Ain't No Mountain High Enough

Dear readers, I have left you too long! The truth is that, while my blog is still back in pot county California, my bicycle adventures have been over for a little while now. Back home with family in London, Ontario, I have been too busy sleeping in a soft bed, taking hot baths and poring over my wardrobe options (quite a thrill after wearing the same t-shirt for a month straight) to write much. Luckily, the usual two days of post-homecoming familial bliss have passed, ushering me quickly into the phase of familial madness and making a couple of hours of alone time at the computer seem far more appealing (Just kidding Mom. We're still on for scrabble later, right?) Besides, fun as it may be, I would never leave you in Humboldt county. Friends don't let friends become gun-toting potheads.

Let's pick up where we left off, the morning after potluck and flag-making adventures at Richardson Grove state park.  Having stopped early the previous day (recall that I erroneously believed our initial park destination of Standish Hickey to be closed), we had 15 miles of uphill riding just to get to the base of the infamous Leggett Hill, the highest peak of the trip at over 2000 feet. The climb marked the beginning of our transition from faithful 101 to the windy and shoulderless 1, California's scenic, albeit sketchy, coastal highway.  It loomed large in our dreams, bolstered by rumours and guidebook warnings.



Leggett Hill proved the other half of my theory. While an unexpected mountain is undoubtedly more difficult to climb, an overly anticipated one is surprisingly easy.  In the case of Leggett, it helped that we conquered over half of the total elevation before even arriving at the base of the hill.  I was also feeling exceptionally strong that morning, up early and pumped to tackle the challenge of the day. The miles leading up to the hill flew by, and before long I found myself at a convenience store across from the apparently open Standish Hickey, chatting with two cyclists who had stayed there the previous night and were getting a late start to the day. They were still sucking on their morning cigarettes as I zoomed away, eager to get going again after downing an energy bar. 



The hill began right after I turned onto highway 1, winding up a quiet, narrow and shoulderless road. I settled into granny gear and breathed steadily as my newly acquired thighs of steel pushed me upwards. I felt invincible; it was still early, the sun was shining and the hardest hill of my journey would soon be behind me. My enthusiasm was only slightly dampened when the two smokers passed me about a third of the way up. Once again, life is not fair.



Although the climb was long, it felt easy. I stopped at the top to have lunch and take the feeling in. About ten minutes later, Justin rolled up, soon followed by Brent and Katie. We flew downhill together full of joy, Brent flapping his arms in the air as I grabbed my camera to take video footage at 30 miles an hour. 

As soon as we made it back to sea level, we saw the next incline before us, a second 600 foot summit that we had brushed off as an afterthought with Leggett on our minds. This proved the first half of my theory  again.  The hill that had seemed inconsequential in the shadow of the giant was actually...a...(pant)..little..(pant pant)..steep. We struggled to the top like earthquake victims hit by an aftershock just when it seemed like the shaking was finally over. Another quick downhill and we found ourselves facing the breathtaking ocean, framed by tall pink grasses blowing in the breeze. Brent passed out for a moment on the road while Justin got a headstart on the next leg.  I took pictures and felt grateful that the hard part was finally over - or so I thought.

Another 10 miles down the road and we were in the town of Westport, where we stopped at the outrageously overpriced general store to buy dinner supplies. The woman behind the counter informed us that a murderer from the nearby town of Fort Bragg was on the loose, but we were more concerned with the price of beer. We were also able to finally settle a dispute over the pronunciation of MacKerricher state park, where we were headed for the evening (I said "mack-er-racker" to the great amusement of all. It turned out to be "mack-err-rich-er," but my version stuck) We lingered on the patio, hot and exhausted, telling ourselves that we were just about there with only 12 flat miles to go until camp.

They looked flat on the map, at least. True, these rolling ups and downs were nothing compared to what we had just done, but our exhaustion more than made up for it.  Wanting it to be over already, I pushed out ahead in a sustained sprint, only to bonk two miles down the road. I pulled over to eat some trail mix while my friends caught up and the road laughed at me (great, now I was hallucinating too). After what felt like forever, we finally arrived at the campground. In a flurry of elated high fives we decided to pitch in for firewood; after 60 of the hilliest miles on the coast, a little celebration was in order. 

At the campsite we ran into our old friend Wayne. The five of us loaded up with beer, chips and salsa, and went down to the beach to watch the sunset.  By the time we had eaten and started a fire, we were all exhausted. It doesn't take much to kill a cycle tourist party.  But the day had been so much fun that it hardly mattered - definitely the most challenging and the most rewarding ride of my trip.

In Ecstatic Exhaustion,  

Dana