It's a San Francisco Summer.
Day 1 or more properly titled: Escape from Coos Bay!!!
Since the 11:00am exodus from Sisters, Oregon late starts were deemed passe. The most has to be made of the days that are constantly getting shorter. Especially when going across the United States started by going North and West, out of the Northwest. Still a dash to the Pacific should be made in order to make the crossing all the more official; hence, North Bend. It's also the quiet hometown of my Aunt and Uncle so I was able to spend a few days being well fed and fixing all manner of bike bobble. Come September 1st though, it was time to leave, so at about 8:30 I made way South--still not East but staying warm is up there on the to do list-- and out of North Bend / Coos Bay. Or so I thought...
Observation: Log Truck Commute.
This terse thought on how the 101 through Coos Bay is about typical amount for commuter AM traffic except for its feature of a large percentage of log trucks led me to haul my bike off that road and take side streets with no precise knowledge of route other than it was somewhat South and even a little bit East. Bonus. And eventually it even led me back to the 101, outside of town, and with a bit more space between log trucks, chip trucks, and me... until I hit construction and an annihilated bike lane / shoulder. Bummer. Back to heading North and very much West. Regardless I finally make it to Charleston which has a road heading south to Bandon. The time: 11:00am.
Day 2
Now I'm really resolute. I spent the night in my little tent, which after a little trial and error I figured out is the internal frame type, roadside south of Port Orford so that I'm ready for immediate departure. The previous day I had ridden a little with Cycle America. Ok, that's not completely accurate. A guy that was about half a century my senior road by me and asked if anything was wrong. "No. Wrong?" It's tricky to act surprised when pushing your bike along the side of the road while someone else briskly displays exceptional form--you know, sitting on the bike seat and peddling--slow enough to talk to me, the guy walking. "Ok. Well if you like, we're with Cycle America and will be staying at Bandon High School tonight. You're welcome to drop in if, you can hang with us. Just follow the yellow arrows on the pavement, two lefts and then on into town." He begins to peddle a bit more faster and the hill I'm trudging up begins to level. "America? Thanks."
Later I had stopped by Bandon High to see row after row of orderly supplies being unloaded from the back of trailers waiting for the unburdened tourers of Cycle America, taut and beaming. A few joyfully set up their tent in the corner of the field and again a rider who looked like he might have originally designed the bike slides to a halt beside me. "Now there's a guy tougher than me! We've go the lag system to make things easy." I give a hollow eyed nod in the affirmative. "So who are you with?" "Oh. I'm solo. I ran into someone earlier that said I should check things out, but I need to push on for the night. Thanks."
Which has me packing up my tent south of Port Orford with renewed vigilance. California here I come.
Day 3
Sleeping on the ground seems like a tireless and dream void venture, which it is. That's why on Day 2 I decided to push my bike (this is a common theme when going up steep hills without any sort of climbing gear) at night, into the fog riddled redwoods. That, and I wanted to get out of Crescent City. The sign on the way out of town at dusk wasn't comforting though: Narrow Road. Watch for Bikes. "Hey! There's one." I chuckle to myself. Ah, yet another reason to walk the bike as I can get WAY over without worry of spilling onto the ground--I'm already there--and hopefully avoid those people who are diligently watching for bikes, at night, in the fog, in the redwoods.
As I wake up to Day 3 I wonder how I made it to a place of relative comfort, many lengths from 101 and more or less comfy in my tent. I'm actually a short ways down a trail that featured a sign of no bikes / no camping in pictograph form. Perfect. Those signs can be more properly read as: "This is motivation for waking up early when bike camping here. Thank you." And so again I'm off. Finally the fog begins to clear enough to see that, yes, the Redwoods are in fact very large trees. The seem to grow biggest when there's enough mist to mask just how big they really are. They're fickle that way, which upset early settlers--along with always damp drawers, so a number of them were cut down. Those that remain however are wonderfully close to the road and make the ride a wonderful way to wake up, maybe even good enough as a replacement for some dreams lost.
From there it was onward to Arcata where I ran into Deon, "Happily car-less for 8 years," a bit North of town. He preached the wonder of the Hiker/Biker campsites that offer their services at the low low price of $3-$4. Deon was mostly riding for fun and volunteering at the local organic food co-op, "retired" at 49.
Hmm.
Now, don't go drawing hasty conclusions people. I'm sure there's someone out there who has chosen to go by bike, volunteer for organic food co-ops, and can still be solvent. Guys? Anyone?
So I ride on, eventually making my way to Ferndale. Big Sis, you'd like Ferndale quite a bit. I rode in when it was settling down for the night, with the Bed & Breakfast guests calmly strolling about town, checking out the town at dusk. I would have even taken some pictures, but I was busy with figuring out just where exactly I was, where exactly I was going to sleep, and an olive pizza. And the freshly baked olive pizza had the bulk of my attention, leaving just enough for me to figure that I had a bit more riding ahead of me in order to reach a reasonable place to camp. Onward to Scotia!
