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"

Day 4: Shelton to Astoria (112 miles)

In films and TV, a character's journey into the afterlife is is often depicted as them walking into a fog. Sometimes there's a bridge. The character will disappear from view as they cross the bridge and move on.

This imagery came to mind as I fought my way across the 5 mile Astoria bridge this evening. Except instead of disappearing into a peaceful fog, the end of my bridge was obscured by the pouring rain. And the “high winds advisory” for today finally made sense as I struggled to keep the bike straight. And the bridge was covered in the mangled corpses of dead seabirds.

No, I wasn't crossing over into heaven, I was descending into Davy Jones’ Locker.

The bridge from hell.

It was the last 3 miles of a 112 mile day and I was beyond done. It was raining steadily when I rolled out at 7:30, and it hadn't let up all day. Forever a SoCal kid at heart, The idea of riding in the rain goes against my very nature. And yet, here I was.

Having finally given up on Google Map's bike directions, I decided to play “”highway hopping” today aka I never travelled on a road that wasn't a highway. Mostly this worked out fine, I was on the 101 for most of it and it had a nice wide shoulder free of gravel and other debris. Highway 12 on the other hand is terrible, way too many onramp crossings and bridges where you completely lose the shoulder.

All day. It rained all day.

After I hit Raymond around mile 65, it finally became the ride I pictured. Even in the rain, the area was beautiful. My mom's dad grew up in Raymond and while I too would want to escape to the big city if I had grown up in this one street town, I could picture settling down in an area like this one day. Life moves slower out here than it does in Seattle.

Raymond and its neighbor South Bend (the oyster capital of the world!) are products of another time. A time when logging and fishing reigned. But there's a feel to them that just can't be replicated in the big cities.

Due to the wind advisory starting in the afternoon, I'd originally planned to call it a short day and stay in Raymond.

But I had no service there. And that made me more uncomfortable than I'd like to admit.

Raymond is filled with all sorts of metal statues.

The wind hadn't picked up yet so I kept rolling. And rolling. And rolling. Because there is literally nothing between there and Astoria. And 50 miles on a loaded touring bike is a lot longer than 50 miles in a car.

Somewhere in the last fifteen miles of this trek, in Lewis and Clark National Park, I crested yet another hill and there was the ocean. And the wind. And the rain picked up.

(It's oddly fitting that the visitor centers are named “Dismal Nitch” and “Cape Disappointment.”)

Finally, like an angel of the Lord, I saw the sign for the Astoria Bridge. Which brings us back to the beginning of this tale.

After I survived the bridge to Hell, I was spent. I couldn't see due to the downpour and ever cognizant of the approaching 50-90mph winds the weather service was predicting, I called it a day.

Fear of falling branches kept me from camping, so I shelled out for a Motel 6. And my solution to being both freezing and starving was to eat while sitting in the bath tub.

I regret nothing.

Total Miles: 349

Best Sight of the Day: "Jayden's German Store."  In the one street, 1,500 person fishing town of South Bend.

Good Guy Driver of the Day: in Raymond, I was going straight on the highway when a car sped through a stop at the intersection, cutting me off, and forcing me to slam on my brakes. A car stopped on my side of the road made eye contact with me, and gave the universal " wtf was that about?" gesture, commiserating with me over stupid drivers.

Day 3: Seattle to Shelton (65 miles)

Stephanie Meyers supposedly picked Forks, WA as the setting for her Twilight series for the sole reason that it sees less sun than anywhere else in the continental United States.

I'll believe it. I haven't seen blue sky since I departed the ferry dock onto the peninsula.

I decided instead of riding through Portland before heading to the coast, to take the ferry west from Seattle and then just head south. I've already ridden from Seattle to Portland a few times, so I wanted to do something different. So I rode out around Alki to the ferry terminal.

So long, Seattle!

I'm not sure I made the right decision.

The day had started out rather horribly and was not getting better. I had clipped one of my Front Rollers on poorly and it had slipped off. The buckle got caught in my wheel and snapped in half.

Fuck.

Well, out comes the zip ties and duct tape and I proceeded to MacGuyver the bag to my rack. I was carrying a small web strap, so worst case scenario, I could secure it on top of my back rack, but that would throw off the balance of my bike.

From the ferry, I rode through Port Orchard before turning South onto Highway 3 (and taking a left lane exit, which is super fun on a bike) and up a one mile 4% grade. 4% is fine, but oh man am I slow when climbing.

