Black Coffee and Bike Grease

They say good artists borrow, and great artists steal. I've never liked that little axiom, but I'll admit, the title of this blog is plain thievery. When I was getting ready to leave on this trip, I met a guy named Kurt. He was a friend of my friend Molly's, and we sat over an endless cup of coffee while I asked him a million questions about bike touring. Seems like years ago now, but his email address has stuck in my head forever... blackcoffeeandbikegrease. That's a good way to sum up my life these days.

So I left you somewhere chasing my coffee addiction, and I don't know that I'll get too far in this little entry. I'm writing in between the cracks, getting booking work done while I have a computer to work on, and the moment that I hit the road again is pressing in on me....so much to do, so much to consider.

I stopped at some off-beat little places that morning along Avenue of the Giants. I stopped in Myer's Flat, and the owner of the coffee shop was so rude I nearly started a fight with him. Some people shouldn't be in customer service. He nearly snapped at me for dropping a quarter I was trying to leave him as a tip... Sitting on a log in the sunshine, I saw one of the only queer people I had seen since I left Portland. It made me feel lonely. I wanted to ask him to be my boifriend. I wanted to kiss him. To take him with me.

Sigh. I smiled instead, and flirted awkwardly, and watched him go on his way, off looking at grad schools with his friends. Two bike tourists stopped to chat, and then went on ahead to look for a more suitable lunch. I was eating a roast beef sandwich from the supermarket.... not quite energized enough to be picky.

I caught up with the bike tourists later, in the next town. Alex and Chris. They invited me to join them for pizza, but I just sat and spent time, having just eaten, and trying to keep cheese out of my diet while I'm riding. I tried to tell them that I ride really slow, and they would want to leave me behind, but they insisted they don't go very fast. I just couldn't make them understand.... I could tell they were faster than me. We got going together, regardless, and about a minute later, Chris is looking back at me and he stops to take my picture, so they can leave me in their wake. I told them! I'm a slow kid, not a bike jock.

The hills that days were the beginning of the mountain, leading up to the giant hill after the town of Leggett. For days now, I had been watching the elevation map, knowing those hills were getting closer. Today was the big warm up... a good mess of steady inclines. I did well though. Enough miles that I felt really solid at the end of the day. The boys were up ahead of me at the campsite right before Leggett, but I stopped about 10 miles back in Richardson Grove State Park.

I crawled into bed and realized that I had let myself get pretty badly sunburned. I didn't even think about the sun, after days of praying to leave the rain behind... oops. I fell asleep hot and tired, worried about how I would feel in the morning.

At this point I am about 235 miles from San Fransisco, and I am starting to keep careful track. I have to get to the city on time, because I am playing show at Seneca's house when I get to town. Imagining being in the company of friends makes me feel supercharged... I can't wait to connect to people I love.

I woke up determined. The day is finally on me... the really. really. big hill. I half convinced myself that I had read the elevation maps wrong, and that I had done most of the hill already, so when I started up... I kept expecting it to end.

I have never in my life ridden uphill for so long. The road just seemed to wind out above me, and I could hear the cars switch-backing over my head at one point. There's nothing quite like looking up to see the road over your head.... Makes you feel like you aren't going anywhere. When I got to the top of the switchbacks I thoughts I must be nearing the top.

Man was I wrong. This road just kept unravelling up the hillside, uncoiling, inviting heat into my body. I kept moving. I stuck with my rule of the road... Just stay vertical.

When I finally hit summit, I was exhausted. The downhill was perfect... Miles of flying through the trees, at a comfortable enough grade that I could lay off the breaks most of the time, and just enjoy the ride. Then my body temperature was dropping so fast.... ugh.... I was freezing! When I hit a safe place... a long flat meadow after the hills started to ease, I layered up and started to feel just how tired I really was. I looked at my maps and realized that I was (a) in the middle of nowhere and (b) about to hit another hill. After riding over 1800 feet elevation, 500 feet shouldn't be so bad, right?

Oh lord.

When I hit this hill.... I started to cry. I didn't think there was any way I could get up one more switchback. There they were... two or three of them, laid out in front of me. I had no fight left. I stopped and stared. I daydreamed about calling the local police for a ride. Go ahead and laugh. I was friggin tired.

I pulled myself out of my desperate reverie and walked a little. Then I rode a little. Then I found the top of the hill. Then I was flying down again, gratefully... amazed that I was still in motion. I remember thinking to myself... I miss the ocean. Then suddenly I am poured out of the hills back onto the ocean, and the bluffs.

The sun is going down at this point. The cold has set deep into my bones. I am so happy to see the ocean that I pull the next three miles energized.... then I am suddenly aware of my surroundings. There is nothing but wind.

There is nothing but wind.
Nothing.

I get to the campground. The campground is on the beach. I do not want to move. I do not want to set up a tent. I can not set up a tent. I can not ride into town. I have to set up a tent. The campground is on the beach. There is nothing but wind. There is nothing here but the wind.

So I'm feeling paralyzed. Standing and staring at the map of the campground. I know that a tent wont stay up in this. I'll lose my home into the ocean! She already has my guitar...

The ranger drives by to check the camp, and he tells me a secret. There is a little wind shelter between some bushes, behind campsite #75. It is perfect. I get my tent up, and stake it down really well. I do not leave again until the middle of the night.

My sleep is affected by the wind... I am dreaming more than sleeping, moving through layers of my life and my thoughts, reading the future, telling myself stories. This is the west. The west is where the wind comes from.... the wind rules the unknown, and the subconscious. I am haunted.

I crawl out of my tent to go to the bathroom, from my strange half-sleep... and I fall into a deep silence.

I have spent a lot of time with the stars. I went to college in Flagstaff, Arizona because the elevation was compelling. I have lived my life tied closely to certain constellations. I have named and renamed stars. I have learned their western names and forgotten them. I have lived with a star chart in my backpack. Yet somehow, it has been a long time.

There are no constellations. There are too many stars for there to be constellations. I look for a few personal favorites.... Hydra (so tiny!), and Cassiopeia.... They are so insignificant. The sky is still and cold and looming. It seems as if all the stars could fall at once; as if the sky is heavy with them. They are brighter and rounder, saturated somehow. I am spellbound.

The wind is still whipping around me, and I am chilled. I settle back in to my half-sleep, listening to the wind, feeling held now by the immense sky. When I wake, it is from dreams... I don't believe that I have slept.

There is something shifting inside of me. I remember a moment in Port Orford. I was out walking with the stars, and singing with them a little. I noticed Hydra... a constellation I always associate with a very difficult and beautiful time in my life. I realize how small she is. She is such a small part of my experience. I focused on her for so long....

but she is only one small part of my body. A fragment of my experience. I am humbled.

In the morning I barely make it into town for coffee. I love this tiny town.... Westport, California. There's nothing going on. It's a quiet sea-side village. The girl in the coffee-shop / gas station / cafe / grocery tells me she likes it here.

"Everyone knows every one's business... Not great if your on the other side of it, I guess."

I'm imagining my life up until now. How I would cringe to be under any sort of microscope. All of the work I have done in secret. All of the messes I made. I don't understand this girl... but I sit down on the old wooden porch of the shop, and I like it there. I am so tired that I can barely put my thoughts together. I sit and stare into my hands. I stare into myself. Into the plants.

If people have batteries... mine is dead. I don't know how I will ever get moving again.

... Time for me to rest again. Seneca has just made some sweet millet, with raisins and coconut shavings. It is late and I want to protect this little flame, my health, my body. There is so much ahead of me.

Endless Flats and Perfect Places

I am writing now from a place of calm, despite my regular infusion of black coffee, and this temporary ritual of gluing myself to Seneca's computer every moment I get free. Berkeley leaves a good stain on me. There is a bit of harmony here, in this house, and in this community, that seems to be singing with me a little as I rest.

Backing up, however, to where I left you last... a beautiful days ride with my new-found buddy Ray. I have moved on, guitar-less, but with my little grief tucked into a safe corner of my heart, I feel light enough. Pancakes always make me smile.

I remember leaving breakfast over a small bridge, crossing the Eel River, and it would not be the first time. This is a developing relationship... the Eel River crossing and darting back under me in various configurations. Days and days pass this way. I grow incredibly fond of her.... she starts to feel like an extension of my thoughts, deep and shallow, aqua and gray. I search for bears fishing in the more secluded parts of the river banks, but never find any. Redwoods in the distance, or logs fallen into the river start to take bear-like shapes.

I had started out the day with a flat, and Ray and I had a little fix-it session.... but it didn't hold. I was losing air from my rear tire all day. I gave it a little more air on a hillside, but it wasn't a safe place to stop, so I waited until we hit the elk pastures.

Elk stink. I kinda like it, because you always know when they are nearby. They have an unbelievable musk, that just bellows their presence out to the world. I stopped across the street from "The World's Largest Wild Elk Herd! At the Red Schoolhouse". The elk were all resting, still as statues, and I worked away in a pleasant breeze, while Ray waited patiently, helping me out here and there for good measure. I found the culprit... more wire! Where does it come from? Ray and I mused over the probability of wire sitting in the road in just the right position to get at your tire. It's the strangest thing.

