Pacific Coast Bike Tour Pt 3 - San Simeon to Santa Monica

Southern California here we come

Read Part 1 and Part 2, covering San Rafael to San Simeon.

Day Six: San Simeon to Oceano State Beach

Saturday July 1st 2006
start 9.30am (San Simeon State Beach)
finish 4.45pm (Oceano State Beach)
distance 51.55 miles
max speed 34 mph
avg speed 12 mph
cycling time 4:17:19

The campground was encased in thick fog when we woke up. We gave thanks for having pushed it the day before. One of my dreams for this trip was the thought of having a large delicious breakfast every day. However, aside from the pure caffeine injected into our eyeballs, I'd been cheated of my goal of having a good American stack-o-pancakes breakfast so far. Well, no longer. I set my sights on Cambria, about 5 miles down the road, as the place for the kind of breakfast that would see us through the second half of our Coast tour. I don't remember the name of the place, but the words 'Family Restaurant' were in the title, and it had a classic feel to it that it seemed we couldn't find in Marin.

When we set off again, the diner was full of people, and the fog had lifted. The omens were good.

The riding was smooth and fast along the rolling grasslands. When we reached the beach town of Cayucos, my cell phone signal returned and we stopped to reply to messages and make plans for the days ahead. It was a gorgeous holiday Saturday. Kids were packing the beach and recreational bikers were out in force. It felt as if we were back to normality after a few days in wilder country. One biker up from San Luis Obispo stopped and spoke to us at length about our trip. I never got his name, but he was one of those veteran cyclists who had seen and done it all, and he listened to our various stories. I liked that people felt very comfortable coming over to talk to us. They fell into two groups - the cyclists, or people who couldn't quite wrap their heads around seeing two cyclists far from the big cities on a long distance tour. As much as anything, you got the feeling that people instantly trusted you - after all, everything anyone needed to know about you was in plain display. It was reassuring to know that in a bind we could approach people for help if we needed it and not have our motives questioned.

After Cayucos and a lovely tour of Morro Bay, we turned inland towards San Luis Obispo (SLO) through more gorgeous rolling countryside. The wind was picking up and buffeted us on the shoulder of the road. Despite constant reassurances from all the literature that the summer winds ran North to South, it often felt as if we were riding against the wind or being blown hard to the left from the breezes coming off the water. Near SLO, the suggested route turned towards downtown, seemingly away from Oceano Beach, our goal for the night. Plus, it was uphill and we were feeling a little tired, so we opted to skip this unnecessary detour and headed more directly to the ocean.

After a few days on the road, unshaven, with sunburnt racoon-eyes, and items bungied ever more haphazardly to your bicycle, you can see how you could get to resemble those people on the road flags and banners flying, items flapping, a thick unkept beard, and mudguards hanging off the back wheel. Donna had to point out that the tent was all askew and tied unevenly, and that I was starting to bear a passing resemblance to a homeless person.

In Pismo Beach, we paused for supplies at a nice upscale grocery store, whose name escapes me right now. Having naively wished for a Whole Foods-type store in every town and had to settle for small liquor stores down the coast all week, it was a relief to have a choice of fresh foods. Two girls sitting outside of the store turned their attention to us.

"Oh My Gawd. Where did you CYCLE from?"
"Today, San Simeon, but we left north of San Francisco on Monday", I replied.
"You. are. fucking. kidding" she said, "that is, like, impossible."
"No, really. Tonight we're heading to Oceano State Beach."
"Auuggh! I can barely DRIVE to Oceano State Beach, I'm such a lazy ass. That is just the craziest thing I've ever heard. Oh. My. Gawd. I wouldn't cycle if my life depended on it."
"Yep. And we're hoping to reach LA in a couple of days."
"NO! And you're, like, on the highway? With the crazy DRIVERS? On a SUNDAY? You know they can't drive for shit in LA. You're going to get killed. My friend here drove from Fresno to hang out with me today with a massive hangover."

Her friend stayed quiet.

"Can you recommend any good places to eat or drink near Oceano State Beach?", I asked.
"There's a Mexican place on the corner. Yeah good margaritas. Although you don't wanna be eating mexican before a big ride. I mean, like, who would wanna do that to themselves? Otherwise I'm gonna be driving past you tomorrow on the highway and you're gonna be in the bushes while you're, you know, trying to find leaves to wipe your ass with." She made a demonstrative wiping motion. "Oh GOD. I would just be getting DRUNK off my ASS if I were doing what you're doing."

A shirtless man cycling along the road caught her attention.

"Oh yeah, that is hawt. That, is HOTNESS." she said. She wasn't one to hold anything back. I couldn't help but laugh along with her. She sized me up.

"So, do those cycle shorts help you stay dry? Or are you all, like, sweaty? Do you have mad sweaty balls?"

I choked on my snack, laughing. "I stay pretty dry".

Thereafter she was known as 'sweaty balls' girl. I never did get her name, but you can see a photo of her and her friend in the set of pictures for the day.

As usual, the last few miles were the hardest, despite the relatively short riding day, we were ready to be done. We passed the Mexican restaurant that sweaty balls girl mentioned, called, funnily enough, Old Juan's Cantina. Not far from that was Oceano State Beach park, but when we pulled in we were told, "we have no facilities for hiker/bikers I'm afraid. We closed it after a ranger was hurt and we had complaints from the other campers about their stuff being stolen." Our hearts sank. We were relying on this being our stop for the night. This seemed to be a perennial problem for the hiker/biker camping sites, and why they were relatively few and far between along the coast relative to other camping sites. Seeing our distress, and judging that we didn't look too much like a pair of homeless bike riders, they relented. "Well, we have one space behind the campground host's trailer, which you can have for $25 for the night." This was more than double the maximum we'd paid so far on the trip, but we needed a place to stay, and agreed to the cost.

Smashed behind the campground host's trailer and cars, we claimed a small patch of grass for ourselves and tried to make the best of things. Before it got too late, we wandered to the beach to see if we might visit the famous sand dunes of the area. The big dunes were a ways down the beach, so we skipped those and entertained ourselves watching the kite boarders and the sight of what was essentially a freeway on the beach - a steady stream of huge cars and recreational vehicles driving along in the sand. I wasn't sure where they were coming from or going to, but it was clearly a popular activity. I'd never seen that before.

It being a holiday weekend and a comfortable summer evening, people were outside partying it up. Fireworks were popping off from the beach, and large groups had gathered for parties and evening barbeques outside the campers. It was noisy, but like a family gathering where the cacophony becomes a kind of background white noise against which you drift off to sleep, I fell asleep happily. I think Donna was up most of the night.

Day Seven: Oceano State Beach to Goleta

Sunday July 2nd 2006
start 8am (Oceano State Beach)
finish 7.30pm (Pete & Kelly's house, Goleta)
distance 95.55 miles
max speed 34 mph
avg speed 11 mph
cycling time 8:14:02

Today was a significant day. If we were to make it to Santa Barbara today, it would be a ninety mile day - twenty more miles than our furthest day so far. Plus it included two large climbs, more significant than any previous climbs so far, including those around Big Sur. If we stood any chance of making it to LA we had to get at least as far as Santa Barbara today. And our friends Pete and Kelly had kindly offered us a place to stay, with the promise of a shower and a real bed to sleep on, a motivating factor if ever there was one. And it was my birthday. Yay me.

We were up early, had our daily depth charges and were off. The beach was quiet, everyone sleeping off hangovers ('sweaty balls' girl included I'm sure). The day was spent focusing on the riding and not so much on taking long breaks and photos, which is why they were a little scarce today.

