Brookings, OR to Redwoods National Park, CA

california

I was looking forward to today’s ride.  I would enter California and cycle through the Redwoods forest.  I ate a few bagels and an apple and made my way out of Brookings.  10 miles later, I hit California.

The ride was scenic and rolling.  Ken told me it would be like this until I passed Crescent City, where I’d begin to hit pretty big climbs as I went into the Redwoods area.  As I rode into Crescent City, I started scouting a cheap place to get a sandwich.  And then I saw it.  $2.99 meal at Jack in the Box.  You get a burger/chicken sandwich, taco, fries, and a fountain drink.  You couldn’t make it cheaper than that.

vince

I was eating my food at Jack in the Box when this really loud, cheerful guy dressed in tattered clothing walked in.  He ordered the same thing I did and told the employee his name was Obama.  He just wanted to hear her say it when she called out his order.

Seeing my bike, he walked up to me and started conversation.  He told me it was great to see young folks traveling, but out of nowhere brought up a young Canadian guy that got hit by a car in town.  Weird change in dialogue.  He then gave me a bit of advice.  Vince said, “My dad always told me to think positive.”  He cupped his hand upwards to mimic someone asking for money and said, “Some people are like this.”  He flipped his hand over, flattened it, and made a jabbing motion and said, “And others are like this.”  I guess he was saying some people go through life asking for hand-outs and others poke people with their hands.  Who the hell knows.  He was still cool.

On the way out, he told me a few generic jokes.  “Hey, a mushroom walked into the bar.  The bartender wouldn’t serve him because he was a fun guy [fungi],” he said laughing.  Terrible, but it was funny coming from Vince.

hitchhikers

Cycling the 101, I’ve seen a lot of hitchhikers on the road.  A lot of these hitchers are young kids who seem to be rebelling against their parents.  They’re all needlessly dirty and grungy.  They could easily clean up in a convenience store bathroom and even handwash their clothes in a body of water.  I guess they’re trying to put on some front.  Either way, I ran into these two annoying kids:

They were crying out for attention.  I stopped just to take a picture of them, and they loved it.  They asked me for money, and but I denied them.  The two teenagers had expensive backpacks and gear.  The pair were probably from middle class families and were crying out to have some sort of hip experience waving their ‘Tits’ and ‘Weed’ signs about.

Another pair of hitchhikers yelled out to me, “Hey!  Do you have any food?”  I stopped and gave them two apples.  Same scenario.  A lot of these hitchers are takers.  It was obvious because they wouldn’t even ask about your journey or even your name.  “Hey, do you have — ?” was the first question out of their mouths.  If you decide to hitchhike, learn how to start a dialogue with somebody without being a blatant beggar.

the mystical redwoods

The first climb out of Crescent City was a monster.  There was no shoulder, so I decided to just take the lane and force cars to the passing lane.  As I approached the top of the hill, I looked back and saw a cyclist without any panniers.  I challenged myself to not let him pass me, and pass me he did not.  I stopped for a rest at the top.  I was curious to see if it was the Mel.  Nope.

His name was Brad, and he told me he was trying to catch up to me.  “You were my inspiration to get up this hill,” he said, “but I couldn’t catch you.”  He was traveling with just a backpack and a few extra clothes.  Brad let me know that his friend was just behind him.  We looked down the hill, and we saw a cyclist walking his bike up.  I laughed and said, “That’s not him, is it?”

The other cyclist’s name was Aaron.  As soon as he saw me and Brad, he hopped back on his bike.  Man.  I wished I was on an unloaded bike.  Greg and Aaron were from Michigan and doing a two week tour of the Oregon coast down to San Francisco.  They had just graduated from school and were ‘credit card touring’.  That’s why they had no panniers.

They went on their way, and I decided to write the message ‘Trees Save Hobbits’ on my bike board.  It seemed fitting for the area that I was cycling.

The next 30 miles took me through some amazing forest and coastal areas.

And one more…

the three amigos

I finally arrived to Prairie Creek, a campground located in the heart of Redwoods National Park.  It was $3 for a biker site and $0.50 for a 5-minute hot shower.  Damn.  California camping rocked.  I made my way towards the campground and saw a few other young cyclists that had already set up camp and eaten dinner.  The hiker/biker camp was nicely secluded in a Redwoods grove away from all the other motorist camping spots.

They all came over and introduced themselves to me.  I’ve found that the camaraderie amongst touring cyclists is pretty strong, and most of them will just walk up to one another and begin conversation.  Tim and Sasha were two guys from the south that were moving out to the west coast.  The two of them had started a Trans-America tour a few months ago, but due to some tendinitis, they had to stop only 5 days into their tour.  They shared with me a pretty cool story about them getting kicked off a campground by a fat guy and his son in the Appalachians because they thought the pair were loitering at their lodge.  Now, the two of them were touring the Pacific coast down to San Francisco.

Simon, the third cyclist at the camp, was also a pretty interesting character.  The Swiss cyclist was only 19 and touring an unfamiliar place.  The guy definitely had balls.  He was telling us stories about how unbelievably hospitable Americans were to him and recanted a story of a guy in Washington who gave him $20 for lunch.  Simon was shocked to see how Americans always said ‘hello’ to one another with a smile on their face.  “In Europe,” he said, “this is not the case.”

We sat around the fire sharing a few more stories.  I really enjoyed my time hanging out with them and hoped I’d run into them again on the way down to San Francisco.

It was a little past midnight by the time I crawled into my tent.  As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out cold.

Bullards Beach State Park, OR to Brookings, OR

bumbling bicyclist freakout

I woke up to the sound of annoying, screaming children.  All of my gear was wet because it had rained the prior night.  Oh well.  I put on my soaked shoes and wet clothes and made my way to the town of Bandon.

I was on the lookout for a coffee shop.  My eyes were bloodshot, and I had a 90 mile day ahead of me.  I saw a placed called ‘Brewed Awakenings’ (yet another corny coffee shop name) and noticed there were a lot of cars.  I figured it must be good.

I walked in and saw a breakfast special.  Unlimited coffee and a strawberry Belgian waffle for $5.  Perfect.  I filled up my mug, took a seat next to a window, and quickly sucked the coffee down.

