SURFER MAGAZINE FEATURE ARTICLE

From the very beginning, that was the primary motivation: to soak some things in that we hadn’t let in for a while.

Hans Hagen
It’s funny, because I hadn’t given it much thought to this before our trip to New Zealand, but surfing and cycling are a pretty good union. Even just riding your bike down to the beach is something that helps put you in a physical and mental rhythm. You’re being tuned without even knowing it—not just by the physical pace and flow, but by the scenery as well. It was a familiar feeling I used to always have when I was a grom riding to the beach. And yeah, there are times where you definitely suffer, but even those moments force you to learn patience and be present minded, both of which are hallmarks of good surf travel. It’s only after you’ve put yourself in that frame of mind that you can see things clearly, and let things in. Once you’re there, you’re catching every note, and the stuff in between.

Christian Beamish
The first time I embarked on a bike-surf journey, I thought I’d just pop down to Big Sur from Santa Cruz for a few days. I was on a Schwinn beach cruiser with a side rack, metal basket, and a milk crate attached to a rack with hose clamps. My equipment included a delammed 6'2" JC, a fullsuit, a Mexican blanket, and a copy of Siddhartha. At one point in the book, Siddhartha says to himself, “I can think, I can fast, and I can wait.” Those were fitting words, as I’d eaten my last peanut-butter sandwich and was facing a lonely night at Sand Dollar. With nothing but my wool blanket and wetsuit for a pillow, I was pretty darn happy when this woman walked up and asked if she could sit by the fire. Turned out she wanted to camp, but was afraid of sleeping out alone, so I offered her company and she fed me dinner. Perfect symbiosis.

This may have had nothing to do with traveling by bike, but there was something about being out in the open, with not a lot of anything, that set up that interaction. There’s this unseen hand in fortunate happenings that I’m convinced is the Holy Spirit working. The first 120 miles from Santa Cruz went so beautifully that I thought I’d continue all the way to my hometown of Newport Beach. My pedal broke in Cayucos, and the man in the bike-shop barn hooked me up with a spare; I didn’t get one flat the rest of the way. It was nine days all told.