Bandon to Brookings

California was callingme, but I decided to put her off for another day. Just seven miles North of the border is Harris Beach State Park. After the border, was unknown. California doesn't have coastal bike maps like Oregon so I was unsure where the neyxt state park was. So I played it safe and made it another easy day of 80ish miles. The first twenty miles to Port Orford were flat and blissfully free of wind. When you hit this small town, there is a sign that says, "High winds next 27 miles when flashing." If it's flashimng, pack it in for the day because I can't imagine doing the next section with a headwind. The next 30 miles are basically climbing through passes, then descending to the beach again and again. I didn't hate it. I'd raised my saddle a hair and my knee was loving me for it. It still ached a bit, but not constantly. For a town of 2000 people, Brookings has a surprisingly great microbrewery. ChetCo Brewing had 13 beers and a cider on tap. An unfortunate number of IPA's, yes, but also 2 stouts, 2 porters, and a brown, so my dark beer loving self was happy. (The imperial coconut porter was serious alchemy. Highly recommend it.) Plus free pretzels and peanuts, the walls are covered in pictures of pitbulls, and the bartender put on the debate for me. And she let me charge all my electronics so I didn't have to plug them into the bathrooms at the campground them sit around reading while they charged. If you ever find yourself in Brookimgs, definitely stop by ChetCo. 10/10. A+.

Jessie Honeyman to Bandon

Just for a change of pace, it was raining when I got up. My strategy for pacjking in the rain is to throw everything in my bags, roll. My bike into the bathroom,  then drag my tent to the bathroom and break down and sort everything where it's dry. Then I eat breakfast in the bathroom.
I get some funny looks in the morning.
It's been said that God looks out for children, drunkards, and idiots, and I guess that must be true because the rain let up about ten miles into my ride.
Even so, I was calling uncle on today's ride. I needed to dry literally everything I owned and I needed an easy day to try and patch back together my battered spirit. Band on was only 70 miles away and I rknew I was going to put myself up at a motel there.
Rolling hills and no sholder was thee order of the morning. When the shoulder is narrow or non existent, the safe thing to do is position your bike towards the middle of the lane so that cars are forced over the line to pass you. If yopu stay by the edge, they often pass terrifyingly close and if you accidentally twitch, you're dead.
Unfortunately, even if I'm in the middle of the damn lane, some people will not shift over to pass.

North Bend has yet another bridge, and I had yety another car try to kill me. This time the passenger rolled down his window and yelled idiot in my face as they passed. I responded that he was #1. (Don't do that. Road rage is real.)
Turning left another driver tried to hit be from behind.
After North Bend comes 7 Devil's Road, a lovely series of, you guess it, seven hills. Three of the five have section above 11%. This is the only time I wished for a smaller gear. Some kind soul had taken it upon themselves to label the tops of each "devil," so you knew hjow !many more you had to climb: 1...2...3...4...5...5 again? Then comes the spray painted, "Haha, this is five. Not the last one." Curse you.
After 7 Devil's, it was on!y a few more miles to Band on and my spirits were higher than they'd been since Canada.
I'd made good time,it wasn't raining, and I'd hopefully get everything dry for tomorrow and my final day in this godforsaken state.

Devil's Lake to Jessie Honeyman State Park

I want to go home. The thought reverberates through my mind over and over until it's the only thing I can focus on. That and "I'm cold" and "I am so over being wet." As rain falls sporadically, I gladly say goodbye to Devil's Lake, planning on going to Jessie Honeyman Menorial State Park smack in the middle of Oregon's dune country. It was slow going from the start. My expectations of average speed were decreasing by the mile. Look, I ride bikes a lot. I've ridden bikes a lot for a very long time. I've not infrequently done things such as being off the bike for a few weeks then suddenly feeling like a junkie needing his next fix.and knocking out a century. I ride hard. And I ride fast. Except this trip. Carrying 50 lbs of gear on a steel bike with 32mm tires is a whole different beast than riding a 15lb carbon bike with nothing except a clif bar and spare tube in your pockets. I knew that. I accounted for that. What I didn't account for was a bloody unrelenting head wind and non-stop rain. The entire day was miserable. My trash knee was aching constantly, I was cold, I was wet, and I could not imagine anything worse than doing this for another day, lret alone two or three weeks. There was however, one bright spot in the day, and that was Newport. Newport is home to another one of Oregon's stupidly large bridges. And Rogue Brewing's national headquarters. I had to stop for a beer. It was 11am and I didn't care. I needed a beer. Or two. Or three as it ended up. Rogue had forty on tap and I bought a flight of 7, but the extremely nice bar tender kept asking !me if I'd ever tried this beer or that beer, and upon me shaking my head, drawing me up half glasses of each. I tipped her well. I woke up at 2am to it pouring. An irregular drip of water was hitting my head. I started praying to whoever could hear me that my tent would hold and that I didn't end up in a puddle of water. It was a restless night. I want to go home.

Seaside to Devil's Lake State Park

After a day and a half of staying still, mentally I was raring to go. My legs however, had other ideas. My right knee is wrecked from being hit by a car. It can handle track and cyclocross just fine, but tends to ache after 90 miles or so on a road bike.