I walked back up to the coffee dispenser to fill up again.  By then, the place had become pretty packed.  All of the tables were full, and it felt like everyone was aware of the lonely, solo cyclist drinking coffee.  For my second cup, I decided to use honey instead of sugar.  The honey was in a very tall plastic squeeze tube.  A few seconds after squeezing, the top busted open.  Half of the honey in the container gushed into my cup, pushing all of the coffee out of my cup and onto the floor.  “Shit,” I said in a flat voice.

I didn’t want to turn around.  I knew there were 30 faces looking at me.  I turned around.  There were 30 faces looking at me.  Damnit.  I looked like a complete idiot.  I tried using my body to block their view of the disaster.  This stupid guy in tight shorts had walked into the local coffee shop and destroyed the coffee preparation area.  I let one of the employees know what had happened, and I insisted on cleaning it up myself.  She handed me a rag, but it wasn’t enough.  I was swashing around huge pools of coffee with a piece of tissue paper, only to knock more of it on the floor.  It didn’t help that I had already had a cup of coffee, so I was even more antsy and bumbling than normal.

I turned around hoping all the faces were no longer looking at me.  One lady was looking in my direction.  I laughed and said, “Looks like I made a little bit of a mess.”  She didn’t react to the ‘joke’.  She wasn’t even looking at me but rather the kitchen, but she noticed me after I said it.  She was confused, and I was an idiot.  I turned back around to avoid explanation.

I sat down with a mug half full of honey.  I didn’t have the heart to ask for another coffee mug after the mess I made, so for the next 30 minutes I drank several cups of honey saturated coffee.  Needless to say, I was hyped up on coffee for the next couple of hours.

tire falling apart

With less than 500 miles to go, I was hoping to make it to San Francisco without replacing my tires.  That hope was dashed when I got yet another flat outside Port Orford.  I was going up a pretty decent climb when I noticed I was grinding harder and harder in my lowest gear.  I looked down.  My rim was nearly touching the asphalt.

I pulled over to a viewpoint, got off my bike, and looked at it in extreme frustration.  I took off the rear tire and saw that it was just falling apart.  After I got a flat in Bremerton from a huge nail, I didn’t bother patching up the tire.  Well.  That’s how glass made its way into the tire and through the tube.  I was pissed.  I had about 55 miles to go, and it was already 2 PM.  I didn’t want to cycle until sunset again.

I put some contact cement in the openings and electrical tape on the inside of the tire.  I wanted to at least make it to Arcata before purchasing another tire.

None of the motorists parked next to me acknowledged my situation.  Eventually, a passing cyclist asked if I needed any help.  She went on to say, “I’m not traveling with my panniers today.  Some guy offered to carry them to the next campsite!”  What the hell.  I was obviously not in a good mood, and she was rubbing it in that she was traveling unloaded.  Annoying young girl.  I went back work on my bicycle and called her a ‘bastard’ under my breath.  Then again, I don’t blame her.  I was just jealous.

I finally got it fixed and partied it up on the cliff with my sign.

climbing with mel

Most of the day was spent climbing steep two-mile hills and descending to the base of the next one.  However, I did get to enjoy some pretty awesome scenery.

More.

After passing through the town of Gold Beach, I made another big climb only to discover that the roller coaster that is Highway 101 would continue until Brookings.  Fortunately, I connected with a cool, young female cyclist named Mel.  She was from Boston and was cycling with the girl I had spoken to while I was repairing my flat.  I guess her friend didn’t enjoy cycling with Mel and would always leave her behind.  The two of them started in Vancouver and were traveling down the coast to San Diego.  She told me the guy they had stayed with the prior night was a couchsurfing host, and he drove them 40 miles south that morning to give them a headstart…and he was carrying their shit to camp with them that night.  It turned out that this guy was David, the same guy I had contacted who told me he would be out of town in Portland that weekend, but evidently he had plenty of time to host two female cyclists.  Hearing more stories about him, I pieced together the fact that the dude was a creepshow.

I said goodbye to Mel at Harris Beach State Park and made my way to Ken’s house in Brookings.

ken, a very clean guy

Ken, my couchsurfing host for the night, wanted to grab some food when I arrived at his house.  Upon walking in his home, I saw that everything was in perfect order.  The magazines and remote controls were placed in square fashion on the coffee table, and while I spoke to Ken for a few minutes, he was wiping the counter top with a rag.

I cleaned up, and we headed to a place called ‘Wild Pizza’.  Ken worked for the Forest Service in the California Redwoods area and does GPS mapping for the state.  I talked to him a while about his work and all of his couchsurfing experiences.   I asked him if he had any negative experiences, and he told me about three cyclists that stayed at his home and ‘trashed’ the place.  Ken was an incredibly clean guy, so I was curious what his definition of ‘trashed’ was.  It turned out that these cyclists had washed dishes and left a little bit of food on them.  After that, I was paranoid to touch anything and left everything how I found it.

Ken drank a lot of beer.  So much, in fact, that he had hundreds of bottles in his garage that he hadn’t taken to recycling.  However, they were all stacked in a very orderly fashion.

I rolled out my sleeping bag and said goodbye to Ken.  He would leave for work at 6 AM, so I wouldn’t be seeing him in the morning.

Florence, OR to Bullards Beach State Park, OR

dunes of the oregon coast

Roy treated me once more to a nice breakfast complete with pancakes, eggs, bacon, and coffee.  After stuffing myself, we went to grab a few pictures under the Florence bridge.

Here was another cool one.

Roy drove south to see if he could scout any more spots out.  He was pretty skeptical because the weather was pretty dreary and wouldn’t allow for proper lighting.

And dreary it was.  I passed through the town of Gardiner.  Depressing.  The only person I saw out and about was a lonely guy walking his dog.  The buildings were in poor condition, and the weather only amplified the somber mood.

The unique thing about this portion of the coast was the huge sand dunes on the coast.  There were places where they actually overflowed into the road.  I was riding with the message ‘Cubicle Survivor’ and took this shot at Spinreel Dune:

While taking the shot, some guy in a huge truck with ATVs and dirtbikes in tow yelled out, “Take a photo!  Take a photo!”  Obviously he was mocking me.  That was the shitty part of this section of road.  It was all along the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Park, so all these obnoxious people with their huge rigs, wide trailers, and gaudy ATVs would gun it past me on the road, hardly giving me any room.  It reminded me of my stay in the dunes area of Colorado.  Egos everywhere.

