I wish at this point, more than 2 months after arriving home in LA, as i make a feeble attempt to use my brain on the weekend, i had forced myself to finish back when it was all a little more fresh. And i'm taking a moment to fully disclose that the remaining entries will likely contain some re-visioning.
I'm a different version of the cross-country cyclist i was earlier this summer: i often have moments of sense memory so strong, that Uta's corpse lifts her weary head for a moment or two and bows honor in my direction, until the feeling passes. Random shocks. In preparation for a camping trip last weekend (in real time, September) - the annual Son of Semele Ensemble retreat - i huffed deeply the scent of my tent and sleeping bag, getting a little stoned from the scent of Big Sur and Bryce Canyon, and the place in Colorado where i pitched my tent in the wind and rain and said fuck it and slept indoors, and the stanky hotel rooms where i used the sleeping bag instead of the bedcovers, and all the other places, back to the Catawba Valley General Store in Virginia, if that's what it was called. ... Ok, i'm lying. Sniffing the sleeping bag didn't get me high, nor could i really smell Utah or Kentucky on there. But it does trigger the Completely Changed Me, still bubbling and rumbling underneath the Regular Me, the one who returned to Real Life and mirrors - both the rearview and the one that tells me that i'm not really that different from who i was before May 12, 2009. Or am i?
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Day 54 - Happy Birthday, America! (You're Cute and All But I'm Not Ready for the L-Word)
It was 4th of July. Yip-yip-yippee! ... As you might guess, this particular holiday isn't really in my top 5. I'm not hot for hot dogs, fireworks, or drunk driving, particularly while riding a bike. Besides, I'd already been celebrating independence on a daily basis since the trip began. In truth, i have been feeling more free, more "American" these days, having just visited a humongous chunk of it and consumed loads of American cheese. But i'm not entirely comfortable with the whole patriotism thing, because love of country, which is what i think is meant by "patriotism", is often seen skipping hand-in-hand with nationalism, its ugly step-sibling. I've never unequivocally said "i love America" - we're just not in that stage of our relationship. I mean, we've like
known each other for a long time, and have had sort of this summer romance over the last 2 months, spending positively loads of time together. I know America better than i used to, and she is really, really good-looking, (everybody thinks so!), for sure fuckable. But sometimes when we're hanging out, i don't feel i can totally be myself, y'know? And there are a lot of things about her that i just don't like; I know it's not her fault. She's got a lot of people in her life that are pretty shady. We're just really different. But i can't keep my hands off her. I might use the L-word someday. Maybe even soon. But i'm a little embarrassed about what it could mean for us, and i don't wanna say it unless i'm sure i mean it. ...
Good thing i rode through Aptos as early as i did, because there was a huge parade a-brewin'. Very small-town America-seeming compared with Santa Cruz. It was gray and cold, and i was headed to Carmel to luncheon with Natalie (not my sis, a California via Hawaii Natalie). After the Santa Cruz beach cities, it was all farmland again for a while. I passed a company of Latino farmworkers cutting bunches of celery with big hackers and tossing them onto the back of a truck. It was kind of elegant and rhythmic, and i was mesmerized as i rode past. One guy saw me gawking and broke my stare by throwing me a convivial peace sign. I waved enthusiastically. Overly so, like a Brady kid.
I made my way to Monterey County mostly on backroads, crisscrossing Highway 1 several times. I had just dismounted from a several-mile expanse of bike-path through the seaside town of Marina when i was approached by Dave, a white guy in his 60s out for his Independence Day bicycle ride. I was about to call Natalie with an ETA when Dave offered to escort me most of the way to Carmel (still an hour away) on an alternate (and less traffic-laden, he promised) route. I hesitated but caved to the "yes" manifesto i had promised myself to abide by (and had been keeping to it, more often than not). Yes to help, yes to food, yes to hearing directions even if i don't opt to follow them, yes to making conversation with a strange white guy in his 60s, yes to it all. As we rode, he asked me the string of stock questions about my trip. And then this shoulda-been-banal conversation got interesting.
Bored of talking about myself all the time (can you believe that?), i redirected the conversation to Dave. He reminded me, both in manner and appearance, of Dave the Fireman who had cycled with me for a spell near Vacaville a couple days before. (For a split second, when today's Dave had greeted me, i thought that it was the same guy from the other day.) I knew of course that he was a different person, but wouldn't it have been an amusing coincidence if he was a fireman too? I probed: "So, Dave, what do you do? Are you a fireman?" He chuckled and said that in a sense he did put out fires for a living, emotional ones. "Ah, a therapist." Try again. "Uhh, teacher?" Nope. Dave is a minister who works for a non-profit that promotes communication and understanding among different denominations of the Christian faith. For those who are well-acquainted with me, i'm totally down for dialogic process. He told me about some of the recent minefields that he's navigated - which i can't recount now (can't, not won't - don't remember specifics). I observed that his job must be difficult, considering how common it is for people of faith to maintain a fixed belief that their way is the True Path. Dave agreed with my obvious yet potentially in-someone's-face statement; if that wasn't true, he'd be out of a job.
I told Dave that i worked for a non-profit as well, and he asked me about Common Ground. I blah-blahed about what we do, and he was very inquisitive about how i came into HIV work. I gave him the PG-13 version, not getting too deep into sex and drugs. From there, we talked about a host of issues: needle exchange (of course), gay marriage (of course), gay adoption, the right wing's collapsing of homosexuality with bestiality and pedophilia and other homophobic doozies, gay people talking smack about Christianity, Obama's recent speech on abortion, federal funding for religious organizations, the Mormon Church, teenage sexual abstinence, you name it. Dave told me about a close friend of his in the service, whom he suspected at the time was a homo; when Dave found Jesus at the age of 29, the friend rejected him, cut off all ties. Dave is particularly impacted by how it isn't ok politically for religious people to speak against homosexuality but that it's fine for gay people to be disparaging of the church. I told him that gay people in large part speak out against the church, because of the pain they feel at being rejected by their families and by those who actually share their religious convictions.
We also talked about the elephant in the "room" pedaling up that steep hill alongside of us into Carmel: the fact that we two, just about as far apart on the political spectrum as you can get, were getting down and dirty with each other's perspectives, and what a rare opportunity it was. We listened to each other, openly - me without my usual defensive frustration and eye-rolling (yet not without judgment - i'd be lying if i said my feathers didn't ruffle somewhat as he described himself as a "very, very Conservative Christian" after i likely bent him the wrong way with my "I'm as progressive and left-wing as you can get without being investigated. That i'm aware of.") We stroked the elephant as she balanced herself on her tiny unicycle, climbing in low gear, and did not pillage her ivory.
The most profound aspect of this dialogue for me (aside from experiencing my own openmindedness in the face of someone so different in ways that i normally feel oppressed by) was witnessing Dave's willingness to be influenced. I can't say specifically what it was about the experience for Dave that brought on tears (his, not mine for once), as we rested at the top of the hill, where he had already made it known that he, upon hearing my tale about Jeff in Pittsburg KS, would like to lay his hands upon me in prayer. I don't want to self-bloat, always a fear, but i think i made an impression on Dave. He told me how much he valued my directness and honesty. I know that our conversation struck both a chord and the right note with Dave, and I hope that he will use what i offered him - whatever that was - to bridge the road to tolerance somewhere down the road. For me, i like living in a world where i can co-mingle outside my comfort zone, this newly morphed land of the brave.
