Bicycling Across the West – Day 9 – Parker to Congress in Arizona
“Don’t think about what you’ve left behind” The alchemist said to the boy as they began to ride across the sands of the desert. “If what one finds is made of pure matter, it will never spoil. And one can always come back. If what you had found was only a moment of light, like the explosion of a star, you would find nothing on your return.” —  ~ Paulo Coelho – The Alchemist
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Today is another desert crossing, but I’ve got a couple towns along the way to resupply. There’s risk for sure, but I figure it’s less risk than yesterday.
I’m up and out the door at 5:00 AM, but am disappointed to see once again that there’s more light in the sky than I’d hoped. My hope is to get started before first light on these desert crossing days, in order to get as many miles behind me as possible before the heat of the day begins. I’m continually surprised by how much the 100 miles or so between one day and the next changes the sunrise and sunset times.
When planning this trip, I’d always assumed I’d do a good portion of these desert crossings in the dark. I figured I could start about 3:00 AM to avoid heat and wind. I knew the moon would be close to new during these crossings, so I’d get no help there. My solution was more lights. I wear a helmet light combination that has a bright flashing red taillight attached to the back of my helmet, and a headlight on the front of the helmet that can eight be a constant or a flashing light. As bicycle lights go, this front light is OK, but not really a bright headlight that lights the road well. It’s made by Light and Motion, called their Vis 360 model. It’s really meant to make the cyclist highly visible to the motorist. Continue reading “Bicycling in the West – Parker to Congress in Arizona”
Bicycle Touring in the West -Â Day 8 – Twentynine Palms to Parker
“The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.” Â ~ Stephen King, The Gunslinger
I lay awake and look at the clock beside my bed. 3:59 AM. I’m waiting for the wake-up call.
I’m not sure why I ever do this – ask for a wake-up call or set an alarm. Most of the time, I don’t use an alarm at all, but if I want to make sure I wake before 4:30 or 5:00 in the morning, then I’ll use some sort of alarm. But when I do, invariably, I’ll wake a minute or two before the alarm, and wait for it to go off.
I remember the exact day this started for me. I was probably around 11 years old or so, and we were spending a week in a cabin on a lake. I’d forgotten any sort of alarm clock, but wanted more than anything in the world to get up at 5:00 AM to go fishing. My folks let me take the old rowboat out into the cove by myself to fish, and the independence of taking a real boat out onto the water by myself was overwhelming intoxication to an 11-year-old boy who loved to fish. Continue reading “Day 8 – Twentynine Palms to Parker”
Bicycle Touring in the West Day 7 – Rest Day in Twentynine Palms
“Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.” ~ Pooh’s Little Instruction Book, inspired by A.A. Milne
Falling asleep last night, I’d thought I might try and “sleep in†this morning. Silly thought, as I was probably falling asleep about 8:30 at night, to the sound of a loud and boisterous party out by the pool. Normally this would have kept me from sleeping, but for whatever reason, I was able to sleep through most of it, waking occasionally but falling back asleep.
I’m not a particularly good sleeper, often waking to the slightest of sounds, generally not able to go back to sleep if I get out of bed in the middle of the night. Under normal circumstances, I usually start waking up by 5:00 AM, and on this trip, I’ve been out of bed by 4:00 most mornings. So this morning, “sleeping in†means I’m able to stay in bed until nearly 5:30 AM. Which represents a very good night’s sleep.
Early morning is absolutely my favorite time of day. There aren’t many souls up and about early, so it always feels like I’ve got the cosmos to myself. Well, maybe not the cosmos, but this morning I at least the hotel lobby and breakfast area. I read while the breakfast counter is set up, and enjoy a very quiet and peaceful breakfast outside in the cool shade by the pool.
After a couple hours, some youngsters start to stake their claim to the pool, and I head back in to the breakfast area to enjoy a little “second breakfast.†There are quite a few folks in here now, and listening to the chatter around me, I’m able to deduce that along with the wedding party that stayed here last night, there was also a small group of young men from the nearby Marine Corps training center staying at the hotel while doing some training. There is every indication that some of the young Marines got to know some of the wedding party as the orbits of their respective parties seemed to intersect last night.
Isn’t love grand? Well, maybe not love, but at least everyone seems to feel better this morning. Well, OK, maybe not better in all respects – there are clearly some hangovers being carefully nursed. Well OK, in the case of the Marines, their leader seems none too tender with them in his “nursing†of their hangovers. Continue reading “Day 7 – Resting in Twentynine Palms”
Bicycle Touring in the West Day 6 – Victorville to Twentynine Palms
“It is only when we silent the blaring sounds of our daily existence that we can finally hear the whispers of truth that life reveals to us, as it stands knocking on the doorsteps of our hearts.” Â ~ K.T. Jong
Determined not to be surprised by the earlier sunrise, and highly motivated to log as many miles as possible in the wind-free early morning hours, I’m wheeling my bike out of the motel in Victorville at the earliest hint of light. I make my way east on Bear Valley Road, where traffic is light this time of morning. The shoulder is good in places, less than good in others, and I’m told that during busy times, this road carries very heavy traffic.
