1. Stagnation. That wretched disease like cancer growing stea lth i ly and steadily from too much time and comfort and the same unremitting scenery. Stagnation. The opaque window furnishing restlessness – chain smoking, calculating ways to smash t he platitudinous glass and escape to a life less funeral. It h ad to happen. Quit work; abandon the nest before it becomes a coffin in an ever-deeper grave. Wa l ls surging inward in the form of unpaid parking tickets, imminent court dates, and a job yielding anxieties not worth t he petty cash. Besides, wise men crack resources, not forty- hour workweeks. My constitution was three fold: build a bike, ste a l some camping gear, and let go… it had to happen. My contrivance was not without precedent. Months earlier I’d fallen in love with touring around Wash ington State with several different bicycles. In its wake mundane hours at work only exacerbated my restless condition. The memories of previous touring escapades would assault my subjugated subconscious without end; under a bodysuit of dirt, pedaling fast but moving slow. Awestruck, humbled by throngs of towering evergreens. The sky, with finger closed in the mountains’ door crying rain from Queets to Aberdeen. Peanut butter and grits – fuel for miles of scenic national forest and distant blue ranges comprising most of the Olympic peninsula. Snow capped glacial peaks like frosting where the tree line recedes… those beautiful flashbacks fused with the ceaseless projections of a new unrestricted period on the road with a bike and no bounds. Fuck a timecard. I seek a return to the void where big and little hand cease movement, propagating fretless rides defying linear confines. It had to happen. October 15th , 2007. Day one of t he “seagulls and snot-rockets” west coast tour. The morning sun, in true Seattle fash ion lays lost in the sky choked off and of no rea l benefit behind a dense wall of clouds. A few stray raindrops pepper my hoodie as I cruise downtown to the ferry terminal; a prelude to the next weeks weather. In th e delica te rain I wait – the lone cyclist gathering stares from car sea t windows, looking like a true madman with my steel burro a l l packed to capacity heading out on the front lines the bike jih ad. The engines of the ferry purr in accordance with the vessels steel drum percussion - its behemoth hull serenading me as we part the choppy waves of Puget Sound. The landscape pans by steadily, pa inted in a crude blue-gray th at consumes everyth ing it touches. Even the surrounding evergreens fa l l victim to th is harsh varia tion of the color wheel; t he Northwest’s’ own cruel Midas touch. Ch arging through t he
sound I try to savor the sa lty smell of the Pacif ic’s’ waters drafted inland past scores of islands and straits to the greater Seattle area. It dissipates slowly, like an ebbing olfa ctory tide as we reach port and th a t vast, wet, blue giant becomes obsolete behind me cranking steadily inland and with it too the beautiful emerald city of Seattle is now lost, out of sight, but I’m too excited to really miss it just yet.
Those first miles come the hardest. The awkward abundance of cargo like lead to unaccustomed legs. Those first miles, first h il ls, f irst days… In the incessant fall ra in every “first” seems to beckon reconsideration. Avoiding meltdowns becomes an all- consuming effort. First nights, h assled out of renegade camping spots, cursing in sleep-deprived stupor at cha llenging adjustments to the food/ shelter conundrum. No turning back, not th is early. Retire self-doubt to the fa lling sun and hatch fresh “ZZZzzzs” under each new moon. At the Wash ington-Oregon border another first is unveiled: accomplishment. Its glory h owever, is fleeting. The trek into Oregon is one no bike tourer forgets – I’d heard many a ta le spoken with h ints of great conquest and dashes of misery crossing into Oregon south on the 101 and now before me an epic bridge of four miles spans the gap between states, cruelly stationed at the mouth of the Columbia River where gusts of oceanic wind sweep over the roadway urging bicycles to diverge from its narrow shoulders into t he intermittent traff ic. Stay ing alive means staying focused sole ly on the pavement a head. Th is is why after three fierce ly earned miles the forth and final one is so torturous. Here, the bridge rises dramatically off the river in a long, ha rsh grade th a t feels eternal when experienced through the narrow scope of vision vita l to not becoming fla ttened by logging trucks steaming down the 101. The climb, when lived three feet at a time demands strength of several varieties. Mantras ensue, revela tions are found, and after all is sa id and done a capacity for conquering topograph ic nightmares is to be had. As is t he ultimate satisfaction of never having to do it again - an a ttitude which seems to preva il for most victors.
