The Boss and Me
On a Thursday in mid-April I finally became convinced. After a particularly boring Anthropology lecture, I began walking toward my dorm when a familiar voice screamed my name from across a courtyard. Taylor Smiley, my best friend in Claremont, apparently had experienced a similarly drab class session, and convinced me to walk with her to Starbucks to chat and recharge. As we walked we shared stories of love, school, and track, and by the time we sat down with our drinks – hers a strong black coffee; mine a sugary crack beverage – the subject had turned to my upcoming adventure: a border-to-border bike ride up the Pacific coast of the United States. Though the start of the journey was less than a month away, I hadn’t given it much thought or preparation, beyond simply to tell my mom not to buy me a plane ticket home. I figured that this committed me to the ordeal, and so preparation would necessarily follow; however, the hectic life at the Claremont Colleges has a way of preventing one from thinking too far ahead, and so I found myself wildly unprepared both materially and mentally as May 18th approached. I hadn’t bought any supplies, my bike badly needed a tune-up, and I had no semblance of an itinerary planned. Perhaps more importantly, I wasn’t convinced that the ride was actually going to take place. That is not to say that I was having second thoughts, but rather that my mind simply didn’t register my plan as real. I compare the feeling to graduation, or a similar experience in which you typically don’t recognize the imminence or gravity of the situation until it is upon you, or even until after it has passed. As I explained my idea to Taylor, we were apparently eavesdropped upon, for suddenly an older man, perhaps in his 70’s, approached us and asked “excuse me, but did I hear that you’re planning to bike from… here to there?”
Despite his confusion, I understood the man’s question and responded “Yeah, from Mexico to Canada.” I smiled, admittedly expecting the man to express his admiration of my undertaking.
“Well… why the heck are you doing that?” He continued.
Slightly confused, but still half-expecting praise, I responded without much thought, “For the adventure!”
“That’s not an adventure, that’s just stupid.” He claimed.
Baffled, I asked, “What do you mean it’s not an adventure?”
“That’s not an adventure! People have done that before!” He asserted.
“Well, sir, people have climbed Mt. Everest before, but it’s still an adventure” I responded.
“Biking that far alone is stupid!” He continued, ignoring my response. “It’s like scuba-diving alone. You’re going to get hurt.”
Before I could respond to his comment, Taylor intervened. “Thank you, sir!” She concluded, slowly and loudly. “He’ll be very careful. Thanks for your concern!”
Just before he walked away, the man said to Taylor, “I ought to take a picture of you two together, because you might not ever see him again.”
As he left, my emotions became jumbled. At first, the entire interaction left me somewhat frightened. The way in which the man had so suddenly interjected to warn me of my impending doom was troubling, to say the least. At this point I hadn’t seriously considered my safety as a major issue, and so such a random and blunt warning from a complete stranger almost seemed like an omen. At the same time, the man was obviously extremely grumpy, and at least partially crazy, so I couldn’t wrap my mind around why his words shook me the way they did.
I was admittedly absent while Taylor and I finished our drinks and began to walk home, unable to move my mind away from the old man. But before we were halfway back to school, I suddenly understood the meaning of the interaction. What I had been missing – why the trip still hadn’t become real to my mind – was a distinct challenge, and it was exactly this that the old man had offered me. One of my greatest passions is exceeding physical expectations, whether it be transcending goals or doing things that seem impossible. The most obvious incarnation of this habit is my obsession with doing things that I seem too young to do. I ran a marathon at age 17, completed a half-Ironman triathlon at age 18, and climbed a 20,500 ft mountain at age 19, all with functionally no training, and all to the sounds of bystanders yelling “look at that kid go!” The old man, with his pseudo-death threat, had unknowingly made clear to me that this bike journey was to be my adventure for age 20. And so the preparation began.
***
5/18
Dad called a few times today with various bits of advice, random comments, and one demand. As for random comments, apparently sometime recently a few tourists were mauled in Tijuana, which is (nearly) where I began my ride this morning. The demand: that I keep a journal. I wasn’t planning on writing about this trip, partially because I didn’t want to carry the extra weight of a journal, partially because I simply want to experience this journey without having to force myself to remember every little piece of my day, but nonetheless, here I am writing. Besides, my Ecuador and Fiji journals proved fun to revisit, so laziness aside, I think that this is a good idea.
I had hoped to start riding today at around 9:30 or 10:00, but sure enough, as we stopped at Jamba Juice for breakfast and to reunite with Erin and Flattery (Brittany’s sister and her boyfriend), I realized that I needed to control my anxiety. We weren't going to make it by ten, and that was OK. I'm actually glad that the start of my trip didn't end up as rushed as I had planned. A long, relaxed morning full of food and family put me in the right mood for my first day. Brittany's family never ceases to make me smile, but then again, that which I categorize as annoying in my own family entertains Brittany, and so perhaps someday, after enough time with the Nunninks, they'll begin to drive me nuts. Not today. Anyway, I'm certainly grateful that they volunteered (maybe Brittany forced them?) to drive me to the border, because saying goodbye to Brittany as I mounted my bike felt pretty powerful. Besides, if I had been forced to say goodbye and then hop in a car with someone else, then I would have been a pretty horrible car companion.
We arrived at Border Field State Park for a noontime departure, and before setting off, a few photo-ops were taken, and Patty (Brittany’s step-mom) awkwardly supervised Brittany and my farewell kiss. I can't say that my mom wouldn't have done the same thing. Motherhood.
The first section of the ride went well, overall. Riding with the heavy saddlebags is a bit difficult. I can feel the extra weight slowing me down, but I planned for that. My main concern is the balance. I almost feel like I’m on a motorcycle. The heaviness has resulted in a bit of squirliness, and so I’ll need to focus on taking corners slowly. Quick movements are out of the question.
After about ten minutes of riding, the Nunninks passed me in their car. I’m not sure whether they waited at the border for dramatic effect or what, but they definitely waited a while to take off. As they passed, I blew a kiss to Brittany, who hung out the back window waving, and I was on my own.
After riding through the bland city of Imperial Beach, I continued into Silver Strand State Park, which consisted of a few miles of bike path on a narrow spit of land, surrounded on both sides by water. I started this journey by riding along the Tijuana River, and in a few short, maybe long weeks, I’ll be riding along the Puget Sound. After riding through the fancy-pants island neighborhood of Coronado, which consists of a golf course, piers, yachts, and mansions, I took a ferry back onto the mainland of San Diego. On the ferry I ate one of the Seattle Chocolate bars that Mom bought me, and it tasted better than I remember their chocolate tasting. I think I’m going to develop a lust for food on this trip. I also talked to a few old folks on bikes who were on their way to someplace much closer than Canada. I’m in for a long one.
Once off the ferry, I rode through San Diego proper to Mission bay, and past the old roller coaster that Mom and I rode exactly 10 years ago. In 1999, my mom, brother and I took a road trip through the western states: Idaho, Utah, Arizona, California, Oregon, and back to Washington, and I think that it is a pretty beautiful coincidence that I will be retracing a significant portion of our route on my bike in 2009. Of course, it would be nice if I had been awake for any part of the road trip, but as a 10 year old, all I was really concerned with was how far until the next McDonalds.
The Mission Beach Strip, which reminded me of Venice Beach, lead me north (of course!) on a somewhat troublingly trafficky route towards UC San Diego, past the Scripps Institute of Oceanography – often confused with my dear Scripps College for Wimins – and through various small, cute coastal towns on the way to Encinitas: my rest stop for the night. Originally I had planned to bike to Laguna Beach for the night, which would have been 100 miles, but the late start forced me to change my plans. In hindsight, the late start may have saved me from a rough scenario, because I definitely overestimated my average speed in planning this trip, and so biking from Laguna Beach to Santa Barbara – the intended second stop – would have been impossible. Thus, after four and a half hours and 50-55 miles, I stopped at Florian Scheulan’s incredibly quiet house, into which I was welcomed cordially, save for his tiny, furious dog, Lulu, who berated me for the duration of my stay. His parents are quite nice, very quiet, and cook a mean Trader Joe’s frozen casserole and molten chocolate cake. Tonight I will sleep on Florian’s brother’s waterbed. Not a bad start.
The first section of the ride went well, overall. Riding with the heavy saddlebags is a bit difficult. I can feel the extra weight slowing me down, but I planned for that. My main concern is the balance. I almost feel like I’m on a motorcycle. The heaviness has resulted in a bit of squirliness, and so I’ll need to focus on taking corners slowly. Quick movements are out of the question.
After about ten minutes of riding, the Nunninks passed me in their car. I’m not sure whether they waited at the border for dramatic effect or what, but they definitely waited a while to take off. As they passed, I blew a kiss to Brittany, who hung out the back window waving, and I was on my own.
After riding through the bland city of Imperial Beach, I continued into Silver Strand State Park, which consisted of a few miles of bike path on a narrow spit of land, surrounded on both sides by water. I started this journey by riding along the Tijuana River, and in a few short, maybe long weeks, I’ll be riding along the Puget Sound. After riding through the fancy-pants island neighborhood of Coronado, which consists of a golf course, piers, yachts, and mansions, I took a ferry back onto the mainland of San Diego. On the ferry I ate one of the Seattle Chocolate bars that Mom bought me, and it tasted better than I remember their chocolate tasting. I think I’m going to develop a lust for food on this trip. I also talked to a few old folks on bikes who were on their way to someplace much closer than Canada. I’m in for a long one.
Once off the ferry, I rode through San Diego proper to Mission bay, and past the old roller coaster that Mom and I rode exactly 10 years ago. In 1999, my mom, brother and I took a road trip through the western states: Idaho, Utah, Arizona, California, Oregon, and back to Washington, and I think that it is a pretty beautiful coincidence that I will be retracing a significant portion of our route on my bike in 2009. Of course, it would be nice if I had been awake for any part of the road trip, but as a 10 year old, all I was really concerned with was how far until the next McDonalds.
The Mission Beach Strip, which reminded me of Venice Beach, lead me north (of course!) on a somewhat troublingly trafficky route towards UC San Diego, past the Scripps Institute of Oceanography – often confused with my dear Scripps College for Wimins – and through various small, cute coastal towns on the way to Encinitas: my rest stop for the night. Originally I had planned to bike to Laguna Beach for the night, which would have been 100 miles, but the late start forced me to change my plans. In hindsight, the late start may have saved me from a rough scenario, because I definitely overestimated my average speed in planning this trip, and so biking from Laguna Beach to Santa Barbara – the intended second stop – would have been impossible. Thus, after four and a half hours and 50-55 miles, I stopped at Florian Scheulan’s incredibly quiet house, into which I was welcomed cordially, save for his tiny, furious dog, Lulu, who berated me for the duration of my stay. His parents are quite nice, very quiet, and cook a mean Trader Joe’s frozen casserole and molten chocolate cake. Tonight I will sleep on Florian’s brother’s waterbed. Not a bad start.
5/19
I’m writing on a pizza box. It’s pretty good stuff – no Pagliacci or Serious Pie, but good nonetheless. Today was a good day of riding! Well, at least part of it. Recap: I began in Encinitas at Flo’s house with a bowl of cereal and a nice morning with his folks, beginning my ride at 6:50 by biking the 4-5 miles back to the 101 on the coast. The road then took me through a few coastal towns before spitting me into Camp Pendleton, the army base. At the first gate I was denied entry by a goofy, rather dumb, but cheerful army man. He directed me to another entrance, where a less noteworthy character let me by after inspecting my driver’s license. The camp itself was pretty fun. Various army vehicles rolling by me as I navigated through various army settings: living areas, shopping centers, and all sorts of memorials. The only really exciting part came in the form of a sign. The sign had the typical yellow diamond shape of a “Pedestrian Crossing” or “Slow,” sign, but this one read “TANK XING.” I thought it was funny. This marked the first of a few moments in which I wish I had brought a camera.
After the base I rode along the beach on an abandoned road turned bike path at San Onofre, which was beautiful and quiet, before winding my way through the neighborhoods of San Clemente. From San Clemente I found my way to Laguna Beach along the somewhat perilous Highway 1. I stopped for a Burrito at Chronic Tacos (7, 7.5, 8) and chatted with Pops and Brittany. I miss her so much already it’s absurd. To be honest, part of me is glad that she graduated and is out of Claremont, because I’m not very good at our relationship in that setting. I made the mistake of committing to too many other things, which has resulted in a more or less perpetual state of stress, which has in turn resulted in general bad boyfriendship (to coin a phrase) on my part. That’s not to say that I’m abusive or ignore her or that I do anything concrete, but I know that I don’t appreciate her to the extent that I do outside of the Claremont Bubble. The way we interact when we are away from school is evidence enough to prove my point. Things are fine… even good… even great when we’re at school, but when we are in Seattle or Vermont, the word spectacular doesn’t even encompass how I perceive our relationship. Our summer in Seattle will undoubtedly be amazing, but the fact that a time when we can be consistently together is nowhere in sight gives me mixed feelings about her leaving school. One thing that I don’t have mixed feelings about, however, is my belief that we will make it to that time.
Some guys are talking about an earthquake that apparently occurred today. Florian informed me that another one happened on Sunday night while Brittany, her family and I were eating at the Geisha House. I totally felt it, but dismissed the feeling as somebody tapping their foot against a table leg. I didn’t feel the quake today, obviously.
