I had my usual collection of gear for this trip, but chose the upright over the recumbent just to mix things up a little. Not shown: The huge camera I used to take the picture with.
Aaaah the open road. A technical marvel, among thousands, that makes this whole trip possible. Truly we live in blessed times.
This is what I like the most about long bike trips. You get out to a road where the cars are so infrequent, and the background noise is so low, that you can just lie down in the middle of the road and take a nap. The sun is warm, the birds are singing, and if a car does come you can hear the whisper of its tires on the road from enough of a distance that you can get up casually, stretch, and meander to the shoulder without fear.
About 5:00pm the sunlight began to take on that magical low-horizon quality. I got this shot up the side of a hill. I like it a lot; it evokes immediate memories of warm summer days behind the house in Scotts Valley, laying in the dry grass, watching clouds.
About 20 miles along, I rolled to a stop next to this open glade. Totally quiet except for chirping birds and buzzing late-summer dragonflies. The ground was a carpet of dried flowers and short grass. That lump you see in the middle is not actually a rock ... it is a heap of dark gravel. I walked out there and ate a late lunch, then took off my shoes and jammed my hands and feet into the warm stones. After a while of staring at the sky, I fell asleep.
I woke up just a little while later, with a strong sense of ... solidity. A feeling of being within myself, occupying myself, in a way that I hadn't been for a long time. I was here, and it was time to move forward with who I was, from where I was.
I got back on the bike, and kept pedaling.
I asked someone to take my photo in the Lake Merritt Bart station. The woman was confused that my camera did not have a display on it like a television, until I told her to look through the viewfinder to frame the shot.