Day 23. Terminus

I woke up the next morning with sore legs and new neighbors: two homeless men had snuck into the hiker/biker section to seek refuge (obviously holding on to a smidgen of dignity rather than choosing to bed in a city alley). One was sleeping in his normal clothes on a piece of plastic – no tent, bivouac, or any form of shelter - a sheet of plastic like the kind used to cover goods during shipment. Not that anyone would want to do it, but I thought how vulnerable to attack I had been during that last night. For that, I was glad it was going to be my last day on the road.

I packed everything up as per usual except for the tarp I used to cover my bike with and left it next to the man with no shelter – not a solution to his problems but at least he would be in a better position that night.
Given that my legs were so knackered and that my rendezvous with my brother was going to be around 5 pm, I decided to take it easy and ride slower than usual. The hunt for breakfast began.

I made it to Ventura (or Bonaventura depending on how one feels like calling it) and asked a passerby for the usual recommendation. Busybees, an award winning diner style place, was literally around the corner from my informant. The waitress was very impressed with my saga and brought me a tall glass of lemonade; thank goodness for endless cups of coffee. I could have stayed there all morning, but I had to put a bullet in my insane journey.

I found myself riding through the city instead of the coast - yet again my damned Adventure Cyclist map led me astray. I eventually headed towards the coast however was unfortunate enough to find myself on the wrong side of US Navy Port Hueneme Battalion Center. The sun’s heat and glare was bouncing off the asphalt making the ride less enjoyable than usual. Nevertheless I persevered.

Once I bypassed the Naval base, I had to cross another large agricultural plain (celery and broccoli permeated in the air). In the distance AWACs were doing some routines that involved flying in large circles, disappearing and then returning flying low in a straight line over an imaginary battlefield. Clearly they were from the second Naval installation, Point Mugu. My legs relentlessly pushed themselves southbound.

I finally was back on the 1, which bordered Point Mugu and treated to several AWAC flybys and a peek into what I assumed were officers’ homes, a sort of abandoned fifties neighborhood. I passed a gate near an F-14 Tomcat mounted like a butterfly specimen above its missile arsenal. I then rode by the Seabees’ firing range (when the red flags are flying, so is the live ammunition).

Back on the coast for the final 62 kilometers - it was going to be a long afternoon. I eventually hit Malibu with its endless rolling hills and row upon row of parked cars – I was cycling between traffic and car doors, drained of energy and running on the knowledge that I had completed my trip. My lunch spot suggestion came from my brother: Malibu Country Mart. I ate an eight-dollar sandwich and watched uniformed schoolgirls driving Mercedes Benzes to get their afterschool coffees. A couple of paparazzi were following two women I couldn’t recognize; Hollywood…LA.

I mustered up the energy to proceed south – Malibu Sport Fishing Pier, Gladstone’s 4 Fish, Ferraris, swanky beach homes, Topanga Canyon, Chart House, Getty Villa and finally the sign “Los Angeles City Limit”. I stopped to take a photo, but mostly to take in the moment.

After the Bel Air Bay Club, I exited the 1 onto the beach path and met my brother. We rode the last 12 kilometers together contemplating what I had just achieved.

Thanks for following me.

Longest Day

I’ve been basing my days on campsite location - campsites with hiker/biker fees and more importantly: with showers. I was now located in a position where these kinds of sites were sparse so I had to make a tough decision: do I cycle to Gaviota State Park and then suffer a long ride to Venice tomorrow, possibly risking adding another day? Do I cycle to Santa Barbara and stay in a motel? Do cycle just beyond Santa Barbara and camp there?

The ride to Gaviota was going to be hard enough since I would have two hard climbs to reach it. I decided to hit the road in search for breakfast so I could think about it over a hot plate.

My Adventure Cyclist map took me from the beach inland towards Halcyon. So far so good, however no decent looking eateries. Eventually I got lost, but kept heading South since eventually I’d hit the 1. The ride through a series of farms and horse stables was easy and there were no cars to deal with. Eventually I hit Nipomo, which was totally off course, so I followed directions towards Guadalupe.

The road took me to a bluff overlooking a massive valley of farmland. The air was heavy with strawberry, celery and broccoli – kind of nasty but nice at the same time. I headed down onto Division Road through a series of strawberry fields and witnessed the most atrocious spectacle of human labor I had ever seen. Mexican men and women were bent over picking strawberries into a box. They would move slowly in one direction until they would stand up and sprint towards a truck. Another person would scan a tag around their necks, collect the box and hand them an empty one. The pickers would then about face and sprint back to where they left off, bend over, and commence picking again.

My hunger and frustration for having gotten lost, in addition to having to cycle 10 miles into the wind quickly dissipated as I contemplated these people’s lives.

I had huevos rancheros with hot sauce in Guadalupe whilst overlooking my map. The only decision I could make was to see how I felt once I arrived at Gaviota (but so much of me wanted to make it to Santa Barbara!).

Not long after, back on the 1 with a good tailwind, I cycled along a guy named Dave, who was with a group with car support. We talked for a long time and kept a good pace. Again the Adventure Cycling map got us lost. Instead of making it to Lompoc, we ended up further North East in Los Alamos. It wasn’t bad for me, but Dave had to cycle back South and West for over an hour and a half, and it was getting hot.

