Miles n' Miles

It's hard to believe that only a month ago a 50 km ride on a flat bike path to the Sooke Potholes was enough to thoroughly exhaust me. I made the trip from my house in Victoria a few days before leaving for the real thing in order to test my gear and bike, fully loaded. The ride only took three hours but it seemed to go on and on - all the way to the end of the Galloping Goose trail. When I finally got there, I sat on the rocks along the Sooke River, brimming with excitement for the adventure to come, and trying not to worry too much about the somewhat daunting daily mileages recommended in my guidebook.  It was hard to imagine switching those kilometres for miles, over what was sure to be hillier terrain, but I knew somehow that I would work my way up to it. Sure enough, a month has passed and I am now riding up to 60 miles a day, with plenty of photo-ops along the way.  Yesterday I climbed two mountains, including the highest peak on the coast, and still managed to log 58 miles. How did I get here?

It wasn't always so easy. Back on the San Juans, 30 miles was plenty to keep me busy, with pit stops at all the lovely island bakeries along the way.   As I got onto the mainland, a greater sense of purpose (now I was actually headed towards my destination) and fewer deliciously distracting eateries led me to push further, increasing my daily distances squarely over the 40 mile mark.   By the time I hit the Oregon coast, some of the days mapped out in my guidebook actually seemed feasible, though I had to break a few of them up to make time for all the enthralling sights along the way.  Soon I had ridden three days over 50 miles in a row. Maybe I would actually get to see San Francisco after all.

You may have noticed that my posts have dwindled in frequency throughout my trip. Unfortunately, more miles covered in the day means less time for blogging. Combined with nightly social gatherings with various members of the coastal bike posse, hitting the library on a regular basis has been a challenge. I may have to  enter the 21st century and buy a smart phone for my next tour.

Still, I have been really enjoying the blog project, and am thus determined to keep it up as best I can.  Back in Oregon, I started waking up earlier in hopes of leaving more time for biking and writing before sunset (my increasingly efficient packing routine was also a help - all of those who are acquainted with my scatterbrained tendencies would be proud!) The day after cycling with Rose, I sped through mile after hot, flat mile along the 101, hoping to leave myself enough time to stop at the library in Port Orford, the last town before camp.  Along the way I passed through the friendly town of Langlois, where the woman at the market thoroughly scrubbed the appled I bought with soap and water, despite the fact that she had five other customers waiting (sometimes it's the little things).  Just down the road, I ran into Katie and Brent, in their usual lemon and lime outfits, on their way to the same park as me for the night.

Katie and Brent

After a quick chat, I zoomed ahead, managing to make it to town a precious half hour before library closing time. It was enough to get in a brief post, abating my blogging guilt without cutting it too close to nightfall. On my way out of Port Orford, I stopped to take in one last phenomenal view of the ocean before heading towards camp.  As I stood leaning on the railing, a woman asked me whether I had seen the whales. "Umm, no." To me, the ocean is full of nothing but indistinguishable blobs. I stood there beside her for awhile, listening to her squeal in delight and point to spouts I kept missing, until I finally saw one. My first West Coast whale, or at least proof of its presence (note to self: next time bring binoculaurs).

A few miles later, I arrived in camp to find my old friend Chris standing at the registration booth in his Sponge Bob Square Pants jersey (an online discount purchase that has apprently become quite a hit on the road).  We hugged and talked excitedly as we caught up on the last few days. As we discussed our plans for the following day, we realized we were both aiming for the same campground, and decided to cycle together.

Chris' spongebob pose

I wish I could fly overhead and watch all of the overlapping routes of my biking buddies along the coast.  A happy little community of cycle tourists has started to form as we all head south, running into each other sporadically and catching up on our latest adventures. Perhaps an excel spreadsheet is in order (that one's for you, Rachelle ;) ) One of the fun things about this is watching how everybody goes about their daily routine just a little differently - especially how they eat.  Katie and Brent, for instance, like to take their time in the morning savouring a cup of gourmet coffee made from their french press.  In the evening, they make delicious concoctions filled with vegetables and fresh herbs. Wayne, another solo cyclist from Nanaimo, aims to hit as many fast food joints as he can along the way, in hopes of consuming enough calories to offset his raging metabolism (some guys have all the luck).

The secret to Chris' cycle success lies in chocolate milk. As he explained to me with impressively minimal usage of biochemistry jargon, it contains all the nutrients essential to muscle recovery, including a ton of protein.  The amount of potassium alone is seriously impressive. He drinks at least two a day.

Gary's power lies in beer, an extra of which he is always toting in his shirt pocket. While Chris and I agree that alcohol generally does not motivate us to cycle harder,  on our second sunny day of cycling together, we decided to indulge. After a beautiful morning ride off the highway (thanks to Chris' American Cycling Association map) Chris checked his phone in Gold Beach to see what restaurants were around (oh god, I am being beat in the technology department by a middle-aged neo-luddite) We decided on the Barnacle Bistro - a good choice.  I.P.A. has never tasted so good, nor a mushroom burger so delicous.
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Chris admiring his chocolate milk. "600 mg of potassium!!"

As we rolled into camp that evening, I had a feeling that Brent and Katie were close behind. Despite their leisurely mornings, this power couple always seems to catch up to me by the end of the day. Sure enough, about five minutes after our arrival, they strode in to greet us, looking as though they had barely broken a sweat. Life is so unfair.

The hill was worth it!!

