Back on the Road: West Coast Cycle Trip 2007

Yummy, back on the road, back in the bush.

Day 1

The west coast cycle adventure began on Tuesday, July 10th with a long day of airplanes, airports, layovers, and customs interrogations. After not sleeping the night before, my travel day was spent in a half-conscious daze, unable to sleep on the uncomfortable airplanes, but also unable to stay wake. My head bobbing with the turbulence, my drool swaying between ungracious neighbors, and my slightly real dreams being disturbed only by the outrageously priced meal service. All in all, however, I can't complain, the first day of the adventure was a complete success. All our flights arrived and landed on time; our bags and bikes were as punctual as the planes; and the Air Canada check-in desk was unprepared to accept payment, so our three over-sized pieces of luggage were boarded free of charge. We arrived at the Vancouver airport just after 6 pm and had our bikes loaded and assembled by 8:30pm. The sun still hanging on the treetops, we were able to cycle straight out of the airport and to a nearby park (MacDonald park, on the extremely timely and helpful advice of Hood River Ga Joe) just as darkness was descending. We set up camp in a hayfield behind some bushes and escaped into our tent just as the mosquito's began to swarm. Solid sleep ensued within seconds.



Day 2

Up with the sunrise, we packed up camp quickly and cycled into downtown Vancouver, about a 15 k ride. Downtown Vancouver is both both gorgeous and disgusting. Concrete and glass apartment complexes dominate the skyline, and at their feet, droves of homeless people and transients. This ugliness backdropped by the Pacific Ocean, Stanley Park, Mt. Baker, and magnificent bridges makes for a dichotomous experience when strolling through the city. Wendy and I spent the day meandering through Stanley Park, swimming in the ocean, and making final preparations. On the way towards our campsite, around 8:30 pm, while crossing the Granville bridge to leave downtown, Wendy blew her rear tube and flipped over her handlebars. She popped up without a scratch and we quickly switched out the tube. As we re-embarked, however, we found that the accident had bent the fork (the part of the frame that holds the front wheel). We tried to keep our hopes up, but deep down we knew our situation was at best, a serious pain in the ass and the pocketbook, and at worst, a trip ender. I loaded all of Wendy's stuff onto my bike and carried her bike to the nearest bike shop. It was way too late for anything to be open, so we found a campsite and waited until tomorrow to sort it out . . .









Day 3

Bike shop says its a week to order the part, and wouldn't even mention the parts and labor costs. We caught wind a bike shop called "Our Community Bikes", a few miles out of town, that had heaps of used parts. Wendy hopped on a bus and I cycled out there, fully loaded and embarrassed. Wendy and I had transformed overnight from a pair of young, hip, thrifty, travelers, with really creative and innovative cycle touring ideas, to impoverished bums wandering the city with an overloaded cycle carrying our entire lives. Well, maybe I'm being a bit dramatic, but I did feel a bit ridiculous. Anyways, we arrived at "Our Community Bikes", and hallelujah, we'd arrived in bicycle heaven. OCB is a front for a non-profit organization called P.E.D.A.L. (Pedal Energy Development Alternatives), which develops and promotes the use of pedal powered technology with the belief that pedal driven technology is a key component to both reducing our negative environmental impact on the planet, and to improving the quality of life for people locally and globally (I ripped that from the website - http://www.pedalpower.org/?q=our_community_bikes ). The deal is you rent a bike stand for $5 / hour and you get use their impressive collection of tools and browse their massive collection of inexpensive used bicycle parts. For $10 / hour, you receive advice and instruction from their whiz bike mechanics. Wendy and I found a replacement fork and began the arduous process of replacing her bent fork. At the outset, neither of us had even a concept of the components involved in such a repair, much less how to re-thread the frame, cut the fork to size, clean and replace the ball bearings, re-assemble the head set, replace the brake cable, reset the brakes, bend the new fork into alignment, and true the bent wheel. Over a period a five hours, we received instruction on how to do all of this, and how to use the complex array of tools needed for the job. By 5pm, we had a fully repaired bike, a thoroughly deepened knowledge of bike components, bike repair, and bike tools, and a grumbling stomach. On top of that, we also received offers for places to crash, an invite to the B.C.clettes cabaret show, and the locations and contact information of bicycle gangs all down the coast. Parts, labor, and tool rental came to $100. Not bad for same day service and hands on instruction! All in all, OCB was an extremely friendly, hardcore, generous, and inspiring place. By the end of the day, Wendy and I felt blessed to have bent her fork.



Day 4

Yep, day four and we had just began cycling out of Vancouver. Slightly disappointing, but we had such a positive experience at Our Community Bikes that we weren't bummed in the least. Crossed the border quickly and without hassle (not sure if its due to my shaved beard or new form of transportation, but I was hassled loads more when I crossed the border for my Quetico canoe trip). In Blaine, we received directions for the scenic route into Bellingham and followed them dilligently the rest of the day. Our first real day of riding was spectacular: Sunny and 70 degrees, coastal riding with abundant birdlife, rolling farmland with easy gradients, hay fields and wildflowers, good greasy rural cookin', ripened cherry trees on the side of the road, cheese farms with non-processed cheese and milk, and of course, multitudes of friendly and interested locals. For those of you playing along at home, we took the ferry from Blaine to Semiahmoo county park, and followed the coast along the peninsula, and then inland through Ferndale and into Bellingham. The scenic route was probably around 50 miles, along coastal flats and rolling hills, nothing too serious. So far, I feel good physically, but I won't ascertain my real fitness level until we hit some real hills. In Bellingham, I have a most gracious and generous friend, Elizabeth Orange, who served us dinner as we rolled into town and put us up for the night in cozy, cozy beds.



Day 5

Slowly and incrementally emerged from a deep and enveloped slumber to the New York Times, fresh cherries, and Nature Valley cheese! We're taking the day off today to do a little more work on our cycles and hang out with Elizabeth. We can afford another day off, after all, we're only 1,150 miles from San Francisco - thats not too far, is it?

Day 6

Awoke slowly and comfortably, and after breakfast and final preparations, Wendy, Elizabeth, and I cycled the bike path out of Bellingham into Larrabee state park and down the coast along Chuckanut Drive(The ride along Chuckanut is famous as one of the more scenic drives in Washington). Mostly smooth riding and smoky coastal scenery, interrupted only by a few steeply rude ascents, the kind that make you question your manhood and sanity. The coast then left us as we cycled south through the skagit valley into Padilla Bay. The ride was flat as a pancake through quaint American flagged towns and corn, rasberry, potato, and strawberry farmland. The headwind was noticable through the flats, but I managed to duck in behind the ladies and catch their draft. Just south of Edison, Elizabeth spotted a Blueberry bonanza along the side of the road. We dumped out our water bottles and filled them to the brim with blueberries! Our joy at finding such an abundant treat was matched in verocity only by our hunger, and by the end of day, we found ourselves wondering how we could consume two liters of Blueberries in one afternoon! Leaving the farmland, we were forced back onto highway 20 in order to cross the bridge onto Fidalgo Island, home of not only the urban center of Anacortes, but also the ferry to the San Juan Islands! Arriving just in time to catch the 5:05 ferry to Lopez Island, we hopped aboard and dug into the condiment bar. Back on shore by 6pm, we cycled out in search of a campsite. Within an hour, we found a beautiful and isoalted spot on a peninsula on the western side of the island - estuaries, beaches, birdlife, avocado, honey, peanut butter, and a spectacular sunset.