Dad has sent me something like five picture messages to my phone today. Stop it.
Back to recap: After lunch in Laguna, I continued through ritzy, hilly, traffic-filled Newport Beach, where I worried at points about my safety. At one particularly dangerous section – a fast arterial with a row of parked cars preventing me from staying clear of traffic – I decided to respect the requests of so many of my friends and family members by choosing safety over speed. I hopped the curb and rode on the bumpy sidewalk, stopping at every intersection. My pace slowed tremendously, but I felt much more secure.
Newport beach turned into Huntington Beach, where a bike path awaited my arrival. Unfortunately, so did the wind. Intense gusts slowed me to a crawl, and I knew that several miles of similar conditions were in store. I pushed through, attempting to focus on rhythm rather than speed, but the ride nonetheless became frustrating. Only later – well after the start of my journey – did I find out that I was essentially riding in the wrong direction. The Pacific Coast bike route is notorious for strong, unrelenting southward winds, and so those who attempt the trip almost exclusively start from their northernmost point. I have since spoken to a variety of people who have either completed the journey or part of it, or know somebody who has, and I have yet to hear of a single cyclist who rode from Mexico to Canada. It has been done many times, of course, but those people compose a tiny minority of Pacific Coast cyclists. I bring up this point not to brag about how much more bad ass I am for riding north, but instead quite the contrary – to illustrate how my lack of planning resulted in a trip that may potentially turn out to be much more difficult than need be.
A welcome respite from the headwinds came in the form of a fellow cyclist in need. A man from Newport Beach, which was now at least ten miles away, went out for a bike ride and ended up in a sticky situation. His clip-in shoe had somehow become locked into his pedal, and despite our best brute efforts, it refused to be removed. Luckily, as a touring cyclist, I carried a variety of tools for such circumstances, and so with the help of my two friends Allen and Phillip (an Allen wrench and a Phillips head screwdriver), I managed to free the man’s shoe and send him on his way.
After a snack, I went on my own way, pushing through the wind past Huntington Beach, through Seal Beach and into Long Beach, where I experienced a bit of directional confusion after leaving my route along the water to try to avoid the wind. Eventually I found my route again, which turned east and up the Los Angeles River in another welcome break from the wind. The river itself looked disgusting, but it nonetheless remains rather emblematic of L.A. In a good way. Nonetheless, petrified by the thought of what sorts of fumes and fungi I must have been inhaling, I felt glad to leave the river behind after three or four miles. Unfortunately, what I faced after the river became the low point of the day. I returned to the headwinds, but this time I found myself riding through the urban sprawls of Carson and Torrance. Cities like these are unquestionably the worst part of L.A. They have no redeeming value, sentimental or aesthetic, and unfortunately I’m coming to realize that Los Angeles is almost entirely composed of them. The city has some beautiful parts (Hollywood Hills, Laguna, Santa Monica, Topanga, USC…), and those are the parts that people envision when they imagine Southern California, but those parts are few and tiny compared to the slums, and after two years near the city, the glory of the Hollywood sign has slowly ceased to distract me from the shit smell of pollution. The best part of Los Angeles is escaping.
Stoplights, car exhaust, heat, and tired legs marked the remainder of my ride past Redondo Beach and into Hermosa Beach. I consulted Matt via text message for a place to stay, but after a delay in his response, I opted for the Surf City Hostel in the heart of the strip. The place reminds me of El Centro Del Mundo in Quito. Before I entered, I listened to an intoxicated homeless man’s story about how the police broke his CD player. Minutes after I checked in, Matt sent me a text message suggesting that I find the very same place.
After a shower and phone calls to Grandma O and Brittany, I found a pizza place across the street, ordered a large half tomato-basil half kalamata-feta-artichoke-spinach pie, and sat on the pier to watch the sunset while chatting with Mom.
Overall, a few wrong turns, some traffic, and bad wind made the second half of today a bit of a bummer. Tomorrow, fortunately, involves very little turning, and the wind forecast is not bad. I’m looking forward to starting early; a good, relaxed, not-too-technical ride, and burritos with Julian for dinner.
5/20
Another day, another 100 miles: this time completing the journey to Santa Barbara. Today felt better than yesterday except in one respect: my knees. They became incredibly painful rather early on, and it scared me a bit. I’m not going to be able to keep going if today was a sign of what is in store for my knees. Luckily, about 70 miles in, I lowered my seat and immediately felt better. Not entirely better, of course, but enough to keep going, and the pain weakened over the rest of the ride. I’m not sure whether lowering my seat put me in a position that is better for my knees, or whether my knees just liked being in a new position, lower or higher. After consulting Elliot and a few other folks, it would seem that the sort of pain I’m experiencing would be better remedied by raising my seat, and so we’ll see what happens over the next few days.
I started today in Hermosa Beach and spent the first section winding along the beach bike path. It’s really nice to be able to do so without pedestrian traffic, which is part of why I woke up before dawn this morning. Plus, the wind tends to pick up in the early afternoon, and so the more riding I can squeeze in before then, the better. I called Brittany, who is starting her hike today, before I passed Muscle Beach (Venice) and the Santa Monica Pier.
At Santa Monica, the bike path ended, and I started to ride on Highway 1, which was ridiculously crowded at points. I have figured out a new tactic for traffic safety. It is a rather aggressive action, but I think it will keep me safer. Whenever I see a narrow stretch of road approaching and recognize that I’m going to have to move close to traffic, I stick out my left arm as if I’m going to turn left, which warns (forces) cars to stay away from me. I have felt more secure when I employ this tactic, because cars really have no choice but to pay attention to me, which ought to prevent me from getting hit.
Highway 1 continued through Malibu, including a visit to Pepperdine, which has the most absurd, manicured campus I have ever seen. Worse than CMC. Shortly thereafter, I stopped at a Jewish temple to eat my leftover pizza.
After Malibu, the highway became less crowded, which calmed my nerves. I rode past Point Mugu, which, despite my previous ignorance to its very existence, was one of the most beautiful places I have passed so far. I passed a naval station at Hueneme, rode through the depressing farm territory of Oxnard, across a wooden bridge/boardwalk over a bog, through somewhat boring Ventura (admittedly, I didn’t see much of it), and along a more or less abandoned road along the beautiful coast south of Santa Barbara, where I watched surfers and saw the geologic point of interest that is the community of La Conchita. I hopped on the 101 freeway for a few miles, which was admittedly fun due to ample shoulder space, before finding a bike path that lead me into Santa Barbara proper. A couple of triathletes on bikes passed me, and I yelled that I would beat them in the running section.
After riding through a bit of the city of Santa Barbara, which seems like a friendly place, I ended the day at the rock on the beach which marks the starting line of the CMS Cross Country Alumni meet. There I waited for Julian, who arrived promptly and took me to a famous burrito joint. Unfortunately, it was closed, and so we found another, which was rather delicious, before heading back to the beach.
Julian is an intern at Teva (the shoe/sandal company), and on this night he was scheduled to work in a booth at a fun run along the beach. I joined him, and thus, I worked at Teva for the night. Tristin, from the PPXC team, worked at the Santa Barbara Running Company booth across from us, so we chatted with him for a while. Julian’s supervisor, John, was a nice, though somewhat cocky fellow, who gave me useless advice on my knee. He suggested that, like in running, my knee problem could be caused by riding too much on one side of the road, which would create an imbalance of pressure. I briefly thought about the physics of this scenario, and immediately decided never to take athletic advice from John. Instead, I walked to the booth next to ours, where a man stood selling a recovery drink called Fluid. The man was a nutritionist by trade, but after a few incredibly helpful tips regarding proper fueling, I asked him about my knee, and he gave me a few good stretches to focus on.
The nutrition advice was gold. From now on, after every ride, I will immediately eat a Clif Bar (or something similar) and wait at least an hour before consuming something more substantial. In the thirty minutes immediately following physical exertion, your body is most receptive and in need of replenishment. This replenishment consists of the replacement of muscle glycogen (energy), the use of protein for repairing tissue, and the use of various nutrients that expedite these sorts of processes. Thus, the concept of the “thirty minute window of opportunity.” The goal, then, is to eat something (or things) that contains carbohydrates, protein, and vitamins within this window, so that your body can recover as quickly and effectively as possible – a very important goal for me on this trip. However, what I had not previously known is that by eating something substantial immediately after physical activity, athletes often miss the window of opportunity because the body takes longer to digest, say, a burger and a milkshake. So while they may have eaten carbs and protein, their body can’t do anything with them until the food is sufficiently broken down, which takes longer than thirty minutes. Instead, a favorable tactic is to eat something small and packed densely with nutrition, so that the body can digest it quickly and begin repairing itself. Then, once the body has broken down that food into raw fuel and has begun the recovery process, feasting is in order, so that the recovery process can continue. Additionally, eating something high in protein just before bed – the time when most muscle repair occurs – loads the body with that which it uses to do the repairing. After all, my metabolism will be so high that sleeping for ten hours will affect my muscles like a significant fasting period, so it will be important to fuel up. I will swear by these two dietary tactics for the rest of the trip.
After the race, Julian and I drove to Freebirds, which is the best burrito joint on the planet, where I ordered a Quesorrito, which is the best burrito I have ever tasted. Take a crispy, cheesy quesadilla, unfold it, add all the typical ingredients of a burrito, re-roll, and shove into your mouth.
After barely finishing the meal, we clumsily navigated the streets of Santa Barbara (Julian doesn’t know his own town very well) to Julian’s house. After the alumni meet during cross country season, the team ate dinner at Julian’s old house – a behemoth of a home. However, midway through the year, about the time that the economic crisis became the exclusive topic of discussion around America, I heard that he had moved. Never having asked why, I nonetheless assumed that financial troubles were the most likely cause of the move, and so as I sat in his car, I nervously awaited the awkward moment when we would arrive at the trailer park. We wound through the hills, but the sky was too dark to determine the size of the houses we passed, and so the tension mounted. Finally, we turned into a long driveway, rounded a corner, and came face to face with his new palace. Apparently Julian’s family moved so that his dad can be closer to work, and to avoid fire danger, among other reasons. He has lived in six houses over the course of five years, which he finds somewhat frustrating, but any rate, his house is still gigantic.
Once inside, we chatted with his mom and extremely attractive sister for approximately five minutes before I headed upstairs to bed. Two points of interest: first, the upstairs bathroom (one of them, at least) had heated floors; second, Julian’s family also has a dog named Lulu. I cringed. Two Lulus is two too many.
5/21
Julian and I started around 6:15 this morning after packing down as much cereal as I could stomach. The first half of the ride quickly became the best part of the trip so far. After struggling (directionally) to make it through the UCSB campus, we found our way onto Highway 101 for more freeway riding. Ample shoulder width provided decent riding conditions. Soon, we hit the hill – the biggest on the first of five sections of map that compose my entire route. The 101 suddenly shot inward and began riding into the hills. We were prepared for the climb, having discussed it the night before, and we knew that we had about 1000 feet of elevation to gain before the 101 would intersect Highway 1, which marked the end of the ascent. Shortly after beginning to climb, we passed through a tunnel that I thought marked the halfway point up the hill. My happiness at what seemed to be a very short and easy first half of the climb quickly turned into distress as we entered the tunnel, which had no shoulder, and no lights; furthermore, uphill riding meant our progress was slow. Cars and trucks screamed by us, and both Julian and I were petrified by the ordeal, which was undoubtedly the most dangerous single part of the entire trip so far. Only a short distance into the tunnel, I stopped and hurriedly pulled my bike out of the road and onto the narrow emergency sidewalk intended for road crews. Julian, carrying less weight and sporting clip in pedals, had the capacity to sprint through the tunnel and avoid harm.
I couldn’t believe that we had climbed halfway to 1000 feet, but I was pleasantly surprised when I saw a road sign indicating that we had merely a half mile until the junction with Highway 1. The last part of the climb to Highway 1 passed as quickly as the first, and so Julian and I felt excited to have retained much of the energy we had saved for the hill. Only once we turned onto Highway 1 and rode for a short distance did we realize our mistake. Upon later inspection, I found that the junction where Highway 101 and Highway 1 intersect was misleadingly labeled on the map. Upon first glace, it appeared to mark the summit of the climb, but in truth we still had left approximately double what we had just climbed. Moreover, the remainder of the hill was significantly steeper than the first third. Julian and I stared up at the miniature mountain in front of us, and realized that we had not choice but to keep riding.
As we climbed we shared the best conversation of the day. The slow pace meant little wind and the lack of traffic allowed us to ride side-by-side. Julian informed me that the very hills in which we rode were home to Michael Jackson’s infamous Neverland Ranch. While we did not find Mr. Jackson’s ranch, we passed another giant ranch called San Julian, which stretched for tens of miles along the road. The route climbed higher into the hills: away from any sight or sound of civilization, and into the sunshine and rolling golden hills that are so typical of Central California. The view was beautiful, and the hill felt surprisingly easy, considering the length and grade. At the top of the hill we descended through similarly beautiful territory, stopping briefly for a snack before rolling into the small town of Lompoc.