Chris and I decided we wanted to cross the California border together. We were six miles away. We set out the following morning singing "California dreamin'" by the Beach Boys and "California" by Joni Mitchell. It was not long before we saw the sign welcoming us to the sunshine state - a moment of pure exuberance.  Chris lived in San Diego for many years, and said he felt strangely like he was coming home. I just couldn't believe I had made it all the way from Victoria. A man in his car pulled over on the other side of the road just to take a picture of us, smiling and laughing. We had arrived.

Enduringly Yours,

Dana

Rolling Solo

When I meet people on the road, the first thing they ask me is where I'm from and where I'm headed.

"Victoria, BC to San Francisco," I inform them.

Their amazement is usually followed by a further shock newsflash: I am traveling alone.

"All by yourself??" they exclaim, sizing me up in consternation.  The whole universe has become my mother.

"Yep."

At this point they either commend me for my bravery, or tell me I'm crazy.  One middle-aged woman simply asked "why?" Her friend answered for me: "Probably couldn't find anybody crazy enough to go with you!"

True, in part.  I will admit that when I first dreamed up this trip, a part of me thought it would be nice to have some company.  But I also knew that I wanted the ride to be for myself. I needed some thinking time, and while traveling with a friend would be easier (and make certain family members feel better), it would not give me the space I needed to really clear my head. It would also not require me to be fully independent.  For instance, there was no way I was going to actually learn how to fix my own bike (a skill that does not come naturally to me, as you may have gleaned from my pride at changing a tube) if I wasn't faced with the possibility of being stuck out in the boondocks with a bum break or flat tire, all by my lonesome.

All of this, combined with the fact that none of my friends were, in fact, crazy enough to come with me led me to embrace the idea of going solo. And I have to say, at this point, I wouldn't have it any other way.

For one thing, I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want. Traveling with a friend is like living with a roommate; it's a great way to bond but it requires a lot of understanding and compromise. Whether the dirty dishes be yours or theirs, you are always conscious of them.  Cycle touring adds the further pressure of time, a daily concern when you have miles to make before dark. As a solo cyclist I'm free to pee whenever I want, but I don't have to wait for anyone else to go.

Riding solo has also been incredibly empowering. In the beginning I really did wonder whether I would be comfortable doing it all on my own. Those doubts have vanished.  So often I meet couples on the road, and the women confide to me that they would be lost without their husbands (usually because they know nothing about bike repair). Every time I just want to pull them aside and let them know that they can do it all themselves. Now that I know my own strength, I can choose to travel with others not because I need them but because I truly want their company.

Of course, there is always the safety issue. Many of the people I meet express concerns in this regard. On one of my nights in Washington, I met a young guy from Phoenix who was doing the exact same trip as me, also solo. Curious, I asked him whether he elicited the same reaction from strangers along the way. He told me that his parents, like mine, had their qualms, but that was about it.

So I guess it's because I'm a girl.  Much as this pisses me off, I get it - I'm more vulnerable, there are lots of creepoes out there, etc. etc. Personally I think I'm probably more at risk walking alone in a city than staying in a campground full of other campers and cyclists. And as far as being on the road goes, numbers can hardly protect you from deranged RV drivers, though I suppose you could make your friends ride on the outside.
Otherwise all I can say is that I have felt very safe throughout my trip, and apart from certain distinctive biological functions, I refuse to let my lady parts restrict me from doing anything a man can do without question.

The other great thing about traveling alone, which also makes it safer, is that you are rarely ever alone at all. This was especially true on the Oregon Coast, where every state park was full of cyclists with the same brilliant idea. Normally it would bother me to be so unoriginal, but some ideas are popular for a reason.  Between the spectacularly scenic coastline, consistent bicycle route signage, and awesome state parks (5$ for the night plus free showers- it may seem trivial, but after a day of cycling the last thing you want to do is canvas the neighbours for change), it's not surprising to see so many cycle tourists on this stretch.

Chris at our failed lunch spot

As I've already recounted, I met some great people in Washington. In Oregon, every night was like an orientation event, filled with "where are you froms?" and "where are you goings?" Biker talk leads to life talk, which is always easier with strangers due to the capacity to reinvent yourself. Before long I had plans to visit half of the American states within the next year.  I had to hide in my tent just to get some alone time.

Life is funny. Just as I was really settling into my solo adventure, cycling buddies started to pop up everywhere.  After hanging out for a second night at Beachside State Park, Chris and I decided to start the following day out together.  Six miles down the road, the man at the visitors' centre in the quaint town of Yachats informed us that we were coming up on one of the most beautiful stretches of the coast. He wasn't kidding.

Chris and I decided to take the day slow, riding together and stopping every few miles to appreciate yet another amazing ocean vista. (Chris called this riding "Dana-style," though I'm pretty sure he took more photos than I did...)

The final picnic location.

Although he's more of a restaurant diner, I convinced Chris to do the picnic thing with me for lunch.  Unfortunately the park we had planned to eat at was closed. We decided to chance it and go around the barrier, figuring we'd tread lightly and that there was probably nobody there anyways. No such luck. No sooner did we roll down the steep hill leading to the idyllic picnic area than a park ranger threatened to cite us if we didn't leave. Don't you hate people who are "just doing their jobs"?

We climbed grudgingly back up the hill, and set up our picnic at what the ranger told us was the most photographed spot on the coast, an accolade I'd already heard attributed to about five other locations. (Sort of like "World's Best Clam Chowder!") The spot was beautiful, if a little windy for picnicking. Chris downed a club pack of turkey breast while I polished off a tub of hummus, and we were back on the road again.