Day 7

Mid-morning wake-up in a prickly wheat field and back on the road by 10am. We circled Lopez stopping at Shark Reef Park (no sharks) and later at a sprawling semi sandy beach along the road with a sign indicating it's status as a nude beach. No nudists were to be spotted in the vicinity so we opted to keep some clothes on for a brief dip in the seaweed filled bay. After lunch we lounged around for an hour or two before heading back to the ferry, with only one more side trip to play Gin Rummy on a small dock in the company of four children daring each other with various forms of insult to leap into the water 6 feet below. After a half hour ferry ride to Orcas Island we accepted the advice of a cheerful lady (who told us of her 4 to 15 mile a day bike tours, making us feel awfully proud of our own lengthier accomplishments) to ride out to a bit of DNR land with an excellent swimming hole to camp for the night. We slept under the stars on a pier poking out into a lillypad strewn lake surrounded by forest and croaking toads.







Day 8

Rudely awoken by raindrops at sunrise, we scrambled to set up our tents on the chicken wired pier - not a great place to stake down. Our shabbily constructed tents leaked, and those of us without fancy smancy REI sleeping pads got a bit wet. Poor weather and the desire to make it to Seattle forced us back onto the ferry to Anacortes, where we began the ride down Fidalgo island. Taking mostly side roads, we worked our way down the small island to deception pass, the skinny gorge separating Fidalgo and Whidbey island. The bridge, as most bridges are, was a bit sticky for cyclists. No time to sneak a peak at the gorgeous vistas, we glued our eyes to our rear view mirrors and cycled as fast as we could. The weather improving, we worked our way halfway down Whidbey island into the state park, where we dried our gear over a leftover's smorgasbord dinner. Cycled down the picturesque Madrona Way in search of a campsite, where we found one in a picnic area along the beach. Campfire, sinner (short for second dinner) and comfy sculptured sand beds. Truly gorgeous area - these islands - perfect for cycling!

Day 9

Jolted up once again, reflexively, instinctively, to raindrops on my face. With nowhere to hide on the beach, we scrambled up the dune to a park shelter.



We must have made for a pathetic site - wet, dirty, discouraged - becasue within five minutes, our surrogate mother for the morning, Bobby, yelled at us from across the street: "Do you want some coffee? Do you want to dry your sleeping bags in our dryer? Do you want breakfast?" Between each question, we all looked at each other, longingly, hoping the others were in agreeance that all offers should be immediately and heartily accepted.





So Bobby's husband, Lou, took our breakfast orders - homemade jam and toast, waffles, and fried eggs - while we warmed our feet by the fire and read the newspaper. After breakfast we got the tour of their beautiful household and garden. Wonderful area and a wonderful home and wonderful people. Thank you Bobby and Lou!



Having been sufficiently mothered, we set out into the dumping rain and rode down the southern half of Whidbey island, stopping only for salmonberries and thimbleberries. Arrived just in time to catch the ferry over to Mukilteo, where we caught a series of four buses over three hours (the rain stopped just as we stepped onto the bus in Mukilteo) to arrive at Sue's house (my aunt Sue French, for those non-family members playing along). Within five minutes, Sue and co. had thrown our clothes in the washer, prepared a bathroom for their newly arrived smelly guests, fired up the grill, and set out appetizers. Such hospitality is appreciated all the more when you're dirty, tired, wet, cold, and hungary. Interent, pool in the basement, and hida-bed. How sweet it is! Despite the daylong drenching we recieved, we started out with a solid, warm meal in our bellies and the knowledge that Sue had a piping hot shower wiating for us. A miserable day was turned into a memorable by the a strong doses of gracious hospitality. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Day 10

Lazily awoke, turning over and closing my eyes in the shaded basment again and again, never wanting this warm, comfy rest to end. The gorgeous day betrayed the dreary weather forecast, and by the time we discovered that we'd been duped by the weatherman, it was too late to cycle out of town. So elizabeth and I loaded up our bikes into the truck that Sue so thoughtfully arranged for us to use, and drove into town for some Antarctic reunions. Quite glorious. Elizabeth's dad, KenCo (thats with a capitol 'C', and don't forget it), owns a forty foot sailing yacht, and was gracious enough to allow Liz and I to crew on his weekly sail race in the Sound. Despite a dismal showing in the standings, picturesque views of Ranier and the sun setting over the slew of raceboat in front of us made for a most enjoyable evening. The race concluded as any high class, multi-million dollar sporitng event should, with hot dogs and two kegs of Coors Light!

Day 11

Elizabeth was able to hook us yet again! Instead of catching a series of busses and ferries over to the Olympic Peninsula and cycling through the rain up to the northeast tip to catch the 101, why not just sail there! Kenco was sailing to Port Townsend as part of a ten day tour of the Sound, and was begrudgingly convinced by his charming daughter to let us hitch a ride! So we tied our bikes to the mast and set sail. Port Townsend - breweries, grizzled fisherman, World war two era fishing boats and docks, salty seadogs, and constant stiff wind and cloudy weather. A true Seaman's town, straight out of the history books. We bid Elizabeth adieu - she had some fires to put out or some movies to watch, not sure which one. Thanx, Orange, for riding with us - you were and an excellent host, an excellent guide, and even better company!

Day 12

Cycled out mid-morning, cutting NW to tcatch the 101 - our home for the next month. Pleasant rolling hills through farmland. Managed to catch some of the "Old Discovery Trail," a bike path that will soon stretch the entire Olympic Peninsula. For now, though, its still under construction, and the path spit us out in the middle of a park, and we had to climb our way back to the 101. Apparently, the folks in Port Townsend were more eager to make a map of the "old Discovery Trail" than they were to build the "Old Discovery Trail".
We rolled into the quiet but sizable town of Sequim (pronounced Squim) early afternoon to the much lauded lavender festival. Yes, the most anticipated event of the year in Sequim. All day today and yesterday, all we were hearing was , "Oh, you're so lucky! You're cycling into Sequim at the best time of the year." Yes, the glorious lavender festival. We had begun to buy into the hype . . . until they charged us $15 at the door (good thing security wasn't up to snuff). The idea of the festival is that you pay 15 bucks to tour the lavender farms, buy overpriced food, pick your own overpriced lavender, and buy a variety of overpriced items (ice cream, honey , soap, etc.) that have been infused with lavender. At first glance, the novelty of it all is interesting . . . at second glance, a gimmick. Lavender smells nice, and the plant is pretty, but its not much good for anything else. Nevertheless, the lavender farmers of Sequim have created a highly profitable festival frenzy around otherwise unmarketable products. Not to say however, that I didn't enjoy myself - the lavender fields were gorgeous, the music was very good, and the lavender ice cream was actually decent - made for a very nice afternoon!
That night we caught some outdoor music behind a cafe and camped in the yard of Joh n and Beth, an entirely friendly couple with the only undeveloped greenspace near downtown Sequim. Flat, manicured lawn, pleasnat hikes through the prairie land, cherry trees, gracious and kindly hosts, and a visit from the neighborhood coyote made for a most enjoyable evening.

