Interstates are made solely for getting many people from one place to another as fast as possible, and even if they go through nice areas, their function alone is enough to keep me away from them on this trip. I have almost unlimited time and therefore the luxury of not having to get anywhere as fast as is possible. Riding a motorcycle next to semis in three lanes of traffic with people passing me and merging into my lane is not a real selling point either. Needless to say, I am glad to get off I-10 in Las Cruces, although due to construction, I can't make the easy connection onto New Mexico state highway 70 that I would like to. I have to wait until I can exit, and I get off on Main Street and ask directions at a liquor store. Luckily, following Main Street north will put me directly on 70. Soon I am where I want to be, and I take 70 up and over a low pass that spills out into a large flat desert valley. I see signs for White Sands Missile Range, and I have to go through a checkpoint similar to a couple I passed through in southern California and Arizona. From what I can tell, these checkpoints are just government controlled racial profiling stations. Being one of the whitest men alive, I naturally have no problem passing through when I say that yes, I am a US citizen. I guess it would be hard for me to stow some illegals on my motorcycle anyway. I drive past the White Sands National Monument, and sure enough, I can see dunes of white sand spotted with desert scrub rolling away to the northwest as I drive by. I see and hear a fighter jet of some kind scream across the sky also, obviously from the nearby airforce base. At Alamogordo I stop for lunch at possibly the slowest fast food joint have ever been too. It might seem like I would remember the name of the place, having spent so much time there waiting for my burger and fries, but that's not the case, and I can't remember it so as to warn anyone else who might consider stopping there. The vanilla shake, though, is very good.
I double check the index card in my jacket pocket with all the roads I need to take, and the approximate mileage between them. From Alamogordo I get on 82 heading east. I pass a sign that warns of the steep ascent over the next 16 miles, and to me this says lots of fun curves and hills. I am not disappointed in the road at all, but the weather is a different story. From what I can tell, I am climbing my way directly into a violently black thunderstorm. The wind is going crazy, blowing across my lane, but where I am is still in the sunshine. I pass a cop waiting for speeders next to an old shelter of some kind. The shelter could easily house me and my bike should I need to turn around, and judging by how the wind is blowing, and what the sky looks like, I decide I need to turn around. I park underneath it and ask the cop about what the storms are like around here. Apparently they can be short or they can be long, and this answer really doesn't help me. I sit on my bike and trudge my way through 20 minutes of Kafka's The Castle. When I walk out from under the shelter to see what the sky looks like, most of the clouds have disappeared. I feel like it's safe to continue up the still-climbing road, and I am glad to get going, not to stop wasting time, but because I have discovered one of the hideous and massive spiders that calls the shelter I am under home. I don't like spiders, they creep me out, and this one is just disgusting. At the peak of the road, at a town called Cloudcroft, I see that I made a wise choice in waiting out the weather. I have to drive slowly due to the slush on the road, and I can't believe that I can see snow on the side of the still-wet roads. I pull into the high school parking lot to take some photos when I realize that it is hail, not snow. In one low parking lot, cars are deluged up to their doors, and a front-end loader is futilely trying to scrape the water and slush away from the parking lot. At least that's what it looks like; I guess that he is trying to clear off debris from a drain. Heavy equipment seems like the wrong tool for the job, but let him have his fun. I think again of how glad I am that I decided to take a break. There was not a single drop of rain where I was, 10 minutes down the road. I would have been a dead man, or at least a miserably wet man, had I been caught in this flash hail storm. From Cloudcroft the road goes down, and it is wet, so I take it slow, and allow any cars and trucks that come up behind me to pass. As I ride down 82 the road eventually dries out, flattens out, and straightens up. I am hoping to get to a campground that I probably won't get to, taking into account what time it is and how many miles I have to go, but I decide to see how far I can get today. It is late afternoon and as I am burning across 82, enjoying the plains that seem to drop off below the horizon. On the road ahead of me, I see something small and brown moving. I fixate on it until it is right in front of me and I realize that it is a large brown spider, stepping its way across the road. I don't like spiders, and watching its eight hairy legs pump up and down sends shivers across my body and I can't do anything but maintain my path of travel and run it over, which disgusts me, as I realize I probably have tarantula guts glued to my wheels, rotating underneath me about a thousand times per second. Ugh. I continue driving on, now noticing that there are more and more brown spots on the road, and again, I see myself about to run over another spider, I am sure it's a tarantula this time, and I can't move out of the way. If there are this many spiders who are caught on the road, the high grasslands on either side of me must be teeming with them. This is a very uncomfortable thought, as is the idea of camping in this area.
I pass another motorcyclist at a rest area and give him a wave, and I recognize him from when he passed me as I was taking a quick break in Cloudcroft. His bike is maroon and covered in gold crosses, and other Christian propaganda like "Jesus is Lord" and something about burning in hell. Sort of heavy stuff to put on your bike, but he gives me a friendly wave back as I go back. In my mirror I see him in the distance behind me, and over a few miles, I can see that he is slowly gaining on me. I like to keep my speed at about 65 when I can, because going any faster kills my mileage, but he must be doing around 75 to catch up to me, and then he just kind of hovers at 65 behind me. I drive along the side of the lane to see if he wants to pass, but he maintains his distance behind me. I don't have a whole lot of experience on the road, and I don't know if this is a common thing among bikers, to just attach yourself to another and take comfort in the common strand among two otherwise strangers, so I don't bother pulling over or speeding up. After about twenty miles, we hit Artesia, and I stop to get gas, wondering if this guy will pull over and start preaching to me, or just strike up a conversation about the stretch of road we just went down together or what, but he just continues on with a wave. I fill up and continue on the road, looking for a turn off onto 529 which runs southeast real quick to 180. I keep passing all these county farm roads, and I'm starting to second guess myself, thinking I may have passed it while I was distracted by the Christian phantom in my mirror, when I finally come upon a sign for Loco Hills, which I remember from the map is right before my turnoff.
The sun is going down as I bear to the right, and the land around me is beginning to be dotted with those weird pumps that drag up oil, except I know that they are mining natural gas because the smell of methane, or whatever gas it is they are pulling up. The sun is just about fully down now, and I can see lightning in the east, directly in front of me, but it is still a ways off. There is virtually no one else on the road and I continue down 529, looking at these pumping stations, considering how feasible it would be to pull over to one and try and find some shelter to pitch a tent underneath in case a storm jumped me. I finally make it to 180 though, at a T intersection. Left is Hobbs, and right is Carlsbad. I know 180 is supposed to take me east, but it looks like my choices right now are north or south. I recognize both town names, and my index card is not helping me out at this point, but then I recall that Carlsbad was south of where I wanted to be, and set off towards Hobbs, hoping I was right. Fortunately I was. I get into the outskirts of town and ask about accommodations. Since I planned on camping tonight, and that will not be the case evidently, I feel like spending as little money as possible. I ask where the cheap hotels are and I get pointed in the right direction by the woman working at a gas station. I stop at the first hotel I see to get an idea of the price range I'm looking at. 45 bucks. Pretty cheap. I go to the next one and its the same thing - a local hotel run by an Indian family for the same price. I feel like this is all I'm going to run into so I just take it. It's a little nicer too. I dump my stuff in my room and drive to a gas station and spend my last five dollars in cash on a six pack of Keystone Light, bringing back to my college days at UNH, except there it was ten or eleven dollars for a thirty pack. What a bargain. On the way to the store and back I see many other motels advertise free hot breakfasts, and I think I may have gotten hosed on the place I am staying at. Oh well, I'm not sure I would want to trust food from these places anyway. I enjoy a hot shower and I lie on the bed watching TV. I can hear my neighbors through the wall, and I am not surprised at all with the level of establishment I am in. They are going in and out all night, having quite the party it seems, and I keep peeking out my window to check on my bike as I am watching Wedding Crashers. Eventually, I fall asleep as John Travolta and Olivia Newton John are singing their way through Grease.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Family in Arizona
David and Nina arrive just as I finish showering. I saw them last for my brother's wedding the previous summer, and they just moved into a nice new house and I have the pleasure of being their first guest there. I guessed as much when I noticed the dust in the guest shower and the tag still on the bath mat. We go out for a late dinner at a Mexican place, and I get something that I didn't order, but it was close enough so I ate it anyway. We rent Dr. Strangelove which I have not seen in it's entirety and when it ends I am very impressed with how funny it is. At this point it is bedtime, and I am ready for it after the full day I have just had.
It is Sunday morning and David and I go for a drive up Mt. Lemmon, just outside of Tucson. The vertical is about from 4000 to 10000 feet which is quite a rise, but what is more impressive than the numbers alone is that I can see the change in elevation in the plant life as we drive higher and higher. At the lower levels, there are saguaros and ocotillos and agave like I have been used to for the last couple days, but as we ascend, they give way to lots of grasses and rocky outcroppings, which in turn give way to alpine forests. We stop at a trailhead and go on a hike on what we think is the trail. It's hard to tell at first because of erosion maybe, but we find it and follow it for a ways, past charred trees from a past firestorm, lightning probably, and around a few bends until we get to a nice viewpoint that lets us see the distant hills and valleys and river through some haze, and also some ominously dark clouds above us that convince us to cut our hike short. Back at the car, we drive up to the small ski resort at the peak of the mountain, and get hit by a little bit of rain. On the hike, David tells me that he will soon be a father, and that I have the honor of being the first non-parental member to know the good news. Very cool. I wonder if I will then become a great cousin, or what, to the kid.
Back in town, we pick up some Sonoran hotdogs, a local delicacy which is essentially a hotdog smothered in every sort of topping imaginable. It's delicious. This evening, I speak to my uncle whom I plan on driving out to visit in the desert tomorrow, but I mixed up the dates he will be available, and I will have to wait until Tuesday morning to head out.
