11/21, day 94: Cathy and Dave have to get back to town from the beach house so they can go to work. I haven’t made breakfast for anyone for awhile so get up at 6:30 and get eggs and sausage going. We are on the road by 8, biking through fog, thankful for a warm first night on the Oregon coast and for the homemade granola bars that Cathy gave us. It’s so foggy that the roads are wet. Going through a small coast town I hit some of those darned little plastic bumps that they put in sometimes on the white line and wipe out. Ouch. But everything’s OK, other than a scraped knee and sore wrists. All morning we are right by the water going up and down along the ocean cliffs. Classic Oregon coast views—a red and white lighthouse on a forested point, long lines of waves coming in to shallow bays, wind-swept juniper trees, hills shrouded in fog, sea lions playing in the water, birds gliding with their wingtips almost touching the water, the dull thud of waves falling then crash of water on stone, then spray. Stopped at Devil’s Churn, a spot where waves smash and water seethes in a small channel cut out of black stone. At a dunes picnic area for lunch, met a guy from Australia traveling the coast in a car. He had a wife and a corporate job but a divorce eight years ago sent him traveling for a year, and he’s never stopped. Works summer jobs during Australia’s vacation season to save some money then travels abroad during their winter. In the afternoon we are mostly inland over forested hills, through small coast towns, by river mouths and tidal bays. By 3 or 4 we are getting tired from our early start. Faced with doing a daunting-looking bridge into North Bend or turning aside into a nearby campground, we choose to end our day. Find a closed campground (so we don’t feel obligated to pay the fee) and set up there.
11/22, day 95: Glen actually motivates our sleeping in this morning. It’s so nice sleeping in a warm tent again, the temperature inside up in the 50’s from the milder weather on the coast. With it being foggy and all, temperature difference between day and night is small, days 55 nights 45. We like being by the coast, though coast traveling will be a bit different than our pedaling through the West. We are on a very popular bike route now, hundreds maybe thousands of bikers traveling during the summer months. Of course we are the only ones traveling so late in the year, but still we are not novelties anymore as we were across much of the country. Fewer people just come up and talk to us. Traffic is heavier than before and the road is often narrow, the drivers not quite as polite and courteous (the open spaces and generous drivers in the Midwest and West spoiled us). We get some friendly honks and waves, but also many people who pass us without adjusting much to our presence. Yesterday as we crossed a narrow bridge, a brown van moved into the other lane to pass us despite a blind corner ahead. At the same time a semi pulling double oil trailers came around the corner. Though they didn’t get close to an accident, the truck driver swerved and braked, his evasive action causing the rear trailer to hit the bridge curbing and bounce several feet into the air. Tons of truck trailer bouncing like a toy right there on the other side of the road. With such things in mind we ride out of our campground, pass the Weyerhauser paper mill with its railroad tracks and huge piles of wood chips, and get ready to tackle the big arching bridge over the bay into North Bend. Glen opts to get on the narrow bridge sidewalk. Uncertain of the sidewalk’s continuity I decide to stay on the road. Charge up the bridge as fast as I can, fearful of traffic and big trucks and not wanting to hold people up. Other than someone who was going the other way (go figure) yelling “Get off the road” at me, the crossing went fine and got my blood pumping. Glen pulled up minutes later after a much more leisurely crossing on the sidewalk. North Bend and Coos Bay make up a small industrial city; the bike route forsakes heavy 101 traffic and takes us around on secondary roads. Next through Charleston, gray and dirty and gritty fishing town by a boat basin with piers and countless boats. We take a left onto Seven Devils Road and begin climbing steep hills, uphill grades like we haven’t seen since western Pennsylvania. Ran out of gears on one or two of the hills, just had to get up and pump. For the next hour we are going through what must be a sizeable range of hills that we cannot see for the fog that surrounds us. I speculate that the seven devils are seven hills that we cross, all steep. Very beautiful though, soft trees fading into gray mist, sometimes quick peeks through the fog into valleys of green pastures. Finally come down off the hills and back onto Highway 101 again, roll into Bandon and it’s time for lunch. At the store I spot cheap avocados and snag one that, along with