Canary

Stars, and exhaustion.... that's where we left off. I was sitting immobilized on the front porch of the social hub of Westport, California.

When I finally got moving, after maybe half an hour of catatonia, I found that the days ride was a little less windy than what I had hit on my way into town. The wind was still everywhere, but there were moments of calm, and some sweet rolling hills far enough back from the ocean to protect me from the wind. That heald up for a little while, but in the miles before Fort Bragg the wind was vicious... forcing me to push my bike slowly uphill whenever the road faced out to the ocean.

I had only made it 15 miles when I got to town. I gave myself permission to fortify, stopping for the best french toast and bacon on my whole trip so far. Sorry, tiny diner in Otis... Eggheads in Fort Bragg wins. Hands down.

The food took forever, but it was worth it. I had to lean my bike against a flower box in the front window with the tire locked to the frame. The couple at the window watched it for me, kindly, and then passed the window table on to me when they left. The waitress kept commenting on how exhausted I looked... asking if I needed a pillow. Then I got sick to my stomach.

So I gave in. My body didn't want to do any more work. I asked the waitstaff about cheap hotels, and they send me to a pink inn up the street, but there were no rooms. I made my way back, against the wind, to a little Bed and Breakfast I had passed... so cute. It was way out of my price range, but she sent me down the street to the Glass Beach Inn.

I had never stayed in a bed and breakfast before! I barely left the room the rest of the day, except once, to grab a somewhat regrettable dinner in town. The room was cozy and overdecorated, in true B and B style. The bathroom had big folding doors and tons of space. This place was cheaper than the last hotel I stayed in, and SO much nicer. Also... breakfast included, and not continental! I was a happy camper.

Oh and they had books! It's terrible how heavy books are, and that I can't carry them with me all the time. I found a copy of Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, and crawled into bed happy as a clam.

In the morning Rich made a killer breakfast, eggs and bacon and fruit, V-8 and coffee. I however, felt no better than I had the day before. I was overwhelmingly tired, barely speaking when spoken to, hiding in a book and bleary eyed. When I finally had to check out, I was no better off, and started to consider options to take another day off.

I talked to Nancy and Rich, the owners of the Glass Beach Inn, at the desk... and they mentioned that bikers usually take two days off in Fort Bragg when they tour the coast. They aren't sure why that is.... and I'm thinking.... It's that damn hill!

I call the local transit, and while the bus is cheap, I can't put my bike on it... one of the downfalls of an Xtracycle; it's too long for a bike rack. Rich and Nancy, however, want to take the day off. They don't know me, and we've barely spoken the whole time I've stayed, but they offer to drive me down to Point Arena.

Rich and Nancy are getting ready to sell the inn. They've had the place for 17 years, and they are ready for a new adventure. Their friends worry.... are you retiring? what are you going to do? They don't know yet! They just know that they have a million things they would like to do, and narrowing their options will be the hard part. They have made friends with lots of travelers over the years, and they tell me mostly about Angie, who lives a lot like I do. Angie is a visual artist with no permanent residence, and she's into just about everything... surfing, biking, climbing. She does sound a little familiar, I laugh. They wish Angie was around so they could introduce us, and they are convinced that she would jump up and join me on my bike trip if given the option.

We have a nice drive, and they leave me, still worn thin, at a cheap motel in Point Arena. There's no one at the office, and I have to knock on a room to get checked in. The guy gives me the master key and tells me to come by and pay later... the owners are out. It's all so laid back I don't know how they don't get ripped off! That's serious small town trust.

I say goodbye to Rich and Nancy, and settle into the tiny room. It's nothing like the cozy room at the Glass Beach, but I'm happy to still be re-cooping. I decide that I will go for a walk down the tiny main drag of Point Arena, maybe even go to a movie. I watch a minute of TV. Then I go to look for my wallet and go out. Lord... my wallet is gone.

I have a moment of panic. I dig through my belongings... to no avail. I call up Rich at the Inn and he says "I think we have some property of yours." Then he offers to drive my wallet down to me in the morning. I feel so ridiculous. These people have already gone out of their way for me. I search for other options.... but I can't leave the hotel without paying, and I can't get my bike on a bus. I can't leave my bike, because I haven't paid for the room.... and the next bus north isn't until morning. I am defeated. I call Rich back, and he says not to worry, he'll be by in the morning. I apologize, but he really won't hear it. He's not upset with me. It's inconvenient, but it's all right.