Ten miles to Guadalupe. That was our first milestone. For reasons I couldn't explain, the map suggested deviating from the marked bike route to take us on what looked like a longer detour around a small hill. They'd proved reliable so far, so we followed the detour. A few miles along this road and I saw what appeared to be a major highway up ahead. That didn't make sense. I was already feeling a little tense, both Donna and I seemed to be on the edge of irritable today. I think it was the pressure of the miles ahead. I called us to a halt and looked at the map. The highway was doubtless the 101, and I was a good three or four miles off course. I'd misread the detour route and taken us much further than intended. Alternately cursing and apologising, I told Donna what had happened and told her we needed to turn around. This what not how we wanted to start the day. I cursed the mapmakers and my own stupidity.

Eventually, seventeen miles later, we arrived in Guadalupe. It felt as if the entire town was out on holiday. Shops were shuttered, the streets quiet. A restaurant sign declared Authentic Spanish Food. Hamburgers, fries and hotdogs. What, I thought, no 'Spanish' apple pie?

Aside from our unscheduled detour, the riding was good. The road was mostly good and flat, with light traffic and gorgeous views of hills and fields. As we rode I took phone calls from family and friends passing on birthday wishes. Not wanting to interrupt our pace, I chatted without pausing the pedalling. What's more annoying than someone talking on the cellphone while driving? Me.

Forty-five miles and the first big climb of the day done, we were half way done and eating lunch in Lompoc. Welcome to Lompoc, the sign said, Where Small Businesses Come To Die. Not really, I just made that up. A five mile long road bordered by strip malls and huge parking lots with every generic brand shop known in America seemed to be the only thing in Lompoc. Sitting outside a Starbucks, I eavesdropped on a girl, her boyfriend and her father, the latter two of whom were meeting for the first time. He was working at Long's Drugs at a job that was 'Ok. Boring' but that paid for his college classes. He and the girl were going to 'hang out' at the mall. The father, a trained mechanical engineer but a photographer by trade, passed on advice to the boy about his future, who took it silently and appeared awkward, while his daughter tried to shrink as far as she could into the chair. At least some things never change.

Leaving Lompoc, we started the 16 miles of continuous uphill. It wasn't difficult, just relentless, leading to a final mile-long climb that wiped us out. Then came the thrilling 2 mile, 1,000 feet descent to the ocean. I wanted to enjoy it as much as I could without getting too far ahead of Donna. At the bottom I waited and waited. Before long I spotted a small descending figure. She arrived tired and a little frayed around the edges. The buffeting winds and steep descent had made her feel she was about to be tossed off the hill at any moment. I kept telling her, this is the last climb of the whole trip. No more hills. No more descents. You did it.

We'd ridden seventy miles to this point. After an extended break at Gaviota rest stop, we steeled ourselves for about 20-plus miles of riding in the shoulder of the 101 Freeway. We'd had to do it before, but it was only for a couple of miles at a time, and it was never the sole transportation artery, so traffic was bearable. Here, however, all traffic going North or South had to travel this part of the 101, cars and trucks, big or small. It was a Sunday afternoon of the biggest American holiday of the year. After only a couple of miles it was clear this was going to be a huge challenge. Eyes fixed solely on the shoulder, we had to look out for items strewn in our way, praying we wouldn't hit a large pothole. Cars and trucks passed at absurd speeds, one small mistake on their part and we would be gone. For all the crowing about the difficulties of riding Big Sur, that never felt hazardous, like this. This wasn't fun, easy or sensible. It was dangerous. This was highlighted by the bridge we came to that had no shoulder to speak of. We had to wait at the beginning, watching for a break in the traffic to make a dash along it. There really wasn't a chance, so after several minutes of waiting, we made a break for it. We nearly cleared the bridge before the traffic reached us, but we were left shaking on the other side.

The miles became a mental agony of counting each pedal stroke. One tenth of a mile, one quarter of a mile. Rest. Another half a mile. Rest. I was done. Broken. Unable to continue, I broke down. As I had done for her during the last week, so it was Donna's turn to cheerlead and push me on to go one more mile. Go, go, go, I heard her urging me on, you can do it.

When we were finally able to leave the freeway, at the beginning of Hollister Avenue at the edge of Goleta, I was so tired I couldn't celebrate. Few experiences can truly be called traumatic, but riding the 101 Freeway as we had done for the last 22 or so miles could legitimately fall into that category. I called Kelly and Pete to get directions to their place. "Oh you've still got a few miles to go," said Pete, "I can come pick you up if you want." I was forming the word yes, when I looked at Donna. She had a steely, uncompromising look. "NO," she said emphatically, "I want to finish this".

Somehow, and I'm really not sure how, we rode the miles down Hollister Avenue. It was all I could do to think that every mile we completed here was one less we had to do tomorrow. I tried not to think about how our friends had made plans to go out to dinner, having expected two relatively normal people to show up at their door hours ago, not these bedraggled, dirty, semi-traumatised couple. All I wanted was a dark corner and a stiff drink.

Our friends welcomed us into their lovely home with open arms. I was underestimating the power of good company and hot shower to bring one back to something resembling normality. 96 miles. Just shy of the century, that magic number. Donna and I needed to rest, especially if we were to tackle another day like that tomorrow, but the desire to be good guests and celebrate what was left of the day overtook us, and we had dinner at a very nice restaurant in Santa Barbara with our hosts.

Pete told me about his recently published adventure/thriller, No Return. (I've just finished reading it - it's quite good). I think I made mostly coherent sounds in response. I was worried about tomorrow. If we stuck to the plan, we had to complete another (albeit flat) 90-100 miles tomorrow, with more busy roads. We didn't have a place to stay yet in LA, and the following morning we'd have to get on a train and come straight home. I wanted a rest. A day off before going home. Santa Barbara, with its lovely beaches and good friends, seemed like the perfect place to call it a day. We'd covered 400 miles, why go further?

Donna wasn't having any of it. She'd signed on to ride to LA, and by God she was going to ride to LA. It was in our grasp, we weren't injured or incapable of riding, stopping now was not an option. As punishing as those last 6.2 miles of the marathon are, you don't stop at mile 20 and say well, that's good enough. She offered me a compromise. If we got to LA tomorrow, she would take an extra day off work for us to rest there before going home. It was an offer I couldn't reasonably refuse.

Happy Birthday To Me.

Day Eight: Santa Barbara to Santa Monica

Monday July 3rd 2006
start 8.45am (Pete & Kelly's house, Goleta)
finish 7pm (Hotel Shangri-La, Santa Monica)
distance 89.28 miles
max speed 23.5 mph
avg speed 12.4 mph
cycling time 7:09:03

Our last day of riding, and familiar territory for me, if only because I'd travelled these miles many times by car. We woke up tired but optimistic. I knew we would make it, of that I had no doubt. 6 miles to Santa Barbara, no problem. The bike path took us along the edge of the beaches, along with all the families and tourists enjoying the morning. The road paralleled the highway through the small towns of Summerland and Carpinteria. Out of Carpinteria we had a five or so mile section of freeway riding. It wasn't fun but it was nothing like yesterday. It's not every day that you see a bike lane painted into the freeway, either.

Steady, steady. That was our motto of the day. The miles passed by quickly as we paralleled the beaches and miles of parked RVs along the coast. I had concerns about Oxnard being difficult - the worse of Lompoc-style streets combined with 101 traffic, but it was much easier than I had feared.

Pt Mugu had always been the beginning of LA and the familiar to me, so when we stopped there for lunch, even though we had the better part of thirty or forty miles still to go, I felt that it was going to be a breeze. We were, in essence, done. It's amazing how perfectly rational thoughts can lead you to utterly incorrect conclusions.