plenty of free mayo packets, makes for great tuna sandwiches at the booths tucked conveniently inside the front of the store. We are happy to be out of the fog and damp for a bit. Out of Bandon we settle into drafting that becomes a bona fide charge once we work off lunch. At one point I remember a sign for “Port Orford 13,” then suddenly we were in Port Orford. After Port Orford another stretch right along the coast. “I’m sitting up,” I tell Glen, and we slow down to savor the views. We bike slowly and stare at the beauty like starved travelers. Sometimes we stop so motion doesn’t hinder our staring. The map says Humbug Mountain Park ahead soon, we decide to check it out, maybe get some water then find a nearby place off the road to camp so we don’t have to pay. Sun drooping toward setting time when we see Humbug ahead, big wild mountain dropping into ocean. The road cuts inland to go around it, we find the campground and get water. Decide to explore a paved trail that is the old Highway 101. When far away enough from the campground we begin to ponder places to camp. Get to a spot where a tree has fallen across the trail. The pavement is flat there, so figure that’s as good a spot as any to set up our tent. I want to ride higher up though, just for fun and to see if I can get a view of the sunset over the ocean, so I drop some of my stuff and Glen drops his trailer, we lift our bikes over the tree and ride higher. Suddenly the road turns a corner and opens up and there hundreds of feet below us is the ocean framed by mountains and above us the sky lit in gauzy colors by the disappearing sun. We are blown away. I cast down my helmet in worship and take off my shoes. Later I throw a handful of trail mix over the edge as a heave offering. There is a picnic table sitting at an old highway turnout by this splendid view, so we bike gleefully back down to get our stuff, then come back and set up camp in our best tenting spot yet. Cook dinner in the lingering light. I recite Wordsworth’s sonnet “The world is too much with us;” it’s perfect for the place. This is the one time on the trip I wish for a cell phone; I would call friends and family and say, “Guess where I am…” and hold the phone out so they could hear the ocean crashing way down below and be jealous. At night the stars come out in glory like we haven’t seen for a long time. The dust of distant galaxies visible. I lie on my back until I see a shooting star, then retire into the tent where all night I dream of hearing the ocean, awake to find the dream is true.
11/23, day 96: Wake up on the side of a mountain overlooking the ocean! Right away it’s a race between the incoming fog and the rising sun to see if our spot gets any morning rays to dry out the tent and warm our bodies. The fog wins. Our biking day begins with a climb inland up and around Humbug Mountain. On the other side we come down to long stretches of rocks and sand beaten by waves, craggy fingers of stone pointing up toward the sky. Much of the day great ocean views along coastal hills and flat stretches next to beaches. The sun burned through the fog and stayed out for most of the day. We stop and eat lunch next to the ocean, a thing that in itself makes this whole coast stretch worthwhile. After lunch we do a several mile climb. Flying down the other side Glen finds that his rear shifter cable has broken. We manually get the chain into a decent gear and he continues to ride with only his front ring shifter operable. Soon after, on another downhill, I get a flat. We were hoping to cross into California this evening, maybe make it to some Warm Showers people around Eureka tomorrow. Not sure we can do that now. Limp into town of Brookings in late afternoon and find a bike shop. It’s open and Glen disappears inside. Twenty minutes later he comes out smiling, his bike all fixed. We rejoice and charge for the California border. Make it across as the sun goes down. No campgrounds in evidence. We decide we should either go up into the hills on our left or out into the flat pasture land on our right. Glen chooses to go right and we ride through farmland telling ourselves that we’re just going to have to knock on a door and ask if we can camp in the yard, something we haven’t done for a long time. Finally we find a public boat ramp back by a river. It has some grass and a picnic table so we call it home. There are still boats out and people around fishing though, so we wait till dark to really start unpacking and cooking, not wanting to be too obvious or have someone come up and say we can’t camp here. Today I had the thought that doing this trip probably won’t significantly change my life purpose. However, it is strengthening the belief that my life does have a purpose to it. Surrounded by all the natural beauty, I believe more and more that there is a Creator. If that is the case, then my life should count for something.
