes. I said there was a store, but I said it was near the junction. I think it’s just up Summit Rd. a way. If it isn’t, the next store’s in Saratoga or in Los Gatos if we go that way.”, I reply.

We turn left on Summit Rd. and a few hundred yards later we reach the entrance to the parking lot of the Summit Store. The Summit Store was closed by the October, 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake and recently reopened last January. We stop in front. Frank goes in to buy a Coke, and I sit down on one of the white plastic chairs near the bulletin board in front of the Loma Prieta Realty office and eat my last sandwich. It looks like a smoker takes his breaks here. There are cigarette butts all over the ground. On one or two of the butts I can make out the word “Marlboro”. A cyclist is sitting nearby in the sun. She looks asleep. I hope she put on her sunscreen! One of the store employees comes out, looks in my direction, then with a look of disappointment, leans against the wall of the store and lights up a cigarette. Frank comes out of the store with his Coke, and we chat idly about whether to ride home via Lexington Reservoir or to continue on to CA-9.

“Yeah, it’s about 30 miles and a lot less climbing if we ride down Old Santa Cruz Highway, and about 40 miles if we press on to Highway 9.”, I say.

“I feel pretty good, and we have just enough time. Let’s try for Highway 9.”, Frank says. “Oh, by the way, we can refill our water bottles in the store. The clerk said to use the hose by the produce.”

After about fifteen minutes, we get on our bikes and continue riding northwest on Summit Rd. The traffic is just as heavy as it was on Soquel-San Jose Rd., and the shoulder is even narrower. After we pass Old Santa Cruz Highway, Summit Rd. rises in two long, steep hills. This is the worst part. There is a shoulder, but road maintenance crews have let the bushes on either side of the road extend out over the white line! Long lines of tightly-spaced pickup trucks, Mercedeses, and Jaguars and their ill-tempered and impatient drivers swerve to avoid us as they race to their self-important appointments.

After topping out on the second of the two hills, the road plummets down to CA-17. The right turn to the overcrossing is tricky as the pavement is rough and strewn with large gravel. We cross over the freeway and pedal up the short steep hill to the intersection with Mountain Charlie Rd. We stop briefly for a break. Frank and I returned from Santa Cruz on Mountain Charlie Rd. the last time we rode down this way.

After a short break we continue up Summit Rd. The road is steep and narrow, but fortunately, there is little traffic. In about half a mile the road levels off and continues past houses and an occasional farm. There are a few Christmas tree farms up here, too. After about two miles, Summit Rd. reaches a local maximum and then begins a fun descent. It doesn’t descend too far, but the narrow, one-lane road is just curvy enough for the riding to be somewhat challenging. The hairpin turn just before Upper Zayante Rd. is tricky because it’s covered with loose soil and gravel. From here until nearly home our route is the same as the return route of the Sequoia Century we rode two weeks ago.

At Bear Creek Rd. we turn left and make our way up the narrow two-lane road. Bear Creek Rd. is usually busier, but now there are few cars. In about a mile we reach the intersection with Skyline Blvd. We turn right and continue.

The southern end of Skyline Blvd. is much like the northern end of Summit Rd. It’s a narrow, twisty, one-lane road with little traffic. About a half-mile from Bear Creek Rd. and just before the first steep uphill, we are riding along next to a cut in the hillside. I’m riding on the inside with my head near the level ground at the top of the cut just as a dog begins running toward us through the brush growling madly. It probably would be barking if it weren’t running so hard. The sudden noise startles me, and I bolt forward.

“Doing a Jim Bowman?”, Frank says poking fun. Jim Bowman, a friend of ours from the early ‘70s, used to be terrified of any strange loose dog he met.

“Well, there was no fence there. That dog could’ve jumped me if it wanted to!”, I reply defensively, suddenly feeling quite foolish. “Stupid dog!”, I think, angry now, “I feel like giving it a good squirt with my water bottle.”

We ride on without further dog incidents.

At Black Rd. Skyline Blvd. becomes a boulevard, becoming wider and straighter. We continue riding up toward the Mt. Bielawski summit near Castle Rock. At about a mile from the summit, I stop briefly to commune with nature. For once, Frank has found an opportunity to beat me to the top, so he rides on leaving me to catch up. As I get back on my bike, I notice another cyclist walking up the road. I wonder if he has broken down? I’d better ride back a little way and find out.

“Are you broken down?”, I ask. The poor guy looks uncomfortable as he stiffly clomps up the hill in his cleated shoes.

“No,” the cyclist says, “Just resting my muscles. How far is it to the top?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s more than a mile or so.”, I answer.

With that I turn around and resume pedaling up toward the top. I notice that the walking cyclist has started riding again. Very shortly I pass the place where I had a blowout last winter, and soon I reach the large rocks by the side of the road where Frank is waiting and enjoying the view.

The previously walking cyclist rides up.

“This is very nearly the top. The high point is actually just a little further up the road beyond the next curve.”, I tell him.

“I was walking to give my muscles a rest. I’ve never been this way before, and those short steep ups and downs on Summit Rd. back there did me in. I think maybe I’ll try to get some lower gears for my bike.”, he replied.