Connecting with highway 18 east of town, I follow this road into the little town of Lucerne Valley, where I stop at what will likely be my last available water supply for 50 miles or so. Here, I leave highway 18, and head further east on Old Woman Springs Road. (It’s also called highway 247, but that’s a boring name…)
The traffic on highway 18 is starting to pick up a bit by the time I leave it, and the traffic on Old Woman Springs Road remains very light early on this Saturday morning. It’s a beautiful morning, and while a bit of wind is swirling around, it swirls so that at times it’s in my face, and at times at my back. While there’s no shoulder at all on this road, the lack of traffic makes this a small concern.
If there was any doubt before, there can be no doubt now – I’m in the desert. And I begin to notice something, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that I begin to notice less of something. It starts with a curiosity I develop about a chirping I keep hearing on both sides of the road. I wonder what sort of bird might be so abundant out here in the desert, and stop several times to sit still and watch for the bird. Continue reading “Day 6 – Victorville to Twentynine Palms”
A Bicycle Tour Across The West:
Day 5 – Frazier Park to Victorville
Mad Dogs in the Desert
“Inside of me there are two dogs. One of the dogs is mean and evil. The other dog is good. The mean dog fights the good dog all the time. “Which dog wins? The one I feed the most.”
– Comanche Elder speaking of the inner struggle of good and evil
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The motel I stay at in Frazier Park (technically the town in Lebec I think) is clearly a trucker’s motel. I’m in the common breakfast area at 5:00 AM, and at that hour, it’s full of truckers already. I don’t exactly fit in seamlessly in my spandex and bright yellow windbreaker, but after a few odd looks, the truckers seem to accept me in their space.
I realize we’re not that far from LA here, and many of these guys probably have deliveries to make in the LA area, and are getting an early start to try and beat traffic. Clearly this hotel isn’t a “holiday and recreation destination”…
It’s quite cold this morning – around 35 again – and I really don’t have gear for that temperature. I’m confident this is a short inconvenience at this altitude and hour. The elevation is something around 4500′, which is “in the mountains” in this part of the country. My first half-mile or so is a little climb, which I’m grateful for to warm up a little, but after cresting the pass, it’s a bitter descent for a few miles in the icy air. Yesterday morning, the temperature was about the same, but I was working steadily. This morning, descending through the icy pre-dawn air, my fingers ache and I’m shivering pretty significantly. Continue reading “Day 5 – Frazier Park to Victorville”
Bicycle Tour of the West
Day 4 – Paso Robles to Frazier Park
A first taste of remote
“At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman, and these hills, the softness of the sky, the outline of these trees at this very minute lose the illusory meaning with which we had clothed them, henceforth more remote than a lost paradise… that denseness and that strangeness of the world is absurd.â€Â - Albert Camus
Today is the longest planned day of my trip – 146 miles. The first 75 or 80 of those miles are across a remote section with no towns, no services, and barely any houses. I’m up well before first light, wolfing down leftover steak from the night before, and topping off the hydration tank. I’m on my bike and riding as the faintest light streaks the eastern sky. Continue reading “Day 4 – Paso Robles to Frazier Park”
I met and interesting fella the other day. A fellow cyclist, I suspect he has several years on me. As is usually the case with cyclists when they first meet each other, we went to great lengths to talk about how slow we ride. This is interesting behavior that seems consistent among road cyclists, and a bit unique to them. In most sports, the bravado takes over, and guys talk about how good they are. With road cyclists, everyone is always talking about how slow they ride, and how weak they are, and how their bike could never go as fast as your bike. All in the hope, I suppose, that they’ll take you by surprise when the riding actually begins.
But I digress…
The conversation got me thinking about how much my style of cycling is a reflection of the way I live my life, and how much that’s changed over the years.
When I was a younger man, I liked sprinting. I was physically built more like a sprinter, and in most things I did – sports or otherwise – I went at them pretty hard and relentlessly. Point A to Point B was what I was all about, with a strong focus on getting to Point B as fast as possible.
Today, I’m much more of a savorer than I am a sprinter. While I’m still aware of Point B in front of me, and I still arrive at Point B, I’m much more focused on savoring the moments along the path between Point A and Point B than I am with reaching Point B in record time.
I like to keep my head up these days, and make sure I catch the nuances of the world as I pass through it. I like to sniff the air often, to make sure I don’t miss some particularly sensual scent as it moves across me. When I hear some crickets or lizards singing beside the road, I’m much more likely to stop and soak in the sound for a few minutes.
