Pacific Coast 101
It’s my turn to look after the bicycles whilst the other three see what sugary replenishment can be obtained from the supermarket. We could be in Washington or Oregon; I can’t remember which state. All I know is that we are somewhere on Route 101, en-route from Canada to Mexico. And we’re hungry.
An elderly gentleman parked up in his car passes the time of day and asks me where we’re heading. As I tell him, I ponder over whose idea it was to travel nearly two thousand miles as a small peloton of cycle touring novices, and, more importantly, how we drunkenly agreed to the challenge.
Musing over the madness of it all, he begins to explain how he’d been in a car accident a few months earlier and that he’d had to have his face reconstructed. “So,” I said, “you’re on the road to recovery then?”
“No,” he replied in earnest, “I live on that road over there (pointing behind the supermarket). Do you know where I mean?”
The phrase lost in translation springs to mind as I explain that I don’t…
The cycling itself is challenging and rewarding: sweaty ascents and sweeping descents that contour the ocean, the monotony of distance frequently interrupted by stunning vistas. Highlights are rife: sea kayaking amongst the San Juan archipelago; visiting sites of The Goonies film in Astoria, Oregon; replacing calories in the Tillamook Cheese factory; transported back in time through a haunting audio tour of Alcatraz; and being humbled in a cool evening breeze on the Avenue of the Giants, dwarfed by imposing redwoods.
Yet despite the dramatic beauty of the meandering coastline and the intrinsic reward that can only be gleaned from self-propelled transport, it is the people we meet that define and reward our journey.
There’s the affable young wine merchant and friends who we meet in a campsite perched atop the Big Sur shoreline, who invite us over to sample bottles of plonk and share their barbecue, whilst informing us that expense doesn’t necessarily equate to quality…
A professional photographer offers us a camping spot in his garden following a side-trip to Yosemite National Park, after we strike up a conversation on a garage forecourt. We are entertained with an evening meal, a breakfast including fresh oranges and grapefruit from his orchard, plus the promise of an acquaintance that can provide us with accommodation in LA.
And then there’s John, a local cyclist that we come across on our way in to the outskirts of San Francisco. We leave our bicycles locked up in his garden for a few days and when we return, there’s a note telling us that he’s had to go away unexpectedly with his wife for the weekend. The last line of the message has to be re-read several times by each one of us: I’ve left the bottom door open. Help yourselves to a bed and whatever you find in the fridge. Send me a postcard when you reach Mexico.
An elderly gentleman parked up in his car passes the time of day and asks me where we’re heading. As I tell him, I ponder over whose idea it was to travel nearly two thousand miles as a small peloton of cycle touring novices, and, more importantly, how we drunkenly agreed to the challenge.
Musing over the madness of it all, he begins to explain how he’d been in a car accident a few months earlier and that he’d had to have his face reconstructed. “So,” I said, “you’re on the road to recovery then?”
“No,” he replied in earnest, “I live on that road over there (pointing behind the supermarket). Do you know where I mean?”
The phrase lost in translation springs to mind as I explain that I don’t…
The cycling itself is challenging and rewarding: sweaty ascents and sweeping descents that contour the ocean, the monotony of distance frequently interrupted by stunning vistas. Highlights are rife: sea kayaking amongst the San Juan archipelago; visiting sites of The Goonies film in Astoria, Oregon; replacing calories in the Tillamook Cheese factory; transported back in time through a haunting audio tour of Alcatraz; and being humbled in a cool evening breeze on the Avenue of the Giants, dwarfed by imposing redwoods.
Yet despite the dramatic beauty of the meandering coastline and the intrinsic reward that can only be gleaned from self-propelled transport, it is the people we meet that define and reward our journey.
There’s the affable young wine merchant and friends who we meet in a campsite perched atop the Big Sur shoreline, who invite us over to sample bottles of plonk and share their barbecue, whilst informing us that expense doesn’t necessarily equate to quality…
A professional photographer offers us a camping spot in his garden following a side-trip to Yosemite National Park, after we strike up a conversation on a garage forecourt. We are entertained with an evening meal, a breakfast including fresh oranges and grapefruit from his orchard, plus the promise of an acquaintance that can provide us with accommodation in LA.
And then there’s John, a local cyclist that we come across on our way in to the outskirts of San Francisco. We leave our bicycles locked up in his garden for a few days and when we return, there’s a note telling us that he’s had to go away unexpectedly with his wife for the weekend. The last line of the message has to be re-read several times by each one of us: I’ve left the bottom door open. Help yourselves to a bed and whatever you find in the fridge. Send me a postcard when you reach Mexico.
posted by Gareth at 5:46 PM
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