Day 13

John and Beth fried us up some eggs and bell peppers with a side of melon for breakfast and sent us on our merry way (made considerably less merry by the continuing dreary drizzle).
Again we were assured that the Old Discovery Trail went through to Port Angeles . . . and it actually did!
Weather remained dreary, but the downpour never arrived. The bike trail was excellent - wide, well marked, and beautiful. Its a whole differrent ballgame: riding on a quiet, smooth biking trail vs. getting buzzed by massive logging trucks on your 6" shoulder.
Pleasasnt, gentle ride into Port Angeles, a pretty happening town (by Olympic Peninsula standards). Port town and tourist mecca with two - count them - two bicycle shops and a brewery, we could ask no more of PA.
Long Lunch on the docks with Dungenous Crabs and then we pushed on, hoping to hit that highly elusive fifty mile mark (the distance we should be travelling everyday if we want to make it to SF). But, of course, waylayed again - the Olympic hot springs were calling our chilly bones.
So we turned off the 101 late afternoon and made the 13 mile, 1750 foot climb up the Elhwa River Valley in search of the rejuvenating springs of the Olympics.
The Elhwa River was a grey-greenish glacial River, and on this particular day, mist was streaming up from the water in large billows. This scene was my first experience of beauty on this trip. I thought, "Lord of the Rings". I thought, "New Zealand". New Zealand has now set the bar an entire level higher.
We climbed through the clouds up a windy, thickly secluded road. In the dense mist, I couldn't see Wendy cycling behind me (though I could hear the squeak of her bent derailler), and I could barely surmise the curvature of the road ahead of me. What never left my view, however, were the precipitous cliffs below me.
It was just me, the road, the fog, and the old, dim, thick, messy, wet, gnarled, steeply grading forest on either side of me . . . eerily magical. The cool beads of sweat on my face, the loud, deep panting breath, the constant burn of my thighs: all these sensations became focused and real. Nothing behind me, nothing in front of me . . . my mind and body present and intertwined . . . intertwined in this magical setting. A moment of peace and calm and clairty . . . and fear. These are rare moments, these are special moments.
The trail became impassable via bicycle at mile 12, so Wendy and I , drenched, tired, and in good spirits, set up camp for the night.

Day 14

Still raining, we drugged ourselves out of bed and hiked up to the hot springs, had a simultaneous quick dip and long-awaited hot shower, and were rolling down the valley (all four brake pads engaged) by noon.
Feeling a bit guilty by our overall slow progress, we put on our afterburners and set our eyes on Forks, 52 miles from the hot springs. We cycled along Lake Crescent, an enormous aqua-greeen lake within the Olympic foothills, dilligently nestling up to the banks on its treacherous 11 mile coast. We were informed that although this was some of the most gorgeous scenery on the WA 101, but we were also informed that it was the most dangerous for bicyclists: no side roads, slim, winding shoulders, high volume traffic, and no turn-offs. We found it wasn't all that bad: the shoulder wasn't great, but it was there, and signs warning drivers to watch out for cyclists were posted every 1/2 mile - better conditions than a lot of New Zealand roads.
Flat tire two mile sout of Forks, had to walk it in as Wendy was ahead with out lone pump. Long wet day . . . Wendya nd I weer ready for a stool and a beer. Little did we know, we had arrived in only hick town in the United States that did not have a bar. We were totally astounded. When I grilled a resident abouth this absurdity, the response was, "Well, we prefer to to just go into the woods and drink, back there in that field you'll find thousands of empties . . . and about half of them are mine!" Wendy and I decided to get the hell out out of Dodge as quickly as possible the next day.

Day 15

We didn't manage to get out of Forks until 3pm today: breakfast (thimbleberries are in full swing!), errands, bike repair, email, and lunch (tall timber burger, milk shake, and fired cheese).
Forks was logging country: empty, dumpy, depressed towns and crude, grizzzly loggers. For the next few days, we would be cycling through "state trust lands" - DNR run logging forests. Nice at first, as the clearings allowed periodic views of the Olympics, but the desolate, stumpy patches soon grew ugly. Equally distasteful were the constant logging trucks, pummeling down the road like a bat out of hell.
But Hallelujah! we reached the west coast of WA today. We rolled odwn to Ruby beach and received a breathtaking introduction to the Pacific Ocean: mountainous piles of ancient old growth rainforest driftwood sprawled on a rocky smooth beach, set in front of a dramtic river meets ocean scenery and massive solitary islands thrusting sturdily out of the turbulent waves.
A fellow cyclist (Collin, inventor of the drullet - dreads meet mullet) roasted corn and garlic for dinner and we feasted on french wine and french astronomers for dessert.

Day 16

Awoke stiffly on a rocky beach to the sunrise. Packed up, loaded up and headed out mid-morning for an unusually early start, only to be foiled by a flat tire. When I pulled out the tube, it had a resinous goo on it, like thick mucas. When I examined the tire, I found the flattened carcas of a giant bananna slug. Apparently, while I was fixing the flat I got in Forks, a slug had unwitingly crawled into my tire. I'm not sure what ultimately finished the slug off: seventy-five psi, the centrifical force of being spun around, or the 250 lb payload. Either way, the death was quick and messy. After I fixed my slug flat, I discovered a stem flat. Bad News. Stem flats are tears that occur where the valve meets the rubber and cannot be patched (I found this out after going through an entire kit of patches). So I rolled out my spare tube only to find that the valve on my backup tube (shraeder) was incompatible with my wheel (presta). I had managed to break down in the middle of nowhere.
Wendy cycled ahead to Lake Quinalt and I spent the day bussing back to PA, buying tubes, and then bussing back to Queets, 15 miles south of Ruby Beach. All in all, I travelled over 200 miles by bus, and I did it in 5 hours on less than 3 dollars. The WA transit systm gets an A double plus.
I was still, however, 25 miles north of Lake Quinalt, where Wendy was cozily residing with the tent and the bike pump. My tube replaced but still uninflated, I stuck out my thumb as the sun dropped to the tips of the pointy deciduous trees. I was picked up just as darkness was descending (literally and figuratively) by a swing dancer from Seattle in a '79 volvo with 259,000 miles. My bike fit neatly in the trunk and we arrived in Lake Quinalt in no time. Thank you, Thank you, Eva and co. for the timely and saintly help!

Day 17

Wendy's freewheel jammed and bent her chain, so he hopped on a bus while I cycled solo through the wild Quinalt temperate rainforest into Aberdeen. Aberdeen was another WA gem (insert your own sarcastic tone): creepy, ugly, dumpy. We did manage, however to find a diamond in the rough: Terry the bike maintainence man at La Vogue Bicycle. We didn't get to the bike shop until 8pm, 3 hours after closing time. His bike repair to-do list was overwhelming - we stood at number 62 on the list. In other words, we were at the back of a two week line. Nevertheless, Terry opened up his doors to us and got to work on Wendy's bike. Terry replaced the chain & freewheel and adjusted the derailler and we were on our way by 9:30pm! The whipped cream on this cheesecake pie is the fact that Terry only charged $36 for parts and labor. And the cherry on top of the whipped cream is that he found us a camping spot to boot! Definitely the most superb service I've ever received. Same day, after hours service, billed at $5/hour, with an apologetic smile and vast expertise . . . Terry is most certainly a Saint. We thought this repair might be a trip ender; every mile mile we put on henceforth is due to you! Thank you, Thank you Terry.

Day 18

Glad and surprised ot even be on the road, Wendy and I took our time getting out of town. Had the choice between the hillier and more direct route to Raymond along the 101, or a flatter, less direct coastal ride along the 103. We opted to add the extra 20 miles onto the trip in order to avoid the hills and traffic. Another slow day on teh bicycle, made it a few miles south of Greyland. Try as we might, we just can't seem to keep to our pace.
Elk in an estuary, sunset dinner on a wide, flat beach, set up camp in prairied dunes, chased in our tent by wolly mammoth mosquitos.