This summer – on my bicycle journey from Monterey, CA back to Colorado, I had one day that I’d worried about as it was coming up. It was a 120 mile day across the Mojave Desert in June, the first 90 miles of which had no houses, services, or other ways to supply myself with water. I was on my own, and if ever there was a need to stay focused on Point B, that was the day.
A tailwind developed for me, and I knew if that wind continued, I could make record time in the day. Back in my sprinter days, I would have poured on the coal, and not let up until I reached the end. Instead, I stopped and took pictures often, (almost 100 pictures that day I think), and left several voice recordings. I was so wrapped-up in the joy of that tailwind that I didn’t really care about a record time.
On one stretch, the road was a gentle descent for over 10 miles. With the tailwind, I was able to gently coast down the empty highway, rolling by bicycle from side to side, enjoying the hot breeze and the sounds of the desert lizards on the side of the road. Sure I could have grabbed a great big gear and screamed down the descent at 40 MPH, but I would have missed that gentle rhythm of rolling the bike from side to side, and the song of the lizards, not to mention the gorgeous scenery unfolding around me.
The wind stayed behind me all day, and it turns out I did set a record for myself, averaging over 20 MPH over that 120 miles. Never for a second do I wish I would have pushed harder to set a better record. The joy of that day cycling still lingers in my memory today.
Point B is still on my mind, and there’s no doubt I enjoy getting there, but I enjoy it so much more now that I’ve leaned to savor the space between Point A and Point B more than I once did.
A Bicycle Adventure Across The West: Day 3 – Lucia to Paso Robles
A Steep and Beautiful Climb Away From The Coast
“Mountains have a way of dealing with overconfidence.”  - Hermann Buhl
I’ve only got 70-something miles to go today, so I have another leisurely morning, enjoying breakfast. I know there’s a steep climb first thing out, but figure it can’t be that bad, and then the rest of the day should be easy.
Dave Meyers, (the fella I met the night before), is finishing up his early breakfast as I sit down, and he’s headed out for an early start on the day. We’ll both end up at Paso Robles tonight, so I could see him along the way. After a leisurely breakfast, I walk outside, hanging out and enjoying the beautiful morning.
A car pulls up with two young girls in it. They’re visiting from France, and apparently couldn’t afford the prices at the Inn, so decided to just sleep in their car. They look like their night’s sleep was not a good one, and I chat a bit with them before getting on the bike and heading down the road. I’m a couple miles down the road before it dawns on me that I should have offered them the use of my room to shower and rest. Of course, the folks who own the Lucia Lodge wouldn’t have been happy had they found out about it – they missed out on the chance to move a little more silver into their pocket. But the girls would have appreciated it I’m sure, and I could have bragged about the two pretty French girls who spent the morning in my hotel room. I would have left out the part about me not being there… Life’s about creating good stories…
Headed south through Big Sur on the morning of Day 3
The first four miles follow the coastline up to the point where the road is closed, at which time I turn left, cross a cattle grate, and begin climbing on the Nacimiento Road. Those first four miles are really enjoyable, since there’s not a car on the road with the road closure. The morning air is cool and moist, and I savor the coastline, knowing this will be the last bit of riding I’ll get alongside it.
After crossing the cattle grate, I drop into my lowest possible gear, and will rarely leave that gear for the next hour and 20 minutes or so. I’d been told it was a steep climb, but hey, I live in Colorado and climb steep grades all the time. Such arrogance… The climb is a little under 3000 feet in about 7 miles – about 400 feet a mile, an average of 7% to 8%. A couple spots hit 16% and 18%.
Continuing to climb away from Big Sur - on a VERY STEEP road
That’s steep, and the extra weight I’ve packed isn’t helping at all during the climb. I stay lathered in a nice coat of sweat thanks to the hard work of climbing. I stop to take pictures a few times, but the chilly air gets me moving again quickly to stay warm.
The road is really quite beautiful, and the views back down onto the coast from the steep mountainside are stunning. There are spots where you’re climbing through stands of towering Redwood, and other spots where you’re pedaling beneath lichen-covered branches that overhand the road. Mixed in are vistas with views that seem to go forever back down the mountains and across the Pacific.
Looking back north along Big Sur on the steep climb over the coastal range
As I’m climbing, the support van from the touring group I passed yesterday passes me. Turns out they’d sagged the cyclists up to the top of this steep climb, and the cyclists then rode from there to their next destination. I wave at them as they pass. Their route is slightly different from mine over the next few days, and I’ll get ahead of them and not see them again. By the time I get to Colorado, they’ll be about a week behind me.
