BICYCLING ACROSS THE GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE

In early August of 1970, I arrived in San Francisco: the free wind in my hair. I had returned from Vietnam several months earlier. My Army enlistment had ended and I wanted to make a fresh start. I was anxious to see the world and after 4 months in Miami including two drives to Key West, San Francisco remained my next prized destination. But first, Penn Central railroad hired me for five months as a Fireman. The $3K per month salary was the most I’d ever made—I couldn’t turn down those great paychecks. I worked on freight trains out of Indianapolis. After the railroad’s anticipated bankruptcy in June 1970, followed by my furlough (layoff), San Francisco beckoned. I expected to stay a month or two in the picturesque Bay Area. I had no idea I’d be there for seven remarkable years. My future travel plans included the remaining, and still unvisited, thirty-eight United States. I felt certain that someday I’d make a few international trips too. When on foreign soil, I enjoy learning the local culture, cuisines and rudimentary regional histories. After my first European visit, two years later, I decided that my two favorite world- class cities are San Francisco and Paris. For me, each has its own special magic. I sense a undeniable cosmopolitan flair and a distinctive magnetism from each place that draws me from afar.

Seven years later, when I moved from San Francisco to San Diego, I had visited fourteen European countries in two visits. On my first trip, my loosely planned itenerary included three interesting and scenic countries. Of seventeen countries total, the Army had paid my travel expenses for three of them. From all my travels, Morocco remains my most exotic and mysterious destination. The bus ride through the wilds of the Moroccan countryside/desert enroute to Fez was utterly unique. In Casablanca after another bus ride, I thought of the inimitable Rick’s Place, his Café Americain: long gone, but not forgotten in the imagination of my generation.

Now, I lived comfortably in San Francisco in a cozy studio apartment in the outskirts of the Noe Valley district: price, $125 per month. As a tourist, I’d spent my days either driving my car or riding Muni, the efficient citywide mass transit system. I went from one amazing sight to another: Fisherman’s Wharf; Chinatown; Coit Tower; Lombard Street; the old Ferry Building; Seal Rock; Grace Cathedral; Broadway district; plus several cable car rides along California Street, or to the terminus of the other two cable car lines. When I lived in San Francisco busses, streetcars and the cable cars cost 25 cents to ride including a free transfer. At that point, I chose not to leave the City – it was my new home. I continued to visit other additional places of interest, on both sides of the Bay. With two weeks of sightseeing behind me, I’d need a job to remain. On a wild urge, I applied for a Federal job.

Three days later, a government agency hired me as a teletype operator: pay grade, GS-3. I had never touched, used or stood near a teletype machine; I’d heard them in the background on the TV evening news, but that’s all I knew about them. However, I could type fifty words per minute with a high accuracy rate. Was the agency that desperate? Perhaps, I had an honest face. As an employee, I was a friendly example of prompt efficiency. Also, I did not abuse my sick leave; once they’d hired me, they got more than their money’s worth. I learned the job in three days and it was an interesting way to pay my bills, and best of all, I got to stay in San Francisco. Three months later, the teletype had lost its glitter, so I switched agencies to the US Forest Service. The Regional Office was in the financial district. Four years later, when the Transamerica Pyramid building was competed, it was one block away. The Forest Service provided me more job status and besides, I wore a Ranger uniform when on duty. The work amounted to answering the public’s questions via the telephone and in person about National Forests, fishing and camping rules and regulations, I sold maps and did general public relations work as my primary duties.

While I lived in San Francisco, I continued to visit many of the City’s interesting sights: although appealing, some were obviously touristy. However, the locals had their own eclectic places to visit and I found a few of them too. Even today, the unique ones still evoke their own vivid memories; their special distant meanings forever etched into my thoughts. In total, wherever I went, I met and talked with countless diverse and fascinating people. While some were visitors, others lived nearby or across the wide windswept bay: north to Sausalito and Marin County or eastward towards Berkeley and over two dozen East County communities.

When I lived in San Francisco one of my favorite Saturday bike rides included crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. When the weather offered blue skies, and pleasant warm temperatures, I would leave my apartment about 10 am. I went with or without friends along to ride with me on these all-day scenic rides. I cycled to the bridge through what is now the Golden Gate National Recreation Area. The pleasant ride usually took less than thirty minutes. I arrived at the northbound, south end of the bridge full of youthful energy. Then, I would stop for a few moments to enjoy the breathtaking view of San Francisco Bay. From its completion in 1937, the world famous bridge remains painted in its magnificent ‘International Orange’ color. The unobstructed view from the visitor automobile parking area includes Mt. Tamalpias, Marin County and Angel Island. Within the same view a few miles eastward are Alcatraz Island (opened in October 1973) and the eastern portion of the bay. The first year Alcatraz was open 50K visitors saw it. Last year, 1.3M curious travelers took the tour. The gift shop is a busy place.

