California Dreamin'

Cross the Colorado on I-8 from Arizona and suddenly you're in California. No visitor center, no free maps, but hey-- you made it. Things will be easy from here on out, right?

The shoulders are less well maintained in the California freeway, which is a moot point since it's illegal to ride them. After being pulled over, frisked, and interrogated about just why I wanted to ride a bicycle to San Diego ("you know how far that is?"), I was escorted back almost to the border and dumped onto a frontage road. These frontage roads look like they haven't been paved in a hundred years. If first impressions mean anything, California looks like a dud.

No, I take that back. California looks nice, with its cute little bomber plane on the "speed checked by radar" signs-- but it feels like flash with no substance. People in RV's everywhere, like Arizona, but camped out free on Reservation land. Rednecks riding dune buggies and drinking beer; more style than southern rednecks, with their clothes and cash-- but the same at heart. I didn't think California would be this way. I guess I expected it to be less like home.

{I've actually met quite a few good people since writing this, so don't think California is all bad.}