Crapping on a yak.....overland to the other side of the world and the rest: Day 333

Feeling that I haven’t really explored San Francisco, I decide to rent a bike. As a hostel dweller, the reception tells me I can get a discounted rate of $18 if I go to a specific shop. However, when I pass a shop renting out electric bikes, my muscles that have tensed up at the thought of trying to push myself up San Franciscan hills walk me through the door. It will be $30 much better spent than on some buffet dinner in Las Vegas I tell myself.

From the west end of Fishermen’s Wharf, I go along the north shoreline past ‘Aquatic Park’, a small beach area almost enclosed by a hooked pier. This area is Presidio Park which originated as a military base founded by the Spanish in 1776 and it is from where the Golden Gate Bridge launches. I drove over the bridge a couple of weeks previously, but cycling over it is rather more hazardous....for pedestrians. Cyclists have to use the fenced off pavements on the sides of the bridge and legions of latex clad cyclists speed along it regardless of the fact that the path is shared with those on foot. Several overtake me as I move cautiously along looking out for people stepping out from the swarm of walkers.

I cycle down to Sausalito, the fishing port turned upmarket tourist stop across the bridge. I have doubts about my bikes ability to get me back up the hill on my return, but I gleefully overtake struggling cyclists, many of whom resort to walking. The extra $12 for the electric motor is definitely worth it.

After cycling back across the bridge, I travel south through Golden Gate Recreational Reserve. I stop by the grand ‘Legion of Honour’ war memorial and museum, which has a Rodin Thinker sculpture taking pride of place in the courtyard. Museums are expensive in California, the state’s notoriously perilous financial state limiting scope for subsidy, and this one charges $25 so I don’t go in.

On the hill up the Legion, my bike’s battery runs out, despite my efforts to only use the electric on uphill slopes. Come to think of it, most of my time was spent on uphill slopes, as the downhill ones don’t take so long. There is very little flatland in SF. From being the best and speediest bike on the road, I now find myself cycling an ill designed lump weight of metal with the dynamics of a tractor.

I get down the hill going along Ocean Beach and then into Golden Gate Park. I get lost in the park again, until finding an exit to establish my position. The hills I have to cycle up to get back to Fisherman’s Wharf are of the type SF is famous for, and even pushing the bike is a strain.

After giving the bike back, I go back to the hostel, and get a massage for $10 from a fellow resident. The masseuse is another Brit from Great Yarmouth. She tells me she loves SF because she can ‘feel the energy of the sea’. Um, that would be the wind coming from the bay and your mouth I can’t help thinking to myself.

A short walk down Broadway is the ‘Beat Museum’, with what I think is a replica, but may be the actual car that once took Jack Kerouac on a long journey. ‘On the Road’ is still near compulsory reading in SF, especially amongst the hostel dwellers. Actually I have a copy myself, which I bought in China of all places. I can’t think that ‘On the Road’ promotes a lifestyle that would be approved by the government of the People’s Republic. I’ve given up reading it though, as its prose has aged badly. It now reads like someone trying too hard to be ‘real hip, man’.

After helping out to cook a free dinner in the hostel, I chat to a photographer from Hawaii who tells me he does wildlife photography work for National Geographic. However, he also does ‘gallery work’. He has the air of someone confident that people will find him interesting, and seems too eager to share his stories with me. But then, what am I doing? He shows me a diverting video on his camera of some homeless people playing drums on upturned garbage bins and an old beat up guitar, a film he tells me he took last night in the small hours.

Later I chat to Tim, a German furniture maker taking a few months off to travel. We are both waiting for a hostel organised bar crawl offering the first couple of drinks free, though of course we will still have to tip the barman. However, after a couple of bars we realise that we are being led to a series of dance clubs with conversation defeating music and I suspect the bar staff are too used to getting 15% of nothing for the free drinks as the bar service is nearly absent. Tim and I retreat back to the hostel ‘ballroom’ for drinks and a few games of pool.