The morning I woke up to go to San Francisco, it was wet and nasty.  I was feeling hung over because I drank a bunch of beers by the beach the night before to numb the boredom of loneliness.  I started riding at 7am, under a blanket of misty rain.  I took the first picture of an old catholic fort on the coast while it was still nasty.  An hour later, on the summit of a magical mountain top, as the sun dipped out of the clouds, I found a snarled, hill hugging road rolling through into the abyss.  I took a picture.  It was nasty again an hour later, and my hands morphed into a purple, unfeeling misrepresentation of what fingers should be.  I took the picture of the Bay Bridge as I attempted to gather strength enough to find a hostel in San Fran.  I hated San Fran that day.  I didn’t think I could, but I hated it.  The combination of wet, cold, freeway and full hostels everywhere sent me flying out of that town as fast as possible, towards something else, somewhere else.