So now I'm just hungry, and I don't have much left by way of food. I have a little bit of dry oatmeal. I have tea. There is coffee in the room. On a whim I check my "business" wallet, where I keep the things I don't need on the day to day.... triple A card, REI membership, newspaper clippings, insurance card, things like that. I haven't used that wallet for money in ages, but I think there might be some change in there.

And I find a miracle. 28 dollars! More than enough to get some food, take care of my little errands, and maybe even catch a movie. I feel like the universe is spoiling me, and I nearly feel guilty, knowing that Rich is stuck delivering my wallet in the morning, and I am cozy and blessed with everything I need.

I walk past the theatre and the movies have all already started, so I head to the pharmacy. I buy myself some soap, because I haven't had any in days, and I'm tired of washing my hair with campground hand soap... yuck! I grab a bottle of Dr. Bronners... good for everything from hair to dishes, a tiny loofah, and a blue candle. I figure a little self-care is in order, and maybe a little ritual.

I ask about cheap food in town and the pharmacy-lady sends me up the road to Pirate's Cove, a cheap-but-good Mexican take out place. Along the way I check the schedule on the yoga studio... there is a class in half an hour.

I hate yoga classes. I lived at a yoga center just out of college, and I had to force myself to go to class. I love what it does for my body, but I do not like the "energy" of yoga classes. I do yoga alone, or sometimes with friends, and I love it, but I barely ever take a class.

I can feel my path there, telling me what my body needs.... I tell myself that if I make it to get my cheap-o tacos, eat, and get back in time for class, then I'll go for it. The tacos were fast, the food good enough, and I was back at the studio right as the other students arrived. Dammit.

I tell the teacher that I like to fall behind, stay in a pose sometimes... and he tells me I can't. That's not how they practice here. I'm put off by the bluntness, and I mutter "I'll try..". I'm committed however, and in I go.

It's a hot room, and a fast paced class. I am happy because the practice includes pranayama... breathing exercises which shift or increase your energy. I haven't done these much since I left the center, and they aren't common in westernized practice. It's a good class. It's not what I would do day in and out for my own self-care, but my body is grateful, and I feel a little more energized when I walk out the door.

I am feeling sadly attached to my tiny bit of cash, and the teacher tells me to drop him a check in the morning. I have enough, but it feels important to have a little "emergency cash". I think I got this from my family.

At the end of the class I get wrapped into conversation about relationships with a dancer named Heather. She offers me a ride back to the motel, and we decide to get together later. I head inside, take a shower and do a little (very little) centering ritual. Heather shows up with a guitar and says that she turned the heat on in the dance studio across the street. We walk there, in the starlight. It's cold, but the studio is close.

I play and she dances. We have very different languages... and the connection doesn't really take. I play her a few songs... she moves and captivates me. I love when dancers move while I play.... so distracting, but beautiful. We soon fade into conversation again, and talk a little past 10 o'clock.

Her ex-partner drops off her daughter. She has wheels in her shoes! I love those... I wish they made them for adults. Maybe they do... I don't know. If they do, then I should get some. We close up the studio and they walk me over to look at the local theatre. I hadn't looked closely before, and it is really special. It's all renovated, an old movie house and stage, with the marquis fixed up and an ancient movie projector on display in the window. The space doubles as movie theatre and local venue. I write down the name in case I ever tour that way.

We say goodbye, and I am quick to fall asleep.

The morning comes in perfect time, and I wake slowly, finally well rested. When Rich arrives, we connect only briefly. I give him one of my lucky totems.... to remind him them how kind they are, I say. He takes it from with with a reverence that tells me he understands the gesture, and we part ways. I still haven't paid for the room, and they haven't bothered me really. A quick visit before I fell asleep, and I told them about my wallet. They weren't worried. I stopped by to check out and pay, and they were in no rush, so I asked if I could stay for a bit, leave my things while I grabbed breakfast. Not a problem... I love small towns!

I grabbed a quick breakfast and then went to pack up. When I went to pay for the room, the woman mentions that Rich had called last night to tell them about my wallet... to vouch for me, in case they were concerned. Really... people amaze me. They can be so incredibly kind. The motel gave me a 10 dollar discount, just because.

