Easter Sunday on Mount Tamalpais—I’ve been doing this ride for years now, and I’ve written about it enough times that you’d think I’d run out of things to say. But 2026 handed me two firsts, and both of them changed the morning in ways I wasn’t expecting.
For starters, I didn’t ride to Tam Junction alone. For so many years, I’ve been the only person I’ve known to do this ride. I’d set the alarm, roll the bike out in the dark, and make the solo trek through the Caldecott and across the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge without seeing a familiar face until the staging area. There was a grit in this style of adventure, but it did get lonely asking if anyone wanted to go and getting the “no” year after year, person after person. This year, a new acquaintance of mine, A, posted up on the local forum asking if anyone was going from my neck of the woods. I debated whether it was worth giving up a half hour of sleep to ride with a group—and was surprised it took me that long to land on the obvious answer: “Yes!” Of course it’s worth giving up a half hour of sleep to ride with new people.
Secondly, there was the weather. If you’ve read the prior years’ posts, you know the drill—heated vest, long underwear, fog belt on the mountain, temperatures plummeting from the 50s into the low 40s as we climbed through the wet, foggy redwoods. Not this year. Walnut Creek was already 58 degrees when I rolled the bike out of the garage, and I stood there for a second wondering if I was forgetting something. No heated vest. No layering strategy. No “how do I fit long underwear under my suit” calculus. Just gear up and go.
Easter falls early this year—April 5th—which pushes the sunrise later, to 6:48 a.m. That meant an alarm at 3:00 a.m., on the bike by 3:45 to get gas and meet the group, and at the Tam Junction staging area just before 5:00 (AM in case that is not clear, lol).
I went to bed around 8:30 the night before, which felt like an accomplishment. Tossed and turned a bit, but that’s how it goes when your alarm is set for a time most people have never seen on a clock.
The Ride Over
A and the crew were great people, and the four of us rolled out of Walnut Creek together into the dark.
We made our way onto Highway 24, and the temperature did something unexpected. Traveling through the hills toward the tunnel, it actually got colder—which I wasn’t anticipating on a night this warm. The Caldecott Tunnel (pronounced “cold-to-hot”) lived up to its reputation, and once we popped out on the Oakland side, the temperature climbed right back up. The freeways were quiet in that pre-dawn holiday way where you can go a few miles without seeing another set of headlights. Crossing the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, the air was comfortable—no damp patches on the road surface, no fog dripping onto helmets, no mental negotiations about whether this was mist or actual rain. Just dry pavement and dark skies.
Meeting up at Tam Junction is always its own event. The HQ Fuels lot was packed with bikes, riders milling around in the dark, the “CLOSED” sign glowing green in the gas station window (the place doesn’t even open until 6:00 a.m.—we beat them by a solid hour). The thrill of the crowd building, everyone knowing they’re about to climb, never gets old.
Up the Mountain
The fast crew left around 5:15, and then there was a pause—that window where the staging area goes quiet for a few minutes before the next wave. A suggested we go. As I hopped on the bike, he mentioned he didn’t exactly know where to go. I’d done it before, but I don’t know this road like other roads I ride—not the back of my hand, not even close. I took off anyway, and he followed.
Seeing a long line of headlights strung out behind me in my mirrors was a little intimidating. In every prior year, I’ve been somewhere in the middle of the pack, following taillights and looking through the rider’s headlights ahead of me. Leading was a different animal entirely—especially rounding blind turns in the dark on a road I ride once a year. And every so often, there was a minibike that seemed to have stalled out in the middle of the road, which did not inspire confidence. My mind jumped back to the evasive maneuver exercise we all did in the MSF course.
Here’s where the warm, dry morning really stood out. In prior years, climbing through the redwoods meant punching into a fog belt—temperatures dropping fifteen degrees in minutes, heavy mist on the visor, raindrops falling off the trees in the dark. This year, nothing. No fog. No temperature plunge. No airplane-on-ascent moment breaking through the cloud layer. We were met with dry pavement, warm air, and as we climbed higher, a view to the west that stopped me cold: the moon hanging over the Pacific, reflecting off the water like a spotlight, stars still visible above. In all the years I’ve done this ride, I’ve never been able to see the ocean on the way up like this morning. The fog has always stolen that view. Not today.