Since I was off route to Gaviota, I decided to head for Santa Barbara by way of the 154. I hit the 101 and was dismayed to read the electronic signs advising of the closure of the 154 due to the fires above Santa Barbara. I proceeded towards Los Olivos to decide whether to return down South towards Gaviota or take Refugio Road over the mountains into Capitan. The people I met in Los Olivios advised against climbing over the mountains as the road would become a steep trail – shame because I also found out I would have gone by Ronald Regan’s ranch. Had I not had bags, I would have done it…next time.

The ride from Los Olivos to Solvang and down towards the 101 was fantastic. The road dwindled to one lane, snaking into the hills very much like in Liguria. There was no escaping a climb, however this pass was much more agreeable than Refugio Road.

The downhill into Gaviota was spectacular, and so was Gaviota Beach. I would have stayed had it had any food amenities. The decision had been made: proceed to Santa Barbara.

The 101 looked very much like the 101 I knew when I lived in Los Angeles, thus made the end of my trip appear that more apparent. The feeling gave me the energy to push hard to make Santa Barbara by 5 or 6.

The fires above SB were pretty big. Smoke towered above, and ash rained down. I stopped for two slices of pizza and figured I should spend the night at a motel. My legs had had enough. I rode along the beachfront in search of a place to stay, but I kept going. South – to Carpinteria State Beach, set up camp, showered, collapsed. 120 miles.

More Coincidences

I finally had a chance to wear my short-sleeved shirt since the weather was decidedly warmer, and I would not be facing any steep downhills. I parted with Maik and Mario and headed towards Pismo Beach.

I stopped for a muffin and coffee at Cayucos in a groovy looking coffee shop. As usual a customer enquired about my trip, so we got talking. After learning that I was Italian, he asked me if I knew of a town called Bordighera. I had to laugh at the additional serendipity this journey has gifted me with. I explained how my family has holidayed there for most of my lifetime and as early as my mother’s teenage-hood. He knows of it because he’s friends with a Bordighotta.

After Cayucos I climbed towards San Luis Obispo for a Mexican lunch and internet café break. The people around town had the appearance of the stereotypical Californians: blonde, healthy, well dressed and driving expensive looking cars. It had to happen eventually.

The ride to Pismo Beach was pleasant albeit the slight burn from the sun. The State Park wanted $20, which I grudgingly paid even though the campsite was totally worth it as it was located on a wicked beach. Had it been warmer, I could have stayed another day.

A New Hope

The next day I had to start with another steep climb above Big Sur within a light mist. I stopped at a bakery for a scone and cookie: $6!!

I couldn’t help being snap happy during this leg as every valley yielded much spectacular scenery. After one curve, a rather large bird flying no more than 6 meters off the road approached me. At first I assumed it was a Turkey Vulture, however it soon became clear that the large pink head and impressive wingspan led me to believe that I was encountering a California Condor. I grabbed the brakes and froze, probably open-mouthed. As I child, we were taught about the plight of the Condors so for me it was a first hand representation of the concept of extinction. It was a real joy to see one in real life. Luckily it decided to land several meters behind me, so I had time to video him and take a few shots before some idiots who drove up to it to do the same thing spooked it.

At San Simeon State Park I met Maik and Mario, two Germans from what was originally East Germany. They had been on the road for the last 6 months, starting in the United Arab Emirates, Oman, Malaysia, Indonesia, Burma, Laos and Thailand. I may join them next year when they head to Iran from Germany.

It was nice to exchange stories over shared food and fire. I’ve discovered and embraced my nomadic self.

Solo Again – Sort Of

After a hearty breakfast, Ken and I exchanged our contact info and said our goodbyes. I couldn’t have asked for a better person to spend those days with.

I proceeded towards Capitola by way of Pleasure Point (an awesome surfing beach with practically perfect waves…every wave). I cycled with some University of Santa Cruz students towards the 1. They were headed to their bike workshop. After building a bike from parts, they donate it to the university’s bike library where any student may use it for an entire term. Excellent idea.

As soon as I left them I encountered Brian. He was on his first cycling outing of the season, trying to get into shape for a future bike trip. We ended up talking until Monterey. We detoured to a yacht club so he could show me a photo of his father who was on the wall of all the club’s previous commodores. Just before we parted, I met Bill and Ricardo. They were on a charity fund raising trip from San Francisco to Santa Barbara. They invited me to join them from LA to the border (I should do it so I can say I rode from border to border).

From Monterey I climbed the hill parallel to the 1 in order to avoid the 17-mile ride, which borders the peninsula. I couldn’t care less about seeing millionaire’s homes from afar.

I bought provisions at Carmel’s Safeway’s, knowing full well that anything bought during the Big Sur leg would cost me dearly. A group of Italians were there doing the same; they thought I was nuts for cycling all this distance.
Before reaching the climb towards the campground, I stopped in someone’s driveway for a snack. The gate opened and this large man in a Mercedes pull out and asked me if I was lost. During the conversation I mentioned how lucky he was to live in such a beautiful location. His reply was to shrug his shoulders. Sad.

At Big Sur I had to grit my teeth before handing over $40 to camp at a private site. One State park was closed; the other non-shower site wanted $15. The site was immersed in Redwoods and was very nice; the complimentary coffee and tea was a decent touch.

