So far, the road continues level and fairly good; and, notwithstanding
the seductive pleasures of the ride over the bounding billows of the
gently heaving macadam, the dalliance with the scenery, and the all too
frequent dismounts in deference to the objections of phantom-eyed
roadsters, I pulled up at San Pablo at ten o'clock, having covered the
sixteen miles in one hour and thirty-two minutes; though, of course,
there is nothing speedy about this - to which desirable qualification,
indeed, I lay no claim.

Soon after leaving San Pablo the country gets somewhat "choppy," and
the road a succession of short-hills, at the bottom of which modest-looking
mud-holes patiently await an opportunity to make one's acquaintance, or
scraggy-looking, latitudinous washouts are awaiting their chance to
commit a murder, or to make the unwary cycler who should venture to "coast,"
think he had wheeled over the tail of an earthquake. One never
minds a hilly road where one can reach the bottom with an impetus that
sends him spinning half-way up the next; but where mud-holes or washouts
resolutely "hold the fort" in every depression, it is different, and
the progress of the cycler is necessarily slow. I have set upon reaching
Suisun, a point fifty miles along the Central Pacific Railway, to-night;
but the roads after leaving San Pablo are anything but good, and the day
is warm, so six P.M. finds me trudging along an unridable piece of road
through the low tuile swamps that border Suisun Bay. "Tuile" is the
name given to a species of tall rank grass, or rather rush, that grows
to the height of eight or ten feet, and so thick in places that it is
difficult to pass through, in the low, swampy grounds in this part of
California. These tuile swamps are traversed by a net-work of small,
sluggish streams and sloughs, that fairly swarm with wild ducks and
geese, and justly entitle them to their local title of "the duck-hunters'
paradise." Ere I am through this swamp, the shades of night gather