At the summit of the climb, I put on my jacket and start a cold descent. The road twists and turns as it drops, and after about 10 minutes or so of shivering, I’ve descended into warmer air that’s noticeably more dry than the air on the other side of the mountain.
It’s amazing how quickly the landscape changes from one side of the coastal range to the other. On the wet side of the mountain, there were towering Redwoods and plants that were almost tropical. This dry side of the mountain, though, reminds me a lot of my home in Colorado, heavy with grasslands and pine.
Reaching the base of the descent, the road passes through the gate into Ft Hunter-Liggett. In normal times, the gate is manned, and you’ve got to show your drivers license and proof of insurance if you’re in a car. However, since highway 1 is closed, and traffic is diverted to this road, the gate isn’t manned, and I pass right through.
The base of one of the giant oak trees on the inland side of the coastal range in Ft Hunter-Liggett
Largely deserted, the highway is a beautiful ride through oak savanna. I believe the oak trees that are abundant along this ride are Valley Oaks. They’re giant trees, massive trunks and beautifully shaped crowns. These trees are up to 600 years old, and I stop and enjoy a little rest, leaning my bike and my back against one of these old ents, soaking up that ancient energy again.
Continuing along Nacimiento-Fergusson road to Mission Rd, I make my way through Ft Hunter-Liggett, eventually coming to what they call “the G-14â€. (An unusual language usage in this part of California is that people refer to roads like that – “the G-14â€, or “the 1â€, meaning highway 1.)
I head southeast along the G-14 into a headwind that’s a little frustrating. It’s not a heavy wind, but I’d had my expectations set for that NW wind that is supposed to be blowing this time of year. For much of the ride, the wind is very light, but at times, it gets between my ears and messes with me…
At Lockwood the road turns right. There’s really no town or anything else here, just a tiny store on the corner, and I stop and calorie-up a bit. As I’m sitting in the shade, I eavesdrop on a conversation some locals are having. A gal has gotten a new job with the county, and she’s telling her friends all about it. After they leave, I go over and talk to her, as I’m interested in what she does.
Turns out she catches bugs. I’m in wine country now, (though I haven’t really seen the evidence yet), and they go to great lengths to assure that certain particularly destructive bugs don’t make their way into their region. She goes around all day setting traps, and investigating what she catches. She’s really excited about her job and what she does, and tells me WAY more than I need or want to know about bugs. I politely tell her I’ve got to make my way down the road, and pedal off, leaving her making notes about bugs in her bug log.
Another 20 miles down the road is a little intersection called Bee Rock. I catch up with Dave Meyers here at Bee Rock, and we enjoy a sandwich together. Like Lockwood, there’s nothing here but a store. The store here is much friendlier than the one at Lockwood, with nice tables to sit at. Dave and I enjoy a nice long lunch here, chatting and enjoying the beautiful day. When I’m ready to leave, Dave isn’t quite ready, so I head up the road ahead of him.
And up it is. For the first 2 or 3 miles out of Bee Rock, there’s a steep little climb that’s a bit of a surprise. My legs are toast after the climbing this morning, so they complain quite a bit headed up over this grade. At the top of the grade, though, there are beautiful views in most directions. Lake Nacimiento is off to the right, and Lake San Antonio is behind and off to the left.
The views after climbing south from Bee Rock
From here to Paso Robles, the road gets quite a bit busier, with steady rollers lasting a good bit of the way. The road has little or no shoulder in spots, making for a few nervous moments with cars and trucks squeezing me to the edge of the pavement. By the time I reach Paso Robles, the wind has turned a bit, and sometimes quarters at my back. Still a light wind, but anything not in my face is appreciated.
Paso Robles is a nice little town. I can easily see coming here for a little vacation. It’s quite bicycle-friendly, and smaller than I expected. It’s probably not much more than a mile from the north end of town to the south. It’s a warm “homecoming†sense I get when I see my hotel – a feeling that I’ll come to expect and look forward to at the end of each day. I know there’s a warm shower and a soft bed waiting for me.
Tonight, I’m using Marriott points and staying at The Courtyard in town. It’s a great little hotel, and the folks are quite friendly and helpful. After I get checked-in and showered-up, I spread my stuff out on the bed, and start sorting through to create my second package to send back home. The steep climb this morning, followed by rollers all afternoon, taught me a hard lesson (again) about weight. I send home my iPad, iPod, tiny speaker, Kindle, 700-lumen headlight, all the chargers associated with this electronic stuff, 3 or 4 of my tubes (leaving me still with 3 or 4), and probably a few other items. While I don’t put stuff on the scale, it seems to me that I’ve cut my weight in half with this package.