The afternoon brought further treasures.  When we arrived at the outskirts of Florence, Chris ventured into a yarn store in hopes of finding a washroom. A minute later he poked his head back out and suggested I come in and have a cookie while I wait.  Unsure of what this was all about, I stepped skeptically inside,  only to be greeted by the most bad-ass knitting club I'd ever encountered. The women gathered in a circle of sofa chairs around the shop quickly ushered me into their stitch n' bitch (and drink) session, offering me fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and telling me all about their beef with the local phone company.  One elderly woman noted that she broke her knee the last time she rode a bicycle (not sure that's possible, but anyways...) "I was 45 and drunk" she stated matter-of-factly, pausing for comedic effect. These gals were a riot.

Darlingtonia Californica

I could have hung out at the yarn store all afternoon, but there was more to see and not enough time left in the day.  Our last stop was just up the road, at Darlingtonia botanical preserve.  There we walked out onto a platform surrounded by Darlingtonia Californica, a species of carnivorous plant. The plants lived in a swamp and looked like alien pods. I stepped back for fear of losing a finger. Cool.

After a quiet night in camp, Chris headed onwards, while I decided to take the day off to run some errands in Florence, explore the sand dunes, and let my body recover from the latest pummeling. My timing could not have been better.  Just as I returned from town, the party in camp began.  First I ran into Gary, one of the guys from the group of cyclists I'd met at Cape Lookout.  As we chatted, three more cyclists arrived - a couple (Brent and Katy) and another girl traveling solo (Rose).  I convinced the whole crew to come play in the dunes with me before nightfall. We ran and slid through the sand, finally parking ourselves to drink beers and watch the locals surf down the hill on sandboards. Katy, Brent and Rose told us about some colourful characters they'd met that day, including a family of five on a bike tour, and a woman named Sherry who worked at the Sea Lion Caves (a tourist attraction Chris and I had elected to skip) and had offered to deliver a pizza to their campsite.  Both were scheduled to arrive shortly.

Katy, Brent and Rose on the sand dunes

The family circus (a.k.a. "famcake") pulled into camp shortly after our return. Dad hauled 4 panniers and a trailer with their 2 and 4 year-old, while Mom rode a tandem with Jade, their eight-year-old girl. Now I've experienced an hour or two in the life of a child via my very own young nieces, and I honestly cannot imagine where these folks get the energy to do it all on a bike tour (the bathroom issues alone!) And this wasn't even their first trip. They'd already spent six months biking through Southeast Asia, back when they only had two children. Chuck, you may have just lost your title.

With the kids in camp, personal space soon became a forgotten notion as we all gathered around the fire to share food and stories.  As darkness rolled around, Brent, Katy and Rose began to lose faith in Sherry. She had seemed pretty serious about coming, even running out of her post at the seal caves to ask what toppings they wanted. But it did seem like a bit of stretch to deliver a pizza to a state park for some people you just met...

Right at this moment, a woman appeared on the trail, accompanied by a park ranger with a flashlight.  Sherry (a.k.a.shilarious) had arrived, deluxe pizza in hand! Much cheering and hugging ensued. Nobody appreciates a fresh pizza more than a group of cycle tourists camping in the woods (even after a huge dinner).  In addition to being the bearer of pizza, Sherry came with a warm, sparkling and all-round-hilarious (hence the name) personality.  As it turned out, she had just moved back to the area after years of living in California, and was hired at the sea lion caves by complete accident before she had even found a place to live. I could see why - this was some service we were getting.  After offering us just about everything she had in her car, Sherry finally said farewell, and the party began to wind down, with promises of Sunday morning pancakes filling our dreams.

The campsite gang. Still haven't perfected the self-timer...

The next day, Rose joined me on the road.  We got to talking and realized we had a lot in common. Passionate about bikes, food and community, Rose taught workshops on bicycle safety and had started a small homemade food delivery business amongst friends in her hometown of San Francisco. The weather was hot and sunny, so we stopped for lunch by a lake and took a freezing cold dip before gobeling down sandwiches.  Engrossed in a long discussion of life philosophies, we lost track of time and found to our surprise that it was already 3pm.  We put our heads down and pedaled hard for the next 20 miles to Coos Bay, where Rose's Mom had arranged for her to spend a night at a bed-and-breakfast as a birthday present.  We exchanged information and I headed on to the campground, alone once again but not for long...

Rose at our lunch spot

I'd better get a move on before I get stuck to this chair. Will try to blog again soon.  I've got some catching up to do!

Lonesomely yours,

Dana

Climb Every Cape, Part II

Halfway up Cape Lookout



These words of encouragement
would have been more useful at the bottom of the hill!

 In flipping through my guidebook prior to starting my trip, I came across a description of a day's ride marked by three major climbs over three capes. I recall thinking that would be a tough day, and hoping I was ready for it when the time came. When I opened my book in the morning at Cape Lookout, I realized that the big day had arrived.

There was no messing around; the route began by climbing directly up Cape Lookout (I knew the name of that park sounded hilly!) Nothing like climbing three miles up a mountain to wake you up in the morning. Luckily the sun was shining and the views from the top provided inspiration for the climbs ahead.

Cape Kiwanda

My next stop was Cape Kiwanda, a popular spot for surfing, and my first opportunity to climb one of Oregon's many magnificent sand dunes. I took my time picnicking on the beach and exploring the steep sandy ridge before hopping back on the bike for the inevitable second climb up Cascade Head.