Roy found out that the cloudiness did not subside further south, so he turned around and caught me on the road.  After talking for a while, we said our goodbyes and hugged it out.  Roy, the lone wolf photographer of the Northwest coast, had treated me well, and I was very grateful.

pushing it to camp

After passing through the depressing and dirty town of Coos Bay, meth capital of the world, I pushed onward to Bandon, Oregon.  A thought of a $5 footlong was pushing forward, along with a NW tailwind.  After a few hours of cycling, I pulled into Bullards State Park.  I was 3 miles from Bandon, so I decided a footlong was not worth 6 more miles of cycling.  I decided to just eat a bagel with Nutella.

The campground sign said ‘NO VACANCIES’.  I pulled up to the fee area and paid my $4 for a hiker/biker site.  Super cheap.  As I placed my change into my handlebar bag, I heard these two guys on motorcycles pull up and bitch and moan about the camping price.  They saw that the biker site was $4 and asked about that.  Haha.  Bastards.  The park employee told them they had no vacancies and said the next state park was another 30 or so miles.  I waved goodbye to them.

oregon parks rock

Oregon has the best state park system hands-down.  Their website is phenomenal, and they are very accommodating to hikers and cyclists.  The campgrounds are immaculate, and they’re very well run.

The only downfall of this specific hiker/biker site was that it was surrounded by RV/campers.  However, the showers were included in the price, and the water was hot.  The facilities were amazing.

After eating some peanuts and bagels, I walked down to the beach.  On my way, I ran into the two German tandem cyclists that I had encounted on my way out of Seattle.  I felt bad because I didn’t immediately remember them.  However, they remembered me.  This time I got their names.  Reina and Julia.  Very nice cyclists.  Conversation didn’t go awkward this time.

I was hoping the sun would break through the clouds for a nice sunset.  It didn’t.  I sat down and wrote in my journal about the past few days on the road.  I also wrote a love song.

I called Bryon, my bearded friend I met in Lubbock, and tried to persuade him to cycle the Redwoods with me.  He had told me he’d cycle with me before I finished my tour, but that evening he let me down.  I cried a few hours alone on the beach as people on horseback passed by.

I walked back to camp and fell asleep to the noise of loud, annoying children.

Eugene, OR to Florence, OR

back to climbing

I got up at 7:30 AM and pulled all my stuff together.  Sean got up just to make me some coffee and send me off.  He woke Jude up, and she came stumbling down the stairs, still tired from last night.  It was very nice of them to wake up on their weekend just to say goodbye.  Sean even helped me figure out a bike-friendly route out of Eugene.

I was looking forward to getting back to the coast, where it would be drastically cooler.  Roy, the gentleman I met in Astoria, dropped me a line that morning and told me he was in the area doing photography.  If I was going to be in Florence that afternoon, he told me I could crash in his motel room, and he’d set me up with a good meal.  That only fueled my motivation to get to the coast.

The initial part of the ride was flat, but it quickly became hilly.  The closer I got to the coast, the stronger the headwind became.  I wasn’t too worried.  I had gotten an early enough start that I could pace myself and give my knee a rest every hour or so.

burnt finger and a broken bag

I made a fast descent down a summit and started hearing a clicking sound.  I looked down at my front wheel and saw the strap pinging off the spokes of my wheel.  Shit!  I couldn’t stop because there was a line of traffic going 35 mph behind me.  I was hogging the lane because there was no shoulder.

I was almost to the base of the summit when I heard a huge ripping sound.  I didn’t have to look at my bag.  I knew what had happened.  I slammed on the brakes and pulled over to a turnout.  The entire strap had broken off and become entangled in the spokes and wheel.  I was lucky I didn’t lose control of the bike at 35 mph.

I reached down to tug on the strap.  My finger brushed against the rotor.  I yelled out in pain to deaf ears.  The damn rotor was blistering hot, and the side of my middle finger was already forming a disgusting bubble.

I struggled for 20 minutes to get the tangled strap out of my wheel.  I eventually had to use my dull Swiss army knife to cut through the synthetic strap while carefully avoiding my rotor.  I was cursing to myself.  I wasn’t mad about the messed up bag.  That was replaceable with about $15.  I was pissed because I could have been seriously injured if the strap had gotten tangled against the forks and the wheel.

I made my way up the next summit, but I continued hearing a clicking noise.  I was paranoid about other straps hitting my wheels.  I pulled over onto the shoulder and leaned to my left to look down at my wheel.  While bent over and looking down at my wheel, I could hear a loud, obnoxious motorcycle coming up from behind me.  Suddenly, I felt a whoosh of air right by my helmet.  I looked up and saw that the ‘cool, dangerous’ guy on a rich guy Harley hadn’t budged from the white line.  He had the whole lane but didn’t move an inch to give me room.

Infuriated, I raised my burnt middle finger in ire and waved it in the air at him.  I let out an angry holler that didn’t form any words.  He probably didn’t even see me or think twice about it.

I started moving forward once more.  Not but a mile later the same damn thing happened with another motorcycle driver.  This time I waved, and I waved hard.  Fuck these guys. I spent the next hour thinking about motorcycle drivers.

motorcycle drivers

A new villain has replaced the old one of campers and RVs.  My distaste for big rig camping has waned over the past few months, only to be replaced by another type of vehicle that has left me with a really bad taste in my mouth.  Motorcycles.

I’ve found that I usually encounter two types of motorcyclists while on this trip.  The first type are usually older guys, perhaps accompanied by a smiling female clung to their backs, that are traveling loaded with camping gear.  They’re motorcycle touring many of the places I’m bicycle touring, and they have an understanding of why I’m doing this trip.  Most will wave or nod at me, and I’ll happily smile and wave back.  I’ve also heard these motorcyclists called ‘bucket listers’, but they aren’t that old.

The second type are comprised of middle-aged guys with goatees, shaved heads, and leather Harley jackets.  These guys are ‘closet rich’ guys, a far cry from the Hell’s Angels that have been romanticized by pop culture.  These wanna-be’s want to have the same look and feel of a motorcycle gangster but secretly sleep in cozy, safe hotel rooms.  You won’t see these guys roughing it anywhere.  However, they’ll put on an act while riding.  I initially smiled and waved at these guys when passing them, only to be shunned and left with a lonely smile on my face.  They also don’t give a shit about bicyclists, and they’ll usually come very close to swiping me.  All ego.  Bark without the bite.  Often, they’ll brag about how far they’ve ridden.  When I overhear this conversation, I laugh.  What’s so hard about popping your wrist back and forth to engage the fuel injection.  Yeah.  I’ve held a grudge.

