We did our tour of Alcatraz last night, which was suitably jailish, although we would've preferred to have somewhat fewer than 200 touristas around. You don't quite get an authentic experience of a solitary confinement cell when you're locked in it with five other people.

On days that we don't have much planned, like yesterday, we spend most of our time just walking randomly about the city, which is helpful for me in terms of getting to know the place, and nice for the boys, who are eager to see the city, stagger out of as many of its pubs as possible, and engage in rousing rounds of Spot The Tranny.

Pub crawls are different experiences for me now, as the strongest kick I get from a drink is the quinine in tonic water, and, if I'm feeling especially daring, a wedge of lime. But I'm finding the dynamics of remaining sober in a bar to be so engaging that not drinking has become it's own reward. This, I think, is key to the successful continuation of same. I've discovered that I become more socially relaxed when others around me are drinking, which is exactly what I was pursuing when I was drinking in groups. Now, though, I don't wake up the next morning wondering just how much of an idiot I was the previous evening...I know exactly how much of an idiot I was. Which, so far, has been "not much of one," as I seem to function fine without being propped up by pints. I not saying that everyone who drinks in bars needs propping up; that's just how it worked for me, and I'm pleased to be able to wobble forth under my own unfermented power into the city evening.

Doug says I have the same glint in my eye that he and many of his other friends had when they decided to move here, which is a fine sign of my determination. I'm currently engaged in the initial stages of an interview process for full-time employment, which seems to be proceeding favorably, but if that doesn't work out, there are enough contracts and projects floating around that I'll still be able to move ahead with my plans. One way or the other, I'm going to live here, Bob will be a hep fat West Coast Cat, and all of my stuff will be in the same place as me. Except, perhaps, for my power tools...I'm not sure how much use I'll have for my Porter Cable reciprocating saw once I'm in an apartment again.

Today, we'll be flitting about the city with Doug in a Zipcar, and there will be more food! San Francisco has so much restaurant capacity that, if everyone in the city went to dinner at once, they'd all have a seat.

Finally: we've moved our departure from Monday morning to Tuesday morning, to avoid Labor Day traffic. It will be strange to be back on the road, but, I think, the journey will be fresh once more.

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Yesterday, Doug took the three of us (via bus, rather than Zipcar) 'round to Cliff House...not to eat, just to hike around a bit near the site of demolished public pool-type building from the 40s, and then out to Land's End point. In the photo, Doug is the one who is not us.

Little did Doug know what was in store for him later that evening, after we had eaten pasta-type things near Green Street. The original plan was to head over to the Mission district, but we ended up leaving the restaurant late, so we hung around a couple of local bars. The first was the sort of place that I couldn't stand even when I was drinking: loud, small, crowded, hot. So we moved on, along with Doug's friends Erin and Helen, to another place that was somewhat less less loud, small, crowded, and hot. Whereupon much cider, magararita, and Guinness ensued. By the time Doug began to realize that he was in the presence of two Brits who dwell in alcohol in much the same way that fish dwell in water, it was too late. Immediately after he confided to me that his plan was to wait them out, as last call was only half an hour away, Tom showed up with three Jaegermeister shots, one of which he smacked down between Doug's half-empty pint of Guinness and the full one next to it. Doug's resistance crumbled.

At some point in the evening, Tom left to hit the pisser, and returned draped around a couple of Irish strangers. As it turned out, the male portion of the couple was wearing a shirt emblazaoned with West Ham United's badge. This was an occasion, then, for an enthusiastic rendition of a song which was beyond my American comprehension. The pair tottered off elsewhere, and eventually the evening ground down as attrition sent Erin and Helen home and a gaggle of Berkeley girls showed up, apparently so that Doug could demonstrate his psychic abilities.

In the end, everyone made it back to where they were supposed to be, carefully stepping up the city's hills. Today, we'll be heading to a barbecue down by the Marina.

Only a couple of more days here, then.

But: I get to come back!