It's Monday morning and the first day of classes at the University of Arizona, and David and Nina both have their first classes to teach, so I entertain myself by visiting the Center for Creative Photography on campus. The current exhibition is Ralph Gibson and the Lustrum Press. I spend almost two hours looking at mostly black and white photos by Gibson and the various photographers he published. I then drive a little south of Tucson and check out an old Spanish mission. "The White Dove of the Desert" according to it's website, the San Xavier del Back mission is a large white church that must have been in the middle of nowhere when it was first built and now in the middle of nowhere special, a very marginal increase in status. It's not very big, so I spend about 20 minutes in the nave, or whatever it's called, looking at the paintings and ridiculously ornate decorations that you can always count on in old Catholic churches. There is a rocky hill outside of the church with a cross on top of it. I climb up to the top, but there is still only a cross up there, so I snap a couple photos and curse my dying battery and climb down and head back into town and spend another couple hours in the climbing gym I went to when I first got into Tucson.
I meet David at his house and he asks if I have ever had a passenger on my bike before. We are going to meet Nina for dinner near the campus and she has the car they share. I have indeed has passengers, I assure him, and no, it won't be too gay, I assure him. The only tricky part about riding with someone on the backseat is stopping and starting, and very slow turns, as the balance of the bike is what is affected by adding anyone, regardless of what sort of frame they have, onto a motorcycle. We make it to Pei Wei in a pretty safe manner and enjoy dinner.
It's Tuesday morning, and I head out to Pearce, Arizona, after saying goodbye to Nina and David who are on their way to their respective offices. I get on the highway south of town so I don't have to deal with all the closed exits, and it's a quick hour and a half or two hours. On the way though, I see smoke spilling across I-10 from the other lane, and traffic backed up behind what I assume is smoke from asphalting. As I drive by I see it is not any sort of road construction, but a semi trailer that is spitting out the smoke, since whatever it was carrying is now slowly burning itself out from both ends, which are also warped and crumpled. I don't have enough time to really figure out what's going on as I am seeing all of this at 65 miles per hour, but it's interesting nonetheless.
I get lost a little bit trying to meet up with my Uncle Jack. Take the first right after the school, he told me, and when I see a school bus parked outside of a building along a curve in 181, I begin looking for my first right which should be Fort Bowie. Eventually, I see the first right, which is not Fort Bowie. Maybe I was supposed to turn off at the smaller road the school was on and then look for the first right. I try that, but still no Fort Bowie to be found. When turning around, I see that the school was not actually a school, but a church with a schoolbus parked outside. I head back the way I was initially heading and see my Uncle Jack had come out to find me since I should have been there 15 minutes ago. Then I see the school that actually is a school and I feel like a slight retard. I ride slowly on the two or three miles of dirt road that leads to his ranch house, and I manage to avoid all the large rocks and ditches that litter the way there. We we arrive, I meet his dog Hoppy who is new since my last visit here four years ago. Hoppy is aptly named since he has so much energy that he cannot stay still for more than thirty seconds it seems.
I spend the next three days at Uncle Jack's taking it easy mostly. He is an excellent cook so I eat very well. I harass Hoppy with a remote control truck that drives him nuts, and we visit with his neighbors across the way and oversee the installation of a new refrigerator and stove, a momentous event way out here. We drink Miller High Life and some Black Butte Porter, and one day I help him move the larger rocks in his firepit closer to his house. I listen to his stories of Vietnam and his time as a police officer in Ohio, about the glory days of the local wolf pack that is now down to its last two members, two sad wolves that just don't have the energy to run around like they used to since Roscoe, Jack's old pet, and Sam died. I study the road atlas and Uncle Jack helps me plan out my next leg to Austin. At his advice I plan on avoiding a small road along the Mexican border of New Mexico. Not if I were armed with two other guys, he said, and considering that he almost always is armed anyway, with smugglers and illegal immigrants often crossing his property, I take his advice and map out a more northern route. What is nice about this part of Arizona is similar to what is nice about western Arizona. That is, the stars come out in the millions, and you can see the sunsets silhouetting the distant mountains, and for some reason the air in front of the setting sun is extra clear and crisp compared to any other sunsets I have seen anywhere, and they really look like the image on the Arizona licence plates, except better. I don't know how to describe any better than very crisp, like a slice of life in HD. It's hard to keep track of days and dates when both he and I are on our own schedules, but one day we go for a quick motorcycle ride into "town" 20 miles away to mail some letters. Uncle Jack recently bought a gorgeous Harley-Davidson Road King that is still in the process of being broken in, so when we ride, he accelerates quickly and then will fall back, and accelerate quickly, and fall back. I don't know why this is needed for a new engine, and neither does he, but that is just what you do with a new bike. Another day, we go over my bike pretty well to make sure it's in prime riding condition. We put two coats of Gunk on the chain to clean it off. We tighten some screws here and bolts there, and check the oil, brake fluid, which probably needs to be bled and replaced, check the tires, tighten the chain, and lubricate the chain. We both feel like it's in pretty good shape at this point.
It's my last night, and before the pork roast, sort of as an appetizer, Uncle Jack grills up some rattlesnake he personally killed. I've been wanting to eat rattlesnake since I heard how good it was awhile back. I eat it with my fingers, and it tastes like chicken, but a little juicier and chewier. It is cooked in short sections, maybe three inches long, and to eat it I have to gnaw the meat from either side of the spine, making sure not to get the needle-like rib bones in my mouth. Pretty tasty stuff. When Friday morning comes around, I pack up my saddlebags, and strap everything else onto the back seat. Uncle Jack is coming for a ride with me into Wilcox, where I will hop on I-10 and head east, and where he will turn around. It's a nice drive, mostly a straight shot. The only unpleasant stretch is past a dairy farm and there there is a nasty stink for a mile or so, and a blizzard of bugs that sprays my helmet with guts, but both are soon past. We stop at the post office so I can send a few small things home to New Hampshire, and we part ways at the Chevron near the freeway. It has been a nice few days; it's very easy to relax in the middle of the desert, and I thank Uncle Jack for all the great food and help with the bike, and hop on the interstate towards New Mexico.
It is Sunday morning and David and I go for a drive up Mt. Lemmon, just outside of Tucson. The vertical is about from 4000 to 10000 feet which is quite a rise, but what is more impressive than the numbers alone is that I can see the change in elevation in the plant life as we drive higher and higher. At the lower levels, there are saguaros and ocotillos and agave like I have been used to for the last couple days, but as we ascend, they give way to lots of grasses and rocky outcroppings, which in turn give way to alpine forests. We stop at a trailhead and go on a hike on what we think is the trail. It's hard to tell at first because of erosion maybe, but we find it and follow it for a ways, past charred trees from a past firestorm, lightning probably, and around a few bends until we get to a nice viewpoint that lets us see the distant hills and valleys and river through some haze, and also some ominously dark clouds above us that convince us to cut our hike short. Back at the car, we drive up to the small ski resort at the peak of the mountain, and get hit by a little bit of rain. On the hike, David tells me that he will soon be a father, and that I have the honor of being the first non-parental member to know the good news. Very cool. I wonder if I will then become a great cousin, or what, to the kid.
Back in town, we pick up some Sonoran hotdogs, a local delicacy which is essentially a hotdog smothered in every sort of topping imaginable. It's delicious. This evening, I speak to my uncle whom I plan on driving out to visit in the desert tomorrow, but I mixed up the dates he will be available, and I will have to wait until Tuesday morning to head out.
It's Monday morning and the first day of classes at the University of Arizona, and David and Nina both have their first classes to teach, so I entertain myself by visiting the Center for Creative Photography on campus. The current exhibition is Ralph Gibson and the Lustrum Press. I spend almost two hours looking at mostly black and white photos by Gibson and the various photographers he published. I then drive a little south of Tucson and check out an old Spanish mission. "The White Dove of the Desert" according to it's website, the San Xavier del Back mission is a large white church that must have been in the middle of nowhere when it was first built and now in the middle of nowhere special, a very marginal increase in status. It's not very big, so I spend about 20 minutes in the nave, or whatever it's called, looking at the paintings and ridiculously ornate decorations that you can always count on in old Catholic churches. There is a rocky hill outside of the church with a cross on top of it. I climb up to the top, but there is still only a cross up there, so I snap a couple photos and curse my dying battery and climb down and head back into town and spend another couple hours in the climbing gym I went to when I first got into Tucson.
I meet David at his house and he asks if I have ever had a passenger on my bike before. We are going to meet Nina for dinner near the campus and she has the car they share. I have indeed has passengers, I assure him, and no, it won't be too gay, I assure him. The only tricky part about riding with someone on the backseat is stopping and starting, and very slow turns, as the balance of the bike is what is affected by adding anyone, regardless of what sort of frame they have, onto a motorcycle. We make it to Pei Wei in a pretty safe manner and enjoy dinner.
It's Tuesday morning, and I head out to Pearce, Arizona, after saying goodbye to Nina and David who are on their way to their respective offices. I get on the highway south of town so I don't have to deal with all the closed exits, and it's a quick hour and a half or two hours. On the way though, I see smoke spilling across I-10 from the other lane, and traffic backed up behind what I assume is smoke from asphalting. As I drive by I see it is not any sort of road construction, but a semi trailer that is spitting out the smoke, since whatever it was carrying is now slowly burning itself out from both ends, which are also warped and crumpled. I don't have enough time to really figure out what's going on as I am seeing all of this at 65 miles per hour, but it's interesting nonetheless.
I get lost a little bit trying to meet up with my Uncle Jack. Take the first right after the school, he told me, and when I see a school bus parked outside of a building along a curve in 181, I begin looking for my first right which should be Fort Bowie. Eventually, I see the first right, which is not Fort Bowie. Maybe I was supposed to turn off at the smaller road the school was on and then look for the first right. I try that, but still no Fort Bowie to be found. When turning around, I see that the school was not actually a school, but a church with a schoolbus parked outside. I head back the way I was initially heading and see my Uncle Jack had come out to find me since I should have been there 15 minutes ago. Then I see the school that actually is a school and I feel like a slight retard. I ride slowly on the two or three miles of dirt road that leads to his ranch house, and I manage to avoid all the large rocks and ditches that litter the way there. We we arrive, I meet his dog Hoppy who is new since my last visit here four years ago. Hoppy is aptly named since he has so much energy that he cannot stay still for more than thirty seconds it seems.