11/24, day 97: Around 1 a.m. a car pulls into the boat ramp parking lot; two doors slam. “It’s just the neighbors coming home,” Glen reports after his foray outside the tent. Still, I am awake now and can’t get back to sleep, one of the problems we have now that it gets dark so early and we spend so much time in the tent. As I lie awake I think about my life and this trip. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine ending this and going back to the month or two of rest in Lancaster, then the slow struggle to earn money and do some writing in DC. At other times I am ready to be stable somewhere again. Still other times I am comfortable with simply living in the moment, trusting that this trip is teaching me valuable lessons that I can apply to whatever does come next. I finally fall asleep; when we get up it’s a wet Sunday morning and fisher folk have already begun to arrive and launch their boats or carry their poles through the brush toward the river. One guy’s dog keeps trying to come up the bank and check out our breakfast. His owner yells “Kendall” and the dog slinks back down. It starts to rain softly, so we hurry up our packing. We have been talking about riding through the Jedidiah Smith redwood grove, but the rain helps us make the decision to charge the 80 or 90 miles to the Arcata area instead where John and Sandy, a couple on the Warm Showers list, have agreed to host us. We need to call them, so we soon spot a church and stop to ask if we can use the phone. Don’t think about till later that it’s a Sunday morning, so we are surprised at the high level of activity inside. Not only do we get to use the phone, a friendly man also treats us to hot drinks from the church’s café. Have fun talking to lots of friendly people there, would have stayed for service if we didn’t have so far to get today. Leave shaking our heads at the generosity. Once again the people of God outdo themselves; once again we are ‘witnessed to’ by folks who are careful to make sure that our spirituality fits into the narrow evangelical slot they want it to fit into. The riding day is mostly about getting to our warm and dry indoor destination. We go through Crescent City and immediately tackle a big hill, which wears me out. The day is mostly like that-- lots of decent sized climbs going onto and off of the coast, slowly getting more and more tired. We do get a long downhill break going through the Prairie Creek Redwoods, miles of scenic parkway through huge and silent redwood trees. Stop in small town of Orick to buy bread and eat lunch. Tired chain saw carvings jumbled in the front yards of a few empty tourist shops. Sometime after lunch I get tired of being tired and start concentrating on riding and nothing but riding. It works and, with the help of a tailwind, we fly the last 20 or 30 miles of highway (though I frustrate Glen with my single-minded drive— I am ‘dialed in’ and ignore his pace, whether faster or slower than mine). Off the highway we have one more big hill to tackle then Sandy is welcoming us warmly and offering sugary drinks and warm walnut cookies. We are very happy to dry out, take showers, do laundry. John comes home from work and the neighbors come over for dinner and we have a feast around their table, chatting and stuffing ourselves and topping it all off with pie and ice cream.