I learned the hard way that my round-trip bike ride was easiest when I departed the city at the start of my ride. From there I’d ride north across the bridge to Sausalito rather than take the ferry first. Strong westerly late afternoon winds continuously crossed the bridge, and they brought much cooler temperatures; for me, the certainty of cold winds took the fun out of it. The cold unforgiving winds continued until I had crossed the long suspension span and entered into the Presidio. There, among the trees and hills, the wind gusts finally subsided. Riding northward on the bridge in the morning towards Sausalito, I’d take my time and pedal onward in a lower gear (morning temperatures were usually warmest before 2 pm). At mid-span, the prevailing ocean wind velocity was always greatest. I’d usually stop on the bridge at least twice, to gaze at the 746-foot tall towers from different angles and to observe the noisy, bustling auto traffic. The view south and eastward towards the incredible City skyline was unparalleled. Pedestrians and bicyclists who faced the fierce and cold ocean winds (especially cold when skies were overcast) would have appreciated a warm jacket (many of them weren’t wearing even a thin one). In the continuous cold stiff breeze, I’d never lost my baseball cap. Some of the walking tourists soon lost anything loose. Today, the easily recognized Transamerica Pyramid Building and the 980-foot tall Sutro communications tower, adjacent to twin-peaks and positioned on a hill 940 feet tall, are easy to locate. Bowed upward, the middle of the bridge roadway has the highest elevation above the water (235 feet). In either direction, once beyond the bridge center, if the winds were moderate, I could ride, and sometimes coast for a long distance before I’d need to pedal again. Another advantage to riding northward first, due to wind quirks, included more downhill places to stop pedaling and coast. While still on the bridge, I’d take my time to enjoy the view (from the bridge ships are visible 18 miles at sea). Once off the bridge, the partially graveled and descending dirt road sloped steadily downward to sea level. At the bottom, the waves lapped upon large rocks or sandy beaches. I once saw a two-foot long baby shark stranded on the sand. Waves only a few inches away from him made his a watery escape impossible. I stopped, parked my bike, grabbed his tail, and quickly cast him into the water. His mouth was already wide enough to swallow a baseball. Then I continued along the narrow asphalt road, which now was on government owned land. The Navy base allowed bike riders and pedestrians to pass freely although the road was between a tall chain-link boundary fence and the waters of the bay. On each trip, around noon, I usually arrived in Sausalito on the same back street. In the waterfront area, there were plenty of quiet places to sit in shade, relax, eat lunch and enjoy a bayside view. Plenty of lunch places sold sandwiches and drinks and prices were reasonable. After lunch, and because there were several further into Sausalito, I’d stop at a bookstore or maybe two—new or used and sometimes both, it didn’t matter. I’d stay sequestered inside, often with classical music playing softly in the background, and spend an hour casually browsing the stacks; if I liked a book, I’d buy it—once I bought a new book on mountain climbing by a French guide (I still have the book). It has several color ‘how to’ photos on equipment usage plus breathtaking views of the Swiss Alps. Another time I purchased a thick used paperback about British Statesman Winston Spencer Churchill. While browsing bookstores, time for me passes so quickly. My small red nylon backpack carried my spontaneous book purchases safely back to my cozy apartment. Along the way, I’d take a few minutes to stop and admire my newest purchase—then I’d carefully slide it back inside the backpack, pull the drawstring and tighten the slip-lock . I’ve always enjoyed great biographies of people I admire, and as the days passed, I finished the 544 page Churchill book in record time. Bookstores, old or new, have a special attraction for me: I choose books about WWs I and II aviation, biographies, world history, travel, and well-written descriptions of ancient historical places. Poignant descriptive stories with meaningful and believable personal relationships where people triumph in spite of hardships and adversities to accomplish something valuable in life are enjoyable too—non-fiction more often than not.

Later during my ride, with the afternoon sun in slow descent, when thick scattered clouds would float slowly away painted in a collage of oranges, pinks, and yellows or in warmer shades of layered vermillion, I’d watch ever so intently almost unobservantly, while they’d fold in upon themselves to created marvelous indescribable shapes—continuously. These scenes were always uncommonly pleasant for me. From my vantage point in Sausalito, I appreciated those few moments of solitude amid the pleasantry of the late afternoon. I’d straddle my bike frame, a few yards off the wide path, to relax and experience a brief, late afternoon reverie. Then, I’d finish my ride to the Sausalito ferry landing. There, I’d purchase my ticket and stand in line for the thirty-five minute ride across the frigid, and always choppy waters to San Francisco. People watching, is still an interesting pass-time for me. So are unexpected conversations with pleasant strangers. Occasionally, a spontaneous exchange would carry us through the ferry ride. This was the easy part of my roundtrip tour! The fare was $2.00 for bike passengers and .50 for bicycles. Pedestrians paid $2.25. The ferry fleet cannot transport automobiles. On weekends, usually between 10am and 5pm, weather permitting on most trips, the ferry carried the allowed limit of 225 passengers. I enjoyed the passage in cloudy, cool or even rainy conditions.

Today, in San Francisco, the ferry still docks along the Embarcadero at Pier 41 near the historic Ferry Building. The streets in this part of the City are level, a good place to begin my ride westward to my apartment. From the foot of Market Street, I’d ride westward upon any of the adjoining streets. I’d pedal my way to the wide and busy Geary Boulevard. Traffic moves quickly on this street, day or night. The two mile ride to my apartment took about ten minutes. During my seven wonderful years in San Francisco, I bicycled many miles around the bay area; I took so many rides that I’d bought a bike rack and attached it to the rear of my car. It made travel with a bike a lot easier. Forty-four years ago, I remember riding my new bicycle for the first time across the unforgettable Golden Gate Bridge. I always felt fortunate to be there, to see and appreciate the vast and beautiful landscape and feel the memorable freedom of the out of doors. On each ride, I knew that the strong, unforgiving west wind was there along the bridge’s 1.7 miles—a 8,981 foot span. Yet, it didn’t dampen my wish to complete the ride. I treasured each trip across the world famous Golden Gate Bridge, which happens to be in San Francisco, my adopted hometown and part of the gigantic Bay Area. A remarkable variety of magnificent local views, in one location, are there and on a grand scale. Living there was part of my destiny. I wanted to experience life in the City and I needed to meet hundreds of people along the way. I can only hope I have gained wisdom and a better understanding of my life. I wish to appreciate with greater clarity the changing, ever-demanding world around me. I shall never forget my grand adventure so many years ago and those unforgettable and rewarding years when I lived, worked and played in San Francisco.