Traffic picked up as we snaked our way through Malibu. The beaches, predictably, were packed. And since the shoulder we were riding in doubled as parking for the surfers and beachgoers, we had to negotiate carefully the space between the parked cars and the road. What was described as a flat ride actually had a number of hills, large enough to tire us out as we crested one, after another, after another. Our pace slowed. As the afternoon drew on, people were leaving the beaches to return to LA in large numbers. People on our right, returning to their cars, didn't watch out for us, walking into our path or flinging open their doors without caring. The cars on our left, anxious to return home, sped along the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) at the highest speeds their cars could take them.

One last break at the Malibu Colony Plaza to refuel and book a hotel (the Shangri-La in Santa Monica), and there were just 9 miles of the PCH to go before the bike path began. Nine miles. Barely anything.

The road narrowed, the traffic picked up pace, the shoulder became all but non existent. I couldn't have conceived of anything worse than Hwy 101 yesterday, but here it was, at the end of the day again, the end of a long week. A day that started nicely was being utterly ruined, and I wondered how and in what conditions we would arrive. Unlike yesterday, I kept my fears to myself, and focused on covering the distance as steadily as I could, and bringing Donna along with me. We were miserable and angry, not the way I wanted to arrive in Los Angeles. I would treat cyclists differently when I was driving, I said to myself, although I didn't know if that was true, if I'd even notice them as I sped along the PCH.

After a last agonising mile which seemed to never end, we pulled into the parking lot at the beginning of the bike path. Here is the path that I used to rollerblade on, sometimes to work and back down in Venice. I can't say I felt happy, but I did let down my guard, and tried to shake of the awful tension and stress that had built up over the last twenty or thirty miles. I was half a mile down the path before turning around to see no sign of Donna. Waiting a couple of minutes, and still no sign. Had she missed the turnoff? No, I'd seen her pull into the parking lot just behind me. Perhaps she was taking a break, or fell off, or had some bike trouble. After a couple more minutes of waiting, I turned around and pedalled fast.

There she was, advancing slowly. As she'd started on the path, she'd had an asthma attack, and stopped, unable to call out to me. Just a little ways down the path, I said, pointing out a building I hoped was in Santa Monica. Despite the many people enjoying the pleasures of a gorgeous July evening on the beach, it was hard to share in their positive Southern California mood. People walked into our path, and a sharp cry of warning from me had them jumping out of the way. I wanted to broadcast an annoucement There is about 300 lbs of machine, muscle, bone and gear coming towards you at 15 mph. You do not want me to hit you. I am tired and hungry. I recommend you get out of the way as quickly as can.

The Santa Monica pier was a circus of people, families of every colour and stripe, locals and tourists, kids, teenagers, couples and homeless people, (and two bicycle tourists), streaming up to the road. We were a couple blocks further north from the hotel than I thought, but Donna thankfully didn't chastise me and before long we were standing outside the hotel. We took some symbolic "WE'RE HERE" photos, with smiles that came back to us as the realisation of our accomplishment replaced the sheer stress of the ride.

The Shangri-La Hotel had charm, plenty of art deco details in the architecture and rooms, without being old and run down. We were even able to bring our bikes into the room with us.

We couldn't rest yet, though. We were late to meet our friends at the World Cafe in Venice. I had entertained the idea of not changing our clothes, just cycling up to the restaurant, dirty and smelly. At least they would have gotten the idea of what we'd been through that day, but we decided to spare them the discomfort, and took a shower.

We staked out a nice corner of the bar and tried to have a human conversation with our friends, and tell them the stories of the week. By the end of the night we had shaken off the bad feelings but we were exhausted. As difficult as it was it didn't seem that we'd started from San Francisco and pedalled our way to Los Angeles in merely a week. It had happened slowly and incrementally enough that the arrival at our destination felt almost anticlimactic. It's amazing what you can do just by putting one foot in front of the other.

Epilogue

My quads were sore, my forehead and arms sunburnt. My fingers couldn't straighten properly for days. Donna's running suffered in the aftermath, taking a couple of weeks to return to normal. Her legs increased in size. She spent a lot of time trying figure out whether all the effort was worth it, taking it all into account. Despite her misgivings, I am blown away that we actually made it. She spent the first few days lamenting her speed, the problems she was having, and saying how much 'better' I would be without her on the ride. Without her, I may have gone faster, I might have taken more days off. However, without her astonishing determination and drive I know for a fact that we would never have made it all the way to Los Angeles.

Memorable Quote

Donna, in response to my encouragement one difficult day: "I'll try, ok?"
Me: "Yoda says, do or do not, there is no try."
Donna: "Ok Yoda. I'll TRY."

Yoda | Shangri-la Hotel | Santa+Monica | Bicycle | Tour | Pacific Coast | Route One | San Francisco| Los Angeles| San Simeon| Southern California

Pacific Coast Bike Tour Pt 2 - Monterey to San Simeon

If you clicked on the photos in Part 1 yesterday and were met with Flickr's "we're down" page, try again today. Everything seems to be working properly now. Again, click on the photo at the top of each day to see the photo set for that day.

Day Four: Monterey to Big Sur

Thursday June 29th 2006
start 9:30am(ish) (Vet's Memorial Park)
finish 4:30pm(ish) (Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park)
distance (cycling) 12.3 miles approx
distance (total bike plus bus) 35 miles approx
max speed 25 mph
avg speed 6.2 mph

We woke up sluggish and tired, unrevived by an uninterrupted night's sleep. I chatted to our campsite neighbours, two sixty year-old Australian motorbike riders. They were coming to the end of a two year world tour and were about to head back to Australia to see, amongst other things, a grandson they'd not yet met. They had spent months in every continent, and judged the United States to be full of the least friendly people they'd met. They found the relative ignorance of the American populace about the larger world disturbing. They said people were shocked that they had travelled through Iran, apparently unable to conceive that a place in the 'Axis of Evil' had wonderful, hospitable people in it. They lamented that Americans had not heard about the Bali bombings, or were unaware of the Australian's military contribution to the various 'Wars on Terror'.

Even while I was sympathetic to some of their opinions, I couldn't help but feel that they were reciting anti-American sentiment by rote. Perhaps I'm spoiled by the (American) people whom I'm lucky enough to be surrounded by. Maybe it's because I've met a lot of ignorant people who are not American. As much as I'm disturbed by what has happened, here and abroad, in the name of 'freedom', I felt that this couple had impossibly high expectations of American behaviour, as if willing them to fail so justifying their prejudice.

Undermining their position further were some rather odd opinions about large corporations. Walmart - good ("cheap!"), McDonalds - good ("they give back to their local communities"), Starbucks - BAD ("they're everywhere in Australia"), amongst other things. Their judgements seemed arbitrary, reminding me of Woody Allen in Love and Death - "I do have a few quirks. I won't eat any food that begins with the letter 'f'. Like chicken."

It was only after we left and Donna asked "did you take a photo of them?", and I kicked myself for having forgotten to do so. They were a picture alright.

The day began with a long slow climb, and I could hear Donna struggling behind me. It was only a few miles to Carmel, where we planned to stop for our ritual coffee pick-me-up. Barely two miles into it, and at the top of the climb we paused. Two riders came up behind us, clearly bike tourists like ourselves. Their names were Dan and Andy, UC Santa Barbara graduates, heading back there over about 10 days. They had struggled up the hill, which made both of us feel better about our own difficulties. Donna needed a break, so we told them to go on ahead. When they vanished ahead of us, Donna leaned over and heaved, trying not to fall off her bike. Having witnessed her push her way through all manner of difficulties to train and complete five marathons, had she finally reached her limit?

If we could reach Carmel, I reasoned, we could decide from there what to do next. Plus, it was all downhill. She agreed, and we set off.