Day 4
Yay for low profile tents and a spot just off the less traveled roads among the big trees. Living like this is pretty cheap. So with a a little sleeping in among some Avenue of Giants' Redwoods Day 4 dawns. The loss in time is something of a trade off with sleeping in, but the length of Day 3 warrants it. Besides, a few hours here or there don't make for a day blown.
Ratrher, on the subject of blown, tubes would be up there. At least in terms of time lost. Still, in terms of break downs, it only took me three punctures on the inside of my tube to figure out that something might be going on inside the rim. I also figured out in the midst of patching a tube or two and blowing a valve that trying to add 40 miles after 6:30 pm wouldn't be such a good idea, even if it did maintain the 100 or so mile per day average and get me across that Humboldt County Line, just a mile or so away. Still, in states of frustration and exhaustion I like to ask myself simple questions to test my sanity. One part of my brain says, "Hey, 'averages' that sounds like math. That's probably a good idea." While the other part says, "How about you really fix your tube when you have daylight to help?" That part of my brain is so crafty, asking me questions that are too difficult for the simple, frustrated, exhausted part to figure out. So ended the longest (and shortest) day on my trip. A campsite was just aside from the gas station where I pulled in for a thorough bike beating behind a dumpster. I ponied up the $15 for my 18 square feet of living space and made immediate use of the on site showers (after starting a load of laundry - efficiency!). Plus, the camp had friendly staff, an internet connection, and ice cream sandwiches. Now I just have to worry about those creamy temptresses and modernization making my budget blown.
Day 5
8:00 am had me out the camp gate and back on the road for a brisk jaunt out of Humboldt County. I greeted Mendocino with my last flat. It was time to move out of the land of might's and maybe's and go more than 40 miles in a day. At a nice hilltop guardrail-protected pullout the problem rear wheel went under close inspection. Off with the tire (Q: Are these the hardest tires to mount/dismount ever? A: Yes.) and out with the tube, then off comes the rim strip to reveal--after much looking--little metal shavings peaking out from between the dual walled rim. Evil, vile, venomous, @*!$&!# A mill bastard file to you rough spurs of fury! And I calmly sanded, polished and taped up the inside of my rim. I think I was whistling while doing so. Actually I was in a reasonably good mood after the shower and confirming what was causing the flat. I even added a layer of electrical tap to the inside of the rim to serve as a protective rubbery barrier between me and any other lurking metal shards. The benefit of such roadside mechanics: a 105 mile day with little in the way of major problems, although my wheels felt a little wonky.
A little wobble can't bring down the highs of a Day 5 though, a climb out of Leggett and off the log truck friendly 101 to the old Highway 1, as the beach comes within censed distance its constant breath rolls up the narrow river valley. The sight of the stony beach below makes me think, "Those Beach Boys were full of crap." Pop references for the rocks below. I tell myself jokes when all alone. Besides it helps get rid of the one verse from the Steve Miller Band - "Rock'n Me" that had been going through my head for the last three days. Best of all I sing it wrong and some how the lyric, "All day bailing hay" gets in there. Now I really do start whistling, as I wind and wend my way to Winchester, for a late night pitch of the tent.
Day 6
I don't want to spend another night in the tent. I mean, in the big picture, sure, another night in the tent will b grand and part of the adventure, but for this leg, I'm ready for quality couch cushions. Dreams of polystyrafoam plushness fill my head. So it's with purpose that I wheel down the 1 up and down the rolling coast eventually to the little burg of Tomales, where as the sun drowns a guy in truck pulls over and says, "Anything wrong?" I stand holding my bike, not looking surprised. "Hey Aaron. Nice truck." He even brought snacks. So with the lift I jet into San Francisco with a bit more safety equipment between me and the road than, say, spandex. Would you believe for dinner I had a marianated steak and then had a shower and then crashed on a couch? Yeah. It must have been one of those replacd dreams.
A log.
Holy Pectin, Batman! That's a lot of jam. I am drooling at the thought of this place. I bought a sour cherry honey stick for 25 cents. Budget constraints. But I'll gladly review any and all of there jam flavors for the sake of science or well paying business interests.
Even this one.
A painting with my bike.
The view from the tent. Night one.
Greetings from Oregon. I'll miss you.
Really.
I mean it.
Because, so far, California isn't that sunny.
Hi.
Hey, the trees are big.
Orick! California! That phone actually works. That may or may not have been the town motto.
"There was sand and sun and lots of fun!" What? Liars.
I like this house. That is all.
Ahhh... This was one excellent fog free day.
See?
'Course ya do.