Dave and i parted, me with his phone number for the the next time in the area, him with the satisfaction of praying over my heathen ass! As i rode back onto Highway 1, i thought: Now would be a bad time to get killed. I'd have to go to heaven.
But i survived! Born-Again on the 4th of July. I met Natalie a few moments later at a restaurant where we were waited on by the child (now an adult) of a high school teacher of hers. Carmel is a small town. Natalie moved back there from LA early this year to reassess her goals after giving the pursuit of acting in Hollywood a swift curb-kick, preferring to allocate her vast talents elsewhere - dramaturgy, development, marketing, and just plain being gorgeous and awesome. Natalie treated me both to gobs of food, including her side salad and a brownie-sundae contraption, and ebullient conversation. Interacting with people i know and love: i could get used to this again.
My stomach overly full, I had only one more big hill between Carmel and Big Sur, according to the elevation profile, and only 25 miles of astounding California coastline. There was a lot of traffic for being in the middle of nowhere (but semi-friendly it's-a-holiday traffic) - there are no towns to speak of on that stretch, and pretty much just the one road which dips down to sea level and then back up again. The beaches are pristine, and many were unreachable by foot, so there's definitely a teasing look-but-don't-touch aspect to this section. I drank it in and for the first time of the day it was warm enough to roll down the arm warmers. This is July?
Riverside Campground and Cabins, today's destination, is only the second or third establishment as you enter Big Sur from the north. Unfortunately, that meant starting out the next morning at the very bottom of a long climb. But that was tomorrow - today was still going. Since the ride had only been 76 miles that day and i hadn't spent hours and hours with Natalie, it wasn't even 5pm when i arrived. I had been slightly dreading camping on the 4th for several weeks now, fearing that people would be drunk and crazy and setting the forests afire, thereby preventing a good night's sleep before the 100-plus mile ride the next day. And my campsite promised to be nothingsville. A couple weeks before, when i was in Cedar City, UT with Nina during our last evening together, both of us had combed the internet for a place for me to crash in Big Sur. That night I had spoken to the chatty Pam of Riverside Campground and Cabins who at first had nothing to offer but, lo and behold, after bending my ear back for ten minutes with questions about my trip, identified tent site #35 as vacant on the 4th. "We usually rent this one last," she said. So i wasn't expecting much.
As it turns out, #35 is perfectly fine, especially for one person. I mean, come on, it's Big Sur - how bad could it possibly be? Pam herself checked me in and was extremely accommodating to let me charge my iphone in the office (just steps away from #35), and she brought over a stream of my co-campers to show them my bike and crow on my behalf at what i'd accomplished. Riverside is just south of Big Sur Campground and Cabins where Ju and Kersh and the girls and i had stayed when they visited me in April and we drove to Big Sur from LA (a long-ass drive, especially on the way back when everyone's tired). Ju and i had pissed ourselves laughing trying to find the path to the little pub there without walking on the main road. It was pitch black, and Ju is prone to bouts of creeper-infused half-panic/half-hilarity, which are contagious, and stupidly we had only limited light to get us there. It was much easier to find my way a few months down the road in the broad hours of summer daylight.
After walking along the river and dipping my already numb-from-biking toes into the freezing water, I ate next door at the Big Sur River Inn, great food and service (i flirted shamelessly with the waitress, or thought i did) - and then bought some supplies for breakfast at the campsite store (including ear plugs for 79 cents - a brilliant idea!). On my walk back it was amazing to see just how crowded the campgrounds were - multi-generational families mushed into 6-person tents, couples elbow to elbow at the river's edge, beer, charcoal and mini-soccer games on dirt fields practically the size of two ping pong tables. Nice to see fewer RVs dominating the camping landscape for once.
I turned in as early as possible, praying for sleep. The earplugs worked in the sense that they blocked sound out, but not being able to hear launched me into a strange, non-restful dreamland of mythical creatures trapped inside my head. Usually, sleep lets them roam about at night, but the earplugs kept them clattering around my brain all night as the humans reveled in America's glory until quiet-time snuffed them out.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Day 53 - Half-Flat Tire, Half-Hilly Ride, Full Evening
Carlos's 6:30am spin class was canceled on Day 53 so he was around in the morning to watch me eat all his food - oatmeal with honey, banana and soy milk, peanut butter sandwich and tea. I took a shower again that morning (not a frequent pre-cycling occurrence) - but i was soothed - like how a wild beast reacts to classical music in Bugs Bunny cartoons - by his sparkling shower and bath products. I had announced the previous night after my shower that i hadn't put conditioner in my hair in 52 days. It's nice but the lack of use without any repercussions to my head just proves conditioner's a luxury (in case you thought it wasn't). There's nothing you need - except maybe intimate human contact - that you can survive without for 52 days. So throw away all your conditioners, and q-tips, and facial washes, and fresh veggies! Intimate human contact, however, i was still three days away from. Donny would be arriving Monday at noon on the train from LA to San Luis Obispo. It was Friday morning.
I wasn't in too much of a rush to leave San Francisco. I wished i had planned to stay longer, and i would have bummed around the city for a couple days if i hadn't the time available to ride the final 500 down to LA. I seriously have a hard-on for that city, the Bay Area on the whole, always have. She's like a good friend college friend who i sleep with every couple of years when we see each other. Even though i'm gay. And it's pure NSA fun.
Hendrik woke up a little bit later and helped me figure out the route from their place to pick up the Adventure Cycling Pacific Coast route - no more Western Express - from their apartment. The last section of that map ended at the Golden Gate and was folded and put away in my rear pannier. I needed to get to the 35, aka the Great Highway, a grand name for the road to take me out of the city and on my way toward the it's-all-gravy portion of the journey. As i hauled Whitey from the back stairs of their building, i noticed that his front tire was quite low - and i had just filled it at a bike shop in Placerville two days before. Was i having my first flat of the entire trip? I had been cagey when answering the inevitable question along the route: how many flats have you had? I hadn't met anyone on my trip thus far who hadn't experienced at least one. (At least those riders who brought up the subject themselves, because i never did.) I did not want to jinx my good luck. It's true that Whitey has new, fattish tires, made for touring, so it's not that shocking that they never went flat. The trade-off has certainly been speed. At dinner the night before with Carrie, Jeremy and Carlos, i had confessed, for the first time on the trip, that my tires (and spokes for that matter) had remained totally intact (with pumping of course) for the whole nine yards. I should've been coy. At least i can say that i made it across the country without a single flat.
A tour without flats is not exactly an achievement; it's just durable tires and some luck. But flats are not a big deal anyway, if you have the tools to fix them (and know how to do it). They're more of a pain because they mostly happen at inopportune times - e.g. during a race, on a highway, in the rain, when you're with another rider who you are inconveniencing as you replace or patch your tube while he/she foot-taps and expansively sighs. I guess there's no real convenient time for a tube to blow - but right before or directly after a ride is certainly not the worst. Since the tire was low but not flat, i decided to fill it up and ride it around the block. It was still fine. And I was willing to take the chance and change the tube later if necessary, but Hendrik convinced me otherwise. He's very cautious. So i removed the tube and searched for the hole. Didn't see anything. Hendrik ran inside to get a bucket full of water so we could check for air bubbles and came back with a large salad bowl (good choice since his bucket had residue of cleaning chemicals). When we submerged the tube, there was a barely perceptible bubble every 5 seconds or so. I couldn't even see a hole; Hendrik couldn't either but he didn't have his glasses on. I patched it where i thought the hole might be since we had gone through the trouble of removing the tube in the first place and filled it up. (Note: the tire got low each morning for the remainder of the trip, but i never had to change the tube, just pumped it!)