Head wind to Santa Cruz

The Pigeon Point hostel was actually a great place to stay. Hostel guests are allowed to hang out at the lighthouse grounds after it is closed to the ordinary public. Later in the day the mist rolls in giving the whole place a mysterious feel to it. The hostel rooms are located in 4 bungalows each with their own kitchen, bathroom and living room space. A man named Mike offered to cook me angel hair spaghetti but I declined (some people get funny about burning flags – most Italians get funny about pasta cooked by non-Italians). This issue arose later during a heated Scrabble match; I had obviously pushed some buttons.

The idea of going to a hostel can be off putting however the experience always turns out to be better than expected. The bonus feature of the Pigeon Point hostel was its hot tub; I didn’t partake.
The next morning we took off into the mist towards Santa Cruz. Within minutes we were drenched and fighting a headwind. Morale soon lowered to “let’s give up” point.

We soldiered on to Ano Nuevo and Pebble Beach (not the famous one) and finally stopped at Swanton Berry Farm in Davenport, which was also the finishing line for a 48-hour charity running race. Cyclists receive a 10% discount (if they wear their helmets) on all products; I suggest the pumpkin pie and coffee.

After that much needed break we fought the wind into Santa Cruz, had a wicked Mexican lunch and checked into a motel. That night Ken and I mentioned the elephant in the room: his need to slow down, my need to speed up; with that we knew we would be parting the next day.

Newly Greased Balls

The weather seemed to hold this morning, so we took off after raiding the motel’s breakfast buffet. My intended target was Santa Cruz. As soon as we started, my front wheel began making some clicking noises. Nothing was obstructing its motion, so it most definitely had to be the bearings, which was a bad sign. Ken suggested it was best to get to a bike shop as I could damage the wheel. I wanted to stop by a cycle shop anyway because my rear tire thread had been considerably consumed due to the weight I am carrying.

After about 5 km the drizzle, which had just started, turned into rain. I couldn’t decide what was worse: the climb after Pacifica or the being drenched again. My shoes had only dried an hour earlier – they were getting squishy.
We made it to Half Moon Bay and stopped for a coffee in order to get out of the rain and reassess our position. Ken decided to stay in Half Moon Bay, I half agreed to the same given that I had to service the bike anyway.

We pinpointed Bike Works located in a converted two-storey house on Kelly Ave. One of the guys (Matt) took a look at the wheel and confirmed it was the bearings. He also said that because of being understaffed and overworked, the job would have to be done on Monday. Sensing my despair he offered to swap my tires around and reassured me that I could make it to LA without fixing the bearings sans considerable damage to the wheel.

Turned out I needed a new rear tire as mine had also developed a tear. I had a slightly thicker one with deeper threads fitted. During the procedure I chatted with Matt and got a sense of his dedication to his job. I worked my magic mentioning the highlights of my trip, how great cycling in Europe was etc. With glazed eyes, Matt went ahead and began working on the bearings.

The sun was shining when we left Bike Works and both Ken and I were feeling positive again. I’d like to think that I convinced him to proceed towards Santa Cruz, but it was the $114 room he was offered which made him change his mind.

We reached the lighthouse at Pigeon Point and noticed it was also a hostel. I wanted to press on, so we went ahead but soon stopped at Gazos Grill for a late lunch / early dinner. The waitress said the hostel was great and mentioned its hot tub overlooking the point. Ken’s eyes glazed over and I lost him to the temptress. At least the lemon merangue pie was delicious.

Riding the Wiggle and Panhandle

We awoke to a light rain and decided to push on to San Francisco with two options: if the weather held we could do a spot of sightseeing and then proceed to Pacifica, if the weather worsened, we would check into the first motel and take a damned shower.

The weather was fine and so was the downhill into Sausalito. We had breakfast and then crossed the Golden Gate into San Francisco. Ken wanted to see China Town; I wanted to see the Mythbusters studio.

As we approached Grant Ave, I became unsure about the gastronomic decision I had agreed to partake in. Ken slammed on the breaks and said “Here”. He indicated towards the Far East Café, where 6 SFPD motorcycles occupied its parking space. Cops know about food.

The heavens opened so my Mythbusters pilmigrage was iced. We proceeded to Market Ave so that we could follow it out of San Francisco. At an intersection we asked another cyclist for directions to the 1. He said, “Follow me”.

The Wiggle is a very clever cycling route intended to avoid San Francisco’s infamous hills. Basically when you reach a hill, you simply turn left/right from it and eventually make it to your destination without as much as a climb. The route is also indicated with signs.

The panhandle is another cycle route shaped like a panhandle. Duh.

I also saw two familiar faces: Milanese trolleys. I would have never imagined seeing them in California. Italians, they’re everywhere.

We checked into a motel in Pacifica and initiated the drying procedure.

End in sight

Another black hole for breakfast eateries. We had to cycle 20 km to Jenner in order to have breakfast (coffee and a Danish). There was a gathering of seals just north of Jenner. We then pressed on to Bodega Bay to have one of the best bowls of clam chowder I had ever eaten.

The 1 then brought us inland to Valley Ford, Tomales and finally Point Reyes (another place one should stop in). Ken bought a copy of Dead Eye Dick for 1 dollar.

