The real victory was reaching San Diego. The hard work of traversing a continent was done, leaving a practically negligible 140 mile ride up the coast. If you boiled my whole trip down to one spinning class, these last four days would be equivalent to the 5 minute cooldown at the end where the instructor plays Celine Dion and has you inhale deeply. And something about the sun, palm trees, and ocean breezes of Southern California had lulled me into believing that nothing would ever be difficult again.

So I was in no rush to leave Sam and Fred's place for what would surely be a laughably easy 31 mile ride to Carlsbad. Fred and I chatted over coffee and quesadillas about everything from the writing process (he's written a novel and is working on getting it published) to atonal music to corporate culture. He was a chemistry major, endured the drudgery of the research lab for years (which entailed lots of rat and mouse killing) then became a licensed RN and had to handle all sorts of difficult patients and appetizing bodily fluids on a regular basis. He described when he got his first office job and had to sit in a cube all day and handle complaints for the university housing office. "I loved it," he gushed. "It was amazing. I had a computer, and I had coffee. And the complaints? They're EMAILS. They can't shit on you, or bleed on you, or call you names."

I finally glanced at the clock and noticed it was 1:30, so thought it might be time to mosey up the coast. Fred rode with me for the first bit of my ride to guide me down a convoluted series of roads and bike paths to Mission Bay, and continued cracking me up along the way. At one point he mused, "I really enjoy car names." When I asked what he meant, he explained, "Sometimes when I'm riding I'll notice a driver not paying attention, weaving all over the road, and I'll say, 'C'mon, Ford. Focus!'"

Gradually we saw water. First a channel, then a bay, and finally. . . THE OCEAN! I couldn't quite process the reality that I'd crossed a continent, a country, 4 time zones, 12 states, and had finally run out of land. We paused for a photo in front of the Pacific, then continued along, piecing together beach paths and tiny side streets with the goal of keeping the ocean in view even when it was the least expeditious route.

Fred bid me adieu in La Jolla and left me to continue ambling up the coast alone, but first I stopped to sit on top of a cliff for a small picnic overlooking crashing waves on the rocks and sand below. This was all very enjoyable until I took a look at the clock and the map and realized I was kind of in trouble. It was almost 4:00 and I still had at least 2/3 of the ride in front of me. And I discovered that my day's ride was going to be closer to 40 miles, not 31, as winding along the coast instead of going in a straight line to my cousin's place in Carlsbad had added some significant mileage. So much for the leisurely ride I expected. I had to hustle.

Enough winding side streets, I decided. I jumped on the 101 so I could cover as much ground as possible in the last hour of daylight. A serious-looking cyclist passed me but I caught up to him at a stoplight. I decided to stay with him as long as possible, partly in order to force myself to hurry and partly to annoy him, as I could tell from his surreptitious glances over his shoulder that it bothered him ever-so-slightly that a girl on a touring bike with 50 lbs of ballast was keeping up with him. Of course he'd always get ahead of me on the hills, but there were just enough traffic lights to give me ample opportunities to catch up. Thus I pushed myself faster than I would normally go through the hills of Torrey Pines, Delmar, and Solana Beach, interspersed with plunges that brought the road was flush with sand and ocean and cool breezes shot across the road. Finally I lost him when he rode through a light ahead of me that turned red on me.

The daylight finally died as I rode into Encinitas. I had to be careful to avoid the many surfers peeling off black wetsuits by the side of the road and loading surfboards into SUVs, all leaving the beach at once like evening commuters rushing out of the office to catch their trains. As I have done so many times, I strapped my woefully inadequate camping headlamp onto my handlebar bag to enable cars to see me, though it did little to illuminate the long dark stretches between the well-lit villages. But at least there was a bike lane. No place I've ever ridden has had anywhere close to as many bike lanes as San Diego and these coastal towns. They did a lot to mitigate the unease of riding blind.

Still, I was relieved to turn onto Poinsettia Drive and complete the last few hilly miles to Dan and Mike's place, and turn off into their quiet suburban neighborhood, festively lit with white Christmas lights. The other reason I regretted my late arrival was that I missed seeing them before they had to leave for a concert, but I helped myself to a hot shower, a cold beer (okay, fine, two cold beers) and enjoyed the peace of their beautiful and relaxing home while waiting for them to return.

As I reflected on my day I admonished myself for getting a too lackadaisical too soon. The ride wasn't over yet. I wanted to finish strong. Tomorrow, I promised, I would keep my eye on the goal and not dillydally so much. My new motto: C'mon, Ford. Focus!