The ride through San Francisco made my heart ache a little (cuz i just love it so), though i had no intention of leaving my heart there. Hendrik's directions were perfect - I rode through the Haight and then alongside of Golden Gate Park to Ocean Beach. I had never been to the western edge of the city before and hadn't realized that there was an actual beach, with sand, right there. I had my first real sniff of the Pacific right then and the salty brine stung my nasal passages. I could live there, i really could. As it was Friday, the 3rd of July, there were plenty of cars on the Great Highway and i rode due south toward Daly City, where pedaling up an absurdly steep hill in a residential neighborhood, i overshifted my weight toward a parked car and my rear pannier caught on its fender. I didn't fall off exactly, more like stumbled forward, and for the third time in a week, i bloodied my fucking right lower leg, this time on my ankle. At least i knew where the first aid kit was.
From Daly City, the route continues south (obviously, as LA is the final destination) through various seaside surfer towns (up and down, up and down, up and down the hills) where i occasionally got a whiff of weed smoke to mix with the ocean and eucalyptus scents. For a few miles just past Pacifica, Highway 1 (the main coastal drag) narrows considerably and takes you through a eucalyptus forest. This stretch on any day would be a white-knuckler without adding the Friday-of-the-holiday-weekend traffic to the mix. I kept my wits about me as car after car after car whizzed past me practically grooming my leg hairs.
The rest of the day's ride wasn't too eventful. Jeremy had been correct when he told me i'd have a tailwind down the coast. For once, i was traveling the right direction! When i ride my bike on PCH (Pacific Coast Highway - what Highway 1 is called in Southern California, in case you didn't know) during the summer, the ride out (north) is always headwind but the way back is golden - just as i was experiencing it now on Day 53.
I took a photo of the Santa Cruz County line sign and immediately emailed it to Heather. I hadn't been back to SC since well before she moved down to LA over 6 years ago. Several miles into Santa Cruz County i passed the gay beach where i did my first outreach back in college handing out condoms and talking to guys about safer sex. As i remember correctly, my presence there was met with mixed reactions. It's a lot easier doing outreach to injection drug users; you have something they for sure want. I always say: if you hand them a condom, there's a chance they'll use it, but if you give them a syringe, you know they will. Just a little public health wise-saw. Anyway, it was Heather who hooked me up with that first HIV gig at the Santa Cruz AIDS Project - you mean they'll pay me to talk to people about sex and drugs? I'm there!
I stopped just outside the Santa Cruz city limits to call my hosts for the evening - Chris and Paula. They are in the middle of preparing their new place to move into it, so they'd been painting all day. I got directions on where their current home is, and, since they were still forearm-deep in paint, i had a little time to kill before getting to their place. I rode down Mission St. jogging my dim memory. It's been 16 years since i graduated from UCSC, and i was there for less than 2 years. Plus, the occasions i had to visit SC post-graduation were always to spend time with Heather. Memorable times - but foggy due to assorted levels of brain function. Plus, we didn't leave the house much. I snapped a pic of Yogurt Delite, amazingly still there and hoppin'. Susannah worked there for what seems, in my memory, like years. Back in 1993, when i would stop by during her shift, i rarely had cash to buy a full portion bedecked with the mini-malt balls i loved so, but she gave me as many samples as she could. (Within reason, of course - since the establishment was under constant camera surveillance). I thought the peanut butter flavor was disgusting. Suz loved it. She crazy. I rode down the big hill on Laurel St. to the Pacific Garden Mall which was in a constant state of reconstruction when i lived there (the '89 earthquake destroyed it). There's still a ton of homeless kids there, stoney college kids, and hippie street musicians, but it's way more fancy and touristy now - like the 3rd St. Promenade in Santa Monica (minus the homeless people of course; they've relocated to Venice. Hadn't you heard?)
I crossed Water St. and rode up to the end of Pacific where it dead ends at the mobile home coop where Chris and Paula are currently living. Carlos, Carrie and Jeremy had laughed at the possible seedy reading of the title of the touring cyclist hospitality site, warmshowers.org where i posted my need for accommodations for the night of July 3, but they're just dirty-minded sodomite Gomorrahns from San Francisco! Chris had seemed a little reserved on the phone so i wasn't sure what to expect. I was a little wary of staying with complete and total strangers, despite having done it earlier in the trip. At least when i had stayed with Tom and Gail in Missouri, i had heard about them from a fellow cyclist who had crashed there.
In a word, it was a great night. Paula and Chris are extremely nice and hospitable; they made me feel welcome immediately. As it was Santa Cruz, they even had a yoga mat for me to stretch on. Like a lot of people who live in Santa Cruz, Paula and Chris have resided in a bunch of different places and are the sorts who absorb the cultures they visit or live in (also a very Santa Cruz thing). Paula lived for many years in Italy with her second husband, who unfortunately turned out to be loony tunes, and loves all things Italian - including the cuisine, which she is expert at preparing, i am grateful to report. Pasta, salad and swordfish! Bread, olives and organic chocolate! Fizzy water! Conversation never faltered throughout the evening (great for me since i find it insufferable to abide silence with strangers - besides when you're supposed to, like in an elevator) and they were intent listeners as well as expert storytellers. I said to Chris and Paula in the morning that i had been nervous and didn't know what to expect - and they had felt the same. (i was the first cyclist from the warmshowers site that they had hosted). We all verbalized that the experience had exceeded our expectations. I really hope i see them again.
Day 52 - The San Francisco Treat!
My last of sleep in the wee hours of Day 52 can be traced to several reasons: twitchy overworked body, gross room and smelly bed, ate too much too late and retired before digesting, and I WAS GOING TO BE IN SAN FRANCISCO THAT AFTERNOON AND, THEREFORE, WILL HAVE RIDDEN MY BIKE ACROSS THE CONTINENTAL UNITED STATES!
So arising and getting my ass out the door wasn't a problem. I had been texting my SF buddies consistently for a couple days keeping them apprised of my progress and would be doing so throughout the day. My hope was that i'd have a small but mighty band of welcomers at the Golden Gate Bridge. But i was also like: i'm still gonna be there even if no one can make it. I didn't really know how long the day's journey would last since i'd be taking a ferry from Vallejo across the San Pablo, San Rafael and San Francisco Bays and hadn't figured out how often they run and that whole deal. I was out the door at 6:50 into the morning sunshine.