Of course, there are plenty of other types of motorcyclists, but again, these two are the types that I encounter the most on my tour.

florence

For most of the day, I had been riding with this message:

I was getting a pretty good reactions from people, which helped put me in positive spirits once again.  The person that really pushed me into the positive was a little girl, about 4 or 5 years old, in the back seat of a car who waved and laughed at me.

The last 15 miles to Florence were brutal.  The west wind from the coast was ripping into me, and I was struggling to stay at 9 mph.  After an hour and a half, I finally made it to town and met up with Roy.

I cleaned up, and Roy treated me to an awesome dinner at a waterfront restaurant, which comprised of two entrees.  Hell…he insisted.  Burgers and calamari never tasted so good.  After dinner, we scouted out some spots to take some action shots the next morning.  Roy decided on an nook under an old bridge running south from Florence.

We burned a few hours sharing stories and talking about photography, politics, the direction of our government, and Ron Paul.  Roy was a cool guy and quite knowledgable about the Libertarian front.

Salem, OR to Eugene, OR

another hot day

The prior night, I told myself I’d wake up at 5:30 AM and be on the road by 6 AM.  I slept in by an hour, and that meant about 5 more degrees in heat.  I sluggishly prepared my bicycle for riding and finally headed out.  Casey and Jordan were still sleeping upstairs in their sauna.

Due to the heat, I wanted to do at least 50 miles before noon.  The first few hours of riding were fantastic.  I was cycling on small, scenic roads with great views of Oregon’s old farms.  To cap off the romanticism, an eagle let out a screech as he flew alongside me and screeched yet again as he changed direction.  That was a first.

The back roads took me through a few small agricultural towns in the morning.  The hills were rolling, and the climbs weren’t killer.  A cop pulled me over and felt me up for speeding.

Around 11 AM was when the heat really started pounding down on me.  I was cycling through the town of Halsey when I decided I could no longer take it.  I stood under a tree contemplating my next move while stuffing my face with brownies.  I decided to continue on to Eugene.  I had 30 miles left.

I got to the edge of town and saw a city park with restrooms, a water fountain, and a pavilion.  And so I changed my mind.  I ate a bag of chips and lie down on top of the picnic table.  I slept for two hours.

I woke up to the sound of trucks.  It had been nonstop.  90% of the traffic through Halsey was huge truck traffic.  I’m guessing it’s because the railroad runs right through it.  That and there were huge farms all around.  I sat up really annoyed by the sound of engine brakes and stared at passing traffic.  9 out of 10 of the cars that passed were either F-150s, dump trucks, or tractor trailers.

I finally forced myself to leave the protection of the pavilion and once more became victim to the brutal heat.  I was accompanied by this message:

ran off the road

My frustrations with the truck traffic did not end in Halsey.  I was on Highway 99 traveling south to Eugene and hugging the white line.  There was no hard shoulder beyond the white line…just a sloping bank covered with rocks and mud.

I had three large tractor trailers coming towards me at 60 mph.  I looked in my mirror.  Shit.  Another big tractor trailer coming at me from behind…and he wasn’t slowing down.  I decided to own the lane.  He didn’t slow down.  Shit.

This guy was going to flick me to the side of the road like a bug.  He creeped up on my rear fender, forcing me back to the edge of the white line.  His sideview mirror was just above my helmet, and he had a wider profile tractor being pulled behind him.

He won.  I slid out of control onto the rocky bank, nearly toppling over.  I could only imagine how much the asshole was laughing inside his big, stupid truck.  I angrily waved to him with the words ‘mother fucker’ going through my mind.

bike-friendly eugene

I finally arrived in Eugene around 5 PM.  All of the roads had bike lanes, and there were bicycle signs everywhere.  Cycling through town, I saw bicycles parked outside of every building.  One guy that drove by me even asked me if I needed a ride and pointed at his AC (he saw my sign).

I was closing in on Jude’s house when I heard someone yell ‘RYAN’.  It was Jude hollering out her car window.  “Three more miles!” she yelled.  I cycled towards her street, and she was waiting outside her car waving at me.  She gave me a big hug and offered to give me a ride up the huge hill coming up.  I accepted, and when I saw the hill, I was glad I did.

fire spinners

Jude performed with a team of ‘fire spinners’, and they were having practice that night.  Unfortunately, I’d miss their performance at a biker bar on Saturday.  I went along and sat in the bar’s parking lot watching them practice.  I looked like a lonely bar patron salivating in a parking lot watching girls dance with fire.

Their ability to spin burning objects and dance on beat was impressive.  There were a few routines that involved burning katanas, hoola-hoops, and jump ropes.

night out

The next night, Jude, her husband Sean, and I went out to Don Bomb’s Garage, a local bar in the Whitaker neighborhood.  Jude described it as the raw part of Eugene…meaning it had flavor and culture.  I walked in and felt really out of place.  I had cycling clothing on.  Everyone else either had beards or tight jeans.  Sean, like the nice, beautiful man he was, bought me a few beers and a burrito.

Jude’s friend Ignacias, also called Nacho, joined us for a few beers.  He performed in Iron Man competitions regularly, and he told me how grueling they were.  He was tall, dark, and mysterious.  I was average height, dark just on my arms, and a plain bumbling white guy.

A few more of Jude’s friends showed up.  I think she knew everyone at the bar.  A very popular lady.  Sean and I called it a night around 1 AM while Jude and her friends partied on.

Lake Oswego, OR to Salem, OR

almost a non-awkward morning

I woke up early to see Joni off.  It was hot.  Here’s the butter.

She made me an egg sandwich and gave me a bunch of stuff to take with me.  I was sad to say goodbye, especially since she was a familiar face.  She was probably ready for me to leave.  Good-looking, smiling girl with ugly, annoying cyclist:

I loaded up my bike and was preparing to leave.  Lindsay and Max had just walked in and were preparing breakfast.  I was happy that the morning went by without any weird goodbyes.  The goodbye with Joni went smoothly.  Lindsay seemed to avoid conversation with me.  I spoke to Max for a few minutes and said goodbye.  “Have a good trip!” he yelled out as I headed out the door.

