As usual, I went to a world-famous beach destination, and only looked at the waves from high above. I've made a bit of a habit of this; rolling into San Diego or Nice or Santa Barbara and pretty quickly fleeing to the mountains. It's not that I don't like a good seaside soiree, I suppose most other priorities just fade when there's a bike ride on offer.
This weekend was no different, but the coastline was familiar. I used to watch it from the seventh floor of a dorm tower, from a desk crammed between a bike on one side and a low bunk above. Yep, college. Ole, gauchos, yada yada. In those days, I watched the water from the mountains as much as I could, basically whenever I could bum a ride to a trailhead from a fellow study-shirking shredder. When the rideshare pool went dry for a while, I'd pedal pavement for hours on my stout aluminum Trek Slash, seeking small slices of singletrack and those lofty views that helped keep a stressful world in perspective.