Once in Carmel we enjoyed a powerful depth charge, but it wasn't enough to revive her. We weren't going to make it any further by bicycle today. She said she didn't need a doctor, just a rest. She said I should go on alone. It's true that I had initially conceived of this trip as a solo one, but now that we were doing it together as a team, I couldn't imagine going on without her. The next bus to Big Sur was in a couple of hours. If we took the day off today and rested in Big Sur, we could then decide tomorrow whether to continue on or turn back home. I know the thought of 'cheating' this way was horribly frustrating to Donna, but she was too tired to argue. We found the local bus stop opposite a park, we laid out a blanket and she collapsed onto it, asleep in seconds.

I brought one book with me on the trip, Dervla Murphy's Full Tilt: From Dunkirk to Delhi by bicycle. She's an astonishingly resourceful and resilient woman, still travelling and writing today in her 70s, and I felt she would be a good companion on our journey. "I reckon that our average on a normal cycling day we covered between 70 and 80 miles", she wrote, and on mostly unpaved asian roads too. Before she had crossed Europe she was swept away by a raging winter flood, had been attacked by wild dogs (whom she killed with her .25 pistol she had decided to carry), and been in a bus that had careened half way off a cliff. One last Dervla quote:

This is perhaps the moment to contradict the popular fallacy that a solitary woman who undertakes this sort of journey must be 'very courageous'. Epictetus put it in a nutshell when he said, 'For it is not death or hardship that is a fearful thing, but the fear of death and hardship.' And because in general the possibility of physical danger does not frighten me, courage is not required; when man tried to rob or assault me or when I find myself, as darkness is falling, utterly exhausted and waist-deep in snow half-way up a mountain pass, then I am afraid - but in such circumstances it is the instinct of self-preservation, rather than courage, that takes over.

Donna and I had it easy. I was heartened by one thing, at least she rides buses.

The bus to Big Sur was a joy. Donna was convinced she'd see our bikes jump off the rack and go tumbling over the cliffs into the ocean, but they held strong. We felt a pang of guilt as we passed Dan and Andy pedalling along, but only a pang.

Once at Pfeiffer Big Sur lodge, I read that there were two parts to the park, creekside woods and a beach section of the park where, it implied, we could camp. The thought of beachside camping was appealing, and the directions said it was a hop, skip and a jump from our current location. We figured we still had a couple of miles of bicycling energy stored up, so off we went.

Uphill. And uphill. And uphill. And uphill. We weren't ready for that. With the promise of a gorgeous beach to camp on, we pressed on. It didn't take a genius to realise that the beach was going to be at sea level (duh) so all of this altitude we were gaining was going to need to be lost. The right turn appeared and we headed down a steep one way road, 'just two miles' from the beach. "I'm not coming back up this road for dinner" stated Donna. This beach better be worth it, I thought.

NO CAMPING, said the sign at the bottom of the road. I don't remember but I think I said something like m[beep] f[beep] [beep] [beep]ing double-[beep]. There was no campsite down there, nor evidence that there had ever been one. [Beep] my [beep] you [beep]ing [beep]. It was probably for the better. The beach, though beautiful, was wind swept and the sand would have wrecked the bicycles. The park ranger there said camping had never been allowed but that between us and her, she didn't mind if we did. No, never mind, we said, we'd make the trek back. As we walked back up the hill, Donna grumbled about her 'rest day' not being all that restful.

It was worth the effort. The Big Sur campground was wonderful, with the hiker/biker section nestled in huge redwoods and firs. There was a cafe, a grocery store, laundry facilities, hot showers, true luxury for tired travellers.

We saw a familiar face cooking up food over a fire. Erik "The Trustafarian", his dog Irie, and his two friends. Flash back to Santa Cruz, when we met Erik. The morning after we met him, two strangers and their bicycles were in sleeping bags, splayed outside his tent. They looked like they'd been sleeping rough for a while, with the glazed eyes and detachment of the permanently high-flying club. We nicknamed them variously as 'Harold and Kumar' and 'Cheech and Chong', but it was Donna's 'Mike and Ike' that seemed to stick. Erik said they were his friends he'd met in Santa Cruz and had invited to join him. That morning in Santa Cruz, just as we were leaving, Erik had spoken excitedly about his plans to hike south along the beaches, following them as far as he could go. A scant two days later, here he was in Big Sur, Mike and Ike (plus bicycles) in tow, looking like they'd been there for weeks. Erik, so effusive and chatty before, barely recognised us now.

"Hey Erik! Hi Irie." I greeted his dog. "How did you guys make it down here?"

Erik looked up from his chili, his eyes lazy. "Cab."

"How much did that cost you?"

".. A hundred. Bucks."

I looked at the assortment of people, animals and equipment. "So," I said, "you called up a cab company and said 'Hi, I have, uh, three adults, a dog, two bicycles, some camping gear (and the biggest bag of pot you've ever seen, I wanted to add), and I want to go to Big Sur. What's that going to cost me?'"

".. yeah. Pretty much.." pause. ".. oh wait, we only have one bicycle."

"What happened to the other one?", I asked.

Mike, or Ike, responded, with something close to a smile. "Sold it".

We left them to their munchies, and spent the evening wandering the trees, showering and doing laundry (everyone in a half-mile radius said thank you), helped a fellow camper figure out how to write a text message to his son in Indonesia, and otherwise resting. Donna said she was already feeling better. I said let's wait and see in the morning.

Day Five: Big Sur to San Simeon

Friday June 30th 2006
start 8.15am (Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park)
finish 6pm (San Simeon State Beach)
distance 69.14 miles
max speed 26 mph
avg speed 11.3 mph
cycling time 6:07:08

This is the day we had been dreading. When people talk about the Pacific Coast, this is the coast they think of - the windy road, the sheer cliffs dropping into the ocean, the bluer-than-blue water. This was the postcard day. But it was this, from the book I used as our guide, Bicycling The Pacific Coast, that had put the fear into our bellies:

Riding the steeply rolling terrain is strenuous, both physically and mentally. The road is narrow, with little or no shoulder when you need it. Traffic is moderate to heavy.. Stores, restaurants, and water stops are few and far between.

This, combined with our riding performance the last couple of days, had shaken our confidence. Nonetheless, we woke up early and rested. Donna gave the thumbs up, she was ready to continue. A couple shots of coffee injected between the toes and we were ready to take it on. I wanted to keep our ambitions small. There was a campground about 30 miles away. I wasn't worried about getting to LA, I didn't want that arbitrary goal to drive our decision making. The day was beautiful, fog free and still cool.

We knew, from our beach excursion the night before, that the first several miles were a gradual and relentless uphill. We tackled it with our now patented 'pacing' - riding around 5 or 6 mph no matter how long the climb appeared to be, because you never knew what was around the corner.

I'm not going to try and describe the coast views, because you run out of adjectives very quickly, I'll let the pictures speak for themselves. Surprisingly for a Friday prior to the biggest American holiday of the year, the traffic was light. We were able then to enjoy the views, the twists and turns of the road. Although we didn't have a wide shoulder to ride in, every hundred feet or so there was a large gravelly turn out to take a break in. The hills weren't so bad either. Pfft. We were enjoying every minute of the day. This was a breeze, what had we been so afraid of?

Thirty miles down the road, and another decision time. It was early, we were making good time. I wanted to call it a day at the campground. We'd have time to truly relax and enjoy this fantastic day. We were riding strong, but the next campground wasn't for another forty miles, at least twenty of which had the largest climbs so far. And, if we took on those extra forty, it would be the most mileage we had covered in a day. I was nervous of pushing it too far and having another day like yesterday. Donna's reasoning was that the weather was good, we felt good, why not just get on with it while we could? We didn't know what the weather or conditions held tomorrow. Her thinking was straightforward, determined and persuasive. We pressed on.