We jumped off of Route 101 onto the bike route, a little road called Patrick's Point. It ran us down through more Redwoods into a town called Trinidad, where we stopped and had the best french fries on the west coast. I forget the name of the place, but you couldn't miss it. The town is the size of a postage stamp, and there's this great little coffee shop with free-range burgers, fries, etc... We chatted with some friends of the owner for a bit who were looking for land in the area. It's really a pretty town, and the people were super friendly. We amazed ourselves by each eating a full basket of fries, and then continued down Patrick's Point.

The road changed... and we were out on the water. Out of the Redwoods for a stretch.

This stretch of road was the most beautiful that I have ridden so far this entire trip. Amazing to be right out over the water, on an old stagecoach road. The road is so far out on the cliffs that erosion has taken parts of it into the ocean. They have only been able to repair enough to make space for one way traffic in some places, but it is a quiet place, and the riding feels safe and leisurely. There are surfers down on the water below us, and we stop to watch for a moment. I take the only photo I have bothered with in a while, looking back into Trinidad from up high on the rocks.

I am so happy out here. Moments like these I daydream about building a home someplace beautiful someday. I love the smells here; ocean and wildflower and old breaking pavement. I love the local surfing spot, secluded and secreted away. I love the wisdom on the faces of local gardeners, the kindness that comes from being joyful.

Riding into Arcata was a change of scene. I can feel the college scene all around us, and also a vivid street scene, heroin addicts and tweakers wandering around, the dogs better fed than the owners. I used to love this kind of scene. I stop to ask a question about the elevation on Rt. 101 ahead, and the answer comes slowly. I remember that there is a profound difference between stillness and inertia, and that I prefer stillness by a great measure. I remember that when I was young, I did not know enough to feel the difference.

There is a sort of superiority one can feel when they convince themselves they are in a heightened state. I remember moving through life in high school in this way. I found the motivations of most people laughable, and I slowly removed myself from them, more and more, as if by ritual, with drugs and a sort of lazy meditation. Stopping on the street in Arcata, I am speaking into a mirror. "I know where that person is sleeping..." I think to myself, and move on, feeling gently guarded.

I left Ray on the bike route, which bypasses Eureka. I have now ridden nearly 50 miles... the longest I have ridden yet on this trip. I couldn't have done it without a pacemaker, and I am grateful for having had his company. Our goodbye is slightly awkward. We exchange a sideways hug and Ray says "You are a very nice young lady." Which nearly makes me giggle out loud, but I restrain myself. I am sad to see him go, but ready to get to Eureka and get some rest.

I have four miles left on and urban stretch of 101, and guess what? My tire goes again. Sigh. I couldn't switch the tube out earlier (I was sold the wrong kind of tube by my bike shop in Portland!!), and obviously I am missing some foreign assailant trapped in my tire. I sigh and go over my tube again, find another leak, and quickly patch it up. There is a bike shop in Eureka, so I am not too worried. I know I can fix all of my little problems in the morning.

The last few miles wear me out completely, and I am thrilled that I have no trouble finding Chris and David's house. I have been offered a place to sleep and re-coop. Our family friends, The Weils, have family here in Eureka, and they are taking me in. I am excited to get some rest, but not in the least prepared to be spoiled...

The moment I get in, I am shown to an apartment under the house. Chris designed it, and it is beautiful. An amazing use of space, and very private. There are books, and a shower, and a warm bed. I am told to jump in the shower and be upstairs for dinner in 20 minutes.

The shower is luscious, and dinner is extraordinary. Cornbread casserole? Who ever heard of such a thing? delicious. Then there's black bean soup, and chicken, and a tall glass of water, and I am stuffed and happy.... and sent right to bed.

They go to bed early here, and I am glad of it. I don't have a lot of conversation in me, and they can already see me fading as I finish up my meal. I head downstairs, pull Happy Potter #6 off the shelf, and crawl into bed.

I have a problem with books. Once I start reading I can't stop. Despite my exhaustion, I am halfway done with Harry Potter before I fall asleep. It is midnight, and I know I've overdone it. When I wake in the morning I can barely get going.

Chris has me upstairs for breakfast (eggs and toast!) and 7:30, and then she heads off to work, leaving me keys to the extra truck so I can drive to the bike shop. It is 11 when I am finally ready to put down Harry Potter and get going... I only have a short ride that day, so I feel justified in taking my time.

Chris is home by the time I get into the truck to leave... and it's good she is, because the truck won't start! She drives me into town instead, grabbing me coffee while I pick up some extra tubes and a new patch kit. Chris is efficient in everything she does, and getting things done with her, everything happens as if by clockwork. She is a rather extra-ordinary woman.

The two of them are both big personalities, but not imposing. David is a lawyer, and Chris works on the statistics end of the social service industry, among other things... She also teaches statistics, advocates for better senior living in Eureka, and rides horses. She's a busy lady.

David is growing apples in the side yard... he's fit a whole orchard on an acre or so of land, and built a cider house, and a fermentation house. He's getting certified, and is brewing certified organic hard cider right in his yard. The orchard is beautiful, because he is not using any insecticides, and instead has planted thousands of daffodils between the trees to ward away animals. Apparently most scavenger type animals don't like daffodils! It's a sea of yellow and green, and the whole expanse of the yard is beautiful... and such a great use of space.

By the time I have changed my tire, taken another shower, and desperately tried to put down Harry Potter... it is 3 o'clock. I hit the road, and within moments I am worried about the ride ahead. I am so sore that my eyes are tearing up when I ride. I head along regardless.

About four miles down the road, my gears start acting crazy. They've been a little inconsistent, but this is worse, and I am having to change gears manually (getting off my bike and moving the chain by hand), to get up an incline. I know that I can't go on safely like this, so I stop to look where the next bike shop is on my route.

Trouble. The next bike shop is in over 100 miles, unless I go off route up into Fortuna, which I can't make in the daylight I have left and still get to the campground. I take stock of myself...starting too late, too tired, and with bad gears... the last bike shop in 100 miles 4 miles behind me. Reality sinks in.

I call Chris and see if I can stay another night, and she agrees without a thought, so I hitchhike with my bike back to the bike shop. A golf teacher from the local high school drives me into town, and he isn't much for conversation. I actually think he might be convinced that I am a crazy woman. He is deeply reserved, but he gets me where I am going, and I thank him in kind, and head back into the shop.

This is a great bike shop. They changed out my cables, and worked very carefully on my shifting situation. They also looked carefully over all the details, and found little things here and there to fix up. In true bike shop fashion, they didn't charge me much at all.

Chris calls and says that David wants to come get me from the shop. I tell her not to worry, that my bike is fixed, but then David comes walking through the door. He puts my bike in his amazing old truck and we head back the house.

David has this old Datsun truck that he can't let go of. He bought it "off the floor" ... I think he said nearly 30 years ago. It's rusted and worn and beaten and loved. I like this truck, it has serious character. I can relate to this kind of attachment to a vehicle, and I think about my Pig (my little camper van) parked up at Bria's house in Portland.

I have another great dinner with Chris and David, and spend some time with their amazing Mastiff, Hydrangea... she's so huge!!! I crawl back into bed, still sore and tired, finish Harry Potter 6, and fall asleep.

In the morning I was finally ready to move, and my body was grateful for the rest. I still felt sore, and kind of nauseous, so I knew I had done the right thing by taking the extra rest. I rode out at 9:15, saying goodbye to my amazing hosts one final time. I rode back to the bike shop... I don't remember why... some little adjustment I needed. I sat in there and drank my morning coffee, and ate some focaccia from the bakery next door. I took my time getting moving...

A kid in the bike shop, who hadn't been there the day before, was driving me cray acting as if he knew the bike route really well. He was laying out inaccurate information with a great deal of self importance, and that was enough to make me ready to move on. He warned me about hills that didn't exist... and glossed over the ones that did exist. I am fascinated by people who believe that their knowledge or their expertise will impress people more than their kindness, grace, or humility. I found him exhausting, but also felt like I was talking to a little kid in desperate need of acknowledgement. I tried not to get angry, because he ruffled my feathers, but also found that the little grumpiness he infused me with helped me get going for the morning's ride. I am only human...

The road I had been warned was "a huge hill"... was completely flat and lovely. However, there were duck-hunters! I couldn't see them, just heard the occasional gunshot over the little meadows. I had a morbid fantasy about being shot by a duck-hunter, because the gun-shots were scaring me, but I made it off the meadows just fine. Haha...

The bike route took me off 101 and down through Ferndale.... the strangest, most misplaced and adorable town I have ever seen. The whole downtown area looks like it was assailed by an overzealous historical commission. Old Victorian houses and storefronts, all painted beautifully. Everything about this town felt overly perfect... like the movie set for Edward Scissorhands.... but it was out in the middle of nowhere. Prairie on all sides.

I rode out through the farmlands, flat as the day is long... and the sun has been shining for days. Timed well with a little hunger, I got another flat, so I stopped and ate a little while I worked on my tires. The bike shop had sold me some glueless patches that also can be used to patch torn places in the tire itself, so that they don't attract problems... and guess what: Despite my skepticism, I haven't had a single flat since I started using these. I also developed a ritual of checking my tires for debris from the outside as well as the inside, digging out every little stone and shard, and I found things that I hadn't found on the inside.

