It was to be the fourth day starting out with WD-40 down the cable housing. Not far out of Astoria, my chain had started slipping and sticking all over the cassette. As I’d climbed toward Seaside with the back derailleur more or less stuck in the second highest gear (a poor choice fueled by excitement and inexperience), the issue had seemed a minor setback. Shifting with only the front derailleur wasn’t ideal, but it came with the challenge of learning less reliance on the gears and jump-starting my legs into shape for the long days on the road ahead. And, after all, there was a bike shop in Seaside. So I’d stood over the saddle happily the majority of the day and flown down the hill into the sunset. (That was a Monday. The bike shop didn’t open till Wednesday at noon.) By now, my nerves and right knee were feeling, much like the janky cassette, somewhat cranky about being jerked around.
But hope springs eternal. Today was the first day without a major climb. And at the end of the rolling hills—Tillamook. Fresh cheese and creamed sugar a promise equal to that of the easier day.
Rolling hills and unsmooth shifting, I soon learned, were a poorer combination than a climb (I’d since ratcheted my back derailleur into a low gear, and no shifting of the front was required to climb). The smaller elevation gain was still less work, though. That was my poor excuse for my alarming lack of water intake as I jerked my way toward the dairy delights—enjoying the stretches when I could time the optimal minimal shifting for a smooth ride and singing to myself pleasantly (lest I be tempted to adopt a bad mood).
At around mile thirty-six, with just a few more to the factory, the heat (the rain and overcast of the past few days long gone), the loud traffic, the often nonexistent shoulder, and the number of people in cars clearly not down to share the road with people on bikes were growing oppressive.
It took me a moment to process that the giant, sprawling rectangle of a building, its grounds milling with groups in matching T-shirts like the Disneyland of dairy was, in deed, my destination. The small, quirky factory, complete with processing demos and delectable tasting options that had lived only in my mind was replaced by an oversized grocery store with crawling lines and the buzz of bored consumers. My friend, Dan, who’d joined me for this first leg of the ride, was even less impressed and would have skipped it entirely. But I would at least have ice cream (the queue was shorter than those for cheese). Only slightly daunted, I ordered a marionberry lemon cheesecake scoop in a waffle cone; pressed my way back out onto the lawn, Dan tailing close behind; found a shaded patch of grass near the bikes; and gorged with aplomb.
I discovered as we were heading back out toward the hot, aggressive road that the hiker/biker site in our crosshairs was twelve, not two, miles on—the first six miles of which looked to be a relentless and winding climb.
It was when a woman driving a FedEx truck stopped to lament (“I saw that girl in the Impala flip you off,” a wide-eyed shake of her tight dark curls)—and warn (“Whiskey Creek road is gnaaarrly. It’s all blind turns, and people just fly up it”) that I felt the sugar and the dehydration I’d yet to detect start to mix. “Why don’t you just throw the bikes in the back of the truck?” She beamed. “There’s plenty of room.” Her curls dipped and bobbed with her magnanimity
Deal! “I’m in,” I told her.
Her face dropped. “Well, I’d get in trouble.”
I didn’t hear the rest of what she said as I climbed back onto the bike, pedaled off, and promptly did a five-mile-per-hour plop onto the pavement (sidewalk side thankfully) after inexplicably cutting the handlebars toward a curb.
Dan, also distressed, was now also worried about me. I needed water. I needed to assess the best way to undertake that last twelve miles—whether riding or hitching. And I needed to do it on my own. “You got to go, man. I’m serious. You do your adventure, and I’ll do mine.” I sent a more-than-reluctant Dan (tears in his eyes, I would later learn) pedaling on.
And so, after a few deep breaths, I crawled up that hill. A sob here, a roar there, and occasional “take that, motherfucker” sailed into the rush of wind as my entire body breathed the heat waves that followed each instance of soaring traffic.
That campsite—its mossy nestling forest, the crash of the surf through the fog, the starry remoteness—was breathtaking. The warmth of the fire we made after setting up our tents matched the warmth in our bellies from the beer and bread and cheese and curry with fresh kale. Even the raccoons that knocked over my bike and pulled a pannier off into the woods in the middle of the night, leaving a trail of drying socks, were endearing.
Water, I was reminded, is vital. As is infusing into our bones memories of hard-won outcomes.
#bikelife