“Bike in” discounts offer rejuvenating powers in the form of hearty vegan chow a t Astoria’s’ Blue Scorcher Café. It was here I found sanctuary in the classic form of a cozy, coasta l northwest café gazing out t he window about people meandering in the afternoon from behind a warming pot of mint before retiring to a desperate plot by the river. An intense storm, apparently commonplace to Astorians sought the destruction of my improvised and unprotected nylon
homestead as nightfa l l descended upon me. Two of my Oregonian compatriots, one old and one new, rescued me from certain misery in the midst of a violent down pour and together we retreated to a homemade meal of raw “fettuccine alf redo” and hot tea cozily enjoyed with sides of epic ta les garnished with fresh smiles and laughter affording me the opportunity to forget all about my thoroughly waterlogged gear. Home cooked breakfast prepared a l l morning (yet casually, like the way the sun rises without urgency but just stretches slowly into the sky) began a new day – noting the gale outside bend plant bodies and whipping whole sections of trees sp spending a dew hours inside content wit h fork fulls of tofu fritta ta and sweet potato hash (chomp, chomp, what a surly mess out there! chomp, chomp…) After contemplating beached shipwrecks by the ocean jetty we sought the inconspicuous woods with the ir h idden, mysterious trails of seemingly random origins and ends to carry us on a dusk jaunt through bea t, muddy paths th a t would eventually f ind us perched atop a profound hilltop easily distinguishable from the Wash ington border. From th is vantage point the entire landscape spilled out in all directions; however, growing continua lly less palpable as the inky dark of night restored its mysteriousness. Regarding the spectacle below - peaceably absorbing the feelings it induced lying high above everyth ing around… this is escape, this is adventure, this is the void where time gets forgotten. This is winning... And then it was “goodbye.” Bound by some infa llible force urging me down the coast. Taunting me with t he prospects of new towns waiting to be discovered. The fruits of travel, plump and idle, awaiting the hands of those who seek their sweet, juicy, reward.
Bathing in fluorescence at the Laundromat in Newport, Oregon. Belongings scattered across the folding table; awa iting clothes transformed from a ra in-induced state. Five kids donning heelwheel skating shoes skate around the rows of washers and dryers in a hyperactive frenzy unabated by the minimalist parenting Mother nearby. The oldest of the pack, a little blond girl, approaches me as I mend torn jeans and asks, “Are you a traveler?” “Yes.” “Have you ever been to China?” “No, not yet. Maybe someday,” and as I step outside lighting yet another fresh ly rolled cigarette I’m digging thoughts of traveling the Far East.
2. Dawn. The sun lazily stretch ing over t he horizon in Newport, Oregon. From my sidewalk bed under a library awning I too begin to rise. The morning papers lands with a “THUD,” and slides across the ground from th e window of a delivery truck making morning rounds. Under th e morning skies newborn Technicolor pinks and lavenders I stir, peeling off my dew dropped sleeping bag, embracing the fog of wak ing breaths aga inst crisp morning air. Heading south on h ighway shoulders. Crossing bridge after bridge with ocean bound creeks and rivers glistening under the wrought trusses and spans standing like the limbs of giants over trickling cul de sac gutters. Navigating the Oregon Coast without any real schedule to abide by. Instead, a facile rhythm dicta ted by the rise and fall of the sun arbitrating feasible riding and thus, sleeping hours. Crude breakfast of commandeered oatmea l or similarly bland mush. Rolling out of yet another make sh ift resting place before its rea l owners return – which actually h appened one morning in Gold Beach: From my hobo camp on the landing of a dentists office I watched a receptionists black SUV arrive a ll too early upon me and my possessions carelessly splayed out from unpacked panniers littering the ground around me. The sound of footsteps precede a subitaneous halt, bemused assessment, and mildly ira te interrogation as I quickly packed my th ings and beat out of town before the requisite cop arrives to the call of a distraught citizen to smite the sight of vagrancy from a fearful and paranoid public eye.
Back on the road. Supplementing canyons of derma l grime where once there were only wrinkles. Taking breaks from counting mile markers to watch steam wisp off evacuated fluids. Pedaling calm, yet relentlessly for hours with stiff neck, numb hands, and raw ass. Watch ing the sun dive into t he Pacif ic hoping you’ll make it to another neglected nook of another small town before those rays of ligh t expire completely. Flip “bruta l tape” again, grab another bootleg Cl if bar, and charge ahead into the unknown. Torn atlas pages yield potentia l towns for opportunist camping down the line and you’ll make it if you’re already gone. Likenesses of bike touring to the classic indoor recess computer game The Oregon Trail begin to unfold. Only a prescribed amount of shoplif ted groceries can be feasibly packed into panniers like the conundrum of hunted meat yielded during the Oregon Trails’ timelessly enduring point and
click shooting game. The faster and more relentless the pace of the game too, the greater the deterioration inflicted on the parties hea lth. The bane, signified by crude, sixth grade inspired pioneer names on poorly animated tombstones holds true touring as well. Crossing the Oregon-California border I found myself intensely ill, resorting to an extra rest day holed up in an abandoned crab cannery in Crescent City. The next day, sick and sweaty, h acking little yellow yolks onto endless, miserable, pavement I contemplated a ll the birds so much like me migrating to warmer, more hospitable locales. Sad and salty, climbing hil ls in my humblest granny I learned what it must feel like to be such a bird; flapping hard against the sea breeze going nowhere. Having no wings, (instead: cha inrings) I fought to persevere with starving stomach and variably enduring spirit to Arcata digging Maya Angelou all the way… byways and bygone/ and lone nights long/ sun rays and sea waves/ and star and stone/ manless and friendless/ no cave my home/ this is my torture/ my long nights lone.