There were some fierce hills leaving the farmlands, and I could see 101 mocking me in the distance, flat and simple, as I worked my way along the bike route. Grade matters. These hills weren't much, but they rose up steeply, and that makes all the difference. Really though, I preferred the uphill portion to the downhill... narrow roads with no shoulder, potholes and the sun blocked out by so many shade trees, I could barely see the rough. I was scared coming out of these hills, out of my element, and glad when I was back "to earth".

I had been waiting awhile to be happily riding on Avenue of the Giants... a scenic bypass that runs along 101 through the Redwood forest. It's a beautiful ride, and I was so happy to get there. I was incredibly tired when I reached Redcrest however, and content to stop at a private campground, a little more expensive than I would like, but with a hot shower included. I was too tired to make it 6 more miles to the next State campground. I fell asleep with the sun. I had done a good 45 miles! Not a lot for the average biker, but for me... a good haul.

In the morning I couldn't find any sort of proper breakfast. I was running low on food stores, but I rummaged up what was left of my peanut butter and jelly at the side of the road, and the stopped for coffee at a tourist attraction in town.

I have to say, I don't know what I am going to do in the desert when I can't get coffee. I know I could brew it myself, but I don't want to carry it. Honestly, I know that it's better to quit the coffee and stick to tea and water, but what can I say... I'm an addict. I'm sure there will be a few good days of splitting headaches as I detox off the bean in the old west.

Okay... I'm starting to wear thin, so I'll take a break. More soon. I want to get all caught up before I head east. There's a lot to tell! It's been a busy adventure so far.

Sending Love,
x Malcolm

Driftwood

I have so much to write... so much time away from the computer to make up for, that I have a feeling that this next entry will happen in installments over the next few days.

A little time travel... and we're off.

I left Crescent City prepared to face my biggest climb yet, 900 ft from sea level, at maybe a 6% grade the whole way. The stretch was about 4 miles uphill, and the grade, above all else, was the killer. At this point I feel as if I could ride uphill for hours... I ransacked the continental breakfast at the Lighthouse Inn. I am full of carbs, and have five hardboiled eggs sitting in my food stash. I've had about 3 cups of black coffee, and more water. I'm good to go.

The minute I hit that grade I was shock. They say the first mile of the day is the hardest, and no one likes to start the day uphill. I'm lucky though, and the sun is shining bright. There isn't a single cloud in the sky.

I have to interject here, because I am haunted by so many precious details that were left out of my last entry. Such as the cows that chased me in the rain, every time I passed a pasture. They only do this in the rain, I've since learned. I thought they were mocking me at the time. I could imagine them saying... "You're going so slow in this rain... we can go faster than that!!!". Now I think maybe they saw my passing as a little game to shake off the soak for a minute. It can't be fun to be a pasture cow on a rainy day.

Moving on. I'm back to my old ritual of stopping every 200 yards on my way uphill. I'm out of breath and my legs feel like they are pumping nothing but lactic acid. I am regretting the lazy dinner I had last night. I am wishing I had combed the town for wheatgrass and avacadoes, instead of that celebratory pizza. I continue feeling this way for about a mile.

Then something changes. I find myself not bothering to stop, knowing it won't make the hill go any faster. The lactic acid has calmed from a boil to a good fuel, and I'm starting to feel like a slow machine. I'm got my "law of the hill" passing under my breath like a chant... "Just stay vertical. Just stay vertical". I suddenly find that I am moving along at a fainrly decent clip.

The hill goes on forever it seems, and when I'm nearing what feels like it must be the summit (the trees are thinning at the top, the air is changing) I meet an older hippie and his daughter waiting for a tow truck.

"When do I reach summit?" I ask them, struggling to hold my bike upright.
"Oh... about two miles left." they tell me.
"Oh shit."

We chat for a breif moment, and I head around the next curve... and damn if they weren't bullshitting me! I hit a good downhill about 200 yards past them. There were two more miles yes, to the "technical" summit... one little jump uphill after a nice flat run... but no more 6% grade, and soon I was sailing down, endlessly down, out of the hills, redwoods streaming past on both sides.

Apparently, I was going a little too fast. Maybe a little too focused on keeping safe from the wind on my downhill sprint. I missed something. In one moment something changed, and I missed it.

I was running alongside the ocean cliffs, and almost done with the hills. I had stopped a few times to rest my wrists, and shake the nerves out. I was on the final stretch... and I heard the sound of plastic flapping.

I assumed that I was hearing the little plastic bag I keep tied around my seatpost, to protect my saddle when it rains. Nothing to worry about. Then the sound stopped. I thought to myself.... Crap, I just littered... Assuming the plastic bag had gone flying off the cliffs behind me. I felt guilty, and didn'tfeel like stopping was really an option, due to my speed, and the distane the bbag would have flown, and the unlikely-hood of my finding it. I kept going. A car honked at me a moment later, and I said sheepishly, half to myself and half to the driver who couldn't hear me... "I know, I know, I littered, I'm a jerk."

About a mile down the road I stopped to talk to another bike tourist, headed in the opposite direction. The conversation came around to music, and he says to me... "Where's your guitar?"

"Oh right here... " I said, ready to laugh about my little guitar all hidden in her nest of plastic bags. But she's not there. And suddenly it dawns on me just what happened up on those cliffs. My guitar has taken flight. Gone.

The other tourist (Alex?) and I ride into the headwinds and back up to the hill where the little symphony occurred (the honking, the flutter into silence). His gear is a lot easier to take down, so he hands me his bike, which is monsterously too big for me, and I attempt to ride it up the hill. I look hysterical. I'm sitting on the crossbar half the time, devastated and feeling foolish. I make it up high enough and begin the meticulous searching of the cliffs that I will undergo 3 more times, over the next 24 hours.

The Redwoods youth hostel sits at the bottom of what I now affectionately call "Gidgit's Hill". That was my little Baby Taylor's name, Gidgit. The cute hostel worker drives me up later that night. I walk the hill again in the morning. I even climb down the cliffs into the brambles and covered myself in tiny scratches from the endless prickebushes. She's nowhere to be found.

So here are my theories:

1. Gidgit really wanted a hill named after her.
2. The universe wants me to question my attachment to material things.
3. The universe wants me to write an a cappella record.
4. Gidgit secretly wanted to become the most beautiful piece of driftwood in Japan.

I walked on the beach with Alex a little in the evening, shook off as much of the heartbreak as I could, and in the morning I forced myself to leave Gidgit's Hill after my final, prickerful exploration.

My morning at the hostel started slow, both as a result of my forlorn glances backwards, and the flat tire I woke up with... and the insistent little piece of wire I had to manipulate out of my tire with the tip of a kitchen knife. I did't hit the raod until around 3pm.

There was one more fairly big climb ahead of me, and I didn't want to lose the day, so I got moving at a fairly good clip. I was running through the flats, not yet at the climb when I passed a rider stopping at atourist attraction.

"Where you headed?" I hollered, not stopping
"San Fran."
"Same here... maybe catch you later!" and I rolled on

Not moments later the guy pops up next to me, happy to have found someone to share the days ride with. His name is Ray, and he is in the mid to late 60's... and of course in way better shape than me. So humbling, these cyclists.

Ray and I rode well together. He shot ahead of me on some of the hills, and waited at the tops. When the second stretch of hill came along, he rode alongside meand we made small talk, which made the hill go by much faster. Soon we were in a beautiful sprint through the redwoods, and we hit Elk Prairie National (or State? I have to check to be sure) Park just in time to set up camp.

Ray has mostly been stayin in hotels since he realized his tent leaks in heavy rain, but he tents down a ways off from me for the night. I like his company, so I am glad that he sticks around.

We share a dinner of everything we have lying around. Peanut butter and crackers, oatmeal, polenta and tea. I try to crash early but I'm not quite worn out enough, so I head out into the campground when I hear a guitar playing somewhere.

I never found the guitar, but I did find a college class. I asked if I could join a few folks at their firepit, and it turns out they are this little college class from San Jose State, studying the National Park system. They even get to take field trips!

One of the kids is incredibly stoned, and kinda hysterical... the way kids get when they are young, and smoking pot still causes lightheartedness. I chat with them for awhile, about education, and less important things... like Peep jousting.

Here's how it goes. Seeing as how it's easter candy season. Pick up some of those little marshmallow creatures called Peeps. Take out two of them and put the on a plate. Give theme each a jousting spear, by sticking a toothpick out of them... aimed at the other one. Now put them in the microwave. Instant entertainment. Thought you might like soemthing to do on a rainy day. Go play.

The school group was finishing up their trip, so they gave me all of their cmp food. Peanut Butter, Jelly, White break, apples, and a few bag s of chips. Oh... and leftoever toast from Denny's. We ate all the toast around the fire, and Nikki, the very-stoned-boy, was very enthusiastic. About the toast.

Ray wakes me up in the morning with a holler, and we hit the road without eating, aiming to find some breakfast in the next town. Five miles in, after a near perfect ride through the redwood forest... quiet and dry, with the morning light lingering, mostly downhill or on flats.... we hit a great little diner. Ray likes pancakes just as much as I do. Breakfast was goood!

We hit the road full and happy, and have a good steady ride. This is the first day I have planned to do more than 30 miles. In fact, in order to get to Eureka, where the family-of-family-friend's are putting me up for the night, I need to do 50 miles. Having Ray with me is good to keep me moving.

Oh... and I want to mention that Ray has ridden Bhuton (sp?) in the Himalayas... I think he said that's the closest you can get to Tibet on a bicycle tour. There was a stretch where they rode downhill for 50 miles straight. I can't imagine.

