The ARK, Non-Blinking Marines, and Giant F-Bombs

Day 3

43.7 miles

The rain is coming. The ARK.

We’d registered ourselves online as visitors to Camp Pendleton. My Dad was stationed there back in boot camp when he was a Young Pup. The directions were very clear. We had to register ahead of time and bring a government-issued ID to be allowed access on our bike route through the base. Very, very serious stuff.

A line of cars at the gate. Marines in uniform checking ID’s. We passed the line of cars. The Marines just looked at us as we passed through the gates. We were on the base. No checking. No ID’s. No nothing. Felt like we got away with something terrible.

We realized pretty quickly that we were lost. Maybe not lost, but definitely in the wrong place. I rode up to some Marines headed to the gym. Excuse me, I said, can you help me? They glanced in my direction and kept walking away. Excuse me, I said to another group, I have a question. They didn’t even raise their heads toward me. Hi-we’re-a-little-lost, can you help us for a moment? No response from anyone.

New tactic.

We straddled our bicycles side by side and unfolded the entire map right in front of us, clearly needing direction. Nothing. We scratched the sides of our heads, dramatically pointed at random spots on the map. Scrunched up our faces.

No response.

We wandered around for a while, but our brightly-colored bicycle jerseys and bicycles and maps and helmets and gloves apparently wasn’t different-enough from the Marine Corps uniform to even raise any questions. What if we were Bad Guys on Bikes? And did things that bad guys do? And nobody even paid us any notice?

Scary.

Nearly tackling the next Marine who got out of his truck, I talked too fast at him. Hi-do-you-have-a-moment-we-just-need-directions. Shaken from his routine, his eyes finally focused on us and he gently helped us get out of there and back on track.

Non-Blinking Marines at the Exit Gate.

We rode in places we weren’t really supposed to ride until we got back to the route.

We pushed up a big old hill, periodically dealing with SINGLE FILE’s and HOLD-HOLD-HOLD-HOLD-HOLD’s and trying not to ride off the road. A bazillion cyclists training. The only thing is their way was us.

Older men with wizened legs carved from wood. Or steel. Or cables. I looked at my own little legs, the furthest thing from even being tan, struggling around in their little circles. Whatever. I was still doing it. So-there.

One of them dropped a water bottle and turned around to come back toward us. I rode up and picked up the water bottle. I leaned toward him to give it back and smiled my nice-friendly-smile. He took it from my hand.

You Can Go, he said, dismissing me.

Well. I said. Okay then.

One last push up a hill, we huffed and puffed along until a tank barreled down the road at seven hundred miles an hour and almost took Jennie out. Death By Tank. Unfazed, she kept right on riding – mentally flipping them off.

Then there were huge stretches of long-abandoned super-wide roads that were now left only to cyclists and joggers and walkers and probably some snakes and bunnies. We chatted as we rode, making new inside jokes and trying to find a good tree where we could pee. We passed San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant, faces shiny with sweat, and whooped our way through tunnels. We worried about the rain tomorrow.

Biggest rain storm ever on the planet. Evacuating towns ahead. Extreme mudslide danger.

Bah, I think. We’ll be fine.

We powered through sweet little neighborhoods in San Clemente, organized and clean and adorable. Hilly little roads with all-Spanish names. Roller-coaster style.

I’ve never changed gears so many times in my life, Jennie grins.

Up and-down-and over and up and over-and-down we went.

We were hungry and not feeling so well by the time we got to Capistrano Beach, so we stopped in Dana Point for lunch. A pizza place had gluten-free pizza and Jennie picked up a menu.

Do you have non-alcoholic beer? I asked.

The man shook his head. I turned around and walked out, Jennie tailing me – menu still in hand. You don’t want to eat pizza because they don’t have non-alcoholic beer? She asked me.

I don’t know what to do, I say. Let’s go over there to that place instead.

They brought me a non-alcoholic beer and then I was happy and Mom met up with us and we moved our bikes three times so we could keep an eye on them so nobody stole anything and wrecked our trip. I had the best fish tacos on the planet and then I wasn’t grumpy anymore.

Like I always say, it’s always the second spot that’s the best.

On over more hills and back to Highway 1, cars careening around all over the place. One passed so close to me, I felt the exhaust – hot on my leg. I yelled some Giant F-Bombs and flipped him off. As a rule, I never do that while riding.

Cars are Bigger than Bikes.

But when I’m scared, I always go straight to F-You. Do Not Pass Go.

A car full of teenagers drove by and screamed right when they got next to me, then did it again when they got up to Jennie. I went ahead and flipped them off too.

We got the hell off that route and took an alternate, which started out straight uphill. Like, unrideable-straight-uphill. But it was quieter for sure. Jennie’s eyes, wide and innocent and shaken by the traffic. Mine probably looked the same.

Once we got our wits about us again, we rode into Laguna Beach and called it quits right downtown. Surrounded by super-cute shops with super-cute unusual things created by local artists. Clothing that was pure art that we could never afford in a little shop called Duet. Gelato shining from little windows in narrow alleys decorated with cobblestone pathways wrapped around giant trees. Old iron benches and tiny restaurants with men out front wearing jaunty fedoras and sharp jackets, eating little sandwiches and dabbing at their mustaches with linen napkins.

Mom came to get us and we just had to show her all the neat stuff we found, so it was back to the gelato shop and back to the fun shops to buy a scarf and necklaces that were bendy and fun.

We sweated so much during the ride, we figured we didn’t need another salt water bath. But it was a hot tub and we were tired and we got in anyway.

The front desk guy proclaimed loudly that he knew the best burger spots because he’s eaten at them all but when we got to his favorite, it didn’t look all that great after all. So we had Colombian food. Second place is always best. I had a fantastic arepa burger and yucca fries and more non-alcoholic beer while Mom told us about her day exploring the Mission of San Luis Rey filled with wooden statues and tons of history. She cruised around San Juan Capistrano to see the swallows and was just about to buy a frozen yogurt when we called her and she got gelato with us instead. She passed El Torro Marine Base where Dad was stationed when they were just married. She told us about the century plants, agave, hibiscus, and bougainvillea that colored her travels.

And we went to sleep with full bellies, only a little concerned about the storm.

And it started to rain.