A mile or so down W. Capitol Ave. i picked up the Yolo Causeway Bike Path which runs alongside the 80 (or "Route 80" as we refer to it in NJ) finishing on the east side of Davis, CA which is home to UC Davis (Debbie's alma mater), a town and campus where i'd never visited. Suffice to say that it wasn't exactly teeming with co-eds at 7:45am on a summer morning just before Fourth of July weekend. What Davis is teeming with, however, is bike paths; the ride through town has you off the road and on the paths which are easy to follow. After passing the campus/downtown area, i found myself immediately surrounded by farmland. Not farms like those in Kansas or other states i passed through, but rather farms where they actually grow food for people to eat. The bulk of farmland in this nation is used to grow corn and soybeans which are mostly used to sweeten, grease up and process our food, to grow and process food for livestock, or for the livestock themselves. Again, i'll namedrop Fast Food Nation and The Omnivore's Dilemma as books i've read which spell all this stuff out in hundreds of pages better than i can in several hundred words. I could see with my own peepers how land is used. And it was my craving for fresh fruit and veg that impacted me throughout the trip - not the theses of two books i read. I may have mentioned before that Son of Semele developed a play written by Matt, Fencerow to Fencerow, that was inspired by The Omnivore's Dilemma. It's super-difficult to explain but coincidentally the character i played in most of the "Fencerow" incarnations was a guy who starts out the play looking for the variety of food once grown on the Iowa landscape, obsessed about the perfect apple he once ate (yes, it's quite out-there). By the end of the play, he's addicted to high fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated oil. ... Wait, is that me or the play? Clairvoyant type-casting. (Except, thus far, i have averted transforming into the obese couch potato my character becomes as i was simultaneously riding my bike 8 hours per day during the height of my 8-week addiction to trans fat and corn sweetener).
You've all been hearing me complain about the lack of fresh food from Day 1. I certainly eat my share of animal products, on this trip and otherwise, and i'm not campaigning to end that for myself or anyone else. But isn't it fucked up that we as a country possess millions of acres of land that can be used to grow wholesome food, and barely any of it is used for that purpose? Of course it doesn't pay to use the land for that. And "we" don't own it anyway; Cargill does. There isn't as much money in broccoli as there is in high fructose corn syrup. It's just so crazy to me that i couldn't find barely ANY fresh vegetables in Virginia, Kentucky, Illinois, Missouri and Kansas. And Nevada. Utah and Colorado were better but that's mostly because i rode through more touristy places. Annoyingly, there were farmer's markets throughout the trip but they were never on the day i was riding through. But if produce is sold locally at farmer's markets, shouldn't local restaurants buy the produce to serve to their customers? Well, they don't.
Ugh. I know i get a little preachy on this issue. I just find it interesting to be experiencing personally and directly something i've already learned from a book. And thankfully i'm back in California where i can get the food i want. From Davis through Vacaville i passed orchards of citrus, peaches, plums, apricots, olive trees, broccoli, leafy greens. The availability of this stuff helps me keeps my obsessiveness to a low hum, maintains my sanity.
Although i was experiencing headwinds while pushing mostly westward that morning, the terrain was mostly flat. Near Vacaville, I was approached by Dave, a fireman, with whom i rode for about 10 miles. He shot me the hard questions about the trip: why did i do it? what did i learn about America? what was my favorite part? what was my least favorite part? Even "how many miles per day?" is difficult because i don't know whether to include rest days in the total. Sigh. I've gotten more practiced at answering some of these questions but i almost always feel put on the spot. I'm considering creating a one-sheet that i can hand out to anyone who inquires. I'll include the blog address at the bottom if you want all the details. This part of the ride went quickly; Dave's company was welcome and i focused on the brain power that's required when conversing with a stranger, rather than the brute force of pushing a bicycle through the wind. After going out of his way for almost an hour, Dave took off back toward Vacaville to babysit his granddaughter while i stopped to eat in Rockville. In Rockville, i met a group of cyclists in matching yellow and orange outfits from nearby Benecia who were out for a workout. One guy in particular was overly pushy about providing me with an alternative to the route on the map with less headwinds. As i was taking no chances in getting lost on this day in particular, I politely demurred. But he wasn't paying attention, so i smiled and nodded in all the right places pretending to ingest his better, more wind-resistant directions. This man was also the second person of the day (Dave being the first) to ask me how much weight i lost on the trip. It's probably not surprising that it took 52 days for anyone to ask me this question. It's body-conscious California, I suppose, where ostensibly hetero men are comfortable discussing such issues without fear of being feminized. In case you're wondering, i weighed 143 lb. when i went to the doctor in LA in late April, and i weighed myself in Scott City, Kansas (when i slept in that gym) and was 128. I haven't weighed myself since then but i imagine it's more or less the same. You plateau rather than keep losing. At least that's what i read.
Moving on, i barreled toward the Vallejo ferry station. At lunch i had called for the schedule but forgot it as soon as i heard it.
Except for some reason 2:30pm stuck in my head. I had texted the SF contingent to say i'd be there at 4pm. If i got the ferry at 2:30 (it lasts an hour), i'd just make 4pm with the 6 or 7 mile ride to the Golden Gate from the terminal in SF. The winds from the bay did their best to slow me down but i worked hard, anxious to see friends, a city i love, and the bridge and be done with this leg of the journey.
Ha! I got there at 2:28 with no time to spare. Except that the ferry was not until 3:30. Oops. So i had an hour to kill. I got a giant smoothie and talked the ear off the lady cleaning the floors who didn't believe me at first when i told her where i rode from. I paced around, peed like 3 times, didn't know what to do with myself.
The boat was comfortable and clean. I parked Whitey where the boat guy said to and went on the observation deck. It was cool and windy, exactly what you'd expect from San Francisco. Not grasping the geography of the
Bay Area well enough to know where Vallejo was, what direction we'd be traveling, and when i'd catch my first glimpse of the city, i snapped some pictures of myself to capture the moment. As in the ferry terminal, i couldn't sit still. I went to the upstairs deck, then down to check on Whitey, then upfront inside the cabin where i took some bad photos of the the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge (thinking it was the Bay Bridge) and of the city way in the distance. I tried to focus on the Transamerica Pyramid (in part for the obvious reason - get it? - but mostly because Donny loves skyscrapers and i've gotten him lots of miniatures of buildings including this one). I was so jittery, i think, because it's hard to stop riding and then start again. I was gonna have to ride to the bridge and then to Carlos and Hendrik's or Carrie and Jeremy's place. Also, this marked the end that wasn't really the end since i still had 500 more miles to bike down the coast - three days of which would be with Donny!
The ferry spat me out and i rode down Embarcadero, around Fort Mason and whatever that park
is called, on Marina and alongside of Crissy Field. There were tons of people on bikes - many rented by tourists riding them to see the Golden Gate and the Presidio. I was a tourist too and proud of it. The day was sunny and beautiful. I had this huge shit-eating grin on my face and tears running down my cheeks when i caught that first sight of the bridge. Coldplay's Viva La Vida played (a perfectly self-aggrandizing song!). Everyone i passed seemed happy and relaxed. People were flying enormous kites in the whipping wind. I was reminded of the last time that I was in London. Since Ju and Kersh live near Manchester, that's my home-base when i go back to England. London is now a separate trip-within-a-trip. Ju and I went down when i was over there two years ago, and we went to the South Bank. Everyone there - walkers, runners, cyclists, loungers, sunbathers, picnickers - seemed joyous in my memory of it, that summer feeling you dream about when the weather's dull. Maybe it's just the feeling of being on vacation? Anyway, the feeling of the people riding along the bike path and lounging on Crissy Field was the exact same - with the added bonus of the fact that i had made it on my bicycle across the country.