After stopping by to drop a check for the yoga class, I rode out to the Point Arena Bay, on someones suggestion, and I stop into the cafe there to stock up on energy bars. I get enough groceries to last me for a few days after San Fransisco, and I hit the road.

The days ride was just what I could manage. My energy was back up to maybe half, and I figured from there I just had to kick into gear. I rode through the town of Sea Ranch... where it seems that housing restrictions have forced everyone to build the exact same house. I did not like this place. It wasn't a town actually, at least not that I could see.... just a collection of expansive, identical, housing communities. They looked like gated communities, but without gates. They echoed each other, over and over. The only changes in the scenery were the sweet deer resting up between the houses.

I had planned to stop in Gualala, but I was moving at a good clip, and I didn't want to break the spell, so I rode through. I didn't stop until I hit my campground for the night. The isolated empty campground at Salt Point.

Here my cell phone was dead and out of service, and my only company was a beautiful old Madrone that overlooked the campsite. I fell over trying to get my bike up to the site, and no one was there to see. I felt very alone for a second.

I set up camp, facing the old Madrone, and then climbed up on her lowest branch to eat my dinner. I didn't heat any water, just ate two food bars and crawled off to bed, listening to the tall, thin trees creak in the wind. I sat writing until the light went:

I whispered to the old tree... Do many people sit here? The shape of the crook answered for me, so inviting, so perfectly shaped. Of course. There have been so many.
And there she stands, right on the same spot. Flourishing.
Lately I have felt sea battered and I wonder if my own roots need tending to.
I will deepen my roots through comfort in my own body, I tell the old tree. So that I can keep moving. My devotion to movement is unwavering... I am on this path for some unknown reason. This is the unwritten story. I am watching life unfold in it's pages.
The light is almost gone...I'm letting the sun take me down now.

In the morning I head over the last hills to Fort Ross hoping for a good breakfast. I am sorely disappointed... Fort Ross is even less of a town than Westport. Nothing to see but a gas station / coffee joint with little by way of food. So I ate a hot dog. I know it's not proper food, but I wasn;t in the mood for an energy bar... and it looked tasty. Everything looks tasty.

The last hills, coming into Sonoma County, were not good fun. The road here is very narrow and winding. When I come to the top, and the first installment of Sonoma Beach State Park... I am threatened by a mix of wind, narrow roads, and my least favorite kind of downhill riding. I am nearly in tears coming down this hill... it winds and switchbacks, and the wind is terrible. There are hairpin turns and I have to ride defensively to keep traffic off my tail. I am thrilled when I finish this stretch, and I stop in Jenner.

The little town of Jenner is more protected from the wind, and there is a comforting lull here. I call my family, because they have been worrying about me. I like to check in with them anyway, but cell service comes and goes. I use a payphone at first to call my sister, but further into town I get my service back, and check in with my mom over a bowl of hot chowder.

Some people on the west coast can actually make a decent cup of chowder. That's the highest praise I can offer.

This spot seems to be a hub for motorcycle tourists, and I sit and chat with them, compare maps and routes, enjoy a little community for a moment. I only have 10 more miles to go... this is a short day, so I take my time.

The ride along the bay is pretty, and the wind is better here. I make it to Bodega Bay by 5pm, and pass the campsite to go check out the town. I never do that... so I guess my energy is high. I stop in to a coffeehouse and chat with the owner. The subject of my guitar comes up, and he wanders into the shop. He comes back with a battered little acoustic Pignose guitar. It has two strings, and about as many tuning pegs. He hands it to me... "Take this..."

Haha... so now I have a guitar again! I nickname her "little two-string", and tell Jim, the owner, that I will come by for coffee in the morning. I ride further into town to find a light dinner, and then back to the campsite to settle in for the night.

There's an old guy camped near me. He wants to play music for me, but I do not want to engage with him. I put up a little psychic boundary... and then I see a woman walking a beautiful Husky.

She is 51 years old, and still traveling. She didn't mean for it to happen this way. She has work, as a biologist on fishing boats. The work is specialized, and mostly seasonal. She has a dog and two canaries in her van. She has almost my same birthday.

