I enjoyed a leisurely morning at Dan and Mike's, sitting at the kitchen island and catching up on news and gossip regarding various family members as I worked on my blog and Dan made salad dressing and sauternes-soaked prune clafoutis for a dinner party later that evening. But having learned my lesson from yesterday, and with a longer mileage day ahead, I made a concerted effort to get on the road by noon and to limit my lollygagging along the way.

It turned out to be easier than I expected to not stop in any of the cute little seaside towns as there was too much cuteness to process. After months with incredibly limited resources on the road, being forced to take advantage of the one diner or general store or gas station in any given tiny town, I felt overwhelmed by too many choices. I got hungry but could not seem to choose from the many equally pleasant lunch establishments with open-air patios populated by slightly bored-looking chardonnay-sipping sunglasses-wearing Californians. I felt the same way about taking photos. Everything was so beautiful that I didn't take pictures of anything. It felt like any photo I could possibly take of the surf, the beaches, the cliffs, or the palm trees had already been taken long ago, put on a postcard, and turned into a cliché. So I just kept going.

But I had to eat so I did finally allow myself a picnic on the beach in Oceanside. When I got too daydreamy a seagull snatched the bag of Medjool dates I'd picked up in Dateland, AZ, only the best, richest, sweetest, most delicious dates I've ever tasted. And did you know that all Medjool dates are descendants of 11 sprigs sent to the United States just before disease wiped out all the Medjool date palms in Morocco? Fortunately another seagull fought the first seagull for them, they both dropped the bag, and I chased them away and rescued it. The seagulls were even worse than raccoons. Raccoons at least have the courtesy to wait until you're sleeping to steal food.

After lunch, the last thing I wanted to do was to get back on my bike. Why had I thought it would be such a great idea to ride up the coast instead of cutting across the vast suburban sprawl east of Los Angeles? Did I not realize how anticlimactic it would be to continue riding AFTER having reached the Pacific Ocean in San Diego? Why would I knowingly tantalize myself with lovely beaches at the END of my ride, when I'd be most tired and worn out? Why would I subject myself to the torture of sunshine and pleasant ocean breezes?

But I remembered my vow to finish strong and dragged myself back to the 101 which led me into Camp Pendleton, a Marine Base, featuring lots of helicopters zooming over the ocean and Tank Crossing signs. I stopped on a grassy hillside with a distant ocean view to talk with my friend Becca for a bit, who I knew would provide some much-needed encouragement and delivered. From there I picked up a paved bike path that took me the rest of the way through the base into San Onofre State Beach, where the sky started turning glorious shades of orange, illuminating a massive nuclear power plant on my way toward the campground.

There were three state beach campgrounds in rapid succession, San Onofre, San Clemente, and Doheny, and I had been shooting for Doheny. But why couldn't I just camp at San Onofre, enjoy the sunset, and call it a day, and not run around in the dark like I'd had to do the night before? That seemed like an excellent idea.

But somehow I missed the campground overshot it by a couple miles, and came to the end of the bike path. San Clemente was only a couple more miles ahead at that point, so it made sense to continue on to San Clemente rather than backtracking. But there was a slight problem. From what I could see on the map, an inlet separated my end of the bike path from the bike path on the other side that led to San Clemente, leaving me with two unappealing options to continue forward: I'd either have to ride an 11 mile loop around the water or brave the I-5 freeway, to Californians known as "the 5."

From where I stood the 5 looked terrifying. I peered down on ten lanes of rush-hour traffic hurtling past in both directions, headlights and taillights cutting fiery tracks through the blue dusk. It didn't look like there was much of a shoulder, and I knew from my recent run-in with a California Highway Patrol officer that I wasn't allowed on there with a bike anyway. The 11 mile loop on smaller roads didn't sound much better. While the road itself might be safer, it was unlikely to be illuminated after dark. The safest option was to backtrack the two miles to San Onofre, camp for the night, and deal with one of these two undesirable options the next morning with better light.

I was about to turn around to head back down the bike path when I suddenly imagined myself having to blog about the experience later. Was that how I wanted to the story to go? That I wimped out and went crawling back to the campground? No. For God's sake, San Clemente was only 3 miles away, and only 1 of those miles would be on the freeway. I only needed to go one exit. I could do it. I'd brave the 5.

I hit the on ramp and discovered to my surprise that not only did the 5 have a nice wide shoulder, providing a comfortable buffer between me and the traffic rocketing past me, but furthermore my exit was even less than a mile away. I exited right away and before I knew it I'd found the sign for Doheny State Beach and climbed a short hill to the ranger station. I patted myself on the back for courageously conquering the 5 and reaching the campground safely just as the sky turned black.

Little did I know that I'd only faced my first battle of the day, not my last.

"Hi there. Could I get a campsite?" I cheerfully asked the ranger.

"We don't have hike and bike anymore," she said, eyeing my bike.

"What's hike and bike?"

"Oh, never mind then. So you need a campsite. . . just for tonight?" I did.

She handed me a registration card to fill out. "That will be $35."

35 DOLLARS? Only in California would anyone have the audacity to charge 35 dollars for a campsite, even if it was beachfront property. "Really?" I asked, rather taken aback. "That's a pretty expensive campsite."

"Yeah, that's why I mentioned the hike and bike pricing. They used to offer campsites for $6 to people hiking or biking through who just have a tent, but due to budget cuts they did away with that. Now we just have RV sites."

"I have a bike and a tent. I'm not going to use the electric or sewer or water hookups. Can't you give me a discount?"

"No, sorry." Though it was little consolation, she added, "I think it's stupid too, I don't know why they changed it. But Doheny State Beach still has hike and bike."