After Lompoc we hit another set of hills, this one unanticipated. We climbed through a more forested area that reminded me of the dry, open woods of Lake Tahoe. The beautiful scenery had me feeling exhilarated, and so as we climbed I gave Tour De France race commentary. As always, I imagined myself as Michael Rasmussen, the doping Danish climber. After a long winding ascent came a long winding descent, which lead to one of the most memorable scenes of the entire trip. After sixty miles of riding, we happened upon a gigantic farm that included a field of perfectly ripe raspberries for at least a quarter mile in every direction. I jumped off my bike and ran under the tents housing the berries, proceeding to stuff my face constantly for approximately ten minutes. Julian, upon attempting to stop, found his foot stuck in his pedal, and promptly fell over onto his side. Comedic gold.
During the raspberry incident, as I call it, I couldn’t help but think that the scene almost seemed like something out of a movie. The only element that seemed to be missing was some sort of trial leading into it. If instead of a beautiful, exciting ride, this morning had been awful, and we had run out of food, the raspberry incident would have been perfectly theatrically timed (Diarrhea would ensue later, of course). Perhaps my conclusion came too soon, and in hindsight the raspberries seemed like a pre-emptive apology from God because a trial indeed waited ahead. Though they had been aching for the majority of the ride, my knees became agonizing with about forty miles left to ride (I’m planning to raise the seat tomorrow). Furthermore, as soon as we finished our descent, the winds picked up and blew us nearly backwards for ten miles through the depressed town of Guadalupe. Pain and frustration ensued, but I think the glory of our morning ride gave Julian and I the momentum we needed to push past Pismo Beach and into San Luis Obispo. The only redeeming qualities of the afternoon were a phone call from Brittany, and a chat with Evelyn, who notified me that Taylor Berliant took third at nationals in the hammer through. ‘Atta boy!
Ally’s family is great. Her house: awesome. Cats! Shower! Spaghetti! After cleaning off and donning some of Ally’s brother’s clothes, Ally and I drove into SLO proper for the giant Thursday Night Farmers Market. What an absurdly lucky coincidence. Along the drive we had a good chat, and she tried to remember the name of a sports drink that her brother is obsessed with, to no avail. At the market we bought strawberries, almonds (which I intend to use as my high-protein pre-bed snack), homemade fruit leathers, and sampled tons of other goodies. Plus, we saw Chuck Liddell, the Ultimate Fighter, who apparently lives in SLO and apparently likes farmers markets. Who would have thought? All through the farmers market I felt inexplicably giddy. It was the most powerful exercise-induced endorphin rush I have ever experienced. Runner’s high times ten. I couldn’t explain it, but it felt great.
After walking the four-five block market, visiting a candy shop, and peeing at Borders, we returned home. Upon entering her house, I saw on the kitchen table a large jug of “Fluid” – the recovery drink whose founder I met the night before, which happens to be the sports drink that her brother is obsessed with. Insane.
5/22
Wow. Today was pretty ridiculous. Ally and I set out around 6:05. Unfortunately, her house is something of a jaunt away from my route, so we added a few miles right away. Our ride started on a bike path where we immediately spotted a bear. Though only a baby, it was the second largest animal I’ve seen, behind only Chuck Liddell. I imagine it was the equivalent of about a nine year-old child – getting big, but not even close to fully-grown. An exciting start to the day, no doubt.
After making our way back to the route, I found out where, according to Ally, car commercials are made: Turri Road. I understand why car companies would choose such a road. It wound through hilly, beautiful farm country. Dad would have made a comment about how great a motorcycle road it would be. I made the comment for him.
Eventually, we made it down to the ocean, along which we rode for a significant distance as my ass began to hurt. Bad. Ally’s dad had given me some Aleve, which cured my knee pain with miraculous effectiveness, but thirty-seven hours in the saddle had my grundle pretty furious at this point. The pain, combined with the smell of four or more dead skunks, made for a pretty miserable section or the ride. I chatted with Cristina on the phone, who gave me some very timely advice: wrap my running pants around my seat for extra cushion. I’ll have to thank her when I see her in two days.
We made it to San Simeon for brunch at some lodge around 10:30, where I ordered a ton of food, saving some French toast for later. After sitting and eating for an hour or so, Ally’s mom arrived to whisk her back home in a car. Of course, I still had fifty miles left to ride, so I was on my own.
After re-dosing on Aleve and adding a second pair of bike shorts to my lower half, I was ready to go. The next several miles felt great! Fuel and additional ass padding saved the day. From San Simeon I rode past a historic site called Hearst Mansion, where apparently Zebras live, grazing like horses in the fields. I spotted no Zebras, so I continued onward as the road weaved along the rocky coast with golden fields and hills to my right. The whole scene seemed like a car commercial again. I was also reminded of the Galapagos Islands by the contrast of rocky black beaches to the dry golden landscape.
Suddenly, I saw a sign that read “Elephant Seal Viewing Area,” and as I crossed the road to peak over the edge, I saw hundreds of seals flopping about, completing the Galapagos metaphor. The smell, of course, was atrocious, but I thoroughly enjoyed this beautiful section of the ride.
From there, however, things got ugly. The coast shot upward, and I was climbing. Progress slowed to a crawl, and miles painfully crept by. The road had only a small shoulder (if at all) and winding corners made the course a bit perilous. In fact, while trying to stay far inside on a sharp uphill, banked right curve, I drifted off the road, my front tire sunk into the sand, and I toppled over into the road. Luckily, no traffic followed me, and so I managed to peel my bike off the road and continue without incident.
Beautiful views balanced out general fatigue, and so my attitude toward this section of the ride is generally neutral. It simply felt a bit long. Here’s the bad part: having passed three “full” campsites (Memorial Day weekend) and a closed one, I found a lodge approximately three to four miles farther than and straight uphill from where I wanted to stay. Of course, the lodge was full as well, and the next place to sleep was approximately twenty miles further up the coast. Thus, I was forced to break the cardinal rule of this trip: “Keep the Ocean on Your Left.” I turned back and rode four heartbreaking miles downhill to the nearest campsite, where they apparently reserve “hiker/biker” spots for people like me who show up too late and don’t have the means to find another place to stay. Thus, I have to climb again in the morning.
Obviously, riding a bike for eleven hours a day means that I have a substantial amount of time to think. About Brittany, about annoying songs, about everything. It’s also amazing how quickly my attitude can change on these rides. I can go from frustrated to ecstatic in no time at all, and of course the alternative is true as well. It’s interesting to think about the things that change my moods. I’ve become hypersensitive to them. Food, for one. I can sense what different foods and food in general does to and for my body to a heightened extent, and quite instantaneously. To give you an example of how unbelievably sensitive I’ve become, I can distinguish how different flavors of Clif Bar affect my energy level. Thus, my favorites have become those that both taste good, and give me the best energy. Peanut Toffee Buzz rivals Blueberry crisp for the best, while Carrot Cake is the worst. Also, I’ve noticed that I’m always happier when it’s sunny. Vastly happier.
Here’s another thing that I’ve been thinking about, but that I need to consider more closely in practice. Every day. The words of Brittany and Elliot reverberate in my head, but I nonetheless don’t give them the attention they deserve. This trip isn’t about making it home in twenty-one days, it’s about having fun, and experiencing the world I’m traveling through using every sense available. It’s so hard for me to relax on these bike rides, because I’m trained to work hard. Biking lazily doesn’t register as OK to me, especially because my hundred-mile-a-day goal is actually a lot tougher than I thought it would be. I’m constantly focused on making it to such and such a place a such and such a time, or keeping such and such a pace and only stopping for so many minutes. Brittany is right: who gives a fuck if I make it? If I didn’t enjoy the trip – if it turned into twenty-one consecutive days of torture – then what was the point? To prove that I could do it? Here’s the thing: I know I can bike hard already, what I don’t know is whether I can bike easy. This is a test now. If I can’t stop pushing it, I might not make it, because grinding for ten hours every day will get old. Even if I do make it, I know that I won’t enjoy it. I’m already feeling apprehensive about riding tomorrow, and if I keep beating myself up, I won’t be able to keep convincing myself to ride. Ten hours a day is not something I’ll be able to just “tough out” for three weeks. I have to find another strategy. My next two days are planned, but after San Fran, here it is: ride long and slow. Emphasis on slow. If I fall off to the point where I might not make it, I’ll call my Mom or Grandparents and have them carry my gear alongside me as I push through Washington quickly, with a lighter load. Tomorrow I relax, take breaks whenever I want, and even when I don’t want to. I eat before I’m hungry, and I only look at the map for directions – not for goal points. It’s time to start enjoying myself.
Brittany is perfect for me. Being in a tent reminds me of her, and I’m approaching tears because of it. I’m even filling it with farts. Goddamn no cell reception!
It’s amazing how a lack of cell service can be so isolating. I’ve been without reception for less than a day, and I feel absolutely alone. I’ve gone longer without speaking to my parents or Brittany when I have had service, but the simple fact that right now I can’t has profoundly affected me. It is a lot easier to convince yourself to walk out on a tightrope when you have a net underneath you, even if the tightrope in both cases is identical; here, the simple fact that I can’t call for support – even for just one day – makes the same hundred miles, and the same twenty-two days, seem so much longer. What’s also amazing is how dependent I am on a piece of plastic with an antenna. Pathetically so, and I’m embarrassed to admit it.
Oh, one last note. The lodge that turned me away: The Lucia Lodge, or “Lulu’s.” I hate Lulu.
5/23
Well, in a dramatic turn of events, today felt pretty awesome! I started with the second half of the Big Sur climbing section that I began yesterday after San Simeon. The scenery on this portion will undoubtedly be recalled as some of the most spectacular of the entire ride, and of my entire life. At six I started the day on my own private little Highway 1, winding and diving and shooting skyward over the haggard black cliffs and crashing waves, through the morning mist and wind-blown trees that pointed southward in opposition to my course. Luckily the winds were calm, and so I spent the morning riding to the soundtrack of barking seals and whirring gears.
After yesterday’s partial breakdown, I rode the first part of today very cautiously. I stayed focused on establishing and maintaining a steady, relaxed, and sustainable rhythm, fully aware that I faced climbs that undoubtedly had the capacity to break me, and that I would need enough energy to ride seventy more miles after those climbs. The lack of traffic helped me to stay relaxed, and heeding the words of Brittany to “take it easy,” I did just that, and it worked. I shortly found myself at the top of Big Sur, overjoyed at the ease with which the morning had passed. The stark contrast between this morning and yesterday afternoon is a strong testament to the ease and speed with which my mood can be dramatically altered.
In Big Sur – a tiny town composed of a few lodges and a general store – I stopped for brunch: a bad piece of quiche, a Fuji apple (!) and a “Blind Date” flavored “Big Sur Bar.” The latter blew my mind. It was undoubtedly the best energy bar I have ever consumed, and I lament the fact that I likely will never find them again. The bar itself seemed to be a rough hybrid between a seven layer bar (coconut, graham cracker, chocolate chip, etc.) and a Clif Bar, with sunflower seeds and dates mixed in. The nutrition label assured me that it packed enough calories to sustain my riding for quite a while, and then I realized that one bar equaled two servings. I briefly wondered how they managed to pack so many calories into such a tiny package, and then smiled as only an endurance athlete or a sumo wrestler could at that particular moment.
A chilly descent lead me back to the ocean, where I rode through continued beautiful scenery and over a few hills, through my first redwood trees, past Point Sur, and towards the Carmel Highlands for my next major change in scenery. Traffic increased and the road shoulder disappeared, leading me into the first perilous section of the day. After a long climb into Carmel proper (which, according to my altitude chart, is actually significantly higher than the Carmel Highlands), I felt worked. Cars whizzing beside me persuaded me to push up the hill to escape danger, and to by the time I left the city of Carmel, my energy had plummeted. I took a brief rest and opened up a chocolate bar with coffee beans in it. Bingo! I was off!
I shortly found myself in Monterey riding on a continuous bike path alongside sand dunes, full of energy, and with a tailwind! The first of the trip. I rode fast, eating frequently, and I found that my energy stayed high. Sounds like I have a new strategy. Eat lots. All the time. I rolled through farm country on old back roads, passing by fields of strawberries as far as I could see in any direction. I stopped to eat a few of the gigantic, firm, tasteless, chemically enhanced (read: destroyed) berries, scoffed at the tragedy of industrial farming, and continued. Past strawberry territory I found myself in similarly vast fields of artichokes. I stopped to pluck a single choke – a gift for Cristina, with whom I will camp tonight – and continued on my way.
Somewhere in farm country, Max called me to check in. It felt great to hear his voice, and refreshing to explain how I felt to someone I knew could understand. Though Max and I don’t share many heart-to-hearts, we have an understanding of each other that doesn’t require emotional conversation, and can only be established through close friendship over the course of both of our entire lives. More importantly in this case, Max knows what I am used to in terms of physical and mental training, and so he can grasp what I’m feeling currently based on how I relate it to typical track and cross country training.