 I'm not sure whether the hill was steeper or if I was just more tired, but this was a tough one. Just when I thought I had to be close, a cyclist headed downhill the other way gave me a sympathy shout: "It gets better!"  This was hardly comforting. If I was actually close he would have said "almost there," not "it gets better."  How, exactly, does it get better, I wanted to ask. By going back down?  Cause I kind of already knew that. Thanks for nothing, Dan Savage.

Cape Kiwanda

After what felt like an interminable climb, I finally reached the viewless, forested peak, marked by nothing but a gravel turnout. You win some, you lose some. 

Soon I was rolling into Lincoln City. Exhausted, I decided to leave the third climb for tomorrow and head instead to Devil's Lake State Park, right off the main drag.  The park itself was nothing special, but I did meet some pretty remarkable people there. First there was Chuck, the most impressive traveler I have met on my journey by far.  Chuck did not have a bicycle - he had a longboard.  And he had ridden it all the way from Arizona, heading north, into the wind (he was headed to Portland to visit a friend).  As I learned this I thought about the hill I had just flown down. "How do you brake on a big hill??" I asked, flabbergasted.

The amazing Chuck

Chuck explained that after burning through his first pair of shoes, he developed a duct tape braking system, piling the stuff on his soles on a daily basis in order to keep them intact. And you thought I was crazy, Mom. 

Props to you Chuck, wherever you are out there. 

The other person I met at the campground was Chris, a biochemist turned investment advisor. Chris was also a musician and a great conversationalist. We shared a picnic table at Devil's Lake for the first of many nights. 

On the road, the myriad worries of life boil down to the essentials: food, sleep, shower and laundry.  The abundance of towns and campgrounds make most of this a breeze, but laundry can be tricky. It was hard enough finding the time to let washed clothes dry in the hot sun of inland Washington.  I  managed to make it work only by arranging the still damp items artfully under my bungee cord straps before heading out for the day's ride.  But in the coastal rainforest of Oregon, that system was just not going to cut it. With this sad reality on my mind, and only one pair of clean socks left, I decided to take advantage of the park's city locale to visit my first laundromat. This provided a good opportunity to do some writing, and also treat myself to Dairy Queen just down the street. Oh, the night life of a cycle tourist.

Devil's Punchbowl

The next morning, the sky was clear blue. On his way out, Chris remarked that it was going to be another sunny day. Half an hour later, it was raining. Now I know why people laugh at me here when I inquire about the weather forecast (the usual response being "it could rain at any time"). I suppose I couldn't expect to stay dry on the coast forever.

In the end, the drizzle was no problem at all. Dreary enough to let Cape Foulweather make good its name, but mild enough to act as a pleasant coolant while I climbed. On the other side of the hill, I checked out Devil's Punchbowl, an area where the surf washes through a small rock aperture.  After marveling at the churning waters, I stopped in at Mo's - a popular seafood restaurant chain on the coast - for lunch. Mo's is known for having the world's best clam chowder (Jerry has vouched for this), and although cream does not make for great bike riding food, on this soggy morning I couldn't resist.

Chris taking a picture of the sunset

The sun came out in the afternoon. I stopped at the Oregon State University Science Centre, where I met Ursula the octopus and created my own solar system (it's really fun to watch what happens when you add a second sun). When I arrived at my campground of choice for the evening, I was pleasantly surprised to run into Chris. We went out to the beach to watch the sunset, and spent the evening talking about everything from families and careers to philosophy and music. It's amazing how the freedom and anonymity of the road can make conversation flow. As usual, I slept like a baby, dreaming of flat prairie highways.

Love always,

Dana

Climb Every Cape

 There are two types of hills on this route: those that roll steeply, and those that rise gently.  The San Juans introduced me to the former; the Oregon Coast is all about the latter. Steeply rolling hills may be mentally exhausting (just as you push over one peak, you see the road ahead climbing right back up at 80 degrees), but they have the advantage of momentum. The speed built from the previous descent propels you halfway up, at which point its often just a quick push to the top.

Gently rising hills require considerably more patience. The incline is gradual but never-ending, forcing you to settle into granny gear for the long haul. Often the grade is so slight as to be imperceptible, making you think that you've just suddenly become really slow. Discouraging to say the least.

View from Ecola State Park near Cannon Beach

My initiation to the slow-and-steady climb came on my second day of Oregon Coast riding. After catching the bus from Portland back to Astoria early Monday morning, I took my first day on the coast pretty easy, arriving in the resort town of Cannon Beach with plenty of time to explore the sandy shoreline. (I did actually climb a pretty serious hill at the end of the day to get to Ecola State Park, but I had already dropped my gear at the campground, and the view was more than worth the work- one of the most breathtaking spots on the coast, in my humble opinion).

I woke up the following morning rearing to go. By mid-morning I found myself moving down the highway at a slow crawl. The road seemed practically level, yet my legs resisted. I counseled myself to have patience - it was probably just a slight incline that would soon pass. Twenty minutes later, having sweat my weight's worth in water without gaining any speed, I became a little frustrated. Why was I so slow today, and whose idea was this bike touring thing anyways? Just as I was about to really lose it, I saw a viewpoint turnout. I rolled in to find people taking pictures and admiring the view. There were informational placards which described the construction of the "Neahkahnie Mountain Trail Road."  The name sounded familiar, and I vaguely recalled that it was mentioned in my guidebook, along with something about a long slow climb. Soon the pieces came together. I had just climbed a mountain. Go figure. Suddenly I didn't feel so pathetic.