I spend the next three days at Uncle Jack's taking it easy mostly. He is an excellent cook so I eat very well. I harass Hoppy with a remote control truck that drives him nuts, and we visit with his neighbors across the way and oversee the installation of a new refrigerator and stove, a momentous event way out here. We drink Miller High Life and some Black Butte Porter, and one day I help him move the larger rocks in his firepit closer to his house. I listen to his stories of Vietnam and his time as a police officer in Ohio, about the glory days of the local wolf pack that is now down to its last two members, two sad wolves that just don't have the energy to run around like they used to since Roscoe, Jack's old pet, and Sam died. I study the road atlas and Uncle Jack helps me plan out my next leg to Austin. At his advice I plan on avoiding a small road along the Mexican border of New Mexico. Not if I were armed with two other guys, he said, and considering that he almost always is armed anyway, with smugglers and illegal immigrants often crossing his property, I take his advice and map out a more northern route. What is nice about this part of Arizona is similar to what is nice about western Arizona. That is, the stars come out in the millions, and you can see the sunsets silhouetting the distant mountains, and for some reason the air in front of the setting sun is extra clear and crisp compared to any other sunsets I have seen anywhere, and they really look like the image on the Arizona licence plates, except better. I don't know how to describe any better than very crisp, like a slice of life in HD. It's hard to keep track of days and dates when both he and I are on our own schedules, but one day we go for a quick motorcycle ride into "town" 20 miles away to mail some letters. Uncle Jack recently bought a gorgeous Harley-Davidson Road King that is still in the process of being broken in, so when we ride, he accelerates quickly and then will fall back, and accelerate quickly, and fall back. I don't know why this is needed for a new engine, and neither does he, but that is just what you do with a new bike. Another day, we go over my bike pretty well to make sure it's in prime riding condition. We put two coats of Gunk on the chain to clean it off. We tighten some screws here and bolts there, and check the oil, brake fluid, which probably needs to be bled and replaced, check the tires, tighten the chain, and lubricate the chain. We both feel like it's in pretty good shape at this point.
It's my last night, and before the pork roast, sort of as an appetizer, Uncle Jack grills up some rattlesnake he personally killed. I've been wanting to eat rattlesnake since I heard how good it was awhile back. I eat it with my fingers, and it tastes like chicken, but a little juicier and chewier. It is cooked in short sections, maybe three inches long, and to eat it I have to gnaw the meat from either side of the spine, making sure not to get the needle-like rib bones in my mouth. Pretty tasty stuff. When Friday morning comes around, I pack up my saddlebags, and strap everything else onto the back seat. Uncle Jack is coming for a ride with me into Wilcox, where I will hop on I-10 and head east, and where he will turn around. It's a nice drive, mostly a straight shot. The only unpleasant stretch is past a dairy farm and there there is a nasty stink for a mile or so, and a blizzard of bugs that sprays my helmet with guts, but both are soon past. We stop at the post office so I can send a few small things home to New Hampshire, and we part ways at the Chevron near the freeway. It has been a nice few days; it's very easy to relax in the middle of the desert, and I thank Uncle Jack for all the great food and help with the bike, and hop on the interstate towards New Mexico.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Sonoran Desert
It's seven thirty in Why, and I have plenty of time to get to Tucson and meet up with my cousins so I decide to head down 85 south to Mexico, just to check out what a border town is like. I drive through Organ Pipe Monument with its closed campground and watch saguaros roll past me on the hills for a half hour or so until I get to the border town of Sonoyta. There are no stops at all as I enter Mexico, and I drive around for a few miles on remarkably unimpressive roads with unimpressive sights. It's not a town like I was hoping for, which I guess I could only describe as a old west Mexican town with Mexican style saloons and whatnot. I guess there are Mexican style saloons here, but they aren't the sort of establishments that look interesting enough to enter. There are bright pink signs on buildings that look like they should be abandoned used car lots with beer banners. I stop to get a drink and use my rusty and mediocre Spanish to ask if it's okay to pay with American dollars. It is, and I drink my PowerAde and head back to the border. I am briefly stopped going back into America but they let me through with a quick glance at my passport and the guy also asks what is in the long, flat black case across my backseat. A guitar, I say. I drive right back up the road I just came down and fill up my tank in Why before turning east on 86 towards Tucson. As I am enjoying the ride, which isn't nearly as hot as it was yesterday, I am also getting pelted with more bugs than I have ever scraped off my visor before. For some reason, I like having a lot of bugs plastered to my helmet in their own guts and blood. I feel like it shows that I am riding a lot, or something nonsensical like that. Anyway, it's an easy, stress-free drive into Tucson for a couple hours, passing through some tiny towns and watching the grassy plantlike slowly thicken along the roads. I get to the outskirts of Tucson and follow a sign towards the Desert-Sonoran Museum, which I recall was recommended to me by my uncle who I will be visiting after I leave Tucson. I stop to eat at the Coyote Pause Cafe before checking out the museum, and have a nice chat with one of the waitresses who was interested in where I was riding to and from. It turns out that her husband bought her a motorcycle for an engagement gift, which seems like a much more thoughtful and practical gift than a polished rock stuck in some melted metal. The short ride to the museum is really fun because the road dips and rises and turns a lot. I spend a couple hours at the museum, which is almost more of a zoo than a museum. I walk through an indoor section that houses various snakes and spiders and reptiles, and I learn about rattlers and coral snakes and tarantulas, all native inhabitants of various parts of the Sonoran Desert, which reaches up from Mexico into Arizona. Outside, there are pathways that bring me around to various plant and cactus enclosures, and enclosures for Mexican wolves, pumas, coyotes, javelinas, and river otters. I take my time, walking around in the heat with my boots and jeans, carrying my jacket the whole time, and actually learn a few things which is nice. I am pretty thoroughly coated in sweat towards the end, when I check out the hummingbirds, which is pretty cool. I have to walk through two different doors, like an air lock to enter into their hood, and sure enough there are dozens of the little creatures hovering in the air. When I get back on the road towards Tucson, I soon discover that there is construction along the interstate that's bringing me into town, and all the exits that lead into downtown are closed. This is very annoying. I get off north of town and look up a rock climbing gym in the phonebook since I still have a couple hours to kill. I take the frontage road all the way into town, and have to deal with more construction to get to the right road, and still have to ask directions a couple of times. I finally find it, and at this point I stink like hell, but I figure I am about to go into a gym and start climbing and no one will notice. Rocks and Ropes is a pretty massive place, but I am only interested in the bouldering, for which they have pretty nice facilities. There is a large chunk of fake rock with a natural feel and pseudo-natural features. There are cracks and huecos and crimps, sidepulls, underclings, jugs, pinches, everything. On top of this there are bolted holds so on this one chunk they have a huge selection of routes. I certainly don't have enough time to work the whole thing, or even the more conventional bouldering cave upstairs, but I get a good workout for an hour and a half.
I make it to my cousins house and he and his wife are still gone, which is fine by me, as I want to shower before I see any human I know. I feel pretty rank after a day of riding around southern Arizona and Mexico, walking around in the desert, and climbing indoors.