I took several minutes and texts to find Carrie and Phoebe and Finn. And then Carlos and Hendrik found us. We were all excited and impressed (Finn is a baby so he was probably less excited about something specific). I forgot a few times we were talking about me and what i had accomplished. It felt like i was referring to someone else; I'm so used to the habit of minimizing my own success that unabashed pride is frequently a foreign and uncomfortable impulse that should be squashed. Is being pleased with oneself socially acceptable? I can hear the voices in my head, usually so clear, saying like: "Oh, such-and-such-accomplishment can't be that big of a deal since i did it." But those voices/impulses are kind of quiet these days. It's not so much that i think i'm the shit - it's more that the journey was so hard throughout. It never stopped being a challenge - the weather, the loneliness, the discomfort, the food, the riding. I can't argue my way out of feeling good about it.
My arrival in San Francisco was only eleven days ago but i remember other stuff more clearly from the days and weeks before. I decided it was best to stay at Carlos's place since he was offering his bed and would shack up with Hendrik for the night. Bike directions to C & H's were discussed and outlined avoiding the evilest of SF hills and we agreed to meet Carrie and Jeremy for dinner in about an hour. Hendrik is studying for the MCAT in August so he was gonna skip dinner. The half-hour i was told it would take to get to the apartment near 16th and Market from the Golden Gate ended up being more like 50 minutes and added 9 miles to the day's journey for a grand total of 94 miles. We dined at Serpentine which i have enjoyed in the past, and it did not disappoint. I ate twice as much as anyone else but still couldn't finish the second or third round of bread i had demanded. Carrie had just completed her second or third sprint triathlon and Carlos is already training for the LA Triathlon (though it isn't for 3 months) which we previously did together a few years ago, so i was in good company (not that i wouldn't have been had they not been tri-bound - i'm just singing their praises!)
I did laundry (actually Hendrik did it - thanks, Hendrik!) and went to bed in Carlos's absurdly comfortable bed. I did it. Almost.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Day 51 - Aren't I Prescient? The Real Longest Day
It's rather clairvoyant of me that i didn't title Day 38 "The Longest Day" (despite my presumption at the time that it would be) since it's Day 51 that takes the crown. Thirteen days before I left Hope Valley for West Sacramento, Utah Is Three Planets kept running through my head on an endless loop as i explored 127 miles of the multi-faceted terrain between Blanding and Hanksville. Believing myself to me clever, i used the 3-planet mantra as the blog title for the day. Which makes today, Day 51, at 139 miles the undisputed winner of the title. Huzzah!
When i woke up in my tent after a long sleep (i crashed before it was dark, about 8:15 or so the evening before and woke up at about 5:30AM), it was frigid. I had no phone service so i couldn't check my iphone (and for those of us who read the Day 16 & 17 handlebar confessional, we know that Dashie is a pants-aflame liar anyway), but the campsite host told me it went as low as 40. I stuck a leg out of my sleeping bag; it was too cold to do anything except rock back and forth in a fetal position stressing out about the long day ahead of me which would not begin as early planned since it was too fucking cold to do anything. Despite the fervor of my rocking, this activity did little to warm me up.
I know that i've complained a few times about the cold on this trip. And i've also admitted that gear-wise i was unprepared to deal with it. Drinking pre-brewed iced tea from my water bottle, rather than a nice hot cup (like i was able to have when Nina and I camped in Bryce Canyon, thanks to her camp stove) is not an ideal way to get the blood flowing on a near-freezing mountain morning. Nor is gnawing at a clump of arctic-hardened banana-coconut bread and hard-boiled eggs that give you a Slurpee brainfreeze. [Digression: I just Wikipediaed Slurpee to ensure i spelled it correctly and i am stunned to learn that they are carbonated. Also, they are kosher, except the piña colada flavor which totally has crab in it. Slurpees are also suitable for those with celiac disease (a gluten intolerance). Hope Ma and Aunt Paula are reading this.] I donned every article of clothing using my towel as a big gay cravat and ran down the hill to the bathroom to crap. As i ran, my cycling leg warmers repeatedly fell into a fully 1980s leg warmer position hovering at my ankles. O the indignity.
I managed to defrost everything except my hands which had in previous days been challenged by an onset of quasi-paralysis. I guess because i'd been gripping my handlebars for at least 8 hours a day for 50 days, they had been getting quite weak, especially my left hand which is the only useful one anyway. I hadn't been able to open water bottles with manly prowess, and cutting anything with my left hand (even the salmon from the night before) was a joke. I had been hoping this disabling was not permanent damage, and the fact that my hands were now frozen stumps could not be helping any. The shady Sierra campsite i had been so proud of and awed by the night before was mocking me.
Because of the cold and the excessive distance of multiple bathroom trips, i didn't wheel Whitey down the hill and out of the campsite until 8 o'clock. I knew the day would be long but i hadn't calculated exactly so as not to scare myself out of doing what needed to be done. When i was in Pueblo, i had for the first time of the trip actually planned out days in advance. I needed to figure out what day to meet Nina and i'd wanted to alert my SF crew and Donny of approximate arrival days. Somehow I had added up the miles incorrectly for the 3 days from Fallon NV to San Fran, and there were 20-something extra i had to disburse among the 3 days. Also i wanted my ride into San Francisco to not be much more than 80 so i wasn't a total crabapple zombie when i got there. So Day 51 was the day to try what i hadn't tried yet: what if you just keep on going (that is, if the terrain was at worst flat-ish and the weather fair-ish)? Drew and I, and then later Ben and I, had mused about this. Most days, though i was tired and hungry and in need of hygiene alteration, i wasn't at death's door or anything. Nor had i ever ridden until it was even approaching darkness. So, what if i just pushed on until i was at either the threshold of total exhaustion or nightfall? I was going to find out.
The first stretch to deal with was the rest of the climb to the Carson Pass summit (10.5 miles). 
Then, i'd be losing the entire 8,500 feet of elevation (with plenty of ups-and-downs within that loss) over the course of the next 90 or so miles until i hit Folsom (yes, that Folsom) and the American River in Sacramento at which time i'd be on flat bicycle paths for approximately 30 miles. I aimed to bike all the way to West Sacramento, over 130 miles away. I had also decided, arbitrarily it turns out, that West Sacramento was the nice bit. But more about that later.
The incline to the summit wasn't too bad for the first several miles - cold yet clear and bright - but then steepened in that Grand Mountain Pass way i'd become all too familiar with. The Sierras are scenic-wise not unlike the Rockies - perfectly misty snow-caps in the distance like a film set backdrop, dark emerald conifers, crystal-placid lakes, deer galore galavanting, and swish lodges. The weather warmed up quickly after the initial ascent and didn't worsen at the top as we know by now mountaintops have a tendency to do. At Kirkwood, a pretty tourist stop for fisherpeople, my iphone came up for breath and i saw that i had a phone message from Chris - one of the warmshowers.org people i'd contacted online about a place to crash in Santa Cruz. Back in Eureka NV, at the Best Western's lone computer, i'd sent about 15 emails to strangers on the site who offer cyclists a free bed or tent space; two had responded that they'd be away for the 4th of July weekend, and Chris's was the third and final response. The Santa Cruz flakiness hasn't dissipated in the 16 years since i lived there - can you believe i sent 15 emails and only 3 people responded?! So Santa Cruz). But Chris and his partner, Paula, clearly not flakes, were responding YES, they'd love to have me. A moment of relief at 8,500 feet as i'd been super-stressed about finding a place to stay on July 3 (i'd called a couple of campsites and hotels but they were booked solid - or in terms of one campsite, it was first-come first-served, and i certainly couldn't assure my place among the first, since i'd be riding from SF that morning and knew i wouldn't get the earliest of starts). From Kirkwood, there was some extra-annoying climbing and downhills until the real downhill deal through a fantasyland forest where there were no cars - just trees and nothing else. Route 88 and then Omo Ranch Road (bumpy and grindy surface yet super-peaceful surroundings) brought me downdowndown through the El Dorado National Forest (complete with that offical U. S. Department of Agriculture tag line I'd seen in every state: Land of Many Uses), down from of the thousands of feet of elevation i'd been living in since Pueblo. 
