As far as I can remember, the last time I had biked was when I was in college – more than 13 years back. Hence, biking for 4.5 hours and 10 miles on a cold Sunday afternoon left me in not the best condition that I could be in. But, to say that this was not one of my best days would be utterly wrong. It was setting right a stupid decision I had made three years back…when I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge rather than walking over it. Today, I biked and walked over it.
I woke up late. It was a disaster on my part. 8:30 was not the time I had imagined to wake up, if I had to spend the whole time roaming around San Francisco. I wanted to walk all the way around the Wharfs and Piers, onto the bridge and across. And here I was, struggling to catch up on time. Needless to say, I missed the 9:30 train by a few minutes. I had to wait for another hour for the next one, and it turned out to be late by five minutes. It was also held up midway, thanks to the police, who had arrested some vandal in one of the stations and wanted to transport him somewhere. It was close to 12, by the time I reached San Francisco.
The Embarcadero looked empty. For a Sunday morning there was hardly anyone on the streets. The occasional tram and street car whizzed past. The huge steel monstrosity of the Oakland Bay Bridge crosses over the street and then out all the way over the bay, its spans shining in the morning sunlight. The noise made by cars zooming on the bridge was audible for quite a distance. A huge sculpture of a bow and arrow dominated the park. Dogs were busy cavorting with each other, while their owners were oblivious and busy on their cell phones. Tiny sculptures of turtles, starfishes and octopi were scattered around everywhere till Pier 31 – as if they had been swept ashore on the waves from the bay.
Joggers and cyclists went past, and the usual tourist buses were coming to a stop everywhere. The lack of crowd elsewhere was compensated at Pier 39, where the whole of San Francisco seemed to have descended. It was a mini fair, as if I had descended upon an ancient port town. Restaurants selling clam chowder seemed to be making a killing. Being Halloween, all the children were dressed in all sorts of weird costumes ranging from the traditional witches and fairies to more modern harry potter and batman ones. After a bit of gawking around I stepped in for some souvenir shopping.
"How far is the bridge from here? “ I asked the girl at the counter.
“About 20 minutes”, she replied.
“Oh…I mean, how far to walk?” I added.
“Walk???” her eyes bulged out. She looked utterly shocked. “Well, about 2-3 hours?” she replied with a baffled expression.
I continued along. People seemed busy with their pumpkin shopping. There were a few tourists who were muttering about how torrid the found their experience in Alcatraz. At Pier 43 ½, I spotted Blazing Saddles. I declined their offer of renting a bicycle. “I need the photos”, I said, pointing to my camera. I had barely walked 100 meters to Fisherman’s Wharf, when I turned back towards the cyclists. The city streets rose up in front of me. Lombard Street and Union Square were just a few blocks of walk. The orange tower of the bridge was visible far away. I probably had little hope of reaching there on foot. This would probably be my last chance.
“It’s 4 miles to the bridge and 1.6 on it. So, totally about 5 and a half, and you can return by the ferry at Sausalito”, he said encouragingly. Biking was never new to me, so I said yes. He gave me a mountain bike, and asked me to try it out. Soon I knew what I was into. He had pulled the seat up so high that my legs didn’t touch the ground. Each push on the pedal seemed to me like a deadweight on my feet. Still I agreed, with the additional weight of my camera dangling on my shoulders.
Soon, I was speeding along the roads, or so I thought, until the rest of the cyclists whizzed past me. But at least, I was faster than the walkers. Dodging the pedestrians seemed to be the biggest challenge. Fort Mason proved a tough hill to crack. I just had to get down and push the bike. I continued in that leisurely pace until the warming hut. The bridge was now close enough. I could see the highway curving into it.
I stopped at the warming hut for refreshments. Buying a bottle of juice and water, I settled down for a few minutes of rest. “You know, you guys should teach me how to use that product of yours!” I heard a voice from behind. An elderly gentleman was smiling at me pointing to the SAP logo on my bag. “So, you work for SAP?” he asked, “I used to work for the HR module of SAP in my company. But I could never figure out how the whole ERP worked!” “Yes I do”, I replied, “I work for SAP in India.” The moment he heard the word “India”, he launched into a “Namaste” and all the Hindi words that he knew. “I’ve never been there, but I have a lot of Indian friends”, he exclaimed. I continued smiling. “Enjoy your meeting! And please do put in a word about me at your office!” he laughed.
I continued till Fort Point, under the bridge where the waves of the bay beat against the rocks, throwing up huge sprays…only to find that I had reached a dead end. There was no way up. I did not know what I was expecting. Was it a lift that would take me all the way up? There certainly was not one. I had to go back, and up the hill to the bridge. It was yet another grind. I pedaled along, slowly, with the bridge rising up on the right. Every clearing had a handful of people wearing sleek glasses and striking all kinds of stupid poses. Finally after two hours of starting from Pier 43 ½, I was there on the bridge.
The Golden Gate Bridge, opened in 1937, was at one time, the longest suspension bridge. Though overtaken by other structures through the years, with its orange-red towers, it is one of the world’s most beautiful architectural landmarks. I got off the bike and walked…until a truck zipped past and almost knocked off the bicycle. Huge ships were passing underneath. The bridge seemed to be due for maintenance, a guess vindicated when I saw a machine set up to re-paint the cables with the International Orange paint. It took me about 20 minutes to reach the mid-span. I stopped for some time to look ahead at the city ahead, but more because both my legs had started cramping. As famous as it is, the bridge also is the most popular place for suicides in the United States of America. Nobody knows the exact count - probably no one bothered, but all over the bridge it’s hard to ignore the telephones put up for crisis counseling. A board on the bridge proclaims: “There’s still hope. Make a call.”
The vista point at the northern end provides a fantastic view of the bridge across the golden gate. The place was filled with Indians, posing for Patel snaps, most of them trying to touch the top of the tower of the bridge. I stopped only for a few moments, just to get a couple of shots. But it was a real struggle to find a spot. The ride down to Sausalito was exhilarating. Winding through the hills, for the first time, I hit good speed. Even though it was only a couple of miles, it was like going through a hillside, descending down vast curve. The town was small by all standards, set into the hill and descending down into the water. It reminded me so much of Dona Paula. Across the bay, far away, rose up San Francisco.
The ferry to San Francisco took about half an hour. It was filled with cyclists, and it took a while for most of them to recognize which was their bike. Thankfully, I had put a business card next to the map on my bike, and hence it was left alone. We were left at the Port building. It would be another 2 miles of biking to our destination point. As evening descended, Halloween festivities were beginning. Impromptu concerts had started springing up. Cars sped along blaring music. People were dancing on the streets. I ambled along the embarcadero, imbibing everything. By the time I reached pier 41, I had biked about 10 miles.
It was 10 PM when I reached Palo Alto. My legs had turned to iron.