“You too!” I happily said back.  Stupid.  The only trip he was going on was the one that morning to work.  I tried correcting myself out loud.  “I mean, uh, you’re not going on a trip…Bye!”  He didn’t hear me.  He was already upstairs.

I was cursed.

cycling in a sauna

I was headed to Salem, Oregon’s capital.  The first few hours of cycling were nice and cool.  I did 30 miles pretty quickly and stopped under some shade to take a break.

And then I hit agriculture land around noon.  The heat was nearly unbearable, and there was no tree cover.  There was also no wind, so all I could feel was the heat emanating off my body.  It felt like a sauna whose timer was broken.  I couldn’t escape.

I hit 4500 miles that day, so I decided to celebrate with an odometer message in a wheat field.

three really shitty bowlers

I went into a McDonald’s close to Salem and got a fountain drink and two $1 sandwiches.  I gave Casey a call to let him know I was in town.  Without hesitation, he offered to come pick me up.  I told him I could cycle it, but he said it’s too hot.  “I will come pick you up,” he insisted.

Casey was recently let go from the Post Office because he ran over a mailbox.  His mother, also a postal worker, worked out of Salem too.  I could only imagine how disappointed she was…crying herself to sleep at night because her son let her down.  I got emotional about it.  Casey didn’t care.  He had moved on.

We drove back to Casey’s place and saw an overturned truck.

Jordan, Casey’s roommate, was hanging out upstairs.  It was about 120+ degrees in their room.  A wall of heat hit me when I walked up there.  Terrible.  I was dripping sweat, and when I came back down to the kitchen, I saw Casey standing inside the fridge.

Casey couldn’t take it anymore.  He offered to pay for bowling just to get out of the house, and so we all went bowling.

We were all shitty bowlers.  My first four attempts ended up in the gutter.  It was pathetic.  There was this one guy wearing a collared shirt next to us who was getting strikes every single bowl.  He was showing off to three sweaty, terrible bowlers.  We didn’t care about him, but he cared about us.

We were so pathetic that the displays kept telling us “Nice Try”.  On one bowl, the display asked Jordan if he’s “got the munchies”.  What?  Weird message with no relevance to bowling.  It thought we had to have been stoned to suck so bad.

Afterward, Casey cooked up some bratwursts and rice, and we watched a movie called Battle Royale. In this movie, depression-hit Japan was seeing all of its youth go ballistic.  In order to put an end to the craziness, the government decided to do an annual lottery where a 9th grade class was chosen and sent to an island.  The kids were told that the only way to get off the island was to be the last student standing.  It was intense, and I’m still haunted by the imagery of screaming Japanese kids decapitating one another.  The movie didn’t explain how all of them had instantaneously become martial arts masters.  Oh well.

Forest Grove, OR to Lake Oswego, OR

hot morning

After eating a few hundred bowls of cereal with Matt, I said my goodbyes to him and his room mate Rochelle.

I had spent about 10 minutes trying to figure out what to write on the bike board.  We had all come up with two options:  ‘The end is nigh’ and ‘Bernie Madoff owes me $5′.  I went with the latter.  I was interested to see if people would react to it.

I wasn’t looking forward to the ride that morning.  It was only 30 miles, but it was hot and my knee was very sore.  As soon as I got on the main highway leading to Portland, I got good reactions to the bike board.  A lot of old people shook their heads and laughed.  I’d have to say that the shaking of the head was the main reaction.  I didn’t realize it was slightly offensive.  Maybe they knew a lot of people that lost money to Madoff.  I didn’t…obviously if he still owed me $5.

I turned onto Highway 217.  Three lanes on both sides full of speeding cars.  I was nervous, not because of the traffic, but because I didn’t know if I was prohibited from cycling on that highway.  I don’t think I was allowed to because it was bigger than most interstates.  Plus the exits were incredibly difficult to cross.  I waited a few minutes for traffic to clear just to cross one exit.

guy and pizza schmizza

I had finally arrived at Lake Oswego, and I was on the hunt for a place to chill and get a fountain drink.  Unlimited refills sounded pretty good.  I found out Lake Oswego wasn’t very welcoming to my bike board message.  It was a posh area, and I got all kinds of nasty looks.  It made it all the better.  I celebrated in the middle of town.

After going back and forth through town, I finally found a place with pizza and fountain drinks:  Pizza Schmizza.  And it had air conditioning.  I got two slices of pizza and a small drink for $7.  I quickly devoured the slices, but I didn’t want to shell out another $7 for two more slices.  I hung out and typed up some blog entries while I waited for Joni to get out of work.

I started talking to Guy, one of the employees working the afternoon shift.  A bunch of rich kids had left him with a dirty table, and he kindly thanked them after they walked out of the restaurant.  I wish I was a really rich kid.  They had ordered a 20-something dollar pizza and walked out with full stomachs.

I’ve learned quite a few things from dumpster diving.  One of which is that pizza places dump out a ton of pizza that just sits around.  Unfortunately, I haven’t successfully dumpstered pizza.  Pizza joints are tough targets.

Having spoken to Guy for a few minutes, I asked, “So what do you guys do with pizza that has been sitting around for a while?  Do you sell it at a discount?”  I wanted to buy more pizza on the cheap and was willing to eat old pizza.

“Well, our pizza is cooked to 90%.  We throw it in the oven to finish it off when people order by the slice,” he said, much to my dismay.  But then what he said next perked my ears.  “We do throw out pizza…but at the end of the night.”

Damn.  With a child-like look in my face, I asked, “Ah…cool.  So nothing in the middle of the day?”

“I think I can hook you up,” he said.  He brought me a slice of veggie pizza.  Damn.  It’s pretty cool to see things open up when you just take the time to talk to people.  That and Guy was pretty damn hospitable.  Before leaving work, he also hooked me up with a slice of cheese pizza.  Guy rocked.

portland and deschutes brewery

I met Joni at her house in Lake Oswego.  She lived with two guys, Dan and Max.  Max was heir to a big company called Oil Can Henry’s.  His family was full of money.  Cool.  I’d fit right in…I had no money.

Joni and I left to go to Deschute’s Brewery in Portland.  Although it was only 15-20 miles away, it took us more than an hour to get there.  Joni kept going the wrong way.  I guess going into Portland was a first for both of us.  I welcomed her to her home city.  Her Tom Tom GPS did too.