Ecola State Park

Long climbs, of course, are rewarded by exhilirating descents. One word of advice: no matter how hot and sweaty you are at the top of that mountain, throw on a few layers before heading down. Learned from cold experience.

By mid-afternoon, I hit the town of Tillamook, renowned for its cheese factory turned tourist trap. This "attraction" was mostly a giant store, but it was fun to watch the factory workers process and package enormous chunks of cheese from the observation area. The samples were also enjoyable :) I even debated sending home a "cheesemail" - a video email message about my cheese factory experience sent via a cleverly placed machine. But the gimmickry was too much. I decided to blog about it instead. One purchase of smoked swiss and I was out of there.

By the time I grabbed groceries in town it was getting on 5pm, and I still had 20 miles to go according to my guidebook route. I debated staying at a campground in town, but finally decided to take the less scenic but more direct route to Camp Lookout State Park instead, bypassing the trip to Cape Meares (I figured there would be plenty more where that came from).

This turned out to be my favourite park of the entire trip. The hiker biker sites was set well apart from RV town in a whimsically foggy forest, just steps away from the beach. All for a whopping $6! Oregon knows how to treat cyclists right. I soon encountered a motley crew of cyclists from Seattle, who shared a beer with me as we watched the sunset on the sand. Sometimes life is sweet.

Once again I have run out of time - the library is about to close :(  Stay tuned for Climb Every Cape, Part II!

Achingly yours, 

Dana

Brews, Birds, and Bikes: The 48 Hour Portland Express, Part II

Some folks entertain themselves with dinner and a movie. Portlanders do things a little differently.  After all, why pay for Hollywood when you can see birds roosting for free!

Our next stop after the spectacle of the swifts was the Deschutes brewery.  I had already sampled a few Deschutes brews on Whidbey (and while bird-watching) and all had been excellent. Between the three of us, we ticked about 5 more off the menu. My favourite was the Conflux 2, which sounded like an operating system and tasted like a pine tree. The Wozenback with notes of sour cherry and bubble gum was also delicious.

Erik and Sasha getting married at the 24-hour Elvis wedding machine

It was around this time that I got drunk. Perhaps not a noteworthy event for some, but I'm a pretty sober girl these days, what with the biking down highways and all. Luckily I had excellent company, who were also rapidly losing their inhibitions. Inebriation loves company.

In my previous post, I listed some of the tempting eats Portland has to offer. But no culinary tour of the city would be complete without a food cart stop. When Erik first proposed this for dinner, I heard "food court" and was immediately overcome by a wave of bad mall memories.  He laughed, and I soon realized that this was an entirely different animal. Turns out Portland is teeming with chip-truck style food vendors which dish up everything from burgers to sushi and thai.  Now that's my kind of dining!

Sasha was really feeling the cage

Despite the fact that we'd already had beer for dinner, the boys and I stopped at the gyro stand (no Dad, I didn't join the dark side - I had falafel) for a little refreshment. Then began the club tour, during which Erik and Sasha showed me the city's top booty shaking establishments while I did my best to avoid consuming the various spirits Erik kept handing me, with mixed success (pun intended).  The rest of the evening was a blur, of which I will spare you the details, mostly because I can't remember them. I will only say that Erik may or may  not have gotten us kicked out of the gay bar for dancing three to a cage, and that he may or may not have been told off by a red-headed stripper.

 I slept until noon the next morning and woke up feeling great, thanks in large part to all the biking and the provolone grilled cheese Erik made us to top off the evening (we were, tragically, 10 minutes too late for the grilled cheese grill on Alberta). There's nothing like a healthy night of mayhem, topped with grease, to renew the spirit for those long miles ahead.

"Aw man! That fountain was wetter than I thought" -Erik

The heat was still in full force on Sunday, and I could have happily hunkered down with netflix for the afternoon, but time in a new city is precious and I was determined to explore. Besides, I would have felt pretty lazy next to my hosts had I spent the day watching TV. While Sara was studying for a nursing exam, Erik was spending long days renovating their basement, with the goals of making the entire house into a triplex rental unit.  This allowed Erik to put his training in custom furniture design to practical use, and cemented my future plan to move in permanently :)

Portland loves bikes!  On the way to the greyhound station there was actually bike commuter traffic.

   I decided to head downtown as I wanted to pick up a t-shirt and a new book. As soon as I said the world "book," Erik and Sara knew where to send me. Seems like Powell's books is something on an institution in Portland.  This new and used bookstore takes up an entire block, with several floors and rooms colour coded by genre. Now, those of you who know me know that I absolutely love bookstores -  I really am like a kid in a candy store amongst all those worlds of words. You can imagine how dazzled I was. Having to pick just one was a bit torturous, but I had a lot of fun browsing (and I'm sure my folks are glad that I wasn't able to add to my homeless library which they are currently storing).

After picking up a t-shirt at the thrift store across the street, I spent the rest of the afternoon walking randomly around downtown, mostly chasing food carts. When I got home, I caught the tail end of a BBQ hosted by Erik's neighbours and reluctantly began to prepare for an early departure the next morn. Sad though it was to leave my new friends (and soft bed!) I had the whole Oregon Coast ahead of me. A new chapter of adventure.

See you again soon, Portland. Save some mac n' cheese for me!




Dana

Brews, Birds and Bikes: The 48 Hour Portland Express

 Portland is a city with a reputation. A place where bicycle commuters are thoughtfully accommodated rather than run down for points. Where being out of style makes you all the more trendy (this usually involves ugly vintage clothing).  Where people think progressively (lots of lesbians). A place where the young go to retire...or to work on that album.This is how the hipster diaspora imagines its homeland (for Portland is the birthplace of the hipster).  When I told a girl from Olympia that I'd heard good things about her city, she smiled in delight and divulged that she liked to think of it as a little piece of Portland.