I didn’t stop for long, anxious to continue riding while I felt so energetic. Soon enough, I hit the Santa Cruz area, stopping briefly to talk to Coach Gonzales, and pushing on to ride passed my anticipate mileage for the day and getting a head start on tomorrow. All of my energy conservation early in the day combined with excessive eating lead to a spectacular day of riding, on the whole. I find it much easier to ride long miles when the final portion of the day feels strong, rather than the beginning. As such, it pays to dog it early in the day, so that later I have the strength, and more importantly the motivation, to go longer. If I feel tired after twenty miles, convincing myself to ride another eighty will be nearly impossible. If I feel tired after eighty, then I only have twenty to go. That’s the strategy. Oh, did I mention eating?
Meeting Cristina in Santa Cruz felt amazing after the last few days alone. She baked me granola bars, which taste delicious, and bought me a falafel sandwich which we ate as we walked along the pier. We watched Sea Lions and Ferris Wheels, and chatted about beavers (she has a new book about the little critters and is quite engrossed) and our love lives. She’ll be moving in with her boyfriend this summer, and seems apprehensive but excited. I’m excited for her. As we rode in her car, a Michael Franti song came over the radio, and I forced her to change it. I nearly started crying because it reminded me of Brittany too strongly. Yikes. That was a bit embarrassing. Tonight, we camp in the Redwood forest behind the UC Santa Cruz campus. We will be directly behind the Senior Trailer Park – their equivalent of senior apartments. UCSC is a goofy place.
Tomorrow: San Francisco!
5/24
Happy Birthday Dad!
I don’t know why I’m so moody. It’s very strange. Three days I felt positively giddy and was unable to wipe the smile off my face while roaming through the farmers market in SLO, and today I started crying in the middle of a grocery store while talking to Elliot and Ariane on the phone. I just don’t quite get it. As mentioned before, I’m aware of how certain things affect my moods, and so I guess the best thing to do is control those factors that I can, and try to let slide those that I can’t. Spoken like Marcus Aurelius, the great Stoic. Professor O would be proud.
This is the same test that I discovered two days ago, I think: to be happy and take it easy, as opposed to applying too much pressure to myself, and feeling shitty as a result.
Needless to say, today wasn’t so hot. The worst part came near the very end, when I was forced to hammer through a very hilly section due to the non-existence of a shoulder, and the presence of urban traffic. That killed me. Also, I generally rode too fast today. This morning I felt excited for my shortest ride since day one, and so I thought I could push through without having to pace myself as I had vowed to. Unfortunately, eighty miles is still quite the ride, and headwinds slowed my progress while traffic urged me forward at too quick a pace. My mindset today was “get through it” rather than “ride your bike.” The former implies a task, while the latter implies an activity. The distinction is infinitely important.
A heavy morning mist moistened my ride for the first few hours. Yes, the alliteration was intentional. I sadly said goodbye to Cristina in Santa Cruz before heading back to a lonely stretch of Highway One along the ocean. After only an hour or so I stopped to eat, hoping that a break would disrupt the bad rhythm that I seemed to be enduring. Even bathroom breaks can give me the chance to find a new rhythm, which is why I prefer not to stop at all when I feel good. I ate eggs, potatoes, toast, and a cinnamon roll at a café in the tiny town of Davenport before pushing over slow rolling hills to Half Moon Bay. I stopped to call Dad and wish him a happy fiftieth birthday before continuing on to San Francisco, using a couple of day-old muffins from the café as fuel. I stopped to wait for Eric Johnson outside of Brad’s Grandma’s house, where I will be staying for the night, to leave a message for Brittany, who is officially out of cell phone range as she has entered Yosemite. EJ and I will be riding together tomorrow, and roaming the streets of San Francisco tonight.
Once EJ arrived, we dropped our bikes and gear off inside of Grandma Johnson’s house, which is, in all honesty, one of the scariest places I’ve ever seen. God knows how long ago, Brad’s Grandma moved out of her house – a San Franciscan mansion – and in with Brad’s family. His grandpa may have died, but of this I’m not sure. Regardless, what remains is a semi-evacuated mansion, full of old junk, antiques, smelly old people clothes and cobwebs. Interestingly, some of the house has been emptied – such as the immaculate dining room – while other parts have been haphazardly packed up – such as the kitchen, where various unopened boxes of cereal, plates, and kitchen gear have been stuffed into giant black garbage bags and left in the center of the floor – and still other parts appear as if someone could still be living in the house. Toothbrushes sit by the sink, waiting for an owner that hasn’t come home in perhaps months. Unfortunately for EJ and I, the thermostat is broken, and though we have hot water, the sinks run brown. One interesting thing I found was a silver dollar, like mine and Matt’s, but from the year in between ours: 1888. If I had more time here, I would make good use of the record collection – a great set of seventies black-people music.
The creepy house did nothing to brighten my already terrible mood; in fact, I felt a strong compulsion to leave as soon as possible, and so EJ and I hit the town. We drove towards USF, stopping to walk up Haight Street, which lived up to its reputation as an extremely interesting place. It reminded me of Broadway, or University Ave, but more intense, meaning simply that the crazies were crazier. For example, one particular crazy person approached EJ and I in a crowd, showed us a cassette tape, and attempted to interest us in a “free tape, half-price, guaranteed or your money back!” The fact that I immediately responded with “no thanks” before actually realizing what he had said can either be attributed to my fatigue or my conditioned response to street peddlers.
Our shopping excursion included burritos (mine had cactus and goat cheese in it!), a bundle of Clif Bars, three pints of ice cream (Haagen Dazs Fleur de Sel Caramel, Ben and Jerry’s Birthday Cake, and Greek God Baklava flavors) some spandex overalls, and artisan chocolates (Molasses, Elderflower, brown butter, and a few others which I do not recall). We sat in Golden Gate Park and chowed. All of these things boosted my morale tremendously. As did wearing Brad’s grandpa’s clothes around San Fran. God I hope he’s not dead.
Update (8/25): He's dead.
5/25
Today… I don’t even know where to begin. I feel decent now, but about thirty miles ago the shit hit the fan. Hard. I didn’t think I could make it thirty more miles. I felt like quitting. I pulled over to rest on the side of the winding country road north of Pt. Reyes, and at that particular moment, I thought that tomorrow more likely held a phone call to my dad than another hundred miles. No matter what or how much I ate, I felt totally bonked. I was so dizzy that my main concern became trying to avoid swerving off the shoulder and into the road. Moving forward was no longer a concern because I was more or less certain that I couldn’t do it.
Then, while riding through the small town of Jenner, I passed a coffee shop on the inside of a bend in the road. I knew that I had ten hard miles of climbing ahead of me, and that I could use any sort of pick-me-up that I could get, but I had just stopped to rest, and it hadn’t helped, so I planned to keep peddling and simply hope for the best. Just as I passed the café, however, I spotted two bikes, loaded with saddlebags, resting on the patio. I slammed on the brakes before I knew why, and turned around toward the patio. Sitting across from the bikes was a Swiss couple, with whom I chatted for a few minutes. I told them about my trip, they told me about theirs – a comparatively short jaunt from San Francisco to Eureka and back – and I explained my current exhaustion. In response, the woman told me, quite simply, that the coffee here was good. I went inside to buy a giant latte with an extra shot, which I inhaled while continuing to talk to the couple. They said very little to me, but somehow their simple presence re-charged my motivation. After a few more minutes of riding, I realized that the latte had done the same for my energy. I made it up the giant, beautiful, winding hill easily and comfortably, thinking about Brittany (she had texted me while at the coffee shop – cell service was sketchy).
At the top of the hill, I looked back at what I had climbed: a series of switchbacks up a mile-wide half-moon cove over the ocean. Thin clouds rolled in across the green hillside, and I knew that it would be one of the most memorable sights of the entire ride. I called Brittany and chatted for a few minutes, tear welling in my eyes, before cell service died again. I had all the motivation I needed to cover the last 10 miles, which I did slowly but surely.
I stopped for the day at a campsite near Salt Point. Immediately after parking my bike against a picnic table, I looked across a hundred foot meadow to see my neighbors for the night. Two girls and a guy, about my age, looked back across at me, and beckoned me to come over for tea. I walked across the field to sit with them, sip bad tea, and enjoy a bit of much needed conversation. The guy, Vadim, is a student at a small college on the East coast. He studies philosophy, and so we had a conversation piece right away. One of the girls, named Stephanie, struck me as extremely cute, but I soon found out that her and Vadim were dating. Their friend, Kim, is a traveler from Norway. The three of them are WWOOFers, working at a farm roughly an hour away, and camping here for a weekend off. Unfortunately, they won’t be staying here tonight, for they’ll be returning to the farm. Thus, I’ll be staying alone, but before I say goodbye I’ll be hitching a ride to the nearest restaurant with them and their WWOOF host, who will be arriving to drive them back to the farm momentarily.
Time for a little Quentin Tarantino action. I’m going to backtrack and start at the beginning of the day. EJ and I set off from Brad’s grandma’s house at around 6:10, and started the ride in search of the Golden Gate Bridge. My directions confused us, and so we eventually found the bridge by following road signs, but not before doing a few circles and wasting nearly an hour.
My fatigue to some extent ruined the potentially glorious crossing of the bridge. Before the trip began, I looked forward to crossing the Golden Gate Bridge more than any other specific anticipated moment, but this morning, in a figurative haze of morning grog as well as a literal haze of bay area morning mist, the moment barely felt real. I recognized this let-down in the moment, and tried my hardest to focus on how cool it was to be crossing into true NorCal. It worked to some extent, but nonetheless, I would have appreciated a more dramatic experience.
After slowly navigating the winding route through the great town of Sausalito and beyond, we made our way along moderately trafficked highways to a campground that marked the beginning of a beautiful bike trail. We rode through redwoods, side by side, attempting to figure out which song best fit the particular moment, until, sadly, the bike path ended and we found ourselves back on the highway. Moderate to light traffic meant we were safe, but little to no shoulder meant that good conversation was out of the question. We rode rolling hills past roadkill and turkey vultures, through Pt. Reyes (home of delicious cheese), and by all sorts of dairy farms before stopping in Marshall for a delicious lunch. The first place we found – “the Marshal Store” – happened to have been written up in the Los Angeles Times for, well, being excessively delicious. Some delicious, spicy fish tacos graced my palate, while EJ ate a grilled chicken sandwich. I think the main draw to the Marshall Store happened to be oysters, and so because I’m not a fan of this particular shellfish, I suppose I missed out on the true glory of the shop/restaurant. Nonetheless, the food was excellent, and it would serve as much needed fuel.
Marshall also marked EJ’s turn-around point. Having ridden fifty miles with me, but without the intention to camp, the time came for him to ride back to San Francisco. A bit worried about the confusing route, I wrote him a set of point-by-point directions, and hoped for the best. It was great to have EJ along, because companionship always boosts my morale, but at the same time, I sense that my pace is excruciatingly slow for those who ride with me. While my friends become antsy at the slow pace, I inadvertently speed up for them, which obviously hurts me. Thus, having a riding partner can be a mixed bag of good and bad effects.
From Marshall I rode another 20 miles through rolling coastal dairy country before, as I mentioned early, the shit hit the fan. Now, fast forwarding a-la-Quentin Tarantino, I’m sitting in a gourmet restaurant, waiting for my hazelnut crusted brie appetizer and halibut entrée to arrive. The current moment in which I find myself is as wildly out of place from the rest of my week as I am sitting in this restaurant. In a crowd of fancy folks, I’m wearing a Gortex shell, running pants, trashy running shoes, and carrying a garbage sack full of maps and a collection of miscellaneous loose leaf papers that compose my journal. And I don’t give a fuck.
Adding to the absolute ridiculousness of the situation is the fact that I hitchhiked here. When the WWOOFers dropped me off at the nearest restaurant, I quickly found that it was closed, and was forced thereafter to hit the road and look for a ride to the next one. After ten minutes, a man in a white van with no windows picked me up. He told me that his kids call it “The Kidnapper,” and he made a joke about how he had been spending all day “kidnapping and killing people.” Not cool.
My standards for normality have declined. I now hitchhike to gourmet restaurants, eat pints of Ben and Jerry’s for lunch, and pee on the side of the road as dozens of cars whiz by (no pun intended).
Now back at my campsite, I capped my night with one final strange moment. After failing to acquire service to call Brittany (a huge letdown), I hitchhiked home just after dark with a big, burly, tattooed Native American who was obviously high, and who offered me pot. I liked him a lot more than the guy in the white van.
5/26
I woke up cold. I dreamt that I had a raccoon skin hat, and so for some reason I thought I’d warm up. A slow start to a slow day. I rode in a tired haze for twenty miles before stopping in Gualala – the hometown of my friend the pot-smoking Indian – to eat breakfast and try to disrupt the bad rhythm. I ate fruit and drank coffee, which I’ve found to be two of the three foods that give me the most energy (the third being Ben and Jerry’s), and my ride improved. I faced headwinds for the rest of the morning, but I felt alright, and for this I am grateful considering yesterday.
I rode through a bit more dairy country, passing by a field of cows grazing under a billboard that read: “Organic Beef.” If only they knew.
As I continued through the cute town of Point Arena the wind and hills took much of my energy, and by Ft. Bragg I felt pretty tired, despite the half-dozen motivational text messages courtesy of Dad. I stopped for coffee and a sub-par burrito, disinterested in the various places that Dad suggested I eat. Ft. Bragg itself was something of a bust. Dad told me that it may be one of the prettiest places I pass through, but I saw little more than a highway town that lacked character. I did skip the oceanside detour, and after leaving town I caught a few glimpses of some big crashing waves along the shore, so I may have missed out on something special. Honestly, I don’t regret it. After ninety miles of riding, it’s hard to convince myself to take any scenic detours.