After 10 or so miles, Google Maps gave me the direction that finally made me decide to jettison the app, when it pulled me off the highway onto back lane country rides through who the fuck knows where.

I mean, I'm looking around thinking, “huh, if someone were to stab me, steal my bike, and dump my body in those woods, I doubt anyone would find me.” That's how isolated these roads were

And there was another 17% grade.

Now, having four panniers on the bike means I can stand up to climb without balance being too much of an issue. The issue came when I threw my weight forward and rocked the bars, thus causing my duct tape to start to fray and pull away from my bag. (Apparently I should have packed a whole roll of duct tape instead of just a bit.)

It was getting into the evening by the time I finally got back to civilization, a bit south of Shelton, WA. It was starting to rain and there were no places to post up for the night for about another 40 miles.

So I reluctantly called it a short mileage day and back tracked into Shelton.My first order of business was to buy a roll of duct tape to secure my bag better. Safeway however, did not jave any duct tape, just a roll of generic “silver tape” that I didn't trust.

What they did have however, was Gorilla Tape. And oh my god guys, if you've been using duct tape instead of Gorilla Tape your whole life like I have, you've been missing out.

Gorilla Tape is clearly superior in every single way. It's stronger, it tears straighter and cleaner, it's black instead of silver, and it's smoother. Clearly the better product and I'm now carrying a whole roll in case other emergencies arrive. (My pannier has gone 137 miles since I taped it up with the Gorilla Tape, and everything is still holding as strong as when I first taped it.)

Total Miles: 237

Best sight of the Day: Goats in someone's front yard literally a block from the ferry on the peninsula

Good Guy Driver of the Day: A couple of guys in a lifted truck rolled the window down and yelled, “Yeah! Destroy that hill!” While pumping their fists when I was climbing that stupid 17%.

Day 2: Larabee State Park to Seattle (101 miles)

Whoever programs the bike directions for Google Map's has obviously never actually ridden a bike. That is the only possible explanation for why it keeps taking me on ridiculous detours up 17% grades.

17% on my carbon bike hurts like hell. 17% on a loaded steel bike makes me want to cry. And by my count, over the 100 miles I rode today, I got to go up three delightful climbs whose grade was n the double digits.

The day started out nice enough. Cold but clear and beautiful rolling hills through the trees on the shore of the lake. After a few miles I defended into farm country and traffic picked up while I simultaneously lost my shoulder. It wasn't bad except for the ridiculous number of school busses who passed me ridiculously close. (Seriously, I have no idea where all these busses were heading at 9:30 in the morning, but I counted at least ten of them.)

The farmland soon gave way to rolling hills and Google Maps took me on the first stupid detour of the day when it had me got off the highway, up a two mile 7% grade, then back down onto the same highway I just left.

Just North of Arlington, I picked up the Centennial Trail, a 30 mile multiple use path that mostly parallels old rail lines. It's pretty much completely flat and makes an excellent bike touring route.

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end and the Centennial ends in Snohomish. After which Google Maps took me on the stupidest route ever back to Seattle. I don't even know exactly where I was, but it involved a 17% climb followed 2 seconds later by a 12% one, directing me to cross a highway where the was a barrier in the middle, and refusing to register that a certain road was actually a dead end.

Finally, I made it to the 527 and then it was mostly downhill into the far end of Kenmore where I followed the Burke Gilman around the lake and back to Seattle.

Made it just in time to pick up my box from the post office and then spent the evening installing my new rack, bags, and tires in preparation of leaving Seattle for good tomorrow.

Total Miles: 173

Best part of the day: The Centennial through Arlington had some cool rail history by the side of it. And was a nice break from all the rolling hills.

Good guy driver: In Good Ol’ Boy Washington, I had no shoulder and was being trailed by a massive F250. We were approaching a left turn and instead of roaring past me and cutting me off only to stop and turn, he waited the extra 30 seconds until I was past his intersection.

Day 1: Vancouver to Larabee State Park (72 miles)

It took me four hours to ride the 25 miles out of Vancouver and it's suburbs. I'd be embarrassed over that pace if it wasn't for the fact that I'm slightly surprised I made it back to the States at all.

When we pulled into the bus station, our driver (who was great and incredibly enthusiastic about my ill thought out trip,) wished all the Canadians on board a happy holiday.