My Portland hosts - Erik and Sara

Needless to say, Portland had a lot to live up to as I arrived on the greyhound bus from Astoria to spend the weekend. I was not disappointed. This was due, in large part, to my amazing hosts - Erik and his fiance Sara - who not only opened their home to me but also their city.

Saturday alone was epic. Erik and I had barely stepped out the door before we were asked to be extras in "Portlandia" - a local TV show making fun of all things Portland - which just happened to be filming around the corner. I must confess I was initially drawn in by the offer, but Erik knew better. Once we found out that we'd basically just be standing in line for an hour, the glamour of the role quickly dissipated.  Besides, why wait around when Star Trek in the Park was taking place just across the street.

Star Trek in the park!

We joined the large audience, and I soon saw what all the fuss was about. It was Trek with all its trappings: Captain Kirk, Spock, the bridge, the tasers, those tight leotard suits. The production even had live intergalactic sound effects.  Screw Shakespeare, this was outdoor entertainment!  My Mom (a longstanding trekkie) would have loved it.


Unfortunately we could not stay to find out if Kirk and the crew ever escaped from the parallel universe in which they were entrapped; we had plans to drive out to Sandee River with friends to get some relief from the heat, which still had not abated.

Sasha, Erik, Sara, Ramman and I at the river

The river was refreshing, and everyone seemed to appreciate the break from busy city life. After lunching on some delicious (and massive!) burritos from a favourite local Mexican place, I went off to do some solo exploring along Alberta street. As I walked this strip of trendy hippy (as opposed to trendy yuppie) restaurants, shops and food carts, I felt for the first time since I'd started my trip that my capacity for eating was not great enough. Within five minutes, I had picked out at least 3 places that I absolutely had to try before leaving - including a baked macaroni and cheese joint and an ice cream shop serving flavours such as "pear and gorgonzola," "almond brittle with salty ganache," and "brown ale and bacon." (Umm...I think I can actually recite the entire menu...)

Portlanders like to get creative with their vehicles...

The dazzling array of comestibles was matched by an equally impressing selection of microbrewed beer. Standing in front of the IPA section (yes, that's right, section) in one store, I was at a loss. Luckily each variety came with a poetic narrative describing the origin of the brew along with its many subtle flavours. I could have easily been lost forever in this mecca of delicious, but Erik had other adventures in store, and I knew I needed to get home.

The swifts circling the school chimney

A little before dusk, Erik, his friend Sasha, and I set out towards downtown on our bikes. Our initial destination was a school with a large chimney that served as a roosting spot for thousands of swifts each September. The birds arrived at dusk, swirling en masse around the chimney until they were gradually drawn inwards for the night. It was quite a sight to see. Perhaps more impressive were the flocks of people. Couples cuddled on blankets, teenagers snapped photos on their phones, Moms and Dads opened snacks from little plastic baggies, and kids slid down the grassy slope on giant pieces of cardboard, running, laughing and crying all the way (guess that's what you do when you don't get snow).  We sipped cold beers while looking through Sasha's binoculars for signs of the hawk that sometimes hits the chimney for an easy meal.

Right before we almost hit the toddler

The audience oohed and aahed as the swifts changed flight patterns, their numbers shrinking and swelling incomprehensibly.  Finally, they all filtered into the chimney like a great bird vortex, to the clapping and cheering of the crowd.  Erik was disappointed that the hawk didn't make an appearance, so we did a few runs down the hill on a borrowed piece of cardboard to cheer him up. I laughed and then screamed as we nearly ran over a small toddler walking up the hill. But the fun had only begun...

Alas, my internet time is nearly gone. I will have to save the rest of the Portland extravaganza (and pictures!) for a sequel post!  Until then,

Dana

Coast or Bust

It took me 3 days to bike from Olympia out to the Pacific Coast.  What I remember most is the sweat.  Running down my face, sticking to my back, stinging in my eyes. Whoever thought of plucking eyebrows never went cycling in 40 degree heat, or else they would have understood what those bushy babies are good for.

 Needless to say it was hot. Not that I am complaining. As many of you know, I am a sun lover.  Given Victoria's recent pathetic excuse for a summer, it is especially gratifying to finally broil a bit.  Still, it's not always easy baking in mother nature's oven.

Statue of a logger in Raymond

For one thing, I have to wear sunscreen. Normally I would rely on my olive skin tone to save me from burns, while brashly ignoring the scientific fact that I am still at risk for skin cancer.  However, when it comes to sun exposure, 5 hours on the highway is significantly more intense than an hour on the beach.   This was confirmed when I finally saw myself naked in the mirror the other day, and thought that I still had clothes on.  I guess this means I have to put sunscreen on my legs too, huh? And here I thought I was doing the responsible thing by covering my face and shoulders.  Not that the extra application would  make a difference anyways - after all, the sunglasses tan (which actually just looked like I had dirt smeared on my nose) was just as bad as the bike short border.

Applying sunscreen is kind of a pain, but it would not be so bad if it weren't for the layer of sweat-sunscreen grime that inevitably ensues.  All you Ontarians know what I'm talking about. You go into an air-conditioned building on a hot day, and all of sudden you notice that you are covered by a sticky substance that feels like a pie crust and smells like a pina colada. As you move from hot to cold spaces multiple times, the crust layers actually build on top of each other until you can no longer tell where your skin ends and your crust begins.  In other words, you are gross.

