Only Dylan would ride 50km uphill for an hour before running an ultramarathon, no matter where he placed no one before him could claim that feat. The streets were quiet at 6:30am, our only human contact for the first 15 minutes a fellow cyclist, the stillness was divine. As we winded up the hill more cars started passing us, inside the divers wearing fluorescent hats and colourful jackets, runners for sure. Huddart park was already abuzz with movement and colour when we arrived, there was no time to rest, wonderfully warmed up Dylan was off to change and then line up at the start amongst pink flamingos and fluttering flags.

Once the 50kers jogged out of sight I left the marathoners and halfers to their butterflies and shortcutted through the trails to where I hoped my map reading skills had not deceived me was the confluence of all the trails, where the sunlight broke through the canopy in beams. I waited without a peep or sign of a soul, a solitary picnicker on a mossy throne. There was a cough in the distance and I jumped, thoughts of Magdalena foolishly swelling to the surface, but there was silence and then the sound of cars, the road must be nearby. Then finally the first of the marathoners founded by, fluorescent yellow he paused for directions before scrambling out of sight. Then a steady stream of runners, half marathoners down a distant trail, the marathoners metres from my perch. Hours passed.

Once the novelty of playing with shutter speed had worn off, a lady stumbled up the trail to divert me. She was a half marathoner completely off track, I redirected her and ran with her sending her back down the pink ribboned track. Then the fluoro marathoner came passed me again and double taking paused to tell me tale of woe. “Someone lied to me, they told me I had to go all the way up the mountain, I was going to be the champion, I was first you saw, now I am like 51st, this is devastating, I should have won, they lied to me, I was first, you saw!” I commiserated with him, but as he continued his run his stream of laments and shouts could be heard all the way down the hill until he was finally out of earshot. This was not to be the only mix-up of the day due to random interventions, luckily Dylan was not affected by these wicked woodland sprites.

The sun was overhead when I first caught sight of Dylan, then I scrambled down the hill to catch him again before he headed out of sight. I bounded down my short cut (mercifully down hill this time) to get to the finish line, I need not of hurried as the course still wound its way for 15 minutes or so. First had all ready smashed the course record by over half an hour, then second rolled in looking fresh, I waited. The the bell was ringing out and people were clapping as Dylan bounded down the hill. Third place, despite the glutenous week in Portland and illness he was in the top three!

Rested and fed, he told how there were some women with horses on the track who had been yelling at runners for scaring their horses, rather comically yelling at Dylan “what are you in a race or something?!” I overhead another group of half marathoners bemoaning the same women saying that one had threatened to sue them if she broke her neck, it was obviously the consensus that inexperienced riders, with untrained horses had no place on the trails on a designated and signposted race day. then all chaos broke loose, people started arriving at the finish line form the wrong direction having done 5 extra miles, the first female 50ker arrived from the right direction, but saying she had gotten lost because the ribbons were all on the same tree at one point and she had taken the wrong turn. The forest tricksters were at it again, someone had moved the ribbons, stories of misdirection and indignant horse riders coalesced and it became clear who the culprits were. The ribbons were fixed and rangers sent out to find some lost marathoners, confusion eased and everyone settled for a quiet afternoon picnic on the grass.

Time was ticking on when we finally made our descent. I discovered that a 50km run is what it takes to make me a faster descender than Dylan and vowed to make Dylan run every morning of our European cyclotour. We returned to San Fran to drop off our bikes, the grumpy owner taking out his frustration over a rude customer on our arrival. As we departed he pressed lindt easter bunnies into our hand with a cracked smile as apology and we were off, on a long trudge with packs on to the youth hostel. We broke up the trip with a nice, but expensive meal on the a bayside restaurant and later scrambled for jumpers and pants in a warehouse when the wind picked up and sunset. We plunged into the depths of fisherman’s wharf, a perpectual carnival, but amidst all the tacky gloss and flashing lights, a lone saxophone player added class to his spot under the street lights. Then onward passed a police car with the bike crammed in the trunk, the owner presumably drunk sent of to hospital in a stupor. Suddenly we were out and it was dark, people called to each other from ship to shore, perhaps some ancient calk to port, someone from the dunes yelled “shut up!!!!!!!”. Then rounding the hill there it was, the old fort barracks that would be our home for the night. Sleep.