We were in reach of San Francisco, so Ken stopped dilly-dallying as he sensed I wanted to get there sooner than later. We aimed for Mont Tamalpais State Park, which would have allowed us an easy entry to San Francisco the morning after.

The ride after Olema was fantastic: another long downhill through a grove of Eucalyptus trees towards the banks of a lake into Stinson Beach. We decided to eat at The Sand Dollar before reaching the campsite. Little did we know that the campsite was located a further 4 miles uphill! We opted for a motel since we were tired and hadn’t showered since the night before.

The first place wanted 100 dollars; a nutter who introduced himself as Alphonse manned the second place. He had a limp, a raspy voice, and a wicked sense of humour. He brought us to a locked room and had trouble finding the key to unlock it. Ken asked for a knife and proceeded to unlock the door (tricks of the trade) and enter to find a couple of suitcases on the bed with some clothes strewn about. Confused, Alphonse rang his wife only to discover that the room had been leased to another customer.

Alphonse also worked as Stinson Beach's sole taxi driver. For 12 dollars, he offered to take us to the park in his truck - but only if we helped him unload some soil along the way. Another shrewd businessman.

We arrived at the park and were dismayed to discover that it too did not have showers. Whore’s bath, two nights in a row.

More coast

As we were searching for our breakfast spot I had vocalized my desire for eggs benedict. It was slim pickings for eateries since we were located on a stretch of coast known only for its grandiose houses.

We eventually stopped at the Harbor House Inn. I knew we were in trouble when the brass front door handle only measured 2 inches. We were told that because they only had 2 guests, they hadn’t prepared any breakfast apart from what those guests had requested: eggs benedict. I’m going to wish for a million dollars tomorrow.

Next interesting towns visited were: Point Arena and Gualala (go to the Blue Canoe for coffee!).

We camped at Salt Point State Park. No showers….

Back to the Ocean

The next morning began with the serious climb up hill. The occasional motorist would honk in support or give us the thumbs up. I have noticed that I’m pretty good at climbing since I don’t tire easily and leave Ken at a considerable distance.

The payback was sweet: 17 kilometers of downhill culminating with a greeting from the ocean at the very bottom. Totally worth it.

We had finally entered Mendocino, so far in my opinion, the best coastline in California. The town of Mendocino was fantastic too. We got talking to a woman at the post office that had been to Venice with her dance troupe. She said she loved Italian food, so I offered to make all of us some if she let us use her kitchen. Unfortunately her husband was not in the mood to host strangers in the house. I was so close to a plate of spaghetti al ragu’. Ken suggested we try again with somebody younger.

That night we had fish tacos and two pitchers of margheritas at the Little River Inn. We had been promised fresh abalone from our camp neighbors, but we got back too late. Another perfect day.

More Redwoods and crazies

Finding breakfast was going to be hard in our location – and the fact that it was low season didn’t help either. We stopped in Miranda for a coffee. Don’t bring your patronage to the only coffee shop in that town; it’s run by the most impertinent arsehole you could imagine.

We pressed on to Phillipsville and had a pretty good breakfast there. Lunch was had at Garberville. Ken liked to go slow and stop everywhere. I was having a blast.

Eventually we made it to Standish Hickey Park at the foot one of the tallest climbs in my journey. The roadside café in front of the state park is a must for a visit if anything to have a chat with the owners. Their hamburgers are pretty damn good too.

Ave of the Giants

Ken agreed to meet me at Trinidad for breakfast. He was all packed up and ready to go even before I had a chance to fold up my hammock. He was nowhere to be seen when I got there so I had breakfast without him. On my way back towards the 101 I heard my name shouted. Ken was at the filling station eating a breakfast burrito.

We talked as we rode throughout the whole day. I discovered he was a retired Las Vegas policeman who had run for judge but barely lost the election. He was on his second big trip, the first being 3800 miles. Oh yeah, he's also married to Mrs Nevada 2007.

He rode differently than me; slower, wanting to stop often to check things out. Perhaps I was doing this trip all wrong. I should be taking more of it in rather than jetting down to LA as quickly as possible. Anyway, he’s slowing me down and I’m speeding him up – which actually turned out to be working in both of favor since the campsites are now scarce and timing to reach them has to be accurate else we risk too short or long days.

We reached Weott, in the middle of the Avenue of the Giants.

First bad day ends well

Crescent City was a pretty drab place and the weather didn’t help much: a cold consistent wind coming in from the ocean brought in dull and gray clouds. I hit the road at 8 with the intent to have breakfast at a diner.

After 20 km I was still running on empty, and the only places I encountered where really not worth stopping for. I became quite miserable – to the point that I had convinced myself that I had had enough. The sign indicating 395 miles for San Francisco didn’t help either. The motel manager was right; the first 10 miles were going to be hard.

I took the usual suggested cyclist detour into a stretch of Redwood forest. It was both awe and gloom inspiring. My mood seemed to worsen, almost as if the forest was exorcising my troubles. It wasn’t the ride that was angering me.

Once out of the forest and into a sunny spell my funk lifted. My stamina however had suffered considerably probably due to my previous day’s exhort and lack of this morning’s breakfast.

I stopped at the beach just after Orick (which was the actual site of the original Indian village with the same name) for a pause to regain my mental focus. Had the energy and vibrations of the trees affected me?