It’s a nice lesson to me on simplicity and minimalism. When I was packing for the trip, I remember laying everything out, and going through some dry-run packs. I’d thought about trying to bring the iPad with me – I’d even found a pretty strong case with a keyboard built-in – seemed like the perfect solution for somebody like me who likes to write when I have a little spare time. The iPad only weighs a couple pounds or so – not a big deal. And of course the Kindle was pretty small too, and weighed only half a pound or so.
In the end, I had in my mind that I wanted to stay under 20 pounds, and I was able to do this and still carry many of these items that I might find handy. It all fit – why not take it?
Sitting in my room in Paso Robles, after climbing during the day that felt much more brutal than it should have, I have my answer. My culture has taught me that it’s “good†to have everything you might need. Having something is good, being without something is bad. That’s the world-view from which I’ve developed my values and guiding principles.
So of course, the lens through which I’d been looking when I packed was one of “how much can I take, within my constraints?†Tonight, looking down at all my gear spread out on the bed, my lens has changed a bit. Now, I’m looking at my gear, and asking instead, “how little can I survive with?â€
It might seem like a small difference, but it makes a big difference in what gets packed. Frankly, it makes a big difference in how I look at every day of this trip I’m on. Tossing my iPod in the package to ship home, there’s no whisper in my ear asking me to consider, “but you might want to listen to podcasts or tunes…†I’m delighted to put as much into the package home as I can, with no regrets or “what if†second thoughts.
Climbing away from the Big Sur coastline
Getting rid of stuff is a cleansing sensation. Almost like “stuff†weighs down the soul. It happens to me when I clean stuff out of my house too – a liberating sense of “giving†and “lightness†happens after I go through and give away (or toss) large swaths of stuff.
I think it’s a “place in life†thing to some extent. When I was younger, I seemed more focused on “accumulating†than on “distributing and cleansingâ€. At the point I’m now at in life, I find myself constantly re-evaluating just how much “stuff†I want around me. Accumulated stuff is clutter and flotsam that I’ve got to wade through over and over again. It keeps me from moving along the path. It’s as though each “thing†I accumulate attaches a string deep into my heart and soul, connecting me to the thing itself, making continued movement down the path difficult.
Why do we do this? It feels like an addiction we’ve developed – an addiction to accumulation. This little tendency to take a little too much with me on a bike ride is one tiny symptom, but if I look at my culture at a much higher level, it seems we’ve built our entire civilization on the same addiction and sickness. Look at how much of our life’s energy we put into “accumulating wealthâ€. This is seen as a very good thing, this accumulation of wealth. We advertise how much wealth we’ve accumulated with the homes we live in, the cars we drive, and our pride in our continued pursuit of greater wealth.
We’ve accumulated so much wealth that there’s no way most of us would even attempt to climb the tough hills and mountains of the back roads of life. Instead, the vast majority of us stay on the flat and busy interstate highway system, where everyone else is. It’s just the way we live – stay on the well-traveled and flat expanse of “the bypassâ€, and you don’t need to confront the difficult climbs and rollers in life.
Continuing to climb away from Big Sur - on a VERY STEEP road
But that’s where the best life has to offer is – out there along the steep and windy backroads. The questions and issues are hard ones, and require deep and honest introspection, but the rewards are beyond words. I’m pretty sure that’s where we find the doorways to heaven – out there along those difficult backroads of life where the climbs are steep and the roads wind their way through tough questions.
Looking back to the great sages of the last few thousand years, I find that message loud and clear. I grew up in a Christian tradition, and Jesus was pretty clear when admonishing followers to avoid the temptation of accumulation of wealth. He instructed followers to leave all they owned behind if they wanted to become a disciple. Easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, He said, than for a wealthy man to be able to find heaven.
Morning along the Big Sur coastline
That’s on my mind this evening, as I look with satisfaction at the pile of “stuff†I’m sending back home. I’m grateful to have met Dave Meyers yesterday, as his inspiration gives me a bit more confidence in taking the drastic approach I’m taking. I don’t have any illusions of finding heaven on this trip, but the last thing I want is 7 or 8 extra pounds in my bag that might slow me down if I catch a little glimpse…
As soon as the land of any country has all become private property, the landlords, like all other men, love to reap where they never sowed, and demand a rent even for its natural produce. ~Adam Smith, Wealth of Nations
On my bicycle ride across the West this summer, I ended up in a little lodge along the coast at a place called Lucia. This was my second night out, and came at the end of a wonderful day of enjoying the Big Sur coastline.
While Lucia shows up as a town on some maps, it’s really not a town at all. It may have been an actual town in the past, but now all that’s there is a lodge and restaurant. Seems the property has been in the same family’s hands for several generations. They have a great spot – right on the coast – and they offer lodging and dining in a beautiful setting.
In many ways, it’s a shining example of free enterprise, the declination brought on by nepotism, and the arrogance and sense of entitlement that “ownership†inspires all wrapped into a single stop along the highway.