The dogs had arrived, we could here them at first light. The parents were there, trying to stay strong, grasping for hope, they said to Dylan “people get lost in the Australian desert all the time and survive, don’t they?”, Dylan, stricken assured them yes. Jump suited searches were fanning off the tracks, it was time for us to get out of the way and leave them to their search. As we said goodbye to Mark an Nate I noticed purple bracts of bougainvillea strewn on the forest floor, this mystery could be solved however as they had hitchhiked from their boxes of firewood. Mark gave them to me to spread somewhere beautiful for Magdalena, I pocketed them and we departed down own down the mountain, through Sausilito, across the Golden Gate.

We just floated around the Mission District, it was a beautiful day for waiting. The streets downtown were packed with Giant fans and the end of the game marked the time when our latest airbnb host would return home to let us in the door. Near the Castro rainbow flags fluttered in the same proliferation as the American ones downtown, in vintage shops hipster men rubbed shoulders with short haired women in the men’s section, which disenfranchised with secondhand H&M I had been browsing for tailored shorts, alas even in San Francisco they don’t make men’s shorts in tiny. Then when I was getting towards grumpy tired stage Dylan took charge and lined up in the epic queue for the best ice cream in San Francisco, letting me sit in the sun and people watch (what a champion he is!).

Then off on the train, right out out into the suburbs an hour away. It was so quiet here in the leafy burbs, we were staying on a balcony of a tiny apartment in a spacious (comparatively) tent, inside was a bed, desk and lamp, outside fairy lights bobbed in the breeze and their Siamese cat leapt in and out of the cat flat at the slightest movement yowling in pleasure. How did we find ourselves in such a place? ah, the trail running fairy had struck again, in the morning we were going to ride p a mountain for Dylan to run a 50km train race.

My email pinged, a message from Mark, they had found Magdalena’s body down a ravine, the search was over, the mystery remained. She had lived in Menlo Park, the very suburb we were staying in, the bougainvillea bracts cracked in my pocket, but this was not the place for them. We sent our thoughts out to her heartbroken parents and let them fly into the charcoal sky.

There was a mystery on the mountain ahead of us, even before I could see it I could feel it waiting to gobble up the strength in my legs, but we had no idea we riding our way up to a place that devours whole souls.

We had been retracing our steps to Stinson Beach, past the seals and their liquid eyes, Eucalyptus forests and green paddocks. As we passed a photographer by the side of the road, he rather hilariously called a greeting of “watch out for the poison oak”, a phrase that became our catch cry as we rolled our way to town. We wizzed down a descent that had been an arduous climb a few days ago, I thrilled as I flew down it recharging my batteries, lunch then a 500m elevation to summit. We grabbed some groceries on the way out, I picked up an apple, felt its weight and quickly returned it to its glistening brothers. Crinkling A4 posters withered on the wall while I waited to be served, a missing cat (they didn’t last long in mountain lion country I was told), a grainy photo of a blonde girl walking across a parking lot, boats for sale and music lessons.

The day was grey and the road switch backed out of sight. It stretched for an eternity, not steep but relentless. The slow vehicle turnouts were my friend, the camera an excuse for a pause. We left the view of curving beaches to dense forest with dizzying drops, but all for whinging and huffing it was much easier than the days before, perhaps my legs were getting stronger. The last of the windes involved some pushing up hill, but no walking so I counted myself victorious over the mountain when the campground car park came to site. Oh the beauty of those 20 foot white lines gleaming in the sun! A hiker gave us a thumbs up and yelled an invitation for beers later.

Dylan, released from his chain went bounding onto the trails, I remained for a well earned cat nap. Surprisingly refreshed I emerged from my teepee to warm greetings and invitation of a spot around the fire from our neighbours a campsite over. Dylan returned breathless and a little wide eyed, which I attributed to the 20 or so miles he had just run up and down the mountain. We went for a mini hike stumbling upon an Italian woman crouched on the ground, with glee she showed us her treasure, a giant banana slug devouring a mushroom, its lung hole gaping with the effort. We lingered a while, admiring the fat fellow and wincing every time a heavy footed hiker passed whiskers from its demise.

We walked onward, but Dylan was keen to turn as light began turning golden, he had seen a man on a trail while he ran that had blown smoke in his eyes and looked at him with such a piercing stare of hatred he had felt the need to turn around and sprint back to me. He mused it might be all in his head, what with all the sins for the missing girl all over the carpark, I recalled seeing the posters in town all over the coast, but hadn’t realised this was the place she had left her rental car and disappeared in nothing but shorts and a sweatshirt into the wilderness without a sign. We wandered back, the fog was rolling in, I noted the slug had hauled himself to a safer place on the side of the path.

