Novato, CA to San Francisco, CA – The Final Ride

unnecessarily long ride

While staying at Curtis’s house, I had ordered two Schwalbe Marathon tires to replace my old bald ones.  I was anxious to get back on the bicycle after being in Novato for a few days, but I was happy I didn’t have to be paranoid about getting a flat on my final ride.  I said goodbye to Curtis and his friend Arden.

Google maps said that my ride would only be 25 miles if I took 101 the entire way.  Well, that wasn’t really an option since 101 was a 4-lane freeway.  ‘Bicycles Prohibited’ signs were located at the entrance ramps to the freeway.  When I approached the ramp and saw one of the signs, I shrugged it off and decided to wing it.  All I really had to do was stay off the freeway and cycle southeast.

Wrong.  What I didn’t realize was the amount of waterways I would have to cross before getting to the Golden Gate Bridge.  After getting through the town of San Rafael, I looked at my GPS and turned it off in frustration.  It was just a huge clusterfuck of roads without any hint of terrain.  The most annoying part of this ride was the huge ass hills that would pop out of nowhere.  I would rather go a mile out of my way than to cycle up 250 feet only to come speeding back down to the base of another hill.  Needless to say, that was exactly what happened for the first 20 miles.

Later I told myself ‘no more hills’.  If there was a hint of an upcoming incline, I would make a turn to avoid it.  This didn’t prove very advantageous to me, as I ended up cycling the entire peninsula of Tiburon, which added on another stupid 5 miles to my ride.  When I completed the ride around the peninsula, I had to come back…to where I started. Frustration was on the rise, and I had to make it to San Francisco before 6:30 PM.  That’s when my hosts, Jen and Harry, were leaving to go to a 48 hour film project screening.  I also wanted to cycle up to the headlands to get a good picture of the Golden Gate.  It was 3:30 PM.

head-on collision

After a few more frustrating miles, a local cyclist gave me some solid directions to the bridge.  I made my way on the crowded bike path towards Sausalito.  I was going about 14 mph when I approached a family on stupid looking rental bikes.  They were all in single file and following bike path etiquette until a young girl started swerving back and forth for her own enjoyment.

BAM!  She swerved right into my front-left pannier.  I shifted my body weight downwards to brace for the impact, but she was flung off my bike like a gnat.  Looking back, it’s pretty funny how hard she bounced off me.

“Shit!” I yelled as I squeezed my brakes.  I turned around to make sure she was OK.  She just stared at me, with her legs sprawled on the bike path.  She didn’t attempt to stand up.  I didn’t know if she was in shock or just stupid.  Her parents stood there and looked at me unapologetically, as if the collision was my fault.

Again, I looked at the girl and asked her if she was OK.  She didn’t speak but nodded her head.  Her dad walked over to help her up, and I looked at her mom.  In a heavy accent, she assured me her daughter was OK.  Then they all rode off.

I was confused.  Looking around, I was hoping to see an onlooker that was as confused as I was.  No one saw it.

I watched the dad lead his children further down the path on his stupid bicycle.  He had some flag sticking off of the back that was made out of tin foil.  The other kids started weaving back and forth on the path, clueless to what had just happened.  Bastard foreigners.

golden gate

I made my final push towards to the Golden Gate and cycled through the posh town of Sausalito.  There were lots of pedestrians and rental bike cyclists on the sidewalks.  Really smart cyclists.

A mile away from the bridge, the wind picked up and was blowing hard in my face.  What was frustrating was seeing people on rental bikes pass me.  “Oh yeah!  Well, I rode from Atlanta!” I wanted to tell them in an effort to preserve my ego.  As the bridge came into view, I made a right-hand turn and cycled up a 12% grade hill to the headlands.  It was hell, but I wanted that victory shot.

I stopped at a crowded viewpoint.  A few curious people laughed at my sign and asked me about my trip.  I had been riding with a message from my cousin Kelley Howard.

The message was ‘After 5200 miles:  useless arms, terrible tan line, dateless for 5 months, stupid sign’.  I guess Kelley doesn’t like me very much.  But I did get a lot of laughs during the ride, and throughout the day, I had cyclists asking me if I had really cycled that far.  It felt great to tell them it was my final ride.

One cyclist asked me if he could borrow my multi-tool.  In turn, he took a photo of me on my bike with the Golden Gate in the background.  I doubted he would be able frame it correctly…somehow cutting off my head or putting me directly in the middle of the frame, obstructing any view of the bridge.  The victory shot ended up pretty good.  Thanks guy!

I cycled back down to the bridge and made my way across it.  On the Golden Gate, there’s an entire sidewalk dedicated to cyclists.  I could see why.  There were a huge number of speeding cars to my left.  No shoulder.  I looked at the middle of the 101.  Insane.  No median or wall to stop two 65+ mph vehicles from a head-on collision.  Just a yellow line.  I later found out the middle lanes are called the ‘death lanes’.

I crossed the bridge and entered San Francisco.  In victory, I raised my hands into the air.  No one cared.

Novato, CA

livin’ large

Curtis told me the previous night, “How long are you staying?  A few weeks?”

I laughed, overwhelmed by his generosity, and said,  “No, no…just a few days.”

“Man, you can stay as long as you want,” he assured me.  He made me feel very much at home, and it was nice to be in the company of a fellow Georgian.  Curtis told me he was going to have an ‘End of Summer’ cook-out for all his friends on Saturday, and he wanted to celebrate the end of my bike tour. His neighbor Cathy and her daughter Ashley came over to help us with some yard work to prep for the cook-out.

car show

Everyone in Curtis’s neighborhood is pretty sociable with one another.  Homeowners tend to congregate in the cul-de-sac while their kids play out in their front yards.  John, one of the neighbors, had an old car in a show that weekend, so we all went to downtown Novato to give him some support.

I walked up and down the street looking at cars, not really knowing what was what.  “Whoah, this is a 19XX model,” someone would say.  “Look at that finish!”  I would look, nod, and say ‘cool’.  I have zero knowledge about vintage cars (or all cars at all for that matter).  They’re just not interesting or impressive to me.  For me, they’re hunks of metal to get me from Point A to Point B.  I couldn’t care less what year it was manufactured or how many horses it has under the hood.

Curtis told me John’s car wins an award whenever it is entered into a contest.  Even though I knew jack shit about his car, it did look pretty sleek.

bolinas, a town of annoying kewl wannabe’s

Curtis felt like getting out of Novato and going on a day trip to somewhere interesting.  The destination:  Bolinas.  Bolinas is a town tucked away in a lagoon 10 miles to the northwest of the Golden Gate Recreational Area.  Its ocean waters are home to some of the highest concentrations of Great White Sharks in the world.  The people of Bolinas don’t like their place thought of as a tourist location, so the locals notoriously tear down street signs that lead to the town.  Jared, Bob’s roommate in Arcata, warned me that they’re pretty malicious to outsiders.  He told me that one time he camped on the Bolinas beach, and a few locals banged on his tent and yelled for him to get out of there.  He didn’t go anywhere.  They were just acting like dicks and trying to get a rise out of him.

Cole, Cathy, and her kids all came with us.  Trapped in the tiny back seat of Curtis’s SUV, I started getting nauseous on Route 1 once again.  Thankfully, Curtis let me drive the rest of the way.

We all went to the one restaurant in town.  The food was great, but everything was at a premium price because all the ingredients were organic.  And they were the only restaurant in town.  Just looking at the servers and the people at the restaurant reminded me of Atlanta’s Little Five Points, and not in a good way.  This was the ‘kewl’ spot in this area, where people wanted to look like an artisan, vagabond, or musician.  It was pretty annoying and came off as pretentious.

Our waitress was terrible and had a huge attitude.  I guess she has the liberty to treat customers like crap because there is nowhere else to eat in town.  That and she looked really cool and different.  Curtis has a big personality and likes to joke around with people, so naturally he joked around with the waitress when she came to the table.

“Let me guess your name…is it Bertha?” he said playfully.  I wasn’t sure how the name Bertha popped into his head.  When I think of that name, the big fat fish from Mario comes to mind.

“Oh, is that a cheesy way to find out your waitress’s name?” she said with her back to him.  She was getting some drink pitchers for another table, and Curtis was just trying to get her attention so that he could make a change to his order.

She had some other bitchy remarks throughout the rest of the meal and flaunted her unadultered pretentious attitude.  She brought Curtis wine when he asked for beer (I don’t know how that happened), and she insisted that he was in the wrong.

After dinner, we all went to the beach.  I wanted to sit down with some grungy hipsters and talk about the local indie music scene but later decided against it.

stalkers

Curtis’s friend Diane invited us to a chocolate party at her house.  Sounded good.  Jude and Sean, the stalking duo I stayed with in Eugene, Oregon, were headed back home from San Francisco and stopped by to see me in Novato.  Curtis insisted that they go to the chocolate party with us.