If you ignore price and attitude, and just look at the place, it’s a quaint little spot with a beautiful view. Of course, you’re in Big Sur, so it’s tough to find a spot along the highway that doesn’t have a beautiful view. The food in the restaurant is OK but certainly not great – about what you’d expect in a cafe along the highway. The rooms are tiny little things cut out of a strip-style building – quaint, quite small, and very old. The room I stay in is very run down with a pretty lousy bed and plumbing that not only doesn’t work right, but is in a state of “half-repairâ€. Whoever takes care of that sort of thing will finish the job when they get around to it.
But hey, that’s OK with me, my standards for motel rooms are extremely low. I’m usually happy to stay in a small-town motel that costs $35/night, knowing full-well that it’s gonna be just like this.
The problem is, this room is a couple hundred dollars a night. Really. And the meals are proportionately overpriced.
It’s the free market at work. This is the only lodge and dining along the highway for miles, and there will be a certain number of tourists that won’t have any choice but to pay those prices. Many will book online, with high expectations for the price, and will just have to live with disappointment. Their cancellation policy is quite strict – you can’t check-in until 3:00, but they don’t accept cancellations after 2:00. If you show up and are outraged at the price, you’re past the point you can cancel, and your card is charged, so you might as well stay.
I’m on vacation, and I’m OK with a reasonable fleecing now and again. So tonight, I’m getting fleeced – I might as well enjoy it. At least I’ve got a warm room to sleep in, and a beautiful view. The warm shower feels wonderful, though their wireless isn’t working, (sorry, no discount for that additional insult). I do a little writing, then walk up to the lodge for an early supper.
It’s warm and quaint in the cafe portion of the lodge. It’s less than half full – a highway closure has dramatically reduced the tourist traffic. A couple walks in, obviously looking around for a place to sit. I listen as the waitress asks them if they’re here for dinner, and they say they’re probably just going to sit and have coffee. They’re an older couple, with a Scandinavian accent. In keeping with their culture, they’re extremely polite as the waitress tells them they can get coffee at the general store next door, making it plain she doesn’t want them taking up dining room space if they’re only going to spend the price of coffee.
It seems everyone who works here is “part of the familyâ€. They’ve developed an arrogance over the years, and a sense of entitlement to use this little piece of paradise they “own†to take every possible penny from every possible traveler. They’ve been blessed with a wonderful place in a beautiful location, but their connection to this wonderful little corner of paradise has been twisted. They don’t seem to see it as a gift and blessing that also allows them to make a living. Instead, I get the feeling they see it as a cash cow to milk for all it’s worth.
Many years ago, when I was immersed in Corporate America, I sat in a meeting where the CEO was railing at his management team about poor profit performance. It was a smaller company by today’s standards, and there was clearly frustration around the table at economic conditions that were making it difficult to get the profit margins we had seen in previous years. The CEO was more frustrated than any of us, and he slammed his fist on the table as he stated with absolute conviction that, “we have a moral right to make a profit.â€
I think he truly believed those words when he spoke them. He was a decent and “good†man, kind in many ways. He had built a profitable enterprise with many years of hard work. I think he truly believed that he was “entitled†to make a profit – it was his moral right as a hard-working entrepreneur.
At the time I was stunned, but over the years I’ve come to accept this attitude as pretty darned common in the culture and economy we’ve created. We’ve evolved (or devolved perhaps) back toward the feudal mentality that was common before the Enlightenment period when our country was conceived and born. Back in those olden days when there were Lords – those with property and wealth, and there were the rest of the common chattel – those who had to just eek out a living at the pleasure of the Lords.
We’ve come to believe that as we build wealth and “own†things, our rights and privileges increase proportionately. Especially as it relates to ownership of land and property. “Owning†property makes me almost divine, as a little piece of Creation is “mine†to control and do whatever I want with. Such power!
The Lucia family “owns†this wonderful little corner of creation. A tired old couple from another country is enjoying our country’s beautiful coastline, and wants to sit by a warm fire and enjoy a cup of coffee and maybe a little desert. There are those of us in the room who’d love to sit by them and share their story. Their presence will help fill the mostly empty room, and warm it with human kindness. The “owner†sees none of this – she sees only a set of pockets, and weighs only how much silver she can move from their pocket to hers.
I’m conflicted by this, as I suspect any American reader would be. On the one hand, I absolutely support free enterprise, as well as the marketplace pricing and property ownership principles that underpin it. At the same time, it’s clear to me that there’s a selfish streak inside most of us that will allow lust for profit to rapidly turn the steering rudder of our life toward tyranny under the yoke of ownership.