I was delighted to see the San Luis Obispo county line, and behind it the start of the flat, gently rolling terrain that awaited us. Our pace picked up and the miles started to click away faster than they ever had before. We paused only to see the elephant seals throw cool sand on their backs as they lounged on the beaches. Hearst Castle gleamed from the hillside. Can I say I have no desire to pay to tour the inside of a rich person's expression of more money than sense? I appreciate that the surrounding area is left wild and undeveloped because of the generosity of the Hearst family, but I will show my gratitude in other ways.

A stop in the depressing collection of generic roadside hotels named San Simeon Village for food, and we made it without difficulties to the campground.

While examining the site, I discreetly threw a discarded snake skin into the buses, hoping Donna hadn't seen it. When she doesn't sleep, I don't sleep either.

We felt very proud of our accomplishment today, which exceeded our ambitions and expectations. Donna said it was because she'd had clean clothes and a shower. Maybe we could do this after all. Then again, maybe not. Hearst Castle was 'roughly half way between Los Angeles and San Francisco'. We had covered the first half in five often difficult days. We needed to cover the last half in three.

Photo | Bicycle | Tour | Pacific Coast | Route One | San Francisco| Los Angeles| Monterey| Big Sur| Dervla Murphy

Pacific Coast Bike Tour Pt 1 - San Rafael to Monterey

Click on the image of each day to go to the set of photos from that day. A note about the photos - most of them I (Juan) took, although in the sets are scattered a number of Donna's photos, appropriately marked. Apart from being strongly composed photos, they are distinguished also by their amazing colours, sharp contrast and unusual tinting, a quality of the cross-processing that Donna was experimenting with on our trip. I feel these photos are 'hyperreal', and represent the feeling of what you're looking at better than photos with 'truer' colour in them.

Day One: San Rafael to Half Moon Bay

Monday June 26th 2006
start 9.30am (San Rafael)
finish 7pm (Half Moon Bay State Beach)
mileage 55.19 miles
max speed 27.5 mph
avg speed 9.0mph
cycling time 6:06:58

At the best of times it would have been a tough day. We had had a difficult Sunday with our final packing, right down the moment when I wondered if we were going to do this at all. So when we were finally on our way I couldn't quite believe it. I didn't know what we would be capable of, we had not trained at all. Neither of us had ever travelled more than about 30 miles on our bikes. We hadn't used or tested all our panniers and gear. I had put up the tent in the garden, so, chalk up one on the board.

Getting around Devil's Slide, where Hwy 1 fell into the ocean last winter, proved harder than I thought. Manor Drive, a residential road with 17% grade, we conquered by walking slowly up it as best we could. Polite writing prevents me from using the words that we spoke as we ascended the road, but this and this just about sums it up.

The route along Crystal Springs was by far the highlight of the day, sunny, gorgeous and calm. Then came the 92 to Half Moon Bay. A few people had warned us about it, but we had little choice. There was a steep uphill to the ridge crest followed by a long downhill. For me the downhill is a reward for the uphill climb and I zoom down, but for Donna, uncomfortable with the lack of control and getting used to her bike, it was no relief at all. Her hands cramped up from gripping the brakes and she was exhausted. The intense traffic was ok, because we had a shoulder to ride in, until we didn't. Then it got crazy. People travelling home at rush hour gave us no leeway, to the extent that we were almost run off the road. We had to take breaks in the dirt and grass to gather ourselves for another few hundred meters of hazardous riding. People honked their horns and gave us the finger. I shouted "thank you!" after a couple of these, but I was far too generous with the gratitude - really, you should at least hit us with a beer can before getting any thank yous, don't you think?

At long last we reached Half Moon Bay, darkening and foggy. The sight of the campground and a lovely patch of grass under a beautiful tree was beyond satisfying. We set up and Donna collapsed in the tent. I went over to meet our neighbour, a man called Jason and his dog Dakota. He had been on the road for about three years, having left Dallas, Texas to wander the country. He built his own rickshaw and he walks from place to place, occasionally settling for a while to do construction work before setting off again. As he spoke about the people and places he'd been he would ramble a little, going off on a tangent about energies and vibes, but I felt he was genuine and still mostly lucid. I bought one of his hemp bracelets and wore it for the rest of the trip. Donna found it very hippy but there was something about it that made me regard it as a good luck bracelet.

We needed to eat, but Donna was out of the count, so I did the last thing I wanted to do, which was hop on my bike and headed into town in search of real food. It's Italia! said the restaurant window, which as naming goes put it one rung below E-Z Pizza 4 U, but it was a nice looking place with good looking food. I ordered pesto pasta to go, and sat at the bar dressed in full biking gear, not feeling conspicuous in any way whatsoever. I wanted so badly to order a beer, but I didn't know what effect it would have on me at that time. I spotted a pizza being served and ordered one for us as well. I munched on bread trying not to gorge. At last the food was ready and, tying it to the back of the bike in a crush of boxes, raced back to the campsite. Donna was delighted to see me and we huddled in the tent, fingers covered in melted cheese and pesto sauce.

Day Two: Half Moon Bay to Santa Cruz

Tuesday June 27th 2006
start 9.10am (Half Moon Bay State Beach)
finish 5.00pm (New Brighton State Beach)
distance 58.46 miles
max speed 27.1 mph
avg speed 11.2 mph
cycling time 5:13:16

We slept fitfully. Donna, convinced that our (locked) bicycles presented a too-attractive target for robbers, put them within view and sat upright at the smallest stirring of sound, certain she could hear them being carted into the back of a pickup truck. In the trees, squirrels scampered and fought, making a growling, gutteral noise I have never heard before. Dakota the dog in the tent next door darted out after them in the middle of the night, taking down his tent and raising a barrage of words from Jason. The sound of the waves breaking a hundred yards away reached such an intensity that I imagined a tsunami was about to wash us away. I left the tent with a light on my forehead, and the beam lit up what seemed like a dense cloud of falling ash, only that this was cool and wet on the skin. The fog had truly arrived. Back in the tent, the sound of spattering fat droplets falling from the tree branches upon which they had condensed punctuated the morning.

Beyond simple discomfort, the fog and chill presented a bigger problem for Donna. She suffers from Raynaud's syndrome, a condition which asserts itself strongly in this weather. When that happens, she needs to warm them under hot water or simply get warm, quickly. Her fingers turn a ghastly white, become painful and numb, and she is unable to perform all but the simplest tasks. We packed up as quickly as possible, and I encouraged her in the direction of the coffee shop that I had remembered from the night before.

Sufficiently warmed up, we headed on our way along Route 1. Today the route promised to be more straightforward and flat, except for navigating the streets of Santa Cruz at the end of the day. I would learn to dread those 'except' moments.

The fog hung over us most of the day, which I told myself was a good thing, keeping the temperatures down, even as it dampened my spirits too.

Not far out of Half Moon Bay we stopped at a large fruit and vegetable stand, where I bought cherries and peaches. A cyclist riding a reclining bicycle stopped, travelling in the opposite direction. He was quite a picture, riding from the Santa Cruz mountains north to the Marin Headlands.

Donna was excited to find out about the elephant seal reserve at Año Nuevo State reserve. She wanted to see them. When we got there we were sad to find out that it was a few miles of walking trails to see them. And when you're bike touring, extra miles make you pause. Extra miles means less time in a nice campsite, less time resting, more time on the road. We contented ourselves with sitting at the picnic tables and listening to their barking sounds drifting to us from the beaches below.

Not far ahead in Davenport, a similar decision as we passed Bonny Doon Road, which led to the Bonny Doon winery. Not just more miles, but uphill, windy, and mountainous. We kept going along Hwy 1, and dreamed of tasting wine another time. Some people in Davenport asked what we doing, and to our reply they judged that we were "hardcore", or as my friend told me, "h4rdc0re".

Once in Santa Cruz, we had to negotiate the city streets. After a day of riding, having to focus all your mental energies on urban riding gets tiring very quickly. Pedestrians, parked cars, traffic lights, thoughtless motorists, for several miles. By the time we were close to the campground, thoughts of unpacking and then getting back on our bikes to go sightseeing were far away.