We walked into Diane’s house and saw a table full of chocolate.  Everything in some way involved chocolate in the recipe.  After a few hours of talking and eating, nearly everyone felt disgusting.  I felt like I had to have a salad just to let my body know I wasn’t in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

It wasn’t until a few hours later that the headache subsided and I agreed to go play a game of tag outside with the neighborhood kids.  The game had some sort background story revolving around monkeys and gorillas.  I can’t really remember how it was relevant, but all I know is that I whooped some ass in tag.  I started to get really into it, and at one point I had to tag all four kids before they touched base.  The last kid was about to hit base with their foot, so I stupidly made a dive to touch their ankle.  I guess I forgot I was on asphalt.  The kids were laughing, and my hand was bleeding.  And I didn’t make the tag.

cookouts

That weekend, Curtis had a huge cookout for all his friends and neighbors.  About 80 people showed up, and Curtis was able to feed them all for around $100.  Pretty good.  Ribs, vegetables, potatoes, steaks, desserts, and drinks.  When people showed up, Curtis would announce them as if they were royalty.  When some of his shyer guests arrived, he would announce them and offer a piece of background information on them.  That way, his more talkative guests would have some starting point for conversation with them, leaving the shy guests unable to retreat to a corner and remain awkwardly silent.

Two days later, Curtis, his friend Arden, and I were all invited to another cookout at Jean-Luc’s house.  I felt like I was getting the royal treatment in Novato.  It was easy to talk to people once they found out where I was from and how I got to Novato.  It felt good to have a story define who you were in that moment.

There was a French kid there that thought giving peace signs was still cool.

browned

Later that night, I made my special dish.

Yo Curtis and Arden, you got BROWNED! (Note that Curtis is too busy for browning.  He’s all business.)

Bodega Bay, CA to Novato, CA

sad ride

After stuffing my face with a complimentary breakfast, I said goodbye to Cesar and headed east on Route 1.  My 45 mile ride that day would take me to Novato.  There, I was planning on staying with Curtis, a guy I had yet to meet.  Curtis owned a market back in Conyers, and when my parents went in to sell some of the vegetables out of the garden, they mentioned my bicycle trip to him.  He told them he’d open up the doors of his home to me if I traveled through.  When my parents told me this, I was in Montana and didn’t think too much of it.  I figured my route was probably far off from Novato, and the timing wouldn’t end up working out.  Well, my ride would actually take me by Curtis’s house on the same day he is flying in from Atlanta.  Destiny.

I was a little anxious about the day’s ride.  It was going to be my last big scenic ride without being in a huge metro area.  The ride was actually pretty nice.  There were farms nestled in between the steep hills of the bay area ‘desert’.  The road didn’t give me much of a shoulder because huge flowering weeds covered the side of the road.  It was painful not because of the weeds but because of pollinating insects that were colliding against my face.  I tried getting closer to the middle of the road, but Route 1 had too much traffic.  I closed my mouth and suffered through it.

“what the hell?”

The ride was a sad one for me.  I spent the first few hours thinking about the trip and what I had learned…about what Eoin and I had learned.  ‘Flow like water’.  I had been thinking about something to ride with on my bike board, but I didn’t want to ride with a joke.  I wanted to cycle with a message of substance, but those usually end up being embarrassing.  Oh well.  I wrote a meaningful message and dedicated it to Eoin.

I didn’t realize it, but when I was writing the on the board, I was standing beside a sign that had arrows pointing left and right.  I had already written the message:  Keep an eye out for purpose and flow like water.  That was the thing I wanted to keep with me after the bike tour.  It had relevance to nearly all the decisions I made on my trip.  And I believe it dictated a lot of Eoin’s decision-making as well.  The street sign only confirmed that I should ride with it.  Eoin, this one’s for you, my guy.  Sir Eoin of Grosch.

I still felt a little embarrassed about a “deep” message on my bike board.

While taking a picture, a lady in a car pulled up to make a turn.  She rolled down her window and yelled with a thick country accent, “What the hell?”

I walked up to the car and raised my eyebrows.  “What the hell are you doing?” she said.

I was confused.  Was this message to Eoin offensive to her?  Should I put my shirt back on?  “Oh, I’m just taking a picture,” I stuttered with a stupid boyish smile.

“Oh, I thought you were stuck.  OK then,” she said as she pulled back onto the highway.

What a weird way to go about asking someone if they needed help.  And why did she think my bike was stuck in grass?  It’s not like I was sinking into a mud pit or yelling from a Burmese tiger trap.  My bicycle was propped against a street sign.

flat on the freeway

After cycling through the town of Petaluma, I returned to Highway 101.  But the 101 didn’t look like the highway I was cycling on through Northern California.  This was a damn freeway with 4 lanes on each side.  I had looked at the map and didn’t remember an alternative route.  I decided to take a risk and quickly cycle the 9 miles to the Novato exit.  If I got caught, it probably meant a $100+ ticket.

Ever since getting my last flat in Oregon, I had become paranoid of either getting another flat or blowing out my tire.  I had stopped at some bike shops, but they didn’t have the Schwalbe Marathon tires I wanted.  I started thinking about all the shit I was riding over on the side of this dirty ass freeway.  It wasn’t but a few minutes later that I felt my wheel wobbling.  I didn’t want to look down because I knew what happened.  I had ridden through some glass 500 feet back, and it probably worked its way through the cracks in my bald tires.

I only had 1.5 miles to go until the exit.  I tried hopping off my bike, quickly pumping up my tire, and riding it until the tire was flat again.  I didn’t this until I was breathing hard from all the quick movements.  It was hopeless.

I pulled over next to a barbed-wire fence and threw down my helmet in rage.  The sun was beating down on my black jersey, and the sound of speeding cars was only pissing me off more.  It was deafening.

Still pissed off and dying in the heat, I slowly peeled off the tire.  As I was doing this, a car passed me and I heard a laugh.  This wasn’t a normal laugh.  The bastard took so much enjoyment out of my struggle that he had to laugh like Nelson off The Simpsons.

“HAAAA HAAAAA!” laughed the driver.

I ignored him.  As I went to go get a tube out of my bag, I looked over at the Holiday Inn across the access road and saw an employee enjoying my suffering.  What is wrong with these people?  During the entire flat repair, he just stared and sipped on a cold beverage.

Happy the repair was done, I got back on my bike and made my way into Novato.

homeless guy that has lots of sex

Curtis wasn’t flying into San Francisco until midnight, so I had to find somewhere to hang out for a few hours.  I cycled around town looking for a cheap place to eat.  I saw a shirtless guy covered in tattoos walking around, so I asked him where a  ‘cheap but good place to eat’ was.

“Dude, nothing is cheap around here, but man, there’s a $14 buffet down the street.  It’s off the damn chain,” he said.  He was putting off some cool guy’ vibes on me, trying to impress me with his kewl words from the 90’s.  He looked like he was from a Limp Bizkit video.  Keep rollin’, rollin’, rollin’, what?

“Oh, nothing else?” I asked, hoping to hear the words Pizza Hut.  I wanted a $5.99 buffet.

“Well, there’s the McDonald’s, but man, you should check out the buffet,” he said.

I felt pressured to go to this all-you-can-eat buffet simply because this guy kept pushing it.  I thanked him and cycled off, headed towards the McDonald’s.  $14 vs. $3.  McDonald’s won.

I propped up my kickstand-less bike on a tree and walked in.  Stares.  Lots of them.  I guess the people inside had never seen a guy in tight cycling shorts.  There were some 13-year-olds making fun of me in the table area.  Bastards.

As I was about to order, the Limp Bizkit guy walked in.  I was busted.  I felt guilty and ashamed for choosing McDonald’s over his recommendation.  He smiled at me knowing I had gone with the cheaper option.  I went on to make some terrible small talk.

“So are you from here?” I asked.

“Yeah, born and raised.  I am not working right now and live in the bushes by the water tower,” he said with confidence.  “Dude, you should check out the public pool after you eat.  I go there every day.  Lots of fucking hotties,” he said.  This guy had no filter.  Other people in line were blatantly eaves-dropping.  Or maybe it wasn’t eaves-dropping since he was talking so loudly.

“Oh, really?  That’s cool,” I said, feigning interest.  I didn’t want to go to a swimming pool with this guy.

“Man, And I’m still pullin’ in the hotties.  Tons of them at the pool.  I just bang ‘em out in the bushes.  Every day,” he said smiling.

This guy was Fred Durst.  He kind of looked like him too.  I exited conversation by going up to order, but he did some bumbling cool guy handshake with me before I left his company.

I ate my $3 extra-value meal and watched the McDonald’s manager kick out the group of loitering teens.  Ha Ha.  I spent the rest of the afternoon drinking coffee at Starbucks.

backyard stranger

Curtis had told me I could hang out in the backyard of his house until he got home.  I pushed my bike into his backyard and sat at a picnic table for three hours until he pulled up in his car.  The entire evening, I was paranoid that I wasn’t in Curtis’s backyard.  I had written down his address, but it had been quickly scribbled.  I was just waiting on someone to come outside and freak out about me being there.  That or a suspicious neighbor calling the cops on me.

