Going To The Golden Gate Expo

GO NORTH, YOUNG EXPLORER! The author posed, in pith helmet, breeches and boots, the day he hit the highway.

Wanderlust fueled bicyclist’s trip from L.A. to San Francisco.

It was a sunny June morning, in 1939, when I left my home in the southeast Los Angeles suburb of South Gate and headed out on my Ranger bicycle. Destination: San Francisco and a world’s fair.

My sleeping bag was firmly tied to the carrier rack over the rear wheel of the Ranger, a bike with a double metal frame and wide handlebars shaped like the horns of a Texas steer. I had saved money for the trip and had relatives in Berkeley who would give me lodging.

I felt relieved when I got out of city traffic and onto the Pacific Coast Highway, which was only two lanes in those days, with no white lines for bikes. On my left was the ocean, long arms of white waves breaking on deserted beaches. On my right were miles of truck gardens.

I was a very tired 19-year-old when I arrived in Santa Barbara that evening, my odometer having rolled 95 miles. I looked for a place to settle and saw a small area covered with sawdust in a school yard, where I laid out my sleeping bag. The activity of the day overtook me, and I was soon fast asleep.

It was daylight when I awoke to find a group of children in a circle around me, quietly watching. Startled, I quickly got out of my sleeping bag and began rolling it in a bundle when I heard the teacher call out, “Children! Children, come here!”

I was embarrassed, tying my sleeping bag to the bike and saying to the teacher, “I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but I’m traveling north and could not find a place to sleep.”

A gracious smile lit up her face. “Don’t worry about that,” the teacher said. “The children were just curious.”

The road north from Santa Barbara to the Gaviota Pass is a gradual incline of 15 miles. There was no gear reduction on bicycles then, so as I neared the top of the pass, I began to walk.

When I headed down the steep grade on the other side of the peak, I was elated to see my speedometer point to 50 mph, a speed I had never attained. By nightfall, I had reached Pismo Beach and spent the night in a wooded area near the highway.

After passing through San Luis Obispo, I experienced my most difficult climb—pedaling and walking up the Cuesta Grade.

During my ride, I wore a pith helmet, breeches and high boots. People passing me on Highway 101 said I looked like Frank Buck, a wild-animal trapper whose ’30s African excursions made him famous in a book and film, both called Bring ’Em Back Alive. I was a silly, restless young man dreaming of adventure—my heroes were Jack London, John Steinbeck, Robert Service and Richard Halliburton.

Riding through the intense heat of the Salinas Valley, I passed mile after mile of farms. This was John Steinbeck country, although he wasn’t the local hero then that he’d later become. In fact, saying his name on the streets of Salinas would risk a stinging rebuke. Steinbeck’s writing, subjecting the valley’s farm people to impersonal scrutiny, had aroused resentment.

I continued on Highway 101 to San Jose and through more miles of farm country until I reached Berkeley. It had taken me 4 days from Los Angeles.

Each morning in the Bay Area, I caught the ferry for Treasure Island. I remember the colorful pageant as if it were yesterday and bouncing in my seat with kids my age to the music of Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw and Kay Kyser.

Entrance to the fair was 50¢, and many exhibits were free. I attended General Motors’ amazing Highway of Tomorrow, the Cavalcade of History and Sally Rand’s popular “now you see it, now you don’t” performance (Sally was too adept with her fans for any of us to get a good look).

Later, I biked north, picking hops at an orchard in Hopland and cutting grapes in Asti. I then headed to the Oregon town of Tulelake and dug potatoes. Finally, tired of the road and transient life, I sold my Ranger to another boy for $2.75 (I paid $14 for it) and hitchhiked home.

It all made for the greatest adventure of my young life and an unforgettable milestone of my summer and fall of 1939.

By Bart Oxley, Belmont, California