Beach camping failed meet my romanticized expectations. If I stopped and thought for one second, I'd have realized my fantasy of being the only person on an expanse of beach, slowly watching a tiny campfire and fiery sunset simultaneously dwindle to embers, and falling asleep to the crash of waves could not happen in Southern California. For starters, they don't let you camp on the sand. Secondly, the sound of traffic drowns out the sea. And there's enough foot traffic along the beach path, even at night, to inspire frequent bouts of paranoia that some shady figure would steal my bike. I had nothing to lock it to, so I'd leaned it against the picnic table a couple feet from the door of my tent and kept imagining I heard the sound of someone approaching to wheel it away.

And camping so close to the beach path ensured I'd be awakened promptly at sunrise by fragmented conversations of passing joggers after a not particularly successful night's sleep. I was never 100% sure I was even camped in a legitimate spot, so I packed up quickly before I got in trouble with anyone. Two of the passing early morning fitness enthusiasts, Don and Charlotte, confirmed that I was not in the campground at all, but in the day use area, where homeless people sometimes sleep. They had eyed my gear as they passed the first time and decided I must be a very successful homeless person.

My plan was to spend the morning at a coffeeshop with wifi and give the woefully out-of-date blog a little attention since I only had an easy 28 mile ride ahead of me for the day. Don and Charlotte told me the way to a nearby Starbucks, so I finished packing and headed out. I never found the Starbucks but happened across a place called Dana Point Donuts that had free wifi and an outlet hidden behind a potted plant, so I set up shop. The bright side of inadvertently camping in the wrong place meant that I had enough money left over for coffee. I wanted a bagel too but thought it would be wiser to ask for hot water and make a bowl of instant oatmeal instead of using up my tiny buffer of cash.

My hanging out all day piqued the curiousity of the owner, Kevin, who was excited to hear my story and check out my loaded up bike leaning against the plate-glass windows. We chatted a bit intermittently as the hours rolled past, and just as I started feeling pangs of hunger and thinking I should find a place to cash my money order so I could buy food, Kevin, as though reading my mind, offered me a breakfast sandwich and drink on the house. So I enjoyed a delicious bagel sandwich and kept right on working.

I finally mobilized and headed north on the Pacific Coast Highway, colloquially known as the PCH. For miles through Dana Point, Lagunas, and I also rode past uncountable spas, salons, bistros, wine bars, surf shops, cycle shops, and other recreational institutions, many with ocean views, but not a single post office where I could cash my money order. This seemed rather ironic, after having ridden through so many towns that had ONLY a post office and nothing else. I guess the government establishments had gotten squeezed out of the prime ocean-view real estate in these coastal towns. But I still had plenty of time ahead of me, so I decided to continue on in hopes that I'd stumble across a post office rather than deviating from my route to seek one out. At least, until I got desperate.

Interestingly I saw more cyclists on a Saturday on the PCH in one day than I'd seen in the rest of the ride put together, including a whole team of about 20-30 people out on a group ride who passed me yelling out something unintelligible about Vancouver. I think that racing nomadic bike hobos through the desert had cured me of any desire or expectation for other cyclist to talk to me, so I was surprised when one did. At a stop light I heard a voice behind me asking me where I'd ridden from, soon accompanied by a guy decked out in what I mentally refer to as racer-dude gear: flashy logo-covered jersey, spandex shorts, sporty-looking shades. We chatted a bit as we rode, and at the next stop light he stuck out a hand. "I'm Jim, and I've been cycling for over 4 decades."

Jim told me about his racing career of the past, his recreational cycling of the present, and his involvement on the Orange County cycling advocacy group. He was clearly very knowledgeable about all things cycling, including long-distance touring. He'd done a few different tours lasting a few days to a couple weeks, so we had lots to talk about as we rode along into Newport Beach.

He mentioned there was a particularly good French bakery nearby and asked if he could treat me to a snack. I feel about French pastries the way I feel about fried pie, Mexican buffets, and sausage gravy, so of course I accepted. Over fruit tarts, we discussed my route and game plan for the next 24 hours which would bring me to the end of my journey, and I mentioned I'd planned to camp at Bolsa Chica State Beach that night. Jim said he didn't think they had tent camping there, which I was apt to believe after my unfortunate experience the night before at San Clemente. He said he'd invite me to stay at his place if it weren't so small and so messy, but he put in a call to his landlady next door to see if she'd be up for a guest.

She was busy with overnight guests already, but Jim extended me the offer to stay with him. It seemed wise to accept given mycamping fiasco the night before, so I did so gratefully. We detoured away from the coast and onto a bike path that led inland toward his place in Tustin. The neighborhood, Lemon Grove, was way up in the hills and provided stunning panoramic views of Orange County, and on clear days, all the way out to Catalina Island. Jim took me on a quick tour of a few of the fancy houses up there before we stopped at his place, a "mother-in-law" unit on his landlord's property.

He'd been apologizing in advance for the messiness of his place and I had completely disregarded it, as pretty much everyone who's ever offerred me a place to stay does the same thing and their place is usually perfectly clean. In his case, I have to say his self-assessment was pretty accurate, but fortunately Jim caught me at a time when my standards are low. Anything with a roof, a bed, and a shower is pretty luxurious these days.

Eventually the topic of dinner came up, which made me feel a bit uncomfortable since I still had no money and already felt like a freeloader. When I explained the debit card situation Jim kindly offered to drive me down to San Diego to retrieve it, but the idea of imposing on him to drive me an hour and a half each way didn't make me feel any better. But I did have to agree with him that it would be nice to get my card back. That would make life much easier, since I'd need it to book my flight home, ship my bike back, buy some normal human being clothes, and generally re-integrate myself into civilized society when I got to Santa Monica. So I came up with an idea—if he drove me to San Diego, I'd buy dinner. I certainly didn't mind eating homemade sausages at the Linkery again.

So we set out for San Diego. It was interesting to hurtle down the freeway at what felt like breakneck speed, accustomed as I am to a leisurely 10-20mph pace, watching the exits for places I'd just ridden over two days tick by in reverse—San Clemente, Camp Pendleton, Encinitas, Carlsbad, San Diego—and to experience the pleasant deja vu of winding up in a restaurant I'd eaten in 3 days ago. It was fun recapping the highlights of the trip with Jim over dinner, and hearing some of his bike trip stories. It made me already start missing life on the road.

I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow back at Jim's place, and I had a disturbing dream that with one day left in the trip, I took a break to go back to Boston to attend a friend's party. The friend turned out to be someone I barely knew, the party was terrible, and nobody talked to each other. Afterward I was faced with trying the challenge of getting back to Newport Beach so I could finish the last day, which in dream geography entailed taking a bus to Kentucky with stops in Eastern Europe. I woke up with profound relief that it was not real. Could I have been slightly anxious about everything going smoothly on my last day?