Back on Two Wheels: A Ride to Point Pinole and the Circle of Life

For almost four years, three bicycles sat quietly in our garage. Every time I walked past them, they reminded me of another time in my life, when cycling was not something I had to schedule. It was simply part of our weekends.

I used to put my bicycle on the car and take it wherever the road called me, from Monterey Bay to Yosemite and Napa Valley. But many of my favorite memories were much closer to home, in the East Bay.

When we lived around Berkeley and El Cerrito, I often encouraged my son to come outside with me. We rode from the Berkeley hills toward the back of Golden Gate Fields, along Gilman, to the Berkeley Marina, through Emeryville and back home.

When the new Bay Bridge bicycle path opened, riding toward Treasure Island became one of our favorite weekend adventures. Sometimes I rode while my son ran beside me. During his middle and high school years, he was active in track and field and could comfortably run long distances.

Back then, I was usually the one saying:

“Come on, let’s go.” Then life became busy. We moved. Routines changed. And somehow almost four years passed.

This Time, My Son Asked Me

A few weeks ago, I began noticing my son taking his bicycle out again. He is now in his mid-twenties. One day, he encouraged me to come along. For a moment, I looked at those three bicycles sitting in the garage and thought about how quickly time had moved. Years ago, I was the father encouraging him to go outside, run, ride and explore.

Today he was encouraging me. That simple reversal touched me more deeply than I expected.

I felt the circle of life.

One day you are showing someone the road. Then, without realizing exactly when it happened, the person you once guided turns around and starts guiding you.

One Person Was Missing

There was another thought in my mind as we started riding. My wife was not with us. She loves outdoor activities, and cycling with her has always been one of my favorite ways to spend time together. There is something special about being outdoors as a family. You are not sitting across a table trying to find something to talk about. You are simply moving together, discovering places, laughing, stopping whenever something catches your attention.

As we rode toward Point Pinole, my son said something that immediately made me smile:

“Next time we will come with Mom.”

And there is really no excuse. All of us have bicycles. They are still in good condition. Perhaps they were simply waiting for us to become ready again.

A Fishing Spot With Another Family Story

As we explored Point Pinole, my son pointed toward the pier. “Mom and I were fishing there last week,” he told me.

That added another layer to the day. My wife enjoys fishing, and somehow, whenever she goes out with a fishing rod, she seems to catch something. I sometimes wonder if that instinct goes much further back.

She grew up in eastern Nepal, where her family farmhouse had a fish pond. As a child, she watched fish moving through that water and grew up around a rural environment where ponds, farms and nature were simply part of everyday life.

Perhaps some things stay with us. We may cross oceans, build completely different lives and live thousands of miles from where we were born, yet a small experience can suddenly reconnect us with childhood.

A fishing pond in eastern Nepal.
A fishing pier beside San Pablo Bay.

Two completely different worlds, somehow connected by the same person holding a fishing rod. Standing there with my son, I could almost imagine the three of us returning together, bicycles nearby, fishing rods in hand, spending the afternoon between the trails and the Bay. Maybe that will be our next trip.

My First Ride Since Moving to Hercules

For this first proper bicycle ride after moving to Hercules, we chose Point Pinole Regional Shoreline. It turned out to be a perfect place to restart. The trails took us through open fields and tall eucalyptus groves, with glimpses of San Pablo Bay appearing between the trees. I was not trying to break any records.

After four years, simply being back on the bicycle felt like an achievement. The body remembers more than we think. At first the legs complain a little. The breathing feels different. Then slowly the old rhythm returns.

Pedal.

Coast.

Breathe.

Look around.

Keep going.

But somewhere along the trail, the ride unexpectedly became a history lesson.

What Is That Huge Machine?

We stopped beside a massive old machine protected beneath a wooden shelter.

At first glance, I couldn’t figure out what it was. Then I read the interpretive board. It was a black powder press.

That discovery completely changed how I looked at the landscape around us.

Today Point Pinole feels peaceful, almost timeless. Cyclists pass through the eucalyptus trees. Families walk the trails. Birds move over the shoreline. But this area once had a very different life.

The historical display explains that Atlas Powder Company established a small black-powder operation here in 1925. It operated for about 15 years and produced around 500 kegs of black powder per day.

Five hundred kegs. Every day. Suddenly the quiet eucalyptus grove looked very different in my imagination.

A Dangerous Workplace Hidden Beneath Today’s Park

The display explains how charcoal and sulfur were pulverized and combined with saltpeter before the mixture went through several stages of processing. One of those stages happened at the Press House.

Moist powder was compressed under about 4,000 pounds of pressure to increase its density. The most striking part of the exhibit was the memory of a worker who described what happened when the press was started.

Workers sometimes went outside because they did not know whether it might blow up. That one detail stayed with me.

Today we stand beside that machine taking photographs. Decades ago, workers stood beside similar equipment wondering whether they would safely finish their shift. History becomes much more meaningful when you encounter it unexpectedly.

We had not come looking for a museum. We had simply gone cycling.

Yet underneath the eucalyptus trees was a chapter of the industrial history of the American West. The same black powder that supported mining, railroad construction and development once passed through machinery in this quiet corner of the East Bay.

And now bicycles roll past it. What a transformation.

Three Generations of Memories in One Afternoon

As we continued riding, I started thinking about how many different stories had somehow come together on one simple Saturday ride.

There was my own cycling past.

There was my son’s childhood.

There was my wife fishing here only a week earlier.

There was her childhood memory of growing up near a fish pond in eastern Nepal. And there was Point Pinole itself, carrying more than a century of industrial and regional history beneath today’s peaceful trails. That is what I love about going outside.

You never quite know what you are going to find. Sometimes you discover history. Sometimes you discover nature. And sometimes, without expecting it, you discover something about your own life.

The Road Looks Different Now

Years ago, I encouraged my son to get outside. Today he encouraged me. Years ago, I planned our routes.

Today he showed me around Point Pinole and pointed out where he and his mother had been fishing. Next time, perhaps all three of us will ride together. That thought alone makes me excited about taking the bicycles out again. I don’t need to recreate exactly what we did years ago. I don’t need to ride the same distance or travel at the same speed. Maybe that is another lesson of getting older.

Returning does not mean going backward.

You return with different people, different experiences and a different appreciation for the moment.

Those three bicycles had been sitting in the garage for years. Now they look different to me.

They no longer look like things we used to use. They look like invitations.

Maybe Point Pinole was only the beginning. Maybe we will return as a family. Maybe we will ride the Bay Trail again.

Perhaps one day we will make it back toward Treasure Island and all those places where we rode our bicycles in last decades.

The destination is no longer the most important part. For now, I am simply happy that after almost four years, the wheels are turning again. Years ago, I showed my son the road.

Today, he brought me back to it. And next time, as he said, Mom is coming too.

Dhruva Thapa
Dhruva’s Creations