Once inside the New Brighton State Beach campground, we staked out a corner of a grassy, overgrown patch designated for hikers and bikers. Reluctantly we left the campsite to go forage for a supermarket, having failed again to get supplies for the evening before arriving at the campground, although riding the bikes without the extra 30-40 lbs of gear was a joy. And the trip was worth it - sausages, cereal, powerbars, chocolate, graham crackers and marshmallows - perfect camping food. A visit to the beach to enjoy the sunset, then we lit the fire and had a perfect camping evening with our campsite friends for the evening, Erik and Rebecca. Erik was hiking around the States with his lovely pure-bred dog Irie. He finished high school six years ago and had been on the road ever since. I flashed back to Jason and his rickshaw, but here was a hiker of a different colour. He had a nice tent, the newest gadgets and gear. He was chatty and generous, giving away anything he had surplus of. "I'm just going to throw it away tomorrow anyway," he said. He had just been over in Tahoe hiking around. Thinking how far away that was, I asked how he had made it all the way here. He got to Sacramento, he said, and decided to take a cab.

"It woulda cost me $831, we left the meter running, but I did a deal for six [hundred]."

I asked him why he didn't just catch a train, or bus, or any one of a hundred other options.

"Dunno. I was probably stoned or something at the time."

It wasn't hard to realise that he had money to burn. Thereafter Donna and I dubbed him Erik "the Trustafarian".

Rebecca was from Boston, and biking on her own through California while investigating UCSF's medical school. She was hoping to make it to Monterey, but her schedule demanded that she travel back soon to San Francisco. She was doing what I wished I'd had the courage to do ten or more years ago - pick up on your own and gone cycling somewhere unknown. We were impressed by her independence and courage to be out here going it alone.

Heavy with 'smores, I fell asleep, undisturbed even by Donna bolting awake every half an hour to check on the bicycles.

Day Three: Santa Cruz to Monterey

Wednesday June 28th 2006
start 11:30am (New Brighton State Beach)
finish 5:15pm (Vet's Memorial Park)
distance 43.15 miles
max speed 24 mph
avg speed 11.9 mph
cycling time 3:16:14 (not including first ~4 miles of riding)

We started the day in what was to be our usual place - at a coffee shop with a 'depth charge' (a shot of espresso in a cup of coffee, also known variously as a 'red eye' or 'jump start'). Today was a 'rest' day, less miles, mostly flat. We were both feeling fatigued from the first two days of riding, and I wasn't sure how to recover from that other than by not riding altogether. I had suggested going a full 70 miles to finish at Big Sur (per my original route plan) but I didn't have to look at Donna to know that this was far too ambitious for either of us that day.

Riding through Watsonville, the strawberry and artichoke capital of the USA (approx 80% of the US-consumed strawberries and artichokes come from here), was astonishing and beautiful, with vast fields and hills crammed with sweet smelling fruits, and dotted with groups of workers laboriously picking.

We chatted to a couple riders who had ridden up from Cambria and were due to conclude their trip in Santa Cruz. I asked them about Big Sur, which turned out was the elephant in the room for both Donna and I. "It's ok," they said, "the RVs can be dangerous, and there's a part of the road near Lucia that was really gravelly and dirty and we almost wiped out a couple of times.". Soon we'd have to talk about that elephant.

A taco truck at a dusty intersection gave me what I would have to say was about the best meal of the trip - two tacos for $1. I only ordered one taco but for reasons unknown they gave me one for free - "Te lo regalamos," they said. I devoured them happily.

From here a bike path took us all the way into Monterey, a welcome break from the roads. Gophers scattered in our path, comically running in front of us, little legs pumping furiously. A few miles along the bike path and a road sign showing mileage passed by. "San Luis Obispo - 145 miles. Los Angeles - 338 miles". I tried not to do the mental calculation but at this rate we would never get there...

Despite the lower mileage, we arrived exhausted into Monterey. At an intersection, I looked down into the open window of a neighbouring car. A woman asked me where we'd come from. "My son is cycling around Europe, and seeing you..." she put her hand to her chest. I could imagine my own mother doing the same. Hoping that our appearance was more reassuring than scary, I said "well I'm sure he's doing just as well as we are". The lights changed and she was gone.

A beach appeared, and without thinking twice, we dragged our bikes onto the sand, leaning them against a tree, and collapsed into the sand in the shade. People were out enjoying the semi-sunny day. I suddenly worried about all the sand getting into the bike mechanisms. I hoped it would be ok.

Half an hour later we left the beach to finish the last couple of miles to the campground, supposedly within a city park called the Veteran's Memorial park. I wished we could have just stayed on the beach. We rode the residential streets, getting steadily steeper. Then, a hill. A big hill. Donna made a noise behind me. I was determined not to let this discourage me, and steadily began to climb. The streets went by, and I saw the park entrance up ahead. Urging her on, I pushed to the front of.. some random building that wasn't the park. I saw the road curve behind this building and start another big climb. I was demoralised and angry. Why did they make this so hard? Why was the end of every day so f'ing difficult? Pushing on, I made it about half way up this second hill before getting off my bike to push it the rest of the way. A few minutes later Donna followed. She collapsed on the side of the road she said, shaking and crying uncontrollably. She was done.

The campsite was sorry looking, hilly, uneven, bare and stony. Neither of us had particularly good associations with Monterey despite its popularity with everyone we knew, and this campground was leaving an additional sour taste. We pitched tent nonetheless and set off down the hill for a meal, unwilling to spend the evening there.

It was time to talk about what was coming up next. My original plan to reach Los Angeles in seven days was too ambitious (hey if He could make the world in that time, why not me cycle to LA?). The AIDS riders do it in seven, but then their route is supported, food and lodging taken care of, their gear carried for them. Ten seemed more reasonable, but Donna didn't have those extra days off work. Big Sur, a source of unspoken anxiety for both of us, was ahead, as was the point of no turnaround, beyond which we would need to push ahead to someplace larger like San Luis Obispo. I had held up the goal of reaching LA as a hook on which to plan the trip, but more importantly I wanted us to enjoy ourselves as much as possible, have some fun camping, riding our bikes. I was more than happy to consider riding our bikes around the Monterey area for a few days, and then hop on a bus back to the Bay Area, and give the rest of the coast a miss. I had no idea how far we'd make it, so the fact that we'd gotten this far to begin with was amazing to me, and accomplishment enough. We were fatigued, and I thought soon that was going to outweigh any enjoyment we might get from riding.

We discussed these things in a generic but decent restaurant along Cannery Row, feeling like 'normal' people out of bike shorts and lycra padding. Despite Donna's tiredness and collapse, she wanted to continue. "Let's go for Big Sur tomorrow", she said, "and figure it out from there."

Ok then, we were going to go for it.

Photo | Bicycle | Tour | Pacific Coast | Route One | San Francisco| Los Angeles

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest

How do you lose money on the biggest grossing film of the year?
Answer: create the special effects

I haven't seen Pirates 2 yet so I can't comment on the finished result, but after hearing that it earned a squagillion and a half dollars in its first 34 minutes of release, I flashed back to when were in the midst of working on the effects, and we were told it was a money-losing project for us, in part because of the massive amounts of overtime we were doing to get the film done. See, we, or I suppose I should say 'they' (and all the visual effects facilities), are service companies, work-for-hire. You bid the project, the studio says 'cut your costs in half otherwise we'll take it to your competitors who are showering us with presents to try and secure this project', we say 'ok whatever you say big studio please please give us the work', like an over eager puppy grovelling on the floor desperate for affection, and the upshot of it is that you go semi-bankrupt working on the biggest money making films of the century. Healthy, eh?