I make it to my cousins house and he and his wife are still gone, which is fine by me, as I want to shower before I see any human I know. I feel pretty rank after a day of riding around southern Arizona and Mexico, walking around in the desert, and climbing indoors.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Heat, and Why
After looking at a map, it's obvious that I want to take 94 out of San Diego rather than I-8. Obvious not only because I-8 is an interstate and is sure to be tedious and unenjoyable like most interstates, but 94 looks windy and curvy on the map, and it passes through what looks like pretty much nothing. Very nice. It's an easy transition from I-5 in San Diego to 94 and soon crammed civilization is disappearing in my mirrors, and the lanes kept merging into each other until it was a two lane twisting through rocky desert passes, rising and falling. Very fun riding. Now and again I get stuck behind a semi for awhile until I can gun it up to 80 or so for a quick pass, but that's just how it goes. I stop in Campo to fill the tank and get a sandwich and a drink. At this point, most of 94 is behind me and I will soon have to get on I-8 for a quick stretch until I can get off again on another smaller highway, 98. This road is not as fun as 94 since it's mostly straight. I'm getting really hot on the road too, but I don't mind it after having to ride for so long with an extra layer and still feel cold. I can feel my back getting coated in sweat and for awhile I ride without my gloves to see if that helps, but it just feels odd after having them on for so long so I eventually put them back on. I take long pulls of sun-heated water from the CamelBak that I have stashed in a little backpack that's strapped to the top of my tent on my back seat, but I'm still roasting in the dry heat. At Calexico I take a midday break and follow the signs for the city library so I can get into some AC and use the Internet. I have to fill out a library card application which is a minor hassle, but I eventually get on and can update my life on the world wide web. It feels nice in the shade and AC and around 2pm I refill my CamelBak at the water fountain and get ready to start riding again. It's Friday and I can easily make it to Tucson, my next stop to see my cousin and his wife, but they have things to take care of and I have plenty of time, so I make a plan to camp out for the evening in Organ Pipe National Monument in central southern Arizona. When I get back on 98, I ride it meet up with I-8 once again and take it into western Arizona. I stop on the CA/AZ border in Yuma to eat some lunch. I have no idea where to eat, and try calling up a friend who knows a great place in this town but I don't get a hold of him so I am on my own as I cruise around the commercial wasteland of the Yuma outskirts. I pull into a supermarket, as you can usually get large, delicious sandwiches the deli in grocery stores for very cheap. Being so close to Mexico, they have a kind of hot bar of Mexican food instead, and I decide to try that out. Once I pick up a plate and slop some fried rice onto it, I realize that I know what nothing is, and none of it even looks good, but I already got that rice on my plate so I feel committed. I reluctantly take some meat chunks in a red sauce, and some more in a green sauce and pay. I pick at it for a bit at the table, and end up eating most of it, but I can't keep thinking what a bad choice I made, and I keep envisioning my stomach exploding while I'm driving across some nondescript stretch of highway in a boring part of an empty desert. Oh well. I stay on I-8 until I get to the intersection with 85, which runs south through Organ Pipe Monument and down into Mexico. As always, it's nice to get off the interstate, but as I am riding down toward Ajo, I can see dark clouds in the distance that I am heading directly toward. I pull off at a gas station in Ajo, and ask if the storms here get back, which of course they do, and if they last long, which fortunately they don't. The guy says most of the time the storms go around town, but when they don't, it gets bad fast. I think back to all the washes I just passed over getting to town when he says that the washes fill right up when a storm hits. I decide to take my chances, and get back on the road. As I'm driving towards the clouds, I can see the rain pouring out of them, and what looks good is that the two main rain clouds are dropping their water on mesas on either side of the road, so I hope I can sneak through. The closer I get, the more clouds I see, but fortunately I get through the mesaland with only a few drops here and there which aren't so bad, considering that they clear up my visor of all the bugs that exploded and hardened right in front of my eyes when I wipe them off. Now there are saguaro cacti all over the place, the iconic cactus of the southwest that are real all with the arms and whatnot. I think this is the first time I have seen them outside of postcards and cartoons. They line the hills and dot the desert among the rocks and red sand, and I pass a town called Why just north of Organ Pipe Monument. I say town, but it's really two gas stations at the intersection of 85, which continues south and 86 which runs east up to Tucson. I take a left on 86 thinking that its the way to the Monument, but I soon second guess myself, correctly, as it turns out, and turn around and continue south on 85. It's getting dark now, but I enter the Monument so I know I'm close. I think I see something about the campground as I fly past the first sign, but I keep going, figuring that I'll get to the campground as soon as I can to set up my tent in what little light is left. What I quickly noticed, but didn't really see though, was a "Campground Closed for Construction" sign. At this point I'm ten miles into the Monument and have to turn around and head back to Why, where luckily there is a campground that has tenting spots. I noticed this on my wrong turn on 86. I snap a couple of quick photos of the sunset silhouetting some saguaros, and ride back up to the campground. I pay my fee and find a quiet spot, pretty much anywhere on the grounds since I see about two campers in the distance and that's it. The sun is down, and it's still hot as hell. I try taking off my shirt as I set up my camp but the flies and mosquitoes don't leave me alone. I finally get camp put together and I take a dusty stroll into "town" past some trailers to one of the gas stations to pick up some beer. I consider my situation - a single dude on a motorcycle in the desert, dust covering my boots, camping out under the stars, about to head back to his tent to play on his guitar - and I decide that some good old Budweiser is the only beer fitting enough to be part of such an American evening. I buy two tall boys and drink one on the walk back. I've been sweating all day and it hits me quick and I feel good as I sit on a picnic table next to my tent and take out my travel guitar and try to play some music. I basically just go over the few riffs and chord progressions I know over and over. My philosophy concerning the guitar is that if I play a little bit here and there for a long enough time, in many years I'll be pretty good. I drink my other beer and watch the stars come out. Watching the stars out in the middle of nowhere is a real treat for anyone who spent most of his life in a moderately settled area with light pollution that ruins the night sky. As an added bonus, there is a noiseless lightning storm going on all night to the north of me, the very storm I drove through. The flashes light up the hills in the distance, and It's a real nice night over all. I don't bother with the rain fly on my tent, this way I can enjoy the air and stars through the mesh on three of my four walls.
Monday, August 20, 2007
San Diego
My time in San Diego consists almost entirely of eating, drinking, and laying on the beach. This is a very good thing. I devour 1/2-off appetizers and drink some Corona when I first meet Jenn and her other visiting friend Zack. Later that night, when she is at work, Mike and I head to a different bar, where I meet Emily and also Zack and another of his friends. Nearly everyone I know in this city but Emily live in this area that we are currently in, Pacific Beach. I don't need to see the other parts of the city to know that this is the party area of San Diego. There are streets and streets of bars, each competing with the others with ridiculous weekly specials and happy hour deals. All are within walking distance of a beach that runs for so long that I can't see the ends. I spend my first full day in San Diego laying on the beach, body surfing, napping, and reading. Then I drive up to La Jolla cove to meet Zack and Jenn for some snorkeling. I get there a bit late but once again, I lie in the sun and read. Back in Pacific Beach I shower and stuff myself with a home-cooked meal thanks to Zack and spend the evening at a bar called The Dog enjoying any beer on draught for $1. It is a very good night. I also get to see Kate who I have not seen up until this point.
The following day is not unsimilar. I gather my things from Mike's house and bring them to Jenn's house. While she is working Zack and I head to the beach. We work up an appetite body surfing and trying to come up with plans to talk to any of the countless beautiful girls around. We are more success at body surfing, needless to say, and we head over to Jenn's restaurant after we sort of dry off. We split a bottle of wine with our meal and head back to the beach when we are done. It was 11am or so when we got on the sand, and it's about 5 o'clock when I call it a day and shower. I head over to Hillcrest, one of the gay parts of town to visit Emily. Here, we eat pizza and spend the evening trying to hunt down crossdressers but none can be found at their usual hangouts. As a consolation we witness the bizarre spectacle of gay cowboy line dancing at one bar. I make it through the evening without getting hit on, likely thanks to my female companion.
The following day is not unsimilar. I gather my things from Mike's house and bring them to Jenn's house. While she is working Zack and I head to the beach. We work up an appetite body surfing and trying to come up with plans to talk to any of the countless beautiful girls around. We are more success at body surfing, needless to say, and we head over to Jenn's restaurant after we sort of dry off. We split a bottle of wine with our meal and head back to the beach when we are done. It was 11am or so when we got on the sand, and it's about 5 o'clock when I call it a day and shower. I head over to Hillcrest, one of the gay parts of town to visit Emily. Here, we eat pizza and spend the evening trying to hunt down crossdressers but none can be found at their usual hangouts. As a consolation we witness the bizarre spectacle of gay cowboy line dancing at one bar. I make it through the evening without getting hit on, likely thanks to my female companion.
Warmth at Last
The trucker's trailer is right by route 1, or the 1, as roads are preceded by definite articles in this part of the country. I am on the road a little before 7:00 AM and I am driving through farm country. The ocean is generally not visible from the road any more, but it is equally enjoyable driving by all the fields. I can smell celery and strawberries, there are workers in hoodies and sweats and baseball caps working in the fields which are in arrow-straight rows that flash by as I turn my head to look down them. The sun is not yet high enough to burn off the clouds of dew that hang maybe twenty feet off the ground, but it instead lights them up which makes a nice scene. The air is not so cold that I am uncomfortable, which is a welcome change. Where the road splits I accidentally take the wrong fork, but it's not a huge deal since a quick check of the map shows me that I will soon join up with 101 south, which 1 will also join up with. 101 is a larger road and I have to deal with one or two other lanes of traffic which is a hassle after riding so long in my peaceful single lane. Route 1 again splits from 101 near Oxnard, and I take it all the way through Santa Monica and Malibu and LA.
Apart from the nice houses and sea views in Malibu, this stretch is truly miserable. I spend close to two hours in traffic, staggering from light to light with nothing but cars and strip malls to look at. I curse LA and its traffic, but I knew this section would not be fun. Maybe I should've gotten on I-5 and blasted through as fast as possible, but it's too late now. At this point, I am getting hot too. I feel it's about time that I enjoy some southern California warmth. South of LA the drive never really fully recovers to the level of enjoyment I had in the north. The land is visibly more crowded, and 1 merges into I-5 eventually anyway, although there are short stretches where it shoots off and back on again. I am driving by one such offshoot of 1, and supposedly it is a beachside stretch, but it is impossible to tell because on the ocean side of the road, there are RVs tail to nose for at least a mile. There is not a single break in the chain at this, yet another, campground and I feel like spitting at them, but if I did that I would just splatter the inside of helmet and that would be stupid. Back on I-5, I pull of at Encinitas to fill up my tank and make some calls to my friends in San Diego. I also take off my Goodwill-bought underlayers and pack them in my saddlebags. I am once again free with only one pair of pants on, and nothing but a t-shirt on under my jacket so I can feel the warm air blow over me. After freezing almost all of the way down the coast up until this point, I feel that I have reached a monumental occasion. I get a hold of Jenn, and get some rough directions to where she is. I have a pretty good-sized population of friends in San Diego, but unfortunately for both them and me, most have a steady9-5 style office job. I make my way toward the area known as Pacific Beach in San Diego
Apart from the nice houses and sea views in Malibu, this stretch is truly miserable. I spend close to two hours in traffic, staggering from light to light with nothing but cars and strip malls to look at. I curse LA and its traffic, but I knew this section would not be fun. Maybe I should've gotten on I-5 and blasted through as fast as possible, but it's too late now. At this point, I am getting hot too. I feel it's about time that I enjoy some southern California warmth. South of LA the drive never really fully recovers to the level of enjoyment I had in the north. The land is visibly more crowded, and 1 merges into I-5 eventually anyway, although there are short stretches where it shoots off and back on again. I am driving by one such offshoot of 1, and supposedly it is a beachside stretch, but it is impossible to tell because on the ocean side of the road, there are RVs tail to nose for at least a mile. There is not a single break in the chain at this, yet another, campground and I feel like spitting at them, but if I did that I would just splatter the inside of helmet and that would be stupid. Back on I-5, I pull of at Encinitas to fill up my tank and make some calls to my friends in San Diego. I also take off my Goodwill-bought underlayers and pack them in my saddlebags. I am once again free with only one pair of pants on, and nothing but a t-shirt on under my jacket so I can feel the warm air blow over me. After freezing almost all of the way down the coast up until this point, I feel that I have reached a monumental occasion. I get a hold of Jenn, and get some rough directions to where she is. I have a pretty good-sized population of friends in San Diego, but unfortunately for both them and me, most have a steady9-5 style office job. I make my way toward the area known as Pacific Beach in San Diego
Friday, August 17, 2007
Where to Camp
I get up around 6:15 as Nate is getting ready for work, thinking the early start will help me avoid the traffic going into the city. I need to head west to get to 1, which means I need to head toward the city. I don't like traffic at all. 680 leads to 580 which leads to 238. 238 is a short but miserably packed stretch. Fortunately I am in California and on a motorcycle, and I can split lanes, frightening as it is, and avoid a terrible wait. 880 brings me to 92 which eventually brings me west all the way until 1, going across the San Mateo Bridge over the bay. I remember driving this stretch of 1 south two years ago with my family and I greatly anticipate the cliff side curves and hills I recall. I follow the road down to Monterrey, stopping along the way in a tiny roadside town for a vegetable omelet. Tasty. At Monterrey I stop and walk along Cannery Row just as I did the last time I was in this town. It is full of souvenir shops and tourists and I wonder what John Steinbeck would think of this stretch of town if he were alive, and I wonder what happened to all the people he wrote about.