North of Ft. Bragg, I rode up onto bluffs overlooking the beautiful sun-drenched ocean. Huge waves crashed on huge rocks – both simultaneously elegant and violent, depending on the light and the mood of the viewer, I suppose. After checking into the Westport Motel, which is simultaneously the house of a single mom and her strange son, I showered, snacked, spoke to Ariane and Elliot, plus Mon and Dad on the phone, and stretched. Tomorrow, I climb. The biggest hill of the entire trip waits in the morning. I’m leaving Highway One for good, and heading into the redwoods.
5/27
Today was a great day! I started very slowly out of Westport, wary of the mountain that stood before me. While the climb was indeed brutal, I kept a great rhythm and high spirits the whole way. The smell of the redwood bark, the early morning light peaking between their thin branches, and the Starbucks Doubleshot I had just consumed kept me motivated. I had a backup plan, though, just in case the going got tough. At least a couple times, when fatigue began to override motivation, I would dedicate sets of a hundred pedals. For example, I would think of Bing or Kai, put my head down, and ride for them. I held this mainly as a backup strategy, planning to dedicate a hundred pedals to Dan Evans in particular, and I suppose Brittany, Mom, or Dad if I really needed help, but as it turns out I never even needed to think of a human before I reached the top of the climb.
After a brief, glorious descent, I stopped at a general store in Leggett, but not before riding through the famous “drive-thru tree.” Sequoias are indeed gigantic. For lunch: a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, pop-tarts, and Odwalla juice. Vitamins and calories, vitamins and calories.
I texted Elliot and left a message for Brittany, who I figured would be in the heart of Yosemite, when SURPRISE! She called back! Oh my god I needed that. We chatted for a half-hour, roughly, and it was wonderful.Taylor and she have been up to all sorts of trouble so far: hitchhiking with sketchy people, being declared “missing persons,” sneaking into a MICHAEL FRANTI CONCERT, seeing “the biggest bear ever” … It sounds incredible. And she doesn’t sound nearly as upset about being apart as I am, which is good. Taylor is taking very good care of her, and keeping the tent stinky.
After a good chat, I resumed riding, finally saying goodbye to Highway One for good as I turned onto US 101. I hit a stiff headwind and began to overheat (having headed inland), so I stripped down for the first time in days behind a tree underneath a billboard for the Holiday Inn.
I soon left the highway for the scenic Avenue of the Giants, riding along a marathon route, and through groves of skyward-shooting coastal sequoias. I passed the abandoned wreckage of a 1940’s car that ran off the road, dropping fifty feet nearly straight down into a patch of trees, and I smelled more skunks than ever. (According to Ally, it is skunk mating season, which is apparently equivalent to “skunk-cross-the-road season.” Lucky me.)
Now I am in Redcrest, a tiny hick town in the middle of the Redwoods. The café diner is full of hicks, and a pet turtle is currently staring straight at me. Strange. One Redneck woman told me that she drives drunk sometimes. Nice. Attached to the café is a gift shop, where behind the counter sat an old woman who lives in San Bernardino six months out of the year. It felt nice to talk to someone who knew Claremont, for some reason.
The one real bright spot in the town was a pair of cyclists from New Zealand, with whom I chatted for a good bit of time. They are biking up to Florence in Central Oregon before turning aast and riding to Virginia. Wow. I told them about Brittany and her trip to New Zealand, confessing my desire to visit the land of the long white cloud (as the Maori call it), and before we parted ways, they bestowed upon me a kiwibird magnet to stick to the frame of my bike. It will remind me of my two new friends, Brittany, and it will guide me home.
Tonight I’m basically sleeping in a tree. I pitched my tent inside of a redwood that was once hollowed out by a fire. It is a bit creepy, but I have yet to have trouble sleeping on this trip, so I predict that I’ll be able to catch at least a few Z’s. Tomorrow, I’ll sleep in a little bit, and then ride a brief thirty-five miles to Dillon’s house in Eureka for my first easy day. After that: Crescent City, then somewhere in Southern Oregon, then the Dunes, then Depoe Bay, Manzanita, and WASHINGTON. I can’t wait.
5/28
I woke up in a redwood tree. By seven, I returned to the road for the quick thirty-five mile, two and a half hour jaunt to Dillon’s house. I had planned on riding slower, but thirty-five miles seems so short at this point that I didn’t feel the need to save energy. Most of the route followed the freeway, on which I rode through quite a bit of glass and debris. Later I found out that I had indeed punctured my first tire by rolling through a bit of metal wire about as thick as one of the higher strings on a guitar. I took the flat as an excuse to do a bit of maintenance – adding a bit of lube and adjusting the brakes should prove helpful.
Dillon gave me the grand tour of his house, followed by his neighborhood. His house is spectacular – small, but full of character (and good food). The main floor is mainly open, and the kitchen is in the process of one of those endless remodels. Upstairs, the ceiling slants sharply with the roof, causing Dillon’s room to feel like an attic, but more cozy. Camping gear, books, and miscellaneous bits of this and that round off every corner in the house.
He seemed rather apathetic about his house, but I son found out that he was merely containing himself, rushing through the tour of the interior before he could show me the backyard. As soon as we stepped outside he began to smile, and became noticeably excited. I checked out his garden, where we picked berries and surveyed the various crops, before he named every one of his five or six chickens for me, giving a detailed explanation of their various personalities.
I told Dillon that our day needed to include a trip to a bank, a grocery store, and to the pizza place that he consistently brags about, but that beyond those three stops he ought simply to show me around Eureka. Our first stop was to pick up his friend George, with whom we proceeded to roam around town, stopping at various chocolate shops, as well as the waterfront. Dillon explained the restaurant scene as I listened attentively. We ate Smug’s Pizza, which I found to be barely above average, despite Dillon’s claims of greatness. It’s amazing how nostalgia can affect one’s perception.
I spent nearly eighty dollars at the North Coast Co-op on fresh peanut butter, Clif Bars, bulk fancy granola bites (thanks for your advice, George!), pesto cream cheese from a local company, and chocolate covered espresso beans. Mainly the beans. Now that I have a roughly unlimited supply of coffee, I’m pretty sure I’ll make it home.
We stopped by George’s house to put the cream cheese in the fridge and pick up discs for Frisbee golf. Upon entering, I met his bi-polar mother, who had heard about my journey, and asked if I was taking donations. After firmly declining her offer, Dillon and I retreated with George to his room. After a few moments, however, his mother came in with $20 in an outstretched hand. I stuck my arms to my sides and refused repeatedly until Dillon took the money, promising to give it to me. As soon as she left, Dillon slipped the money into George’s pocket.
Frisbee golf proved a great, relaxing way to spend the afternoon. Partaking in some physical activity besides biking eased my mind and refreshed my consciousness. George (the veteran) won handily while Dillon and I duked it out for second. I beat him on the last hole. After golf, we reclaimed my cream cheese while avoiding George’s mom, said goodbye, and returned to Dillon’s house for the night. I sent a mass email before dinner. We ate a delicious rice-bean-cheese-olive casserole, deliciously packed with energy.
Afterward, we drove to Arcata – a neighboring town and home of Humboldt State University. Arcata possessed the demographics that I had imagined in Eureka, meaning we saw more hippies. Surprisingly, Eureka is something of a hick town. Based on Dillon’s stories, I had expected a much more liberal scene, but as it turns out, Eureka is a port city, while neighboring McKinleyville is a logging city, and Arcata is the hippie college town. Eureka is the more moderate of the three, but nonetheless, I had definitely expected more cute cafes and fewer trucks. Dillon obviously sees a lot of good in Eureka, considering the amount of pride he has in his hometown, but to be honest, I liked Arcata more, and I would choose at least a dozen other cities that I’ve passed through over Eureka.
In Arcata I ate some exceedingly delicious blackberry cheesecake and ginger ice creams while chatting with Brittany on the phone. Dillon chatted with Taylor as we traded the phone back and forth. Dillon and I are together while our girlfriends are together in Yosemite. They’ll be climbing Halfdome within the next couple days. After chatting, I went back for more ice cream, this time choosing s’mores and dulce de leche.
On the way back to Dillon’s, he told me stories before we stopped in a park full of Sequoias. We talked about he and Taylor, and I gained a bit of perspective about their relationship. It’s a very interesting dynamic. I’m not sure how enthusiastic I am about their potential as a couple, and I’m not sure how enthusiastic either of them are about their potential as a couple, but for some reason they like each other, and for some reason I like them together.
5/29
I am just outside of Eureka in the strange agricultural town of McKinleyville, riding through the Humboldt fog past wet livestock and run-down farmhouses. Two rows of around a dozen solid-walled cages – each about the size of a large doghouse – lined one yard in particular. As I rode past, I attempted to read a hand-scrawled sign posted next to the cages that began: “NO VEAL HERE! Keep your Arcata—.” Though I missed the rest, two things became obvious. First, that there was in fact veal here, and second, that Arcatans – likely the environmentalist Humboldt State faction – had a history of freeing/stealing veal cows.
A few minutes ago, I came across an error in the directions composed by Dillon’s dad and myself, so I waved down a passing pickup truck to ask for help. An old man rode in the passenger seat and was nearest to me. From the moment he rolled down the window he glared angrily at me. I had barely begun speaking when he yelled, in his old man voice, “NOOOOOO!” as the truck tires squealed and they sped away.
The reason I write now is because I cannot continue riding. I am currently stuck behind a giant herd of cattle walking up the road. Unfortunately, the potentially funny situation is actually quite horrifying, for the cows appear extremely malnourished. Their ribs and shoulders poke sharply through their skin, their eyes bulge, and they stumble as they walk up the road through the morning fog. The scene is like a bovine version of the holocaust.
After leaving McKinleyville and the greater Eureka area, I hit Highway 101 briefly before riding a scenic route closer to the coast. Rough roads were not enough to diminish the beauty of the ride. I cruised along rolling, lonely hills, occasionally catching a glimpse of the beach through the trees and clouds. Seals barked through the fog, and as usual, I barked back.
After hopping back onto the 101, I noticed my second flat tires in as many days. I used the repair as an excuse to take a brunch break, chomping some chocolate-covered espresso beans to keep me going. I passed through another hick town, Orick, where stump carvings and closed businesses line the highway, before heading up the first big climb of the day. The ascent began through Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park, where I saw perhaps the last of the beautiful giants for this journey. The road climbed smoothly, and gorgeous scenery kept my sprits high. I began to play a game in which I would attempt to avoid squishing the myriad caterpillars crossing the road. I always lost eventually, and by the looks of the road, so do the caterpillars. At the top of the climb, I ran into a group of cyclists – obviously pot smokers – who I may find at a campground tonight.
A long, winding descent brought me into Klamath and headwinds. A relatively boring flat stretch took me into the second big climb of the day, and the biggest of the rest of the trip. I took the climb slowly and tried to relax, but the lack of shoulder left me unsafe and uneasy. I climbed a bit harder than I would have liked, but as usual, the hill didn’t live up the hype that I gave it, and so I descended into Crescent City with tired legs but high spirits. Accordingly, I decided to push forth after stopping to fill my tires, eat at a diner, and chat with Mom. I felt rejuvenated, and pounced on an extra twenty miles, bringing me nearly to the Oregon border.
Unfortunately, with only a few miles remaining, I stopped to fix my third flat tire. These three flats can hardly be considered separate, however, because they all resulted from the same incident: the little bits of wire that I rolled through just before Eureka. This time I spent a good deal of time removing every piece of wire that I could find, and additionally, I patched a small hole in the tire using a dollar bill – a technique that Elliot showed me. I placed a folded dollar bill between the tire and the tube, so that upon inflation of the tube, the bill becomes compressed between the two, forming a barrier.
I concluded my day at a campsite about two miles from Oregon, gloriously close to finishing the long state of California. Having planned a bit with Mom, I realized that I am relatively certain of where I’ll be staying every night for the remainder of the trip. Being able to see the end should act as great motivation, but I must remember that I have 750 miles to go, and that is by no means a sprint.
After good chats with Grandma and Grandpa, Brittany, Taylor, and Elliot and Ariane, it’s time for bed.
5/30
Tomorrow needs to be an extremely easy day. I went a little too hard today, accidentally. Oregon is going to be challenging, due to the constant hills. I like hills, and with focus I can stay relaxed on them, but today, too many consecutive hills lead to an elevated heart rate, and I can’t have my heart rate up for very long stretches if I’m going to be able to pull of ninety-five to a hundred miles a day.
Today began with a semi-emotional crossing of the Oregon border. I stopped to take a picture of the sign using my phone, and I sent the picture to various Oregonian friends. I must say, they drew the border very well. Immediately after crossing into Oregon, the scenery changed, and became much more… Oregon-like. The distinction amazed me. Moments after crossing into Oregon, the road shot up onto the bluffs overlooking big haystack rocks jutting out of the ocean, with a northwest trees engulfing everything in the periphery. Yesterday, I rode through Redwoods; today, I rode through seriously typical Pacific Northwest forest. Whether I’m referring to pines or firs I’m not sure, but I noticed that things started to feel quite a bit like home today.