I feel like I'm looking into a mirror. I don't want to travel forever, but sometimes I wonder. She doesn't seem to like people very much... there is a judgmental air about her. She hasn't found that she can connect to the way people live. I have worked so hard to release my judgements. To become someone who works with the world. She has a peace about her though... and I like her right away. We enjoy some easy conversation and then part ways. I feel thoughtful, leaving her company. She reminds me of aspects of myself... I find myself saying: Well... I guess that's not the worst place to end up. Still, there is something there I want to avoid. My relationships to communities aren't as tentative as they used to be... I would like to keep moving in this direction. I would like to have a home of some kind.

I sing while I ride. I don't know if I have mentioned this. In the rain I sang Postal Service songs... "When, you're out there on the road, for several weeks of shows, I hope you scan the radio and that this song will guide you..." When I get close to a place to crash I start singing "Whoever watches over all these truckers, show a little mercy on a weary singer, and deliver me, Lord, deliver me.... to the next Best Western..." a funny folk song my friend Jessica once put on a traveling mix.

I jump into the shower, and I sing Regina Spektor songs. I sing pop songs. I cheat and use the handicapped shower. I stay there for a while.

When I get out, my friend with the dog is in the bathroom. She has a hairdryer, which she lets me borrow. I love blow-drying my hair. I am so tired of towel-drying, then waking up with the strangest, wildest, nest of hair on my head. We chat a little more, and then it sounds like the old man has finally stopped singing, and I go off to bed.

In the morning the old man says..."Oh! Jim gave you that guitar, huh?". I can't imagine how he's seen Jim already this morning... his tent is still set up. Turns out there is a path to the coffee shop right next to his tent. He's been camping here for years.

I feel more social with the old man in the morning, and his friendliness with Jim eases my uncertainty about him a shade. The morning light helps too. He has been on the road, a drifter he calls himself, since Kennedy was shot. He says he gave up then... stopped paying taxes, and stopped serving the government in any way. I think he might have also been spending some time with Johnnie Walker or the like, but I don't say anything. He says he's ready to be in the world again... that he likes Obama, and he's happy. He has children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Sometimes when he is tired and cold, he bums his way down to Pheonix, and stays with his daughter for a stretch. All sorts of ways to live, I imagine. He is on a bike as well, but it looks like a ladies bike, with a little Burley trailer attached. He says he's ready to move back on to something with a motor. I giggle, because he has never learned how to ride up hills, and he pushes the bike all the time. I'm sure he just never learned how to use his gears, but I don't say anything.... I guess I wasn't in the mood to teach the old man how to ride his bike. He was a bit of a talker, and I was ready to get on with the day.

He says it's harder for a girl... then corrects himself and says woman... to travel the way he does. I am impressed with this understanding, you would be surprised how many men don't understand that. Or if they do... they think that women shouldn't try to do things that men do safely. They deny that women have anything to fear from men, but think we should restrict ourselves to stay safe. I am always happy what a man understands that it is hard, and still essential that we live our lives as women, however that needs to manifest. That we can't cage ourselves.

I stop in on Jim, and the first this he asks me is if Art talked my ear off. I laugh and tell him I was able to keep some boundaries, and he smiles. Jim has long white hair and a beard, and bright blue eyes. He once biked across the country with his brother in 45 days... doing a centurion every day (100 miles). I can't even begin to imagine. At the end, he says, he was ready to live on a bike.

He has owned the shop in Bodega Bay for 6 years. He moved there to get his daughters out of the big schools, realizing that they would be raised by the consciousness of the greater community, and not by him, if he didn't get them out. He saw kids hanging at the mall, wrapped up in ego and appearances, and he moved somewhere where the school was small enough that he could get involved.

A friend of Jim's comes in, a working musician, and we make time playing a little music. I sing while he plays the drums, and Jim makes me a breakfast sandwich without taking my order. When I'm ready to go, he makes me some Long Life Tea for my energy. I mention that I still haven't paid him, and he shrugs me off. I finish my tea, and about five miles down the road I realize that I never did pay. I also realize that the last thing that Jim said to me was about the un-importance of money. I responded by saying that money is energy, like anything else... we talk about cancers, and how too much stored energy will harm the body. The conversation lulls me into forgetting, and we say goodbye with the grace of two old monks.

