Editor’s Note: Guy Tal, graduate in Engineering, is a guest columnist to the Daily Illini. This is the second in a series that details his experiences during a bike expedition down the coast of California with Kamilla Gray Kinard, Ryne Leuzinger and Nora Tien.

Day 1: Friends, new and old

There are likely as many opinions on the makings of a good trip as there are trips. My feeling is that your trip is as good as your company. Our merry band consists of my woman, the Gray Silk, who used to fly in a circus; the Rhino, half librarian, half bard; the Norwhal, whose calf muscles look like bricks; and me, Cumulus, a head full of curls.

None of us has seen each other for some time, and Nora and Ryne have never met, so there’s catching up to do, introductions to be made. Last night, we bonded while packing our bags and assembling our bikes.

Kamilla’s bike arrived sans pedal and with no obvious way to mount a back rack. Back in Champaign, they said it couldn’t be done. After I bought some hardware and proposed my idea to mechanics in Santa Cruz from whom I purchased a new pedal, they said it shouldn’t be done. But we did it! And today Kamilla’s bike stands saddled with the rest of them.

What’s more, we managed to get all our food and gear into seven panniers! We’re proud, albeit a bit worried about a pannier flying off the side of a mountain.

Last minute bike adjustments, photo ops, bandanas all around for team spirit, and we’re off – to the bus stop! We’re taking a short ride to skip a dangerous, highly trafficked stretch in the Cruz.

We disassemble our panniers again, sigh, and wait for the bus. What’s worse, the bus only takes three bikes, so we’ve got to split up the band.

I send Ryne off with Kamilla and hang back with Nora for the next bus. We speculate on whether they’ll wait for us, dream of gallivanting around the world.

Finally, we’re all reunited. Once more, we slap on the panniers, take a few photos, put on our helmets, and we’re – hungry!

Trips never really start when you think they will. Like children, they have minds of their own. Fortunately, we find ourselves beside an authentic taqueria and load up. A little heavier, but this time for real – we’re off!

“The artichoke capital of the country,” declares Ryne, as we pass sprawling fields of scaly flowers some time later. Followed by fields of broccoli. Then by fields of hot pepper. We give into whim and stop to munch on a big fried artichoke at a food truck.

The mowed fields are covered with a yellow flower I recognize growing in place of whatever crop has been harvested. I stoop down and pluck a few, offering them all around.

“In Israel, we call these ‘sours.’”

Ryne refuses – side-of-the-road munchies offend his sensibilities – but Kamilla accepts and Nora goes for seconds. Neither of us minds a little dirt.

We bike on.

“We’re almost there,” says Ryne after thirty more miles. And since this is the first time he says it, we believe him.

He used to live in Monterey, our final stop for the night, so we trust his instincts. But “almost there” takes us from Salinas, to Marina, to Seaside, with each new city limit signaling a new “almost there” and our faith in the meaning of language drops with the sunlight.

The night couldn’t be better, though, and we pass through the hometown of the roadrunner, so no real complaints save a gnawing hunger. At some point, Ryne stops answering questions regarding distance, and we continue in silence.

Eventually, as a waxing crescent rises to light our way, we round a bend and reach a steep and exhilarating downhill. We bike into Monterey looking like kings and clowns, Nora balancing without hands, Kamilla balancing without feet, both hooting joyfully as Ryne coasts past, as cool as a breeze.

As we settle into our sleeping bags and drift off to sleep, Kamilla and Nora make strange animal noises. Ryne and I don’t really understand but respond in kind.

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