Carrizo Plain, CA

The longest solo ride I've ever done was a 103 mile jaunt out to Carrizo Plain from San Luis Obispo.

Way out in what I like to call the SLO Backcountry is a high valley that holds a wide and wild grassland. It's known on maps as the Carrizo Plain and colloquially as the Carrisa Plain.   

Although there are barbed-wire fences and a solar power plant, most of the area still is untamed by people, and perhaps Carrisa is the closest thing to Mongolian Steppes or the Great Plains of the central United States that California can offer.

Bounded by a distant Mt. Pinos to the south, the Caliente Range to the West, and the Temblor Range to the East, the vast expanse of grass and mountain silhouettes is a sight to behold after a bit less than 3 hours of pedaling.

After my arrival to Cal Poly, I found that the interior part of San Luis Obispo county was mostly unspoiled, sunnier than the coast, and arid enough in certain areas to pass for Nevada. So, as I tired of the heavily trafficked coast I became further driven to explore the lightly travelled southeastern roads extending south from Santa Margarita towards Pozo or McKittrick. 

Finally, on a Friday in late January 2016, I had my chance to go out to and visit the place I'd been wanting to visit for months.

Starting from San Luis Obispo, the ride was not the most pleasant for the first 8 miles. The route was on the shoulder of Highway 101 up Cuesta Grade all the way to Santa Margarita. Depending on the month and time of day, the temperature can go up or down by 20 degrees after going over Cuesta Pass.

As such, it's incredibly important to pack extra clothing or water accordingly. I got lucky that day and it only dipped down into the low 40's, but I've been out there on days when it's either a toe-numbing 27 or a thermometer breaking 106 degrees.

Continuing my journey out Highway 58, I mostly had the road to myself. I experienced a couple of unpleasant moments with blind corners and large trucks, as well as one motorist who veered into the oncoming lane in an area with limited visibility going about 80 mph. 

Provided one's alert and riding as close to the shoulder as possible, it's unlikely traffic would pose a problem to anyone on a bicycle on 58, and the solitude I received was incredible. I probably got passed by a car once every 15-20 minutes, at most.

Rolling southbound, I watched as the isolated ranches and country homes slowly faded away behind me. Eventually, nothing but two lanes of old pavement and dormant Blue Oaks (Quercus douglasii) stretched out toward the horizon, interrupted by a 200-300 vertical foot ascent every five miles or so.

Eventually, the green grass, scattered oaks, and rolling hills gave way to a scrubbier and dry landscape peppered with Juniper trees near the census-designated-place of La Panza.  At this point, cattle grazing by the roadside were spooked by the sight of my bicycle. Livestock are a wonderful indicator of how far one is from "civilization", as cattle in highly trafficked areas don't see humans on bicycles as a threat whereas cattle in remote locations freak out when bikes go by. It's such a small thing but it makes a ride all the more liberating when you think about it.

20 minutes after passing La Panza and riding up a final gradual ascent I rolled over a small pass into the valley. After spending much of the ride sandwiched between rolling hills, it was an incredible feeling to enter a such a vast, quiet openness.  

After taking a moment to sit in the sun and warm up a bit, I though I'd continue rolling southeast to take in a few more miles of Highway 58 before I turned around. 

I couldn't have made a better decision. Five minutes after I decided to continue my adventure, I glanced to the right and noticed that I had a new riding buddy. Except my new friend had four legs, not two.

For the first time in my life I saw a pronghorn. And he wanted to race me. 

For the uninitiated, pronghorns (Antilocapra americana) are a species of large herbivore that have existed in America since the pleistocene. As such, they evolved to outrun the now-extinct American Cheetah, and now that it's gone they're the fastest ground-dwellers on the continent and the second-fastest on the planet. Pronghorns are also the fastest distance runner on the planet, and have been clocked doing 35 mph for four miles.

Anyway, this guy (you can tell the sex of the animal by whether or not it has horns, which males do) is running alongside me. So I thought "why not? I'll give it a little metaphorical gas and we'll have the world's most unconventional drag race."

Obviously, the pronghorn had the home course advantage, and millions of years of evolution took off in a manner of which I'd never seen. I was able to kick it up to about 21 mph, which is about as much as I could do knowing I had 50+ miles without any places to get more water and a lot of ascending lying ahead. The pronghorn, on the other hand was gone.

I rounded a corner in the road and shortly thereafter decided stop one last time.

I took in the view. The Temblors, extended to the horizon like giant emerald green pillows. In the distance, Snow on Mt. Pinos shone in the sun. A tumbleweed had been snared in a barbed-wire fence I was standing next to. It was a magical moment, and worth every mile it took to get there. 

After taking one last glance at the Carrisa, I turned around and started the rather arduous journey back. For three hours, I watched fenceposts, telephone poles, and road dividers click by.  

Finally, I arrived back in Santa Margarita, got back on the shoulder of 101, and made my way to Cuesta Pass. I kicked up over the top and soon enough I was hurtling down the freeway at just under 50 mph back into town. I took the exit back to Cal Poly and after several minutes of pedaling like a baby deer I finally made it back up the hill to my dorm.