By Port Orford I felt the urge to stop for lunch, and so I sat outside of a grocery store to munch on a baguette (La Brea – Matt’s favorite), and the entire tub of pesto cream cheese from Eureka. Inside the store my phone charged while I ate. Eventually, a little boy approached me, and the two of us had a pretty good chat. He told me about yo-yos, and I told him about my trip. Bluntly, he informed me that I wasn’t going to make it – that I would need a plane to get to Canada. After slightly too long, I realized that he had confused Canada with China, and my journey returned to the realm of possibility.
Highway 101 belonged to me all morning. A wide shoulder, smooth roads, very little traffic, beautiful Oregon coastal views, and thoughts of Brittany had me excited, and consequently riding a bit faster than perhaps I ought have. In fact, my legs actually burned a bit, which I haven’t felt but extremely rarely on this trip – only general tiredness, which I have come to ward off using coffee beans.
After a long stretch of ups and downs along the ocean, I headed inland – east up the Rogue River, and then north again. I opted for this scenic route, even though I knew that the highway continued along the coast and would be significantly quicker. It took but a brief thought to the words of Elliot and Brittany to convince me to take the detour. In hindsight, I don’t regret it. I peacefully rode the quiet, gradual ascent into farm country, glad to have the roads to myself again. I perhaps pushed a bit too hard on the hilliest sections, but at times it can be quite hard not to. At times I wish that my bike had lower gears, because some of the steeper hills are impossible to take easy when I have to use so much force to turn the crank. Complaints aside, I refuse to walk up a hill.
I rolled downhill, back towards the coast, passing a llama and Mt. Humbug on the way. For the remaining thirty miles I chose (was forced) to ride extremely slowly, because I had used myself up during the hills of the early day. It took very little to elevate my heart rate, but I nonetheless tried to avoid it. I peddled leisurely, screaming at a few cows along the way, like Dad used to. I’ve been very talkative to the animals I’ve seen along this trip. Ally was particularly impressed at the fact that when I moo at cows, they often moo back. Goats and sheep tend to ignore me, and I didn’t know what sort of noise to make at the llama.
Tomorrow I ride 70 miles to the dunes where Max, Tim, Rick and I camped almost exactly two years ago, and I’m excited to call all three of them when I arrive. I plan to take eight full hours to complete the leg, which means I’ll be peddling slow slow slow. If I can manage to relax over the next couple days, I should be home free. Hopefully the remainder of Oregon does not live up to its reputation for strong winds.
It’s a beautiful, cloudy, Oregon day!
I think Brittany is on Half Dome right now. I just talked to Matt and Dad, both of whom I want to ride the last stretch – from Bellingham to the border – with me.
I have every day planned out now, and depending on whether or not I keep the saddlebags, the last few days may be killer.
5/31
A nice, easy day. Dillon’s sleeping pad has really helped. Despite my push northward, I haven’t been waking up nearly as cold lately. In fact, last night I woke up sweaty, and realized that I would freeze later if I didn’t take off all of my upper layers, which were now wet. I slept the rest of the night with no shirt, and it actually wasn’t too bad. Unfortunately, some heavy mist came in overnight, and when I woke up, everything had become wet. I rode the first few hours in a light rain. Bummer.
The ride itself proved gorgeous. I hopped off the 101 immediately for some good climbing along the side roads: “Seven Devils Road,” “Whisky Run Lane.” And “Beaver Hill Road.” The latter seemed slightly ironic, considering the amount of logging that had evidently taken place in the forest surrounding the road. Every so often I would come around a corner to see a giant, quarter-mile by quarter-mile field of stumps. One particular field held a single dead tree; the rest had been cleared. I took a cell phone picture, but it didn’t turn out as powerful as the actual image, of course.
Over continuous rolling, bumpy hills I peddled, as slowly as I could, through Oregon forest for twenty miles before popping out in Charlestown, and thereafter riding through Coos Bay and into North Bend. I stopped at a diner called Grandma’s Kitchen, where almost everybody was obviously a regular customer. I ate hash browns, eggs, toast, and a cinnamon roll while I read about the Division I Western Regional Track Championships. It has been so long since I’ve thought about running. Every component of the breakfast tasted perfect, in a shitty diner sort of way.
I cruised easily over the last forty miles, passing through little towns, talking to Dad on the phone, and focusing on going very slow. I thought of the top ten songs that remind me of Brittany, and sang Mika songs until I started laughing out loud. I’m going insane.
Finally, I saw a familiar scene: the outpost where Max, Tim, Rick and I rented ATVs on our camping trip. This marked my approach to Jesse Honeyman State Park – my camp for the night. I had arrived far earlier than intended, but with ample energy to spare. I now sit in the exact campsite where my friends and I stayed two years ago: number two. Upon arriving, the animals quickly reminded me of their brave disposition. After vacating my site for approximately five minutes, I returned to find several chipmunks rummaging through my food. Then, while setting up my tent I watched a bluejay land on my sleeping bag, which I had hung to dry on a clothesline. Immediately, I thought it might shit. One second later, I decided not to shoo it away, and one second after that, it shit. Fucking bird.
Now, I’m trying to figure out what I’m going to eat. I have several bars left – enough to get me through diner and tomorrow’s ride, but I’m not exactly pumped about eating Clif Bars, almonds, and peanut butter for dinner. Florence is only about five miles down the road, so maybe I’ll hitchhike. Or maybe I’ll go make some friends around the campground…
After readjusting the schedule with Mom, I’m relatively sure of where I’ll be for every night of the rest of the trip. Tomorrow: Lincoln City, followed by Cannon Beach, Castle Rock (Washington!) with mom, Elma with Grandma and Grandpa, Pt. Townsend, and the border. I’ll be averaging slightly more than I have been over the whole trip, but if I take the next two or three days slow, then I’ll be with Mom, which means both an emotional boost, and that I can ditch the saddlebags. I spoke with Elliot and Ariane about whether or not it would be cheating to ride without saddlebags, and Ariane, as usual, made a beautifully simple point that seemed to perfectly solve the dilemma: all that matters is how I feel about the trip. If I want to be able to say that I carried my saddlebags for the whole trip, then I ought to, but if not, I still biked the length of the country. This isn’t a competition, and nobody is going to disqualify me for letting my mom carry my saddlebags in the van. I’m not exactly sure what I hope to accomplish on this trip, but I know that my goal, whatever it is, doesn’t require that I carry the saddlebags. Problem solved.
After I last wrote, I hitchhiked into town to buy dinner and ice cream. Another pizza, this one Greek style, will also serve as breakfast in the morning. I’ve found myself eating quite a bit of pizza and burritos along this trip, and I attribute this to a few reasons. Primarily, I recognize that both of these foods are calorically dense and balanced, and so I know that they will serve as good fuel. Second, I’m coming to realize that pizza and burritos are my comfort foods, and so I’m naturally drawn to them in this somewhat uncomfortable time. I could probably eat burritos and pizza for the rest of my life, and so they are by no means becoming tiring, but the one drawback is the cost of pizza. The normally economical food becomes a bank-breaker when you can consume nearly an entire large size by yourself, after an appetizer. I have made little effort to be thrifty when it comes to food, opting instead to listen to my cravings and follow them wherever they lead me. For example, in Leggett I spent nearly twenty dollars on Ben and Jerry’s, Pop-tarts, and Odwalla juice when I could have spent far less on cheaper snacks. The same applies to eating at restaurants. Eating what I want boosts my morale, and I’m not willing to sacrifice anything that makes me feel good.
After dinner I walked the strip of Old Town Florence. The town is pretty, but boring. The shops are lame, as are the food options. I talked to Brittany and Taylor about their journey to Half Dome as I walked along the bay towards dessert. Taylor told me a cool story about how Brittany destroyed the macho military men from their campsite on the hike to the summit.
After a banana split, I hitchhiked home with a twenty-something girl who had never picked up a hitchhiker before. She was from Bakersfield, and just finished her degree in… cosmetology?
When I returned to camp, I had a new neighbor: Dana. She came over and introduced herself, and I quickly discovered that her personality mirrored the other Dana. Like Dana Beaudry, this new Dana was extremely friendly and high-energy, and even nearly the same age. Dana and I chatted briefly before she left to go pay for her campsite and then play on the dunes. After she left, I realized that I should have gone to the dunes with her, because I haven’t met or enjoyed many people on this trip. I expected to be much more social along this journey, but I’ve been too goal-oriented to stop and chat with many new folks.
Luckily, after paying she had to post her receipt on her car, so I caught her and we rode our bikes down to the dunes together. She was mid-road trip, having started in Montana with the final destination of Laguna Beach. In SoCal she’ll be reuniting with old friends, and along the way she will be looking for potential places to live. I don’t think I could live along the Oregon Coast. The weather doesn’t ever seem peaceful. The conditions are almost always either windy or cold – not always to a great extent, but to the point that it never seems calm. Seattle’s weather, as well as Vermont’s, though more extreme in many senses, nonetheless seems more peaceful and less consistently harsh. We have storms, but rarely, and I’m ok with that. Here feels like constant unrest.
Once back from the dunes, I called Max, Evelyn, and Matt Hollander, who might meet me in Lincoln City tomorrow. Talking to Max lived up to my expectations, and felt pretty special considering my location. For some reason, though I have never called Ev simply to chat before this trip, I have this odd urge to talk to her frequently. Thus, after Brittany, my parents, and Elliot, Evelyn is my support person. After attempting to go to sleep, a redneck birthday party began across the road. Drunk women sang along to Creedence Clearwater Revival, screaming every now and then for apparently no reason. I knew that attempting to sleep was futile, so I walked over to Dana’s tent to say chat and commiserate. Luckily, in her tacklebox of vitamins and cosmetics she had a bottle of melatonin, which sent me straight to sleep.
6/1
I’m tired. I’m worn out. I want to be done. I want to wake up and not ride my bike. But not yet.
I think, actually, that part of this feeling is a coffee crash, so that’s reassuring, but man, knowing that tomorrow will be over tough terrain, and feeling like I do now, I wish I could skip it. I need some of Dad’s inspirational quotes right now.
Only one full day of riding in Oregon remains. The day after tomorrow, I’ll see mom. The day after that, I’ll see Grandma and Grandpa. Two days to the border once I see them. Plus, only two days left with saddlebags. Plus, consider how quickly time has seemed to pass since Eureka. Do that again, and then you’ll have one day left. Plus, Tillamook tomorrow. You could ride for a thousand miles on cheese curds and ice cream. Plus, Cannon Beach tomorrow. Plus, it’s only ninety-five-ish miles, and no matter how hard the terrain, you can go as slow as you could ever possibly want and still make it in twelve hours. Easy.
I’m at a rough spot in the journey, because I think about how close I am, and I want to GO. But I can’t. I still have five hundred miles to ride, and you can’t sprint for five hundred miles. You can’t sprint for fifty miles. But I want to. I want to push through every day. I don’t want to deal with slight discomfort for ten hours a day anymore, and I’m tired of watching the fucking scenery. I don’t care who you are or where you are: fifteen days straight is enough fucking scenery.
So today I became antsy. To be honest, the ride felt fine, but after the ride I’ve started to feel moody, and all of a sudden I just don’t want to do this anymore.
Don’t think miles, just think days. You’re going to bike five full days. Ten hours and twelve hours are hardly distinguishable, except for the fact that completing a leg in ten hours will make you grumpy, whereas completing a leg in twelve hours will leave you relaxed and comfortable.
As a runner, I am trained to do the exact opposite of what is best for me right now.
Enough venting. Today, both of my Achilles tendons felt extremely tight, especially the right one. I took Aleve, which eased the pain for the duration of the ride, but now, walking around Lincoln City, I’ve become worried. It’s really tight. Of course, the Aleve lasts twelve hours, and so it should be wearing off, but what if this affects my running once I’m home? Then again, my knees, which hurt terribly after the first few days of riding, healed very quickly and suddenly. Aleve and stretching. Yep. Then again, I only have three Aleve left. I’ll tell Mom to bring some.
So today. Good god the beginning was incredible. Outside of Florence, I hit some perfect Oregon coastline: lone haystack rocks in the middle of the water served as a prelude to the towering rolling cliffs of black rock – with trees clinging for dear life to every patch of habitable, flat (and sometimes not-so-flat) ground – that shoot skyward and interrupt the otherwise peaceful ocean. I bobbed up and down the 101 alone, overlooking and becoming a part of this, one of the most beautiful scenes of the trip, for thirty miles to Yachats.
Dad just sent me a few inspirational quotes. I’m not giving up. Ever.
Afer Yachats, traffic increased and the roads grew boring. I stopped enjoying myself and started thinking about making it to the next town. Stop doing that.
In Lincoln City I checked into a hotel where the host is an annoying bike nerd. Essentially, he is to biking what Uncle Kelly is to music. His tremendous knowledge is admirable, but is overshadowed by his inability to figure out that people like me, who know essentially nothing about bikes, don’t give a damn about what kind of cassette he had on his bike in the eighties. As with Uncle Kelly, the grand consolation, and the only reason I tolerated the man’s blabbering, is the fact that despite his vast knowledge, his practical ability – the host’s biking ability and Kelly’s musicianship – was obviously tragic.