I hadn't been lower than 4,500 feet since leaving there - not in Colorado, Utah or Nevada, but California was bringing me down to my normal level. Sea level, that is.
I hadn't been lower than 4,500 feet since leaving there - not in Colorado, Utah or Nevada, but California was bringing me down to my normal level. Sea level, that is. Passing Omo Ranch, a miniscule town whose only public building seemed to be a school with a cute playground, i came to Fair Play, which is all about wineries. The constant shade provided by the El Dorado Forest was now significantly minimized revealing the lack of elevation's true nature: baking heat. I'd only been out of the heat for a day or so, since leaving Fallon and the cold night had obviously erased my memory. In addition to the distance i'd end up traveling that day, life on Day 51 also saw another extreme as well: the greatest range of temperature. It had been about 40 degrees that morning, and as i wound my way through El Dorado County toward Placerville, the temperature expanded to a rather uncomfortable 100. I stopped at a liquor store in Somerset to fill up all 4 water bottles with ice - which turned out to be a huge plus considering the sharp mini-climbs ahead on Mount Aukum Road.
About 80 miles into the day i sought respite, prey and air conditioning at a Starbuck's in Placerville. It was suitably freezing in there - not just the AC apparently but also the salad i opted for (in addition to the curried chicken salad sandwich, iced green tea beverage and chocolate chip cookie) flaunted actual frozen lettuce. I was too hungry to care. Plus, it was refreshing. Mid-bite, while shoving a petrified romaine heart into my maw, i observed my animal nature through the eyes of those around me looking at me in mild disgust. To the chagrin of diners across the western United States, my hoggish ways of consumption have been worsening. I've never been the quietest of eaters. In real-life circumstances, i chew with my mouth reasonably shut. I'm able to take nourishment in mixed company without being scolded but i definitely lean toward the unacceptable end of the mastication continuum. And in the last 50 days i've creeped closer to that boundary. Hell, i've got decent reasons: the need for speed, the need for feed, and just plain dining solo. I must pay closer attention to this development as i am reintroduced into, ahem, polite society. If you find yourself looking at me with displeasure while sharing a meal in the very near future (say, before August 1), feel free to kick me under the table. After that, get used to it. That's just the way i chomp.
Believe it or not, it was a relief to get back out in the heat. I was frozen like the lettuce from the intensity of Starbuck's AC and needed to thaw in the 100-degree heat. The treacherously trafficked Green Valley Road took me almost all the way to Folsom which was in the midst of a 3-day rodeo event. Yeehaw! I found my way to the East Lake Natoma Bike Trail along Folsom Lake and overcame confusion (the map's narrative directions here were somewhat lacking) to access the American River Bike Trail which winds its way through Sacramento for about 25 miles. It was rush hour on the bike path; hundreds of cyclists were either commuting home or getting in their evening workout. I seemed to be the only person not knowing where he was going, and i felt clumsy and in the way of the light-as-a-feather unloaded road bikes that zipped past me in both directions. In addition, the route was not clear to a stranger, and i had to stop several times to ask directions. Most people said: "Just follow the river and that will take you right into Old Town." Which would be sufficient if you could absolutely see the river at all times and if there wasn't a network of other paths crossing the route every couple of miles. Plus, i had clocked over a hundred at this point and the wind was blowing westerly, i.e. directly at my face.
I had a brief confrontation with a man on a dilapidated bike which surprised me. If you've read the blog in its entirety, then you know that my interactions with my fellow Americans have overwhelmingly been positive - supportive, friendly, even comforting at times. So my cityboy defenses had been at an all-time low. But something about this man, who expressed snickering admiration for my set-up and immediate interest in trading bikes with me right-there-right-then, threatened me. I was unsure if i was on the right bike path at that very moment when he approached me - shirtless, dirty, carrying his belongings on his bike. I was hot and tired and had at least 20 or so miles left. I had slipped out of my pedal clip and sliced open my right shin and blood was dripping down my sock. It was getting late. My meth-dar picked up a signal. I ended up circling around this dude, because i was trying to figure out my location - and he seemed to misunderstand my actions as engaging with him, actually showing off my bike to him. I decided not to ask him for directions, because his manner told me that he shouldn't know i was lost/felt vulnerable. I said nothing more than "thanks but no thanks" to his bike-swapping offer and took off (in the wrong direction i figured out later). Now what surprised me in this moment was the rush of intense aggression i felt, the territoriality and my own capacity for violence; I'm a lover, not a fighter. But there was something primal that reared its demoniac head at that moment. My brain played out a scenario in my head where the guy got in my face, and i attacked him. Get the fuck away from my bike or i'll fucking kill you. I thought of my barely used Swiss Army knife, as sharp today as it was out of the packaging. I turned Whitey Jackson around abruptly (unknowingly at that moment that i was headed correctly now) thinking if he turns around and follows me, he's gonna be in trouble.
He didn't follow me. Maybe he sensed my fear/aggression. Maybe i vibed him wrong and he was just joking with me. After a couple miles and some reassurance that yes, the river was there, and i was heading into the wind and setting sun once again, i reflected on my snap. I like to think that my instinct was correct, in a sense, that this man's intentions were ill. On the other side, i was thrown by my quick judgment against someone clearly indigent who i perceived to be a threat. One vivid conclusion to be drawn: nobody, nothing was gonna obstruct me from getting to SF in one piece, no way.
Yikes. Moments later, i was able to laugh at myself again and confirmed the need to get to the evening's destination which was looking more and more to be West Sacramento. I didn't think i'd get any further than that since it was another 10 miles to Davis, and the sun was low. With the couple of added miles i logged on the bike paths, due to my befuddlement, i'd finish just under 140 miles. Not too shabby for the End of the Horizon Experiment. Riding that far would leave only 85-ish miles to get to San Francisco the next day. Not ideal, but better than a hundred for sure. The only problem with my plan was map-generated. The Adventure Cycling detail of the area seemed to collapse West Sacramento with Old Town. I knew from past experience that Old Town was touristy and cute. I thought: "Oh, i deserve a treat for riding 139 miles! i'll spring for a Holiday Inn Express!" I exited the bike path and rode over the cobblestoned Front Street passing lots of restaurants and bars and tourist attractions, and over the golden Tower Bridge onto West Capitol Ave. in West Sac. What a sac of shit! I was affronted by the Nevada-like stream of cheap hotels and fast food restaurants. Wait, this wasn't the evening i had planned. I wanted clean sheets and a true non-smoking room! And a meal with salad! But it was not to be. The sun was down. I was riding at night for the first time on the journey, and it was time to select from the multitude of options. I don't remember the name of the place i selected, but i was tantalized briefly by the neon and the East Indian decor of the lobby. The bleary-eyed man-and-wife team who answered the night bell looked shocked to see me though it wasn't even 9pm. The price sent a chill up my spine. I knew it was gonna be bad. And it was. Stained towels, a carpet that smelled worse than my socks. At least the TV remote wasn't greasy. The bed was large (as the sign had bragged) and although i was afraid of the sheets, i didn't have the energy to dig out my sleeping bag.
