We’ve got an easy day ahead of us today – only 75 miles. Unless the wind is hard on us, we should get done in less than 8 hours. We take our time and enjoy breakfast, and meet some interesting folks as we’re walking out of Denny’s.
It’s a small group of folks – sounds like just 2 couples plus an extra person. They’ve got a truck with a trailer, and the trailer holds a couple of little Vespa-type scooters. The women ride the scooters along the highway, and the men follow along in the truck. When they get tired of “scootingâ€, the men pick them up and trailer the scooters. It’s a grand adventure for them. They’ve always wanted to take a trip like this along the highways of the Southwest. When they hit the high plains of Texas in a few days, they’ll just ride in the truck to avoid the heat.
I’m curious about why the little scooters rather than just everyone taking motorcycles? Well, a good part of the reason seems to be that the scooters are so much more fuel efficient. Plus, they’re cute. That’s important for sure… Continue reading “Cycling Through the West – Tuba City to Kayena”
Bicycling Across the West Day 12 – Sedona to Tuba City in Arizona
“What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.” ~ Crowfoot
Today I meet my friend Dave, and we complete the rest of the ride together. Our original plan was to meet at the Grand Canyon and ride from there. However, we’ve talked on the phone and changed our route a bit in response to concern over a section of road we were going to ride on. The road we’re concerned about is Highways 163 and 162 in Arizona and Utah, which takes us through Monument Valley. Dave’s experience on the road as he was driving down to his starting point was that it was very narrow, lots of curves, no shoulder, and lots of RVs.
We’re both fine with all of that – down to the RV part. My experience with the lack of safety and courtesy on the part of RV drivers so far on this trip has me pretty concerned about that section, and Dave feels the same way. So we modified our planned route, and I’m meeting Dave in Flagstaff this morning. From here, we’ll ride to Tuba City today. I’m clearly upset that we’re compelled – out of fear of our lives – to change our route because so many RV users are either incompetent or inconsiderate drivers. But it is what it is.
Riding through this upcoming section, the thing that makes bicycle trip routing difficult is the space between towns. There are only so many places where a motel exists, and we need to be able to fit a daily ride somewhat neatly between those spots. Our original plan, in fact, included a 140 mile day because of that difficulty. That’s a long day in the desert if the winds aren’t kind… Our new route keeps most of our days down to a little under 100 miles, though there’s one or two that go over 100 miles. Continue reading “Cycling Across The West – Sedona to Tuba City in Arizona”
“No, life cannot be understood flat on a page. It has to be lived; a person has to get out of his head, has to fall in love, has to memorize poems, has to jump off bridges into rivers, has to stand in an empty desert and whisper sonnets under his breath… We get one story, you and I, and one story alone. God has established the elements, the setting and the climax and resolution. It would be a crime not to venture out, wouldn’t it?” Â ~Â Donald Miller – Through Painted Deserts
Today is my last full day of riding by myself. Tomorrow is a rest day in Sedona with my friend Dale, then the following day I meet up at some point with my friend Dave to complete the ride back to Colorado. My days of solitude on this trip are over after today.
I expected to enjoy the solitude, but I’ve frankly enjoyed it more than I’d anticipated. The desert amplifies and highlights solitude. The simplicity and solitude I’ve found riding across these deserts has moved me in a way that’s beyond my expectations. I’ve found a peace inside myself that’s a little deeper than the already wonderful peace I knew.
How does the desert do this? I’ve always enjoyed time on my own. In solitude I’ve been able to discover the things within me and about me that make me what I am today. Time alone has always wrapped my mind and my soul in a way that opens me up to myself. Continue reading “Bicycling Across The West – Congress to Sedona in Arizona”
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”
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…
It’s in the space between one thing and another thing where life’s defined. Those times of transition, where we gather pile a ceremonial cairn of what got us to this point, and turn toward the next. Dorothy and her retinue in Oz needed to make a harrowing pilgrimage to end up on that dais, only to watch in disbelief as what she had believed with all her heart would be the method of her transition floated away without her.