We took up our invitation to a warm fire, Mark insisted that I help relieve him of the burden of excess cheese and bread, then lemonade and of course chips and avocado “they will be far too heavy to drive all the way back to San Francisco in our trucks!” Of course seeing their plight I had to help them out, especially when it came to cheese tasting. The fog started to curl above our heads, falling like rain around the clearing as it condensed on leaves and branches. Beautiful and eerie, we felt safe with fire and company. Nate and Mark were camp instructors for troubled teens and had spent last night sleeping in the open without a tent above their heads, the plan was no different for this foggy night. Conversation of course was drawn to the missing girl, Magdalena, Mark had seen her parents putting up posters and there was to be a second search in the morning, we wondered how we kept riding into these stories. Fresh from a move to San Francisco, no one realised she was missing until rangers noticed her car was still in the parking lot five days later. The search for her had been suspended due to lack of clues, but now two weeks later sniffer dogs, volunteers and perhaps even helicopters would be converging on the mountain again. Our minds wandered into tragic territory and the smoking stranger, but on a prompt from Mark we limply decided she was in Mexico having run away, safe and happy. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, it was beautiful there with the fog curling in the darkness, new friends that we hope felt unburdened from the food we consumed greedily as travellers are excuse to do. Our fire toasted sandwiches were a revelation to them, just as they had to Will the night before and full bellied and warm we creeped to our tent while they settled in the clearing tentless.

Dylan had trouble sleeping, worrying about the girl, I detached myself as foul thoughts cannot be let in when sleep is nigh, I imagined her on the beach in Mexico, there was nothing else I could do.

The tranquility of the night had been disturbed by racoons doing their routine dumpster inspection and the late night (well 10pm) squealing of the youth camp across the road, but the morning was all soothing birdsong and crackling fires. A Swiss motorcyclist approached from behind a massive tree trunk to commiserate about the price of camping in America. He felt he had more in common with cyclists than motorbiker riders, whose forums were all bravado and bling.

A rather idiosyncratic gentlemen was packing up his worldly possessions to move on to another campground, he muttered conversations under his breath, something that sounded like an internal argument about which bus to take. I recognised these solitary murmuring from our first campsite in Golden Gate Park. I had been lying in the tent napping he had arrived and I had thought at first he must have a child with him, on inspection out the tent flap it would have to be a very small child he was talking to, then as his bag was discarded on the ground, or he was just chatting to himself. Dylan reported back later that his landlord had put up his rent so he was camping until he moved to Europe where he had lived previously. Whether pure fancy on Dylan’s part, or not, he thought this guy was a super intelligent but socially inept musician or intellectual, I watched him flit from lying on the ground, to bench, sitting against a tree, waiting for the bus never restful.

It was a rest day, only a little trip to Point Reyes Station for supplies (zooming don paved rads this time not muddied ruts) and a lunch we felt earned by the savings we made with accommodation.
As I lay eye to the canopy above I watched a falcon wheel through the patch of blue above, my mind drifted to sunny days riding through the french countryside, camping with guiltless restaurant meals from the savings of sleeping under the stars.

Little dancing flecks of yellow caught eye tiny, birds birds chirruping and flitting from branch to branch. I followed them to the riverside to most unsuccessfully to capture their frivolities on film. Then another wonder of the forest a huge and glistening slug slowly absorbing a a leaf in a fashion reminiscent of a typewriter, munch munch munch ding, back to the beginning, munch munch munch ding.

As the sun roved the sky, cobwebs glistened in ancient redwood grove, the occasional leaf trapped on a sticky thread slowly swirling in he breeze, the original garden ornament. Mushroom fairy forests sprouted in he dappled sunlight, forget-me-nots blanketed the river bank. First one then another cyclists rolled into camp. One a frenchman called Luis, who had been riding 100-200km a day from Portland, with no touring experience to put my 30mile day to shame. The other on a bike from he same rental as us, an Australian and to add t the coincidence from Melbourne. Will as full of he exuberance of his first day riding, pulling out his borrowed camping toys like was Christmas. One was a propane stove which lit up when water was boiled, in he background Luis was pulling out cans of food from his pack. I could see Dylan, ever the lightweight camper, struggle to conceal amusement. It was great to have the company, to chat about home and French film, the camaraderie of the road. We toasted sandwiches over the fire and darkness fell.