Or any time I climb on a fully loaded tour bike.

And this day started off with climbing.

And rain.

And headwinds.

And more climbing.

It honestly rained less than I expected, but when it did rain, it poured, soaking through my gloves and shoes in less than five minutes. About ten miles in, it hailed as I was descending back to the beach. Not terrifying at all to have speeding cars less than three feet from you when you can't pick up your head.

Around lunchtime, I made it to Tillamook and decided to play tourist to tour the cheese factory.

Leaving my bike is an ordeal in and of itself, so I don't do it often, but the lure of cheese making was too strong to resist. So I locked my bike to the fence and carried my panniers in with me.

Tillamook offers self guided tours and a look at their process, along with free samples. It was a good break and got me out of the rain for a while.

After Tillamook, the ride become much more enjoyable (as enjoyable as a rainy windy ride can be…) This is dairy country and the roads are lined with small farms. Cows stood in the rain, chewing their cud stared languidly at me as I rode by.

About 15miles before my planned stop for the night, the route takes you off the 101 and onto Old Coast Highway. This ten mile detour goes through beautiful old growth forest.

It also is a five mile climb that made me hate life.

But then, oh, but then, it's a glorious five mile descent back to the highway.

I hit Devil Lake State Park in Lincoln City just after dark. It was pouring again and I desperately needed a dryish place to pitch my tent.

Sweeping my headlight across the campground revealed no cover and worse, every sight was flooded.

There looked to be no place to sleep.

Finally, I said “screw it,” and pitched my tent in front of the shower building so I was protected from wind and rain (and lightning.)

I got away with it because the park was pretty empty, but I don't recommend it. The cement was freezing and the cold seeped through my mat and sleeping bag.

The camp host did make the rounds in the morning, but I was almost packed up by then, so he just waved me on my way.

Interlude 2: Sorry for lack of posts

First it was raining and miserable and I hated everything and did nothing but pass out at 7pm each night.

I've been in CA for 3 days and weather's been good, but I've been putting in long days and passing out early.

And reading real books. Currently reading West of the West by Mark Arax.

I have some basic thoughts that will get thrown up unedited, but pictures will have to wait until I get to Santa Barbara in a week.

I post on Instagram 1 or 2 times a day if you want more recent pictures. @triggerhappymidget

Day 5: Astoria to Seaside (25 miles)

There's an All Hail the Black Market sticker on my track bike that reads “Too tough to die, too dumb to stop trying.” Pretty certain that this above else is the motto my life follows.

After surviving the bridge crossing from Hell yesterday and waking up to tornado alarms early this morning, I headed out to try and make as much headway as I could before the winds picked up even more. Winds were supposed to be up to 90mph on Saturday, so I knew I wasn't going to be going anywhere until Sunday.

That headway amounted to 25 miles (10 of which because I went the wrong way in Astoria. Not all bad though as I got to explore the town while quoting Kindergarten Cop to myself. I know The Goonies was also filmed here, but Kindergarten Cop is clearly the superior film.)

Astoria after the rain

Could hear these guys all the way from the bike path.

By 8am, I already had a 30mph headwind and I was slogging along at a pace only slightly faster than a slow jog. While that was soul crushing, what made me decide that I needed to hole up somewhere until the major storm passed was that when the side of the road cleared up and the wind became a cross head wind and I could barely keep my bike straight.

Seaside seemed like a good place to stop because as a major tourist area, I figured they'd have  multiple RV parks so I could hopefully find one that could shelter my tent from the wind.

The Visitor's Center was super helpful. I pulled in there asking about places to camp and they not only gave me half a dozen names, they called them up and asked about prices.

The RV parks wanted $25 to pitch my tent there, so the Visitor's Center directed me to Seaside's hostel, which, based on the weather, is a way better option.

Look, I like camping. And I don't even mind camping in the rain. But, camping in a thunderstorm during a high winds warning, is not my idea of a great time.

Hanging behind the front desk was a handwritten ”Word of the Day” sign that read: Coddiwomple-To travel in a purposeful manner towards a vague destination..

I mentioned to the man behind the desk that the word seemed fitting for my current endeavor and that I appreciated his sign as in my other life , I teach English and history.

The man then looked me straight in the eyes and very seriously said, “English, huh? So how do you feel about the Oxford comma?”

“Oh, I'm a big fan. Always use the Oxford comma.”

“Alright, then you can stay. We're Oxford comma people here.”

He then gave me a bike map of the Oregon coast and knocked $5 off the price of the room because I was riding a bike.

So I'm holed up here for a couple days, taking advantage of kitchen privileges and wifi until I can go ride again. Which means I have some time to explore the town before the rain started in earnest.

Obviously, I found the local brewery and had my first pint of this endeavor.

Seaside Brewery had twelve beers on tap and only one was an IPA, so I liked them immediately. The brewery is housed in the old jail, so the atmosphere was also pretty cool.

Posted up at the bar and soon found myself drawn into conversation with a trio of locals. As one of them read the weather report for Saturday--winds approaching 100mph with waves over 45ft--he grinned and offered me his advice for the rest of my trip:

Embrace the suck.