Food was another adventure. You snarky people out there will gleefully delight in my ALMOST downfall from the perfect non-fastfood chain score i've maintained for nearly a century. Yes, i eat at Subway, but that doesn't count. I'm talking McDonald's or BK or Wendy's - places i have not patronized since high school. No exaggeration. I've never been to Taco Bell or Carl's Jr. or Jack in the Box. Ever (we don't have those in Jersey when i did eat at such places). But i was so pissed off at the world and hungry, and the only other place besides the McD's i ALMOST walked into was KFC, the smell of which knocks me sick just passing by in the best of circumstances. There was a seedy taco joint. And a non-chain fast food burger joint. And i just thought: at least with McDonald's the food is so processed, so controlled, nothing could actually be wrong with it. (I get my info from books like The Omnivore's Dilemma and Fast Food Nation). Unlike the wild cards dealt by these unfamiliar choices. I needed my stomach to behave since the next day would mark the end of the most significant leg of the journey: DC to SF, aka Across the Country.
But the universe was smiling on me cuz McD's was closed! Who knew they closed at 9:30pm? I thought these places served drunk people. One one block further, slightly hidden, was a Raley's supermarket which had everything i could ever want. And i wanted plenty after 138.68 miles of bike travel.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Day 50 - Going Going Back Back to Cali Cali
Fifty days. I think i'm nearly ready for this to be over. Not over yet - but my last state crossing occurred on Day 50. California Dreamin'- Land of Opportunity! Land of my home and Donny and friends! Land of Budget Cuts... Still too early to be thinking about that now - two weeks until i have to go back to work.
supplies, anything that smelled, as i had every other time i'd camped, and hang the bag from a tree. If a bear came and ate my food, he could have it. My approach to bears had shifted.
I was unsure of Day 50's destination. I knew that i was going to cross the state line but it wasn't until over 80 miles into the day's ride. I rolled out of bed at 4:40AM - a new record, i think. Ate up the hard boiled eggs that Dan gave me, plus all the other shit from my Safeway run. I didn't have to deal with much food beyond that since now i'd be in "civilization" (read: gas, food, lodging) more often than not for the rest of the trip. I saw Ben briefly as i left; he was headed to McDonald's and then Carson City that day to rent a car and drive around Lake Tahoe (the Adventure Cycling map tells you not to ride there for road safety reasons) and take a nice rest day. (We parted with a you-never-know-we-could-cross-paths-again dance - but unless something went terribly wrong, i wouldn't be seeing Ben again on the route).
I, however, was rested, even coddled by the friendly folks in Fallon and my probably unreachable goal was the summit of Carson Pass, about 110 miles from Fallon. It was a slow gain of only 1,000 feet until the California border and then a rough nearly 3,800 feet of climbing over 30 miles. More simply put, i was never gonna get all the way up Carson Pass on Day 50. I had 3 days to get almost 320 miles to San Francisco and meet Carlos, Carrie, Hendrik and Phoebe at the Golden Gate Bridge, and the more i could knock out the first 2 days the fresher i'd arrive at the crossed-country destination.
I left just after 6AM hoping to outwit the headwind i knew was going to start taunting my face at some point. I'd noticed that the winds tended to pick up around 10 or 11 in the morning and the earlier i got out, the calmer it was. The ride was pretty smooth for 60 miles, which got me nearly to Carson City. Unfortunately, along with the civilization i had been craving, traffic majorly increased. Carson is big enough for sprawl, and i found myself struggling a little on the inclines trying to stay inside the shoulder (when there was one) and not run over the obstacle course of rusty nails, broken beer bottles and other scraps of metal or glass strewn on Route 50, now the least lonely road in America, thanks to the suburban traffic. The section riding through Carson was slow - due to evil stop-signed intersections and those 3-light mechanisms hanging from poles. They seemed familiar. Somehow i instinctively knew that red meant stop, green meant go, and yellow meant hurry-before-it-turns-red-and-you-get-run-over. I had experienced somewhere around zero traffic lights since Pueblo, Colorado - and about that many between leaving the DC Metro area and Pueblo.
The route abruptly heads uphill at the southern end of Carson City to the very scenic Jacks Valley Road. The sky grayed out the blue, and some drops began falling. Little did i know that this rain would be the last of the trip. About 10 miles further is Genoa which claims to be the first settled town in Nevada. The whole area is impressively smart - smart ranches, smart farms, golf courses, homes away from home, a few shops and saloons. I devoured a huge tuna sandwich (which had the perfect amount of mayo unlike all the tuna between DC and kingdom come), some chips and a chocolate chip cookie as big as your head. From there it was 35 miles to the 8,573 ft. summit of Carson Pass. Thirty-five miles? No problem.
The route from Genoa south to Carson Pass (the area is quite near to Lake Tahoe) continued to impress me with well-to-do poshness (though i did notice that most of the houses i passed sported "for sale" signage). And the Sierra Nevadas rose up quickly in my path. I was hungry to enter California (sounds more sexual than i mean to - but maybe not?) The route at this point had me on gorgeous back roads riding parallel to busy route 89. The disappointing trade-off was not having the WELCOME TO CALIFORNIA sign that i'd been craving for 50 days and nights. I rode on, waiting to see one in the distance, thinking i'd miscalculated the distance to the state line. But no. Eventually, i asked a woman gardening if i was in California, and she said i'd been there already for 5 miles. Old news. I called Donny anyway a little ways down the road and choked back a tear of success and antipication on his voicemail.
By the time i arrived in Woodfords, CA, i knew the summit was a pipe dream. Woodfords was a town. Sort of. Had a store and a B & B and a couple campsites. From there, it was still 10 miles to the top. And it was steep. And i had already gone 93 miles. And i was tired and rained-on. I opted for Hope Valley, even less of a town, 5 miles further up the road. The Hope Valley Campground was $18 compared with the cheapest room in the lodge at $115. Welcome back to California! I arrived at the campground and was relieved to see that the café (with some limited groceries) was still open as i had nothing except an apple and some Clif bars. I smiled hugely at the short-haired woman in her forties that was working at the cafe. I can't believe that i can't remember her name (but it has been 11 days). Let's call her Alex. That was definitely not her name, but it could've been. Alex had just baked about 10 things that looked and smelled delicious. I got some brewed iced tea in advance for the morning's caffeine (since i wanted to be gone before the place opened at 7:30) and some other items for breakfast while telling Alex about some of my travels and how excited i was to be seeing my friends in SF in a couple days and then Donny a few days after that. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but there was something about Alex that was just so California - in the best possible way. It was just who she was upon first glance, her openness (and the organic and fresh ingredients in the café) that really made me smile and feel like i was getting close to home.
