Intro

Welcome to a story, or stories I should say. A compilation of adventure tales. An ongoing itch to see, smell, and touch the world, or at least the deserted roads and rarely trampled mountains of America. Characters within the descriptive paragraphs of these stories carve out the coming and going companions in life; vital life people and pieces that parallel a universe for moments, days, years. And then spear off, leaving granules of magnificent memories of magical places. They leave a lasting trace, a gained sense of courage to stand tall on oxygen deprived mountains and shout absurdities like: I love you Ralph! Ralph is a teenage reindeer stuffed of the finest synthetic polyester fiber poof; he says made in Indonesia but really tells me he is from the North Pole. Delivered through a chimney one December night 20 years ago, we instantly became cuddle buddies upon that morning's sunrise. He is the instigator. The inspiration. And the imagination. He breathes creativity. Laughter. His is a dear companion. And yes, at 4lbs he tags along atop a pack or strapped to a rack. In delirium of 107 degree heat, the small possession of material belongings gain a persona. Innate objects become friends of the road and trails. And as for the humans who accompany, their presence reads priceless. Without O'Reilly, a 29 year old New Hampshirian with superior taste buds, the mathematical six foot four inch tall German, or handful of organic peanut butter and 99 cent jam eating munchkins, there would be a lot less excitement. The encounters we make with our specie, encapsulating the world with their awkward ways and over consumerist love, somehow we have managed to become overly adored creatures. Their generous hearts restore a faith that goodness prevails in the upheaval of a sometimes lost humanity. As for myself, I'm just the navigator, paddling up the stream of life munching on Clif Bars, with an iPhone documenting the frailties and goodies underneath all the simplified complexities in the world we reside. So again, I welcome you to get lost and dream a little through this typed text and your imagination. My name is Kristen Gentilucci. I live in Berkeley California and I love dogs.


Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Day 3. Nevada, California, and Tahoe City.

Miles: 76 
Elevation gain: 4000ft
Temperature: 92 degrees F

After a morning of creatively chasing oblivion and an embarrassing tantrum at the Tahoe Post Office, peace was found in the silence of white noise after a refreshing clear lake bath. 

Zeb is heavy, too heavy and it is hot, too hot for leg warmers, wool socks, and gloves. Hoping Canada will be toasty warm, we ditched our extra layers in a cardboard box headed back to the bay. I hadn't told Ralph the news yet, but he caught on like a sly monkey as I eyed him and then the array of boxes, matching size to size. I had a grand plan for my funny little deer, it would cost me $45 to get him to Munich, where his German friend would pick him up and they would travel the world on business class. It would be a grand summer for him; he was just too big to tag along on this trip. But moments later in wails, weeps and then obnoxious sobs, making quite a scene, Ralph refused his temporary traveling cardboard home. 

"It was once as tree, Ralph, like the tall ones in the forest, and Fritz, your stuffed parrot friend, who squaks only German syllables will be waiting at the front door, and on Saturday mornings your tall pal will walk you to the fresh carrot juice market." 

But the heart throbbing woes were too much to take. This reindeer was stuck with me now, and the only way to mend his broken heart was to prance down the organic carrot isle of an oversized safeway. Strapped back in to fluffy down, carrot in hand, eyes as red as his nose, and sniffles running down his furry face, I kissed him on the head and off we went. 

After the reindeer fiasco, I lost my partner in crime, O'reily. Just one of thoes days. The bombastic kid knew the route, but his sense of navigation is like a house cat on the run. This isn't the first time oblivion to street signs has steered him wrong, and it was the last time our posse was about to enter a race on touring bikes to chase down nonsensical wandering eyes. Baking at the base of a 9 mile, 2500ft climb, straight up a Sierra hump, Ralph has his ways of flaging down friendly old men. The news, that Action Boy and the young Irish Gent aboard had passed the solemn alphalt wall headed straight up a mountain of his reprisal, gunned the beige pick up's engine in seach of the missing crew. 

Regrouped and delepted at mile 62, the coffee joint called the boys names. Waiting for a pricey pour-over organic fair-trade black caffeination, the shop dudes put the fear of bears walking off with passports and powerbars in nightmares. So the pedaling continued electrified by banana sugars till a Tahoe City campsite was found. Dinner was inhaled, sitting like a normal human for the first time in days, and neighbors gifted us with a 1/2 drunk bottle of 2 Buck Chuck. When fuel reset senses, this campsite suddenly appeared grungier than a battered trailer park. Being raised by a dad who led the greatest of backpacking trips, my childhood backyard was a campsite. And nothing experienced eyes had seen compared. A hefty fee for a 1/2 trashed lawn, shirtless neighbors labeled with tattooed, barking wild dogs, and a port a potty that stank like hoarder's bathrooms, we locked our bikes, and crawled our gear up the perpendicular embankment, happily bum camping in a meadow of trees. 

Nature is starting to seep into our skin. Noticing the gradual waning movements of our gravitial moons, time finally slows. Days get lost in sunsets, and perched on a pine tree knoll, in a wet brightly light bowling match of decaeased grandparents, 5 horiziontal outlaws sleep in 11 hour increments under neon mesh.