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.


Friday, July 18, 2014

Day 5. The odd town of Susanville

Miles: 74
Elevation: up, down, flat
High: 107 degrees F 

Northern California is so weird, but it sure has some pretty gems. Our stale morning of no sugary caffeine dampered back-mountain roads that turned into a sandy gravel ski slope. We had cut out a section of the melancholic HWY 395 at the expense of trudging 17 miles at a near grandmas pace along a dirt mountain summit. The views were spectacular, prairie lands with wild horses, and wide open fall mustard meadows that intertwined like a woven braid thoughout the peak's valley. Nothing quite topped sliding down the sandy road to be reunited with pavement in the town of Doyle. With a population of 50, the gas station iced mocha latte concocted of unpronounceable ingredients, restored blood sugar like a fat line of cocaine. 

Quite happy to live in an era where roads are paved, the melodic horse and buggy size shoulder cadenced pedal strokes into an almost meditative state. O'Reilly, jazzed on Red Bull and coffee took off like an unstoppable Indy race car while Ralph and I cruised along miles behind. 

We like to talk to strangers, Ralph espically is quite the showoff to any interested human. In the distance on the shoulder there softly shimmered a minty green Subaru in the cloudy sun. Thinking the gentleman standing on the side of the hwy had car troubles or some important news about our posse ahead, he flagged us down to chat. But chat quickly turned to snarls. Scanning him from head to toe, he was old but fit, had peircing blue eyes, deep cut wrinkles and funny glasses. His plaid shirt, lake something hat, and whiskered smile made him look pretty innocent, but quickly radar antenas stood up. There we were standing in the emergency shoulder of the 4 laned 395 HWY discussing shelter from the lightening strikes that awaited moments in the future. You see Stan had been sitting in his AC vehicle for some time, and at 107 degrees, our bicycle crew was quite happy to get wet. The conversation got creepy as cars wizzed by, asking if camp was by the lake ahead for the night. Knowing that had been our plan, unease jointed a cranky stomach. There aren't many roads out here, one in and two out. "As far as WE get," I explained ready to ride off. Suddenly suprised I was not traveling alone, freaky gramps hopped back into his mint green guzzler and wished me luck. Creepiness rushed through me and as much as his friendly grandpa smile gifted pity in his direction, and wanting to believe he was just excited about our travels north via bicycle, blood began boil as he drove off. I've had my share of disgusting old men, inappropriately flirting with girls their daughter's age, and something about this poor old foggie made fists curl and a surge to smash his face. Happy to see Matty drowning himself in ice water at the gas station, we tagged along into the town of Susanville. Sure enough Minty Green was parked on the shoulder ahead, Stan waving a too friendly hello in the distance and a sinister breeze fluttered the air. Creepy just got too weird, as O'reilly's face read the situation far from normal. Unknowing the Ralph was ready to pounce out of his polyester straps, Stan, excitedly pulled out photocopies of maps of places for us to camp or his friends house to crash in. If the whole story in itself wasn't enough, Susanville was a town of 2 prisons, and a string of motels lined with crack heads. Six days without a soapy shower, O'reilly agreeing we had met a serial killer, and the thought of awakening to tea in a bed on my birthday was well worth the splurge to escape Stan and sleep safely.

Returning to reality was a bit overwhelming. Shower water turned brown, the AC plumbed our dehydrated, sugar filled raisin bodies back to a human state. We strolled across the street to purchase canned and plastic wrapped calories returning with 10 items and 20 yellow plastic bags. Our white walled rectangular box with a bed, sitting at the base of Lassen National park, was trashed within hours. Panniers exploded over the dark blue carpet and wet chamoi's dripped clean water from wooden hangers. Orange juice was chugged and the noise of the air conditioner ran on high till dawn.