11/25, day 98: John and Sandy offer their place for a rest day and, since we are about halfway between friend-stops in Corvallis and San Francisco, we decide to take the offered break. This past summer our hosts did a bike tour of their own, Seattle to Bar Harbor, Maine, on a tandem. They know what it’s like to be on the road and offer what we need before we ask. We share stories about the many fortunate happenings and generous people encountered on our respective trips. They are off to work in the morning; Glen and I do email, write, read, work on our bikes, take naps. Soon it’s getting dark and Monday Night Football is on, pizzas are in the oven, and the four of us sit around eating and chatting and watching the 49’ers and the Eagles. Much respect for John and Sandy— they used to live in the SF Bay area and commuted to career-type jobs, then decided the rat race was old and moved here to their mountain-cabin-like home. They work ordinary jobs and have time to go on bike tours, keep a garden, do other things that they love. Yesterday we stopped to talk to two guys in their fifties who were smoking by the side of the road, their bikes loaded with various and sundry gear and possessions. They are on their way from Idaho to Arizona, two old guys on disability (have to wait for their checks each month, “we’re crippled with arthritis,” one said; “and so you’re on a bike tour?” Glen and I are thinking). John and Sandy say there is a whole class of guys like this, sort of homeless fellows who stay in a campground till they get kicked out, then load all their possessions onto the bike and move on to another, maybe finding some work or a sympathetic ear along the way. “Might as well push a bike as a shopping cart,” Sandy says, and I see that it wouldn’t be that bad of a life. Today I do some thinking about life and responsibility and worry. On this trip Glen and I talk a lot about living in the moment, and this is certainly the most worry-free I’ve been in my adult life. Yet I think there is a very fine line between worrying about nothing and being responsible, between being carefree and not caring about anything. Or not having anything to care about. I think that worry comes from having responsibilities, things you have to or feel obligated to do. And having responsibilities is how significant things get done in this world. In the accumulation of responsibilities is where, as human life goes, one finds greatest potential for significant impact on the world and its people. Even on this trip I have responsibilities—keeping a journal, doing this website, keeping in touch with people—that help to shape the trip so that it has deeper meaning for me and is not just a self-serving or a ‘hedonistic’ thing. “Are you just out for the day or are you men of leisure?” one woman asked us. Sometimes worry is a good thing, then, a signal that you have something important enough in your life to care about.
11/26, day 99: It’s so exciting to wake up in a house and get breakfast. On rest days I look forward to that when going to bed— waking up hungry so I can eat again, simple cold cereal and toast so good to have. We pack up leisurely. Our hosts have left us each a small pile of snacks for lunch, including Clif bars, which we adore but don’t often have. I check the weather just before we leave and find it will be 60 degree days and 40 degree nights with little chance of precip all the way down to SF. Cool! We start out in long sleeves but soon hit sunshine and strip down to summer wear, so nice. Early in our day we ride leisurely through streets of Arcata and Eureka, which both feel like relaxed seaside towns. No school this week so lots of people and kids are out in the approaching-70-degree weather. I sing lots of California, easy-livin’ songs as a soundtrack. South of Eureka we hit a great little narrow, windy country road with no traffic. Right through dairy land, could have been Lancaster County if the trees were oaks and maples instead of pines. At the top of a big hill we get great views of pasture land, ocean miles away. A red and white helicopter lifts logged trees out of the forest. After a short stretch on the big 101 Highway we get to the Avenue of the Giants, another scenic road through magnificent stands of redwood trees. It’s approaching dusk, but camping spots are plentiful so we ride till its almost dark, finally make camp down on an open river sandbar area. Not our greatest spot ever but its easy in, easy out, the river is there for water, and we should get some morning sun to dry out the tent. That night we put too much uncooked onion in our ramen and chili. Glen ends up having to eat most of it, I can’t take the strong and spicy taste.