Now, most people who work on a film do not see a percentage of the profits. Success of a film brings attention, kudos, hopefully an award or two, more work (also money losing, chances are). At the same time it is increasingly the vfx facilities who are creating the movie itself literally out of thin air, and it is difficult for me to imagine a more dysfunctional relationship than that of the vfx facilities to the studio, with the majority of the power firmly in the studio's grasp.

Don't ask me what the answer is, but the current financial model seems doomed to push the visual effects industry into crisis, with facilities needing to rely on rich parent companies (or rich individuals) to stay afloat. I hesitate to say that vfx companies should share in the risk that the studios are taking, but I wonder if that wouldn't lead to a more sustainable model in the long run. So for every two or three money losers (Poseidon), you have one bona fide hit (Pirates) that sees you through the rougher waters. What's in it for the studios? Well they could show a nice small upfront budget for a big movie to their bosses by paying a pittance for the special effects with the promise dangled in front of everyone that this is the big money maker for the year and we'll all make out like bandits. Isn't that the whole point, the highs and lows of the movie industry? It does put vfx facilities more at risk of one huge failure closing the whole place down, but it's hard to imagine things being any worse than they are now. It could also open up a big place like ILM to much smaller films as well that are riskier but carry the possibility of big rewards. I'm thinking of a movie like Saw, a low-budget horror movie that did astonishingly well at the box office. Their effects were modest and appropriate for the film, but I wonder if smaller filmmakers had opportunities to work with bigger facilities how that might improve the quality of the final product and help it sell even more. That's often how big stars are attracted to small films - they're attracted to the project, get paid very little, and hopefully make more money if the film sells well.

Way back in 1999 Rhythm and Hues did something like this for Phil Joanou's movie Entropy, a small independent movie. It wasn't a success by any measure so that fell into the 'lets not do this again' box, but obviously the hope would be that not every movie would be like that. Still, it's hard for me to imagine studios agreeing to this without the independent vfx facilities banding together and presenting something of an united front. Ha! Oh well.

Back to Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest. ILM's primary contribution to the film were the many shots of Davy Jones and the crew of the Dutchmen. Aside from Stellan Skarsgård, all of the crew were entirely CG. No make up, prosthetics, live-action/CG blend, they are full on, one hundred percent computer generated, albeit based strongly on wonderful filmed performances from Bill Nighy and a cast of supporting actors. I say this because clearly many people are confused:

Davy Jones in particular is a masterfully realized featured creature. Half-squid, half man, he oozes and wheezes across the deck of his ship the Flying Dutchman with an air of inevitability. Jones hasn't the screen presence of Geoffrey Rush's iconic Captain Barbossa from the first film, but Bill Nighy does a remarkable job buried under thick, viscous layers of prosthetics and makeup.
http://www.cinemablend.com/reviews/Pirates-of-the-Caribbean-2-Dead-Man-s-Chest-1636.html

The entire original crew returns, both in front of the camera and behind. The sole new face of any consequence is Bill Nighy (Love Actually's washed-up rocker Billy Mack), and it's obscured beneath pounds of prosthetics that make him look like a side of calamari at a family-style restaurant.
http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/Issues/2006-07-06/film/film.html

As Davy Jones, the wonderfully soft-spoken British character actor Bill Nighy is unrecognizable beneath a foam-rubber head mask that turns him into a human cephalopod-not so much an octopus as a multipus, with countless earthwormlike appendages wriggling independently (and disgustingly) around his sagging, noseless yellow face. His head is one of the few takeaway images in a movie jammed to bursting with gross-out gags and eye-popping makeup jobs.
http://www.slate.com/id/2145157

Jones, with a face that seems to have collided with an octopus, commands a slimy crew that is half-man, half-seafood, and stands as a mythical counterpart to Geoffrey Rush from the first movie; beneath the mound of prosthetics you may just recognise the rheumy eyes (though not the Scots brogue) of Bill Nighy.
http://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/lifestyle/film_tv/story.jsp?story=697837

The ambling plot could well have been plotted with the help of Sparrow's famously skew-iff compass. In a roundabout way, the trio is led on a chase to beat the villain-of-the-piece, the half-human, half-cephalopod Davy Jones (Bill Nighy, unrecognisable beneath Industrial Light and Magic prosthetics), to locate a chest that contains something vitally important to Jones.
http://www.theage.com.au/news/film-reviews/high-seas-dead-people/2006/07/05/1151779003720.html

There are lots of new monsters and the effects are fantastic. I don't actually know how they did Bill Nighy's squid face, whether it's a combination of prosthetics and CGI, but its completely convincing. Davy Jones' men, living as they do underwater, gradually turn into sea creatures and the costume and make up departments obviously had a field day. Can't wait for those DVD extras explaining how they achieved it all.
http://www.futuremovies.co.uk/review.asp?ID=542

Davy Jones (Bill Nighy), a wheezy, supernatural hybrid of human ghost and majorly tentacled sea creature. While the prosthetic effects are something to marvel over, little kids are likely to find Jones and his sailors more than a mite frightening.
http://ae.philly.com/entertainment/ui/philly/movie.html?id=631258

We also get expert scene-chomper Nighy in a terrific villainous role as captain of a ship of half-men, half-sushi. He manages to shine through his heavy prosthetic makeup and inventive digital effects in which he's encased.
http://www.shadowsonthewall.co.uk/06/piradead.htm

He winds up completely upstaged by Nighy, the British overactor par excellence, who manages to invest Davy Jones with his distinctive personality and genuine menace even though his face is completely covered in prosthetic goo for the film's duration.
http://www.fwweekly.com/content.asp?section=Film&type=Film+Reviews

And Nighy (Love Actually) once again makes his mark as an effective villain, infusing his rather quirky acting ticks--the laconic delivery, the laid-back attitude--which shines through all the special effects make-up.
http://www.hollywood.com/movies/review/id/3527601

The stunts and special effects live up to summer blockbuster standards as well. Particularly effective is the blend of makeup with CGI for Davy Jones' octopus face and his similarly creepy looking crew. And you can bet people will be buzzing all summer about the Kraken, a gigantic tentacled beast that snatches scores of terrified sailors while crushing their ships' more horrific than the famed giant squid of Disney's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, and convincingly rendered with the same quality as the creatures of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.
http://www.christianitytoday.com/movies/reviews/2006/piratesofthecaribbean2.html

Cursed by Davy Jones (Bill Nighy, smothered in gelatinous octopus prosthetics), he's also being hounded by the East India Company's power-hungry Lord Cutler Beckett (Tom Hollander).
http://www.who.com/who/magazine/article/0,19636,7401060717-1210518,00.html

Jones, with a face that seems to have collided with an octopus, commands a slimy crew that is half-man, half-seafood, and stands as a mythical counterpart to Geoffrey Rush from the first movie; beneath the mound of prosthetics you may just recognise the rheumy eyes (though not the Scots brogue) of Bill Nighy.
http://enjoyment.independent.co.uk/film/reviews/article1163605.ece

If only the actors looked as if they were enjoying themselves. Bloom and Knightley act as if they are going through the motions, Nighy and Skarsgard seem limited by their prosthetics, and even Depp's devil-may-care portrayal of Captain Jack has a calculated quality.
http://www.sltrib.com/ci_4016022

Davy Jones is so heavily (and brilliantly) made up that there's zero chance you'll recognize Bill Nighy -- you know, the guy who played the cynical aging rock star in Love, Actually.
http://www.hatrack.com/osc/reviews/everything/2006-07-07-extra.shtml

Director Gore Verbinski returns to the franchise and does his best with a chaotic script. But the real triumph is technical: The pirates' prosthetic faces are imaginatively grotesque. Our favorite is a guy with a head shaped like a hammerhead shark.
http://www.tricities.com/tristate/tri/entertainment/movies.apx.-content-articles-TRI-2006-07-07-0014.html