Uh-oh... thsi computer is running low on juice, and I don't want to lose my writing. I will publish this and write more soon.

Sending love,
xo Malcolm

Sea Legs

It's been quite awhile since I have been able to stop and write, so I am grateful for the time I have now. I am tired, and I have a lot of ground to cover, but I also have a hot cup of coffee, and this great little room to write in. Never mind however, where I am today. Let me back up a good while.

I left you in Florence, Oregon. I had gone to a meeting and met Hank: an older guy with eyes that have that twinkle... the one that says they still love life, and that they know how to share that love with others. I liked him immediately. I asked in the meeting if anyone knew of a place I could get out of the storm, and it was Hank who approached me.

"Has anyone offered to help you out yet?" he asked me... and I looked at him cock-eyed. I had been pretty clear that I would only accept help from female people, or people who lived with women... just for my safety. I re-focused, assuming that he must live with his wife or something to that affect, and then he mentioned that he knew someone who would take me in. He made a quick phone call, and within moments a few of us were hauling my bike into the back of Hank's truck, and we were on our way to Alice's house.

I liked Alice immediately. I felt so comfortable so quickly I almost forgot to look around. She shook my hand outside, and hustled me into the house, striking up a conversation with Hank that revealed that he spends quite a lot of time at Alice's. A sort of on-going coffee-table type conversation... : "Did you see Chris today... How is Boston Alice doing..." Comfortable chatter between dear friends. Alice showed me to my room, asked if I had wet things to get dry and handed me a few coat hangers all before I could utter a word of thanks. Then she returned to her seat in the kitchen and her chat with Hank, and left me to my own devices.

Alice and I, we got on like peas and carrots. To be honest, I don't consider that all too much a testimony to my like-ability, as to Alice's. She's a talker, and a storyteller. A 73 year old women who stays up drinking black coffee until 11pm.

Her and Hank were standing at the window when I came back to the kitchen. There had been a bit of a fuss that afternoon about a leaf stuck on a branch that looked remarkably like a hummingbird, toughing out the storm. They couldn't be sure... and could I go have a look. The little leaf's resemblance to a hummingbird was dead - on, and there we were, three loons watching one tiny leaf tough it out against one hell of a storm.

After Hank heads out to his place out in "the boons", she offers to make us some dinner, admitting that outside of company, she mostly eats Ritz crackers and tuna fish. She lets me know where those are too, in case I get peckish in the middle of the night. She cooks up a pre-wrapped roast and some stove-top stuffing, and pulls a plate of deviled eggs out of the fridge. Another household stand-by... there are always devilled eggs in the fridge.

Alice grew up poor in rural Oregon, best as I can piece together. She got married five times, the first when she was 16 years old. She was married to her first husband, Glenn, for 20 years, and they had 4 children. She figures they might have stayed married, if they had the tools that are available to people now... counselling, and the like. They had so very little, and he worked while she took care of the kids. They went out together maybe twice in 20 years.

They moved up to Hillsboro, partly on Alice's insistence that they live somewhere a garden might grow. They weren't on good soil outside of Bend. Glenn complimented Alice on having lost weight, but she was losing weight because she was trying so hard to keep the kids fed that she was barely eating. This was the underlying reason for her interest in moving north, and in growing some food.

I can't offer every word of this as fact, because I am piecing together my notes taken late at night after I listened to Alice's stories. I am not the most reliable source, really, but what I want to offer is a light picture of this person. She really touched me.

Alice knows what it is to live without much of anything. She laughs about the economic situation, and explains that she can't imagine our generation without all of our comforts. She considers that we have never had to do much for ourselves, and imagines that we might learn a little something. She's not afraid. She's made something out of nothing nearly her entire life.

Alice keeps "totems" from her past. Artifacts that you might find in any farmyard antique shop. Old fashioned irons that you heat over the stove. An old washtub that you you clean a kid in. A washboard. All of these things remind her what her life has been like, and how good she has it right now. She doesn't forget what she is capable of. She's a strong woman.

Alice grew up in Oregon at a time when women were told not to travel on "the back roads", so she never did. Until recently, as she enjoys her developing friendship with Hank, there are miles of road right in her own backyard that she has never travelled.

Alice ended up on the coast because of her last marriage. She's afraid of the ocean, because of some trauma in her childhood, but she doesn't say much about that. She never imagined that she would end up by the water. She loves Florence. She loves her friends, and her community. It's one of life's little surprises.

I loved listening to her talk, framed by the cabinets over her head, and the wallpaper behind her, identical to that in my mother's bedroom or bathroom when I was a kid. Smoke curls up around her face. She reminds me of a little bird. Free, yet somehow always captive... She's made her space in life by stretching the boundaries of what was given to her. She's made a whole lot for herself, seeing what could be done with the material in hand.

Her kids are all still close to her, as well as a few others she's picked up along the way. Ex in-laws keep her in their lives. She's easy to love.

A friend of hers worries about the economy and says... "well, I guess I could always go and live with Alice... she has everything!". Alice gets such a huge kick out of this. She's living off of the tiniest bit of money a month, but if you look closely... her relationships sustain her. She helps people, and they help her.

She was mentioning how her old neighbor used to give her eggs. The new neighbor sells eggs, and doesn't give her any. I waited to hear any hint of resentment... I don't know why, it's just what I expected. Alice continues her line of thought, saying that she's started saving her empty egg cartons to give to the neighbor who sells eggs. I don't think she even realizes how different this is from most people. She has no sense of entitlement. I don't think I have ever sat and talked to anyone for any amount of time who has no sense of entitlement. That bothers me, and it also makes me feel really grateful to have met Alice.

In the morning I went to the library, and wrote the entry previous to this one. Then I wandered out into the library hall, and noticed that a talk was starting just at that moment. I slipped in the door, and got to hear Mitzi Asai... a second generation Japanese immigrant to Oregon, talk about her life growing up, and her connection to the Yasui family, from a popular new novel called Stubborn Twig. I was so deeply moved... to tears in fact, hearing what it was like for these young Japanese Americans in Oregon, living through the Red Scare. Growing up in work camps in America. Coming home to newspaper articles entitled "No Japes wanted in Hood River". Living through adolescence with no other kids talking to you, and having a neighbor curse you every day as you walk home from school. I recommend reading Stubborn Twig. I plan on it, when I get back from this adventure. I can't believe how little we learn of American history in our own schools. They teach us that history will repeat itself if we do not remember and learn, but we are so ashamed of what we have done wrong, and so proud, that we keep history muffled in the background for our children to ignore.

I stayed with Alice for one more night. Again we stayed up late and talked, swapping stories and laughing about the way things are. I stayed comfortable and happy, then the storm had passed. In the morning, Hank was in the kitchen.

"It came to me in a dream... We're driving you down to Bandon today."
"Oh no, Hank... I've got to ride it!"
"I figured it out... You want to ride? We'll rig up your bike in the back of the truck and you can sit on it the whole way there. Sound fun?"

Hank's idea of leaving me to "think about it" was to saunter out the front door saying thing like... "Pick you up in an hour! Get packed!". Alice is fretting because Hank has a tendency to change her plans at a moments notice, and I have to remind myself that Alice can make her own choice. I decide to take the ride.

Alice makes an air-pot full of coffee to bring in the truck.

Hank likes to tell stories about the old days. He's been building railroad bridges and tunnels his whole life. He just retired a few years ago. As we go along, he points out projects he has worked on, or that his father worked on. He seems to know every curve of road from one end of Oregon to the next. Alice is learning the back-roads for the first time in her life, on many journeys like this one. I am just an anomaly on one of their many adventures.

We arrive in Bandon, and stop to look over Face Rock... notoriously looking up into the heavens. Then we headed back into town and had a small lunch together before parting ways.

Alice insists on leaving me with a plate of cookies, which I am told I should offer to the couchsurf members I am staying with that night. I take the short ride up to their house on my bike, getting a few much needed moments alone, and then I am back in another persons home.

It felt awkward. I hadn't travelled that day on my bike at all really. Barely even a mile. I was clean and happy and well fed It took me a few moments to feel comfortable with the fact that I really hadn't ridden in days. Right away however, I liked the quiet of Ben and Riana's home. More than anything... I loved the view.

The house didn't look like much from the street, but when you step inside, and down the stairs, you find yourself facing a wall of glass looking over the ocean. You could jump off the bluffs from their back "yard", it's so close. On top of that, Ben and Riana don't have a whole lot to say.

They are easy conversationalists, and comfortable people to be around. Riana made us a light dinner of green curried vegetables, and I watched the sunset outside, entirely undisturbed. We had a nice time over dinner, and then each retired to respective corners. Riana by the fire with her book. Ben at the computer. Me with my journal and my maps. After all the smoke and storytelling, the endless listening and absorbing and trying to remember details... this was exactly what I needed. As I packed up in the morning, Ben gave me a piece of home-made bread with butter. I went on my way at my own pace, without fanfare, happy and feeling grounded by my stay.

Ben and Riana are caddies, and the economy affects them rather directly. People stop hiring caddies at the golf course, or they stop golfing all together. Ben isn't the type to worry too much about finances, but Riana is concerned. I ask her off hand if they own or rent, and she looks at me wide-eyed."Oh, we rent. This is probably the only time in our lives we will ever live like this" she says... looking out at the view. Something about this sticks with me.