I struggled on to Patrick’s Point and decided to stop, even though it was early in the day. Perhaps I needed the rest after all.

After setting up camp and a snooze, a cyclist approached the hiker/biker section of the grounds. He saw me and almost did an about turn to set up on the total opposite side of the site. Later he approached and confessed to me that he had initially thought I was a vagrant. He did have a point; ever since entering California, there was a considerable increase in the number of bums walking the 101. I do admit my beard didn’t help either.

Hitting California

I started the day early to get back onto the 101 from the park as well as to start the day with another cooked breakfast. I asked some people at Port Orford where I should go. Griss’s is located on the actual port, nestled amongst the crab traps and fishing boats. I had eggs, bacon etc with a side of crab cocktail. All the $4 camp fees have been subsidizing these little luxuries.

I reached Gold Beach and took the “cyclist detour” only to find Chris pumping away ahead of me. We rode for about 3 km together as he struggled to keep up with me. Again, his lack of interest to converse led me to believe he wanted to be on his own. He made it to Humbug Park (which is where I wanted to arrive the previous day, but I had wasted time at breakfast and at the internet café). I left him behind me as I shot southbound faster than him.

Speaking of speed: I reached 73 km per hour while descending the mountain near Cape Sebastian. I heard many voices in my head (family and friends) telling me to pull on the brakes. Since I’m not wearing motorcycle gear, I shan’t be doing that again.

Brookings is the last city on the Oregon Coast. I arrived at 3 and felt I was just too close to California to stop there. I promised myself a night in a motel in Crescent City with internet access to rest properly and update photos etc.

Tomorrow I should reach Patricks Point, which is in the vicinity of the Redwood National Park. I may need longer rope to hitch up my hammock.

My first 150+ km ride

Chris left before I did, I knew he didn’t want to ride alongside me, mainly because I’ve been covering longer distances than him. He said he’ll see me at Bullard’s Beach Park or maybe elsewhere one our journey.
I stopped at North Bend for Breakfast at another spectacular eatery (on the corner of 101 and the road towards Charleston).

At Coos Bay I found an internet café, so I stopped to upload some photos and the previous day’s portion of this god awful blog. Just as I was done another cyclist, wearing an orange top, entered the place. He was from Holland. Funny cos I’m wearing a blue top…guess we’re both needing to represent our home nations.

Took some photos at Sunset Bay and checked out the seals and sea lions basking and fighting on the rocks. I’ll be seeing more near Big Sur, so I didn’t stick around too long. I had to decide: continue on the 101 or the “old 101”. I chose the latter, which meant I’d have to climb the Seven Devils. I made it to Bullard’s and of course, proceeded South.

I stopped at Langlois to grab something to eat at the only roadside eatery (you can't miss it, Langlois is only tmade up of three buildings. A sign over the deli counter stated “over 150,000 hot dogs served”. If you ever drive by here, it would be criminal not to stop and eat one – you won’t be disappointed.

Cape Blanco campground is 9 km off the 101 and located in a spectacular basin. When I passed a herd of elk, they stopped grazing and slowly advanced in my direction. I slowly took out my camera and managed to take a shot of them gracefully taking off as one unit, clearing over a fence and through the river.

The showers at Cape Blanco were bliss.

Wildlife count: more roadkill - elk and Peking raccoon

The Oregon Coast Should be a Wind Farm

After my well-rested night in the yurt I hit the road with the intent to have breakfast in Newport rather than cook my usual oatmeal (now with craisins and banana). As soon as I saw the Court House Café, I knew it was the place to fuel up.

Later on as I was being pushed by the wind, I realized I had cycled 48 km with hardly any effort. I wanted to stop at the Carl G Washburne Park but it was closed. This enticed me to call the Oregon Parks reservation line to confirm all the other parks I planned to stay in were open.

I arrived at the Umpqua Lighthouse park and approached the hiker/biker zone only to find another cyclist setting up camp. Chris gave me the impression of being ex-army, a sort of Oklahoma bomber type guy. I sensed I had invaded his privacy as he was giving me one word answers and not engaging in conversation. Eventually he warmed up and enquired about my Hennessey Hammock. He’ll be spending the next 5 weeks on the road towards Cabo San Lucas!
That night raccoons woke us up 3 times as they attempted to raid Chris’ food. Definitely not ex-army.

Somebody's Day 6, too

I was so miserable this morning that I quickly broke camp and took off without breakfast - rushing to locate a restaurant to treat myself to a proper fry-up. Again the mist was blocking the sun’s rays. I discovered earlier that Cape Look Out was in the middle of the US’s only rain forest. Who knew?

After a steep climb I found myself in the strangest landscape: sand dunes amongst fir trees…on top of a cliff. A retired Swiss couple flagged me down to ask me if I wanted a Coke (I later met them two more times).
After the sand dunes, I encountered my first hiker: a woman carrying a pack taller than she was. She too was on her 6th journey day (from Newport to Seattle).

I finally made it to Pacific City and had a wicked breakfast at the Pelican Pub and Brewery. I could have done with some of their award winning beer. This was also the second place I met the Swiss couple. They gave me a Lindt Cresta Classic chocolate bar, which they claimed was “special”.