We had a few beers and talked about my trip and her work.  Joni was an employee at Nike, whose headquarters was in Beaverton, OR.  I loved hearing her rant about work.  It reminded me of sitting in Little 5 Points with Eoin and both of us whining about our sad, lonely lifestyles in our cubicles.  She was in that same place.  Quarter-life crisis.

I introduced her to my awkward conversation without giving her warning.  She started talking about her boyfriend.  “Do you love him?” I asked out of nowhere.

She stumbled.  “Uh, ummm…Yeah, yeah I do love him,” she said.

“Would you marry him?” I asked, quickly following up with another awkward question.

“Um…well he’s got to get permission from my dad,” she said, trying to avoid the question.

“Well, let’s say he got your dad’s approval.  Would you marry him?” I asked again.

I went on like this until I thought she couldn’t take any more, and finally I let her know I was forcing this on her for my entertainment.  She was probably annoyed and wanted me to leave.  I just wanted to know if she loved her boyfriend.

gold digger!  gold digger!  gold digger!!!!!

We pulled up to Joni’s house after going to the grocery store.  Like the kind hostess she was, she bought some breakfast food that we’d make for dinner the next day.  We were met outside by Max and his girlfriend Lindsay.  Blond, big boobs, and a dark tan.  They had just gotten back from a vacation in Hawaii.

The first words as the two walked up were out of Lindsay’s mouth.  “It’s so fucking hot in there…it fucking sucks!” she said in a high-pitched whining voice.  It was like nails on a chalkboard.

Max introduced her to me.  I felt bad for him because he was in such negative company.  He seemed like a really nice, positive person.  The two of them were going over to his parents’ house.  Air conditioning was a rare thing, and Max’s parents had it.  Lindsay continued to rant.  “It’s way too fucking hot to fucking sleep,” she said.  I wanted to cover my ears.  Her voice was annoying.

I knew what she was.  I wanted to yell, “GOLD DIGGER!  GOLD DIGGER!  GOLD DIGGER!”  I didn’t.  It was Max’s house that I was sleeping in that night.  Joni later told me that Lindsay asked her to go on a car ride after Joni moved in.  Tired Joni went along with her, and Lindsay laid down the law with what she can and can not do in the house.  Lindsay thought of the house as ‘hers’.  Lindsay sucked. Poor Joni.

dinner and beer

I took the day off and was lazy.  I slept in and took it easy, giving my knee a chance to rest.  Joni got home, and we cooked up some breakfast for dinner.  Dan, her other roommate who looks like Carson Daly, also accompanied us.  Joni tried to take credit for cooking everything with this picture.  Sneaky.

Meanwhile, Lindsay was cooking Max some dinner in the kitchen.  Other than complaining about the heat, Lindsay was awkwardly, bitchily silent.  She wanted Dan and Joni out of the house.  I should have told her I was moving in.

We all went to have a beer at the local bar.  Dan joined in the fun of making conversation awkward for Joni by asking more relationship questions.  Olive-skinned Joni blushed and blushed hard.

Afterward, I gave Dan a deep, long hug goodbye.

Joni wasn’t going to escape.  Uh oh.  Yo Joni…YOU GOT BROWNED!

Seaside, OR to Forest Grove, OR

another late start

I told Becky I’d get up at 7 AM and see her off before she went to the market.  I failed at that.  I looked at the clock at 7 and couldn’t move.  I fell back asleep.

I woke up again at 9 AM.  Not good.  I had another 90+ miles and wanted to see a few more of the filming locations of The Goonies at Ecola State Park and Cannon Beach.  I ate some cereal alone and headed out on my bicycle.

ecola state park

Even though I had eaten three bowls of cereal, I was tempted by McDonald’s breakfast.  I caved and spent $5.  It was the coffee I was after because I was still incredibly tired.

After passing through town, the highway brought me a steep 2 mile climb before my descent into the Cannon Beach area.  Two cyclists passed me on the way up, and it really pissed me off.  I tried catching them, but there was no way I could.  I was a failure.

I descended into the crowded town of Cannon Beach.  Everyone from the interior of Oregon was there for the weekend because it was so much cooler than the Portland area.  The interior valley was getting record-breaking highs that week and would continue to do so for the next few days.  I pulled up to the beach and looked at an awesome cliff with a great view of the coast.  That was Ecola State Park, and it looked like a hell of a climb.  So that’s where I headed.

Half a mile into the park area I was wondering why I decided to do this.  There were 20% grades in that park, and I was struggling in my lowest gear standing up.  I thought about walking it but would think of myself as a ninny if I did.  The entire time, I was thinking, “How in the hell did Chunk cycle this?”  It was nearly impossible for me on a loaded bike.  I can’t imagine a little fat kid doing this.  Here’s a picture of the Goonies cycling into the park.  They were all smiles.  I was all tears.

My knee started screaming in pain on the final ascent to the fee area.  If I was going to pay to enter the park, I was going to be livid.  I rode up to two cyclists, Greg and his son Aaron, and asked them if we had to pay to get in.  They didn’t know, so we bypassed the 20 cars in line and got waved into the park…without fees.  $3 savings for being on a bicycle.  I was still questioning the decision to cycle it.

greg and aaron

Greg’s family came out to Cannon Beach once a year to enjoy their time together.  They would make an effort every year to avoid getting into the car and have solid family time.  Aaron was in his final year at University of Washington, so I mentioned him and his father doing the Pacific coast after his graduation.  They seemed on board with the idea.

We walked out to the overlook, and I knew then that the cycle out there was worth it.  A lighthouse was far out on this lonely outcroppings of rocks.

And then Aaron and I decided to copy the scene of Mikey lining up the lighthouse, the restaurant, and Haystack rock in the key to One-eyed Willy.

We all rode back to town, and Greg treated me to lunch and good company.  Cycling to Ecola State Park was well worth it…only if it meant meeting these guys.

haystack rock

Greg and Aaron led me over to the public beach access area where Haystack Rock was.  This was the huge rock in the water that was in a few of The Goonies shots.  You can tell I’m a huge, lame Goonies nerd.  Whatever.  It was a movie me and my sister Paige grew up with…like a babysitter that I loved and did not love me back.  Plus I wanted to get a few sweet shots for Shannon and her bike board message.

