The Strand
The alarm clock went off at 5:30 AM, but I hit the snooze until 7:00. I put on a pair of jean shorts and a t-shirt in preparation for my rollerblading expedition. Then I removed the knee pads that had surrounded the fuel bottles in my backpack, and strapped them on.
Nancy was up. I borrowed a fanny pack from her to hold my camera, and also asked if she had some duct tape to repair one of my knee pads, where the plastic had become separated from the cushion.
I discovered that one half of an axle was missing from one of the rollerblades. It must have vibrated loose as the wind spun the rollerblade wheels on the motorcycle ride. I relocated the missing axle to the middle, so that the three remaining wheels could support me.
After gearing up, I stepped out into the living room where Nancy was.
She approved, saying that I could definitely pass for a local, except
for the fact that my white t-shirt didn't have a message printed on it.
As I rolled out the front door she recommeded taking Valley St. instead
or Marine, since the descent towards the beach would be less steep.
I scooted along the sidewalk and around the corner toward Valley St, passing
by lots of houses as I made my way up the hill. After cresting the hill,
the path became more challenging. I attempted to zig-zag back and forth down the other
side of the hill, but it was more difficult than I thought it would be. Most of the
time, I ended up turning too much at every switchback, swinging around 180 degrees
in a semicircle, round and round and round as I carved my way down the hill. It was almost
enough to make me dizzy. A man sat on his doorstep with his dog, and observed
my cautious progress along the slope. He offered some words of encouragement
as I passed by.
Eventually I came to the bottom of the hill, where a sidewalk stretched to either side following the beach. This is what the everyone calls "The Strand". There is foot path and a bike path, but I saw pedestrians and bicycles on both. I skated south along the foot path, my skate wheels click-clacking lightly over the cracks in the concrete every 15 feet or so.
Artists were preparing to show their crafts at an art fair in Hermosa Beach that morning. There was a food court section to the fair, but the stands were not yet open, so I searched for another place for breakfast.
"Raspberry pancakes" written on a fold-up billboard attracted my attention, and I rolled up to Cafe Stauros, a Greek restaurant. The waitress took my order for raspberry pancakes and a fruit blended yogurt drink. She actually forgot and left the order in her apron, so it was quite a while before she realized her mistake and I got something to eat. In the end, however, the pancakes were quite good.
Leaving the pier, I skated northward as fast as I could along the bike path. I knew I would be sitting for a long time on the motorcycle that evening, and I wanted to stretch my legs. I kept pace with a slow group of bicycles for a while, but most of the bicycles traveled faster than I could skate. I traveled until I passed what appeared to be a Chevron refinery, and then turned around to skate back to Scot's house.
Upon arriving, I showered in a bathroom that was full of fish decorations. Just about everything - towels, soap, tiles, you name it - had some sort of sea creature on it.
After packing my saddle bags, I said goodbye to Scot and Nancy and rode the freeway up the gravevine and back out to Highway 5. Gas was $1.91 a gallon for premium.
The only item of note between L.A. and San Francisco was the stinky cow place, where lots of cows stand around, kick up dust, and stink.
I got home late and went to bed.
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