11/27, day 100: It’s day #100, a century of days out on the road. We celebrate by adding some cheerios and other stuff to our morning oatmeal, the first time I’ve enjoyed it in days. Nice to have the sun rise and shine on our camping spot. I want to see the old-growth redwoods in Rockefeller Forest, so we take a side road that heads west through increasingly beautiful groves of tall, tall trees. After awhile find a quiet grove and just sit on a moss covered, fallen tree, listen to the silence until I can hear the trees growing, feel the dusty oldness of the place in my bones. How long has the tree I am sitting on been here, I wonder? How does it change my worldview to know that such old and noble things still exist? Both Glen and I are feeling adventurous and wonder if there is a way to continue west on this road then loop south to the highway again without backtracking. We stop a ranger who says there’s no way to do that. We talk to two telephone linesmen who are more positive, say we might be able to find a way out past the town of Honeydew to Shelter Cove, then somehow down the coast to where Rt. 1 starts. We decide to head out into what we learn is the Lost Coast, a small section of Humboldt County where all the highways run inland and leave a stretch that is California’s most wild and undeveloped coastal area. Soon we leave the redwood forest and encounter a long, long, sometimes steep climb. It is such a long hill that after about 45 minutes of constant climbing Glen invents a word game as a distraction from the pedaling. It works well, and soon we are flying down the other side into the town of Honeydew. In Honeydew there is a small general store where Bohemian-looking types hang out on an old bench under the trees, guys ride in on dirt bikes to buy six packs of Bud cans, and a dreadlocked young man sets his joint down on the windowsill before entering the store. Like a set from a hippie/artist commune movie. We buy a tomato for our tuna sandwiches, sit on the front porch and eat lunch. A woman asks us what we’re up to, we ask here about a possible route south, show her the place on our map where the road ends and ask if there is a way we can go across that white space with our bikes. She assures us there is a trail there, “It’s a hiking trail though, pretty steep in places,” she says. “I think there’s been a few washouts, too.” We nod and smile and think—yeah, just what we’re looking for, a crazy backcountry adventure! She goes into the store and comes out with a map, shows us how to get over dirt roads to the trailhead. Wonders if we want to buy the map and when Glen says, “We’d have to not eat for a day if we spent that kind of money,” she buys it for us. Outside of Honeydew another hill waits, even steeper climb on gravel road. At times I am in lowest gear, standing up, not even able to keep my pedaling smooth and continuous. Finally get up on top and then it’s up and down hills along ridgelines on gravel and dirt roads for the rest of the day. Streams flowing across the road. Lots of “No Trespassing” signs. Reminds us of West Virginia hillbilly country, though we know we are in California. A white, brutish looking dog jumps a fence and chases me. I pedal hard to get away, not stopping to find out if he is friendly. As sunset approaches we find ourselves up on a high ridge and out of drinking water. We suddenly begin to get views of coast. The sky begins to turn purple and orange and pink and the ocean is that purplish sunset hue all the way out to the horizon. Despite no water and the coming dark, we stop to watch the sun flatten out, then become a slowly disappearing sliver of orange as it sinks into the water. Sun gone and we are off, racing against darkness to get where there is (probably) water 4 or 5 miles away. We cover ground in good fashion to the remote oceanside town of Shelter Cove, then find a campground. Not wanting to pay the fee, we go a short way down a trail in the dark and set up our tent under some low trees. Nothing to eat but ‘dessert rice,’ rice with sugar and honey and trail mix and peanut butter. Realize our food stores are really low to be going out on a backcountry adventure, but figure we can make it no problem. Expect that we can make it over the trail and out to Rt. 1 tomorrow.
11/28, day 101: It’s Thanksgiving Day, a day ahead that promises to be my most memorable Thanksgiving ever. Heading out toward 20 miles of steep hiking trail with a minimal amount of food and some heavily loaded bicycles. We go over more hills until we follow a long dirt road down into Needle Rock State Park. See a few elk by a ranger station; apparently they like to hang out at the beach. We fill our water bottles there and head out past the “Road Closed” sign at the trailhead, scorning the other road that, on our map, leads to 101 and says emphatically, “Not a Shortcut.” We will get our fill of the Lost Coast, low food stores or no. The double track road soon turns into serious single track trail. With the trail going south more or less parallel to the coast, we begin to go up and down ridges running across our path, their lines pointing out to sea. All day the trail follows the coast when it can, running inland to make its way over the streams that flow down the canyoned nooks and crannies between ridges. Sometimes little streams flow over the trail. Sometimes the trail crosses larger creeks. We lift our bikes over fallen trees. All day we bike up, then down steep hills on a narrow trail. Or rather, we bike