I've kept a journal since I was 11
years old. Its varied from a strict “write every day” regiment to
a “write when I'm not studying, which is almost never” schedule.
The part I love most about reading old journals is reading parts that
I don't necessarily remember. Even on this trip, I've forgotten
things as recently as a week ago, but can relive them through my
recorded evening rants. My favorite thus far has been my own
description of the climb out of Coos Bay, Oregon, called “Seven
Devils,” which were just what a biker would expect them to be.
“They sucked. Somewhere around the 7th devil I was about
ready to lay down and piss myself.” I seem to have already
forgotten about the near laps in bladder control. Better times were
certainly to come.
Biking fifty miles per day has been my
goal since leaving Portland. Yesterday I set my current record at 75
miles. It was about a week ago that Molly and I had a few tough days
when we didn't even come close to the daily 50. The climb out of Coos
Bay (“Seven Devils”) took several hours and with most of day
gone, we arrived in Bandon, Oregon. I'd arranged a couch surfing host
(www.couchsurfing.org) in
Port Orford, but at that point we still had another 30 miles to go.
As it turned out, our host Kathy, was in Bandon for the day. With a
stroke of luck, Molly and I (not being purists) got a ride to Port
Orford with our host. We had a lovely time with Kathy and were even
able to take a sauna! The dry heat felt great on my sunburned back.
The next day we left Port Orford with the intention of getting to
Brookings, Oregon. We made it about 25 miles before the headwind got
the better of us and we camped in the beach grass just outside Gold
Beach, another coastal town. It began to rain in the evening and
continued to rain all night. And all the next day. Without much
sleep, we “woke” with a very wet tent, wet sleeping bags, wet
sleeping pads, and an top of everything, we pitched our tent in the
sand. Yuck. We made it a grand total of 15 miles in the wind and rain
before we sucked it up and called Doug and Claudia (old friends from
Alaska who spend the winters in Oregon) and asked for a ride to their
home just south of Brookings. I was feeling a little down for making
such poor mileage in the previous days, but once again, a warm
shower, food, and a few hours of mindless television cured
everything.
Molly stayed with me through a portion
of the redwood forest then from Arcada, California, she hopped on a
grey hound bus (which I hear was an adventure in itself) and headed
back to Portland. It was a lot of fun traveling with Molly and I'll
miss her company and our ice cream dates!
About 25 miles down the coast from
Arcada, I turned onto California highway 36 going east. Less than a
mile up the road a truck driver pulled along side me and said through
the open window, “You know this road is terrible, right.” Great.
I'd read and heard about the mountains, but I'm skeptical on anyone's
word unless they have details to back it up. All the details I'd
found to that point said that it was a long windy, mountainous road
with little traffic. It sounded pretty easy-going. The mountain part
should have been a little more emphasized. The first night in the
foothills I camped at the bottom of a very large hill with a sign
that read “10% grade next 2 miles.” It went on for much longer
than two miles. The next morning was mountain after mountain. There
were a few down-hill parts which I savored as much as possible. But
there was one particular peak that kept going and going. It was a hot
and sunny day, so I eventually tied a bandana to the shoulder straps
of my shirt to keep my back from burning again. The best part about
an uphill is that there is always a downhill. After peaking at
4077ft, I felt like Superman with my bandana cape flying behind as I
dropped 500 feet on the back face. My ears even popped on the way
down.
In the third and final day of mountains
I passed through a town called Platina. After getting into a
conversation with the shop keeper of the only store in town, she
pointed out the front windows with her arms at a 90 degree angle and
said, “The city limits are there and there.” As far as I could
figure, the entire population of Platina consists of the shop keeper,
her husband, the postmaster, and 18 Russian Orthodox monks in the St.
Herman of Alaska monastery. The last 25 miles into Red Bluff were
almost entirely downhill. It was a very good day on the bike.