Cape Disappointment Lighthouse

The flip side to the crust is how good it feels to finally wash it off at the end of the day.  One little habit that I have developed along this trip is to go swimming at the end of the day whenever I can.  The temperatures may be a little on the chilly side but nothing feels better after a full day of grime-building than a dip in the ocean (or river or lake!).


Unfortunately, apart from the less-than-pristine Lake Sylvia, the road out to the Coast did not abound with water sources, or any other signs of civilization for that matter (unless you count people who own RVs but don't know how to drive them).  What settlement there was was entirely based upon the timber industry.  The ride from Montesano to Raymond was particularly dominated by cut blocks and logging trucks.  Not to mention the loggers themselves, staring at me and my bike in total bewilderment from cafe windows. At one point I actually stared back and waved, thinking this would cause them to blush in embarassment. They just kept staring.

On the plus side, the lack of sights to see on this stretch of my journey led to significant progress in mileage. When your only resting option is at the side of the highway, it seems to make sense to just keep going.  Before I knew it, I had done 23 miles without stopping in a single morning.

Finally, as I rolled into Ilwaco on my third day, I began to smell the fishy sea mist and see the canneries appearing along the road.  That night I stayed at Cape Disappointment State Park, so named by Lewis and Clark, two pioneers of the Pacific Northwest who apparently did not enjoy their stay in the area.  In my opinion, however, disappointment,  is entirely the wrong word for the place.  Dripping in fog, shipwrecks and death, this park would be better described as sublimely eerie (as nature so often is).

In the morning, I woke up early and hiked down to one of the two lighthouses located in the park to help ships navigate the dangerous mouth of the Columbia River.  The forest was shrouded in thick fog.  As I walked the narrow path, it felt like it was raining all around me.  The fog eventually burned off and the views of the ocean were breathtaking. I was reminded of the magnificent temperate rainforest near Tofino on Vancouver Island.

My first tunnel

Around lunchtime, I packed up my gear and prepared for the final push to the Oregon border.  The ride was short, but two big challenges loomed: my first tunnel and the 5-mile-long bridge connecting the Coast of Washington to Astoria, Oregon.  Just in case I wasn't already sweating enough.

The tunnel was quick but utterly terrifying. Despite having pushed the button to let motorists know there was a bicycle in there, I pedaled my little heart out, vowing to buy the highest wattage rear light I could find should I survive.  On the other side, I stopped to recover only to catch my first glimpse of the notorious Astoria bridge.

 At this point I was enveloped by paranoia. "What was that wooshing noise my bike was making? Was my wheel going to blow? What if I got a flat tire on the bridge?  Holy god, that thing looks long.  I must be crazy."

Astoria Bridge

Trying not to hyperventilate, I approached the bridge.  Just as I was about to turn onto it, I noticed a sign warning of construction up ahead. So much for staying calm. As it turned out, however, the construction was a blessing in disguise. Near the side I started on, the bridge was down to one lane, which meant that cars from each side of the road had to slow down and take turns crossing over the part under construction.  As cars waited on my side, the person directing traffic let me go ahead, advising me to ride as fast as possible before he had to let my side go. No pressure.

Steep street in Astoria. A premonition of things to come?

The only thing to do was focus and pedal.  The construction workers cheered, the wind blew, a big-ass hill appeared out of nowhere 4 miles in, but my eye did not stray from that blessed white shoulder line nor my legs from their rhythm.  As I made my way across I thought of little Erik, who cried the entire way when he and his father biked over the bridge so many years ago. If a nine year old could do it, so could I.

To all the seamen who speak of how perilous it is to cross Columbia, I say this: if you think a ship is hard, try it on a bicycle.



Stickily Yours,

Dana

P.S.  Please note that I made a few corrections in my post about Whidbey Island (because I'm anal like that). For one thing, Veronika and Erik both spell their names with a "k" rather than a "c." Also, the surprise party was for Veronika's niece, not her sister.

P.P.S. My camera is being stupid, so no pictures this time.  Will add them as soon as I am able!!

The Olympia Connection

When visiting a new city, first impressions can be very important. The first thing I encountered on my arrival to Olympia was a bike path :) The second was a hipster on a bike saying "Way to go! You made it!"

I looked at him, puzzled.

"I see you're bike touring," he explained. "I've been there. Is there anything you need or anything I can help you with?" 

"Actually yeah. I'm looking for a map of the city."

"Well I don't have a bike map on me, but there's one at this house I'm headed to. It's also a bike shop, if that's useful."

Another befuddled look.

The free store beside the food co-op in West Olympia

"Well, it's where all the bike mechanics live," he explained. I soon found out that my new friend Alexander was at the hub (no pun intended) of the Olympia bike community. He'd also done a fair bit of touring, including a trip to San Fran. He asked me where I was staying and I told him the name of the hostel I'd booked that morning.

"Oh, I helped start that hostel! It's right near here. I'll show you."

Somehow, within an hour of arrival, I had acquired my own personal Olympia bike guru guide. Not too shabby Olympia, not too shabby.

We took a detour so Alexander could show me where the hostel was before arriving at his friends' house. Alexander warned me it was kind of a "dude" house, which I soon discovered meant lots of weed and video games. When I mentioned I was from Victoria, one of the guys asked "How's Luke?"

