Elevation: lots of rolling hills
Temperature: freezing. 58 when I became an icicle.
And then our posse hit California. Suddenly the grass seemed greener on the other side. Deathly homesick just days ago, the California sign wasn't what I wanted to see. Walking across the border, Oregon and it's traveled miles were fond memories not yet ready to let pass. Instantly the miles started to painfully drag. Hurry ceased to exist and pushing century days was left in past memories.
Suddenly we have friends, an Australian and Canadian touring the entire Western Coastline. We shared stories of hating cars, never ending hunger, wind destroying days, and cussing the world through hail and heat. Bitching about aggressive attacks at logging trucks was comfort while shooting the shit with creatures our own age. Despite the most painstaking days, there is something that makes it all worth it. We all have different reasons for being out here that overlap in many ways. A mental struggle, to meet people and hear their stories, to know their stories, and to be inspired by them and nature. To forget the hard moments and remember smiles and laughter for a lifetime. It is very enlightening. And it takes away all the frustration in hardest moments.
We followed our international cycling crew to a warm shower. A magical church opened it's speckled grey carpet to us, fed us piles of boxed ramen congealed with tons of preservatives and contrasted with fresh steamed broccoli. Despite this hospitality, we tightly locked all the church doors. Something is wrong with these northern California towns. There is a theme here; lots of drugs. And it starts as soon as you cross the border. Kids that shoot heroin behind Safeway trash cans swagger like nightmares through the automatic doors. Drunks struggle over perfectly level sidewalks. Crackheads on spray painted bicycles shout languages from around the world across angry parking lots. The poor children carrying teady bears hold daddy's hand as they shop for a boxed creamy 99 cent pasta dinner. It was like saying "daze ya voo!" to the zombie town of susanville nearly thirty days ago.
The thoughts of returning to normal life began to daunt tiredness. That big red famous bridge welcoming us home was just five days away. And so was every obstacle that had been forgotten. The hardest days on the road are a piece of homemade birthday cake compare to the overwhelming chaoses of daily life. But soon to return with fears shed, a new openness, and an awakened curiosity, that backroad less traveled is always just a short or very long bike ride away.
The Foggy West Coast:
Yup...
