On the Oyster Trail: Richmond to Tomales Bay on two wheels
On a cold summer Sunday morning, we departed Richmond, chasing winding roads, saltwater, and the promise of oysters plucked straight from the sea.
Our course was set: ride north to Tomales Bay Oyster Company by way of Highway 1, a journey through Mill Valley and along the wild sweep of Stinson Beach. The destination promised briny rewards, but the road itself was half the point.
Crossing the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, rising high above the water, the city dissolved behind us as Mount Tam rose ahead, dark and dramatic against the thinning fog.
From Mill Valley, we ascended into the forested folds of Highway 1. The road here is a motorcyclist’s dream, a twisting cliffside thread, bordered on one side by plunging ravines and on the other by towering redwoods and cypress.
We descended into Stinson Beach, where the Sunday crowd was already in motion. Visitors filled up every available parking spot in front of cafes and restaurants, and the main strip buzzed with weekend energy. We slowed briefly to take it in, but oysters awaited, and the highway called us northward.
This ride had been blessed by recent road crews: the blacktop was newly laid, perfectly smooth, a flawless ribbon of asphalt. Each curve begged to be leaned into, each straightaway a passing opportunity.
Beyond Stinson, the world fell quiet and cold. The road narrowed, hugging the rugged coastline as it traced the long, slender shape of Tomales Bay. Here, the ride became meditative. A steady rhythm of curves, the ocean to the west, the still bay to the east, the perfect pavement beneath us.
Yet amid the beauty, there was a pang of loss. Just beyond these waters lies Drakes Estero, once home to the legendary Drakes Bay Oyster Company. Many remember its humble wooden shacks, buzz of activity, the simple joy of shucking oysters at the water’s edge. It was more than a business; it was a cultural landmark. Its closure, the result of a long and bitter battle, left the coastline quieter but poorer in spirit.
The torch, however, still burns in Marshall, where Tomales Bay Oyster Company operates. By the time we arrived, the gravel lot was overflowing with Subarus, pickups, and coolers. The line of oyster pilgrims spilled toward the water, a congregation united by saltwater cravings.
Just up the road from Tomales Bay Oyster Company sits Hog Island Oyster Co., its whitewashed shacks and tidy docks standing in sharp contrast to the rough-and-tumble charm of its neighbor.
Under a large canopy, workers moved with relentless precision. Grabbing bags and heaving up glistening oysters onto the large outdoor table. Each bag landed on the counter with a wet, satisfying thud before being passed to the next eager set of hands. When our turn came, we chose a some for slurping raw and some destined for the grill.
Tomales Bay is strictly to-go, there is no grilling by the seaside like at Drakes. No picnicking at the site, so we slung our oysters over our back and headed home.
From Olema, the route turned inland, leaving behind the foggy shimmer of Tomales Bay. Sir Francis Drake Boulevard unfurled before us. It began wide and gentle, bordered by open pastures where dairy cows grazed lazily under the cool June sky.
As we rode east, the landscape shifted. Redwoods appeared in sudden, solemn groves, we passed through the small towns of Lagunitas and San Geronimo then came Fairfax, where the vibe shifted, more traffic, more chatter, the quiet pastoral stretches giving way to Marin’s suburban edge.
From Fairfax, the road widened, descending steadily toward Larkspur. Here, Sir Francis Drake Boulevard became less wild, less remote, a final, smooth glide before merging back toward the freeway and the homeward stretch to Richmond.
At home, we shucked and sucked the oysters down raw, their cold saltwater bite tasting of the bay itself. Then came a few more, dressed simply, a squeeze of lemon plucked from a backyard tree. A few more tossed on the grill with a bit of garlic, olive oil and red pepper for those who like their food more composed.
Oysters are a blank canvas for indulgence. Fried oysters bring a whole different joy, their delicate flesh tucked inside a golden crust, perfect with a squeeze of lemon or tucked into a soft roll for a po’boy. On days like this, there’s no wrong way to eat them. Whether slurped straight from the shell or crisped to perfection, each oyster feels like a reward for the ride, a taste of the coast earned one winding mile at a time.
Though Drakes Bay Oyster Company is gone, its spirit lingers in rides like this: in the curves we trace, the shells we crack, and the taste of ocean salt on our tongues. The tradition lives on, carried forward by every rider and every oyster lover who follows the call of the coast.
SUPPORT LOCAL JOURNALISM - SUBSCRIBE TODAY!
GrandEATS! needs your financial support to continue delivering the news that matters to our community. Quality journalism costs money, and we can't do it without readers like you.
SUBSCRIBE NOW and get:
• Unlimited access to all articles
• Newsletters with exclusive content
• The satisfaction of backing independent local news that serves your community
CLICK HERE TO SUBSCRIBE - Starting at just $10/month
FOLLOW US FOR FOOD ADVENTURES AND MORE:
• TikTok: @Grandeats01
• Twitter: @GrandviewIndy
• Instagram: @GrandviewIndependent
• Facebook: @Grandview Independent
Copyright © 2025 GrandEATS!, all rights reserved.