I ate a burrito so bad that it legitimately made me sad, left two messages for Brittany, and talked to Roxy, Ariane, and Elliot on the phone. I’m far enough along that nobody has anything especially motivational to say anymore. Except for Dad’s daily barrage of motivational text messages. Tomorrow, I’m on my own. This one’s a test.
Some final, random notes:
-Newport is a cool town. One of my favorites, and somewhere I could potentially live, I think.
-I stopped by Beverly Beach and the Worldmark Depoe Bay, claiming I was a guest, and using their computer.
-Oregon has comparatively little roadkill.
-Hundreds of people have witnessed me urinating.
6/2
I rode along a silent road early in the morning, alone except for the sound of my lungs pumping and my gears whirring. The chipmunk waited, frozen and tense, anticipating my arrival. I suppose it saw me before I saw it, but we both recognized each other’s presence from at least fifty yards away. I deduced by it’s posture that it carried the intention of crossing the street, but I felt confident that its admittedly limited intelligence, or at least its instincts, would prevent it from choosing a certain single perilous moment to do so. Besides, the thing had about a half-second window in which to enter harm’s way: it could either cross in the next ten seconds, easily beating my wheel, or wait for me to pass, at which point it would have the road to itself for at least several minutes. I rode smoothly along the right edge of the road, while the beast sat in waiting along the left, across two lanes and two shoulders. It wouldn’t even have to run into the brush to be sure of its safety. I came closer and closer, and I suddenly saw in its tiny eye a look of pure terror. It was as if it had no choice. The chipmunk darted into the road, but as it crossed the first lane, I still believed that it would back down. I was wrong. It continued running towards me, towards its doom. My brakes were futile: we were too close – I could only hope that the bastard didn’t have such perfect timing as to catch my wheel at the split second that I passed. I inhaled and tensed up, waiting for a bump and a crunch, but alas, the chipmunk sprinted across the entire road, passing in front of my wheel less that a foot in front of me.
I am currently eating a semi-good pizza: caramelized onions, roasted garlic, chevre, and mushrooms on a disappointing crust, obviously made using a rolling pin and cornmeal. Neither of these things has a place in pizza-making. I am a crust snob.
Today has been a great day. I started in Lincoln City, the armpit of the Oregon Coast as far as I’m concerned, and indeed I found greener pastures. The ride started with a giant climb through a forest of nettles and firs that, as usual, didn’t take as much out of me as I anticipated. I’ve developed the ability to climb with a sustainable rhythm – something I can’t do as well on level ground. While climbing, I obviously can’t worry about pace, and so unlike while riding a flat section, I don’t feel pressured to pick up the tempo.
After the climb the road descended back towards the coast and the “Three Capes Scenic Route” began. Scenic is an understatement. Again I found myself in a classic Oregon coastal setting as I weaved north around sandy coves, looking out at the giant, haggard rocks jabbing straight up from the seafloor.
After stopping to eat a bagel in Pacific City – roughly the ten thousandth town containing the word “Pacific” along my route – I hit Sandlake and started to climb again, this time towards Cape Lookout. Another smooth ascent led to a beautiful, albeit brief view straight up the long, sandy coast. I sped downhill again, and soon faced a decision in the form of a fork in the road. From Netarts I could either turn left, taking the scenic route, or I could save nine miles by heading straight to Tillamook. The scenic route promised quite a bit of slow climbing. Accordingly, I opted for the shortcut, considering the fact that quite a bit of climbing nonetheless lay ahead. I don’t regret my decision given the circumstance, but if I had planned for today to be a shorter ride, I would have gladly taken the detour.
In semi-hindsight, this trip would have been much more enjoyable if I had allowed myself more time. I am undoubtedly seeing and appreciating everything that I can, but with my tight schedule, I am equally undoubtedly missing out on a huge amount as well. With two months, I could have stayed in San Francisco for a few days, scouting out the best burrito, for example. Plus, with extra time, I would not have to worry nearly as much about my body’s survival. I would not have to force seven thousand calories down my throat every day, or go to sleep at seven (or wake up at five). I could relax. I could have fun. Perhaps another trip is in order someday.
I pondered this error of mine as I approached Tillamook, where I stopped for an hour to eat cheese samples, a grilled cheese sandwich, and ice cream while talking to Dad. Three bags of cheese curds have been added to my saddlebags.
I had surplus time and my legs felt strong, so I found myself in high spirits. As I had been all day, and as I had been for most of the trip, I sang while riding. Today the tune of choice consisted of a mash-up of songs by Jason Mraz, Black Eyed Peas, Mika, and Alicia Keys, all using the same common chord structure. I would combine them in different ways, flipping between songs and overlaying them in my mind. Having a good song in your head is important when it’s going to be there for ten hours.
After Tillamook I rode by the “Oyster Coast,” as I call it: the coastal section Dad mentioned along which the oyster stands are innumerable. After Rockaway Beach, home of the now-missing “blob,” I continued through Manzanita and into the last climb of the day. Up onto the bluffs I rode for more gorgeous coastal views before a speedy descent, including a long tunnel, into Cannon Beach.
As I write, three tiny birds are chasing a fourth, squawking angrily as it carries little bits of food, sometimes stopping to apparently feed the three pursuers as a mother bird would. What makes the situation puzzling is the fact that the three pursuers are larger than the “mother.” And they are biting her! Angry little bastards.
Tonight, due to the obscene price of a campground, I’ll be sleeping in the Cannon Beach Inn – a fancy old hotel, designed to replicate an old East Coast establishment. Every room comes with a small bowl of salt water taffy, and the showers are glorious. At every opportunity I’ve taken to steam-cleaning my saddle sores, as Elliot recommended. After washing my body, I stand to the side of the stream of water, turn the heat up to its maximum, and spread my legs to let the steam infiltrate the clogged pores of my grundle. I had imagined saddle sores to be more like bruises – you know, something sore. Nay, they are essentially zits: clogged pores where the saddle rubs the skin. At any rate, they itch more than they hurt, and hot showers have proven to be one of the most incredible and appreciated luxuries along this journey.
The Cannon Beach Bakery – home of Haystack Bread – is closed on Tuesday’s, so I’ll pick up a loaf on my way out tomorrow, which means that I’ll wake up slightly later than normal. It’s worth it. Now, I have a phone date with Brittany, followed by a dessert date with myself. The tide is so low that people have walked out to Haystack Rock. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen it that low.
6/3
For the first time in perhaps two weeks I am worried about my tanlines. Having turned inland after Astoria, I’ve left the mild coast and ridden into summer. Admittedly, I would have faced a much greater obstacle is I had left the coast anywhere in California, but nonetheless, I have something new to worry about for the remainder of my journey. So here I sit, waiting – perhaps in vain – for my sweat to dry so that I can apply sunscreen.
Additionally, I’m waiting for a ferry that will take me into Washington! I missed the most recent ferry by fifteen minutes, and have an inconvenient forty-five to wait before the next boat leaves, but I suppose that the delay gives me an excuse to rest. I took it out a little hard this morning, and now, having entered the heat, I’m paying for my early excitement.
I’ll finally admit, however, that I have reason to be excited. Not only am I but mere minutes (and zero pedal-strokes!) away from the Washington border, but I am on my final of the five maps that guide me home. I have approximately three hundred thirty miles to go, and at the end of the day, not only will I be with my mom, but I’ll be without saddlebags. Nonetheless, I’ve still miles to go before I sleep, as Robert Frost would say, and this journey is by no means over. The day after tomorrow, I’ll ride one hundred twenty miles: more than any single day of the entire trip. I need to focus on intense relaxation for tomorrow’s short, eighty mile leg.
I started the day with a trip to the Cannon Beach Bakery for tea, apple cider doughnuts, a cinnamon roll, and a loaf of haystack bread, the latter of which will ride in my saddlebag until I see Mom tonight. The bakery didn’t open until six-thirty, so I allowed myself a late, relaxed start. I read in The Oregonian that Tazo, pride of Portland and manufacturer of the most delicious Earl Grey on the planet, may be moving to Seattle. One point for Sea-town.
At nearly seven I headed out of Cannon Beach, starting with a good climb before heading towards flatter roads. I rode through Seaside before finally saying goodbye to the ocean, which I actually never touched for the duration of the trip, despite my consistent proximity. I rode into the hills, passing through fields of yellow wildflowers and sections of beautiful Oregonian forest sharply contrasted by logging clearcuts.
In Astoria I stopped at the Maritime Museum for lunch: a peanut-buttered bagel, an apple, and cheese curds. Shortly after returning to my bike I quickly decided that I needed another bagel plus a few chocolate-covered coffee beans to sustain me. When I’m tired, my appetite is more or less insatiable. As I rode east, I faced multiple long, slow climbs, which slowly drained my energy as the day heated up. My first left turn in approximately thirty miles felt like a mistake, but sure enough, road signs for a passenger ferry pointed me onto a gravel road, which I rode for a quarter mile before stopping here. The ferry approaches, and it’s time to head back to Washington (my home!).
Now I feel wrecked. The weather really heated up as I pushed inland, and as most of the track team knows by now, I don't perform very well in heat. Even after the hour long rest provided by the ferry, I resumed riding onto Puget Island and immediately felt exhausted. The island was beautifully quiet, and reminded me (I wonder why...) of springtime in Washington. Open fields of farmland cut by sections of trees. All green. Everything. Green. I stopped for water at a store in the little town of Cathlamet (which I still don't know how to pronounce) before turning east again and following the Columbia River up towards Mt. St. Helens, which stood gloriously atop the river, or so it appeared to me.
Shortly, I turned north again, heading up some sharp hills and into the heart of Washington, as I imagined it. To distract my attention from my severe lethargia, I talked to the animals that I passed, and to hypnotize myself up the climbs I sang the theme song from the movie “Elf.” I needed the hypnosis, because my legs, lungs, and willpower were shot at this point.
I'm going to forgo the extensive scenery description in favor of an abstract point, because I'm running out of paper and both will not fit. But first, I'm at a Mexican restaurant called “El Compadre” where, as usual for Mexican restaurants, my food came to me faster than I can imagine them cooking it. The busgirl is cute and reminds me of Marian Williams from Pomona, and my huevos rancheros are damn good. How did they know I like hard yolks?
Now the point. I've been thinking about this for a while, but today exemplified my theory, and so it's time to write it down. Imagine a vertical bar filled with a material, perhaps liquid, that represents my energy. This bar is essentially like a health meter in a video game, but for those who do not understand this analogy, imagine a mercury thermometer to get the image correct. Imagine that there is a line, halfway up the bar, that represents the point at which I'm exerting myself. Heartrate goes up into the hundreds, I start to sweat, breathing increases, etc. When the liquid in the bar crosses this line, these things begin to happen. Now, obviously my body is more complicated than this – there are multiple levels and phases of exertion – but I think the simplified version serves my purpose here. The fundamental point is that when I'm, say, walking, the liquid in the bar will not be above the exertion line, while when I'm, say, sprinting, well, you get the idea.
Now, here's my theory: at every moment that I spend above the exertion line, the exertion line goes down. When the liquid crosses over the line, the line begins to appear lower on the bar. If the liquid rises way over the line, the line descends quickly, while if the liquid is only slightly over the line, the line descends only slowly. Applied to my situation, this means that every moment at which I'm exerting myself lessens the amount of energy that it takes to exert myself thereafter. I could run seven minute miles nearly forever, but if I sprint for thirty seconds, thereby lowering the exertion line substantially, running seven minute miles becomes substantially harder. While it can obviously go back up, as evidenced by the fact that we can indeed walk after sprinting, it goes up much more slowly than it goes down, and in cases where I'm slowly hacking away at it over the course of a day, it can take a very long time to go back up. Essentially, then, it pretty much stays down; it doesn't rebound substantially for the rest of the day. Thus, after exerting myself for a while, the amount of energy it takes to exert myself for the rest of the day is much lower. See a strategy forming? Go easy early.
It's amazing that I've figured this strategy out nearly every day of the trip and yet I can't seem to put it into practice.
6/4
I should mention that yesterday, at the beginning of my ride, some bunnies hopped into the middle of the road, directly in front of me and a car. Both of us stopped, luckily, because the bunnies weren't going anywhere. Of course, I stopped to play with them. I wish I'd had a carrot.
Last night Mom arrived and I nearly cried. For about forty-five minuted before she showed up I would anxiously pace back and forth between the deck and the room, using every commercial break during “Home Alone” to watch for her to pull into the hotel parking lot. She came bearing gifts: Aleve, chain lube, pastries from Bakery Nouveau, and letters from home. A long, glorious hug, and we chatted for about two hours before bed.
The only problem with having Mom here is that it makes me feel too close to being done. Today, which ought to have been an easy recovery day, ended up taking a lot out of me. I stopped distracting myself from counting miles and pace, and combined with the hot weather, the ride became frustratingly hard. I have two hundred fifty miles to go, and twenty-five hours of telling myself “almost there!” doesn't sound very appealing.