The ride to Port Orford was fabulous. The sun was in good spirits, and I was moving along nicely. I love going to Port 'O'. I usually stop in on Paula, who owns a little restaurant in town. I had called about a week before to let her know I was coming, and asked if I could stay. She offered her trailer, and I was glad to know I had a place for the night.

Of course, I forgot to ask where her place was. When I got to the restaurant, her husband said she stayed home, because of pain in her shoulder. I ask which way the house is, and he tells me it's back in Langlois.... the town I stopped in for lunch a few hours back. Sigh. I asked about local camping and they told me which beach the cops wouldn't bother me for camping on. Then I stuck around, because it was St. Patricks day and they were having music. They asked me to stick around, and maybe play a little later on.

The music was fun. A local performer ( I didn't get his name!) had invited a bunch of his friends to come by and play Irish folk songs and reels. They invited me to join in, and I had trouble keeping up, but no one minded. We stomped and laughed and sang, and even played "Goodnight, Irene"... an old favorite of mine that reminds me of singing with my family. The asked me to play a few of my own songs, and I did, to warm reception. I have been working on this improv I started the night of my kick-off party - turning it into a more solid "song", and I tried that out. People really like it... It's kind of a spiritual; a cappella. After I finished, I gave the stage back to the local artist, and a woman approached me.

"Where are you staying tonight?"
"Camping on the beach, I figure..."
"Well how would you like a vacation beach rental for a few days...?"

Seriously!? I walk with Cathy, the owner of the aforementioned vacation beach rental, and her friend Gayle, just a few blocks over to The Powder House, and I am enamoured right away. On the walk over I say to Cathy... "it's amazing, how the universe sends us what we need..." and she says she knows exactly what I mean.

Her and her partner John came to town camping, years ago, and they bought The Powder House after a bit of thinking. She says that Port Orford is a town cursed by the natives to never prosper. She says she hopes that means it will never get big. I smile. I like Cathy.

The Powder House is bright blue, and there are colored Christmas lights in the windows. Inside there is a bed under some amazing skylights, and a kitchen, and a living room. There is a TV that only plays movies (my favorite kind), a little collection of VHS, a compost bucket by the sink, a garden, and a glass jar full of coffee.

Cathy, Gayle and I hung out for awhile. I played a song every so often, tangled in with all of the sharing we had going on. It was a fun evening. Cathy is a steward of our rivers... She is a river guide. She knows all about the rivers of this country, and the wildlife. She works with kids, and teaches people how vital their local watersheds are. Essentially, she's amazing. She showed me a book of local hikes and wildlife she made with a group of local kids. It's really pretty incredible to imagine some kids working on this project. It's a really good trail guide! Tons of local hikes, and descriptions of all the local trees, etc... I mentioned the Elk River, and how the locals are caught between wanting to protect it, and wanting to bring in tourists to bolster the economy. She completely understands, and admits that there are certain hikes that they omitted from the book, because you "have to work for them".

After that night, I didn't see Cathy again. The most amazing gift I could have received was this space to be indoors and alone. I did my laundry, walked under the stars, watched movies, went to the library.... I love that she just trusted me there in her space. She left me a key, told me which door to leave unlocked when I left, and said I could stay until the 25th if I wanted. I couldn't stay that long, obviously, but I did enjoy the extra day. My clothes had gotten seriously stinky, and it was nice to do laundry someplace where I could let all of my wool dry, and where I could refold everything neatly and get organized. I said goodbye to Powder House with a little effort... and headed to Gold Beach.

The ride to Gold Beach is a little harder than what I had been getting used to, but I did really well! I made good time, and I didn't have to push my bike up a single hill. Then, right as I came into town... I find myself riding into the lens of some one's camera. I'm coming down this great hill, almost in Gold Beach after a day of amazing views and sunshine. I'm hungry, and tired, and I feel amazing... but this man is standing by the side of the road, taking my picture. He's not just taking one, either... and by the time I get down to him, the camera is right in my face. I stop to ask him what's going on, and before I can ask, he asks if I am done for the day. I say yes that I am headed into Gold Beach. He says he is taking photos of this bike route for the New York Times, and gracefully invites himself to join me for lunch. He drives ahead and then stops again in front of me, and photographs me coming over the bridge into town. We find a place by the docks to get a good burger, and sit down to eat. I am famished.

Basil is a freelance photographer, getting photos for a New York Times writer who recently rode the Oregon Coastal route. He's having a hell of a time finding riders, because this isn't exactly bike season. He lives in Thailand with his girlfriend, and flies mostly, for photo assignments. We're waiting for our food, when lo and behold, another rider sees my bike and comes to park by me. We wave him inside to join us (I tend to park my bike under the window of whatever table I get in a restaurant, so I can look after my gear) and he comes in.

Jono is trying to make it to Chico, California in time for his midterms. He has already ridden from Bandon today, and will continue on to Brookings. That's three days by my schedule. He's pulling up to 100 miles a day... and he's totally loopy.

We are laughing about food, and about how all of our likes and dislikes have faded away with the riding. I'm telling him that I didn't pick the celery out of salad the other night and he says"oh yeah... celery... I don't think I remember what that tastes like. I think I'm still on my bike." He looks like he's still moving on the inside... you can amost see the road disappearing underneath him... but he's chewing a burger. There's just this rythym about him.

Lunch is fun, and we both give Basil our information for the photographs. Who knows! Maybe my picture will pop up in The Times. That would be kind of neat. If it does... someone grab a clipping for me? Thanks.

Basil heads out with Jono to get shots of him heading up Cape Sebastian... the biggest hill on the Oregon coast... that I have been dreading for days. I settle up my end of the bills awhile after they leave, and head to the Turtle Rock RV Resort and Campgrounds for the night.

I had never been to a private campground, and I had no idea how expensive they were. The woman feels sorry for me... I'm sitting on the sidewalk trying to figure out where else I can camp, too tired to head over the big hill, and hating the idea of going backwards. She gives me a hefty discount, and I tent down.

They have great showers. The woman told me they were great, but I didn't think much of it. There are two shower heads, at opposite sides of the tub. The waters get really hot, and the water pressure is great. These are little pleasures. I enjoyed a long, hot shower, cooked up some grains for a late snack, played my guitar for the stars, and went to bed.

Woke up in the rain, and broke done my tent by the bathrooms, getting everything as dry as I could. I started to ride into town to get breakfast and my chain came off the track... I thought... but then I looked, and no, my chain was broken. It was sitting in the road a few feet behind me.

I sat and worked it out, got the chain back on... but I put it on wrong.
I sat and worked it out, got the chain back on... but I put it on wrong. Again.
I sat and worked it out, got the chain back on... but I put it on wrong. Again. and Again.

I gave up and walked to a cafe with my bike, covered in grease, looking like a mechanic, but with half the know-how.

I sat and had lunch, and tried to call the bike shop in the next town. The lady in the cafe helped me out... I was using the wrong area code. A couple of us in the cafe mulled over my problem, trying to figure out which way the chain threads on my bike. Then we came up with a solution.

Then I put the chain on.
Wrong.
Again.

Sigh. One. Last. Try.

And off I go. Finally my bike is working properly again, and it is way too late in the day for me to make my full days ride. The gears are acting funny still, a little worse now, and there is this strange sound. I can't. however, bring myself to abandon the big hill. I had been dreading this hill, so I had to conquer it. I set out to do so, with my funny sound, and my not-quite-right shifting.

800 feet straight up over about 4 miles. I made it without stopping. I remember just a little while back, coming over that 700 ft climb on the coastal range bewteen Portland and the coast... I remember how many times I had to stop, and how my legs felt like they were crying lactic acid. Not this time!!! I rode and rode, moving along slow but steady, and I never even felt like I wanted to quit. It is so cool to feel how my body is changing on this trip. It felt so amazing to get over that hill.

Coming down the hill was a whole other story. Kind of terrifying. It comes down so fast, and I was getting up so much speed.... and there is so much wind out there on the coast. I felt like the wrong wind could send me sailing, so I rode my brakes the whole way down, praying a little under my breath... "Dear Sweet Universe, please keep my wheels underneath me..." My breaking muscles started to hurt even, and I think I have some new muscle groups starting to get a workout. My downhill muscles. You would think that would be the easy part.

After the hill, it was obvious my bike was still in poor health. Having done what I had set out to do, I hitched to the bike shop in Brookings.

Guess what... my chain was on wrong. I got it close enough to make it work, but one little piece was threaded wrong, making my bike sound like "a corn grinder..." according to the mechanic. He worked on my brakes, and lubed my cables, and tried to solve my shifting problems, all for a couple of bucks. My gears are about 90 percent accurate now, which is a hell of a lot better than before.

I caught an AA meeting in town when I got to Brookings, and then hoofed it 3 miles backwards to the Harris Beach State Park Campgrounds. Despite the rain, I can't imagine a prettier place to fall asleep, or to wake up.

I had an unusual experience, and I don't know how far into it I can get right now... but one of my old clients was camped next to me in the park. Some of you know I worked with homeless youth this past year in Portland. I hadn't seen this kid for a long time, and can't say I ever knew him very well. We were talking in the dark as I set up camp, because I had come in after dark, and it took awhile before we realized we knew eachother. Then suddenly he said "Damn, I know a Malcolm from Portland...." and I hear it dawn on him.