In many cases, the free market will weed out those who succumb to that lust, as somebody else will just build a place down the road that offers a better product at a lower price. Unfortunately, this process is often corrupted by regulation that protects those who already have the property and ownership. In this case, I have no idea why someone else hasn’t put up a couple double-wide trailers down the road to take advantage of the bonanza, but have to assume there must be some regulation that prevents this, but has grandfathered in the Lucia property.
I’m further conflicted here because this is a family operation. It’s a business that a family runs together. I love this. I run a family business with my son. I write and lament often about the loss of the family business, about how big companies have driven the small family operation out of existence. In my own life, I’m usually happy to pay more to do business with local merchants. I’ll always choose a locally owned restaurant over a chain – the prices are comparable, the service is usually fine, and I’m supporting a local family rather than some big multi-national conglomerate. I’ll always look for the hardware store rather than the big box for the same reason. I avoid Walmart’s with a passion.
Here’s this little family operation, and I want to support ‘em. It appears they have 3 generations of folks working at the place. It may be that as their family has grown, they’ve continued to simply expect the business to generate bigger and bigger piles of cash to support more and more people, and the way they’ve done that is to just keep raising prices and spending as little as possible on upkeep.
Every farm family across the country has faced this issue over the last 2 or 3 generations. Increasing farm productivity has meant that prices for farm goods (adjusted for inflation) have dropped continually for dozens of years. An acre of farm land supports fewer and fewer farmers each year. As farm families have grown up, the vast majority of the kids have had no choice but to leave for the city to find work – the farm simply can’t support them.
The difference may be that in the case of a place like Lucia, they’re not producing a commodity like beans where “the market†will define the price. In Lucia, they can keep raising their prices, because demand for a little place to stay right there on the coast is high enough to support their continued increasing prices. The only way a “market†would start to set their price for them is if a competitor opened down the road.
In many ways, it is like the farm analogy I referred to earlier. On the family farm, the dollars of profit from the operation will support a dwindling number of family member, because of dramatically increased productivity. The Lucia clan appears to have many family members that they’re trying to keep employed from an operation that is essentially locked into a particular size, so net “productivity†may have decreased over the years, and they’ve correspondingly continued to increase the price.
The outcome seems fairly predictable. Either someone will offer competition, which will drive the price down and force better service, lower prices, and fewer family members on the payroll, or they’ll collapse under their own weight, as bad reviews slow the flow of folks willing to endure poor service at high prices, and their continued low efficiency grinds things to a halt.
Of course, I’m conjecturing all of this off a very few observations. For all I know they’re business is great now and will continue to be great in the future regardless of what appears to be poor service and efficiency. But it strikes a real chord of contemplation inside me as I sit in the dining room. I’m such a huge fan of small, family run businesses, and here’s an example of one that I’m not a huge fan of. Ten years from now, this place might be gone, and some big multi-national hotel will be on this site, and I’ll lament the loss of the little Lucia Lodge, forgetting the poor service and efficiency.
There’s a balance in all this. There’s no perfect solution to anything. With any way of doing things, there’ll be both bonuses and penalties. I need to realize this whenever I fall into the natural human tendency to long for “good old days†or “that better way†I know about. The Lucia family isn’t perfect, and they could use some lessons in customer service for sure. They’re prices are too high by a lot, and they appear to have been blinded by the arrogance of “ownershipâ€. But they’re a family business trying to make a living in a remote area, and I’m OK giving ‘em my business tonight.
I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
-Â Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear, Frank Herbert – Dune
Pulling into the airport in Monterey, I’m a little surprised to feel a touch of dread creeping into my mind. For the past couple of days, this rental car has become my “base camp†as I’ve traveled out here from Colorado. I expected to feel excited at this point – dropping off the one-way rental to begin my journey – but I feel a bit of reluctance to give up the security of the car.
Over the past couple hours of driving up California’s Central Valley, I’ve felt the hint of doubt tickling the back of my mind. I’ve driven a lot of miles to get here, and the many hours in the car have me wondering about whether I’m really up for backtracking those thousand-plus miles on a bicycle – most of the way by myself.
Am I nuts? What on earth makes me think I can do this at 57 years old?
I park the car, and start to rig up my bike for riding. Back in Colorado, I was careful to make sure everything fit. The only “extra†things I brought were the old jeans and t-shirt that I plan on throwing away at the airport. As I rig up the bike, though, I find a few “extra†things that ended up with me. My truck keys for example, that had been in my jeans pocket – not something I want to throw away.
I get stuff bundled up, and decide to move away from the car. I take all my gear and my bike with me to the Hertz counter, drop off the keys, and do my final arranging there in the airport – away from the security of the car. A quick stop at the men’s room, and I drop my jeans and t-shirt in the trash can.
That simple gesture – dropping those clothes in the trash can – seems to lift a weight from my shoulders. As-though I were releasing the last remaining connection with my security and connection to the journey that brought me to this point. Releasing that connection illuminates the place the fear had occupied, and allows me to look forward toward the journey now in front of me.