East Peak
We pulled in a few minutes before sunrise, and the scene was already built. About 200 motorcycles and riders had made the trek—bikes parked everywhere, people climbing up to the fire tower, the whole East Peak lot buzzing with that early-morning energy that only happens when a couple hundred people all set an alarm before 4 a.m. on a holiday.
I made the climb up to the top. Every year, that climb gets harder—must be because the mountain is growing taller and steeper year-over-year versus me getting older (lol). But the view from up there is why you do it.
And then the sun came up.
Without the fog layer this year, the sunrise hit differently. In 2025, the fog magnified and extended the colors across the bay in a way that was almost theatrical. This year, the sky was clear, and the color went straight from deep blue to a vivid orange band sitting right on the horizon behind Mount Diablo. The Richmond–San Rafael Bridge stretched across the water below, city lights still twinkling on both sides of the bay. As the sun crested, the light caught the water first—tidal currents swirling across the surface—and then San Francisco and the Bay Bridge emerged from the haze to the south. No fog to amplify the drama, but the clarity made up for it. I could see everything from the East Bay hills to the Salesforce Tower to the tankers sitting out past Alcatraz.
I had both the R5 and the iPhone with me. The SLR clearly takes better pictures, but its pedigree started to show in the low light—getting focus was noticeably harder without a tripod. Maybe next year I need to bring one. The iPhone, as always, did a fantastic job of capturing the color and the moment without any fuss. If only Apple made SLR cameras.
After the sun was up, I wandered through the parking lot doing what I always do—ogling at other people’s bikes. There’s always a mix of adventure bikes, sport bikes, touring rigs, a cadre of minibikes, standards, and Harleys.
This year’s parking lot had some real gems. A vintage Triumph Bonneville in blue and silver that looked like it rolled straight out of the 1970s. A BMW R90S with a checkered tank that someone clearly loved. An R75/6 in black with panniers that had seen some miles.
A few years ago, SFMC-J tracked me down after a couple of posts on a local motorcycle forum, noting that I was the author of Dashed Yellow Line and how much he enjoyed reading the blog. Since then, we’ve hung out at rallies, talked rides, and I’ve come to admire his sense of adventure and his photography. SFMC-J is just one of those good humans who seems to always make motorcycling experience better. Thank you!
A blue Ducati 860 drew a small crowd of admirers, and I couldn’t blame them—that shade of blue with the chrome lettering on the tank was something else.
There was a BMW R18 with a yellow Shoei on the bars, a Triumph Street Triple with pink braids hanging off the helmet (well played), and a black Triumph cafe racer with wrapped headers that looked like it belonged in a magazine.
I always like finding bikes loaded with stickers—it’s the mark of someone who has taken their motorcycle to far-off places and actually used it. An GS caught my eye with a Mile 0 Key West sticker and an Arctic Circle Dalton Highway sticker on the same top case. That rider had covered some ground. A states-visited map on the pannier confirmed it—blue dots in every state! #riderGoals!
The Ride Home
Nate and I met up at the top, and he was itching to do a bit more exploring. I followed him down the mountain and across to Bolinas, then Fairfax, and down to Highway 1. His suggestion proved right—most of the traffic on Highway 1 would be headed northbound, so we had a clean ride southbound through Stinson Beach and back toward Mill Valley.
Along the way, I spotted a couple of guys from the Saturday morning ride flying up Highway 1, treating the double yellow as optional. Hug that right fog line, gentlemen.
We stopped at Shoreline Coffee Company in Mill Valley for breakfast, and it delivered. The breakfast burrito was everything I wanted—a great tortilla, plenty of eggs and protein, and hash browns that were truly crisp. It is a definite new stop on future Easter sunrise rides.
Heading back to Walnut Creek gave me lots to reflect on. Easter Sunday, for me, is a bit of reflection, renewal, and gratitude—thinking about the year ahead.
2026 has already been a season of intense change, on both the work and personal fronts. I am thankful for the people I have and the experiences around me in this life, and this Easter sunrise ride is no exception.
Happy Easter, everyone.
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Previous Easter sunrise posts: 2025 | 2024 | 2019 | 2018 | 2012 | 2008
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