At first I took this to be a typical instance of American ignorance, and was in the process of explaining that Victoria had 250,000 people and that I didn't even know a Luke when I realized that I did know a Luke - the guy from Recyclistas. Oh. I explained how he had helped me fix up my bike as they nodded knowingly. Apparently bike geeks know no borders.

All of this was fortuitous, since I had come to Olympia mainly to get my bike fixed. The city was not on the prescribed guidebook route, so I decided to stop in the town of Shelton (still on my route) to ask about the best bike route into the city. As it was the labour day holiday Monday I wasn't expecting to find much. Luckily there was a very friendly cafe and bookstore open. The man inside just happened to ride his motorbike into Olympia on a regular basis, and gave me very detailed direcions on how to avoid the worst part of highway 101 (which I somehow failed to follow, but still, worth a try).  He also encouraged me to use the public cafe computer to book a hostel. This was a classic example of the small town friendliness I've encountered time and again on this trip. I am consistently amazed at how much energy people in small communities will invest to help a perfect stranger find their way. 

In addition to fixing my bike, I'd always heard that Olympia was a pretty cool town, and wanted to check it out. Unfortunately, I spent most of my time there taking care of business - laundry, internet, supplies and bike repair. As it turned out there were a couple of bike shops open on the holdiay (the dude house seemed a bit too engrossed in video games...) As I pulled up to the first one and rounded the corner, I noticed a line of homeless people against the back wall. I later learned that this was a popular hangout due to the presence of Olympia's famous artesian well, which is reputed to spout the tastiest water in the land (the theory behind the homeless presence being that the police can't bug you for collecting public water).

Inside the bike shop, I met a single harried mechanic with more work to do than he had time to do it in. He did, however, point me to "Bike & Bike," a volunteer-run bike shop across the street which did repairs by donation. Now that's my kind of bike shop.  And, lo and behold, the volunteer there had been learning under the tutelage of none other than my good friend Alexander. Well colour me charmed. This town felt like just the right size, with a healthy helping of granola.

After getting the bike work done, I sweated up the giant hill leading from downtown to West Olympia in order to finally check into the hostel. Not surprisingly, the place was cute as can be and had everything a girl on tour could want, from laundry, to world map shower curtains, to dried herbs grown right on the premises. There were also chickens in the backyard, though I didn't get any offers for fresh eggs :(

At the hostel, I met another woman named Li Anne who was also cycling solo (and blogging!). She had just spent the last 5 weeks exploring Puget Sound, and was on her way home in a few days. She gave me plenty of cycling tips, and we exchanged blog links, vowing to follow each other's adventures.

Li Anne and I in front of our hostel, "Chez Cascadia"

I would have liked to stay a day in Olympia to explore the city, but the road was calling me. I knew I wanted to spend a few days in Portland, and was anxious to get to the Oregon border.  Guess I'll just have to take another trip!

The First Flat

Necessity is the mother of learning to fix your bike. I got my first flat tire only a few miles after landing on the Washington mainland. So much for my dream of riding miraculously flat free all the way to San Francisco.

Arriving in Port Townsend from Whidbey

Luckily it was still early in the day, the sun was shining and there was a turnout nearby where I could work.  A quick look at the tire revealed the source of the flat - a sharp piece of wood poking through the tire. I found the hole in the tube, patched it, replaced the tube in the tire, pumped it up and was starting to feel a little bit proud of myself when I picked up the tire and noticed it appeared to have lost some air. For a second I actually debated ignoring this rather obvious sign that my patch job had failed - ignorance, after all, is bliss.  I soon realized, however, that ignorance in this instance was just a tire still flat. Since I didn't want to spend too long on the side of the road (and I knew I would soon lose my patience) I used my spare tube the second time around, with success. I may have looked like a coal miner (another cyclist actually said this to me!) but I was back on the road.

If only life were so simple. Once again, I was faced with post-tire-removal brake trouble. Apparently brakes without a tire between them are like body piercings without studs - the hole quickly fills in. Okay it's probably me and not the brakes, but nevertheless, I noticed that my back brakes were rubbing against my tire. I decided to give a little more slack in the cable, which led me to the unfortunate discovery that there was hardly any slack to give, and what there was was frayed like my hair first thing in them morning.

At this point I ran into another cyclist from Sweden, who very helpfully told me I should probably get that fixed, and to avoid using my brake. Never mind the fact that we were ten miles from biking over a mountain.

Another 15 miles down the road and I arrived in the town of Quilcene. I had planned to go over the mountain and into a state park, but it was getting late, and after some debate I decided to stay at the campground in town. This turned out to be a good decision. I happened to catch a pretty decent show at the annual Quilcene Shindig, got myself organized, and was able to think much more clearly about my bike situation in the morning.

Locus Street Taxi put on a really fun show

First, I noticed that my brake pad had popped out - hence the rubbing. I did my best to jam it back in and also trued the wheel to ensure it fully cleared the brakes (I'm slow enough without my brakes dragging on my wheel, thank you very much). I also discovered that my original patch job didn't work because there was actually a second hole. Another patch plus a few more minor adjustments and I was in pretty good shape. The back brake cable still needed replacing, but would hold out for the time being.  Maybe I would take a side trip to Olympia to get it fixed as I've always wanted to go there...


Lesson learned: the most important resource for solving a problem is a clear head. It's amazing what a good night's sleep will do. 

hello highway! we are going to be spending a lot of time together...

Until next time (or "a hui hou," as my new friend Li Anne - a one-time Hawaiian local - says),

Dana

P.S. I added pictures to all of my previous posts. Check it out!!