I walked around to the front yard as Curtis and his two sons, Cole and Curtis Jr., hopped out of the car.  Curtis was pumped to see me, even though I had never met him.  He instantly made me feel at home and showed me the bed I’d be sleeping in.  Awesome host.

Curtis had worked for Food Network hosting his own TV show.  Evidently he was a pretty big food celeb.  I could understand why.  He had a pretty big personality and was incredibly charismatic.  A few of his accomplishments included having a show on PBS and publishing a book.

We spoke a while about organic gardening and his market back in Conyers.  After an hour of converstaion, he insisted I go to bed and get some rest.  “We can rap in the morning,” he said.

Fort Bragg, CA to Bodega Bay, CA

cheater

I cheated.  I cheated bad.  I’m a bad boy.

Cesar offered for me to stay an extra day.  “Sorry Cesar, but I’ve got to get back on the road.  I’m planning on meeting someone in Novato on the 12th,” I said.  Cesar was obviously disappointed.  He had told me he enjoyed my company and doing stuff because he was a workaholic.  I wasn’t.  I didn’t have a job.  Cesar wanted to be me.  And I wanted to be Cesar.

After a few minutes of thought, Cesar looked as if a light bulb had gone off.  “Hey, I have an idea Ryan.  I will drive you to Bodega Bay.  I will get a place.  Come on…it will be fun,” he urged.  Man.  That was a lot of Route 1 to skip, but by then, I was getting tired of being on a bicycle…especially on Route 1.  It was nonstop up and down.  Nothing was flat.

I agreed.  Cesar was happy.  He jumped and clapped his hands together giggling through his teeth.  Well, I wish he did that.  In a flat voice, he said, “Good.”

I felt like I was cheating on my bicycle.  I was nearing the end of my trip, and I didn’t want to regret riding in a car just to save some calories.

jude and sean, my stalkers

Jude and Sean, the couchsurfers I stayed with in Eugene, had told me they were driving to San Francisco to see Depeche Mode that weekend.  They decided to drive through Fort Bragg and see me on the way down.  Sweet.  It would be a big couchsurfing get-together.

Sean and Jude drove to Fort Bragg from Willits, a town 35 miles to the east.  They had stayed with a friend of theirs.  His name was also Cesar.  Yes.  It was perfect.  I wanted to have a Cesar vs. Cesar cage match.  When they showed up with their Cesar, it was obvious who was going to win.  He had tattoos, piercings, and a pick-up truck.  My Cesar hated getting dirty.

My Cesar had to work, so the rest of us went to eat breakfast at Cafe 1, a diner that served over-priced organic food.  Yum yum.

Afterward, we hung out at a beach in Mendocino waiting for my Cesar to get off work.  When he did, I introduced him to Sean, Jude, and their Cesar.

look at those dogs…man…look at those dogs.  they’re crazy.

There was a point at the beach where everyone was staring at two dogs playing.  This was some of the filler conversation:

“Wow, those dogs are crazy.”

<laughter and forced smiles>

“Man, those dogs…look at them go…in that water….crazy dogs.”

“Those dogs…”

All of this ‘filler’ was an attempt to break up the awkward silence that had swept over all of us.  My Cesar had become creepily quiet around all of them, which ended up silencing everyone else.  I didn’t know what to do, so I just stared at the dogs too.  My Cesar looked uncomfortable.  Was he only outgoing around cute cyclists with pretty eyes?

Later, Jude and Sean asked us if we wanted to caravan with them down Route 1.

carsick

The ride down Route 1 to Bodega Bay was torture.  Yes, the scenery was great, but Cesar drove incredibly fast.  The road was constantly winding up and down.  It was like being on a 2 hour roller coaster.  I kept looking behind us worried that Jude and Sean were miles and miles behind us.  It was only 10 minutes into the ride that I felt like throwing up.

“Cesar, can you drive a little slower?” I begged as I held my mouth shut with my hand.  Vomit came halfway up my throat, but I was able to force it down.

“Sure Ryan,” he said.

5 minutes later, he sped back up…obviously impatient with the slow pace that I asked from him.  And I asked him again to slow down.  He slowed down, only to speed up minutes later.  This went on for 30 minutes until I decided to throw out a bunch of “ughs” and “aghs” every minute or so to ‘remind’ him.

All of us celebrated getting to Bodega Bay and said our goodbyes.  Cesar, again, was awkwardly quiet.

dinner

Cesar and I decided to get dinner at one of the few restaurants in town.  We walked into the posh restaurant and heads turned.  We looked pretty stupid.  I was in my mountain shorts with a tee-shirt and unkempt facial hair.  My sockless feet with New Balances didn’t help either.  What was even more stupid looking was the fact I was with a short Costa Rican with a pony tail and club clothes on.  Cesar looked fine, but as a pair, we looked really stupid.  One guy looked our way and whispered to his trophy wife.  She turned her head to look our way  and laughed.  There was no discretion on her part.  Whatever.  I didn’t give a shit.  We sat down and got the same thing from people at surrounding tables.  I thought it was pretty funny, so I gave a big fat stupid smile with all teeth to those I caught looking my way.

During dinner, there was an odd couple in the back corner that was doing some sort of meditation at the table.  Every minute or two, their hands would be touching, palms against one another, and they’d close their eyes whispering something.  It wasn’t a prayer because, well, a prayer doesn’t go on for 5 minutes.  I couldn’t help but pull out my camera and take a picture.

There was also a stupid young couple out on their ‘anniversary’ date sitting behind us.  They were dressed up in really formal attire, but they were hanging spoons off their noses and giggling loudly.  When we got up to leave, they looked at us and made it a point to loudly laugh our way.  Damn.  Good thing I wasn’t in high school or I’d go cry myself to sleep.

Fort Bragg, CA

really nice guy

I cycled through the residential area of Fort Bragg to Cesar’s home.  Most of the houses in Fort Bragg were small and quaint.  No McMansions.

Cesar’s house had a nice garden in front with a bunch of flowers.  He was waiting for me with the door open, so to get in his good graces, I complimented him on his yard.  I wanted him to be my friend.  Be my friend, Cesar…Be my friend!!!  Cesar’s house won some Fort Bragg award for the prettiest yard.  It went well with my pretty eyes.

Cesar asked me if I wanted to go eat lunch, but I told him I had just eaten at a Mexican restaurant.  He was a little let down because he wanted to take me to his favorite place to eat lunch:  Taqueria de Ricarda.  Woops.  I told him I could force down more food, and I caught a glimpse of a smile from Cesar.  He was happy again.

I asked him about the picture of the beautiful woman of the 80s hanging up at the restaurant.  He said, “Oh yes…Ricarda.  She is very, very nice.”  Woops.  I felt like an asshole for laughing at the picture.  He went on to tell me a story.

“See this chair?  It saved my life.  I was fixing something and suddenly fell to the ground.  My side hit the corner of the chair, and I went to the hospital.  The doctors looked at my side because it felt like I broke a rib, but they happened to find a cancerous tumor.  The chair had a purpose.  It saved my life,” he said with his hand on the chair.  I wondered if standing on the chair would bring me the same luck, but he would probably think I was being an asshole.  He continued, “After my surgery, I was very sick.  Ricarda brought me lunch every single day, and she was very kind to me. “

Damn.  Ricarda had a beautiful bod and soul.  I was in love.

I didn’t want to let Cesar down, so I stuffed my face again with some tacos.  I saw Ricarda and said in an annoying voice, “I’m baaaaaaaack!”  She was confused.  She was wondering what the hell I was doing there with a local.  Cesar explained in Spanish.  I nodded and said, “Si, si.”

After spending the afternoon with Cesar, I quickly learned that he was a really nice, hard-working guy with a huge heart.  He was born in Costa Rica and moved up to the Bay area at the age of 20 to find work.  Since then, he’s been working in the posh town of Mendocino, 9 miles south of Fort Bragg, at the Moosse Cafe.  He told me how rich some of the customers were that came into the restaurant.  The town was chalked full of million dollar homes.  I assumed that Fort Bragg was the ‘working class’ town that provided all the service employees for Mendocino.

Cesar saves a portion of his income from the Moosse and sends it back to Costa Rica to support his parents and siblings.  Really nice guy.  He also travels to the small village of San Antonio in Colombia every year and contributes his time and money to rebuilding dilapidated homes.  He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper with a list of soccer jerseys he was getting made for all the children in the village.

Damn.  I thought I was staying with a saint.  And it wasn’t like he was openly volunteering the information and sounding the trumpets announcing his good acts.  I kept asking him about this and that, which led to more stories.  He was very humble when I complimented him on his good deeds.

some time off in fort bragg

At the time, I was on track for hitting San Francisco with two and a half weeks of down time.  I wanted to slow down my ride and spend some more time on the coast.  I asked Cesar if it was OK if I could stay another day, and he immediately said yes.  In fact, he wanted me so stay 3 or 4 days.  Damn!

The next day, I drove Cesar to work in his car.  It felt a little odd driving a car after being on a bicycle for 5 months.  In fact, on the way to the Moosse Cafe, we passed Sasha and Tim, the two touring cyclists I met in the Redwoods.  I felt guilty.  They were struggling against the wind while I was in a car.  I honked and gave them a thumbs-up, hoping to throw a little positive energy their way.