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For now, at least. That's our circus with Doug, Erin (left), and Liz (right), at the Rogue bar, purveyors of Dead Guy Ale and other unexpectedly strong concoctions. What you're looking at here is one of the more significant reasons for my relocation: an acceptance and a sense of community that's so very different from New York, where it's almost a rite of passage to penetrate the hidden social reaches of the city and find your niche. I never did, and while the fine people I've met here over the past week may or may not constitute a "niche," they were welcoming and fun to be around. I find it difficult to describe, really...but without being mawkish: this place feels like home to me. That's something I never thought I'd say about any city.

Tomorrow, we head south out of San Francisco along the Pacific side, then about 30 miles to wherever our first night's camp will be. I haven't plotted the route yet...it seems like something best left until morning.

Tonight, a bit of packing up, and then to bed.

My next entry will be from the road.

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We stayed at Half Moon Bay State Beach last night...we're still here, in fact, because our next ride is a short one, to a hostel at a lighthouse midway between here and Santa Cruz, so we're taking our time getting ready to leave.

We were going to stay at Pelican Point RV park last night. Despite the park's total lack of tents, they were going to stick to their "two person per site" rule, which meant one of us would have to pay in full for a separate site. We thought this was ridiculous, and said so. We decided to move on, which meant backtracking about 3.5 miles. While Tom was changing a flat out in front of the office, the manager showed up and demanded that we get off his property. Apparently his policies are not "ridiculous," they are his "policies." The sullen wench in the office had summoned him from elsewhere on the grounds, after having lied to us about his being on site when we first arrived, so that she wouldn't have to make the supreme effort of calling him to ask for an exception to the 2-person rule.

Just as well: the park here in Half Moon Bay is 100 yards from the ocean, with immaculate bathrooms and showers, and cost $3. We were going to stay at the RV Park to avoid the odd people we thought we'd find at a park so close to the city, but didn't allow for the fact that Half Moon Bay looks to be a well-off sort of place that Doesn't Tolerate That Sort Of Person. Still, it tainted our day to encounter such a hostile bastard, especially when his RV Park is listed on the Adventure Cycling map. I'll be contacting AC to recommend that Pelican Point RV Park be removed from the map, since the owner clearly neither needs nor wants the business of touring cyclists. The day improved when I called Josh, a fellow I'd met at the Eureka KOA a few weeks back who offered me a place to stay in Santa Cruz. Sometimes making such calls can be awkward, but he remembered me and warmly reaffirmed his offer, even though I now have two Englishmen in tow. So we've got a place to stay in Santa Cruz tomorrow.

San Francisco seems a bit dreamlike now...when I pitched my tent last night, it still smelled of the hotel room I had been airing it out in. I slept fitfully, even with the sounds of the ocean filling the air. All around the near horizon, the night's fog was aglow with the lights of nearby towns and roads, so that the tent never really got dark.

I'll be back there soon enough. In the meantime, I'll have to readjust to life on the road...

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We're in the hostel at Pigeon Point Lighthouse, after a 22-mile ride that seemed much longer than it actually was. I woke up this morning with a case of the blues, and never really came out of it during the day...bodyshock from yesterday's 40-miler, I think. Today's ride was fueled almost entirely by a loaf of banana bread that Erin baked for us our last day in San Francisco. We started out by slicing it, but eventually it seemed more efficient to just tear hunks off of it and munch it by the side of the road, crouched and hooting like monkeys. Good fuel, that, and tasty too. I'll be sad when it's gone.

The sun never really showed its face today, so the riding was chilly and gray. The hostel is the only place to stay between Half Moon Bay and Santa Cruz, and it's a good thing that it's here: none of us had 49 miles in us today. It'll take at least another couple of days before we start to get back into the road groove that we left somewhere on the south side of the Golden Gate.

And now: said lighthouse. It's got that grid on it because I'm so beat I didn't feel like leaving the dorm, so I took a picture of it through the window screen. There's a sign near it stating that it's been closed since 2001, and will probably fall over soon.

Hopefully, not while we're here.

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