Day 19

Sun chased us out of the tent and we finally managed a decently early start: 9:30 am. Covered the 25 miles into Raymond by noon, where Wendy's fender snapped and ripped a hole in the sidewall of her front tire and tube. By the time we patched up the tire, tube, checked email, chatted up the locals at the farmers market, went grocery shopping, ate the largest, cheesiest enchilada of my life (with a fried egg on top), and recovered from the post meal food coma, it was nearly 4:30. SO much for the great start to the day!
4.5 lbs heavier and suffering from stomach cramps, we forced oursleves back on the saddle and rode, rode, rode. After choosing the scenic coastal route over the quicker 104 into Astoria, we felt the need to cover some ground, and that we did, another 50 hilly miles into Long Beach, WA by sundown.
Found an RV park, sneaked some bird-bath showers and headed over to a bar with a classic rock show. The band's breaks were twice as long as their sets and the pool tables were missing balls, but still managed a grand old time. We spent a good deal of the night smoozing, throwing pool games, and buying shots in hopes of being offered a yard in which to set up our tent (or even a bed!), but bar time rolled around and our disgenuine generosity was met with only disgenuine reciprocity. So we drunkenly sulked our way through the mist to the state park woods, set up our tent, and got some much needed shut eye.

Day 20

There was a rodeo in long beach today, so Wendy and I thought we'd check it out before hitting the pavement. Turned out the action didn't begin until 1pm, so we settled in and had a 'cowboy breakfast' - hams, eggs, and hotcakes. After a hearty nap under the fog of C&W music (our 70 mile day yesterday wore us out a bit), the rodeo kicked off with an extended national anthem, a tribute to the old red, white & blue, a nostalgic tribute to a time without cell phones, and a red hot Bon Jovi song! On Cue, the queens and princesses of Columbia County flew out of the gates, their steeds below them pounding the ground and tearing around the arena. These were the beauty queens of the rodeo world: oversized and gem studded chaps hanging off of slender builds, pearly smiles, curly, bobbing, stiff, blond perm jobs, and thick, bright, 50's era makeup. To see a dainty Queen in full control of such a surging, powerful beast was a sight to see! Thoroughly impressed with their cowgirl skills, I was excited to watch them compete. Unfortunately, the mightily prestigious Columbia county cowgirl contest winners did not actually get to compete in the rodeo. Rather, their duties entailed waving, smiling, steering errant cattle out the gates of the arena, and lugging the giant drums out for the barrel races. Essentially, they were decorated grunt labor. Not to say, however, that the Queens and Princesses were treated poorly. To the contrary, each time they entered the arena, the announcer protected them with his big, burly voice, "Now you be careful out there little ladies".
Overall, the rodeeo was a wildly entertaining event and cultural experience. Sturdy, straight-backed, stoic, cowboys with hard chin lines and plaid shirts tucked in and puffed out in the wind, combining power and skill and grace and pure guts. Never a smile, never a tear.
Finally got on the road by 5pm and cycled the 15 miles into Astoria, OR. Our passage into the long awaited Oregon was a harrowing one - the 4 mile Astoria bridging spanning the thick Columbia River - no shoulders, no escape, no mercy from the RV's.



Eager to put some more miles for the day, we cycled through Astoria in hopes of making it to Seaside. Waylayed by the Fort Geaorge brewery and the indie rock and folk entertainment of Johanna Kunin, our ambitions of getting out of town were stymied. We did manage, however, to fill our growler with one of the tastiest stouts I have ever had the pleasure to sample! Bartender recommended we set up camp in the trees behind the brewery, so we cozied up under a bush after bar time.

Day 21

Awoke around 3:30 pm to a starlit sky and a full-on downpour. My foggy mind was slow in comprehending that the sprinklers had just turned on in our makeshift campsite, and my down summer sleeping bag was soaked before the hampster began to turn the wheel. Cuddling in cold disbelief bordering on denial, we slowly developed a plan to defend ourselves: put our helmets over the sprinklers. It worked like a charm. We even managed a bit more sleep!
Wendy caught an 8am bus to Portland and I cycled south to Seaside and met up GA Joe. After a bit of reminiscing over some Ft. George stout, GA Joe took me out for a kitesurfing lesson. Wow, what a rush, what power, what fun - I'm hooked. I watch surfers on the beach now and think to myself, "man, that looks kind of boring". Its a moderately expensive sport to get in to, but it was well worth it . . . definitely one of the most exciting things I've ever done in my life!
Set up my tent in Rebecca and Rod's yard (friends of GA Joe), and fell asleep exhausted.

Day 22

Crawled out of my tent only after the mid-morning sun forced me, and took a NICE hot shower. Slowly packed up and began leisurely working my way down the gorgeous OR coast. My ride was right along beach, it was all gorgeous beach, all spectacular beach . . . except for the hills. There were three of them of them morning, a pitchfork just south of Seaside, each point about 750 feet high. Nothing serious in comparison to the terrain of NZ, but a hill is a hill is a hill. After climbing most of the morning, mostly coastal flats into Tillamook, home of the west coast famous Tillamook Chesse factory. We took a tour of the high volume facility, of the impressive sanitzed and mechanized cheese-making process, of plastic employees wearing radiation suits, working the converyor belt, doing the most rote of tasks as endless blocks of cheese entered the packaging room through a mysterious hole in the wall. Bought some crap from the gift shop and stuffed ourselves with cheese curds. Our WI hearts were fully contented.
Found a disused vacation home overlooking an estuary on Cape Meares and set up camp for the night. Beautiful spot. Such a shame when people lock up beautiful property and never use it.



Day 23

Woke up to abundant birdlife and a gorgeous sunrise over the estuary. Out of Tillamook, took the Three Capes scenic route , around Cape Meares, Cape Lookout, and Cape Kiwanda. Thick, misty air engulfed us as the clouds raced off the ocean and up the coastal bluffs, condensing in the trees: a familiar scene now - slowly, laboriously climbing hills, enveloped in fog, heart pounding, the cool sweaty moisture mixture dripping over your eyes and the hot burn in your thighs. In these didtinct moments, where the fog leaves you alone, where you are, in the woods, life appears more poetic, more simply beautiful.
Despite this poetic description of our ride this morning, the hill up to cape lookout was a real bitch - a three mile, 1,000 foot climb. The stunning views from atop the capes kept us moving, but by the time we made it into Pacific City, we were beat. Luckily enough, the Pelican brewery was awaiting us at the northern end of town. Set amid gorgeous beach and dramatic dunes, the brewpub was a sight for sore eyes. We gobbled down a makeshift leftovers lunch (menu prices at Pelican were outrageous) and took a stool at the bar. Everything about the place was uppity: a wall of framed medals, flatscreen TV's, fancy furniture, flashy beer names, an overpriced menu, and arrogant bartenders who loved to talk up their cask-conditioned and secondary fermented beers (but could not describe what that meant when pressed). All in all, a really nice place with nice beers, but too stuffy to feel comfortable. I like a brewpub where you can throw your peanut shells on the ground, I like a brewpub that feels like home, I like a brewpub that lets its beer speak for itself.
Surpirse, Surprise: the brewpub kept us from hitting the 50 mile mark yet again. We camped just south of Pacific city, near a boatramp, on a nice, flat, spot with a river view. Salty scalloped potatoes, instant rice, and bed.