Cesar asked me to come to the restaurant around 2 PM to eat lunch.  I hesitated after seeing the menu.  Expensive.  But Cesar really wanted me to enjoy the food that the locals raved about.  I conceded and figured I could swallow a $20 expenditure.

The food was great.  Cesar insisted I order a burger, side salad, and a dessert.  I’m sure the people dining there were wondering what an ugly bearded guy in a ‘Montana Western’ shirt was doing there.  I waited for the bill, but it never came.  Cesar took care of it.  He told me to ‘just leave a tip’.  I started worrying about the tip.  Should I tip him a lot for picking up the bill?  How much is enough?  I didn’t want to look like an ungrateful dick.  I gave him a $5.  I felt like an ass, but that’s all I had.  I decided I would buy him breakfast to make up for it.

After Cesar finished his shift, we left Mendocino to go back to Fort Bragg.  The next day, Cesar’s coworkers thought he had picked up some hot guy with pretty eyes and took him back to his place.

He did.

romantic date night

That night Cesar  and I went to watch the sunset at Laguna Point Beach.  We were two grown men watching the sunset together.  There were about 50 seals sitting on an outlying rock at the point, so I decided to climb over a bunch of slippery rocks to reach them.  20 minutes later, I realized it was a stupid plan and there was no way I was getting across the rocks as the strong tide rushed in and out.  I clumsily made my way back to the pier.  I came to the last rock I had to clear to get back to land.

I slipped on an algae-covered rock and fell in.  Stupid.  I watched the rest of the sunset wet.

After watching a romantic sunset with Cesar, I felt like I had to prove my manliness by renting a really bad action movie.  The movie was Dragonball Z.  Terrible movie.  I was cringing the whole time, embarrassed with my action movie selection.  Meanwhile, Cesar was reading stuff on his computer.  He was uninterested in the shitty movie.

manuel

One of Cesar’s friends, Manuel, came over late at night and stayed in Cesar’s bedroom until 5 AM.  Interesting booty call, considering Manuel was in his low 20s.  In the morning, Cesar told me that Manuel had been coming over the past few weeks because he was having nightmares.  Hmm.  I had nightmares but didn’t want to share my sleeping bag with another man.  Or maybe I did.

Manuel’s friend had recently committed suicide with a gun in right front of him, and ever since, Manuel has not been able to sleep at night because he keeps reliving that moment.  Cesar has been keeping him company and letting him come over.  Nice guy.  Cesar even bought him McDonald’s.  Nothing intimate going on as I initially suspected…just more saint-like behavior.

pee in the toilet

Due to my small, crappy bladder, I had to wake up every couple of hours to pee.  I found out that no one in the house flushed the toilet.  I was worried that they didn’t flush because it would wake everyone up.  Or maybe they were really big into water conservation?  I didn’t know whether to flush or hold my breath and suffer through it.  A toilet full of three men’s smelly urine tortured me as my pee entered the acidic, dark yellow abyss.

I almost vomited as some urine splashed out of the toilet onto my bare foot.  Disgusting.  I flushed it.

glass beach

The next day, Cesar decided he wanted to show me a spot in Fort Bragg called Glass Beach.  Up until the 70s, a huge junkyard dumped trash into the ocean without worry.  This deserted parking lot used to be home a lot of garbage.

After decades of dumping glass bottles into the ocean, the trash washed back up on the beach in the form of small, colored glass pebbles.  The small beach was covered with small bits of brown, blue, white, and green shards.

Cesar and I enjoyed another sunset with the multi-colored glass pebbles shining in the sunlight.  Romantic.

Standish Hickey Recreation Area, CA to Fort Bragg, CA

two hot shirtless guys with a third wheel

I woke up to the sound of Anson packing up his sleeping bag.  I got out of the tent, peed, and crawled back inside.  “Maybe Anson will see me go back to sleep and he’ll do the same,” I thought.  Nope.  Stupid thought.  Gordon had joined him in packing up.  I guess we’re going to start early.

After two unsatisfying bagels and an apple, we all agreed to head over to the small store across the recreation area.  It was already blazing hot, and the sun was piercing down on Gordon and Anson’s hot bods.  They usually rode shirtless.  How did I know?  They didn’t have an ugly tan line like myself.  I caved to the unsaid peer pressure and removed my jersey.  Brown arms and hairy white torso.  I was the ugly one.  I imagined being in a bar with them.  All of the girls had to befriend me, the third wheel, before taking one of these hotties home.  I was the ugly fat girl that demanded a pickup artist have a wingman for the fat girl sacrifice.

I went inside the small convenience store to get coffee.  Inside, there were a bunch of older guys filling up their paper cups.

“I gotta fill up before the big drive today!  Headed to Arcata,” one of guys said, shaking his head and smiling.  I had just cycled from Arcata the previous day on bicycle.  He was in a car.

“Yeah…I came from Fort Bragg today,” the other guy said, trying to get some sympathy.  That’s where I was headed.  They knew I was on a bicycle.  I imagined all of this was contrived, a planned strategy, just to tease the tired cyclist.

Actually, they probably didn’t even care about me.  I wasn’t important.

riding back over the coastal range

I hadn’t been looking forward to turning onto Route 1 and riding back over the coastal range.  That and I was cycling with Anson and Gordon.  Would they like me?  Would I be too slow for them?  Did I annoy them?  LIKE ME ANSON AND GORDON…LIKE ME!!!

We started the morning off with a pretty brutal climb.  Anson and Gordon were fast, but I managed to stay with them.  My heart felt like it was ready to explode out of my chest.  The 100 mile ride to the recreation area had really pushed my legs, and the only nutrients they had were from Nutella and bagels.  Pretty pathetic.  My body hated me.

After a 3 mile climb to the summit, we descended pretty quickly to the base of yet another climb.  This time my frail heart was prepared, and I ascended without a struggle.  I did let out an occasional ‘AGGGGGHHHHH’ when we would make a turn and continue to see the road go up.  There’s nothing as mentally defeating as being tired, making a turn, hoping the road flattens out, and seeing it continue to ascend for another mile.

In the middle of the ride, Anson asked me what I was going to write on my sign.  I had remembered seeing a few cars pass me the past week with ‘Just Married’ written all over them.  Really annoying overly happy people celebrating their love.  I was jealous.  But it gave me an idea for the board.  “How about ‘Just Divorced’?” I asked Anson and Gordon, looking for their approval.  They laughed and said I should draw the bells too.  It was settled.  The message was dedicated to my friend Roger Burggrabe back in Atlanta.  He’s not divorced.  He’s just got beautiful eyes.

The first driver that passed after the message was on the board slowed down and yelled, “Yeah man!  You’re free!  You’re free!  Me too!”  I laughed and gave him a thumbs-up.

“Yeah man.  We’re free!” I yelled, playing along.  He thought he was bonding with a fellow divorced guy.  I dared not tell him the truth:  I was a single guy wanting to find love and a wife…maybe even have a few kids with pretty eyes to play in my front yard with a white, picket fence.

The sign continued to get more reactions.  Tons of honks from guy drivers and cat calls from passing babes.  Out of all the messages I’ve ridden with, this one got the most reactions by far.

On the final descent, the Pacific Ocean finally came into view.  It was the first time in weeks I was able to see the coast on a clear day.

The ‘wows’ and ‘oh’s’ soon came to an end when we found out that Route 1 was full of quick descents and even quicker ascents.  It was nonstop, and there wasn’t much flat road.  Bullshit.  The worst part was descending quickly into a sharp turn and going once more up a hill with all momentum lost.  I kept thinking a car traveling far above the speed limit was about to ram me off the cliff just to my right.  There was no shoulder.  The white line was our home.

We stopped at a ‘Kampground of America’ for a break 5 miles into riding on Route 1.  KOA’s are overpriced camping spots that I refused to stay at during the entirety of my tour.  For me, my bike, and my tent, it would cost $25.  Ridiculous bullshit.  They had all the amenities any red-blooded American would want on a wilderness camp trip:  showers, junk food store, heated pool, wifi, and a restaurant.  RV parks are the same way.  After a night of stealth camping, I’d often ride by them and show them my middle finger.  Of course, no one saw me, and if they did, I was just a weird guy on a bicycle with an odd anger towards harmless campgrounds.

Anson and Gordon bought some overpriced snacks, and we went on our way.

ricarda, a woman of the 80s

Tired and hot, we cycled into the town of Fort Bragg.  Now that we were in a small town with more traffic, I was getting tons of honks and thumbs-up due to the sign.  More guys kept yelling ‘yeah man’ to me out their car windows.  Should I have told them I was ‘Just Divorced’ because I liked men?

We were on the hunt for a place to eat lunch, and after stopping at three ‘locally recommended’ restaurants that were closed, we arrived at a little Mexican place called Taqueria de Ricarda.  It was a small place that was packed with locals, and it was warmer inside than outside.  What I loved about this place was its decor:  a portrait of a beautiful woman of the 80s.