Only in that moment of heartbreak – the space between the hope of the previous moment and the promise of the next – Â could she see the bubble of transition, and where it needed to come from.
“Click the ruby slippers 3 times and say …â€
I just published a post at Prairie Eden’s website, where I talked about this little window of transition our perennial gardens are going through this time of year in Colorado, mentioning that for the designer of physical space, it’s often the space between things that’s more important than the things themselves.
I recently made my own little pilgrimage of sorts, though I didn’t look at it that way when I planned it. It was simply an adventure – a bicycle ride from Monterey, California back to Colorado where I live. The first 2/3 of it I rode by myself, and the last third with a friend. I’ll be blogging about that ride quite a bit in the upcoming weeks and months, and have posted a summary from which I’ll link to all the other posts as I write them. So far, I’ve only published the summary and first day.
When I arrived at Monterey, I dropped my rented car off at the airport. That point of transition between the drive out and the ride back stands out clearly in my mind. I turned in the keys at the Hertz counter, and got my bike all arranged and packed up. After a quick stop in the mens room, I dropped the jeans and t-shirt that I’d worn on the drive out into a trash can, and rolled my bike out through the sliding doors of the airport into the California sunshine.
I remember looking around a bit as I dropped those traveling clothes into the trash, wondering if the action would look odd to folks. Nobody was looking. The moments of transition I was moving through only had significance for me – not for anybody else. To everyone else, I was just a strange guy wheeling a bicycle through an airport.
I think spaces of transition in our lives are like that most of the time. They consume us as we’re transformed by them, but to those around us, we’re just a strange guy with a bicycle…
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.
For three weeks in June, I rode my bicycle down the coast of California through Big Sur, turned left to cross the mountains, rode across the Mojave and Sonoran deserts, then northeast through Navajo, Hopi, and Ute lands, finally crossing southern Colorado and the Continental Divide at Wolf Creek Pass, ending up in Walsenburg, CO. I rode the first 60% or so by myself, then met my friend Dave in Flagstaff for the last 40% or so of the ride.
A coast-to-coast ride is a nice thing to check off “the list†for sure, but I’m learning the checkmark on the list is something that gets the ride started, but the ride always turns into something much bigger than the checkmark. The goal of the checkmark is a good motivator to get me into the saddle, and get me planning and executing the trip, but it’s never the “whyâ€. Continue reading “Tour of the West – A Bicycle Adventure”
Sorry for the lack of posts. I’ve been in the midst of a nice little bicycle ride, headed down the cost of California from Monterey, turning left at LAÂ and heading east across the desert.
Sitting in Twentynine Palms today, on the edge of the Mojave Desert and the Joshua Tree National Park, enjoying air-conditioning and a nice pool.
The ride down the coast and through Big Sur was pretty amazing. Definitely a ride anyone should consider. I’ll do some postings on the ride soon with pictures, but this is my quick rest-day update.
The thing that had the greatest impact on me over the first few days was the trees I think. On the western side of the range, it was the Redwoods, but then on the inland side of the range, and through the Paso Robles wine country and along the way up into the mountains again at Frazier Park, there were these massive Oak trees that I couldn’t get over. These things must me many hundreds of years old to have grown so massive in the climate. I couldn’t get enough of spending time with both these types of ancient trees.
Now, in the desert, things have changed dramatically. Spending time in the shade by the pool this morning, I noticed several little (warbler type) birds that I haven’t noticed as I’ve been riding, though I’m sure they’re around. And hummingbirds of course.
The wind here is insane. In can come up suddenly and ferociously, and I can tell you it’s something you don’t want in your face while you’re peddling a bicycle. Have had several stints of barely maintaining 7mph into the teeth of that deafening wind, curse words pouring out of my mouth.
Tomorrow I end my day in AZ, after crossing a pretty big section of highway with no water (about 100 miles or so). Cross your fingers for a west wind – I know I am!
We’ve got an easy day ahead of us today – only 75 miles. Unless the wind is hard on us, we should get done in less than 8 hours. We take our time and enjoy breakfast, and meet some interesting folks as we’re walking out of Denny’s.