I cycled half a mile on the beach out to the rock.  Evidently, this rock is the most photographed thing in Oregon.  I found out the beach was crowded.  It was going to be hard to get a good, clear shot for Shannon, but I was hellbent on doing it.  And so I did it.  She wanted to wish her dad good luck on his Iron Man at Lake Placid.

I got all kind of strange looks.  People didn’t understand my bike board, and I had to explain it to quite a few people.  Shannon’s dad became famous.  There was no shortage of people to talk to…lots of ladies too.  I guess the ladies in Oregon love a guy on a bicycle.  Maybe it was my really small package in my really tight cycling shorts that brought them my way.  “Oh, is Shannon your girlfriend?” many of them would ask.  I had a lot of trouble finding the time to take pictures because of the constant dialogue.  It was already 2 PM.  With 75 miles to go, I was pushing it yet again.

sucky crappy shitty hot long windy ride

After finally getting the shot, I left Cannon Beach and backtracked to the highway that would take me to Portland.  I changed my route to go inland because Joni, a friend from high school, had sent me an email and offered a place to stay in the Portland area.  I decided to flow like water and go in that direction, even though it meant a huge detour, more climbing, and hot weather.

On the very first climb, my knee started throbbing bad.  It felt like someone had a dug knife in the ligament/tendon and was twisting it each time I pedaled with my left leg.  I tried adjusting my foot placement, but it didn’t help.  As soon as I got away from the coast, the fog dissipated, and I was fully prone to the hot sun.

This was what I saw on my ride.

And…

Summit after summit.  It was the worst possible thing for my knee.  The further I went, the hotter it became.  It was like cycling into a sauna, whose epicenter was in Portland.  I was a stupid moth to the flame.  To make matters worse, my knee was clicking every time I pedaled.  It sounded like my crank arm.  Click.  Pop.  Click.  Pop.  It didn’t sound good.  I put my hand on my knee.  It was disgusting.  It felt like popcorn being made under my skin.  I started this trip as a young buck with some muscle.  I would end this trip as a scrawny 80-year-old man with a bad tan.

Oh, I was also on a road with no shoulder and heavy traffic passing me at 70 mph.  I didn’t have a break from traffic for five hours because everyone was going home after their weekend stay at the beach.

the sun is going down yet again

I cycled into Forest Grove.  There was no way in hell I could make it to Joni’s that night.  One of my other friends had not called me back all day.  She lived in the area to the west of Portland.  I had contacted Matt, a guy from couchsurfing, a week or two back asking if he’d be available to host, but I let him know I’d bypass Forest Grove and push onward to Portland.  Who the hell knew if he was even around…

I called him and no one picked up.  Great.  It was now dark, and I didn’t know where to go.  I started scouting for places to roll out a sleeping bag.  I saw someone standing by their car on the main street of town.  My plan was to ask him a good place to camp, built a solid rapport, and then bluntly ask if I could pitch a tent in his yard.

And then I got a text from Matt.  He was at his place and said it was cool to swing by.  Hell yes.  A cold shower sounded awesome.  I celebrated with a little dance and headed over to his place.

matt

Matt was a senior at the local college in town.  He worked on the school’s organic farms for a while and did landscaping during the summer to make some money.  He cooked me up some rice and vegetables as soon I got there.  Great guy.  He was planning on doing a big cross-country trip.  He told me he did a lot of hiking and mentioned doing the AT when he got out of school.

Matt was the first person since New Mexico I had seen with an air conditioning unit.  Lucky me.  Although it was night time, it was still in the upper 80s.  It felt like a bathroom after you take a hot shower.  It was terrible, but I didn’t have any trouble falling asleep on his couch.

Aberdeen, WA to Seaside, OR

late start

I intended to wake up at 7 AM and get an early start.  It didn’t happen.  I was beat from the 90+ mile day to Aberdeen, so I slept in until 9:30 AM.   It wasn’t too smart considering I had another 90+ mile day to Seaside, OR.  Plus, I was going to check out all filming locations for The Goonies in the town of Astoria.  That would kill two hours at least.

I left Stephen’s without saying goodbye to him.  It felt weird, but he insisted.  I got on the bike and decided to take the shortest way possible to Astoria.  That meant going partially inland and hitting more hills.

And so that was most of my morning.  Big hills.  It really sucked, and I could feel my knee starting to get sore.  35 miles into the morning I stopped at a McDonald’s to fill up my water bottles.

lip zit popper

I walked into the McDonald’s and made my way into the restroom.  Every single person in the place stared at me.  I didn’t understand.  I thought cyclists in that area were a common sight.  I felt like a freak show.  I was filling up my third water bottle when a tall, lanky teenager walks up to the mirror and gets up really close to the mirror.  I didn’t look.  I knew what he was doing, and he was doing it blatantly.  He was popping zits right beside me.

I was grossed out, so I tried to get out of there as quick as possible.  All of a sudden, I heard a meek voice say to me, “I hate the zits that are right on your lip.”

“Oh, yeah…” I responded, not knowing if he was intentionally trying to gross me out or making conversation.

“Yeah, but I like popping them.  It feels really good,” he said.

“Thanks for sharing that information,” I told him.  I realized he was trying to make conversation.  Really weird kid.  He kept going on about it.  This was perhaps one of the worst conversation pieces of the entire trip.  I would rather talk about crapping in the woods without a modern toilet.  Zits and pus really gross me out…especially doing it in a restaurant…and popping them right next to me.

His little brother walked up, and both of them started talking to me.  They were curious about my trip.  I wanted to leave, but they held me at bay with their kid questions.  “Do you know where ‘blah blah blah’ is?” one of them would ask.  Meanwhile, everyone in the restaurant was eavesdropping on our conversation, which also made me very uneasy.

I used the trick I learned from my European friends in New Mexico.  “OK….,” I said as I backed away.

I sat outside in the heat at one of the picnic tables and ate three bagels covered with Nutella.  I wanted $1 menu sandwiches, but I didn’t want to cave in every time I saw fast-food.  I would quickly go broke if I did that the entire trip.

crappy coastal highway

I was excited to cycle the Washington coast for about 20 miles.  It would be a nice change of pace from the previous 35 miles.

It wasn’t.  I couldn’t even see the damn coast, and I had a pretty strong crosswind.  I angrily cycled up and down….up and down….up and down.  My knees were starting to hurt, and I was drenched in sweat.  The Washington coast was bullshit, and I questioned whether this route was worth it.  It went on and on like this for a few hours.