Day 24

Cycled the last couple miles into Neskowin amid a fogbank, and ate breakfast. Second day of coastal fogbank - dreary, misty, cool. We started climbing Cascade head late-morning, the hill we avoided climbing last night. We ended up taking the old scenic highway around the hill, and to our delight, the gradients were much easier than our elevation map indicated.
Lincoln city weren't all that exciting - Library, Burger King condiment bar, and a beachside lunch accompanied by a 1/2 gallon of Pelican's Doryman Dark.
Serious food coma ensued, and it took every bit of willpower we had to get back on the saddle. Found a bar in Depoe Bay with live jazz , fake piles of poop, & free pool, so we called it a day. Once again we stopped short of our mileage goal, once again we stopped at the foot of a hill.
Pleasant evening of mild jazz, pool, postcards, and mediocre beer in a dark, depressing bar. Found a cozy contruction site and set up home amid the fogbank mist.



Day 25

Awoke to the jarring sound of construction work - packed up, cycled out, and found about fifty better places to camp on the road out of town. Climbed up cape Foulweather, along a solitary segregated bike path, for views of some of the most dramatic sccenery yet. And a Grey whale sighting! After a fantastic morning ride, coasted into Newport along side roads and cozy, posh neighborhoods.
We had arrived to the main attraction of our trip: the Rogue Ale Brewing Company - known in the midwest for the flavorful imagery of the Dead guy ale.
Set in a massive, brown, aluminum sided warehouse, the brewery appears unwelcoming at first. As you approach, a giant red cylinder towers above you, marking the gates to this most holy of places. I walked through a non-destinct hallway, with dingy bathrooms and peeling paint. Could this really be it? Am I in the right place?
Hallelujah! Hallelujah, Glory, Hallelujah! I stepped out of the hallway into the massive warehouse, and towering before me were five 200 barrel fermentation tanks: shining, polished, and standing large over their awe-filled admirers. We mazed our way through the impressive tanks and past a walmart-sized warehouse of kegs and packaged beers. Eventually we found a poorly lit chalkboard, shining the way, with an arrow pointing to the brewpub. I felt like I had entered through some rite of passing, had found the secret passage to a wondrous place.
And a wondrous place it was indeed: 22 beers on tap and excellent, cheap bar food. The industrial theme was maintained throughout, with dirty, worn, wooden floors, plywood walls, kegs cut in half to make light fixtures - plain, simple, welcoming. The Bartenders were extremely knowledgeable and excited to talk to you (not lecture you) about everything beer. All in all, made for a homely feel, a place where you can have a pint and really relax. And the beers . . . oh the beers . . . DELICIOUS. The brewers weren't afraid to cross lines, to mix it up, to fail miserably, to brew flavors that had never been combined before - beers that you made you stop and think, "Wow, what is that? I've never tasted that before . . . hmmm . . . I really like that!"
Used about three days worth of budgeted funds on a plethora of beers, t-shirts, dead-guy fake tattoos and condoms, growlers and Kobe burgers. A MOST enjoyable afternoon.



Cycled (barely) out of Newport, another 30 miles or so and pulled into the smelt sands picnic area to an aging sun, just north of the hippie haven, Yachachts. Chef Wendy simultaneously prepared a delectible eclectic dinner over a beach campfire and masked our ever-growing, ever-evolving stench with the stiff smell of burnt driftwood. Found a very cozy, very hidden, well-protected cave on the beach and laid our weary heads to sleep.

Day 26

Fell asleep to shooting stars and awoke, fully replenished, to the sound of crashing waves. Worked out way into town for produce, coffee, and the psychic faire. Wendy found herself strangely intrigued; I was merely angrily skeptical and pushed on down the road for a solo morning ride. The day began with a long climb, the apex of which of was a long, dark tunnel. Even the daunting Astoria bridge takes a seat to tunnels in terms of terror evoking experiences for cyclists. Neither tunnels nor bridges provide a bailout option for bikers, but at least drivers have a chance of seeing and avoiding a cyclist on a bridge. Not the case in tunnels.
The Oregon department of Transportation is actually very forward thinking in terms of cyclists rights. Before a cyclist enters a tunnel, he can activate a flashing light that warns drivers that a cyclist is in the tunnel. Smart, right? Yes, it is . . . unless the light is burned out . . . in which case drivers are informed that there is NOT a cyclist in a tunnel when there actually is one.
Unless I wanted to climb the mountain with my cycle on my back, though, the tunnel was my only option. I waited until there was no traffic in sight and entered the dark, moist, cracking, filthy, and claustrophobic passage, pumping my legs like pistons. As if on cue, the thundering, booming noise so characteristic of a logging truck, began vibrating off the dripping walls. My instinct is to push harder - not an option. This tunnel happened to be built on an incline; my legs were nearing exhaustion with the first thirty seconds. No shoulder, No escaping, No light, No looking back. All you can do is bury your head, grit your teeth, and pray. For an atheist cyclist, you have even less options. The thundering, echoing, blaring engine closed in on me, closer and closer, until the deafening sounds waves felt almost tangible. I closed my eyes, pressed my fingers into my grips, hunched my shoulders, and waited for the critical moment to pass . . . BAM! A heavy screeching, laid on top of the omnipresent thunderous roar, now pierced my eardrums and rattled my body. What the hell, what the hell! The logging truck was now laying on its horn, full blast, inside the tunnel. The shear force of the truck combined with the echo of the tunnel was dominating. I felt like I was in the climax scene of a scary movie, where the ghost had just yelled boo, and the main character turns around not to discover his fear was predicated on a farce or mistake, but upon an actual ghost. The truck passed and I was tossed around like a rag doll in its wake, but I stayed on the bike. I regained enough composure to reach the other end of the the tunnel. I collapsed on the side of the road in raw anger and physical and emotional exhaustion. Why the hell are those goddamn trucks so loud? Why the hell do they drive so goddamn fast? And why in the hell do they lay on their horns when they go through tunnels? Goddamn Goddamn Goddamn!!!
But the ride continued, and consistent with the rest of the entire coast, the ride into Florence was breathtaking and dramatic and all that jazz. Immediately upon my arrival I began my search for the double barrell brewing company, located in old town Florence. After an arduous search, we ended up at the house of Geth, Stephanie, and Max (the one eyed dog who had seen more of its two legged, two eyed counterparts), where we were informed that the owner of the brewery had a heart attack fifteen years ago, and the brewery had been closed since. So much for the information on our map. We were also informed, however, that the spirit of double barrel lived on in the form of Wanuka beer! So we zipped on down to old town Florence for a pint and a burger. Double Barrell and Wanuka beer both turned out to be busts, so we returned to the abode of Steph and Geth in hopes of lodging. Score! We were offered a nice spot in their backyard, directly below a redwood tree! My first redwood tree . . . I feel like this is a right of passage or something. I commemorated the moment by passing out at the foot of the ancient giant after a sharing a growler with Geth.



Day 27

Bid adieu, with all due graciousness, to Steph, Geth, and Max over stories of surfing trips, international skate parks, and a brunch feast of tomato and cheese salad, salted mango fruit, and black tea. Our many, many thanx to Stephanie and Geth for the hospitality. Keep chugging along Max!
Pushed our way down through Reedsport and over a harrowing bridge into North Bend, where we collapsed for lunch after a fifty mile morning.