More hills (one with a 4 km/ 2.5 mile slope on which I reached 58 km / 36 mph) and more stunning views. Bikers are giving me the horizontal peace sign salute reserved for their own. It is hard to look like a badass when the fabric you are wearing contains a percentage of lycra; hey at least I don’t look like a member of the Village People.
I found an internet café in Lincoln City and bumped into the Swiss couple as I approached it. I may need to look into obtaining a restraining order.

A couple of hours later I pulled into Beverly Beach State Park and paid $30 dollars for a yurt. I walked to the beach and reveled at the thought that in 4 more days I will reach California, and it will still only be half of the journey.

Wildlife count: 5 ospreys – dark birds with five-foot wingspans.

Stunning Coast

Here’s an example of how much Americans are dependant on their cars:


Fort Stevens has a couple of sightseeing spots including the relic of a ship, which ran aground in blah blah blah. Anyway, the sight is situated no more than 2 miles from the park’s entrance. Fair enough, some people might not want to walk that far so the park provides a road leading to a parking lot not 150 yards from the relic. Yet this shit happens, oh but they drink diet sodas…mind-boggling.

Shortly after my departure from the park, I was detoured towards the beach and came across a herd of elk grazing near the dunes. The road then meandered along the coastline, which is littered with mountainous rock formations resembling the location for the Goonies (which was probably filmed in Oregon). The Pacific here is very rough, however it retains a gem-like green hue as it swirls in and around its hidden rocks. Again, I tip my hat to all those mariners who literally braved this ocean.

I was making good time for Oswald West Park, so I decided to stop in Cannon Beach for lunch. As I exited the 101 I was treated to a steep incline, my speedometer read 55 km (34 mph). That was fun. I noticed a very active seafood restaurant so I stopped. As I was leaning my bike against the edifice, a man and his daughter approached me to let me know how surprised they were to see me maintain such speed without holding a wide mouthed, goggled eyed expression. Colin and Sophie were really cool lunch partners. Had I been doing this trip a week ago, he would have invited me on his boat. I’ll definitely call him the next time I’m in Portland. Sophie is going to break a lot of hearts when she starts high school next year.

I reached Oswald West Park and mingled with hippy day visitors and surfers. The beach was stunning, as was the hike down towards it. Unfortunately the campground was closed due to fallen trees. I really wanted to stay there.
Being the masochist I am, I continued towards the next campground, which was meant to be day 6’s destination. I kept going through decent looking towns offering motel rooms at good rates promising hot tubs, wi-fi etc. Eventually I was too close to justify staying in a motel; I also promised myself I would stay in a yurt.

The closer I got to Cape Look Out, the mistier it became. Eventually I arrived at 7, but due to the fog and mist, it was pretty much dark. Neither yurts nor cabins were available. Dismayed, I paid 4 dollars and set up the hammock amongst the skunk cabbage in the hiker/biker portion of the park.

It was so dark I could not see my hands in front of my face.

Wildlife count: a herd of elk

Oregon is brilliant

Ok, so I may have been a bit harsh with Washington. Perhaps I was still tired from my grueling first 3 days, legs getting used to strenuous exercise (the last time I rode a bike prior to this journey was October 2008), the lack of quaint towns but I do realize that I cut out a large portion of the coastal route due to the fact that I’m not on a motorized vehicle.

Anyway, a massive change occurred to the landscape as I proceeded south. The forests gave way to massive expanses of marshy lands as well as prairie fields containing dairy cows. The road had fewer hills against me however there were more cars and motorcyclists (probably the best way to travel these roads).

I was elated, perhaps it was the 18-degree cloudless day (I could finally wear shorts), the lessening pain I felt in my legs, or that I finally encountered another cyclist. He was heading the opposite way and going slightly up-hill. I was also making good time so I figured I could reach Oregon.

I stopped in Chinook (just before Astoria) for lunch and an espresso (what? Sono italiano). The woman at the trading post asked me about my trip. Noting that I was traveling alone, she also asked me if I had met any crazies on the road. “You’re fine on the coast, it’s the interior folk who can be strange”. That’s when I decided not to apologize for yesterday’s comments.

To get to Oregon I had to cross the Columbia River, which is fucking massive. Lewis and Clark had balls of steel to challenge such a turbulent river even though I suspect their native guides were really the ones you had to watch out for in a bar room brawl. I can’t remember how long it took me to ride across that infernal bridge, however 2 things amazed me: I finally saw Mt St Helens in the distance, the North West’s answer to Mt Fuji, and the seagulls cleverly utilizing the thermals off the bridge. These bastards were flying at my level, careening towards me without as much as a single wing beat.

Astoria was the sort of town I had imagined it to be: quaint, with many original buildings. I almost stayed in a motel there so that I could explore it at night. I decided to proceed towards Fort Stevens Park.

They charged me $4 dollars entrance fee. I had the entire hiker/biker lot to myself and the showers were free, private, clean, and with endless hot water! You know what else elates me? The entire Oregon coast has plenty more State parks, just like this one.

Wildlife count: more eagles (I should stop counting them), 1 very dead possum

Hicksville

Hmm not much to say on day 3 apart from how much I’m really looking forward to leaving Washington. There’s so much ravaged forest a person can take, also I’d rather ride near the coast instead of climbing the hills of the interior encountering possible locations for Deliverance2. In all seriousness, it's been nice, but zig-zagging south should only be done with a motorcycle.