I am camping in my tent, with my fancy gear and my cozy set up. He cooks me a cup of tea over a campfire, with an old teakettle he is hauling around. He has his dog with him, and sleeps under the picnic table with a tarp. He tore a hole in his tent awhile back. He doesn't complain.

I have a lot more thoughts to gather about this moment, and certainly more to say, but not right now. It was hard... saying goodbye this morning. He's complimenting my gear, and my set up.... and I catch myself feeling ashamed at all the money I was able to put into this trip. I checked the weather for him, for his trip back to Seattle. He's heading north, thinking about going home to "be responsible" but kind of flitting around trying to avoid the weather....

"Maybe I should go south..."
I imagine a bird that missed an important migration, disoriented.

I will say, that I made it 27 miles today in the pouring rain. It took every tiny ounce of moxy I had to not hitch-hike today. I didn't give up. I got my sea legs. I didn't want to lose two days to the storm, and I didn't. I might take tomorrow off, but we'll see how the storm is coming along. For now I've treated myself to a hotel that has laundry, and a business center (where I am right now), and a bathtub. I crossed the California border 18 miles back, and I am celebrating. I can't believe I crossed state lines today. On my bike. It feels pretty cool. Especially since the guy at the agricultural checkpoint looked at me, all dripping wet and waved me through saying... "You're tougher than me!"

I do feel pretty tough. Tough, and lucky, amoung other things.

Sending Love,
xoxo Malcolm

Rush Order

I have a limited time to write what seems like it would take me a lifetime. I had planned to spend the next 5 hours here in the library, but apparently you can only get one hour of computer time a day here, and the man at the reference desk is pretty stern about it. I had to fight with myself to accept the situation, and not kick up a fuss. All I have wanted to do for the past day or so is write and write. I do however, have my notebook, and so many notes have made their way in there in the past day or so.... at least I know I won't forget.

I think I left you all at the casino. Woke up in the morning in the beautiful sunshine, and made my way back the gas station to top off my air... recreating the rig that the engineer and I had come up with, because I still couldn't make heads or tails of my pump.

It's so hard to talk about a day of riding, because the mountains pass, and my head gets so full of air, it feels like I might as well want to talk about spending the day in the pool. The scenery changes, but there I am in the middle of it, pulling stroke after stroke.

Good weather treats me well. I had a hard days ride, and didn't think I would make it into Newport until 5pm. I made it in by 3, long before I had told me host to expect me... so I sat down at a coffeehouse in the sunshine, and fell a little in love with Newport, Oregon.

While I sat, with a killer turkey sandwich and a cup of black coffee, I made pals with a hippie kid just a little older than myself.... asked him about the town, and the surf, and himself. While we talked, a local kid got arrested right across the street... one of three brothers... the other two standing around to question the arrest, the cops, etc... One of them owned the shop. The guy I'm talking to laughs and says, "Just when I thought I could put away my 'Free Mario!' t-shirt, they come and take him away again." Everyone knows everyone, and no one is surprised, just raising their eyebrows and asking... "what now?"

I pulled out my guitar and worked out the kinks in a new song I'de been stringing together at my campsite the night before...

Oh lord, see there I go. I've skipped a whole day, a campsite, a town... and the people at a local diner. The biggest pancakes I'de ever eaten. See, the wind and the air get to me. I can trace and re-trace my steps, but the story is starting to wind together. It makes me wish I had more opportunities to sit and write. And here I am, typing against the clock.

Before I hit Newport, I had to summit my first tiny mountain pass of the trip. I took the easier of many passes through the coastla mountain range, but man did it kick my ass. As I made my way uphill, I started taking breaks about every 200 yards. I would set little markers for myself: JUst make it to the end of that guardrail.... Just make it around that bend. When I hit the summit... only 700 feet! I couldn't believe it. It hadn't taken as long as I expected.... and the ride down and afterwards was beuatiful.

The air coming downhill was so still, and I was hitting a good 22 miles per hour without any wind, so I could go as fast as a liked. Coming around a bend, a heard a dog getting closer and closer, and then it was right on my heels. I had been warned that dogs chase bikes in small towns, and I have a tiny canister of mace in case I meet a mean one. This however, was a beautiful marble pitbull mix with stunning blue eyes... I was more worried for it's safety than my own. I rememebered one biker told me that stopping is sometimes your best option to keep the dog, and yourself safe, so I pulled over. The dog was so sweet! It was looking at me like it wanted to come along for the ride, and I pet her/ him for a minute and then very sternly pointed and said "Go home!". The dog bounded right down the road towards it's home, where it's owener stood hollering. I had to wave frantically to warn a truck to slow down, and my heart almost stopped. The dog got home okay. My heartbeat returned to normal, and I got back to my downhill jaunt.

I soon found myself at the same little town (tiny!) that we had stopped at when Bria and I and friends went to the beach for Bria's birthday weekend. A little town called Otis. I really enjoyed the feeling of arriving somewhere fairly distant from home that I recognized from an adventure by car. I made me feel like I was really getting somewhere. I stopped in Otis, still a few miles shy of my days destination, and filled up on the most massive pancakes I had ever seen in my life. This little matchbox sized diner.... such great food, and the people were great.

I was teasing with the cook, and he offered me a ride to my campsite in LIncoln City. I accepted, bientg full and happy, having had plenty for the day. I have decided not to feel guilty, or like I am cheating when I take rides from people. I am covereing so much ground... I'm considering it all just part of the adventure.

I think the cooks name was Jim, but I'll be honest, I've met so many people since then, I can hardly be sure. It was a quick ride, so I didn't get to talk to him much. He's been part of the festival circuit in the area for a long time, cooking food for big concerts. I wish I could pull my memeory together for something more substantial, but thats it. I;m starting to wish I was wearing a wire, for all the good stories I hear that slip my mind.

He dropped me off at Devil's Lake State Park campground. A luxury campground if there ever was one. I got a hot shower, and used my campstove for the first time without any trouble. I had the whole hiker/biker site to myself, so I took time in the morning, rearranging my gear and getting back on the road feeling fresh and organized.

Back to Newport now... I got in touch with the roommate of my host and headed over to their place. I stopped at the park on one side of the Yaquina Bay Bridge to call, and then found myself later, right on the opposite side of the bridge, on Julie and Jamie's back patio, looking out over the water.

I met Julie on couchsurfing.com, which is a pretty incredible resource for travellers. Julie specifically opens her home to bike travellers touring the coast. Her and Jamie are both involved with marine life sciences, and has some great stories to tell. Julie having bike toured all through Spain and Thailand, and Jamie having worked up on the ice in Alaska with the wildlife. She's even seen Polar Bears in the wild... which is so scary to me, and amazing. After that one morning waking up in the snow, I am amazed with winter campers. They are a tough lot.

Both of these ladies were headed out the next day to different travel destinations, so we had a hell of a time cleaning out the fridge and making a giant salad for dinner. We ate ourselves full and happy and then Julie and I headed into town to a local open mic night, right across from the cafe I'de been to that afternoon.

The open mic at Cafe Mundo in Newport is a local experience, for sure. There's a good group who attend weekly, and I saw a lot of the same characters there that I had met in town that afternoon. One local guy, I think his name was Dennis... He had sat with me earlier that day and listened to me play... and of course he knew Julie, and her friend also, who we had picked up on the way into town. He said he would stick around to hear me play, because he liked what he had heard that day, which was flattering.

I played a decent set, tired as I was, and sold a few CD's, and gave away lots of stickers. I made a few dollars, which was nice for a change, with all the money I've had going out lately. They wanted me to play a little more later on, but I was exhausted, and so were my friends, so we headed back to Julie's place to crash.

I want to tell you so much more... but I feel doomed by the clock today, and really want to make good time, and get to where I am right now, before they kick me out of the library.

The next morning Julie dropped me at the Oregon Coast Aquarium, where I meditated in the shark tank for a good while, and looked at the depressed sea otters... and the esctatic seals. I listened to the kids screaming excitedly. It's a familiar sound... like the zoo, or an amusement park, but smaller and a little sweeter. I like hearing kids ooh and aww over the wildlife... even if it is contained and strange. The way humans put their own environment under glass will always fascinate me.

I moved on when I was content I'd spent enough time with the sharks... they are so cool. I'm sort of scared of sharks, being as in love with surfing as I am... and because of that I am a bit in awe of them. I could watch them for hours... but I had a ride to get on with, so I stepped up my pace, and walked back to Julie's. Paked up, said goodbye, and I was on my way.

I had looked at the map and thought this was going to be a slightly easier ride, but boy was I wrong. The headwinds were at me all day, and I felt like I was swimming upstream. The views, however, were astounding, and I was pretty happy the whole ride, keeping a steady pace, and ever so grateful for another day of sun.

I rolled into Yachats craving pancakes. I mean really. craving. pancakes. I was even singing a pancake song to myself. Not very catchy. Something like "when I get to town I'm going to eat paaaancakes". It won't be going on my next CD.

I was checking out the local restaurants, looking for an all-day breakfast type place, when a car pulled up next to me and a man hollered "Malcolm!". I looked over my shoulder and sure enough, there was this older hippie fellow who had played the open mic the night before. He warned me that the next pass was too dangerous to take that late in the day, and I said I knew... I just wanted to eat and then make it up the hill to the next campgrounds. He offered a cup of coffee and I accepted, leading me into a restaurant that had no pancakes in the evening, but some really good burgers. I settled.