It's quite interesting to put this into perspective though. Two weeks ago two hundred fifty miles would have seemed like nothing. Absolutely nothing. Now, I still have doubts about my ability to make it to the border intact. Thinking about how different two hundred fifty miles feels at different stages of the ride has sparked a theory I've developed on racing. In short, the theory is this: the finish line should seem equally far away at nearly every point in the race; that is, you should have equal confidence (or, more accurately, lack thereof), in your ability to cross the line throughout the race, save fore the last few dozen meters. At one mile into a five kilometer race, you should think “man, I don't know if I'm going to be able to hold this to the end,” and at two miles, and even a lap to go, the thought should be the same. I figure the ideal perceived probability of crossing the line should be about 25-50%, meaning the odds you give yourself of finishing at the current pace you're running should be somewhere around ¼ – ½. I'm not certain of the probability figures here, but the general theory seems pretty accurate.
Assuming the theory holds, then I've definitely gone a bit too hard on this trip, because the finish line has seemed to some extent equally far away for the whole ride, and that means I'm racing. Again, in hindsight I would have allowed myself quite a few more days. Also, maybe I would have trained. Getting used to cycling would have saved me quite a few aches and pains.
Before starting this trip, I went on one training ride. Of course, track had me in great aerobic form, and I based my assumption that I would make it home on this fact, but I knew that I was in trouble after my practice ride: one hundred four miles around Claremont, up into the mountains, around Bonelli Park, and into San Dimas canyon. The first fifty miles felt like an eternity, and the last thirty miles I bonked. I ran out of glycogen in my muscles, and finished the ride dizzy and exhausted. I stumbled into Collins Dining Hall, crammed a plate full of food into my mouth while staring like a zombie off into the distance, and returned to my room to pass out for three hours. Despite the ordeal, I found nothing but positive signs to take from the ride. First, I rode way harder than I planned to on the trip; second, I didn't eat nearly as much as I planned to on the trip, which explained the bonk; third, the course – primarily mountainous – would be much harder than any single day of the trip (of course, I was wrong about this. Who would have thought that the coast has hills? I pictured Big Sur as a long, sandy beach, and I'm not joking.); fourth and finally, I felt totally fine the next day. The only worry I came away with was the fact that I would be adding extra weight with my saddlebags, but considering the fact that I finished the practice ride in seven hours, and I would allow myself ten per leg on the trip, I figured that the buffer would be sufficient.
Two hundred fifty miles. I'm not into countdown phase yet. I still need to relax. I need to treat biking as essentially a side activity, because I've found this to be effective. I can think about something, try to reason through a problem, daydream, observe my surroundings, sing a song, whatever, but the primary objective at any point – the thing upon which my attention is focused – shouldn't be biking. I can still pay some attention to it, obviously, because my safety necessitates that I do so, but when I manage to distract my attention from pace or distance, I exert myself far less. My body won't GO without me telling it to, and so focusing on something else it a good way to keep a slow pace.
Especially frustrating today was the fact that removing my saddlebags didn't speed up the pace as much as planned. Duh. I don't know what I was expecting. It's easier, but not miraculously so. I've been blaming the difficulty of this ride on my saddlebags for so long that removing them and not seeing much of a difference is a bit disheartening.
Decent scenery today. Not the greatest. Good farm country. A couple of times I saw baby horses sleeping on their sides with their mothers standing over them, creating shade. Guarding. I was also chased by dogs on three separate occasions. The first time the mutt actually came quite close before I began sprinting, quickly escaping. My acceleration is much greater without saddlebags, at least. The second time I saw the dog running a tangent line across a lawn towards me. Again, I sprinted and beat it. The third time a wiener dog ran out of it's yard just behind me, skidding into the street, and narrowly avoiding the garbage truck following me. Ha! I have no sympathy for small, angry dogs.
Cottonwood trees are pollenating like mad, spreading their little tree sperm across the land like soap suds in a bath tub. At various points today it seemed like snow.
After passing some bikers riding the reverse of my route, all the way to San Diego, Mom and I stopped in Centralia for some grub. We picked the only two non-meat things on the menu: two omelettes. Neither tasted very good.
I'm in Grandma and Grandpa's motor-home in Elma. I almost cried when I first saw them, too. I find that I'm really craving love, support, and companionship, and I think it's because this whole ordeal has been so mentally alienating. Well, I have it now. Grandma baked me an apple pie, Mom made cookies, and some newborn kittens lie in the shade under a shed across from the motor-home, trying to escape the heat.
It's hot. Knowing me, I'm surprised I made it through yesterday and today. I'm notoriously atrocious in the heat when it comes to physical activity. Tomorrow should be cooler. One hundred sixteen miles. Easy. Slow. If I go really, really slow, and take a break every half hour, then ten miles will take an hour twenty. A hundred miles will therefore take thirteen and a third hours, plus another hour and a half for the last sixteen miles is fifteen hours. Six in the morning plus fifteen hours is nine o'clock. See? Even if I REALLY fuck up, I'll make it before dark. Go slow. Alright, time to go be social.
6/5
One more.
Today, in short, I went out nice and easy, ready for a tough one hundred sixteen miles. I made it to Silverdale, seventy-five miles in, early and with ease. From there, I knew I had it. Not only today, but tomorrow. The whole trip. I'm going to make it. I know I can muscle through one day, and so when I realized that I would finish today's ride, I knew I had it. In fact, with thirty miles to go, I dropped the hammer. I started practically sprinting. We'll see how my legs feel tomorrow after a hard close today.
More detail: I left Elma early, and started slow. Very slow. I didn't care. I knew I had all the time in the world, and I acted like it. The first section of the ride was perfect: a two lane highway to myself, hills to keep me slow, trees and good scenery on both sides to keep my mind occupied, and a fine mist to keep me cool. Another three dogs chased me today. Very strange. Nobody fences or leashes their dogs around here. Eventually I passed through Shelton, which is another depressing redneck Washington town. It's interesting to think of what exactly distinguishes small redneck towns from small cute towns. It's easy to tell them apart – art galleries and cafes as opposed to auto repair shops and abandoned general stores – but what is it that makes them the way they are? Money, I suppose. Every town I pass through it a surprise. Lately: mainly redneck towns. Oregon and California were nicer.
From Shelton I rode along Mason Lake, where literally every house has a name board outside. It seems that the neighborhood expresses itself through these creative little signs. After Mason Lake, I made my way down to the Puget Sound, through Bremerton, and into Silverdale, where I met Mom at a cafe. I ate a panini along with fruit and cookies. Delicious.
Soon enough, I was off with a mere forty-five miles to go. After riding for about two minutes, I decided to stop to call Brittany. As always, it was great to talk to her, but having just stopped for lunch, I felt a little antsy to get going again. I know, I had plenty of time, and so I know the feeling was illogical, but I still felt it. I cut short our conversation slightly (admittedly, we still chatted for about thirty minutes, which means I giggled at her stories for half an hour), and I immediately felt bad about it. What would I rather do than talk to her? Ride my bike? WHAT!? Obviously not, so why did I choose the latter over the former? Anyway, after a few miles of bad traffic to compound the bad mood, I called her back for a brief chat about nothing in particular, and I immediately felt better.
I rode a while longer along a nice back road before hitting the Hood Canal bridge, about one minute too late. As I prepared to take the corner onto the bridge, the several cars in front of me came to a halt. For the past three weeks, the Hood Canal Bridge has been closed for repairs. The projected project completion date stood at approximately one week after my arrival, but the contractors would receive a bonus from the government if they finished the project two weeks early. As I rode through Oregon, I became aware of the situation, and I received updates from Mom daily. If the bridge remained closed when I planned to cross, I would have to ride an alternate route that would likely send me tens or even a hundred miles off course, probably along highways. The deadline for the bonus passed as I crept up Oregon and into Washington. Upon further investigation, I discovered that a ferry ran across the Puget Sound for some commuters, but even this would constitute a detour and significant delays. Luckily, in another instance of my brilliant luck along this trip, the bridge re-opened a mere two days before I arrived. But there I stood, watching as two police cars blocked the rod leading onto the bridge. Had it broken? If so, the ferry wouldn't be running, and I'd be stuck. Mom had already crossed the bridge, and so she would have to drive a hundred miles to come get me, or else we'd be separated for the night. I waited for ten minutes before a man approached the officers to inquire about the situation.
A nuclear sub passed through, and twenty minutes later, I crossed the bridge.
I think it's safe to bring this up now – I'm not in danger of jinxing it too badly. I have been so fucking lucky on this journey. All through California and Oregon: little to no wind, which baffled cyclists who have completed the journey before. No rain the whole trip. Near perfect temperatures. And now the Hood Canal Bridge opened up a week early, just for me. I heard that in some places – Florence for example – I passed through immediately after and before terrible weather systems. So lucky.
After the bridge, I started to push. Hard. Possibly too hard, but we'll see about that tomorrow. Should be fun. I took a shortcut along the highway instead of sticking to the coast-hugging hilly scenic route, and kept pushing until my achilles tightened up. I eased the pace as I rode into Port Townsend, which my maps poorly navigated. Once in town, I found Mom and checked into the hotel for a shower before walking around the town and stopping for some delicious Thai food. I ate cardamom ice cream at the same shop where I would stop with Falcon Running Camp three summers in a row. We stopped at a co-op for enough Clif bars to support tomorrow's ride before returning to the hotel to stare at two eagles sitting on poles just off the coast. The Mariners' game played on television as I chatted with Brittany and prepared for bed.
One more.
***
At one point I considered getting a tattoo to mark the significance of this trip. I never had any particularly good ideas – a Highway One sign was about the best I came up with – but the thought was there. I expected the experience to be one of the most powerful in my life, and I was looking for an excuse to get inked. I had the same experience in Ecuador; that is, I expected the trip to blow my mind and radically alter me as a person, but such as is the case here, I couldn't justify a tattoo during or after Ecuador. The trip didn't turn out to be as monumental as I planned.
Perhaps down the road I'll distort my memory of this trip and remember it as something greater than it turned out to be, but as I stood at the Canadian border, hoisting my bike in the air in front of the Peace Arch, I couldn't help but feel a prevailing sense of anticlimax. I didn't feel victorious, I felt no sense of accomplishment, and I wasn't even particularly excited about the fact that I didn't have to go any farther. I had great (and terrible) memories of the many places I had been, but with marked detachment. I didn't even hate Clif Bars. At that moment, I understood what Forrest Gump meant when he stopped running: I just wanted to go home.
Glory is assigned. If a man broke the world record for a mile without knowing it while attempting to escape from the police, it wouldn't be glorious. The stadium, the lights, and the audience, and above all else, the intention are what creates glory. I could claim that this trip was an epic struggle, and that would make it so. Down the road I'll brag about having biked up the coast, but in truth, with fresh hindsight, my trip was just something I did that felt slightly uncomfortable for a long period of time. There was no intense soundtrack, no montage, no enemy, and little plot development along the way. I've been told (by the same grandparents that consistently tell me that I should be a movie star) that I should write a book about this trip, but I think that doing so would be lying in a sense. At least writing a good book would be lying. This journal is boring, and it should be to everybody except me.
Here's what I mean, in a roundabout way. Though I stood absolutely apathetic at the border, I nonetheless find myself constantly referencing my trip. I mean, shit, I wrote a thesis-length documentation of it, and spent my entire summer doing so. I came away from this trip having seen a lot. A ton. I know so goddamn much about the Pacific Coast that it's stupid. And that's what I got out of this trip, and that's what made it worth it, and that's what this journal is about: memories. The problem is, a description of the tree that I slept in while riding through the Redwood Forest isn't exciting. To me it brings back a moment – a smell, an energy level, a bag of almonds – and I find immense satisfaction in that memory, but what does it mean to anybody who wasn't there? Nothing. OK, so you slept in a tree, whoop-dee-fuckin'-doo. But it's more than that to me. I think that in order to turn this trip into something book-worthy, I would have to lie. I would have to exaggerate. Remember the scene where the bear chased you? No. I don't.
If you enjoyed this journal, then perhaps my bike ride was glorious, but I suspect that you skipped most of it as soon as you realized that nothing exciting was going to happen. This wasn't written for you, anyway. This journal was written so that I can remember how I cried when Brittany waved goodbye, how the sand blew into my eyes at Huntington Beach, how each and every burrito tasted, how awful Florian's dog is, how cute Julian's sister is, how much Elliot and Ariane meant to me when I needed help, how exactly saddle sores itch, how the Golden Gate bridge looks through a blanket of fog, how the tea tasted with the WWOOFers at Salt Point, how unbelievably delicious coffee can be, how much I love my girlfriend, how much I missed my family, how tall the redwoods are, how certain gears on Bruce (my bike) don't work, how skunk smells, how otters run when they cross the road, how it feels to want to quit having ridden sixty miles with forty miles left to go, how it feels to want to quit having ridden zero miles with a hundred miles left to go, how I feel about each individual flavor of Clif Bar, how my achilles tendons tightened up, how my **** went numb for three weeks, how it feels to sleep in a tree one night and a bed the next, how fresh cheese curds squeak between your teeth, how it felt to reunite with my mom, how my grandparents' motor-home smells, how Matt and Dad bicker, and how each and every inch leads only but surely to the next for one thousand seven hundred fifty miles.
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