I later learned that this was Ricarda, and she was a very caring, giving lady…not to mention sexy.  She brought us our three ’super burritors’, and we all quickly devoured them.

After lunch, I said goodbye to Anson and Gordon.  They were headed to Mendocino, a few miles south of Fort Bragg.  There, they were meeting a friend of theirs and working on an organic farm.  I was going to stay in Fort Bragg a few days with my couchsurfing host Cesar.  Before we parted ways, we took the standard jump shot with my bike board.

Arcata, CA to Standish Hickey Recreation Area, CA

11 am and 100 miles

The previous night, I had kept telling Bob and Alex that I had a huge day of cycling the next day and should probably turn in early.  That thought eroded quickly as Bob came home from band practice and told me, “I think you should send out an email and go out.”  I shut my laptop and went out with him.  I had been working on the blog for nearly 5 hours that day trying to type in detail my journey down the Oregon coast.  If I didn’t do it then, then the small nuances of my rides would slip away from my memory forever.

Needless to say, we got home late, so I decided to just “leave when I leave” the next morning.  The plan to start cycling at 6 AM was dead.  I ended up leaving around 11 AM, which was not good for my intended 100 mile ride to Standish Hickey Recreation Area.  I decided to leave my goal up in the air that day.  Humboldt Redwoods State Park was only 55 miles away.  If I was really tired, I’d just stop there.

I got on my bicycle feeling great.  My knee was not giving me any more problems, and I had a renewed energy from my day off in Arcata.  It also helped that I had a slight tailwind.  After traveling 10 miles on the 101 south from Arcata, I went through the moderately-sized town of Eureka.  My brief ride through Eureka gave me a view of every chain imaginable, and it made me appreciate Arcata that much more.  In all honesty, I’m sure I would have fallen in love with Eureka if I had spent more than 30 minutes cycling through the city limits.  One guy with long dreadlocks did give me a highfive as I cycled by him.  I didn’t look cool and rad, but I felt cool and rad.

quaint burly beanie guy and a petite monster coffee girl

30 miles into my ride, I decided to stop for a sandwich and coffee.  I figured I would need the energy because 100 miles seemed very doable, especially with no headwind.

I stopped on the sidewalk and looked around, scouting for a decent place to eat.  I had asked some locals where a good place to eat lunch on the cheap was, and they suggested a nice-looking Chinese restaurant.  It looked a little too nice, so I headed down the street to look for something else.  There was a large, red-haired bearded guy sitting outside a coffee shop and knitting beanies.  He didn’t look like he should be knitting beanies, but, rather, he should have been making fun of a gay, ugly cyclist like myself.  Maybe while chopping wood with a blue ox.

I pointed inside and asked if the coffee shop was a good place to eat.  “Yes.  Why yes it is,” he said in a meek, soft voice.  He stared at my bike and asked, “Nice ride?”

I didn’t understand the question.  He said it so softly that I didn’t hear the inclination in tone to emphasize an interrogative.  I thought he was complimenting me on my ‘nice ride’, as if I was leaning against my 1965 Fastback Mustang with my arms crossed at the gas station.

“Thanks,” I said.  I realized he didn’t mean that.  I wasn’t cool.  He was asking me about my damn ride.  Idiot.  “I mean, oh, yeah it’s going great,” I stuttered.

He nodded and continued to stare as he knitted quickly.  I walked into the coffee shop, still confused by what had just happened.  The awkward aura of the knitting burly man had just collided with the awkward aura of an ugly cyclist and created a huge awkward explosion.  But the pedestrians continued to walk by and not notice the stupid situation which was happening only in my head.

I was greeted by a petite blond girl at the coffee shop.  She was all smiles until she saw I didn’t tip her on my card.  Her face melted off and I watched in horror as huge fangs emerged from her once cute mouth.  Mammoth, monstrous wings busted out the back of her shirt, and she hovered above me spitting fire and scorching my receipt, leaving only the ash of the line where I should have written down a tip.  She was angry.

That might as well have happened.  Her human bitchiness was the equivalent of some B-flick monster.  I asked her for cream, and she intentionally gave me a container with only an ounce of cream inside.  I smiled and asked for more.

She had an evil grimace on her face and actually made me feel bad for asking.  She slammed down a carton of cream on the counter and walked away.  I thanked her and sat down.  I was scared to look her way in fear of turning to stone.  I could hear the hiss of the snakes on her head.

I got out of there after finishing my cup of coffee.

redwoods highway

I felt like a machine after Fortuna.  I was Fred Flintstone as my legs formed blurred circles below me.  I was able to enjoy the ride and take in the scenery.  Most of the highway followed the South Forks Eel River to the southeast, but it wasn’t a consistent grade.  Big, rolling hills filled the day.

The Redwoods gradually gave way to grassy hills, and the yellows of the grasses popped sharply in the late afternoon sun.

I was at 75 miles before I sat down for the first time.  After getting a few supportive honks, I was ready to get back on the bicycle.

I went another 15 miles before I really started to feel it.  The air was hot, and my stomach was ready to devour itself.  Up and down.  Up and down.  Fatigue was setting in, but I was less than 10 miles to the state recreation area.  I pushed onward and finally got to my destination.

gordon and anson

I started setting up my tent as soon as I got to camp.  Sundown was approaching, and I wanted to enjoy a bagel and $0.50 shower before falling asleep.  The hiker/biker camp was in a pretty wide open area next to the bathrooms.  All the passers-by stared at me in curiosity as they went to unload their bladders, but none of them approached me.  Bored of standing alone, I made conversation with one of the nearby motorist campers.  The conversation was boring and ended up revolving around the weather.

Lonely and tired, I soon heard the familiar clicking sound of a chain and cassette.  I eagerly looked around hoping it was touring cyclists.  And it was!  I clapped my hands giggling, my mouth forming an O-shape, and jumped up in the air 4 inches repeatedly until they saw me.

I introduced myself as they pulled up to camp.  I was a wide-eyed annoying cyclist that was way too eager to talk to someone.  Gordon and Anson were their names.  They were friends from high school and were touring from the east coast, specifically New York and Boston.  They were also ending in San Francisco.  It was good to see other cyclists doing a similar Trans-Am route.  Anson just graduated and, after spending some time in San Francisco, was continuing his adventure by flight to Mexico City where he would see his brother.  Gordon, a soon-to-be teacher, was meeting up with his dad in San Francisco and flying home.

After speaking with them for a while, I made my way to the shower.  After getting clean, I walked back to camp and was greeted by the smell of cooked food.  I had eaten my dinner: an apple and two Nutella bagels.  Shitty.  I tried maintaining eye contact with Anson as I fought off glancing at his food.  I didn’t want him to see my wandering eyes and feeling guilty that he was eating in front of me.

We spoke a while before I retreated to my tent.  Anson and Gordon just rolled out their sleeping bags with no cover.  I should have done that.

Redwoods National Park to Arcata, CA

depressing weather yet again

I woke up to the sound of Sasha, Tim, and Simon leaving camp.  Simon, the young Swiss cyclist, was the first one out.  I just sat in my tent not wanting to move, but the sun was beaming into my tent and scorching my face.  I climbed out of my tent and quickly packed up while eating a bagel and dodging the clouds of mosquitoes.

I went to the restroom and didn’t get to say goodbye to Tim and Sasha before they left.  I was hurt.

The clear, blue sky that I woke up to was all but gone.  In its place was a cloud, dark, somber sky.  Depressing.  I rode out alone and in tears.  The town of Orick only amplified the melancholy mood.  It was full of trailers and really old, unkempt buildings.  I felt bad for Brad and Aaron, the two cyclists traveling unloaded down the coast.  They stayed in a a shitty motel in this town the prior night.  It wasn’t even worth stopping to get a cup of coffee.

free hugs, free homo

My friend Trish wanted me to ride with the message ‘Free Hugs’.  I didn’t know what reaction to expect from drivers, but I followed through with the message anyways.  Initially, I got a few honks and waves.  OK.  Cool.  Maybe this was going to be a positive experience.  I stopped at a rest station to enjoy the view.  A burly guy with a goatee walking two huge dogs came up to me and said, “I’ll take one of those hugs.”  We embraced.  I giggled and blushed.

And then I got called a homo by a fat guy on a motorcycle.  Somehow I knew it wasn’t all going to be positive reactions, but I was OK with that.  I was on the 101 when two Harleys surged past me.  One of them turned his head and yelled out, “FREE HOMO!”  I would have been so pissed if he wasn’t so right.  I cycled up an exit and a truck full of male teenagers pulled up next to me.  I smiled at them, but they drove away quickly.  I was a lonely homo with a hippie sign on the back of my bicycle.

arcata

I cycled needlessly up a few huge hills before descending to Bob’s house.  Bob was a grad student at Humboldt University, and his friend Alex had just arrived from Mexico to turn in his 200+ page thesis.  Bob lived with a young couple, Jared and KB, who were also grad students.  They were really into wildlife, and after going on a walk on the beach, they brought home an oil-covered Common Murre, a bird that can dive to depths of 50 feet to catch fish.  Jared’s fun fact:  The birds don’t drink water because their bodies are able to metabolize it.  Fun.