I try to make my way back to 1 a different way than I came, and after getting gently lost I find it. I am now on the stretch of road I remember, heading down towards and through Big Sur. The road is hundreds of feet above the sea, carved into the side of the hills, and often, as I lean into bending right turns, I can see the ground drop away directly beneath me, and I think how one small malfunction or rock in the road could toss me off my bike and down the cliff. It's pretty frightening and pretty exhilarating, and I feel a rush in my stomach every time I'm on one of these turns and take my eyes off the road for a split second to look down. I'm feeling tired from being up so early, so I find a nice pull off next to a gorgeous old bridge and lean against a rock and take a nap for an hour directly above a cliff. I wake up to the same amazing view of sparkling bright blue water smashing against the rocky cliffs to the south that I fell asleep to.
I make it into Big Sur, and am on the lookout for the Henry Miller Memorial Library. I remember seeing the location of it on an outside corner of a sharp right turn, and I see it just in time to stop and park as I'm weaving along the road. Not so much really a library, I walk in the gate to a Jesus made of wires crucified on a cross of computer monitors. There is a stage in a clearing and tents in the shade and a deck outside of a small bookstore selling Henry Miller books, obviously, and other authors of similar styles or dispositions. Out back there are computers and some walking trails among old redwoods of varies stages of life and death. I spend a good amount of time here, trying to get the internet to work on the computers, and browsing the book selections, and reading, and talking with a girl who is just about as excited about my trip as I am, and I almost half-jokingly invite her along. As I am getting resuited up, I see a car pull into the dirt strip that serves as parking with New Hampshire plates, and I strike up a brief conversation with the older couple that gets out to stretch based on our common state.
Back on the road, I finish off the stunning twisty cliffside section and roll past beaches where elephant seals sun themselves and flip sand onto their rippling skin. I go past Hearst Castle way up on a hill. As it is evening I start to look for a campground. I am in Oceano, and I follow the signs to the town campground. Naturally it is RV "camping" only. I don't know at what miserable point in recent history this travesty came about, but it seems like 90 percent of "campgrounds" are now exclusively for RVs. Leave it to Americans to defile the word "camping" to a point where it means driving around in 10mpg fortresses of luxury, hooking up to utility outlets, and watching DVDs in air conditioning in the woods before hitting the hay on a queen-sized bed, or maybe cooking a full meal in a full kitchen after a shower. Who are these people that consider living in a mobile, miniature version of their home camping?
Fuck this, I think, to put it mildly and continue down the road. I don't feel like turning back north to find a tenting campground, where I know there is one in Pismo Beach. Instead, I decide to try my luck further south even though my map does not indicate any in the area. I stop at a small convenience store to ask some locals. The woman behind the counter says Pismo. I ask a squirrely little guy in sweats. He is standing next to a Hyosung 650 so I'm counting on the fact that I too am on a bike to earn me some camaraderie. He is super nice, but confirms, with the help of his two friends, a woman sitting in the shade against the store, and a man with as much grease on his shirt as under his fingernails and a tobacco-stained mustache, that Pismo is indeed the closest tenting site. At this point, the woman offers to let me camp at her place. Ocean view included, she says. These really aren't the sort of people I typically associate with, which is why, after a short internal debate, I graciously accept her offer. I follow the crowd the the last trailer in a cul de sac. Sure enough, just beyond route 1, some power lines, and distant fields, a sliver of ocean is visible. I stand around with Kenny, Freddy, and Julia as they talk about local busts, and who's a liar, and why the ice plant is dying on her slope, and how nice that rig that just drove by was, and what's wrong with her car. Kenny, the guy with the bike, is extremely intelligent, and has an answer for everything, and enough confidence and charisma to make you believe it. He opens up the hood of her car and clearly knows his way around an engine like an artist knows her own painting. Eventually Julia goes in and the rest of the crowd clears out. I set up my tent and make a fire in her fire pit like she offered. It's now around 9:30 and I go into my tent and get ready for bed. I hear someone outside and go back out, thinking it was Julia seeing if I needed anything. Instead an old black guy is sitting by the dying fire, saying he's just waiting for someone. Okay. His name was LRC and we start talking. He tells me about a bicycle trip he took down the coast years ago when I tell him what I'm doing. We talk about my motorcycle. Another genuinely nice person. I get to bed finally.
It's 6:30 and I am just getting up. I pack everything up, wipe the dew from off my seat and hit the road in the chill morning air.
I try to make my way back to 1 a different way than I came, and after getting gently lost I find it. I am now on the stretch of road I remember, heading down towards and through Big Sur. The road is hundreds of feet above the sea, carved into the side of the hills, and often, as I lean into bending right turns, I can see the ground drop away directly beneath me, and I think how one small malfunction or rock in the road could toss me off my bike and down the cliff. It's pretty frightening and pretty exhilarating, and I feel a rush in my stomach every time I'm on one of these turns and take my eyes off the road for a split second to look down. I'm feeling tired from being up so early, so I find a nice pull off next to a gorgeous old bridge and lean against a rock and take a nap for an hour directly above a cliff. I wake up to the same amazing view of sparkling bright blue water smashing against the rocky cliffs to the south that I fell asleep to.
I make it into Big Sur, and am on the lookout for the Henry Miller Memorial Library. I remember seeing the location of it on an outside corner of a sharp right turn, and I see it just in time to stop and park as I'm weaving along the road. Not so much really a library, I walk in the gate to a Jesus made of wires crucified on a cross of computer monitors. There is a stage in a clearing and tents in the shade and a deck outside of a small bookstore selling Henry Miller books, obviously, and other authors of similar styles or dispositions. Out back there are computers and some walking trails among old redwoods of varies stages of life and death. I spend a good amount of time here, trying to get the internet to work on the computers, and browsing the book selections, and reading, and talking with a girl who is just about as excited about my trip as I am, and I almost half-jokingly invite her along. As I am getting resuited up, I see a car pull into the dirt strip that serves as parking with New Hampshire plates, and I strike up a brief conversation with the older couple that gets out to stretch based on our common state.
Back on the road, I finish off the stunning twisty cliffside section and roll past beaches where elephant seals sun themselves and flip sand onto their rippling skin. I go past Hearst Castle way up on a hill. As it is evening I start to look for a campground. I am in Oceano, and I follow the signs to the town campground. Naturally it is RV "camping" only. I don't know at what miserable point in recent history this travesty came about, but it seems like 90 percent of "campgrounds" are now exclusively for RVs. Leave it to Americans to defile the word "camping" to a point where it means driving around in 10mpg fortresses of luxury, hooking up to utility outlets, and watching DVDs in air conditioning in the woods before hitting the hay on a queen-sized bed, or maybe cooking a full meal in a full kitchen after a shower. Who are these people that consider living in a mobile, miniature version of their home camping?
Fuck this, I think, to put it mildly and continue down the road. I don't feel like turning back north to find a tenting campground, where I know there is one in Pismo Beach. Instead, I decide to try my luck further south even though my map does not indicate any in the area. I stop at a small convenience store to ask some locals. The woman behind the counter says Pismo. I ask a squirrely little guy in sweats. He is standing next to a Hyosung 650 so I'm counting on the fact that I too am on a bike to earn me some camaraderie. He is super nice, but confirms, with the help of his two friends, a woman sitting in the shade against the store, and a man with as much grease on his shirt as under his fingernails and a tobacco-stained mustache, that Pismo is indeed the closest tenting site. At this point, the woman offers to let me camp at her place. Ocean view included, she says. These really aren't the sort of people I typically associate with, which is why, after a short internal debate, I graciously accept her offer. I follow the crowd the the last trailer in a cul de sac. Sure enough, just beyond route 1, some power lines, and distant fields, a sliver of ocean is visible. I stand around with Kenny, Freddy, and Julia as they talk about local busts, and who's a liar, and why the ice plant is dying on her slope, and how nice that rig that just drove by was, and what's wrong with her car. Kenny, the guy with the bike, is extremely intelligent, and has an answer for everything, and enough confidence and charisma to make you believe it. He opens up the hood of her car and clearly knows his way around an engine like an artist knows her own painting. Eventually Julia goes in and the rest of the crowd clears out. I set up my tent and make a fire in her fire pit like she offered. It's now around 9:30 and I go into my tent and get ready for bed. I hear someone outside and go back out, thinking it was Julia seeing if I needed anything. Instead an old black guy is sitting by the dying fire, saying he's just waiting for someone. Okay. His name was LRC and we start talking. He tells me about a bicycle trip he took down the coast years ago when I tell him what I'm doing. We talk about my motorcycle. Another genuinely nice person. I get to bed finally.