I stopped in Valley Ford for a second-breakfast. I loved this place... a fifties-style diner owned by immigrants from Mexico, in a prairie town up off of the bay, tucked away from the ocean. The wind makes me hungry... I'm still in it. It's the side-winds that really get me, pushing me off the road and threatening my balance.

When I hit the next town, I'm not ready to stop again, but there's another cyclist sitting outside a cafe. I stop to talk, and we are so similar! He is headed on the same route I am finishing, in the opposite direction. We both met Chris and Alex and were astounded by their speed. Neither of us trained for the trip, and we both started at about 30 miles a day. We talk about the enemy-wind, and I convince myself not to join him for coffee. The wind is making for a slow day, and I need to keep moving.

Along the Tomales Bay, where I expected to be wind-protected, I hit some of the worst wind yet. I am shouldering, and barely moving in moments. I come neck in neck with a windsurfer out on the bay, and I pretend we are racing. We move at exactly the same speed along the entire Bay. They are hauling ass out there! More fun, I imagine, than fighting the wind where I am...

The rest of the day is rolling hills, some trouble with my gears again, a missed turn, and finally an end to the day in Samuel P. Taylor State Park. I am so close to San Francisco now that I can feel it! The park is very populated, bikers and campers everywhere. The park is amazing, a little nest of Redwoods, protected and close to the city. I get set up, and put my food in the bear-box. I crash early.

In the middle of the night raccoons come sniffing under my tent. I'm terrified at how un-self conscious they sound. I have never been afraid of raccoons... but I am right now. I have one food wrapper in my shoe, outside of my tent, and I curse myself for being careless. They leave it alone, and move on. It falls quiet again, and I fall asleep.

I am awakened again by what sounds like someone setting up a tent next to mine. I hear the bear box open, and someone throw something on the ground. I hear a tent zipper. It all sounds very human. I fall asleep again...

I am awakened by raccoons fighting... a horrible sound, and I am paralyzed in my tent. I breathe quietly and finally fall asleep for the rest of the night.

In the morning, my food is gone. They have broken into the bear box. They have torn the food bag to shreds.... I find the remains up near a sleeping boy, who is camped on the forest floor with nothing but a sleeping roll. I imagine that the fight I heard had happened over my food... and next to this poor boy's head. I clean up the mess of food wrappers.... they have eaten everything. All I have left is a bottle of GSE and a bottle of Greenfood.

I head into town along the bike path... for breakfast. I was planning on a chocolate pomogranate ThinkFruit bar for breakfast, and I am disappointed. Mostly just hungry. I find another rider, who helps me navigate the slightly complicated route, and who tells me where I will pass a bike shop today. I break with him to go get some food, and run into the boy who had been sleeping next to the raccoon fight.

I was right, it scared the hell out of him, and understandably. He was on a three-day trip around the bay area, heading back to his home in the Marin Headlands, so we joined forces for the day. I was so glad to have his company! He knew the route really well, which gets a little messy heading towards the Golden Gate Bridge. We stopped at a few bike shops, chatted with some people, and took our time winding through all of the little down-towns of Marin County. When we got to Saulsalito, I was amazed at the number of tourists on rented bikes for the afternoon. I had never been to this part of the bay.... and there it was, San Fransisco stretched out in a beautiful panorama across the water.

My friend invited me up to his place for lunch, but I was burned out, and the trip would have added an extra mile of hill... so we parted ways, and I spoiled myself with a celebratory lunch at a sidewalk cafe.

I still had a lot of travel to face.... up the hill out of Saulsalito and onto the bridge, the last big hill before my little vacation. Then onto the windy bridge. I stopped and got another rider to take my photograph on the bridge. It felt important. Then I had two Swiss tourists take my photo on the other side, with the bridge behind me.

The rest of my ride way flat flat flat, and I loved flying along the bike path, and then along the Embarcadero, up to the ferry building. My short little visit to San Fransisco was done for the day... it was time to get to Seneca's little corner of the world in Berkeley.

I had about another 7 miles of riding off the ferry, and no real directions. A commuter had me follow him and put me on the path from Oakland to Berkeley. My phone was dead, so I couldn't use my GPS. I asked a few people for help, and finally found someone with an iPhone, scribbled directions on the back of my hand, and made my way "home".

... and to Sanctuary.