Oh, and there was plenty of this.
P.S. Who are these guys?
Since the 11:00am exodus from Sisters, Oregon late starts were deemed passe. The most has to be made of the days that are constantly getting shorter. Especially when going across the United States started by going North and West, out of the Northwest. Still a dash to the Pacific should be made in order to make the crossing all the more official; hence, North Bend. It's also the quiet hometown of my Aunt and Uncle so I was able to spend a few days being well fed and fixing all manner of bike bobble. Come September 1st though, it was time to leave, so at about 8:30 I made way South--still not East but staying warm is up there on the to do list-- and out of North Bend / Coos Bay. Or so I thought...
Observation: Log Truck Commute.
This terse thought on how the 101 through Coos Bay is about typical amount for commuter AM traffic except for its feature of a large percentage of log trucks led me to haul my bike off that road and take side streets with no precise knowledge of route other than it was somewhat South and even a little bit East. Bonus. And eventually it even led me back to the 101, outside of town, and with a bit more space between log trucks, chip trucks, and me... until I hit construction and an annihilated bike lane / shoulder. Bummer. Back to heading North and very much West. Regardless I finally make it to Charleston which has a road heading south to Bandon. The time: 11:00am.
Day 2
Now I'm really resolute. I spent the night in my little tent, which after a little trial and error I figured out is the internal frame type, roadside south of Port Orford so that I'm ready for immediate departure. The previous day I had ridden a little with Cycle America. Ok, that's not completely accurate. A guy that was about half a century my senior road by me and asked if anything was wrong. "No. Wrong?" It's tricky to act surprised when pushing your bike along the side of the road while someone else briskly displays exceptional form--you know, sitting on the bike seat and peddling--slow enough to talk to me, the guy walking. "Ok. Well if you like, we're with Cycle America and will be staying at Bandon High School tonight. You're welcome to drop in if, you can hang with us. Just follow the yellow arrows on the pavement, two lefts and then on into town." He begins to peddle a bit more faster and the hill I'm trudging up begins to level. "America? Thanks."
Later I had stopped by Bandon High to see row after row of orderly supplies being unloaded from the back of trailers waiting for the unburdened tourers of Cycle America, taut and beaming. A few joyfully set up their tent in the corner of the field and again a rider who looked like he might have originally designed the bike slides to a halt beside me. "Now there's a guy tougher than me! We've go the lag system to make things easy." I give a hollow eyed nod in the affirmative. "So who are you with?" "Oh. I'm solo. I ran into someone earlier that said I should check things out, but I need to push on for the night. Thanks."
Which has me packing up my tent south of Port Orford with renewed vigilance. California here I come.
Day 3
Sleeping on the ground seems like a tireless and dream void venture, which it is. That's why on Day 2 I decided to push my bike (this is a common theme when going up steep hills without any sort of climbing gear) at night, into the fog riddled redwoods. That, and I wanted to get out of Crescent City. The sign on the way out of town at dusk wasn't comforting though: Narrow Road. Watch for Bikes. "Hey! There's one." I chuckle to myself. Ah, yet another reason to walk the bike as I can get WAY over without worry of spilling onto the ground--I'm already there--and hopefully avoid those people who are diligently watching for bikes, at night, in the fog, in the redwoods.
As I wake up to Day 3 I wonder how I made it to a place of relative comfort, many lengths from 101 and more or less comfy in my tent. I'm actually a short ways down a trail that featured a sign of no bikes / no camping in pictograph form. Perfect. Those signs can be more properly read as: "This is motivation for waking up early when bike camping here. Thank you." And so again I'm off. Finally the fog begins to clear enough to see that, yes, the Redwoods are in fact very large trees. The seem to grow biggest when there's enough mist to mask just how big they really are. They're fickle that way, which upset early settlers--along with always damp drawers, so a number of them were cut down. Those that remain however are wonderfully close to the road and make the ride a wonderful way to wake up, maybe even good enough as a replacement for some dreams lost.
From there it was onward to Arcata where I ran into Deon, "Happily car-less for 8 years," a bit North of town. He preached the wonder of the Hiker/Biker campsites that offer their services at the low low price of $3-$4. Deon was mostly riding for fun and volunteering at the local organic food co-op, "retired" at 49.
Hmm.
Now, don't go drawing hasty conclusions people. I'm sure there's someone out there who has chosen to go by bike, volunteer for organic food co-ops, and can still be solvent. Guys? Anyone?
So I ride on, eventually making my way to Ferndale. Big Sis, you'd like Ferndale quite a bit. I rode in when it was settling down for the night, with the Bed & Breakfast guests calmly strolling about town, checking out the town at dusk. I would have even taken some pictures, but I was busy with figuring out just where exactly I was, where exactly I was going to sleep, and an olive pizza. And the freshly baked olive pizza had the bulk of my attention, leaving just enough for me to figure that I had a bit more riding ahead of me in order to reach a reasonable place to camp. Onward to Scotia!