It's 6:30 and I am just getting up. I pack everything up, wipe the dew from off my seat and hit the road in the chill morning air.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
'Frisco
As beautiful as it is in downtown San Francisco, my mind is blown when I think of how many people chose to live there. It's not just San Francisco, but any major city. Nate and I walk up to street level from the BART station, and we are inundated by about ten thousand people. I feel like the city is just a massive farm of skyscrapers, and I wonder how people can feel any sort of privacy or familiarity in such a massive place. There is just too much too know: too many streets, too many stores, too many strangers, too many cars, not enough parking, and too many expenses. Granted, there are plenty of beautiful girls, which I can not complain about, and I know that I am only here for a visit, not to live, so I don't actually get too worked up about it. We walk through Chinatown, and sip on bubble tea and peruse the wall-sized selection of fine teas at the Red Tea Company. We go into the City Lights bookstore where I have been once before and think about its significance in the history of literature, and get lost in its massively interesting selection. We go up into the poetry room and show each other some of our favorite poems. We go into Vesuvio's for a drink, and this is apparently another place where Jack Kerouac frequented. The bar is amazing: two stories, a ton of beer, and enough photos and decorations to keep the most ADD-addled child busy for hours. We also see some cool art in a few galleries and eat fresh cream puffs from Beard Papa's. It's a good day in town but I can only stand a gargantuan metropolis for so long. It's back to BART at this point. We have many videogames, which may be our most binding common interest, ahead of us to play, and I think about the maintenance I need to do on my bike. About 3000 miles have rolled away under my wheels since the last time I changed my oil, so that is a given. I need to clean and lubricate my chain and check my tires. Not all that hard, just basic stuff that is important, but I'll save it for tomorrow since it's already late.
When we wake up we eat and spend the day playing Halo and exercising and swimming and sitting in the hot tub. I change my oil after getting the necessary supplies minus a filter wrench. All the stores are closed when I realize that my hands alone aren't enough to get the old filter off. Night is falling and I'm laying under my motorcycle trying a thousand different positions to get leverage. Nate checks to see if his roommate happens to have one, which he does not. Earlier in the day there was a guy working on his dirt bike in his seemingly fully stocked garage, but he is nowhere to be seen. It takes about a half hour but I finally get the old filter off, drain it into the oil pan, coat the rubber gasket of the new filter and finish up the procedure. When I check the new oil level, the oil is so clear and the light so dim that at first I think I am way low, which would be horrible since I have no more oil,but I eventually see that it's just super clear. We spend the rest of the evening watching the Big Lebowski and drinking fine beer.
When we wake up we eat and spend the day playing Halo and exercising and swimming and sitting in the hot tub. I change my oil after getting the necessary supplies minus a filter wrench. All the stores are closed when I realize that my hands alone aren't enough to get the old filter off. Night is falling and I'm laying under my motorcycle trying a thousand different positions to get leverage. Nate checks to see if his roommate happens to have one, which he does not. Earlier in the day there was a guy working on his dirt bike in his seemingly fully stocked garage, but he is nowhere to be seen. It takes about a half hour but I finally get the old filter off, drain it into the oil pan, coat the rubber gasket of the new filter and finish up the procedure. When I check the new oil level, the oil is so clear and the light so dim that at first I think I am way low, which would be horrible since I have no more oil,but I eventually see that it's just super clear. We spend the rest of the evening watching the Big Lebowski and drinking fine beer.
Willets
It's awhile before Jeremy actually gets into town and meets me. He has to hitchhike in because he can't get a ride. Meanwhile, I just enjoy some drinks with the locals. I'm told that Wednesday nights at this bar are the best in the town, so my timing seems be fortunate. He finally gets in with his guitar, as he will be playing tonight and we commence to drink beer. Jeremy knows everyone at the bar which is slowly filling up, and there is a generally great mood throughout the place. The first kid to play on the open mic is from Kentucky or somewhere like that, and has been hitchhiking around the country for the past year. He has a harmonica brace made out of pencils. I like his style. The bar is fully packed now, and despite being pretty tired Jeremy manages to introduce me to the whole town it seems like, and he and some other guys play a great set at the end of the open mic. All of the local beers have really got to me and I'm totally beat at this point. After returning a movie across the street, we walk with his friend and bandmate Brendan down the street and crash at his place.
The next morning we walk to a nearby coffee shop. Naturally, everyone knows everyone there. I read an illustrated history of US capitalism, along the lines of Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States and I drink a soothing tea. Sitting outside, people come and go, all of them known to Jeremy and consequently soon known to me. People strike up conversations with me as if they've known me for years, and Jeremy breaks out his guitar and a little show happens right there on the sidewalk at 8am. All in all, we hang out for about an hour and a half before Jeremy heads off to work and I walk back to my bike, shooting for San Ramon, just outside of San Francisco. Willets seems like the most pleasant place in the world, a sort of mythical small town where everyone is friends and life goes by at an easy pace, and as I head back to the coast and route 1, I think that Wednesday nights certainly are pretty nice in this town.
The next morning we walk to a nearby coffee shop. Naturally, everyone knows everyone there. I read an illustrated history of US capitalism, along the lines of Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States and I drink a soothing tea. Sitting outside, people come and go, all of them known to Jeremy and consequently soon known to me. People strike up conversations with me as if they've known me for years, and Jeremy breaks out his guitar and a little show happens right there on the sidewalk at 8am. All in all, we hang out for about an hour and a half before Jeremy heads off to work and I walk back to my bike, shooting for San Ramon, just outside of San Francisco. Willets seems like the most pleasant place in the world, a sort of mythical small town where everyone is friends and life goes by at an easy pace, and as I head back to the coast and route 1, I think that Wednesday nights certainly are pretty nice in this town.
Monday, August 13, 2007
West Coast North
I could tell that I underdressed as soon as I got into Washington, and now I realized that I am going to be underdressed for a long time on this coast. Standing still, the temperature is in the seventies and pleasant, but moving at any speed above 35 and the windchill takes off maybe 30 degrees. I am on 101 heading south and my joints are slowly congealing into place. My knees ache when I try to stretch them away from their slightly angled positions at the side of the gas tank and my wrists feel cemented into place - not the best manner of cruise control. My entire body is tensed against the cold as I take the turns into the cool Pacific wind. It's not long before I put on my rain suit just for the added layers. The rubbery material is pretty windproof but it doesn't insulate, and I look like a fool prepared for rain when it's dry, but I suppose that the gray skies could open up at any time. I start thinking of a Goodwill or Salvation Army where I can get warmer under layers for cheap, and miraculously there is one when I hit Lincoln City. Five dollars buys me some warmup pants that fit well under my jeans, and another five buys me a thinly lined jacket that fits under my burn jacket. Definitely helpful. In the same plaza I eat lunch at a brew pub and as I am walking toward the restroom a guy notices my Bruins shirt on and starts up a conversation. He is from Quebec but he's not a Canadiens fan so I continue talking to him.
I find the southern third of Oregon the most beautiful part. Cannon Beach has spectacular scenery with what I assume were once arches, now rounded rock stacks, standing high out of the water. I recognize them from recently watching the Goonies. The rest of Oregon is equally as beautiful, if not more for the lack of tourism plaguing Cannon Beach, and northern California is the same way. At some point I see rocks jutting out of the sand along a nameless beach as I drive by and I feel compelled to turn around and put my climbing shoes on for an impromptu bouldering session. I completely skip Portland, sticking to the coast, for lack of knowing anyone there, and not feeling like finding a hostel in a city I've never been to before. I hear there is a killer music scene there but no one I want to see is playing tonight so I don't feel bad. I turn inland at Newport, and head east to Sweet Home where I have a friend living on a mountain as a fire lookout, but I can't get a hold of her so I leave and as night is fully descended, look around for a campground in the darkness in the middle of nowhere. I am unsuccessful and so I check into a motel near I-5 in Harrisburg. A warm shower and bed are great.
I head back to 101 the next morning and drive into northern California. The redwoods are enormous and very beautiful, and I drive beneath them up and down hills in their cool shade which of course chills me right to the bone. Oh well. I turn off the road to drive down the "Avenue of the Giants," a smaller road littered with campgrounds among a massive stretch of redwoods, and then get back on 101ofter a dozen miles or so. I stay in Arcata that night, camped on dunes next to the beach just north of the town. The town itself is a riot. I have never seen so many hippies in one place. There is a fine line between homelessness and just being a hippy for a lot of them in the main square it seems. The pot in the air is unmistakable as I walk past a grizzled old black man blowing out a rip from a bowl with a glazed look over his eyes. I spend the evening at a local brewpub with Jaqui who just got back into town tonight, and two other friends Megan and Melissa who just happen to be driving through the area at the same time as me. I am beat from driving all day though and I don't last long before I head to the campground and unsuccessfully try and get change to pay for my campspot from whatever campers are still up. I pay the park ranger the next morning as he is checking fees with no problem.
Back in town, I can't get a hold of any of the girls so I decide to just leave after relaxing in the main square. I call up another friend of mine who lives in Willets, a few hours south of here and I head down the coast, getting on route 1 where it begins in Legget. The beginning turns of route 1 catch me off guard and I'm just lucky there are no cars in the oncoming lane as I drift way too far. I know better now. At Fort Bragg I turn inland for the remaining 30 miles to Willets, and as I work my way through the hills and twists the temperature gradually rises, which I am very grateful for. I make it into Willets and find a bar Jeremy wants to meet at and settle down for a beer. The bartender is extremely friendly and when he finds out I'm from NH, gets excited as he asks me if I know what the state bird of Vermont is, seeing as how he lived there for awhile. I cooly respond, "the Jeezum Crow." He cracks up as no one has ever answered correctly before and it earns me a free beer from a guy sitting next to me. I am glad I made Maury buy me that shirt at the Vermont Brewers Festival a year ago.