I had a great talk with Greg, hearing all about his life and struggles, which I wont get into here. He'd known the area for a long while, and tried to help me find a gig for the night, but alas... it was Friday, and everyone was booked. The night was wearing on, and I started to really worry about the pass up to the campgrounds. I had heard it was a really rough ride, and everyone kept telling me I should stay in town for the night. Nervous, and feeling a little defeated, I gave in and got a hotel room. Just barely, too! Spring break has started and there was hardly a room anywhere. The place I found was affordable enough, and they gave me a ten dollar "taking-that-pass-tonight-is-too-damn-dangerous" discount.

Well, I couldn't complain... they had a warm indoor pool with orca whales painted on the walls. I was the only one down there for a good while... It felt like an old YMCA, with concrete walls and not much light. Just a big cozy basement with a pool and a few windows looking over the mountain. I did a few laps, using the last of my energy, and did some of what I like to call my "floating meditation"... which maybe I will explain some other time. Then I headed back to the room to take advantage of the shower, the space, and even the TV.... watching a pointless movie until I finally gave in and passed out.

The next morning the storm had hit hard, as promised, so I started the day by fortifying myself with the pancakes I had been left craving the night before. I was not disappointed. If you ever travel this coast, and pass through Yachats, Oregon... you should certainly stop at the Landmark for a bite. The restaurant practically hangs over the bay, with views on all side, and the food is just fine. I talked to my mother for awhile on the phone, and ate my weight, and then got ready for a long, wet, day.

The storm was brutal. I started the day straight uphill and was doing incredibly well, considering the winds I hit every time the trees opened up and faced the road to the ocean. These are the most breathtaking views on the Oregon Coast, I am sure of it, and also the hardest to ride. The wind was nearly taking me off the road, which is hard on even the lovliest of days. And it was getting harder. Really... harder... too hard in fact. I checked for a flat up front, and then looked down the back and sure enough... my tire was blown.

I am proud of myself, because I fixed that flat in the rain without ever asking a driver for help. I worked away, found the hole, got everything patched up, and I was on my way again. It had taken me the better part of the hour, however, and I was starting to worry about making it to Florence in the time I had laid out.

I started again up the hill and the wind nearly knocked me out again. Then my gears went all kinds of crazy, and I thought maybe I had done something wrong. Before I even had time to think about it, my thumb flew out when a truck was coming by, and I had hauled into the back of a pickup, and was riding in the rain, quickly, over the road I had meant for my days ride.

When I saw what was ahead of me, I was sure grateful for that truck. The most impressive views, and the most impressive hills. The road seemed to go on forever... the slowest 25 miles imaginable. I started to wonder if they measure the road my distance travelled, instead of the length of the actual road... and decided that this must be a forty mile stretch of road that covers 25 miles of the coast.

The couple that picked me up asked me where I wanted to go, and I said 8th street. That was the location of the AA meeting I wanted to hit in Floronce at 5:30. They left me there without much to say. Nice folks, for sure, and I realized to my amazement, that right there on 8th, near the meeting, was a Bike and Guitar Shop.

I spent the better part of the day hanging in the shop with Jim and Sarah, who declared my bike just fine, after re-adjusting my brakes, and showing me how to take off my back tire without throwing them out. I played the guitar, re-organized my gear, had coffee and donuts, and then headed over to a little meeting down the street.

This is where I wish I has 2 more hours to write. I cant even begin to explain how held I feel here in Florence.... how many amazing stories I have heard today, or last night, and how happy I am here. I have been taken in, out of the storm, and will stay again tonight. I am staying with Alice... the kindest, coolest lady I've met in some time. I have notes... pages of my notebook to share about last night, from 5:30 on, until today. It's all too warm in my heart to rush through, so I'll stop here and save this for another day. I will however say that I love people. I love their stories and their energy. I love what people do for each other, and how warm they can be if they want to. With nearly 50 years difference in our ages, I consider Alice already a dear friend. I am blessed with all the love and support a person could want, and am having quite an adventure, both physically and spiritually, as I imagined I would.

So if you've seen the weather reports, and you know the universe is "putting on a good show" out here on the coast... as they say... don't worry about me a bit. I'll be back on the road tomorrow, but for now I'm spending time with some good people, and just enjoying life, and this journey, at my own little snails pace.

If I can find another computer today, I will gladly write more, and maybe even edit this up a bit. For now however, I have to dodge the strict librarian, and I'm signing off.

All my love,
Malcolm

Please Jump on the Beds

Two days in a row now I've been able to sit down at a computer to write. It's a luxury. I am broadcasting to you here tonight from the Spirit Mountain Casino and Lodge in Grand Ronde, Oregon. Seriously folks. I'm at the friggin casino.

I'm going to try to have the energy I need to write this, but I'm already exhausted... it's leaning towards my bedtime (a little earlier every night now). Soon I'll be falling asleep with the sun every day, I'm sure.

I set out from Carlton this morning, saying my goodbyes to Bobbi and Ken, having grown ever more enamoured of them after our quiet evening of eating home-made enchiladas and watching XXY. I recommend this movie. It's a foreign indie flick about a hermaphrodite, a family, a surgeon and his adolescent son, some really dumb awful boys, and some strengthening friendships. For those of you with sexual assault history, this film could prove triggering, so watch with caution, or a good cuddle buddy nearby just in case. The characters are well cast, the film is well done... all in all I'd say it's a must-see.

I did my first 16 miles in about 2 hours, and then stopped for soup, motrin, and coffee at a little cafe. I caught up with my family on the phone, and steadied myself for the next 15. I was doing pretty well! Most of the route today was gently downhill, but that didn't stop me from feeling exhausted, so when I hit a few steady inclined towards the end of my ride, I was happy that I never had to stop and catch my breath.

Riding into the mountain range... my first one on this trip... was a singular experience. It's amazing how much you miss in a car. The trees start to get closer... the backdrop of the snow and peaks starts to fade away behind tall trees. It gets a little quieter. A little darker. And then you're in! It's a different playground. So subtle but you can feel in in the air. Maybe it's a little colder, but that could just be the sun setting lower in the sky. It smells a little different. The hills feel more meaningful somehow. It's a good feeling.

I was coming down my very last hill of the day... triumphant, and sure that I was almost in Grand Ronde, when I hit construction. I was walled up between the road and a concrete divider, with only a tiny shoulder to work with. I was exhausted, and having to be so exacting wasn't helping any. I felt foolish there, and kept eyeballing the freshly paved construction zone every time I hit a gap in the divider. I wasn't sure if I should ride over there. I finally found the construction crew, and figured I would swing through, ask them if it was all right, and how much longer I would be stuck by the divider.

I didn't make it to the crew. I noticed instead, nightmare of nightmares.... my first flat tire. So sad! Right at the end of the day. I was kind of excited though, to see how well my newly acquired tire changing knowledge had stuck. Not bad! I remebered everything, but when I got to the important part.... filling the tire with air.... I had a problem. My bike pump didn't work with this kind of tire.

Curses! I was frustrated with the place that sold me the pump. Then I was frustrated with myself, because Michelle had told me a few weeks before that the pump looked wrong, but she wasn't sure... so I should get it checked out before I left. Guess what I forgot to do...? So I threw the tire back on the bike to protect my rim, and threw the tube around my neck, and hitched a ride with the construction crew (at this point they had already been by to check on me) down to the casino.

The casino. I have never in my life set foot inside of a casino. Until today. It never seemed like the kind of thing I would want to do with my time. I don't like bright lights, or losing money. I don't smoke, and I don't like sitting still for long stretches. Pulling levers makes me feel like a robot.

Evidently, this is the only hotel for miles around. There's no bike shop nearby, and I have no adapter to get air into my tire. So. I needed a room on the first floor, because my bike won't fit in the elevator. There were no first floor singles, so they offered to give me a double room for the price of a single. "You can sleep in one and jump on the other!" she offered. "Thanks!" I replied enthusiastically.

I balked at the price and was told that I could get a room for 30 dollars less if I joined the Cougar Club. The COUGAR Club. Let me just pause and giggle at being offered a spot in the Cougar Club and a discount. Am I old already?

Dear Straight or Ill-Informed Readers,

A "cougar" is a hot older lesbian.

Love, Your Friendly Queer Tour Guide.

So I put my bike in storage behind the desk, and went and joined up with the cougars. If you all ever need my gay card now... I've got it. I'm official. It's even got a rubber chain and a clip attached.

They made me pull a lever.

After settling into my room, I removed my tire yet again and set out on foot with my patch kit to the gas station. I didn't have high hopes. After fussing with the "free air" for a little while, unable to get it into the tire, not even enough to see where my leak was and get a patch on... I wandered into the station and lamely asked the clerk for help. He had no idea what to tell me. However, my guardian angel had already sent me my very own boat engineer.

This amazing older man with a feather in his trucker cap comes up and starts asking what the trouble is, like older men like to do... but this one actually had the ingenuity (his word) to solve my problem. He borrowed a roll of duct tape from the clerk, and set to work with me. We worked together effortlessly. No ego, no fuss. He asked me to do the things that his hands were to big or too old to do, and he team-worked with me through the whole project. He was pretty super cool.