The towns I encountered were: Ocean City (a lazy summer surfing spot – every other house/trailer has a Sasquatch carving on their lawn and/or sells firewood), Hoquiam (a depressing lumber town sprawling with mouth breathers) Aberdeen (a bigger version of Hoquiam), Raymond (I stopped only to ask if South Bend had a motel) and finally South Bend.

If you are in the area, I suggest staying in South Bend; It’s the “Oyster Capital of the World”. I found that hard to believe, especially after the experience in BC. I guffawed at the sign until I came into view of an oyster shell hill (with accompanying bitter aroma). Let me reiterate: one of the oyster shell hills dotted along the Willapa River. I peeked at its shores and recognized the tell tale signs of oyster beds. A river otter peeked back at me before slipping under the murky waters. I knew what I was going to have for dinner.

this is what an oyster shell hill looks like

Because I cycled like a lunatic these last 3 days, I decided to treat myself to a motel room. I checked into the Seaquest Motel, had a 20-minute bath then headed off to the roadside BBQ joint for some oysters and a burger. You can’t miss the place; it has one of those BBQ smoker ovens, kind of like a large rusted propane tank spewing smoke from a flue. To be honest, the oysters in BC were better…

Wildlife count: 1 dead deer, 1 live deer, more eagles, 1 river otter

East and west barely south

The next morning I had breakfast (coffee and oatmeal with apple, banana, powdered milk and a crushed chocolate chip cookie), packed up and hit the road by 10 am. My destination Pacific Beach State Park that I had miscalculated at being 107 km - I ended up cycling around 155.

The 101 hits the Pacific Ocean at Ruby Beach. From there, it proceeds south to Queets then heads East for 45 km before heading south again (to avoid the Quinault Indian Reservation).

In order to reach Pacific Beach, I had to take an old highway off the 101 through the bottom end of the reservation. After 20kms or so I noticed a black shape on the side of the road and immediately stopped. It was a black bear. Since I was downwind and not in a car, it had not smelt nor heard me. I wasn’t about to turn back – not after cycling over 100km, besides goddamit, I’m a Homo sapiens and all creatures must bow before us. I shouted once, only to have his attention focused onto me. I shouted a second time…no reaction. I shouted again while waving my arms…he kept staring. At this point I figured he was getting ready to charge at me but finally, when I cupped my hands and shouted – he took off into the bush. Not 3 minutes later, a woman in a pick up truck coming from the opposite direction stopped to advise me of another bear further up the road. As I proceeded, I whistled at top volume various tunes including Popeye the Sailorman.

Pacific Beach was a pretty cool town. Many businesses look shut down, but this could still be the low season. I had 3 pieces of fried chicken, a bottle of water and a root beer for $4.80. I also took a 6-minute shower for a dollar. Luxury.

Wildlife count: 1 black bear

Entered the U.S of A.

The fools, they let me in. Come on, how suspicious does a bearded man traveling with brand new gear look? Maybe if I had a tan… Anyway, I’m finally on the move.

The best part of Port Angeles was seeing a pod of dolphins diving in unison just before the ferry docked. I found the 101 and headed west towards Lake Sutherland and Lake Crescent, both of a turquoise blue I have yet to see in a Canadian lake. The road was in excellent condition and the shoulder was, at times, as wide as the normal lane. It took some getting used to being passed at high speed by logging trucks – they’re even faster when unloaded with logs.

15kms after Lake Crescent I noticed a “cycle trail to 101” detour which according to my map would have brought me directly to Forks avoiding Sappho and Beaver. Unfortunately, one of the forks did not indicate Forks, so I ended up just before Beaver (guess I didn’t shave much off the mileage), an extremely small town, with a large wooden beaver – not worth taking a photo. Oh yeah, Forks ain’t nuthin’ to write home about except that most businesses have posters claiming how they love Twilight which was filmed there.

At Bogachiel Park, I was greeted by an RV-ing couple who took pity on me and insisted I accept: 1 cup of hot soup, 1 cup of tea, 1 trail mix, 1 cranberry juice, 1 sectioned orange. And there I was all ready to use my kick ass stove. I set up my hammock underneath a wooden roof structure so that I wouldn’t need to use the fly. It didn’t faze me at all when it rained later that night.

Wildlife count: pod of dolphins, more than 6 eagles, 1 dead coyote

All Packed and Ready to Go

I like Victoria more than Vancouver. Then again, my experience here has been more of a sightseer and punter of outdoor equipment. I guess what’s most appealing of this intimate city is its laidback and creative atmosphere. Like most urban centers though, there are great looking buildings and downright hideous ones – I’m talking about the 70’s cement block style kind. Oh well, this is British Columbia after all. Be that as it may, the Nazis can’t be blamed for these eyesores.

I finally had a chance to test some of my gear. Heather and Jocelyn drove me up to Clayoquot Sound for a two-day jaunt. We camped at Bella Marina campsite the first night and at Toquart Forestry Rec Site the next night. The first site was luxurious as it had bathrooms with hot showers (1$ for 2 minutes – fascists), access to a wonderful beach, proximity to Tofino etc. Nice, but not a true camping experience. The second (more Spartaaaan) site was located closer to Ucluelet and slightly off the beaten track. When the supervisor approached us to collect the camping fee, he announced that the Red tide warning had been officially lifted over a month ago, and that if one were to walk along the beach, one would find a variety of shellfish, oysters in particular.