I helped them feed it tuna, but unfortunately, the bird wasn’t able to survive the night.  A lot of oil probably got into its system while it was trying to clean itself.  Poor guy.  Jared put it in the ‘bird graveyard’, also know as the freezer.  Jared pulled out another frozen bird and showed it to me.

Over dinner, I learned that Arcata is home to a lot of marijuana ‘grow houses’.  Home owners can legally grow up to 99 plants.  However, the city passed a law that required these grow houses to have permanent tenants.  Because of that, Jared told me that it’s possible to find a free place to live.  The added benefit to having tenants is that ‘bud theft’ is less likely when someone is in the home.  It’s common for there to be break-ins during the curing stage.  Thieves will just come in and grab as much marijuana as they can.  Thousands of dollars just sitting there waiting to be stolen.

Bob told me he’s had couchsurfers that just come to Arcata to try and find ‘trim jobs’.  Growers will often start newbies out at an hourly wage, but as the trimmer becomes more skilled, he will then be paid by the pound.  Growers want trimmers to work as much as possible, and Jared described these houses as sweat-shops.  It sounded shitty.

While cycling through town to get more supplies, I saw a lot of dirty hitchhikers.  One lady was sitting outside the Safeway begging for money with her two kids and dog.  Right next to her were empty soda boxes and junk food.  Depressing.  I’ve met a lot of hitchhikers on this trip, and many of them are clean, well-groomed backpackers.  But all of the ones I had encountered so far in California were dirty and groveling.

Later that night, I went out with Bob (above), Alex, and a few of their classmates to celebrate Alex’s thesis turn-in.  I was so proud of Alex.  So proud.

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.

Seattle, WA to Aberdeen, WA

squatter leaves seattle

I had been staying at Heather’s for a week and felt incredibly sedentary.  The bicycle was calling my name, and I was getting antsy being off of it for so long.  I said goodbye to Heather and David the previous night because they had to leave the next morning to North Carolina.  I got emotional saying goodbye to Heather, but I masked my tears with a big stupid smile.  I cried myself to sleep that night.

Heather’s cats didn’t care I that was leaving.  I had accidentally stepped on Anchovy twice in one day, and she remembered it.  She wanted nothing to do with me.

I decided to take the ferry out to Bremerton and bypass all the congestion south of Seattle.  I didn’t want to deal with anymore roads like Highway 99.

dan and robert

Two general contractors named Dan and Robert introduced themselves while I was sitting down in the ferry, and we started talking about bike touring.  Dan was hitting 50 and going through a divorce.  He told me he needed a change and wanted do the Pacific coast down to Chile.  He told me he was inspired by my story and was getting excited about the idea of doing a big cycling trip.

Robert was a carpenter that worked with Dan.  He flies to Norway every year to coach volleyball.  I wasn’t sure if he was too interested in the bicycle talk, so I asked him about Norwegian women…if they were as ‘smoking hot’ as the Swedish women.  A good male bonding subject.

The ferry approached the dock, so we all left the commons area.  As I was going back down to my bicycle, Robert handed me an origami flower.  Before giving it to me, he said, “I normally give this to girls I meet, but…”  I guess he thought I was a cute girl with pretty eyes.  I wanted to give him a kiss on the cheek and giggle.

bye hi bye

I got back to my bicycle and saw two tandem touring cyclists from Germany.  I spoke to them briefly before being directed off the ferry.  I told them goodbye.

A few minutes later, I cycled up behind them.  “Looks like we’re taking the same route,” I said, followed by a forced laugh.  They forced laughter as well.  We sat at the  red light waiting for it to turn green.  Awkward.  An occasional sniffle and cough broke the silence.  The light turned green.  Off they went, but they were slow up the hill.  I followed them not wanting to pass and say hello again, but they were only a few feet ahead of me and grinding it out in their lowest gear.

A few miles later, they finally turned off to eat.  I passed them and waved goodbye.

flat

I was cycling out of Bremerton along an incredibly congested highway, and the shoulder was littered with debris.  It reminded me of all the crap on the shoulder cycling into Houston.  A few minutes later, I felt my wheel making heavy thuds.  I looked down.  Shit.  Completely flat.  I was stuck on a small shoulder as two lanes of 70 mph traffic whizzed by.  I walked my bike to some crappy construction, looked at my bike, and laughed.  It was going to be a long day.  I had about 85 miles to cycle, and it was noon.

I had a lot of trouble getting the tire off my new rim.  With my old rim, I could easily peel the tire with my bare hands.  This rim was a lot deeper and thicker.  I struggled with it in the piercing heat.  The sound of traffic was really starting to piss me off.  It was deafening.

45 minutes later, I had the tube replaced.  I hopped back on the bike and went on my way.  My entire route that day would cut through the Olympic peninsula and put me on the coast in Aberdeen, home of Kurt Cobain.  I was trying to get to the Pacific as quickly as possible, but the day was filled with big ups and big downs…constantly.  It was never flat.

I had to stop for lunch.  Otherwise, I was about to have a meltdown.  Food is the one thing I really look forward to while cycling.  The place I chose was a generic diner called ’Burgers’.  I guess the owners couldn’t take a few minutes to think of a creative name.

a few firsts

I had a few ’firsts’ happen to me on this ride.  As I was cycling through Shelton, two guys offered me cigarettes out the window.  On my way past a bus stop, a guy with a stoma and voice box hollered out to me in his robot voice, “Nice bike!”  I couldn’t believe what I had just heard.  I looked back.  Sure enough there was an old guy holding his throat.  Lastly, on my way into Aberdeen, a redneck guy with two babes in his truck drove as close as he could to me pulling up to a red light.  He was trying to brush me with his side view mirror.  The girls were laughing it up inside.  I pretended like I didn’t notice.  I didn’t want to appease his ego.

aberdeen

Ben and Shannon, Heather’s friends in Seattle, had warned me that Aberdeen was kind of shitty.  They weren’t lying.  Kurt Cobain couldn’t have come from any other place.  It was about 8 PM by the time I cycled into town.  I had pushed hard the entire way.  The town was very industrial, and I could picture it being a very somber town in the middle of winter.  Cloud-covered and rainy.  Evidently, the town doesn’t take much pride in being home to one of the greatest musicians.  I guess he crapped on the town in a lot of his lyrics.  However, there was a ’Come as you are’ sign on the bridge coming into town.

Stephen, my couch surfing host for the night, wouldn’t be home until midnight.  He was a wine steward at one of the local restaurants.  I walked into his apartment.  The first thing I noticed was the full collection of Will and Grace.  Then I saw neatly design walls and cupboards.  Plus he was incredibly clean.  I put two and two together.  I felt smart.

Sara, Stephen’s friend from upstairs, invited me upstairs for a margarita before a few of her friends got home.  Half tequila, half margarita mix.  I was hit hard because I had nothing in my stomach.  Sara then unloaded all of her drama onto me.  Her and the husband had recently gotten into an argument.  All I could do was nod and say, “Yeah…whoah…wow…yeah.”  We spoke a little bit about the war and socialized health care.  I didn’t want to, but somehow we got onto that subject.

Stephen finally got home.  I quickly found out he was pretty brash.  “I have a large carbon footprint.  I don’t recycle.  I litter.  And I eat a lot of meat,” he told me as he flicked a cigarette into the street.  That action quickly turned me off.  I didn’t care if he ate meat, but to blatantly throw trash in the street was laziness.  But then he totally redeemed himself when he told me he loved PeeWee’s Big Adventure, The Three Amigos, and The Goonies.

And then he made fun of my other favorites.  He was a huge critic of every cheesy action movie I liked.  Fifth Element. The Matrix.  300.  He started talking about all of the dramas he really enjoyed, and I zoned out.  Stephen was quite the character, and I enjoyed talking to him.

Before crashing on the air mattress, Stephen said, “I probably won’t see you in the morning.  Don’t feel like you have to wait for me to get up and thank me.  I don’t really care about any of that.”  Damn.  This guy was unapologetic with everything he said.  I liked it, but I still wanted to see him in the morning to thank him.  Maybe even kiss him.

Coupeville, WA to Seattle, WA

sad goodbye

I was pretty sad to say goodbye to my friends at Willowood Farm.  I let them know, but they all laughed at me.  Pointed and laughed.  But then they saw I was serious and told me they’d miss me too.

I cycled 30 miles to the ferry at Clinton that would take me to Mukilteo.  On the way, I saw a sign that still leaves me confused.

I got off at the beach in Mukilteo and dedicated my broccoli wrap message to my good farming friends.  I added an extra ‘W’.  I hope they do not take offense.

warm welcome to seattle

I got on a road called Mukilteo Speedway which would later turn into Highway 99.  The name of the road had ’speedway’ in it.  Not a good sign.  As soon as I got on this road, I got flicked off by a guy in a truck who tried intimidating me by putting his side view mirror right next to me.  I succumbed to his hostility by flicking him off and waving all in the air while smiling.  At least I was smiling and staying somewhat positive.