3. Real folk heroes live, and you can find them all around. Easier surely on small, empty h ighways through forgotten coasta l towns but indeed all around. Rea l folk heroes exist – screaming “Food not Bombs!” (or “Food not cops”) til l’ hoarse, chapped throats induce quiet. Folk heroes live - wh ispering about redwood fog in small town Nor cal graveyards near dawn, or walk Hwy. 1 all the way from Monterey to Big Sur, (at night!) then, resting foodless and hungry in Gorda only to be given free sandwiches and coffee and sugar cookies shaped and frosted like day glo pumpkins. Real folk heroes. Like the old, prophe t cowboy smoking a joint outside the general store in San Gregorio, reminiscing about Harmony, California, pop. 13. And so from the tip of king-sized S h arpie leaps script declaring, “folk heroes live!” on walls or road signs in solidarity and reflection of real folk. Folk with the courage to work and be humble or retire each day from pesticida l fields to a nondescript Mexican café in Guada lupe – nursing a beer, watching kids kick a soccer ball back and forth a ll down the sidewalk and out of sight past the water tower in the distance. Solidarity with those men play ing waltzes and polkas all night from the beat café jukebox where I too have retired to burrito of rice and bean. Real folk heroes live...
4. A daily game of hide and seek,
or rather “seek and h ide” becomes the ritual upon reach ing the city limits of my ending destination each night. Perennial bounties of formidable shelter exist when frolicking down the coast so after a tireless day working the shoulderless, winding grades from Garberville to Fort Bragg I sought refuge with in the confines of Mendocino. Without trying, I stumble upon an abandoned home quietly residing on a rocky bluff jutting stra ight out of the Pacific Ocean where a sinking sun, like a neon charged scoop of orange sherbet, slowly melts away, reflecting its image on calm seas. The house, so classy and in fact strangely immaculate seems to beckon the question “what h appened?” I soon come to the conclusion someone had to have been brutally murdered here. Though no blood sta ins loiter in sight the wa lls seems to be h iding some secret th a t I suspect para llels the Amityville Horror. In the black of night, f iling journal pages under dim headligh t beam I waited anxiously for blood curdling screams or decapita ted specters to spew forth from the darkness in retalia t ion of my trespasses.
Outside Santa Cruz, golden year RVers and uninspired campers from all over retreat to the KOA campground on San Andreas Rd. Many a fool here shell out top dollar for its KOA cabins and the excessive on site amenities from showers to arcade room to climbing wa l l and even miniature golf course. Somehow th is particular subspecies of traveler is able to justify wasting assumedly h ard earned cash for bunk ass cabins la id out like a suburban development off the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. To the clever traveler however, the site of a KOA facili ty lurking on the map is an opportunity far too enterprising to pass up. For all the upscale offerings one might figure KOA, who employs men on golf carts to enforce security would h ave t he presence of mind to lock the vacant cabin doors or even shut t he windows secured merely by screens easily cut when windows are extended on open hinges. However, th is doesn’t seem to worry KOA, so capita l izing on their passivity and oblivion I rest my bike on the back porch of a vacant cabin and huck it out to the showers to partake in a session of indifferent wash ing and uninhibited masturbation establish ing a quick “fuck you” to t he fla i ling mandate of capita lism perta ining to the notion th a t traveling ought to cost someth ing. Toweling off, a smug sense of invisibility blossoms in my head and I retreat to my commandeered cabin to endless “roll yr’ owns” on the porch swing as dinner rice simmers in its pot near my feet. Admission fee be damned! The best th ings in life are truly free – so I slept best th a t night (like all the other nights) – truly.
5. Everyday there is An untold retinue of us folk at work – or rather at play,
traveling by train, car, foot, bicycle, or otherwise, seeing a l l the mysterious corners of the world or even our own backyards and digging it a ll or sometimes even buckling under its enormity and then learning the most important th ings in life about courage and audacity and finding out just wha t you can do when you take off into the great fog of uncerta inty just mad to find out what lays beyond – realiz ing with each new step or mile marker “I’ve come this far, this far, this far…” and warmly laughing then at diaries entries and photos from only a week ago rea lizing with great fruition just how much pulp can be extracted in the fruit of th is life. Even the harder days on the road away from home th a t don’t feel at all like winning (wish i ng instead th a t you were anywhere else in the world) bestow th e lesson of a llowing you to rea lize just wha t about home you actua lly miss and seek to reconnect with down the line. And for every steep grade endured in the footh il ls of anguish there is the certainty of knowing its misery has a finite peak and as I say, descends back down on the other side and now footh i lls are noth ing to fret and in time lots can be cast upon mountains. And don’t you know th a t there is just so much more to be discovered – and we’re finding it out, not from pictures, or books, or the same sta le media th a t anyone can ingest, but first h and with a l l we see and hear and touch and feel and taste – learning and sharing. It has to happen.