After we left Big Horace and Coffee Mia, we turned away from the sea and visited the agricultural area east of the Coast Mountains. We meandered thru that part of the country exploring, commenting on the beauty, the super-efficient farms, the orchards, the vineyards. This truly may be the breadbasket of the nation. We took a spectacular back road across the mountains and came out on the coast at Half Moon Bay, where we found a little beach park and enjoyed the strawberries I mentioned earlier.
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| Wayne, supporting the artistic symbol of Half Moon Bay. Evidently, pigeons have no respect for art. |
We left Half Moon Bay, crossed the narrow peninsula between the Pacific Ocean and San Francisco Bay and drove thru San Mateo. All of this travel was on freeways, which were mostly elevated above the city. Eventually, we crossed the Bay on a seven mile bridge which, I guess, should be called a causeway. This took us to the city of Hayward, where our freeway merged with two other freeways and veered north, toward Oakland.
When you live seventy five years you learn a lot of things, but bladder control is not one of them. All that coffee and all those freeways left me in a terrible condition and I pleaded for Wayne to find a place and pull over, which would make it necessary for us to get off the freeway. Wayne, in his “Let’s run the blacktop” mode, was reluctant to do that.
I said, with some emotion, “Wayne, in about two minutes, I’m going to have to pee. I can do that anywhere you choose—either in a public restroom somewhere, behind a convenient bush or on these fancy leather seats. If the Queen of England joins us and sits in the back seat having tea, I will still have to pee. She will not be amused. It is no longer up to me.” Wayne pulled off at the next exit.
I climbed back into Wayne’s truck and took my usual position, riding shotgun. It is amazing how much more detail I saw as we drove along. I was no longer-----preoccupied. I looked at the map to best figure our route and discovered a road thru the mountains directly into Moraga. That road would offer two desirable results--it would cut about forty miles off our trip and get us away from the freeway.
Sheppard Canyon Road appeared to intersect the access road of our freeway and go directly over the mountains to Moraga. Wayne and I decided to go that way and took the appropriate exit. We stayed on the access road and Wayne pulled into a station. “Do we need gas?” I asked.
“No. I thought you might want to use the facilities.” Wayne said. He was learning. Since I didn’t, he decided he might as well. There were several locals standing around—two of them worked at the station which also sold tires and did mechanic work---the others seemed to be spectators. I decided to visit with them while Wayne took care of his business. I didn’t really need directions, but it was a convenient way to start a conversation.
“According to the map I have in there, Sheppard Canyon Road is up here about four blocks on the right. Is that a good way to get to Moraga?” I asked the fellow who seemed to be in charge. His Exxon uniform shirt said “Bill” over the pocket.
“You are lucky you stopped and asked!” Bill said. “Sheppard Canyon Road don’t come all the way down here, like the map shows. It stops about six blocks up the hill—you need to turn right on Wheeler Street and just stay on it. It will all of a sudden become Sheppard Canyon and go right in the back way to Moraga. I used to work over in Moraga at a tire store--broke into this business over there.”
“That’s funny,” I said. “We met a guy this morning over in Marina who used to run a tire store in Moraga.”
“You gotta be talking about Big Horace Mercurio! I worked for him for three years over there. I hear he has a Deli or Café or something like that in Marina. He’s a good ole boy---for an Italian!”
The hair on the back of my neck was standing straight up. It was eerie--over seven million people in the Bay Area and in one day I randomly met two who had worked together at the same tire store in Moraga---several years ago.
Bill was right. We would have never found our road from that map. We turned on Wheeler and, sure enough, in about a mile, it became Sheppard Canyon Road. In a few minutes, we were in the forest primeval. The road curved and switched back and narrowed. It was very strange—even though we were in the center of the densely populated Bay Area, the road started to feel like a mountain road in the wilds of Colorado. We were climbing in a forest--there were gigantic Pine and Fir trees, but no houses that I could see---we passed occasional secluded driveways protected by electric gates. I am sure we were in a very exclusive neighborhood. We passed a small private school, and then had the road to ourselves for several miles. We climbed over the ridge and started down the other side.
Soon the road widened, straightened, and curbs appeared on either side. We passed an Exxon station. Wayne was suddenly very serious. “Do you need to stop?” he asked.
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