Highway 99 was crap.  Strip malls and big chains paired with lots of traffic.  I hated it.  It was my only option to getting to my friend Heather’s place.  After an hour or two of riding on Highway 99, I finally made it to her home in Ballard, a neighborhood northwest of Seattle.

Heather and her boyfriend David work at a game company called Popcap.  They were having a BBQ at the beach that night and invited me to come along.  I ate about four bratwursts and two kabobs.  I couldn’t stop eating, so I tried to do it stealthily.  I didn’t want anyone noticing I was a pig.  And then I heard Heather say out loud, “Damn dude!  How much have you eaten?”  I recoiled, burying my head in the sand like an ostrich.

birthday blowout.  holler if you hear me.

Heather’s sister Melissa came into town for her birthday.  Heather, being the nice sister she is, paid for Melissa’s trip out.  She treated me and Melissa to breakfast and showed us around the locks.

Salmon swam by through the locks to make babies upstream.

Heather and David treated us to some sushi as well.  I’ve had bad experiences with sushi.  Unfortunately it tends to come back up through my mouth and lands in a toilet.  Crystal, Melissa’s high school friend, offered me a few of her baby’s organic chewy bars.  At first, I thought she was making fun of me for not eating sushi.  After the third offer, I realized she was serious.  I finally caved and ate one of them.  It was good, and I don’t regret it.

rafting the skokomish and watching people drown

Heather had been planning a rafting trip since early June and offered me a rafting spot when I was cycling in the Tetons.  So the rafting crew was me, Heather, David, Melissa, and Heather’s co-worker Rachel.  Rachel and Melissa were nervous…biting their nails as butterflies tore up their stomachs.  I reassured them that someone would fall in, and it would probably be one of them.

The first few rapids went very well.  The crew was getting cocky, so Shane, our rafting guide, continued to warn us about Boulder Drop, the class 5 rapid.  It was halfway through the ride when we made our approach to Boulder Drop.  Shane led us out of the raft and onto shore where we scouted out the rapid.  We stood on a rock as he went into a huge amount of detail on what we’d be doing.  He started by saying, “OK, see that rock over there.  The big one getting covered by water?  We’re going to go through…”

I couldn’t focus on what he was saying because I was still trying to find the rock he was talking about.  Oh.  There it was.

I focused back on what he was saying.  “…Then we’re going to do a 180, cut back to the left before the Picket Fence…”

I tried finding Picket Fence…whatever the hell that was.  “…And then we’ll go out the middle, nice and easy,” he said as he finished his explanation.  What?  I had no clue what was going on.  I nodded.   We all walked back to the boat.  I was sure someone was going to fall in.  Who was it going to be?

We pushed off and made our way into the rapid.  Bam.  We conquered the first little rapid with ease.  And then all hell broke loose aboard our vessel.  We got pulled towards a rock and the right side of our boat started to get sucked under the water.  Everyone started to roll towards the right side of the raft.

Plunk.  There went David into the water.  Plunk.  There went Rachel into the water.  I was watching on in horror and smiling at the same time.  A sadistic side of me was enjoying the chaos that was going on.  Another side of me made me want to pee my pants.

The raft was at a 70 degree angle and about to flip.  Melissa was about to go in head first, but Heather grabbed her life jacket and yanked her back in.  I was scrambling back up to the airborne side of the boat trying to keep it from flipping.  It felt like the end of Titanic when everyone was running to the nose of the boat.  Shane was behind me trying to stay calm, but I could hear fear in his voice.  I was still smiling stupidly.

The boat did not flip.  Success.  I think having Rachel and David fall out saved my ass.  Shane was yelling out commands, but Heather and Melissa were still huddled together at the front freaking out.  I repeated what Shane said, but it was hitting deaf ears.  We eventually crawled our way out of the rapid, and Heather and Melissa calmed down, grabbed their oars, and dug them deep into the water.  Meanwhile, Shane was multi-tasking…giving us rowing orders and performing a rescue on David.  Rachel was a lost cause.  I saw her red helmet bobbing up and down on the other side of the rapid.

Shane pulled in David, whose lungs were full of water.  Shit.  I had to wipe this stupid grin off my face before anyone noticed.  We finally made it out of the rapid, but Rachel was nowhere to be seen.  Shane yelled out, “Where is she?  Does anyone see her?”

“We got her!” another raft leader yelled out.  She was sprawled out face down on the bottom of the other raft.  Meanwhile, David was coughing up half of the water in the Skykomish.  Heather tried talking to him, asking him if he was OK.  “Give me…a minute,” he said as water still spilled out his mouth.

We paddled over to the raft Rachel was in.  She didn’t look happy.  And she was drinking a bottle of water.  Didn’t she just drink enough water?  After a few minutes of awkward, dead silence, she clumsily climbed into our raft. I tried to turn the moment positive.  “Hey, at least you have a story to tell,” I said smiling.  Woops.  Her face red and her eyes bloodshot, Rachel burred her head into her life jacket and pulled down her hat.  She looked like a turtle hiding from something.

“I almost freaking died,” she stuttered as she started to tear up.  I wanted to tell her she didn’t almost die.  She had a life jacket on and wasn’t going anywhere.  Well.  I guess she could’ve died and continued to float.

“I’m sorry.  That will not happen again.  I promise you,” Shane said.  He felt terrible, and I felt terrible for him.  The boat next to us was still silent, until their raft leader splashed water on her and yelled, “You’ve been baptized by the Skykomish.  Rise!”  He looked at me and whispered, “Is she smiling?”  I shook my head.  Feeling like an idiot, he sat back down and led his raft away from ours.

After a few more minutes, Shane said, “We’ll give you however much time you need…OK?”

“Whatever…let’s just go,” she said as she sniffled her snot away.  I felt bad for Shane.  It continued to be awkward.  But I was enjoying and revering the awkwardness of it.

There were no complaints out of David.  I was impressed.  Would he break down afterward, running into the woods and weeping?  We would see.

The next 30 minutes were somber.  Shane didn’t tell any more jokes.  Eventually, conversation started back up and everything went back to normal.  Shane gave me the captain’s seat in the back of the raft for the last two rapids.  After scraping against a few rocks, Rachel yelled, “Shane, could you please guide?”  Damn.  What an insult.  I thought I was doing pretty good.  It wasn’t my fault the water was low.  At least people weren’t doing nose dives into the cold ass water.

The rafting trip ended with no deaths.  I was jealous of David and Rachel.  She told her story the next week at work.  Like I said to her, she ‘had a tale to tell.’  I just didn’t tell her she was my tale too…and I didn’t have to fall in.

cycling in seattle

Melissa, Heather, and I cycled down to the Gas Works area along Salmon Bay.

Heather rolled down a hill.  Everyone stared.

Melissa kept taking pictures of everything.  Oh, there’s a person.  *snap*  Oh, there’s a boat.  *snap*  She was worse than the Japanese people I saw in Banff National Park.  Really.

We met up with David and ate Pho, an Asian dish with lots of noodles and vegetables.  $5 for a huge bowl.  David bet me $20 to drink the entire bowl filled with hot sauce.  I felt like a frat boy.  A frat boy that was $20 richer.

arm wrestling

Later that evening, David brought up the fact that he thought Melissa and Heather were probably stronger than he was.  I told him I didn’t think they were, so I suggested they arm wrestle.

David was nervous at first.  He didn’t think he could win.  David locked arms with Melissa, and their arms stood surprisingly stood still in the middle for about 5 seconds.  Then David bested her.

David then took on Heather.  It was the same result.  After he won, he stood up and threw his arms in the air in victory.  Pretty funny thing to celebrate.

David, confident in his arm wrestling ability, challenged me to combat.  Great.  My arms were incredibly weak.  T-rex weak.

I won.  David’s confidence was shattered.

dodgeball

Heather invited me to go with her to a dodgeball game.  Sure.  We drove to the Boys & Girls Club gymnasium.  Whoah…these people were hardcore.  I saw all these young people warming up, throwing balls around, and stretching.  Inside, there were two games going on.  I actually got butterflies watching everyone play.  All the young players were really intense.  I saw one guy with a green wristband holding two balls at once.  He was knocking away incoming balls with ease and leaping over others.  I imagined me out there, unable to throw a ball 5 feet with my weak, childlike arms.

Our team was up.  I let the other guys go first, since it was their team after all.  I watched on with an anxiety-filled stomach.  I didnt want to let the team down.  Our team lost the first round, and I was up.

It went well.  I was knocking out old, overweight women left and right with ease.  I hit a few guys too.  Out of all the rounds, I was only hit once.  All that anxiety over nothing.

hi friend

I cycled a few miles to meet up with my friend Kathryn, the sister of Elizabeth (from Willowood).  She shared some of her stories hiking the AT and updated me on what was going on with her life.  The hours turned to minutes, and we had to part ways.  Kathryn insisted on being a Japanese tourist giving peace signs.  I don’t know who gave her that idea.