The cyclist has a new Specialized Allez Epic with Shimano 600 components.

“Maybe you could use a triple crank.”, Frank adds.

“I don’t know if that would work with the Shimano 600 stuff.”, I say.

“Say, do you guys have names?”, the cyclist asks.

How impolite of us! I guess we are just tired.

“I’m Bill”, I say.

“and I’m Frank”, Frank says. “I’d shake your hand, but I’ve got grease all over my gloves.”

“Well, I don’t have grease on mine. Nice to meet you.”, I say, shaking the cyclist’s hand. “And your name is...”

“Jeff.”

“Where have you ridden from and where are you riding to?”, I ask Jeff.

“I came up Old Santa Cruz Highway to Summit and I’m planning to head back down Highway 9.”, he replies.

“Have you been down Highway 9 before?”, I ask.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve often ridden up Highway 9 and then back down, but I thought I’d try something different today.”, Jeff says.

“Well, it’s a long way from the top of Old Santa Cruz Highway to Hwy 9. Old Santa Cruz Highway heads south from Los Gatos and Highway 9 heads west from Saratoga. Summit Rd. and Skyline connect the far points. So you can see that riding that segment of road is much more work than riding between Los Gatos and Saratoga.”, I lecture.

I paused to get a snack out of my pack. I’ve only got five more fig bars. As I begin to eat a couple, I notice Jeff hungrily eyeing the bag.

“Do you want some food?”, I ask.

“Oh, I could really use a fig bar.”, Jeff replies.

I hand him the little bag.

“Take a couple if you like.”, I offer. “I’m sorry they’re all smooshed and hot, but they’ve been riding in my pack all day.”

“Oh, no problem. Thank you very much.”, Jeff says.

“Well, Bill, we’d better get moving. We have just enough time to get home by sunset.”, Frank says.

We leave the large rocks and continue up the short distance to the high point in the road before heading down past the parking lot for Castle Rock and on to Saratoga Gap. Frank and I draft each other down the hill, and Jeff wisely stays further back. It’s always safer not to draft unfamiliar riders. Soon we reach Saratoga Gap, and we pull into the parking lot. Frank wants to put on some more clothing for the trip down. It’s seven o’clock but the air is hot and still. Surely, it will be cooler as we head down the mountain.

“Well, I’m going to head down. See you guys later.”, Jeff says.

“Bye. Have a safe trip down.”, I reply.

Frank starts out ahead of me, and a minute later I start down. I don’t like to descend CA-9 with lots of other riders around. I need the full lane to negotiate the turns, and when other riders are nearby, we all tend to clump together. The riders behind always seem to catch up to the rider(s) in front because of the draft.

The descent starts smoothly, and I manage 38 mph around the two fast 150-degree turns about 1.5 miles from the top (not the more gradual 180-degree turns further down). (This is the most thrilling part of the descent, btw.) At the bottom of the second turn on the straightaway I see Frank standing by his bike at the side of the road waving madly. I apply my brakes and come to a stop.

“What’s the problem? Don’t tell me you had another blowout!”, I exclaim.

“Yup. It blew out on me just after the corner. I’d be lying in the ditch if the tire blew out just 5 seconds earlier. You know I’m getting better at controlling the bike when the tire suddenly blows out.”, Frank says. Frank has had five blowouts on his front tire since he bought his bike last February. The last one occurred while he was descending the CA-17 side of Bear Creek Rd., a very steep descent. He managed then to bring his bike to a controlled stop.

“O.K. Well, why don’t we cross the road to where there’s some space and fix this.”, I say.

We pull the tire off and examine the tube. Yup. The 8-inch gash is on the inside of the rim. I examine the rim. It’s the damn rubber rim strip. I think it’s sliding to the side and exposing the sharp edge of the recess at each spoke. Taking those turns back there probably rolled the tire just enough to cause the rim strip to slide.

Soon we get the bike reassembled, and we head down. Frank goes on ahead just in case his tire decides to give him more grief. Despite our caution, we both manage a speed in the low-40’s just before the first narrow bridge near the Congress Springs Campground.

When we get to Saratoga, we are surprised to find that the air is just as warm as it was on Skyline. We both shed our sweaters.

“Let’s see if we can get home before sunset.”, I say to Frank. “Do you feel up to a fast trip home?”

“O.K. You lead and I’ll draft.”, Frank replies.

We continue on at a quick pace without further incident. Our return route follows the Sequoia route and continues on Foothill Expressway all the way to Page Mill Rd. Then we turn right at Page Mill, and head back to my place.

This was the longest ride for both of us. It wasn’t as difficult as the Sequoia 200k route because there was about 3000 feet less climbing, but I was quite tired at the end, mostly because I hammered home from Saratoga.

Ride stats:

distance: 122.3 miles

climbing 6920 feet

total time: 14:14

riding time: 8:36

average speed: 14.2 mph

maximum speed: 41.0 mph

index: 150.0

An article on indexing can be found here.

©2004, Bill Bushnell

Please do not publish or distribute for profit without permission.