down hills (stopping to negotiate sharp switchbacks and lift our bikes over obstacles) and push our bikes uphill. Toes digging into soft dirt, hands straining against the handlebars or seat, sweat pouring, swearing beginning as the day moves on and the trail is no less challenging and we get tired and realize we are not getting anywhere very fast. Going uphill is an excruciating process. Small sections are flat enough and smooth enough to ride, so we try to ride those as much as possible, since we quickly find it is much more efficient to ride a bike than to push it. However, the trail constantly presents challenges in the form of steep sections or sharp corners or stones on the path, so we are constantly getting off the bike, falling off the bike, giving up and pushing the bike, getting back on to try again, falling again and pushing some more. At one point I go back to help Glen, who has more trouble than me because of his trailer, on a steep part. He looks at me from below where he is straining to push upward and says, “Joe, I just can’t go forward any more. I’m not too tired, I’m not out of breath, it’s just so steep I can’t do it.” Downhill we can ride our bikes most of the time, though our arms and wrists take a beating from the rough ride. The day is absolutely an amazing experience: the scenery, the complete physical exertion, the excellent weather. It has it’s own flow—we start out in pure wonder and awe and excitement at having an adventure ‘out in the wild,’ then get increasingly tired as the day goes on, then get really tired and begin to wonder what we were thinking when we set out… For lunch we stop and have a Clif bar each (thanks John and Sandy!), a crust of bread each with some pb and honey, a little trail mix. At some point in the afternoon I make a clean sweep of the honors for most dramatic moment of the day by falling off the edge of the trail. I see a corner with a sharp uphill that I think I can pedal up. Something goes wrong and I don’t make it, don’t quite get my feet out of my pedals in time, don’t quite manage to fall on the uphill side of the trail. I flop over the cliff at the edge of the trail, which is fairly steep at that point. Luckily there’s a lot of ferns and dead plant material to cushion my fall, but my bike comes down on top of me. I push at my bike to keep it from hitting me and it flops over me then flips again. I am still falling down the canyon side, trying to grab my bike to keep it from sliding even further down below me. Finally I manage to stop everything from falling further, ending up 10 feet or so below the trail, digging in to keep myself upright and stable. Glen is concerned, then starts laughing when he sees I am OK. He wants to take a picture so I manage to get the camera out of my bag and toss it up to him. “Just take the picture,” I yell as he tries to find the best angle. It takes five minutes of us working together to haul my bike back up to the trail. I am not sullen about it all, but am not happy either as I sit down to clean all the dead leaf matter out of my shoes. Toward the end of the day we are running out of water, find a stream and a small canyon that we could camp in. Decide to tough it out and get over one more ridge, our hopes of getting out to the road today nonexistent, but still trying to make our day tomorrow a little less painful. Over the next ridge we find a campsite area with two tents already set up. We select our spot and begin to set up camp. A young couple comes by and we offer to share our spot. Cleaning up in the cold stream feels wonderful. For our Thanksgiving dinner we have rice with soy sauce and some seasoning and are happy for it. Our camp mates take pity on us and offer some of their falafel sandwiches to supplement our meager meal. Overall it is the toughest day of our trip, yet also one of the best. Neither of us have ever had such a total physical workout with a bike. We are out on the edge of things where we might be in trouble even if everything goes well, certainly in trouble if anything goes wrong, and that lends a sense of adventure and excitement to the whole experience. How do I describe to you the beauty that we saw, felt, experienced this day and took in but could not keep? How the hills where we pedaled, fell, pushed our bikes? How the straining at the handlebars and pedals, trying to make it up a steep section, tired of falling off, knowing that one wrong steering move or badly placed tree root or slick spot means falling off and having to get up and push again? How can I tell you about the ebbs and flows of enthusiasm, the cursing, the awe, the anger, the slow realizing that we will be stuck on this trail for another night with little food? How can I describe the way the back aches at the end of the day in a diagonal line from my left shoulder to right hip from being on the left side of the bike and pushing it up hills all day long? This day tested our bodies and our bikes to their limits, and we made it. Tomorrow we have another five miles of trail, then 5 or 6 more miles to Rt. 1 and paved road and civilization again.