I had to keep my eyes on the prize, and that prize was Astoria, the primary setting of The Goonies.  To lift my spirits, I drew a picture of Sloth and his famous line ’Heyyy Youuu Guyyys’.  Drivers loved it.  I actually got stopped a few times just so people could take a picture of the sign.  One guy named Ryan stopped in the middle of the highway and parked his car just to take a picture.  He started snapping pictures, and I said to him, “Uh, there’s a few cars coming at 60 mph behind you.”

“Oh shit!” he exclaimed.  He was so focused on my sign that he had evidently forgotten he parked his car in the middle of the road.

I cycled up to Dismal Point to get a few pictures of the massive bridge I would have to cycle to get to Astoria.  It was pretty intimidating, and it would be the longest bridge I have cycled.

roy western

I was admiring the view.  I couldn’t believe I was looking at the ‘goon docks’.  A gentleman by the name of Roy Western walked up and said, “Your sign?”

“Yep, that’s my sign,” I said laughing.  I knew he had no clue what the hell it meant.  I had a picture of a retarded looking guy on the board.  Who knew what Roy thought of me.

We got to talking about my trip and the coast.  He was pretty taken in by my story, but in the back of my head, I was thinking, “Damn…I’m way behind schedule.”  Whatever.  I’ll make it to my destination.  I’ll just take a few minutes of my time and enjoy talking to him.

And that I did.  I walked to his car and gave him my blog address, and he gave me his business card.  I really enjoy when people tell me that my trip is inspiring.  That alone reminds me that I should revere every minute of the trip.  The good and the bad.

I went into the restroom to fill up my water bottles.  Hot bathroom water poured into them.  Great.  I walked back out to my bike and plopped them into the cages.  As I turned around, Roy was walking up.  I greeted him again, and he said to me, “You were a little too quick for me, but I wanted to give you this.”  It was a wad of cash.

“What!?  No no.  I can’t accept that,” I said, blown away by his hospitality to a total stranger.

“No.  I want you to have it,” he said.  I couldn’t believe it.  It was a huge high for me.  I had already felt pretty good just from talking to him, but this was icing on the cake.  I let him know how much it meant to me and said goodbye once more.  He walked back to his car, and I got back on the bicycle.  I looked down at the wad and unfolded it.  $40.  Holy shit.  Unreal.

I think back to that moment and I am still touched.  Very cool.  Thanks Roy.

goonies never say die

I cycled across the bridge into Astoria.  It was a monster, but people gave me room on the incredibly small shoulder.  Most of the drivers were laughing and pointing at my sign, and a good chunk of them looked back and waved.  The end of the bridge treated me with a huge incline.

Astoria was covered in a thick fog.  It was just as I had pictured it.  I made my way to the county jail where one of the Fertelli brothers escaped in the first few minutes of the movie.

And here’s a shot of me at the museum where Mikey’s Dad worked.

Finally, it was time for the crown jewel of film locations:  the Goonies’ house.  After going up a few ridiculously steep hills, I was pointed in the right direction of the house by a citizen of Astoria.  After a few more hills, I made it to 368 38th Street.  This sign welcomed me.

I was worried the owners of the house would not want visitors walking up to the property and taking pictures.  The sign brought a smile to my face along with a huge sigh of relief.  I had cycled long and hard to get here.

I celebrated by doing Chunk’s truffle shuffle in front of Mikey’s house.

I also did a few handstand shots, one of which resulted in me falling down and rolling down the driveway 10 feet.  Stupid.  I felt like Chunk.

I also stomped and pouted in Data’s driveway.  This was where Brandon stole Data’s sister’s pink girly bike to catch up to the Goonies.

Just above me was the “window” that Data flew out of to get into Mikey’s house on a zipline.  That scene was filmed from another house in Astoria.

I saw one of the tenants of the house climb outside one of the upstairs windows.  I thanked them and made my way down the driveway.  I ran into a few more Goonies fans who took a picture of my bike board.

racing the sun…again

I made my way back through town and to another huge bridge.  Josh, another Astoria citizen, cycled up behind me and yelled, “Heyyyy youuuuu guyyyyys!”  I turned around and he asked me if I was about to cycle the bridge.  We got to talking, and he said he was thinking about cycling into traffic.

I told him I would be scared as shit.  Riding against traffic has been statistically proven to be much more hazardous.  I told him good luck, and he took off.

In the middle of the bridge, he hopped off his bike and ran into the middle of the road.  What the hell was he doing?!  A car was flying straight at him, and I was yelling, “No no no no!”  No one heard me of course.  Josh was throwing a dead sea otter off the road into the ocean.  The car slammed on brakes.  I wasn’t sure if rescuing road kill was worth becoming road kill.

I was pushing hard along the Oregon coast to get to Becky’s house.  Highway 101 in Oregon was a huge departure from the Highway 101 in Washington.  I could actually see and hear the ocean.  Another 20 miles and I finally pulled up to Becky’s house.

clay barrettes

As soon as I cycled up to the house, Becky offered me salad and pizza.  I started talking to her about couch surfing.  Her daughter had used it in Europe and told her parents it would be a good idea for them to sign up.  I asked Becky how her son felt about it, since he still lived there.  “You know, he’s really uncomfortable with it and doesn’t like it.  It surprises me that he’s so conservative,” she said.

I soon found out how much he doesn’t like it.  Her son Matthew walked into the kitchen.  “And this is my son Matthew,” she said.  Matthew nodded at me and walked by.  No handshake.  No verbal confirmation.  He walked right by me to the washing machine.

Piercing, awkward silence filled the room.  It was bad energy.  I didn’t like it.  “Hey Matthew…My name’s Ryan,” I said.  He looked at me and nodded.  No ‘nice to meet you’ or ‘where are you from’.  He was incredibly cold to me, and I knew Becky noticed.  I felt unwelcome and wanted to leave the room.  He walked by again and left us in silence.

Becky had a lot of work to do before the market the next day.  She made pretty amazing clay barrettes, but she didn’t seem to be confident in her work.  I looked at a lot of her stuff, and she was obviously a very skilled craftsman.  She told me that her barrettes were a tough sell in Astoria, home to Oregon’s second-largest farmers’ market.  I guess barrettes weren’t in fashion.

I said goodnight to Becky and went to sleep in their camper outside.  I still felt uneasy, although Becky was incredibly generous, warm, and hospitable.