By definition, they were the freshest oysters we had ever eaten and I doubt I can ever surpass that gastronomic experience; if I ever do, I’ll probably be somewhere in Valhalla.


The Olympic Mountain range, appearing as a rather intimidating wall, is visible from Victoria. I’m assuming the plumes of white smoke indicate Port Angeles, my entry point into the US. From there I head West approx. 80km to Bogachiel State Park. To get there I will pass through the towns of Sappho and Beaver. Can’t wait to take pictures...

Down on Victoria

You must consider weight distribution when packing your saddlebags. Luckily I had done most of the packing the night before my early morning departure. Time constraints aren’t fun when trying to get things into your bags; things don’t fit or sit the same way they do with a normal suitcase. At any rate, I managed to grab something to eat and was on my way towards the Mayne ferry landing for the 7:20 to Swartz Bay.

There was another cyclist (a commuter rather than tourist) who made a positive comment about front suspension frames. He was pianist living on Mayne heading for Salt Spring Island for supplies, I think. I was too thrilled about continuing my journey to pay much attention to details (I’ll be more careful in future). That and I couldn’t help replaying the scene in Blazing Saddles when Mel Brooks is dressed like an Indian chief. Poor quality clip for all you heathen who don't know what I'm talking about.

The Lochside Trail is a cycle path, which runs from Swartz Bay to Victoria. 30 km of flat (mostly) paved road for cyclists and pedestrians only (the sound you just heard was the collective inguinal discharge from all the keen cyclists reading this) and the only form of apartheid I support: cars out of cyclists’ way and vice-versa. I managed to cover the 30 km in about 2 hours without putting much effort, so my over packing concern was more of a lack of fitness rather than anything else. I’m still going to forward some things to LA by mail.

Victoria so far has impressed me with its very laid back feel and less modern architecture. I may even prefer Victoria to Vancouver…I’ve got over a week to get a feel for it and confirm this assessment.

Heather, my camping consultant, and I have been to a couple of shops in search of gear. I’m thinking of using a hammock + bivouac set up. It’ll be faster to set up than a tent and more comfortable to sleep on, also, it can double as a lounge chair. I'll be testing it in Tofino.

And He's Off

Oh, by the way I’ve actually started the trip. Unfortunately there hasn’t been too much time to type my progression due to the lack of Internet access but mostly because I’ve been enjoying the outdoors.

Not one pedal stroke and I’ve cheated already, but it wasn’t completely my fault. Cherrill invited me to Mayne Island for the weekend so we loaded our bikes onto her car and drove to Tsawwassen ferry terminal.

From Mayne’s ferry landing we cycled to Cherrill’s mom’s house: a short 8 km hilly ride. It was then I realized I was over packed (I have yet to buy a tent and sleeping bag). On a more positive note, Cherrill can now say she rode a portion of Vancouver-LA; an “I survived Van-LA” t-shirt will be sent her way.

Mayne Island was fantastic. On the same day I witnessed bald eagles play fighting and hunting, otters and seals swimming not 15 feet away, and the stereotypical landscape one conjures when thinking of Canada. The locals were very accommodating, so much so that we were invited to a bonfire in the middle of nowhere.

Standing under the starry sky, framed by fir tree silhouettes, licked by the fire’s heat, I finally captured B.C.’s essence: the nature, the friendly people. Good times.

IT'S ALIVE!

I picked up my Franken-bike this afternoon. Bob did an amazing job on it; it is now the best bike I have ever owned, and I'm prepared to stab anyone who has the intention to steal it. How much did I cough up for the repairs? Let's just say I did my bit to stimulate Vancouver's economy. The next bit of gear required is a pannier and packs, which I’ll probably get from MEC.

My first leg will commence in the beginning of April: Vancouver – Victoria. I’ll be staying with my camping consultant who will oversee my camping gear choice and take me out for a few excursions.

The second leg will be on April 15th: Victoria - Bogachiel State Park

unplanned inception

The idea to cycle to LA was my brother’s.

We were talking on the phone about what I was going to do after my Canadian visa expired. I suggested coming down to LA to finish some odd jobs around his house. He obliged on the condition I help out babysitting his kids in the mornings and evenings when the nanny wasn’t around. He’s a great businessman.

The Adventure Cycling Association has a great site with a suggested route that will skeleton my intended path. Overall, the journey should take about 3 weeks. So far, the biggest detour from the coast is a visit to Crater Lake; the roads to the park should be open by the time I get there, however I will most probably find snow.

Yesterday I bought a “Franken-bike”* from a shady geezer off Craigslist which is currently being pimped by Bob at Sport Junkies. Bob walked to LA several years ago, so he seems very keen to be involved in my project (that, or he’s grateful for the amount of money I’ll be coughing up for his services). The bike is going to be the bollocks once tuned up.
So far I’ve spent $ 275 for the bike. Stay tuned for the…erm tune up costs.

* 2005 Kona Caldera missing a rear disc break with dodgy rear rim, chainrings and freewheel