Meandered, in slow motion, the final fifteen miles to our camp site, Sunset Bay, stopping only for beer and ice cream. Our first official campsite, our first time paying for camping. Here's the section where I recite my litany of grievances with official campsites: 1) You have to pay 2) You might have to pay a lot 3) Rat, racoon, possum, and bear infestation 4) worse yet, RV infestation 5) its not as comfortable as the beach 6) its not as pretty as the beach 7) its not as homely as a backyard - and no one serves you breakfast in the morning 8) coin operated showers shut off mid-lather, leaving you to sneak out, cold and naked, to feed the meter 9) where's the adventure?
Now that I've vented, I will admit that most of the camping along the coast was quite nice and inexpensive. Sunset Bay was no excpetion. $3 for water, clean flush bathrooms, showers, a nice flat green space, and the guarantee that you would not be woken up by sprinklers at 3am. Hikers/ biker fees (around $3 at state parks) are partly subsidized by car campers (around $15) and RV drivers (around $25). As it should be . . . we receive less services than RV drivers and, more importantly, we worked for it!
Hiker/ Bikers have their own section in the campground and unlike Vehicle campers, are guaranteed a spot to sleep regardless of capacity. So bikers cycling the coast get to know each other pretty well, as they stay at mostly the same place every night. This affords the opportunity to talk equipment, compare maps, share food and beverage, and commiserate about their respective 'close calls' of the day. This makes it easy for a solo cyclist - if you stay in the campgrounds, you'll have someone to bike with every day!

Day 28

Slow moving morning in our cozy campsite followed by a hilly slog on Seven Devils Road - rare inland scenery and stale bagels. Extra nasty fish n chips in Bandon left us ailing and apathetic. Our escape from town was less than timely. Never go to Bandon for seafood, bars or cheese. Do go to Bandon for candy, marine life, and a warm visitor center welcome.
A flat tire in Denmark and the lingering effects of our tasteless, heavy, and nutritionally deprived lunch prevented us from reaching our campsite at Cape Blanco. We nestled into a cozy hayfield along the sixes river sometime after sunset. Made a gourmet pasta dinner and fell asleep to the stars in a food coma daze.

Day 29

Up and on the road early. Magnificent coastal scenery all day - the Oregon coastal vistas are beyond my powers of description.





Long day of cycling through Gold Beach and into Pistol, where we had secured a much anticipated bed and shower. Phoebe, a lady we met a week earlier in Long Beach, WA, had offered us her guest bedroom in Pistol River. The entire day, we were spurred on by the prospect of a bed in a private room, a shower, a home-cooked meal, and laundry. This was our motivation as we began the climb up the hill to Phoebe's house. Halfway up, a pickup truck slowed down and began to stalk us. A man's head emerged from the window - balding with scraggly gray hair wiring out from his tie-dye bandanna - and talked at us with a voice reminiscent of the pothead in "That 70's show", "Hey, are you guys going to Phoebe's house? Right on . . . throw your bikes in the truck! . . . whoa, did you guys ride up that hill? . . . Man, Phoebe is such a bitch!". Overwhelmed by his ADHD, we conceded to his offer and hopped in the truck of Phoebe's roofer. Johnny drove down to the beach, rolled a joint, and began to lecture on wide ranging issues, including 1) the "hands of time" 2) the bitchiness of Phoebe 3) the sweetness of Phoebe 4) how kids are like a trailer thats welded to your truck 5) an in-depth description of everything personal about Phoebe 6) in-depth description of his current squabbles with Phoebe 7) and the story of how he managed to blame the fact that he constantly smelled of Greenery and booze on the neighbors.
Arriving at Phoebe's after an entertaining ride, we unloaded and greeted Phoebe at the front door. Upon inspection, Phoebe deemed us to unclean to walk through her house and let us in through the garage, where we were stripped and de-liced. We received an hour-long whirlwind lecture on towels, shutting doors behind us, and an explanation of 'California' showers. After being frantically talked at, non-stop, for 90 minutes, Wendy and I were more than ready for our hot shower, square meal, washing machine, and comfy bed. As it turned, none of these things were in our future. A 'California shower' means turning the water off during the 'lather' portion of your shower in order to conserve water. Not so pleasant when there isn't any hot water (Phoebe's water conservation policies - she lived at the top of a hill, without a connection to the city water main - also crushed our laundry prospects). Cold, but clean and refreshed, we summoned our courage and took our places at the dinner table. And on the menu tonight: an hour-long lecture with a side of Microwavable vegan dinner.
Phoebe revealed the most intimate and tragic details of her life as we scarfed down our cardboard food. I made made eye contact long enough to inform her that I was listening intently as she bore her pain before us, but not too long to give her the impression that this level of intimacy was appropriate.
We found a break in the utterly awkward and one-sided conservation, and escaped to the living room to watch a movie: a Malcolm X documentary. After the movie, Johnny pulled me aside and started lecturing me on the delicate difficulties of roofing. At first I tuned him out, until I realized why he had pulled me aside: he had shattered a thick, double paned glass skylight and he desperately needed to share his anxiety with someone. The drama in this household was old and sticky, and I felt myself descending into it, being pulled from below by horrific dismembered limbs from horror movies.
Johnny hopped into his truck and skidded away, and I returned to Wendy to save her from the one-on-one interaction with Phoebe that I had abandoned her to. We were exhausted and more than ready for a reprieve from the anxiety and drama of the evening, but Phoebe was incredibly insistent that we 'enjoy' another movie. So we conceded, and watched 'Wag the Dog' - an absolutely awful movie. When the film ended, we snuck out of the living room and headed for bed (which was no longer a guest bedroom, as we had hoped, but a hide-a-bed in her basement). Suddenly, the light flicked on as we made our way through the kitchen. Phoebe had been waiting there for us, in the dark, the entire movie. My horror movies metaphors were beginning to multiply. We kindly bid her goodnight and escaped to the basement.

Day 30

Slept in as long as possible . . . emerged from the basement around 10:30 to find breakfast waiting for us. Phoebe was an incredibly diligent host - I could easily imagine her up at 6am and waiting for us to wake. Conversation became steadily more comfortable, and by the end of breakfast, we had arrived at something resembling normal social scripts.
Wendy and I excused ourselves from the table, anxious over another late start to the day. Packed up, helped Phoebe out with a few chores, and got the hell out of Dodge.
The outstanding coastal scenery continued today as we worked our way into Brookings. There we made an extended stop for a pizza joint brewery (Wild River Brewing Company) - good pizza, bad beer, and giant cookies. On our way out of town, Wendy got a flat and discovered a nasty tear in her rear tire. After a bit of finagling with a closed bike shop, Wendy picked up a brand new kevlar lined tire and we were on our way (Ultimately, it was the bonntrager tire that held up, not the kevlar lined tire).
The sun was getting low, so we abandoned our visions of Crescent City and found a beautiful spot to camp on the California border: canopied under trees and adjacent to a pelican filled beach. Nice, safe, hidden, homely campsite! We were quite pleased.










Day 31

Crossed the border into California today! Exciting accomplishment: symbolic of the fact that we might actually finish trip! Cut inland and followed side roads (Fred D Haight and Lake Earl road) into Crescent City. Super nice to get off the "No-fun-01", as some fellow cyclists nicknamed the 101. Blackberries are coming into their own - tough to get any cycling done when there is a blackberry bonanza beckoning you at every thigh burning moment. Nice short day on the bike with beautiful weather. We are beginning to get accustomed to perfect weather, its been so long since rain.










Got into Crescent City in the early afternoon and tracked down the abode of the Richard and Teresa, parents of Jonah and Rae, the friendly and fun cyclists we crossed paths with at Rogue Ale Brewery and befriended at Sunset Bay campsite. Jonah and Rae ended their journey in Crescent City, and were kind enough to offer up their parents shower, laundry machine, and backyard to us.
Set up, dried out, and cleaned up. Ahhhhhhh, how blessed we were to have met Jonah and Rae! Awarded myself a small bit of long-awaited lounging on their warm, comfy grass while I sucked down one of Teresa's delicious protein shakes.
Under the tutelage and direction of Jonah, we teamed up to prepare a scrumptious tomato pasta dinner accompanied by a growler full of Wild River Brewing Company malted beverage. Soon, the entire household was too satiated to function, and we retreated to the living room for a never-ending Kevin Costner flick. Infinite thanx and gratitude to our thoughtful and kindly hosts: Richard, Teresa, Rae, and Jonah!


