How things (actually) go

So, in my idealized vision of this trip, there'd be lots of time during our days of riding for researching arcane topics of interest, chatting on the phone with friends, developing acuity with a portable musical instrument (say, a pan flute or harmonica, neither of which I own), while firing off frequent missives to the blog, rich with penetrating insights and witty turn of phrase, then back to preparing a seven-course dinner for our hosts, taking in the very best exhibits and plotting tomorrow's newest extreme sport.

The reality, though rich, is filled with lots of more prosaic stuff. Like laundry. ("Not often enough!" Julie cries across the room.) Tearing down the tent. Loading up the bikes. Fretting over oil leaks. Assembling small-town-grocery-store, just-passing-through, what's-on-sale? lunches. And miles and miles and miles of jaw-droppingly beautiful coastline.

Years ago, mi amigo Primo made the astute, and in our experience, accurate, observation that unstructured time, particularly after a long stint in a relatively stable routine, passes incredibly quickly. Julie and I are both amazed that we're now six weeks into our trip, and two months into my unemployment. The time is chock full of content, and passes in a blur.

My last substantial update was from just north of the San Francisco Bay. We've now reached Seattle, and there is too much between the two to explain -- or even sum up -- adequately, so here's an inadequate attempt:


We left the comfort of our friends in the Bay, heading north along the Pacific Coast Highway. Carol and Bill (echoed by Marty and Eileen) recommended making a stop for oysters, and boy, are we glad we did! (If you're north of the Bay, don't miss it!)

We planned to ride several hours further north, but ended up drawn into the charm of Point Arena (featuring a Zen and the Art... inspired motorcycle shop which, as we passed, appeared to be the staging ground the local Ducatistis off to terrorize the countryside with V-twin roars). We were welcomed, in particular, by the amazing hospitality of Tim and Joan, who spontaneously offered us -- total strangers -- a bedroom in their beach home, perched atop sandy cliffs above the surf, tasty meals, endless, wide-ranging conversation, and their wheels so we could drive back to town for a screening of the latest Harry Potter debacle at the über-cute local cinema.



The next day, after a walk on said beach, and another meal, and more hospitality, we continued further north. Our destination: the Lost Coast, the only part of the Pacific from Mexico to Canada without a coastal roadway. And the Lost Coast delivered! I wish I had a helmet-cam to share images of the road winding through the giant redwoods -- truly, the pavement touches tree bark on both sides of the road -- but the riding was too demanding and there was simply nowhere to pull over safely for a photograph. When we reached the Mattole Beach campground, it was after only a couple of dozen miles, but hours of effort, a roadside repair to Julie's windscreen, and countless steep switchbacks up and down the undulating hills. And what a reward for our effort!



Leaving the Lost Coast was as challenging, exhilarating and attention-getting as it was to arrive, with our departure from the shore requiring an ascent up a hill that I would hesitate to go down on skis, and miles and miles of highland vistas, pastures quilting the rolling hills, the Pacific in the distance, shrouded by the encroaching fog.

We continued northward, crossing into Oregon, where the coastal fog grew thicker (as apparently is not uncommon this time of year). The glimpses of the Oregon shore, though fleeting, were stunning: sea stacks rising from the water, conjuring images of Neptune's hand or a pissed-off underwater leviathan sick of the crowds of Tokyo. After making camp at a KAO in Port Orford, we set our sights on Portland.

We were hosted by an amazing new friend, Erika, who we met through her amazing mother, and who was host, interlocutor, tour guide and bon vivant extraordinaire during our five nights in Portland. Packed, they were!

In addition to some fabulous catch-up time over a backyard meal with Carel and Angie, and an opportunity to meet Carel's parents, visiting from their remote ranch in rural South Africa, we took in lots of Portland's singular experiences: the Rose Garden, walks along the river, the aptly named Voodoo Doughnut, and Oregon's Brewers Festival, where everyone is a beer lover. (News flash, folks: that now even includes Julie!)

We also had more how-fortuitous! experiences in Portland: seeing the Lebowski Fest with Erika, featuring Minnesota's own Har Mar Superstar as a rather... burlesque opener; catching a show with one of my favorite bands in all the world, The Weakerthans; crossing paths with our old neighbor Darren, in town to get his Portland fix; and discovering that fellow-foodie Erika's well-stocked kitchen was a perfect venue for Julie to make ricotta gnocchi and apricot ice cream from scratch.



It's no surprise, then, that leaving Portland was difficult. But, with record highs forecast for the city, we finally set out for the coast and bid farewell to friends old and new in P-town. From the top of Astoria Column, we looked north to Washington.



We arrived in Aberdeen for the night, drawn in by a cheap motel a short walk from a theater screening Brüno, an experience that combined to give us a sense that Aberdeen is as depressed and depressing a spot as we've encountered on this trip. The motel room smelled like the breeding kennel of a dozen wet Siberian huskies, separated from the adjacent room by a paper thin interior door, with a neighbor who alternated between snoring and smoking. There were dogs barking, residents yelling from one unit to the next, ample evidence of "good times" after hours, and a motel policy "not to move people" who complain about such things. We were resigned to sleeping with ear- and nose-plugs, and set out for the movie.

Okay, so at this point, what American movie-going audience can really be surprised and appalled by Sacha Baron Cohen? For most of the movie, Julie and I were the only ones laughing. By the end of the movie, we comprised 40% of the audience remaining! I think this guy is brilliant, and while I understand if his humor is not your thing, I don't understand laying down the ticket price without knowing that you're signing up for a ride. It was a rare moment of feeling alienated from the people around us -- and the feeling was probably mutual.

Suffice it to say, we left Aberdeen early the next morning. Thankfully, the Olympic Peninsula was simply amazing, and was for me one of the best days of our entire trip so far. We walked on Ruby Beach as the tide rolled in (wondering if our boots would be carried out to sea when we returned to them), steam rising from the sand and the surf breaking against the sea stacks. We rode inland to the Hoh Rain Forest, moss so abundant it hangs like lacy curtains from every branch, the place teeming with life as fallen trees become the foundation, or nurse logs, for the next generation. We ended the day at Sol Duc Hot Springs (thanks for the tip, Carol!), the heat and the miles washed away by geothermal mineral waters that have been drawing people for millennia.



Our next day's ride featured two very memorable legs, after a restful stop in Port Townsend. Our motorcycles crossed the Sound on their first ferry rides!

We've been enjoying Donald's fabulous home in Seattle since Tuesday, amid an historic heat wave for the city, fleeing to the beach and to air conditioning periodically, as Julie makes her first acquaintance with this great town, and we prepare ourselves for the next leg of our voyage.

More to come!