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, August 15, 2014

Day 33. Wild bores and Paper cups.

Miles: 91
Elevation gain: let's just say the coast is far from flat. 
Temperature: high 68. Goodbye summer. 

The fun wore off. The ground was plastered to my face. Ralph held my hair as if road risotto, cheap wine, and fernet were about to make a not so pleasant reappearance. It all felt so good just hours ago, falling asleep weightless in a old logging row. And suddenly hours laters oblivion ended and reality returned. As if the emulsifying headache wasn't enough, some wild animal hissed behind the tent and an oversized slug slimed it's way up the nylon walls. Blurred, the lumpy logs that cradled home at daylight became wild bores as darkness blanketed us. The forest came alive with spooky noises and night roamers lay in wait like monsters under the bed ready to steal our morning bagel stash. 

Sunrise. As if a bomb had exploded, trees lay in a wreckage of destruction. Too depressed for any shrub of life to reroot, the quiet campground suddenly became a sad rememberance to our thoughtless use of paper cups and grocery bags. Years of nights under the stars, trees had been murdered in an instant to be husked, hauled, chopped, refined, shredded, boxed, and shipped around the world. Used for a mere particle of an hour, for human pleasures, these happy trees surrender their lives to us and we comsume without a thought. 

Sugar. A hated granual to Hollywood, gods gift from heaven for cycletouring. Lack of sugar particles to the brain and collapsing neared as a state of depletion took hold. It hit us like brothers throwing snowballs, without warning. No signs of hungry, or thirst, O'Reilly nearly fainted and puked. We don't know what happened, the grips of a sugar-low drained blood and the brain ceased to function. Neurons stopped firing, and pedaling became impossible. But instant colas and jam sandwiches revived us to reality like states. The addictive sweetness travels through blood streams like an oil spill in the gulf and muscles instantly relax, brain waves return, and consciousness is regained. 

Winchester Bay. Campsite gems are not always the remote perches on top of quiet hills. The Oregon coast is dotted with hundreds of miles state parks. And the people we share them with, are friendly. Sometimes company is nice afterall.