Day 32

Slept like BABY! Emerged from the tent to an array of tasty bagels (thanx Richard!) Slowly packed up and said a heartfelt goodbye to our wonderful hosts. We hope to see you down the road!



We worked our way out of town and through the magnificent redwood forests. Our joy for the redwoods was tempered, however, by a monster of a hill, no shoulders, and unaware RV drivers.
Long, grueling day. Really wish we would have takena full day off in Crescent City to let our muscles rest! The Scenery (some of the most gorgeous of the trip) remained unappreciated, cloaked by the burn in my thighs and the negativity in my head.
Fortunately, the end of the day was simply impossible to underappreciate. After summiting the second of two vicious hills, the day's ride ended with an effortless six mile downhill on Newton B. Drury Scenic Highway through enchanting redwood forests.
These trees are . . . truly special . . . their depth . . . their peace . . . I've never experienced anything like the feeling I had around those trees. I understand now why everyone highlights the redwoods as the favorite part of their trip - they are a truly special . . . species? organism? Being?
Arrived to Elk Prairie Campground after sunset to an anxious Wendy, who had finished the ride considerably quicker than myself.
Feasted on Microbrews, chimay, and fancy cheese. By our eating habits, you'd never surmise that we were camping.
Nestled up under a redwood as ancient as Jesus and as thick as a house and warmly closed my eyes to a chilly California night.





Day 33

Cycled out early as Wendy stayed behind for a bit of redwood exploration. Another day on the saddle, another day on the coast, another day on the 101. It was another long day; my thighs are ready for some regeneration time. I hurried my way into Arcata and molded myself into the soft grass of the central city plaza.



Arcada is a bright fun college town with lazy hippies galore. Rested as much as I could before backtracking via bus to McKinnleyville to meet Wendy at the Six Rivers Brewing Company. Bright, clean, busy bar with tasty beers. Really nice brewery, really nice beers, but disappointed by the bluegrass musicians that never showed and uninviting patrons/ staff.





Day 34

Emerged from our smelly campsite (dog poop) and hit the road early, looking forward to a day off! Nice easy ride through boring and smelly farmfields into Arcata, where we found delicious doughnuts and comfy grass. Spent the afternoon in the park, chatting up other bike enthusiasts, doing some much needed maintenance/ cleaning and eating ice cream. Early evening coastal flatland ride into Eureka to visit the lost coast Brewpub. Good fries and two decently tasty wheat beers - everything else about the place was pretty average. Appeared as though the brewer's were a bit too concerned about drink-ability - to the point that all their beers tasted similar.



Found a campsite on Woodley island and fell asleep to a star show and meteor shower.

Day 35

Fell asleep to a meteor shower . . . awoke to the honking of Canadian Geese, the distant, eery , grating screech of gulls, the flutter of a goldfinch, the elegant swooshing and swooping of a giant egret, the quick, jerky, dive-bombing swallows, the gentle plucking of a feeding whimbrel, the magnificent great blue heron, the distinctively awkward and over-sized brown pelican . . . all visible as I de-crusted my eyes . Also visible and audible were the large-motored fishing boats, the tall, tall ever pluming smoke stacks, and a rusted barbed wire fence enclosing and protecting the estuary from invaders like us. We awoke to a garden of Eden, walled off by barbed wire, factories, and diesel engines.
Packed up and cycled into Eureka for an uninformative tour of the lost coast brewery. The distributor at the brewery informed us that we had missed a brewery, called Mad River Brewing Company in Blue Lake, about 8 miles East of Arcada. After some heeing and hawing, we bussed back to Arcada and then over to Blue Lake. We received an-depth, lengthy, customized tour of the brewery followed by a free tasting. Awesome experience . . . best tour yet . . . some of the tastiest beers as well.
Caught the last bus back into Arcada and then another into Eureka, and by early evening we were exactly where we had begun the day. Glad to be done with our zig-zag route through the Arcada - Eureka area, we set off for fortuna for our unprecedented third brewery of the day: Eel River Brewing company. We had heard nothing but raving reviews about this brewery: from their tasty beers to their status as the first certified organic brewery in America to the fact that they farmed all their own organic meat.
As we pulled into the brewery parking lot, we ran into Mark and Cecelia, an incredibly kind father and daughter who had given us directions several miles back from Loleta. They bought us dinner and Mark told us about his days in Alaska, fighting forest fires in Fairbanks and the political wackos of the Alaskan Independence Party.
All in all, brewery was a bit disappointing - beers were uninteresting and our burgers were burnt to a crisp, but the company more than made up for it!
Cozied up under a pine tree on California Conservation Corps land and fell asleep to the poetic dreams of Barack Obama's father.

Day 36

Thump, Thump, Thump - Wendy and I peered out through our pine tree canopy to find what the commotion was all about. Overweight adolescents were running sprints in the field adjacent to our campsite. Apparently, a youth training program was underway, and the the site we had believed to be a stealth camping spot was in plain view of the morning exercise session. We sheepishly and quickly packed up and rode out, dodging the thunderous trampers on our way out.
Another beautiful day - haven't dealt with rain, mosquitos, or humidity in three weeks. Is that a Wisconsinite's definition of heaven?
After ten miles of following the Eel River along the no-fun-01, Wendy and I hopped on the scenic alternate route called "the avenue of the giants". This was the real deal, these were the big boys, 27 miles of pure, unadulterated, ancient redwood forest. Hot Dog! I do believe, professor, that this is where it's at. Hot Daaaawwwwg! My upturned neck was interrupted only briefly to suck down a fresh blackberry popsicle.
Back on the 101 for ten miles while we worked our way towards Benbow Lake State Park. Pulled up a couple miles short to the sounds of cheesy Reggae rythyms. UB-40, the most commercially successful dub raggae band of all-time, was performing at a reggae festival (which are quite common in these parts). Wendy and I snuck into the volunteer area, set up our tent, and wandered over to the stage to catch the encore. Nowhere else was it more apparent that we were in the world-famous Humboldt County.
Fun show, great campsite along a tributary of the Eel River, and ALL night party in the volunteer camping area. Wendy and I were quite pleased.

Day 37

Woke up, stepped outside, took a deep breath, and was pleased to be the proud owner of one of the few tents without puke stains. Met a Fabulous kiwi who was about to begin a semester in Vancouver. I was glad to hear that she had been treated well on her travels up the coast - felt relieved that my fellow country men were treating her as well as I had been treated when I was in New Zealand. Breakfast on the banks of the Eel River Tributary in the already burning morning sun.
Today was a big day: after a couple days of inland cycling we returned to the coast along the famous Highway 1. We cycled a hilly but gorgeous 12 miles into Leggett, where the 1 splits off the 101 towards the coast. Between us and the coast was a 5 mile, 2,000 foot hill. I spent about an hour climbing, taking only a few breaks. My conditioning was finally becoming apparent - it takes me a long time to get noticeably fit. At the top of the hill was a vista of horizon to horizon redwood forests. We've only got 2% of our redwood forests left, but thank god 2% is still a lot of trees.
Pleasant ten mile downhill coast followed by a very rude and unexpected foothill that nearly exhausted me. I pushed my along a river valley on the side of a cliff, until suddenly I rounded a bluff, and there was the Pacific Ocean. Wow, Wow, Wow.
Forever will that image of the CA coast remain with me. The fog was pushing into the steep cliffs, suffocating at one moment, veiling at the next, and opening at the next; dramatic triangle islands pushing up through the mist; the road rising and falling with the bluffs, neatly complimenting the coast. A moment that became part of my history, part of my self-definition; a moment earned, a moment to be grateful for, a moment I'll never lose, a moment that creates a solid thing in one's life.