With a bag full of goodies, i made my way down the path to check in with the campsite host. My site was a little hike up the hill further and because of the dirt and gravel i had to push Whitey while digging my cleats into the ground. The site was picture-perfect, private, wonderful. It made me wish Nina was with me; she would have really appreciated this place. The one drawback was that the bathroom was a full 5-minute walk down the hill which was going to make the morning interesting, especially as the host warned me that it might drop as low as 40 that night. Made me wish for Nina and her extra blankets even more. The bath house was decent and covered in DON'T FEED THE BEARS literature. Funny, if you had told me ahead of time that this area was Bear Central, i might have freaked a little. Or maybe more than a little being totally alone and still not remembering the difference among bear attack survival approaches. But i wasn't freaked. I just plain old didn't think a bear was going to come sniffing up to my site. They know what coolers look like; I didn't have one. They are drawn to cooking smells; the campsite was pretty empty and no one was cooking (and it was about 6:30pm prime din-din time when i was heading to the showers). I'd bag up my food and hygiene
supplies, anything that smelled, as i had every other time i'd camped, and hang the bag from a tree. If a bear came and ate my food, he could have it. My approach to bears had shifted.Since the café was now closed and i had no dinner, i was "forced" to eat at the lovely restaurant up the hill a bit at Sorensen's Resort. Yummy - great soup, salmon, veggies and another whole dessert to myself. I also had a Sierra Nevada, toasting the mountain range i was currently conquering.
I don't know why exactly (the beauty of the spot? exhaustion? altitude increase? luck?) but i had the deepest and most comfortable sleep that night that i'd had in weeks and certainly the best of all campings-out. It was freezing when i awoke for a pee (i marked territory outside the tent - hell no, i wasn't walking all the way down to the bathrooms! Inconvenient. And those bears...).
The stars were so prominent it was almost aggressive.
Day 49 (Addendum) - Fallon, The Friendliest Town on the Loneliest Road in America
I know Eureka proclaimed itself to be the friendliest on Route 50. But eat it, Eureka! It's Fallon that's my BFF of the trip:
Okay, so i've already mentioned the awesome Lindsy, front desk at the Holiday Inn Express in Fallon, NV, who permitted me to use the computer in the "business center" (along with a Harley rider playing some sort of interactive game between the computer and his cell phone. Don't ask me.) I should also mention the lovely waitress at Heidi's Family Restaurant (though fuck if i remember her name now) who was beyond welcoming, enthusiastic and told me what sucked on the menu and what was the most edible.
And in the previous entry i've properly worshipped Dan, the Fallon Lodge manager who 1) gave me a 10% cyclist discount on a cheap room rate, 2) showed me the room to make sure it was ok with me (he'd been having to clean the rooms himself plus manage the place) - the only time that happened at the trip at that point (it happened since, in San Luis Obispo), 3) seemed to really want me to stay another night when i was debating to switch to the Holiday Inn Express so i could have unfettered legal access to their computer, 4) let me do my laundry (not a service for all guests), 5) allowed me to write my blog on his laptop in the sitting room he sleeps in behind the office for FIVE hours (the computer was so boiling hot that the inside of my wrists were slightly burned after all that time - damn, those handlebar confessions are heated!), and 6) gave me 3 hard-boiled eggs so i could have some protein to add to the breakfast i had bought from Safeway for my ride on the upcoming Day 50.
After i almost literally burned-out on writing, i ambled out into the 100-plus degree heat in search of a barber shop or salon, Nevada style. i realized that today being Monday June 29, it was my last rest day until i saw Donny and my final opportunity to get a haircut. I've already mentioned that my shaved head was in full-throttle Mon-Chi-Chi mode, and i wanted to be freshly shorn for the Love Reunion one week ahead. During one of my 2 trips to Safeway, i had seen a mini-strip mall with Creative Cuts. It was a Monday, and i had the dim memory that such places are closed on Mondays. Fingers crossed, i braved the heat and walked the half-mile or so to Creative Cuts. Debbie, the Owner/Operator (according to her business card which i have kept - you never know), was in the middle of styling the comb-over of a middle-aged gent. She could see me in 15 minutes. Score! I went to the convenience store next door and celebrated with a tiny veggie snack tray consisting of a few veiny baby carrots, stringy peapods, a cube of cheese and a micro-vat of gummy ranch dressing. I played slots poker with the 96 cents change i had in my pocket. That would have been a great story: Five-Figure Jackpot for Cyclist Eating Veggies at Fallon Convenience Store. But alas, not meant to be.
Debbie was finished with Mr. Combover when i returned. I asked for a basic buzz cut and referred her to the easily-nicked mole-growth on the back of my neck that i always point out as a hazard for those cutting my hair for the first time (after an incident about 15 years ago when someone sliced it off with a straight razor. Bloody mess it was.) Immediately she pegged me for a non-local and i told her my story. She asked what i learned so far about America, and i gave her a decent version: the one where i'm a lone lefty working on my own issues of tolerance. Debbie confessed (after saying she shouldn't talk politics - now is that an industry-wide practice, or a personal etiquette thang? Must ask Brendan) that although she was a Republican, she really wanted Obama's health care plan to pass. Her story, or rather her husband's, manifests the paragon dire need for "Dear President Obama" letter. Debbie's husband (who i'm assuming is pre-retirement age, she's probably 45 or so) hasn't been able to work in 4 years. He had bone cancer, and the treatment left the bones in his leg so damaged that when he subsequently broke it, his leg would not heal. There is some treatment (don't know what, i'm no doctor) that would help but the insurance company won't pay for it. One clinic thought they were being helpful by offering to accept a check for the procedure: $75,000. I told her she should've just written it, had the procedure, and dealt with that whole fraud issue later. It sucks bad enough that her husband is ill but the fact that it's compounded by his not being able to work to pay for his medical costs is truly mind-blowing. How many thousands and thousands of people are in a similar position?
When the buzzing was done, Debbie offered to wash away the tiny cuttings from my head, and she did so with what felt like such care and warmth. Someone was touching my head, keeping soap out of my eyes, lightly brushing errant hairs from my neck and ears. Again, it's odd being alone for so many days, and how comforting - motherly almost - a stranger's touch can be. Debbie's story about her husband and their plight within the health care system both moved me and made me feel impotent. (I mean, what can you say when you're mouth is hanging open besides "That's awful" and "I hope his health care plan passes too." Or someone's plan that doesn't leave millions of people permanently injured, destitute or both.) I got out my wallet to pay Debbie, and she refused. I was flabbergasted, as i have been 99% of the time people have done nice stuff for me for seemingly no reason at all - or for reasons of their own that i couldn't guess. I begged her to let me pay her - but she said she wanted to contribute to my trip. After some pressure, she caved and let me leave a tip. But that was that. PLEASE, if any of you are ever in Fallon, Nevada, go to Creative Cuts and ask for Debbie. Please.
The charm of Fallon continued into the night when Ben, the fellow cyclist i met in Escalante, Utah and then again the next day in Bryce Canyon when i was with Nina, showed up at my hotel room door. Ben had also sniffed out the bargain that was Fallon Lodge and Dan had told him that i was also staying there. We chatted for about an hour, catching each other up on our respective trips, like old friends who hadn't seen each other, rather than the virtual strangers we really are.
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