And I'm just unloading my gear thinking, “Canadians celebrate Columbus Day? What the heck? We don't even really acknowledge it anymore.”

So I roll the half mile to the Vancouver Costco (literally right next to the soccer stadium and hockey arena. Brilliant place for a Costco) as it was the only place in Vancouver I really knew and I wanted to use their restroom. And get a hot dog.

Tragedy struck when I saw Costco was closed. Brilliant person that I am, I knew Costco only closed on five days out of the year, so using my powers of deduction, I realized the Canadians were not in fact celebrating Columbus Day, but Canadian Thanksgiving.

On the plus side, this meant traffic was going to be almost non existent, on the negative side, this meant nothing except bars and fast food was open.

Oh hi, Vancouver.

I had worried avout getting from Vancouver to the border because my phone wouldn't work if I found myself lost. Thankfully, the guys on r/Vancouverbicycling led me to the “Central Valley Greenway” and told me that would get me all the way out of Vancouver, then it was an easy ride to the border.

The CVG is a cool piece of bike infrastructure consisting of mups, bike lanes, and a short section of gravel. It's well  marked, almost completely flat (almost. I see you 11% grade) and meanders through Vancouver, Burnaby, and New Westminster.

I was literally on the Greenway for five minutes when my rear tube went out with a bang. I went to change it and saw the sidewall in my tire had exploded.

Well this is not good.

So, it takes some explaining about why my sidewall went out. The short version is, I ordered my front panniers, rack, and tires from Germany, but they were delivered while I was in California, so I had to pick them up from the post office.

I got back into Seattle Saturday night, Post office is closed Sunday and Monday was Columbus Day, so if I waited for them, the earliest I could have left was Wednesday.

Instead, I decided to just take half my gear in my back panniers and ride Vancouver to Seattle, pick up my stuff on Tuesday, then leave with everything from Seattle on Wed. This meant I had older tires on. This also meant that in the midst of my genius packing method of “chuck everything that fits into the bag,” I managed to leave my emergency tire at home.

So my sidewall is blown, my phone doesn't work, And it's Thanksgiving, so even if I found a bike shop, it wouldn't be open.

If you read my gear list however, you know I was carrying duct tape. I taped up my tire, lowered the pressure to about 30 psi so it wasn't bulging too badly, switched it to the front as all the weight was on the back, and headed for the border on duct tape and prayers.

The CVG was pretty nice to ride on and it conveniently ended at a Starbucks in the Vancouver suburbs. I used Starbuck's free Wi-Fi and discovered another bike route that took me across the bridge to the suburb of Surrey. From Surrey, it shouldn't be too hard to get to the border.

Excwpt I got lost, because of course I did. And it's hard to follow screenshots of directions and maps on your phone.

CVG right after "Beware of Bears" sign

So channeling my best inner scout, I situated the sun on my right shoulder and rode around until I found a large street that appeared to be going straight south  I chose wisely as this one turned into BC-99 and took me all the way to the border.

The customs officials were just as suspicious going into America as Canada, which surprised me as my passport is American, but half an hour later, I was finally free to ride through Blaine, WA.

From Blaine to Bellingham, it was all farm country and rolling hills. I think I would have enjoyed it quite a bit on my road bike, but I was hungry and tired and every little ride dropped my speed to single digits.

I hit Bellingham as it was getting dark and still had ten miles to go to my camp spot for the night: Larabee State Park, so I resigned myself to using my lights.

Downtown Bellingham was fun to ride through--low key with a bunch of stuff to look at. I'd like to come back some day and actually spend some time in the xity.. I've been to Bellingham only once before--a bike racing trip that almost ended with me face down, dead in a ditch, so riding through the area brought back some fond memories. (I survived that race because some jerk from Portland decided I was her good deed for the day and kept me up right.)

Rolling into Larabee at sunset

I finally made it to Larabee around 8pm. Was tired enough that I didn't want to bother pitching my tent. I'd frequented enough bike touring blogs in the past few weeks to decide to lay out my sleeping bag and pad on the picnic table.

That lasted for all of about 15 minutes before I almost rolled myself off the table twice.

And I was cold.

Pitched the tent and passed out cold by 8:45.

Tomorrow: 100 mile day and back to Seattle.

Total Mileage: 72
Best Sight: Just before Ferndale, I was rolling through farmland, so a lot of cows and horses. Saw an alpaca out of the corner of my eye, then did a double take when I realized it was playing with a deer.