Total Miles:372

Best Sight of the Day: Someone spray painted salmon riding bikes on the Astoria bike path.room

Good Guy Driver of the Day: Oregon State Patrol Officer pulled me over and gave me a run down of the upcoming road conditions and weather.

Interlude 1: TBT to the first time I was in Bellingham.

A couple posts ago, when talking about Bellingham, I mentioned the fact that I almost died the first time I'd been there. Slight exaggeration, but I was definitely in bad shape. So, in honor of TBT, here's what I wrote about that delightful experience a few days after it happened. (I wrote various musings after all my collegiate races.)

Background: Despite riding all my life, I never raced until grad school. Collegiate men are divided into Cat A,B,C,D. The fast people are As and everyone else tries to get upgraded to the As. Due to a lack of numbers, the women are divided into As and "everyone else." I tore through the lower category in two races and got my upgrade, so I still really had no idea how to race when the following occurred.

Bellingham was cold. From the second I stripped down to my spandex, removing jeans, warm up pants, a flannel shirt, a hoody, and my North Face jacket, to the second I finally stepped into the shower that night, I was cold. Waiting for my race to start? Cold. Sleeping in the trunk of a car while the boys raced? Cold. Riding the tt? Cold. Cold cold cold cold cold. On the plus side, it wasn’t raining.

Bellingham was weird. From the second I arrived at the course, things progressed differently then I was used to. The two PSU girls in my field approached me and asked if I would be ok racing with the Men’s B field. 1) They are obviously much better with names and faces than I am as I have absolutely no idea who they are, but they picked me out right away. 2) No, no I do not want to race with the Men’s B (wanting to be diplomatic about it however, I said I’d go along with whatever everyone else wanted. Thankfully, my boys backed me up and said no way was I racing with the B’s. We did increase the distance of our race by a lap though.)

Bellingham was hard. Six and a quarter 8-mile laps with a steep climb at the beginning of each lap, a steep climb at the end of each lap, a small rise in the middle of each lap, and one sketchy right hand turn with gravel on the road. Once around wasn’t bad. Twice around was fine. By the third and fourth laps, my legs were feeling the hills.

Bellingham was surprising. As anyone who's ever ridden with me can attest to, I’m used to getting dropped on hills. So I was pleased when I stayed with the 5 on the front when our pack split on the first hill of the first lap, proud when I stayed with the Portland and Whitman riders in the middle when the other two in our pack went off the front on the start of the second lap, and SHOCKED when Portland and I dropped the Whitman girls at the start of the fifth lap AND stayed ahead of them for the rest of the race.

Bellingham was painful. This was my first real road race with the A’s (last week’s double flat didn’t count) and I was not prepared. Portland and I broke away with roughly 15 miles to go. We rotated pulls for a while and aside from some comments about whether I ever actually let my legs spin instead of always pushing a big gear, things were OK (And yes, I am aware I keep too low a cadence most of the time.)  But  things just went downhill fast. Usually, when I climb hills, I stand up and try to push it up the last few yards over the crest. When I tried to do it on this lap, my legs buckled in a mass of painful cramps. I literally could not stand up. Portland was watching me, telling me to sit down, spin up the hill, keep a count in my head. I couldn’t figure out if she was helping me because she was concerned, or because she needed me to keep working with her so we could stay ahead of Whitman. Didn’t matter. As long as she was helping me, I didn’t much care why.

Bellingham was humbling. By the start of the last lap I was having trouble moving in a straight line. My brain was fuzzy, muddled, like I was drunk. “Hey,” Portland’s voice intruded into my haze, “Have you been drinking your water? Do you have any food?” Dumbly I shook my head. I’d eaten everything I’d brought with me (which admittedly wasn’t a lot.) “Put your hand out.” Reflexively, I did as bidden. Next thing I know, a half-eaten bar is being shoved into my hand as Portland gives me her food, telling me to eat it. For the rest of the race, she kept an eye on me, reminding me to drink, talking me up the hills, and basically just making sure I didn’t die. I honestly think I would have ended up passing out on the side of the road if it wasn’t for her.

Bellingham was AMAZING. On the final hill of the last full lap, Portland turned to me with a grin, “Hey, we freaking did it!” Exhausted, I retorted, “I play rugby. We just say fuck.” She laughed. “Oh, we’re going to get along fucking fantastically then.”  On the next downhill, Portland took off, trying to drop me before the final push for the line. I found it ego-boosting that she actually thought I had any chance of beating her if it came to a sprint. There was no way I could sprint. I could hardly keep moving my bike forward, let alone sprint. She finally ditched me on the next up hill, but we were so far ahead of the Whitman girls, that I could just stumble to the finish without worrying about being caught. Weaving up the final hill, barely able to push the pedals as I still couldn’t stand up without my legs collapsing, contemplating getting off my bike and walking up the damn hill, I finally crossed the line. I have rarely been as proud of myself as I was during that race (likewise, I have rarely been in as much pain as I was during that race.)



And that's my Bellingham story. The Portland rider and I are still buddies and we both joke about how we met because she saved my life. Probably the only instance where I can legitimately say,"I'm glad I almost died in a ditch"