"But Doheny's 12 miles away." She shrugged and gave me an apologetic look.

Tired and hungry as I was, I couldn't pay $35 for a campsite. I just couldn't. You have to draw the line somewhere. The most I'd paid for a campsite was $23 back in Pennsylvania, and I thought that was outrageous too. "Is there wifi?" I asked. Additional amenities might convince me to pay.

"There is but you have to pay extra for it."

"OK. Let me think about it," I grumbled. I slunk off to consult my iPhone and consider my options.

It turned out Doheny State Beach was only 7 miles away, not 12. I'd done 7 miles in the dark before and I could do it again. I wasn't crazy about doing it in traffic, but so be it. I headed back toward the village of San Clemente and continued north.

I was starving. I'd been waiting to eat until I got into camp, and now I had another 7 miles ahead on an empty stomach. I rode through an incredible-smelling cloud of pizza scent that stopped me in my tracks. I looked around to find its source and noticed. . . The Pizza Port! A woman I'd met in Arizona had highly recommended it. She'd raved about their delicious, fresh pizzas with locally farmed ingredients and array of micro-brewed beers, or as the sign said, "Good Grub and Grog." Nothing could possibly have sounded better to me at that moment. Since I'd be riding in the dark anyway, what difference would it make if I stopped to eat? I could at least offset my annoyance with the California State Beach system with a good dinner and a cold beer.

So I locked up my bike, got in line, ordered an IPA and a mini-pizza with feta, spinach, artichokes, and pepperoni, started salivating as the cashier rung me up, and opened my wallet to pay.

My debit card was gone.

I suddenly had a flashback to the restaurant we'd gone to in San Diego where I had thrown my debit card on a pile of cash and other cards at the end of our meal. I didn't recall getting it back. I knew I was low on cash, but maybe I could scrape together enough for dinner? Nope, I was down to $2, plus a money order my dad had sent that I'd never gotten around to cashing. I cancelled my pizza order and went outside. I remembered taking all the extraneous cards out of my wallet before I'd left home but couldn't remember why. I think it was because I was afraid if I lost my wallet, I'd have that many more cards to replace.

Just next door was a Western Union. Did they cash money orders? "No, but there is a check cashing place a few blocks up, they might," said the lady at the counter. I walked over there. No luck, but they suggested yet another check cashing place several more blocks up. That one was closed.

I was terribly disappointed as my hopes for pizza and beer slipped away. I knew it was unrealistic to find any place that would cash money orders at that hour. But, I told myself, I had food. It wasn't like I'd starve or anything. That was the important point to be focused on and grateful for. I'd just go to the campground and cook a box of couscous. Between the 2 dollars and the loose change in my bag, I was pretty sure I could put together $6 for the campground fee, and I had oatmeal and for breakfast. That would get me through until the next day when I could cash the money order at a post office.

Just as I got back to my bike I suddenly remembered that my lighter had broken the last time I'd tried to cook. A new lighter would run me about $2, so I couldn't replace that right away, but I could probably find free matches at a convenience store or a restaurant. Everybody has matches. On another walking tour of San Clemente I stopped at a 7-11, a fancy wine bar, and a grocery store, none of which gave out matches. "But we sell boxes of matches, or you could buy one of those," said the checkout guy, helpfully gesturing toward a display of shiny new unattainable lighters.

I gave him a pleading, desperate look. "It's a really long story, but I need matches and they specifically need to be free." He couldn't help me.

I hit another convenience store and they didn't give out matches either but they sold lighters for 40 cents. I counted up my loose change and I had $6.10 plus a ton of pennies. I could afford the 40 cent lighter and still have enough left over for the campground! I picked out a purple one and headed back to my bike.

The slow, mostly pitch black ride to Doheny was fraught with problems too. I made it to within a mile of the campground and came to a bizarre convergence of two one-way roads going in the same direction with a median between them, both opposite the direction I needed to go. I can't quite explain how I got through there, but it involved being blinded by the high beams of oncoming traffic, riding the wrong way on poorly lit sidewalks, ignoring ominous signs showing crossed-out stick figure pedestrians, arriving at an inexplicable and impassible concrete mound and having to turn around, trying a different poorly-lit sidewalk, desperately gunning it across a freeway on-ramp, and somehow magically bumping into the back of the Doheny State Beach parking lot.

I found the ranger station and it was closed down for the night, but I read over the camper registration instructions. Most campgrounds have an after-hours self-registration system and an honor-system box where you can leave your fee in an envelope. Doheny did not. They were particularly strict about hike and bike camping. "Campers must register before closing. Campers must show Photo ID. Those with no Photo ID will be asked to leave. No exceptions." Well that was just too bad for them. After all I'd been through, nothing was going to stop me from setting up camp. If anyone hassled me, I'd beg, plead, and hand over all my loose change.

That is, if I could even find the campground. All I saw were tightly-packed rows of picnic tables, each with a grill and clusters of trash cans at the end. Could THOSE be the campsites? There were about 2 inches of space in between each one. I could understand that beach camping was probably in high demand, so they probably needed to pack people in, but still. The campground map had indicated there would be showers, but all I saw were public beach bathrooms and those outdoor cold water showers that you use to rinse the sand off your feet. That would have to do. I set up my tent near one of the tables.

Finally, exhausted, hungry, and totally apprehensive about the legitimacy of my camping spot, I got out my cooking apparatus and prepared to make couscous, but as I was filling up the pot to boil water, I spilled the water. . . all over my 40 cent lighter. It wouldn't light.

I slumped over and put my head down on the picnic table, not knowing whether to laugh or cry at that point. But thank goodness I'd rescued those Medjool dates.