After an hour of giddiness, Wendy and I pushed on to Westport. We had a potato chip dinner and met the nephew of Brewer's owner Mark Attanasio. What a thrill to share my brew crew fever with a fellow fan, especially one connected to the Brewer savior himself! He informed me that Brewers were coming to San Francisco the following weekend. Perfect Timing! I tried to weasel some tixx out of him, but no dice.
Begrudgingly, we headed out for Fort Bragg, about 15 miles down the road (we thought it was only ten). Our legs were weary, the bluffs were steep and relentless, and the sun was beginning to orange. A couple miles south of Westport, we capitulated and stuck up our thumbs (Highway 1 is no place for night riding). Immediately, a couple of Fisherman in a pickup came to our rescue. We had to share the cargo bed with the days catch, but we were just glad just to be off the road (our unwise decision to ride late into the evening along the narrow, winding, desolate, and steep highway 1 could have been a costly one).



Dropped off in north Fort Bragg and immediately we headed for the north coast brewing company. High end food turned us off, so we feasted instead on a big plate of nachos. Enjoyed the ultra big stouts . . . and pretty much all of their beers. Most unique aspect of this brewery was their extensive gift shop: logo'ed soccer balls, baby bibs, playing cards and everything else under the sun. Chatted up one of their brewers the entire night, about beer preferences and starting a brewery. Managed to score a camping spot in the beautiful backyard of the brewer's backyard.

Day 38

Today was our most varied in terms of scenery, most similar to my experience in New Zealand. Did a bunch of errands in Fort Bragg in the morning and then pushed on south. I don't have the words to describe the coast along Highway 1 in CA . . . it was the most beautiful coastline of the trip, and thats saying a lot! So spectacular!







After what felt like a quick twenty miles, we returned inland towards the 101 along highway 128 towards Cloverdale. As soon as we turned inland, we found ourselves deep in redwood country. Twenty miles later we entered the Anderson valley. Wide, golden, magnificent; we were now in wine country. The three most beautiful landscapes of the trip were packed into one unutterably enjoyable day of cycling. Magnificent.







Slow climb along the vineyards of the Anderson Valley into Boonville. Sweet little town - pretty and touristy. Here we called it a day. And surprise, surprise: there just happened to be a brewery in town - Anderson Valley Brewing.
We set up camp in the backyard of a local hotel owner. Started making dinner, only to find our pasta sauce had exploded in one of my buckets. Serious bummer. I was hungry enough to scoop the sauce out of the bottom of the bucket, but Wendy nixed the idea on the account of the glass chards and five week old grime. Its important to have a traveling partner, if for nothing else, to keep you sane.

Day 39

Packed up and cycled out to the Anderson Valley Brewing Company. Fancy place with large, regal, white buildings, fountains, a grand and tall gate, and a wide, spacious property . Felt more like a winery than a brewery - it just wasn't gritty and dark like all the other places we toured. Beers were Great! Really tasty, except for their summer seasonal, which smacked of vanilla. One of our favorite breweries.





Headed out, a little wobbly, towards Cloverdale, and Ruth McGowans Brewery. The beauty and heat of the Anderson Valley continued throughout our thirty mile morning ride. Ruth McGowan's was great! The owners were from Ashland, WI, and the bar felt like home accordingly. The bartenders and owners were actually friendly to us, in a way that Californians are not. It felt really nice, it reminded me that we were not in the mid-west anymore.
Copper mash tuns and all the brewing equipment was immediately behind the bar - the only brewery where the pub and brewery were actually one room. Apparently, the place closes on Monday for brewing.
The milieu was more important than the beers, and we had a grand 'ol time at Ruth McGowan's.







Stuffed and satiated, we saddled up and raced our way into Healdsburg along a flat and slightly descending frontage road along the 101. Thank God the last 15 miles of our day was easy . . . we were in no mood for a hill.
Healdsburg is a posh town with no camping . . . I immediately disliked it. But, Bear Republic Brewing was in Healdsburg, so in Healdsburg we stayed. Had a sampler platter at an absolutely packed bar. Great, Great, Super Great beers - my favorite since Rogue. Yummy Yummy.
On the advice of an extremely kind park ranger, we snuggled up under a dense thicket of reeds on a sandy river beach on the outskirts of town. Nice spot.


Day 40

Awoken rudely. Errands in town. Late morning ride along Westside road into Guernville. Departed the 101 today for the last time. In Guernville was the Stumptown brewery, which was hosting the Russian River Beer festival. A ticket to this event earns unlimited tastings at 25 microbrew tents and and 25 BBQ tents. We pulled in early afternoon to Guernville and set up our tent in the festival grounds along the Russian River. This was the light at the end of the cycling tunnel. We attacked the ribs chicken wings like ferocious beasts, we guzzled beer like Wisconsin hiccks, we danced to the live music like Wisconsin hicks, and swam in the cleansing river like a pair of smelly bums that really needed a shower. It was an afternoon of excesses . . . excesses that we had denied ourselves over the last five weeks. Oh, the glory.

Day 41

Aching, I crawled out of bed, legs cramping and mouth dry: I felt like a had emerged from a 20 year cryogenic freeze. My body was not so much rebelling as just thoroughly confused . . . in a state of stiff shock. Surrounded by the quiet chaos of an after party scene, I sat on the banks of the Russian River, listening to distant quacks, screeches, and cries. I sucked in the cold morning air through my nostrils and felt the warmth of the rising sun on my chest.





My last day on the saddle . . . wow . . . I feel good, sad, but not nostalgic . . . I feel good, ready to rest.
For breakfast: Creamy salt, fluffy, grainy salt, and leftover BBQ. My body moves from a state of shock to downright contempt.
Its going to be a long day today, but we're highly motivated - San Francisco is within striking distance - 50, maybe 70 miles. We're taking side roads today, its tough to calculate distances.
Rode the forested Bohemian Highway back to the grasslands and rolling hills of highway 1. Followed the 1 over the small bluffs along Tomales Bay. Exited highway 1 for the last time at Point Reyes station and followed Sir Frances Drake road into San Rafael. Long, Long day. We were hoping to make it into the city, but our 70 mile day left us 20 miles short of the city.
Our journey ended at la Casa de Anne Tyson at approximately 7:15 pm on the 19th of August, the year of our Lord 2007.
Our reception was more than warm. We immediately felt at home; despite the fact that I was a wee little boy the last time I saw Anne, I felt like I was staying with a familiar and beloved aunt. So warm was our welcome that we stayed a week - lazily lounging in front of our big-screen TV, swimming under the redwoods in the heated pool, sharing amazing dinners with the family, going to baseball games, and exploring the city. If California is paradise (and it is), then 1610 Grand st, San Rafael, CA is the garden of Eden.
Thank you, Thank you, Thank you Anne, Jaime, Daniel , and Lauren for taking us in and treating us so well.



Cheers to the multitudes who served us along the way and made our adventure possible!