Day 4
Yay for low profile tents and a spot just off the less traveled roads among the big trees. Living like this is pretty cheap. So with a a little sleeping in among some Avenue of Giants' Redwoods Day 4 dawns. The loss in time is something of a trade off with sleeping in, but the length of Day 3 warrants it. Besides, a few hours here or there don't make for a day blown.
Ratrher, on the subject of blown, tubes would be up there. At least in terms of time lost. Still, in terms of break downs, it only took me three punctures on the inside of my tube to figure out that something might be going on inside the rim. I also figured out in the midst of patching a tube or two and blowing a valve that trying to add 40 miles after 6:30 pm wouldn't be such a good idea, even if it did maintain the 100 or so mile per day average and get me across that Humboldt County Line, just a mile or so away. Still, in states of frustration and exhaustion I like to ask myself simple questions to test my sanity. One part of my brain says, "Hey, 'averages' that sounds like math. That's probably a good idea." While the other part says, "How about you really fix your tube when you have daylight to help?" That part of my brain is so crafty, asking me questions that are too difficult for the simple, frustrated, exhausted part to figure out. So ended the longest (and shortest) day on my trip. A campsite was just aside from the gas station where I pulled in for a thorough bike beating behind a dumpster. I ponied up the $15 for my 18 square feet of living space and made immediate use of the on site showers (after starting a load of laundry - efficiency!). Plus, the camp had friendly staff, an internet connection, and ice cream sandwiches. Now I just have to worry about those creamy temptresses and modernization making my budget blown.
Day 5
8:00 am had me out the camp gate and back on the road for a brisk jaunt out of Humboldt County. I greeted Mendocino with my last flat. It was time to move out of the land of might's and maybe's and go more than 40 miles in a day. At a nice hilltop guardrail-protected pullout the problem rear wheel went under close inspection. Off with the tire (Q: Are these the hardest tires to mount/dismount ever? A: Yes.) and out with the tube, then off comes the rim strip to reveal--after much looking--little metal shavings peaking out from between the dual walled rim. Evil, vile, venomous, @*!$&!# A mill bastard file to you rough spurs of fury! And I calmly sanded, polished and taped up the inside of my rim. I think I was whistling while doing so. Actually I was in a reasonably good mood after the shower and confirming what was causing the flat. I even added a layer of electrical tap to the inside of the rim to serve as a protective rubbery barrier between me and any other lurking metal shards. The benefit of such roadside mechanics: a 105 mile day with little in the way of major problems, although my wheels felt a little wonky.
A little wobble can't bring down the highs of a Day 5 though, a climb out of Leggett and off the log truck friendly 101 to the old Highway 1, as the beach comes within censed distance its constant breath rolls up the narrow river valley. The sight of the stony beach below makes me think, "Those Beach Boys were full of crap." Pop references for the rocks below. I tell myself jokes when all alone. Besides it helps get rid of the one verse from the Steve Miller Band - "Rock'n Me" that had been going through my head for the last three days. Best of all I sing it wrong and some how the lyric, "All day bailing hay" gets in there. Now I really do start whistling, as I wind and wend my way to Winchester, for a late night pitch of the tent.
Day 6
I don't want to spend another night in the tent. I mean, in the big picture, sure, another night in the tent will b grand and part of the adventure, but for this leg, I'm ready for quality couch cushions. Dreams of polystyrafoam plushness fill my head. So it's with purpose that I wheel down the 1 up and down the rolling coast eventually to the little burg of Tomales, where as the sun drowns a guy in truck pulls over and says, "Anything wrong?" I stand holding my bike, not looking surprised. "Hey Aaron. Nice truck." He even brought snacks. So with the lift I jet into San Francisco with a bit more safety equipment between me and the road than, say, spandex. Would you believe for dinner I had a marianated steak and then had a shower and then crashed on a couch? Yeah. It must have been one of those replacd dreams.
A log.
Holy Pectin, Batman! That's a lot of jam. I am drooling at the thought of this place. I bought a sour cherry honey stick for 25 cents. Budget constraints. But I'll gladly review any and all of there jam flavors for the sake of science or well paying business interests.
Even this one.
A painting with my bike.
The view from the tent. Night one.
Greetings from Oregon. I'll miss you.
Really.
I mean it.
Because, so far, California isn't that sunny.
Hi.
Hey, the trees are big.
Orick! California! That phone actually works. That may or may not have been the town motto.
"There was sand and sun and lots of fun!" What? Liars.
I like this house. That is all.
Ahhh... This was one excellent fog free day.
See?
'Course ya do.
Oh, and there was plenty of this.
P.S. Who are these guys?
