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| Canada | Mexico (sort of) |
We took the Pacific Coast route, which is basically HW 101 (later HW 1) from Vancouver, BC to San Ysidro, CA. Note that San Ysidro is not actually IN Mexico, which ended up becoming a sore subject between my traveling buddy and me. Seeing as we had biked 1800 miles to get to this border, I figured we should do 1801 to actually cross it. He didn't want to go through the hassle of customs. So we ended the journey in a McDonalds at the border. They didn't even have any McTacos I could use to pretend we made it.
Rather than present a full account of the trip, I will provide some observations and minutiae. If you want the excrutiating details, I recommend undertaking the venture for yourself. You'll get some exercise, see lots of beautiful scenery, and get away from the computer for a month. Your boss will understand!
- Bike shorts: not just a fashion statement
Before this trip, I never understood the fascination bikers had with their attire. Take the bike out in California on a Saturday afternoon and you are bound to see a number of riders dressed like they are in the Tour de France, with skintight jerseys and those oh-so-annoying "nuthugger" shorts. It just seems like overkill for a casual rider. I've always ridden with the standard t-shirt and (regular) shorts, and fortunately my friend is the same way. So when we prepared for this trip, he just told me to buy some stuff that was lightweight and would dry quickly-- not to bother with any expensive bicycle clothing technology.
This must be an early pic. Note the single-ply shorts!
Well, that was fine for about two days of riding. Then something unexpected happened-- my ass got sore! My solution: double up the shorts. So on day three, I wore two pairs of my finest. No luck! On day four, I wore all three pairs, but my behind still complained. On day five I found a sporting goods store and bought two pairs of "support" underwear and a big bottle of Gold Bond powder. My attire for the following day was then:
1 t-shirt
2 underwears (laced with Gold Bond)
3 shorts
It looked pretty silly, but surely it would do the trick, no? No. At this point I had to ride with my ass askew on the seat, which made for some challenging situations. I accepted this for a couple of days until we found a bike shop. There I swallowed my pride and purchased two pairs of lycra nuthugger shorts. And damn if they didn't do the trick.
So funny-dressed bicycle-guy, I salute you!
- It really does rain in Washington
I've always been enamored with the Pacific Northwest, but everytime I've mentioned relocating to Seattle or Portland friends and family have responded with, "but doesn't it rain 300 days a year there?" And, indeed, talking with people from that area has confirmed this: "Nah, you don't want to move here .. it rains too much!" However, every time I've visited those areas the weather has been quite pleasant. I was in Seattle for a week in February one year and I think it only rained once. I was in Portland on three occassions and it never rained. So I began to suspect a conspiracy meant to keep Californians like myself out of these fine areas. "It's all propoganda!" I claimed. Survey says? ...
Bzzzt! As fate would have it, it rained EVERY DAY we were in Washington and Oregon. I know this because I was on a bike, which offers very little protection against the elements (on a side note, I'd also like to write a strongly-worded letter to Adidas regarding the effectiveness of their "waterproof" jacket). On most days, the rain was accompanied by strong headwinds which converted the droplets into daggers of pain aimed at our faces. But that which doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? I should be fricken' Superman then.
Son of a...! - Tsunami!
I suppose I ought to mention something about the trip itself. Some of you may recall that there was an earthquake off the coast of Eureka in the middle of June. It so happens that we were on the coast of Eureka on that day, actually in Crescent City, which is maybe 50 miles north, just south of the OR/CA border. Two tired bikers versus one natural disaster makes for a rather amusing story.
We arrived in Crescent City after a long day of biking, around 75 miles through rainy Oregon. We had eaten almost nothing the whole day and were looking forward to a decent meal in one of the local restaurants. Ever since the first week, my friend had been searching for a place where he could get a large piece of fresh halibut. We found a seafood diner that looked like it might appease him. The prices were reasonable and the waitress witty. When my friend asked how big the halibut was, the watress responded with "oh, 'bout 18 ounces". His eyes lit up! I ordered the crab . Oh yeah, we were living the good life.
Just then, a short, portly, middle-aged guy burst into the restaurant. "Tsunami!" he screamed. Then, noticing that we were the only patrons in the place, he approached us. "That means tidal wave."
My friend and I just looked at each other. Would this affect our food situation? I asked the guy, "What do we do?"
"Get out!" he responded emphatically. "Drive to high ground!"
"Uh, we don't have cars" I said. The prospect of biking to high ground at this hour didn't appeal to me. Actually biking to high ground at any hour kind of sucked.
"Then come with me!" He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the seat. My friend was reluctant. It was clear he would rather risk death than give up his elusive halibut meal, but apparantly that wasn't even an option.
The chubby guy (whose name was Jack) rushed us into his pickup truck, which seemed to be on fire and in the wrong gear. Talking a mile a minute, he informed us that the earthquake was causing a tidal wave that was due to hit the coast in ten minutes. The last time this happened was in 1964-- it wiped out half the city. Jack was there for that too.
Before we could get to high ground, though, he had to rush around town to tell everyone he could find. That was his sworn duty as the head of the harbor security patrol. "But we should have a few minutes to get out of here." Encouraging!
So for the next eight minutes or so, I had the unique experience of yelling "Tsunami!" at the top of my lungs to all of the passerbys. Meanwhile, Jack drove like a maniac and my friend lamented his lost fish. Once he was confident that all was well, Jack gunned the engine and led us on a scenic tour through the redwood forest ("the best place we can be"). There we waited for an hour.
Predictably, the tsunami never actually occurred. When all was cleared by the coast guard, Jack drove us back to town. We were staying in a dumpy motel right on the harbor. Should any aftershocks spark a real wave, we'd be the first to feel it! Worse, we were still hungry! So we dined on beef jerky and soda pop from the vending machine. And, despite hunger and fear, we both slept soundly that night. Biking all day is tiring!
In the interest of keeping this blog entry from turning into a novella (and if you've gotten this far, kudos to you!), I'll end my tale here. What I haven't conveyed is the sense of exhiliration that a trip like this provides. One could describe with words or pictures the feeling of riding along the coast in the early morning sun, but the experience of it is needed to do it justice.
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| Describing with pictures the feeling of riding along the coast in the early morning sun | |
Now, the experience of riding through the wind and rain with a sore ass, THAT I could do without.
