Rather than ride a direct route from the Financial District to the bridge, Andy preferred going out of his way to take the Embarcadero. From the office, he took Market Street to the Embarcadero, then turned left and rode in the slow lane to Fisherman’s Wharf. The strata of bike lane, sidewalk, and piers on his right were populated respectively with bicyclists and pedicabs, pedestrians and joggers, and sea lions and seagulls, all moving at their own speed.

Past the start of Fisherman’s Wharf at Pier 39, Andy began picking his way between lanes through the mass of minivans and SUVs slowed to a crawl by jaywalkers and Segway tours. Fisherman’s Wharf was thick with out-of-towners drawn to its mishmash of restaurants, tourist traps, and commercialized San Francisco history. A dry-erase board poll at work had determined the Wharf’s least authentic attractions to be: 1. the wax museum; 2. the Believe-it-or-Not Museum; and, 3. Hooters. Of the three, Andy’s only complaint was that the food at Hooters wasn’t very good. Dumping on tourist traps — and tourists — was the purview of locals everywhere, but Andy honestly enjoyed Fisherman’s Wharf and the crowds who came to visit it.

After the Wharf, Andy zig-zagged around Ghirardelli Square and Fort Mason to Marina Boulevard. From Marina, with its multi-million-dollar homes and yacht-club views, Andy found his way to 101 and then northbound to the Golden Gate.

By the time he reached the bridge, traffic was bunched up. Andy lane-split between the number one and two lanes, keeping a wary eye on an SUV that was aggressively — and futilely — trying to get ahead. A little boy in the back seat of a crewcab pickup saw Andy approaching and flashed a thumbs up. Andy returned the gesture as he passed.

It took two minutes for Andy to traverse the length of the bridge. He rode under the two massive towers and past the vista point where Golden Gate visitors parked to access the bridge’s eastern walkway. Hundreds of people were there now, walking, jogging, and biking the 1.7-mile span.

He took the next exit, then crossed under the freeway to the Golden Gate National Recreation Area. The apex of his circuit was less than a mile away — Hawk Hill, highest point in the Marin Headlands with views of the bay, the bridge, and the city.

The winding, uphill, two-lane road to Hawk Hill was dotted with vehicles driving up and down the headlands. Cars slowed here and there as people pulled off to park or to pass bicyclists making the same ascents and descents on sheer will– and leg-power. The road wasn’t busy, but that would change as it got closer to evening and people started arriving for views of the sunset.

Most people parked before they were halfway up. Was the view midway “good enough”? Didn’t they know the road kept going higher? Andy wondered these things each time he came up here.

Ultimately, the road itself didn’t quite reach the top of the hill. The last 60 feet of elevation was up a dirt path leading off from the road. Normally, Andy would park and walk up to the old artillery installation at the summit. Today, he didn’t have time.

He did pause, though. Andy turned off in the red dirt that made up the top layer of Marin Headlands hillside. He killed the Honda’s engine but didn’t bother to dismount or remove his helmet. He just looked out across the Golden Gate, the body of water for which the bridge was named. It was a clear day and, beyond the bridge, half of San Francisco was visible. Clouds drifted inland while container ships and tankers moved purposefully through the bay. In a few hours fog would race in from the Pacific and blanket everything — bay, bridge, city — and the view would be gone. Andy would be hanging out with Bill then, at Kate’s off of Howard.

“Time to go,” he thought.

Andy restarted his bike and headed onward. He drove through the turnabout at the end of the Hawk Hill parking lot. Most drivers made the tight circle here and headed back the way they came. Beyond the turnabout, the road became one-way, twisting and turning downhill along the coast to Fort Barry, a former Army base. Second to the view of the bridge, this was the stage of the ride Andy enjoyed most.

With no oncoming traffic, Andy rode faster, leaning more into the turns and making more graceful lines across the width of the road. He passed through a half-mile stretch above Black Sands Beach that had an unimpeded view of the ocean. It was beautiful and very nearly deserted — sometimes it felt like Andy’s personal coastal highway. The road ended at the former base hospital — now a youth hostel — and the turnaround point of Andy’s S.F.-Headlands circuit.