Good Guy Driver of the Day: Going up a hill on a two labe road with no shoulder. Driver sat behind me until I crested and made the turn without any attempt to pass.

Day 1: Prologue

The Canadian customs officer eyed me suspiciously, “You're riding your bike to Mexico”

Yes.

And you're from Seattle?

Yes.

So why do you need to come up here? Why not just start in Bellingham?

Because I want to go border to border.

He grunted in acceptance and finally sent me on my way, but not before interrogating me about what kind of job I have that lets me take so much time off.

I think he's worried I'm going to overstay my permit and become an undocumented immigrant. That's fair. I am pretty shifty looking. I blame the lack of sleep.

Today's adventures in transportation started at 4:30. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your view, I didn't sleep well the night before. My mind kept waking me, shouting, “What the hell are you doing?” So I was already awake when my alarm went off.

Threw my panniers on my bike, pumped up my tires one last timr, and rode the couple miles to UW. They finished the light rail station at UW last spring, making my early morning trips to the Bolt Bus infinitely quicker and easier. (Riding through downtown Seattle isn't fun in any circumstance, let alone on a fully loaded touring bike at 5am.)

10 minutes of nearly empty public transportation later, and I'm taking my bike off the train and onto a bus bound for the Great White North.

Next stop Canada and attempting to navigate when you can't use your phone!

A Bad Idea in the Making

“All of our days are numbered. We cannot afford to be idle. To act on a bad idea is better than to not act at all because the worth of the idea never becomes apparent until you do it. Sometimes this idea can be the smallest thing in the world. A little flame that you hunch over and cup with your hand and pray will not be extinguished by all the storm that howls around it. If you can hold on to that flame, great things can be constructed around it that are massive and powerful and world-changing… all held up by the tiniest of ideas.”
-Nick Cave, “20,000 Days on Earth”

If there is one constant in my life, it's that no matter how low you set your expectations, I will always find some way to fail to meet them. You want me to wear heels to match the other bridesmaids? I will stumble in them while walking down the aisle. You want me to be an adult? I will continuously get roped into incredibly long arguments with my two year old nephew about whose chair that is. You want me to do the menial labor I'm paid for? I will still be clueless about how to stretch thawed bread even though I have worked at this damn sandwich place for over two years.

The fact is, no matter how low you set the bar, I will trip over it. Which is perhaps why, at 29, I find myself unemployed, uninvolved, and generally uninterested in life.

Which led to a bad idea.

Instead of continuing to work for minimum wage, live with five other people in order to afford rent, and slog through another wet, cold, and dark PNW winter, dealing with another round of seasonal depression and constantly cold hands and feet, I decided to get the fuck out of Seattle.

By bike.

I decided to get the fuck out of Seattle by bike.

Why not? Riding has been a constant presence since my dad first taught me 25 years ago. The universe generally makes more sense to me when I'm on a bike. I've met all my favorite people through various cycling scenes. And I have no kids, no significant other, hell not even a pet that I'm responsible for. I have the money. Thanks to my unemployment, I sure have the time. So why not go ride my bike across the country? 

My friend Rob refers to this endeavor as my mid-life crisis. When another acquaintance scoffed at this label as how can 29 be middle age? Rob fired back, "Have you even met her? She probably isn't making it much past sixty."

He's not wrong. I'm actually somewhat surprised that I've made it this far. Hell, by most accounts I shouldn't have made it to my first birthday. My grandpa sat on me when I was just a couple days old (survived that one by sinking into the couch cushions), a few months later I rolled myself off the couch (avoiding serious injury by landing on the dog), and right after I started walking, I was run over by a car for the first time in my life (toddlers are apparently very durable.)

In the last two years alone, and I've been hit by 3 more cars, broken a rib and dislocated another, detached my retina, and have just generally had the shit knocked out of me by life. It's usually not a good sign when you're on a first name basis with the the receptionist at the E.R.

So yeah, as I approach my 30th year, I've come to the realization that my time on this earth may rapidly be coming to a middle. With that realization comes the increasing feeling that I haven't really done anything worthwhile during my rotations around the sun.

Enter my bad idea.

Get rid of everything I own, load up my steel bike, and ride the coast from Canada to Mexico. If I hit San Diego and want to keep going, turn left and head East until I run into the next ocean.

What could possibly go wrong?