Departing
What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.
– T.S. Eliot
The automatic doors part for me as I walk out of the airport terminal to the sidewalk outside. It feels pretty right for me – releasing my connection to the past, turning, and walking into the sunlight of the future as the doorway opens for me.
At Monterey Airport - Mile 1 Still Ahead Of Me
I lean my bike against a post to take a picture of the bike at the beginning of the trip. I strike up a conversation with a young woman sitting on the bench, who offers to take a picture of me with the bike. My white and untanned legs shine brightly in the picture, but I feel pretty neat documenting this beginning point.
The young woman has come out to Carmel for a writers conference that lasts all week. Ironic, I think to myself. I hope to write about this trip when it’s over, and I start the trip with a conversation with a young writer who travels clear across the country to learn more about how to write.
I leave the airport, and immediately start a little climb. I’m surprised at the weight of the bike, and figure I’ll get used to it as the trip goes along. I feel little pangs and pings in my knees and hips as I climb, and worry about whether or not they’ll develop into real problems in the coming hundreds of miles.
Worry – it’s a deep black hole into which enjoyment of the present falls, never to be retrieved. I’ve learned this lesson throughout my life, and I think of it now as I feel the deep pang in my right knee each time I bear down on the pedal. I’ve always been the “designated worrier†in our family, but I’ve gotten better in recent years. I’ve come to realize that unless there’s something I can do to change the situation, then I need to focus on where I am. In this case, I’ve spent reasonable time getting myself in shape, and what I can do right now is gear down and take pressure off the knees. Take it easy, and put it out of my mind.
The hills are steeper than I expect them to be in the short jaunt over to Carmel. Are they really this steep, I wonder, or is the load on my bike that heavy? Climbing, after all, is where you most notice the extra weight when you tour on a bicycle. Have I brought too much with me?
Worry again.
Neil's Bike at Night 1 Lodging - The Green Lantern Inn
I crest the final climb, and begin the wonderful descent down into Carmel. In the short distance, I’ve climbed over 800 feet, and descend every one of those feet plus a few more. I wind my way through the quaint little tourist town of Carmel By The Sea, and find the Green Lantern Inn, where I have reservations for my first night. I put up my bike in my room, shower, change into walking-around clothes, and head to town for dinner.
I like Carmel. It’s surely the land of the Beautiful People, as they say, but it’s cute and homey, and gives me a warm and comfortable feeling for the start of my adventure. It’s Erik’s (my brother) birthday, and I call and wish him happy birthday. He’s not at all happy about me taking this trip, and has been trying to talk me out of it for months. He has the worry gene too, but much worse than me.
I stand on the beach after dinner, talking to Erik, reassuring him that I’ll be fine. After we hang up, I sit on the beach and think about Erik and I, and consider the difference in how the cancer of worry has manifested itself in our separate lives.
Not that worry is a wholly bad thing – it can certainly help in the decision-making process so long as it’s moderated. In the case of this trip, there are surely things I should worry about – crossing hundreds of miles of desert on a bicycle in the worst month of the year for example – but should I let that worry keep me from a great adventure?
That old Bene Gesserit litany on fear has stayed with me my whole life: I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
I can easily substitute the word “worry†for the word “fearâ€, and the litany would still apply. Makes sense after all – worry is just another form of fear. The difference in my mind is that worry is fear of something poorly defined and theoretical, and I usually have very little ability to sway the outcome of the object of my worry. Nothing healthy about that, is there?
Sunset, Sunrise
Either you decide to stay in the shallow end of the pool or you go out in the ocean.
– Christopher Reeve
I’ve lived in the middle of the country my whole life. Mountains and prairie, Ponderosa Pine and oceans of grassland and wheat, this is what home looks like to me. The ocean is a thing of grandeur and magic to me – a real novelty.
I enjoy the sunset on the beach at Carmel, walking around, taking pictures of people, taking pictures of the sunset over the ocean. There are folks out in the water surfing, and I see a couple guys trotting down toward the water.
Confession: I don’t like cold water. I can’t imagine what enjoyment a person could get out of swimming in cold water. This water is cold – way too cold to swim in as far as I’m concerned – yet folks are splashing out there on surfboards and acting like they’re enjoying themselves. It’s just plain crazy, since the best you can hope for is a little wave that might carry you 20 or 30 yards.
After taking some nice sunset pictures, I walk back to my room at the Green Lantern Inn, do a little writing and a little reading, and fall asleep, looking forward to tomorrow. They don’t serve breakfast until 7:00, and I have a short day, so I decide to sleep in until 6:00, and enjoy breakfast. Today marks the beginning of this journey, and the sunset I just enjoyed seems the perfect way to begin.