The route would take Andy inland now, toward highway 101 and back over the Golden Gate into San Francisco. Through the valley floor the road was flatter and straighter with long stretches of scrub brush between the occasional red-roofed army warehouse or barracks. The road was two-way again, but there was very little traffic to slow Andy down.

He arrived at the controlled tunnel that cut through the hillside back to the freeway. Normally, stop lights at either end of the tunnel determined which way traffic flowed through the single-lane passage. If the light was green on the freeway side of the tunnel, it would be red on the Fort Barry side, and cars could enter the tunnel heading into the fort. At some point, the signal on the freeway side would turn red, preventing any further traffic from entering the tunnel. After the last vehicle exited onto the fort side, the stop light on that side would go green, allowing Andy and whomever else to head into the tunnel towards the park’s exit.

He wondered about the system that kept the tunnel clear for opposing traffic. The signals appeared to operate on a timer, which bugged Andy as being terribly inefficient — he’d been red-lighted for several minutes before at the entrance to the tunnel with no traffic coming the other way.

Today, though, it was clear how tunnel access was controlled. A road construction flagman stopped Andy before the entrance — despite the signal being green. After a minute the flagman received the go ahead on his walkie talkie and waved Andy through.

The Baker-Barry Tunnel was usually lit in an orange sodium-vapor glow — now it was pitch black. “Electrical failure,” Andy guessed. He rode into the hillside void with the Honda’s single headlight leading the way, which, even on high beam, didn’t throw much further than 200 feet. The half-mile tunnel was mostly straight, and Andy had been through it dozens of times, and the road would be clear to the other side. He sped in.

Rushing through the dark, Andy had the sense that he was alone in the universe. In his helmet and heavy leather jacket, he felt like an astronaut launching forward into deep space.

Over a slight rise in the road, the tunnel’s freeway side would come into view. As soon as his sightline was over the crest, Andy would see it in the distance — the literal light at the end of the tunnel.

He rode up to where the road leveled out, and saw a large vehicle with no tail lights silhouetted against the exit.

“Too fast,” Andy thought. He let off of the throttle.

Headlights flicked on from the vehicle, obliterating the darkness between it and Andy.

“Shit,” Andy said out loud, blinded. He reflexively simultaneously pulled the clutch and front brake levers and depressed the shift and rear brake pedals. The weight of the bike dove forward as both wheels locked and the motorcycle skidded and slowed.

The bike started to fishtail to the right. Andy steered into the slide and eased off the brakes to get the tires rolling again.

The Honda’s rear drum brake released first. The back wheel started to roll, and catching the pavement, immediately righted the bike.

The front disc brake released a split-second later.

The back of the motorcycle, moving faster than the front, continued forward. With the still-locked front wheel holding its place, the bike’s rear went up and over, bucking its rider off in the process.

Andy somersaulted forward and pancaked onto the pavement on his back. The Honda catapulted past its rider and landed on its side.

A moment before, Andy’s world had been loud with the motorcycle’s exhaust echoing in the narrow tunnel, and dark with only the bike’s headlight picking out the roadway. Now, it was bright. Really bright. And, quiet.

Andy noted the odd absence of sound. “Have I gone deaf?” he thought. He tried to remember if deafness was a sign of concussion, and sat up abruptly.

A figure approached Andy from the direction of the headlights. He couldn’t make out the person’s features, but gradually realized a man’s voice was talking to him.

“Don’t get up,” the voice told him. “Lay back down.”

The man was kneeling next to Andy now. “You’ve just had an accident.”

Andy felt some pressure on his leg and then he felt very, very heavy. The brightness disappeared and Andy had the fleeting sensation that he was once again in space. This time, though, he was not moving forward at light speed. Instead, it felt like he was falling, and falling, and falling—forever.