We sanded my tube, set my patch, and checked the tire for glass. I had already checked.... but my engineer... he found what I had missed. A nice little shard of glass that would have given me another flat tomorrow if I hadn't plucked it out. Then the final test of our duct tape air-pump rig: getting me up to the right tire pressure. Amazing. He bounced my tire once, declared the problem solved, and set my on way way. He called me "kiddo", more than once, which I found entirely endearing.

He had the kind of hands that looked as if they had been taking apart engines and boats and bikes for a lifetime. Swollen and cracked and used. Really well lived. I said to him, when he found the glass, "Hey, you're a good sort to have around!". He giggled at that and said: "That's what all my lady-friends keep sayin'. My wife hates it!"

As we parted, I thanked him again, and said: "I'll always take help from a man with a feather in his cap", and he laughed to himself as he walked away. I never even got his name.

I caught an instant message from Bria as I left happy, with my tire in my hand. She let me know that actaully, my pump should work just fine... I just need to reverse the tube in the head. Seriously. The universe must really have wanted me to work for this one. I shouldn't have this problem again. Although I do now have a wrench handle wrapped in duct tape, just in case.

So now I'm here. Not much to say about the casino. I read the history of the tribes that were sanctioned to this land. Sad. Hard. I felt like an alien trailing the hallways, reading all the signs and looking at the museum artifacts that the casino goers don't pay much mind to. Native stories are always heartbreaking. Little triumphs over great odds, following a much greater loss.

I thought while I ate my dinner, listening to the world around me pin-balling sounds like a strange modern arcade. I thought about the people here. They don't smile much. They fit in my mind with mall-walkers and Florida retirees. A little too much exactly what they are expected to be. People who have made themselves so small, that when you smile at them, they check behind their backs for something shiny or beautiful.

I though about the land. The people the land was connected to. They were surprised that the chiefs of a people would choose to make others suffer needlessly. They had a different code of honor. They belonged to the land. The land did not belong to them.

Lastly, I thought about rape. The man usually wins. He doesn't deserve it. He's just stronger. Stronger and acting on crude impulses. Taking something that doesn't belong to him. Something that can't be taken, only used in a wrongful way. A woman's body always belongs to her, and her to it, even when it has been harmed. The same with this land. There are still some of us who feel, or choose to feel, that we belong to the land. It's just that the land we belong to is fractured, and we have so much healing to do.

Okay... Shaking it off. This place has gotten under my skin a little. Oh! But there is this great blue soap in the bathroom. It smells like blue vanilla, and the suds is blue. Little things make me happy.

Big hills tomorrow! 25 miles left to get out to the coast, but it's going to be a cold, uphill ride. Think warm thoughts for me!
I can't wait to see the ocean.

All Light,
Malcolm

in sleet and snow

Hello!!!

I am so grateful to be sitting at a computer right now, after a long cold night... and a colder morning. But I should backtrack a bit.

I left Portland with a great group of friends by my side. Bria, Steph, Michelle, Eli, Katie and Tara all rolled out with me from Random Order Coffeehouse on Saturday at 11am... Eli stayed with us just a little while, and the rest of the crew stuck around for the long uphill ride heading out of Portland. Talk about breaking me in. I had to start walking my bike up hills by the time we were a block from Cornell, headed up Lovejoy. The rest of the ride was well, harsh! I have so much weight on my bike, and I haven't really been training much.... so this is essentially "pre-season"... as Michelle put it. That thought has helped me a lot actually. I'm imagining myself as a creature in training, and it makes the days seem more reasonable, and more rewarding.

I was going so much slower than everyone, that I let them all go free and say goodbye to me somewhere up in the hills, at what I think was the Audobon Center. A wildlife center, anyways. I got to see the faces of my beautiful friends for one last minute, and then I watched them ride away... heard Michelle hollering and laughing, and then the whole crew was gone from my sight.

I admit, I had a momentary breakdown. A good cry. Partly for seeing my friends go, and partly just letting the enormity of the trip settle in on me. I was scared, and already tired from pushing my bike up into the hills. I filled up my water, got my courage back up, and then got moving again.

There were more hills to come, and more pushing, and then finally, a cozy little diner (Skyline Diner) at the top of a sweet downhill run. I stopped for black coffee and fries, and then went out to check on my bike.

I had been experiencing a pretty nasty wobble downhill on the stretch right before the diner, so I used my Blackberry to look up the possible causes. The site I found said to make sure my heaviest gear was all packed low to the ground, so I took to rearranging. I was not happy with what I discovered... but so glad that this didn't go unnoticed. The wobble was due to the fact that a bolt was entirely MISSING from one fork of my xtracycle... completely detached. I was at the top of quite a hill, and with no way to ride down, I set myself to walking... in the hail... and laughing. Talk about my first day out throwing me through a loop.

Lucky me, someone saw me walking my bike down the hill and gave me a ride, with my gear in his pickup, to the nearest hardware store. It was right on my route, and not far down the road. I didn't get his name, but thanked him several times. He wasn't much for talk, just a kind person willing to go a bit off track for a stranger is distress. The guys at the hardware store were just as helpful, letting me bring my bike inside, and helping me find and install a replacement for the part I had somehow lost.

The rest of the days ride was fairly easy... but I didn't realize how late it was getting until well... too late. I was in Hillsoboro, with no place to camp. I found an AA meeting about four miles behind me, and I knew I was too tired to make it. It was freezing, and still sleeting and snowing in short bursts. I looked at a motel, decided it was too expensive, and then sat at a cafe across the street for awhile. I drank a ton of coffee, and tried to get warm enough, and energized enough to make it back to the meeting and hopefully find a place to crash, but it was hopeless. I was exhausted. I gave in and went back to the hotel... a little sad that I ended up paying for a place to sleep my first night out, but grateful for it, and I was fast asleep by ten o'clock.

....

The next day the riding was hard, not because there were big hills, or even really bad weather. My energy was just a little low. My oatmeal in the mroning had tased horrible for some reason and I couldn't get much down. I managed, anyway, to make it the 20 miles to Yamhill by 3pm.

I found a cafe that let me bring my bike inside, and I parked in the back of the place, near a couple of pinball machines. The town was tiny. I am amazed by towns this small. The arcade games in the back of this place must be the biggest draw in town for local kids when the weather is bad.

I had a burger, decent enough, and some coffee. I havent had cream in my coffee since I left, to keep my lungs clear and healthy. It feels good. Black coffee is just fine when I'm cold and working hard. I usually like cream to cool it off anyways, and in this weather? Hot is good.

I quickly assessed that I wasn't going to find close-in camping in Yamhill... I would have had to go a good 6 miles off course either way... So I headed south into Carlton. I had asked a family in Yamhill about camping and a teenager mentioned that the city park in Carlton was just fine to camp in... not really legal... but no one would bother me.

I found the park without trouble, and talked to some locals about my age about the cops, and camping in park, and they told me about the same thing. They also mentioned that the cops in Carlton make all of their money pulling over drunk drivers on winery tours, and didn't much bother anyone else. It took me awhile to get up the courage, and to find a place that was hidden well enough, but I eventually set up camp, and found myself in bed at 5pm, before the sun could go down and freeze me out.

I love my warm sleeping back. The camping situation wasn't ideal... slightly uneven ground, and I had set up my tent so quickly... It wasn't perfect. I was warm all night though... so imagine my suprise when I woke up at seven am (after waking once at 2am, thinking it was monring) to find that it was snowing.

Yikes.

I broke down my tent quickly in the snow, and asked a local where I could find some hot coffee indoors, and I found myself in a little cafe, only a quarter mile away, owned by Ken and Bobbi... the couple whose home I am sitting in right now, typing this blog.

I had no intention of staying in town today. I figured I would get warm and brave and then head east towards the coast, down the Nescutta River. Two local farmers came in to the cafe and we got to talking... and I discovered that the Nescutta would take me over some serious hills... one of the hardest passes over the hills that separate the inland from the coast. They also worried that the road might be nearly impassble by bike this time of year, with the snow not having been plowed. I realized that I needed to change course.

I decided I would head south to McMinnville Library, about 6 miles from here, and get my couchsurf profile up and running, then head down 18 and camp for the night off a logging road (as recommended be Ken). I was trying to get warm... and brave... watching the snow come down outside... when Ken's wife Bobbi came in and offered me a guest room for the night. Really... I couldn't resist. So I'm losing a day of riding, but I have a computer to research on, and a dog to hang out with. My wet tent, footprint, and rainfly are all hanging to dry in the garage. My sleeping bag is over the banister, getting any dew-dampness out. I am happy and warm, and all right with the time I'm losing. Better to be safe and patient with myself. Tomorrow I will head south to McMinnville, maybe stop at the library, and then start east along highway 18.

That's all for now, my friends. This is a hard adventure already, and I admit that Iam daydreaming about my arrival in San Fransisco to keep my mind off the cold. I know there is a day or two of sunshine coming, and I can't wait.

Sending Love Everywhere,
Malcolm

ps. I'm not posting photos today... to be honest I dont have many yet. Cold fingers, camera... you know. Bria did take a few of the first few miles riding out... Including some of the gigantic bear that Steph put on her bike while we were headed out of Portland (hysterical)... and eventually I'll get them up. For now, I want to use this time on the computer to start my couchsurfing. I want to be warm. Can you blame me?