Best of all is Bill Nighy as Davy Jones.
It's an astonishing creation on two levels: first, for the special effects (each dripping tentacle that forms his "beard" seems to have a slimy life of its own), and, second, for the remarkable performance Nighy is able to give beneath the animation and prosthetics. Often offering comic support ("Love Actually," "Shaun of the Dead"), Nighy here uses a combination of wiggling eyebrows and hissing vocals to deliver a villain who can elicit terror and giggles.
http://www.dailysouthtown.com/southtown/dsliving/061ldco2.htm

I read these comments with a mixture of amusement, bemusement, joy and frustration. Joy in that we must have gotten it right if people are fooled into believing that it's real, but upset by the implicit assumption that anything that convinces on screen could not be computer generated. In some ways, who cares what or how created the creatures on screen? If they are believable and serve the story, that's all that matters. If you are interested in an accurate (if simplified) behind the scenes look at how Davy Jones et al. were created, read this article in Entertainment Weekly. I suppose my attitude is that if you're going to write about the process as part of your review and you're a professional writer, shouldn't you take the time to get your facts straight?

Ok, now I know I'm living in fantasyland.

Pirates Of The Caribbean | Dead Man's Chest | Movies | Visual Effects | Davy Jones | Industrial Light and Magic | San Francisco

Maximiser or Satisfier?

Some people go into a restaurant, pick up a menu, gaze at it for approximately 30 seconds, see something that looks good, and pick it. This is me. I am a satisfier.

Some people go into a restaurant, pick up a menu, and read every item in detail. This fictional person will examine each ingredient in each dish, evaluate its balance of protien, carbohydrates, fats and fibre, figure out the calories, then look at the cost, mentally digest it, and move on to the next item. Repeat for every item on the menu, then, after a lengthy internal debate, pick one. Then change his or her mind once or twice, and settle. This is Donna. She is a maximiser.

Blue is a maximiser. He's never quite satisfied - he's always roaming the neighbourhood searching for something better, a better food bowl to steal from, a more comfortable spot to sit in the shade. Indigo is a satisfier. If he's happy sitting on the bed in the morning, he figures, he'll still be happy sitting there for the next 12 hours. He doesn't need to find a better spot.

A satisfier will not make the 'best' choice, in objective terms of value for example, but they are likely to be happy with the choice they make. In the previous restaurant menu choosing example, I am often presented with something completely different than what I expected, because I skipped a crucial word about preparation or vital ingredient. I don't always ask how much the specials cost because I'm too focused on how good they sound. A maximiser often makes a better choice than a satisfier, but they are less likely to be happy with the choice they make. In today's world a maximiser is destined to struggle against unhappiness, as they are presented with a thousand choices for, say, organic strawberry jam in the grocery store, making the 'best' choice is difficult because in the process you have to reject a lot of other perfectly good choices.

The trick is to inhabit some sort of middle ground of course. Analyse like a maximiser, choose like a satisfier. Something like that.

Maximiser | Satisfier

Opportunity

Back in the Bay Area, I spent a couple of days travelling around by every mode possible (other than cycling).

Years ago I remember a visit from the local police constabulary to our school as part of a community program. I can't remember the exact question the constable posed but it was something along the lines "What is the main reason people commit crimes?". We had a few moments to think and write down an answer. In a rare moment of inspiration, I wrote one word, certain I was right. I couldn't wait to give my answer. Opportunity, I had written, and to my delight he said I was right.

Having spent a lot of time in large European and American cities, I've felt good that I've never had any 'trouble', ie. petty theft, pick pocketing, etc. I try to maintain an air of self-assuredness, of awareness of my environment to the degree that I'm a less attractive target than, say, that tourist who is standing in a public spot staring into space, disoriented. Not treated everyone as a potential robber, but not giving anyone the opportunity to think about grabbing from me, thank you very much.

Back to yesterday, and having returned the rental car (that brought us and our bikes home) to SFO, I rode a San Mateo bus to Redwood City ($1.50) where I had lunch with an old friend. Another bus to the San Carlos Caltrain station ($1.50), then an hour-long train ride back to San Francisco ($3.75). From the station to the Golden Gate Transit bus stop it was about 8 long city blocks, which fortuitously passed a Whole Foods, where I stocked up on milk, bread and cereal (approx $6). Leaving Whole Foods, as I was stuffing my goods into my messenger bag in an effort not to let them spill everywhere I was accosted by a young, earnest Irish girl canvassing for Environment California, and I was convinced to part with $15 in support of their lobbying efforts.

A long wait for the bus to Marin, and I climbed aboard ($4, no, $4.15, due to a fare increase). I relaxed enough to start listening to my iPod to catch up on a couple of weeks of podcasts. A long ride ahead, a couple of weeks of sleep-depriving camping and cycling, and I started to drift. I woke up at the Presidio ("hi Donna!"), on the Bridge, near Sausalito. A couple of minutes passed, drifting in and out. I felt a tug on my headphones, and before I was conscious of what I was doing, I was out of my seat, out of the bus, and running after a man who had yanked my iPod ($350) and half of my headphones out of my hand and taken off down the streets in (to reinforce the stereotype) Marin City. This wasn't a schoolyard prank, where you plead or ignore and eventually get your goods back. I shouted expletives at him but he didn't pause. The people on the bus and on the street barely registered what had happened. A few steps off the bus I paused, rational thought catching up. I had a heavy bag full of groceries with me. Without it, I might have been able to catch him. That was a big maybe. And if I dropped my full bag here I would most likely never see that again either. Regardless, I'd have to wait up to an hour for another bus to come by, pay another $3 or $4, and what did I hope to achieve even if I caught up to him? I stepped back on the bus, enraged, frustrated and impotent. I wanted to blame the passengers who had sat there and done nothing, or the people on the street. I wanted to blame the bus company or the bus driver, who never acknowledged that a crime had been committed on his bus. But I knew that I was responsible, because I had presented someone with the opportunity for an easy steal.

I breathed and tried to regain perspective. I couldn't afford a new iPod right now, but I didn't need one anyway, and the one he took was 'old' and had been showing signs of dying before long anyway. I wanted to shout after him "It's a first generation iPod you idiot!". Aside from my pride, I wasn't hurt. I found the vehemence of my response surprising - it was the pettiest of crimes yet I felt violated, and truly could have pummelled him without remorse, and I wondered how deeply I would have been affected had I suffered any real hurt. A few stops along, I was forced to move to accommodate a wheelchair passenger, and I sat next to an elderly lady. She was marking papers that looked like high school essays - 'Why we should abolish capital punishment' was the subject. Ha.

Four hours, three buses, one train, approximately $30 and one iPod later, I arrived home.

Today I travelled into the city again, this time to have lunch with my friends. Beforehand, I stopped to hear some other friends of mine, the band The Invisible Cities, play in a free lunchtime concert in downtown San Francisco, part of the city's People in Plazas summer program. I drove. A lovely parking spot opened up right in front of where they were playing, and I fed the meter with about a dollar, which bought me a measly 19 minutes of parking time. They were wonderful. About 23 minutes later I went back to my car to find a parking ticket on the windshield. $50. I can't use the exact words I said but they were something like fudge, muddy-funster and oh golly gosh goodness me what an awful bit of bad luck, eh what?

Maybe I should just get around by bike.

Caltrain | Public Transportation | Golden Gate Transit | iPod | San Francisco | The Invisible Cities | People In Plazas

Southern California

Happy post-4th of July from... Santa Monica, California :). We made it here on the 3rd after two mammoth days of approximately 95 miles each. More details once we're back and settled again.

Pacific Coast | Bike | Touring | Los Angeles | Santa Monica | San Francisco