Well slap my ass and call me John Steinbeck I rode to Sausalito. Got on a bike and rode the rolling hills and grassed countryside the great American novelist so aptly versed us on: Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, Travels With Charlie.
We left from home (San Fran’s notoriously cold and foggy inner Sunset) and crossed over the Golden Gate Bridge into a different universe. We left and it was July. We arrived in Sausalito – just across the bridge – and it was, well, July. But I mean real July. The sun was out and people were outside eating ice cream and throwing things. James – my riding partner – says that when you cross the bridge it’s like transporting to a different universe. Sausalito is Norman Rockwell. San Francisco is Hobo-ville. Transportation complete.
Our ultimate destination was Tiburon, a contrived albeit gorgeous and homey town with epic cross bay views of The City. James and I actually acquired directions from a man claiming to “live” in Tiburon. Bullshit. Clearly a hired actor. No one actually lives in places like that. Dreams don’t come true kids.
My apologies for that cynicism. Unhealthy.
Tiburon was unbelievably (yes, unbelievably) gorgeous. We refueled at one of the many delightful eating establishments, then carried on. As we were transporting back across the bridge, we were treated to a San Francisco treat: a bridge jumper.
Someone was attempting – or had – jumped from the world’s foremost jumping bridge. It was a surreal scene filled with traffic, cops, and a huge audience. Not to mention frightening wind, ghostly fog, and the moans and groans of the big red suspension bridge. Surreal indeed. Cold as shit, too.
All-in-all it was a 5 hour adventure covering 45+ miles and innumerable micro-climates. And to make this whole thing come full, Steinbeck circle, I maintain that I will attend and own any open audition for the role of Lenny.
Bring on the rabbits.