Day 7: San Pasqual Valley to South Ponto Beach, Carlsbad (35 miles)

Sticky Buns in Escondido

Earwigs or pincher bugs. Pick your term, it doesn't matter. If you've lived in Southern California, you know what I'm referring to. Our campsite was chalk full of them. In our Camel Backs, gloves, helmets, bags, etc. But what is accomplishing a goal without some adversity. The morning came fast after a good meal of pizza, beer (of course) and bonding with other riders while fixing flats, adjusting brakes and picking thorns out of our tires (The score for team Reed: 4 tires, three flats). As we rolled out to the driveway of the San Pasqual Archeological site, I could sense the excitement of the riders--the last leg of our journey. Smiles were mixed with brief glimpses of sadness. It would all be over in a few hours. The miles, the camping, the sweat, the hills, the road. All over for this adventure. For me, the enormity of this trip--what these kids did--was evident, but I wasn't really sure if Jules really could digest--at this moment--what she had accomplished. These thoughts filled my head as we made our way onto Highway 78 for the last miles of the ride. Ebullient is how I would describe most of the riders on this day. The aching muscles, the saddle soreness, and weary minds all faded as thoughts of the Pacific Ocean danced across the synapses in of our brains. Escondido, San Marcos, Eastern Carlsbad, the Pacific. The road ends a few hundred yards from the waves. A left turn onto Highway 101 and South Ponto is in sight. The cadence of the riders slows and we're grouped into different categories of riders: first, the 5th graders, then ride support and older siblings, and finally parents or other adults who rode with their kids. At the time I thought it was a shame Jules and I couldn't ride in together, but this was her moment. I ride all the time. I've accomplished most of the goals I've set for myself. This was her moment, not mine. The last 500 yards and my heart began to beat faster and the lump in my throat grew a bigger. Would the tears start streaming when I reached the beach? As we rode into the South Ponto parking lot, hundreds of friends and family of the riders cheered, but all I wanted to do was find Jules.

Jules at the Beach

At the sand, I dismounted my bike and walked down to the water's edge to dip my back wheel into the Pacific as I did on the first day of the ride in Yuma when I dipped my wheel into the Colorado River. I scanned the chaos to find Jules. Where was she? Hugs and handshakes. Smiles and stories. As I chatted with friends and family, I looked around see where Jules had gone. I wanted to scoop her up and hug her and never let go. Tell her how much I loved her and how proud she made me feel. Throughout the 7 days I kept thinking of this ride in metaphorical terms: Jules would start the ride as an eleven-year old girl and then through some kind of instant developmental metamorphosis she would come out the other end at day seven as a budding young women. Ahh, there she was. With her friends. Playing in the waves, getting wet and getting dirty, just like a little girl.

Me and Jules--Ride accomplished