Jeremy, my dear beautiful friend from Atlanta who was also Eoin’s old roomate, was in town on his way to a wedding on Whidbey Island.  You guys might remember Jeremy from Apocalypse Briggs as The Kid.  Or maybe not.

I snuck up to him at a bar and surprised him with a big, long hug.  I didn’t want to let him go.  I drank a beer with him and his friends and shared stories.  It was good to see that bearded face of Jeremy’s once more.  Jeremy and Patricia had to leave early, so he was ripped out of my life again.

you got browned…four times

Before my last day in Seattle, I had cooked four boxes of brownies.  Heather and David were sick of them, but I continued to force them down their throats.

Yo David and Heather!  You got BROWNED!

White Rock, BC to Coupeville, WA

border crossing

I woke up outside on the futon looking up at a clear, blue sky.  I went inside for 10 minutes and came back out to an overcast, gray sky.  What just happened?  Mike and Michelle told me it was normal for the area.

I said goodbye to the crew and headed for the border a few miles away.  People told me that getting into Canada was easy…getting back was another story.  US border agents at the Canadian border were infamous for being huge jerks.  I wondered if I would encounter an asshole.

I cycled up to the pedestrian entrance at the border and went inside the office.  A border agent went outside and searched my bags.  He came back in and called me back up with a menacing look in his face.  His superior was standing next to him.  I looked down at his hand.  Shit.  My bag of fruit.  I forgot I was carrying it.  You can’t bring fruit and vegetables across the border.  If you are carrying fruits or veggies without informing the border agent, it’s an automatic $300 fine.  No no no.  I had butterflies.  I couldn’t afford that.

His superior asked, “You know you can’t bring this stuff across the border?”

Gulp.  “Sorry about that,” I said in a meek voice.

“Well don’t be sorry!  Know the rules,” he forcibly said to me as he walked off.  Luckily, I received no fine since it was my first time crossing the border back into the US.  Whew.

back to cheap food

I was happy to be back in the US.  I was getting sick of getting ripped off in BC by restaurants and grocery stores.  30% instant markdown as soon as I crossed the border.  I celebrated by stopping at a Little Caesar’s 20 miles into Washington in the town of Ferndale.  I ordered a large pepperoni pizza and ate it in about 5 minutes.

My first day of riding in Washington was fantastic.  All of the buildings in the small coastal towns were uniform and made of brick.  Everyone was out walking around town, and the towns were void of any huge chains.  I rode along Chuckanut Ridge, a hilly highway in a forest southwest of Bellingham.

racing the sun

I stopped to call some cyclist contacts I had in Mt. Vernon, 25 miles away.  Failure.  I had been calling them for a few days and kept having trouble reaching them.  Oh well.  I’ll leap frog my destination and give Elizabeth a call.  She was a friend that I grew up with in Georgia.  Elizabeth had contacted me a few days ago letting me know that her couch in Coupeville, WA was open to ugly, tired cyclists from Georgia.  She also said I could help out around the organic farm she lived/worked on.

I was happy that she picked up the phone.  She told me to come on by.  I looked at my map.  I would have to do 50+ miles before it got dark.  I was up for the challenge.

Before I left the Chuckanut area, I ran into two tourists enjoying the view at a cliff overlook.  I talked to them a while about my travels and shared a few of the stories.  They were really appreciative that I took the time to talk to them even though I had a pretty tough goal before sundown.  Mary and Jim gave me a few snacks, including the coolest chocolate bar ever.

Coupeville was located on Whidbey Island.  I would have to cycle out to a peninsula on the coast and cross over the water through Deception Pass State Park.  A very cool area.  Unfortunately, all of my electronics were dead or near-dead.  GPS.  Phone.  Camera.  Sorry…no beautiful picture of the sun setting on the Pacific.

I got to the farmhouse just as the remaining ambient light was fading.  I can’t believe I made it in such a short time.  I had pushed hard for the past 4.5 hours without a break longer than 10 seconds.

willowood farm

I was pumped to see a familiar face from Georgia.  I felt a little bit more grounded as I spent time talking to Elizabeth and her boyfriend Kevin that night.  Both of them had hiked the entire Appalachian Trail in six months consecutively.  It was a huge accomplishment, and I was eager to hear some of their stories about the trail and how it changed them.

They told me about a few of the good things people did for them along the way and all of the characters they encountered.  Their story was awfully similar to mine.  Kevin said, “We found out that we really enjoyed meeting the people…that’s what defined the places moreso than the geography.”  Sounded familiar.  I have been telling people the same thing.  Eoin summed it up nicely by saying this in one of his previous posts:

The fun and memorable part of travel is the experiences you have along the way – the people, the problems, and the challenges.

farm tour

Kevin and Elizabeth had the day off, so they took the time to give me a tour of the farm.  Georgie, the farm owner, lets interns stay in the upstairs portion of the farmhouse, which happens to be a ‘historic structure’ of the Ebey Land’s area.  Ebey’s Landing is the nation’s first historical reserve, created in 1978 to protect a rural working landscape and community on Central Whidbey Island.  It’s home to Washington’s second oldest town, Coupeville.

Not long into the tour, I met Bill, the master of farming machinery.  Kevin warned me that Bill would invite me to go sailing.  Sure enough, Bill asked if I was up for sailing.  It was an invitation I openly welcomed.  We made plans to go the next day around 5 PM and grill up some food on the boat.

garlic party…throw your hands up in the air

Georgie was throwing a huge garlic cleaning party that night for any volunteers that would come.  Beer and pizza were provided.  Kevin did the manliest thing a farmer could do:  bake brownies.

We watched possibly one of the worst movies I have seen on this trip.  Trust me…I’ve seen some terrible movies along the way.  Charles, Georgie’s husband, wanted to watch it pretty badly.  No one had the heart to step up and tell him it was not very entertaining.  The name of the movie was The Commitments, an early 90s comedy about the formation of an Irish soul group.  I’m surprised I even remember the plot line without having to google it.  I think I enjoyed cleaning garlic more.

After this huge cinematic letdown, Run Fat Boy Run was placed into the DVD player.  I voted for Flight of the Navigator.  Willow, Elizabeth and Kevin’s roommate, was the only one who had my back.  We were both shut down.  Run Fat Boy Run ended up being pretty good though.

intern for a day

I decided to help out around the farm for the day and try to learn a few things about working on a big organic farm.  The day’s chores included weeding all the onion rows and planting a bunch of seedlings.  It was a pretty tough day, but the weather was quite nice.

We all passed the time by reminescing about really bad 90s bands and singing their lyrics.  Third Eye Blind killed about 30 minutes for us.

I’m packed and I’m holding,
I’m smiling, she’s living, she’s golden and
she lives for me, She says she lives for me,
Ovation, She’s got her own motivation,
she comes round and she goes down on me…
I want something else, to get me through this,
Semi-charmed kind of life,
I want something else,
I’m not listening when you say, Good-bye.

And then Smash Mouth killed another 30 minutes.  It was the same song Eoin and I obsessed over during our ride in east Texas, and now it was haunting me again.  I couldn’t remember the tune or the lyrics until Willow saved me.

And then we made a really stupid rap about broccoli.  Kevin was wrapping a row of broccoli seedlings back toward the ‘planters’ (Elizabeth, Willow, and I), and it spawned the worst rap song of all time:

Do the broccoli wrap, wrap, wrap, wrap,
Don’t put them on the map, map, map, map
Put them in the soil to make them feel royal,
So they will not boil, cook them in oil,
Do not toil, do the broccoli wrap, wrap, wrap, wrap.

captain ryan

I was pretty excited to get to Bill’s sailboat which was docked in Coupeville.  After working a few more hours outside, we made our way to the docks.  His boat was pretty incredible…43 feet with well-maintained wooden structure.  Willow got started on the salmon while the rest of us drank beer.

Eventually Bill got drunk and wanted to go sit inside.  He appointed me as Captain.  I appointed a farm day-worker, Eric, to be my first mate.  Tucker was my second mate.  Kevin wanted to commit mutiny.  I think he was jealous of my position.  I sent him towards the front to swab the deck.  I would have no dissent on my boat.  To speak in such a way was treason.

I became cocky in my Captain position and yelled, “TACK! TAAAAAAAAACK!”  Bill came up wondering what the hell we were doing.  I didn’t know, so I blamed Kevin, the true experienced sailor.  We told Bill we were tacking to change our direction, and he showed us idiots how to change the sail.  We tacked successfully, and I felt like a new man.

After relaxing in the hull of the boat for a while, Bill came up and asked, “OK, what idiot wants to steer the boat now?”  I volunteered Elizabeth for the job, for I was no idiot.

Another guy named Nate that had worked on the farm that day was also hanging out on the boat with us.  We told him about our broccoli song, and out of nowhere he shared a long rap song that he wrote about parsley.  Weird, creepy coincidence.  His rap was definitely cooler.

We eventually got back to the docks and left Bill at the docks with the boat.  He went out to anchor in the water and fell asleep.