11/29, day 102: In the morning we get up fairly early to get a good start on the day, eat about half our usual portion of oatmeal (all we have left) in silence since others are still sleeping in their tents. Then we simply get on our bikes and hit the trail again. It’s right back at it without even a chance to really wake up, confronted with a steep hill immediately after leaving our camp site. I don’t even attempt to ride any portion of it since I am not warmed up and the trail is wet, just push my bike all the way up to the top of the ridge, maybe half an hour of hard work. A little shocking to be back working so hard right away in the morning. Most of the five miles to Usal Beach is like yesterday—amazing ocean views from hundreds of feet up on ridges and points, lots of hard work up and down on the bike. Toward the end of the five miles we break out of forest and into a section of open hill and grasses. We look down from a high point and see what must be Usal Beach. Energized by the sight of our ending point, I enjoy the last mile or two of downhill, working on my single track technique and turns. At trail’s end we are so happy to see a car, its presence meaning we are back to roads again! Not ‘out of the woods’ yet, however, since we’ve heard there is more steep dirt road to be done, the nearest store is rumored to be 30 to 40 miles away, and there is no water available at Usal Beach, not even a running stream with water that we could purify. I snoop around to scout out which way is the proper way south toward Rt. 1. I come back and find Glen laid out on a picnic table, weary. Soon we tackle the road again, find a dirt road that climbs steeply upward. We have no water, so Glen stops a pickup truck passing by and asks; they gladly fill our bottles. We have no food to eat except a little bit of rice, but we don’t want to stop and boil that. We pedal wearily up over hills, down dusty and bumpy descents until finally we hear car traffic. Route 1 must be close by! It’s so nice to get out onto the paved road. We celebrate by finding a stream from which we gather some water, drop iodine pills in it to purify. Fairly fly over the smooth blacktop. More hills to do. Our plan of course is to stop at the first store we see and pig out. Tailwinds help us to the town of Westport. A store! We bask in visions of sugary food. We buy pretzels, Pop Tarts, Powerade, some bread and honey for sandwiches. Sit on the porch store and stuff our faces, happy and contented to be eating in the warm sun of coastal California. In the bathroom, I wash my hands with soap! Mosey down the highway toward Fort Bragg enjoying the beautiful coastal scenery. Find a paved bike trail in toward town. Stop to ask a gentleman where the nearest store is. He tells us then asks, “Where are you camping tonight?” “Anywhere we can find a spot,” we reply. “You can come camp in my yard four or five miles south of the city,” he says and we accept gladly. After stopping at the store we follow his directions and bike the four miles down to Caspar in the dark. Gill meets us when we pedal in his driveway. He finds a flashlight and shows us where we can pitch our tent. We settle at a picnic table by the edge of the bluff, 60 feet above the ocean, which we can hear but not see. Gill shows us how to use the outdoor shower, and we bask in hot water and soap, washing away the grime of three days of dirt roads and trail. My bike clothes are filthy from falls and from wiping dirty hands and face on them. I look forward to clean shorts and jersey tomorrow.
11/30, day 103: We are about 170 miles from San Francisco, where I have friends I want to spend time with. Figure we can make that in two days—we are tired from our Lost Coast adventures and want to get somewhere welcoming. Have cold cereal with instant milk powder for breakfast, such a treat after the drudgery that oatmeal had become. Our hosts let us come in their house to use the bathroom, a really nice weekend house on the ocean for them, a beautiful one-night haven in their yard for us. The sun rises and warms us and we stand and look out over the cove, watch the waves crash into rocks, scan the horizon for whale spouts. The biking morning has more classic coast, gliding downhill into places where streams come out to the ocean, pedaling uphill out of them. Sometimes we ride the edge of the hills over cliffs down to the water, sometimes the hills recede and we ride through flat pasture land. Stop in a cemetery for lunch, sit on a flat concrete slab adjoined to someone’s gravestone and eat. Glen had said something in the morning about maybe being done with the trip when we get to San Francisco. We speak more about that, how when he is traveling indefinitely usually just gets a ‘done’ feeling and is on a plane home within days. He’s been traveling now for over a year and is beginning to feel tired, losing motivation to stay on the bike, on the road. When he indicates he may choose to go home from SF, I feel sudden and complete freedom to make a decision of my own, to either go home also or continue by myself. I bike the afternoon thinking about our trip and its possible ending. Toward dark we stop at a small store and buy some ramen and tuna for dinner. Stop at Stillwater Cove Campground and decide to, on possibly our last night out, break our rule of not paying for lodging. Stay in the hiker-biker site and give three dollars each to the state park service. Glen gets in a conversation with a couple who is ‘camping’ in an RV trailer. They invite us over for chatting around their fire, feed us chicken and rice and give us beer. Back at our campsite, we figure we have a big day ahead of us tomorrow, maybe 100 miles to SF, so we make some of our own food to tank up. Realizing it might be our last night on the road together, we prepare for an early rise and a long push to the city.