I find the southern third of Oregon the most beautiful part. Cannon Beach has spectacular scenery with what I assume were once arches, now rounded rock stacks, standing high out of the water. I recognize them from recently watching the Goonies. The rest of Oregon is equally as beautiful, if not more for the lack of tourism plaguing Cannon Beach, and northern California is the same way. At some point I see rocks jutting out of the sand along a nameless beach as I drive by and I feel compelled to turn around and put my climbing shoes on for an impromptu bouldering session. I completely skip Portland, sticking to the coast, for lack of knowing anyone there, and not feeling like finding a hostel in a city I've never been to before. I hear there is a killer music scene there but no one I want to see is playing tonight so I don't feel bad. I turn inland at Newport, and head east to Sweet Home where I have a friend living on a mountain as a fire lookout, but I can't get a hold of her so I leave and as night is fully descended, look around for a campground in the darkness in the middle of nowhere. I am unsuccessful and so I check into a motel near I-5 in Harrisburg. A warm shower and bed are great.
I head back to 101 the next morning and drive into northern California. The redwoods are enormous and very beautiful, and I drive beneath them up and down hills in their cool shade which of course chills me right to the bone. Oh well. I turn off the road to drive down the "Avenue of the Giants," a smaller road littered with campgrounds among a massive stretch of redwoods, and then get back on 101ofter a dozen miles or so. I stay in Arcata that night, camped on dunes next to the beach just north of the town. The town itself is a riot. I have never seen so many hippies in one place. There is a fine line between homelessness and just being a hippy for a lot of them in the main square it seems. The pot in the air is unmistakable as I walk past a grizzled old black man blowing out a rip from a bowl with a glazed look over his eyes. I spend the evening at a local brewpub with Jaqui who just got back into town tonight, and two other friends Megan and Melissa who just happen to be driving through the area at the same time as me. I am beat from driving all day though and I don't last long before I head to the campground and unsuccessfully try and get change to pay for my campspot from whatever campers are still up. I pay the park ranger the next morning as he is checking fees with no problem.
Back in town, I can't get a hold of any of the girls so I decide to just leave after relaxing in the main square. I call up another friend of mine who lives in Willets, a few hours south of here and I head down the coast, getting on route 1 where it begins in Legget. The beginning turns of route 1 catch me off guard and I'm just lucky there are no cars in the oncoming lane as I drift way too far. I know better now. At Fort Bragg I turn inland for the remaining 30 miles to Willets, and as I work my way through the hills and twists the temperature gradually rises, which I am very grateful for. I make it into Willets and find a bar Jeremy wants to meet at and settle down for a beer. The bartender is extremely friendly and when he finds out I'm from NH, gets excited as he asks me if I know what the state bird of Vermont is, seeing as how he lived there for awhile. I cooly respond, "the Jeezum Crow." He cracks up as no one has ever answered correctly before and it earns me a free beer from a guy sitting next to me. I am glad I made Maury buy me that shirt at the Vermont Brewers Festival a year ago.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
PureCirkus
I am standing in a massive, open garage in the guts of Seattle's industrial district witnessing what must surely be the coolest thing happening in the world at this very moment. Backed by a live band of a saxophone, drums, a guitar, a clarinet, and a screamer, who are blaring out a non-stop stream of hardcore, two girls dressed in skimpy black rags covered with metal plates are taking turns blasting out streams of sparks on themselves and each other with a pair of power grinders. I'm drinking the free keg beer and finishing the freshly baked brick oven pizza. It turns out that when lost, looking for the highway, we drove past a belated wedding party that caught our attention with the two goth clowns standing out front of the party which was spewing hardcore out into the streets. Needless to say, Eric and I felt the need to stop and check it out. "Should we go in?" "Yes." "Are you sure?" "Yes." We only found out exactly what it was, and that we were also in the garage of a local motorcycle gang, when I asked a group of girls that incidentally included the bride. Fortunately her and her eight foot motorcycle gang member husband were really cool and encouraged us to stay and enjoy ourselves which we did without having to be asked twice.
The Pure Cirkus, as this show is called, has a full line up, everyone done up in the same goth clown style. The rope acrobat has knee-high black and white stockings and a half-white face. One of the girls looks like Elvira and the other has a a white heart over her face. The screamer has a tutu on below a pair of shoulder pads and a forearm length spiked leather gauntlet. There is a kazoo player/opera singer, a unicyclist, a juggler, and every other circus skill one could imagine. After an hour and a half of each member doing their thing, they all begin to perform at once for the grand finale. It is the most incredible spectacle I have ever seen, enhanced a thousand times by our sheer ignorance of what was happening and our incredible fortune to be driving by at the right place at the right time. Eric and I leave just before they finished the finale, wanting to leave on the highest note possible, and congratulating and thanking the bride and groom. It's about time we went into town to meet up with his friends whom we had ditched for most of the night to watch this thing go down. No regrets there.
We saw some other awesome things this weekend in this city: Jeffrey Lewis playing a tiny show, one of the most unique shows I have ever seen, complete with self-illustrated "movies" in his comic style, a face-melting solo by the Animal Liberation Orchestra at the end of their set which we got into for free, two hours of hard, electric rock at Seafair by The Blakes and Mudhoney, a day-long trick-plane show at the same event, including a blazing plane that dropped fireworks during its corkscrews and loops once the sun went down. Not to belittle any of those other great times, which would have made a good weekend in themselves, but walking away, we both are completely sure that we just saw the coolest thing any people in the world could possibly see at that particular time.
The Pure Cirkus, as this show is called, has a full line up, everyone done up in the same goth clown style. The rope acrobat has knee-high black and white stockings and a half-white face. One of the girls looks like Elvira and the other has a a white heart over her face. The screamer has a tutu on below a pair of shoulder pads and a forearm length spiked leather gauntlet. There is a kazoo player/opera singer, a unicyclist, a juggler, and every other circus skill one could imagine. After an hour and a half of each member doing their thing, they all begin to perform at once for the grand finale. It is the most incredible spectacle I have ever seen, enhanced a thousand times by our sheer ignorance of what was happening and our incredible fortune to be driving by at the right place at the right time. Eric and I leave just before they finished the finale, wanting to leave on the highest note possible, and congratulating and thanking the bride and groom. It's about time we went into town to meet up with his friends whom we had ditched for most of the night to watch this thing go down. No regrets there.
We saw some other awesome things this weekend in this city: Jeffrey Lewis playing a tiny show, one of the most unique shows I have ever seen, complete with self-illustrated "movies" in his comic style, a face-melting solo by the Animal Liberation Orchestra at the end of their set which we got into for free, two hours of hard, electric rock at Seafair by The Blakes and Mudhoney, a day-long trick-plane show at the same event, including a blazing plane that dropped fireworks during its corkscrews and loops once the sun went down. Not to belittle any of those other great times, which would have made a good weekend in themselves, but walking away, we both are completely sure that we just saw the coolest thing any people in the world could possibly see at that particular time.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
In 1,090 Miles
Of course it's wet and rainy as I leave Salt Lake in the morning. The riding isn't too bad but my knees are a bit damp so I pull over to put my rain paints on over my jeans. I'm north of Ogden, out of the the shitty construction at this point, and the rain gets a bit harder so I pull over again and put my rain jacket on. It helps keep me warm too, which is nice because I am now learning that moving through air at 75 miles an hour is cold. About a hundred miles out of Salt Lake I decided to get off at the next exit for a gas station to fill up and take some shelter. The off ramp is in sight when my engine dies. I pull to the road, thinking the rain had something to do with this, and I see my oil pressure lamp is on. I check the oil. It's low. I put some in. The light stays on, the bike won't start. Shit. I go through the trouble shooting options in my owner's manual. Nothing helps. I only have gone 130 miles on this tank, and I usually get more until I need to switch to my reserve. That can't be it. I can't believe I'm standing on the side of the interstate in the rain, watching my sleeping bag and guitar and all my other shit get wet. I didn't even get out of Utah.
I've exhausted what options I feel I have so i start to dig around for my roadside assistance card. I can't believe this is happening. I'm giving some lady my information when she asks about fuel. Yes, of course I have fuel. To prove it to myself I even switch to my reserve and try the ignition, which works. Oh my god, I am fully retarded. I don't get the same mileage wth all my gear loaded on. I tell the woman I got it working and drive to the gas station wanting to kick myself. I'm in Idaho as I get back on the highway, and eventually the rain stops and the sky clears. I take off my rainsuit and enjoy the scenery. The land around me looks like moon rocks covered in a soft yellow grass. Pretty nice. After a couple hundred miles I get to state highway 95, which will bring me north, and off the interstate, which I'm looking forward to. The strip malls and towns clear out as I get farther away from the interstate, and I finally end up in Cambridge, Idaho, "Gateway to Hell's Canyon," where I plan to camp tonight. I jump on state highway 71 here, and it turns out to be the best road I could ask for: two lanes, empty, and curvy up and down gentle hills through a beautiful valley that suddenly opens up onto the southern end of the Hell's Canyon recreation area. Here the road sides drop away into cliffs and the turns become tighter and more fun. The Brownlee Dam creates a lake above, and a river below. I check out a very nice campground but decide to continue along the road, following the river to see what else is to be seen.
On the Oregon side of the dam I spot a 150ish foot rock face across the river, and think how rad it would be to swim the 150 yards to it, and try and climb it if the base is clear and deep. I put it out of my mind and continue cruising until I just decided to turn around and find a campground. As I pass the rock face again, I decide I've got to try it, so I park, grab my bathing suit and walk towards the slope leading down to the river. Unfortunately the slope is a bunch of rock slag, and is deathly close to vertical. I contemplate the situation for awhile and walk back to my bike. I take off but can't stop thinking about much of a pussy I am for not even trying. I turn around and grab my stuff one more time. I cautiously descend the rock slope, which also happens to be laced with spider webs. I hate spiders. A lot. But I strip down and jump into my suit and start swimming. About halfway there, making sure no boats are around to run me over, I realize I have got myself way in over my head. I can make it to the wall, and be sapped of most of my energy, or I can turn around and use what I have left to get back to my clothes and bike. I turn around, satisfied I at least tried. The swim back is against the current and my shoulders are rubber, but I finally make it. It was at least 100 yards round trip. I cut my foot getting out, and realize that it's not going to be easy climbing up the rocks. I stumble up, getting my pants and helmet and jacket filthy, nearly slipping to my death thanks to the loose rocks a couple times, but I finally make it. I start to change back at my bike and I find that I'm standing on spiky nettles the hard way. I decide I need to go to the first camp ground I saw, since they have showers and I certainly need one.