12/1, day 104: Today is about biking a long distance despite low energy and low motivation, so we are out of camp before 8:30. We have weird winds and lots of hills that keep our speed down, but still we try to enjoy what will be our last stretch of classic coastline before the road runs inland the last 40 or 50 miles to SF. At Bodega Bay we leave the coast and ride through hazy brown hills. I begin to sense I am coming home and find energy in that. Glen struggles to pedal steadily. “These hills defeat me today,” he says. It is a warm day, I am in shorts and a sleeveless jersey. We stop by a stand of eucalyptus trees (I love eucalyptus!!) to eat our lunch of one dry ramen packet spread with peanut butter, a few pretzels. Stop in the town of Tomales to get some water and call my friends in the city. Glen helps the lady in the general store put out a fire that suddenly started in her popcorn machine. On advice from some bikers we talk to, we turn east toward San Rafael instead of staying on Rt. 1, which goes up over the shoulder of Mt. Tam (we are in no shape for extra climbing today). We get a nice surprise of biking along a river instead of over hills like we were doing most of the day. We begin to roll through small but obviously rich little towns, heading for Mill Valley where there is an In-N-Out burger, a West Coast haven of fast food. Over one last hill then down into the town and discover that the In-N-Out is at the other end of the valley. Since I know my way from here we decide to head on into the city and get some burgers there. Buy a small plastic tub of cookies to tide us over, then stand in front of grocery store and eat most of them, sidewalk streaming with people out enjoying the great day and the upscale shops. Winding down through Sausalito we get our first views of the city. It is crazy to be back here, to have come back here on a bicycle, all the way across the country on a crazy bicycle. We ride across the Golden Gate bridge through a hazy sunset. It’s December 1 and I’m biking across the Golden Gate in a sleeveless T-shirt and am comfortable. Riding across I realize I am coming back to a very special place, no other place in this country like it. It is also so nice to be coming back to this city worry free, so unlike the good but stressful AmeriCorps year I spent here. Down along the Marina waterfront we soak in the soft evening, begin to realize our real presence here. Into Fisherman’s Wharf crowded with people, we sit in the In-N-Out and relish good burgers and fries. I lead us down through North Beach and along the familiar facades of Market Street to my friend’s house in the Mission. So good to see my friends again as they trickle in, one by one returning from Thanksgiving vacation trips. Thankful to have made it all the way here and still be alive, still whole, still friends, still relishing adventures old and new.
Well folks, from here the trip changes, or maybe ends. Glen has decided that it’s time for him to get off the road and return to Lancaster County to be around friends and family for awhile. Over the last year he has trekked in Nepal, climbed mountains in Chile, traveled the U.S. in a car and now on a bike. It’s simply time for him to be stable for awhile. He’s thinking about buying a fixer-upper house in Lancaster and fixing it up for his next adventure.
As for me, I think my next adventure will be finding out what solo bike touring is like. I’m excited about seeing how I fare out by myself, about finding out what kind of inspiration and challenges will come my way. I don’t know, I could still decide to fly back home from here also. However, I assume that, unless something very negative thwarts me, I will begin pedaling down to San Diego by myself. Right now I’m just enjoying being in San Francisco and catching up with people I know here. It feels like I am on vacation instead of on a bike trip, and I’m enjoying the rest that entails. To all of you who have followed us thus far, thanks for your listening and your support! I’ll keep you posted on my decision to end or continue this wandering life.
Keep in touch - Joe (lappjoe@yahoo.com) and Glen (glapp@juno.com)!