By the time I set up my tent, clean up, and organize everything, night has fallen, and I crawl onto my sleep pad, and take the rain fly off my tent to let the wind blow through. It blows through, hard, all night and feels great. I'm afraid it's going to rain and soak me, but I luck out and wake up to a sparkling lake just before seven AM.
By the time I check the tires and oil and chain on my bike, and load it up, it's 830 AM when I take off. Back on 71, just as good as the day before, to Cambridge, where I eat at a tiny diner where highschool boys are wearing cowboy hats and tank tops. Driving north on 95 through upper Idaho is fantastic. The roads are wide open and the weather is great. I go through pine forests and up and down small peaks, through a state forest. The only problem is there are a lot of RVs and trucks towing boats or campers or whatever. Still, a great ride. When I get to Lewiston, looking for 195, I climb a large hill, and, thinking I'm lost, get off on a frontage road to head down into Lewiston to try and find 195 again. Going down into Lewiston, the frontage road snakes and twists over a dozen hills, one of the most fun 20 minutes of the trip so far. Once in town I get turned around a bit and stop for lunch at a pub on Main Street. I eat a Mediterranean wrap and drink the cloudiest hefeweizen I have ever seen. I make it to 195, right where I thought I was lost earlier. It turns out that I got off onto the frontage road just before the 195 sign. Oh well.
195 is a great road, going through farm country where hills of grain are a dusty yellow and it looks like sand dunes as far as the eye can see. I'm not on it too long when I turn onto 26 West, a long straight road through similar country, except the wind is murderous and turns an otherwise nice ride into a struggle. I deal with this for 2 hours until it puts me on Interstate 90 towards Seattle. The wind continues. As I climb towards Snoqualmie Pass my joints stiffen and I'm moving while angled into the wind, looking like I'm in the position for a turn when I'm actually going straight. I stop at every rest area there is. 90 through Snoqualmie Pass is unquestionably gorgeous. Rock towers rise into the misty clouds above, with evergreens grabbing onto them wherever they can. But I'm still frozen and just want to get out of the pass so the sun can hit me once again. At a gas station I call Eric and get directions to his place. I finally am out of the pass and approaching Seattle. A long tunnel shoots me onto a floating bridge, toward a large bank of land littered with houses that another tunnel goes underneath. Very nice. 90 ends and I get on Interstate 5 going south, and in 10 miles I am finally off the main roads, and pull up to Eric's house extremely grateful to warm my air-chilled bones.
I've exhausted what options I feel I have so i start to dig around for my roadside assistance card. I can't believe this is happening. I'm giving some lady my information when she asks about fuel. Yes, of course I have fuel. To prove it to myself I even switch to my reserve and try the ignition, which works. Oh my god, I am fully retarded. I don't get the same mileage wth all my gear loaded on. I tell the woman I got it working and drive to the gas station wanting to kick myself. I'm in Idaho as I get back on the highway, and eventually the rain stops and the sky clears. I take off my rainsuit and enjoy the scenery. The land around me looks like moon rocks covered in a soft yellow grass. Pretty nice. After a couple hundred miles I get to state highway 95, which will bring me north, and off the interstate, which I'm looking forward to. The strip malls and towns clear out as I get farther away from the interstate, and I finally end up in Cambridge, Idaho, "Gateway to Hell's Canyon," where I plan to camp tonight. I jump on state highway 71 here, and it turns out to be the best road I could ask for: two lanes, empty, and curvy up and down gentle hills through a beautiful valley that suddenly opens up onto the southern end of the Hell's Canyon recreation area. Here the road sides drop away into cliffs and the turns become tighter and more fun. The Brownlee Dam creates a lake above, and a river below. I check out a very nice campground but decide to continue along the road, following the river to see what else is to be seen.
On the Oregon side of the dam I spot a 150ish foot rock face across the river, and think how rad it would be to swim the 150 yards to it, and try and climb it if the base is clear and deep. I put it out of my mind and continue cruising until I just decided to turn around and find a campground. As I pass the rock face again, I decide I've got to try it, so I park, grab my bathing suit and walk towards the slope leading down to the river. Unfortunately the slope is a bunch of rock slag, and is deathly close to vertical. I contemplate the situation for awhile and walk back to my bike. I take off but can't stop thinking about much of a pussy I am for not even trying. I turn around and grab my stuff one more time. I cautiously descend the rock slope, which also happens to be laced with spider webs. I hate spiders. A lot. But I strip down and jump into my suit and start swimming. About halfway there, making sure no boats are around to run me over, I realize I have got myself way in over my head. I can make it to the wall, and be sapped of most of my energy, or I can turn around and use what I have left to get back to my clothes and bike. I turn around, satisfied I at least tried. The swim back is against the current and my shoulders are rubber, but I finally make it. It was at least 100 yards round trip. I cut my foot getting out, and realize that it's not going to be easy climbing up the rocks. I stumble up, getting my pants and helmet and jacket filthy, nearly slipping to my death thanks to the loose rocks a couple times, but I finally make it. I start to change back at my bike and I find that I'm standing on spiky nettles the hard way. I decide I need to go to the first camp ground I saw, since they have showers and I certainly need one.
By the time I set up my tent, clean up, and organize everything, night has fallen, and I crawl onto my sleep pad, and take the rain fly off my tent to let the wind blow through. It blows through, hard, all night and feels great. I'm afraid it's going to rain and soak me, but I luck out and wake up to a sparkling lake just before seven AM.
By the time I check the tires and oil and chain on my bike, and load it up, it's 830 AM when I take off. Back on 71, just as good as the day before, to Cambridge, where I eat at a tiny diner where highschool boys are wearing cowboy hats and tank tops. Driving north on 95 through upper Idaho is fantastic. The roads are wide open and the weather is great. I go through pine forests and up and down small peaks, through a state forest. The only problem is there are a lot of RVs and trucks towing boats or campers or whatever. Still, a great ride. When I get to Lewiston, looking for 195, I climb a large hill, and, thinking I'm lost, get off on a frontage road to head down into Lewiston to try and find 195 again. Going down into Lewiston, the frontage road snakes and twists over a dozen hills, one of the most fun 20 minutes of the trip so far. Once in town I get turned around a bit and stop for lunch at a pub on Main Street. I eat a Mediterranean wrap and drink the cloudiest hefeweizen I have ever seen. I make it to 195, right where I thought I was lost earlier. It turns out that I got off onto the frontage road just before the 195 sign. Oh well.
195 is a great road, going through farm country where hills of grain are a dusty yellow and it looks like sand dunes as far as the eye can see. I'm not on it too long when I turn onto 26 West, a long straight road through similar country, except the wind is murderous and turns an otherwise nice ride into a struggle. I deal with this for 2 hours until it puts me on Interstate 90 towards Seattle. The wind continues. As I climb towards Snoqualmie Pass my joints stiffen and I'm moving while angled into the wind, looking like I'm in the position for a turn when I'm actually going straight. I stop at every rest area there is. 90 through Snoqualmie Pass is unquestionably gorgeous. Rock towers rise into the misty clouds above, with evergreens grabbing onto them wherever they can. But I'm still frozen and just want to get out of the pass so the sun can hit me once again. At a gas station I call Eric and get directions to his place. I finally am out of the pass and approaching Seattle. A long tunnel shoots me onto a floating bridge, toward a large bank of land littered with houses that another tunnel goes underneath. Very nice. 90 ends and I get on Interstate 5 going south, and in 10 miles I am finally off the main roads, and pull up to Eric's house extremely grateful to warm my air-chilled bones.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
August 2
In my left saddle bag I have four changes of boxers and four changes of socks. I have extra t-shirts, a button-up shirt, and a camp towel. Also I have my climbing shoes, a copy of Utopia and a copy of Walt Whitman's poems, and two small notebooks. My toiletry stuff is in here in a few separate bags: toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, deodorant, retainers, etc. I have a bag of pens and various scraps of life I thought worthy of bringing with me.
My right saddle bag holds my rainsuit and things for bike maintenance: an extra filter, motorcycle oil, chain lube, Seafoam, fuses, sparkplugs, and a tire pressure gauge. I have my camera in here which has a battery on its absolute last legs and I have a monocular. My chalk bag is in this saddle bag and also The Castle by Franz Kafka. On the very bottom are various insurance, court, and service documents.
Behind me, on the back seat, I've arranged my travel guitar flat with the case's hand straps wrapped over the sissy bar. On top of this my tent, sleeping bag (think zippable fleece blanket) and sleeping pad are secured by bungee cords. The cords hold them on in such a way that it puts very little pressure on my guitar, yet still holds it down. I fold my beach and bath towel in such a way that it fits in front of the guitar and below my sleeping bag, essentially creating a great back rest for me. On top of the sissy bar I strap my spare helmet.
My right saddle bag holds my rainsuit and things for bike maintenance: an extra filter, motorcycle oil, chain lube, Seafoam, fuses, sparkplugs, and a tire pressure gauge. I have my camera in here which has a battery on its absolute last legs and I have a monocular. My chalk bag is in this saddle bag and also The Castle by Franz Kafka. On the very bottom are various insurance, court, and service documents.
Behind me, on the back seat, I've arranged my travel guitar flat with the case's hand straps wrapped over the sissy bar. On top of this my tent, sleeping bag (think zippable fleece blanket) and sleeping pad are secured by bungee cords. The cords hold them on in such a way that it puts very little pressure on my guitar, yet still holds it down. I fold my beach and bath towel in such a way that it fits in front of the guitar and below my sleeping bag, essentially creating a great back rest for me. On top of the sissy bar I strap my spare helmet.
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