Day 19, the last day - Will Rogers State Park, CA - Long Beach, CA

Bicycle - Specialized Roubaix
Day's run - 41.3
Total elapsed miles - 1248.4
Time in saddle - 2:57
Average for day - 13.9 mph
Max for day - 27.4

     July 21, 1961 - Woke up at 5:45 A.M.  Ate rest of bread and honey and started out at 6:30.  A thick fog turned to a real drizzle and I got pretty wet and muddy.  Rode some freeways near Oxnard and Ventura.  Came throug Malibu (lunch there) and Sta. Monica.  Met kid on bike in Malibu who directed me to Compton.  Got to Bill and Dianah's at 3:45.  Waited 10 minutes and Dianah came in.  Bill working swing shift.  Be home at midnite.  Will let them take my gear in and ride home in A.M.  Sure is good to be home.  Must get in touch with Marylou.  Made 91 miles.

     No 1961 diary entry for July 22.  Ride home of about 90 minutes was uneventful.

     Bill was (and still is) my older brother, by two years and three months.  He was married, living and working in Compton when, before the Watts riots of 1965, it was still racially mixed and offered factory jobs, and his wife Dianah was expecting their first child.

     July 8, 2011 -  Went to sleep early and awoke early in our hotel on Ventura Blvd., in the San Fernando Valley, about 30 minutes from yesterday's end point.  Stopped for breakfast at a old cafe on Topanga Canyon Road and launched the final day's ride at 8:15.

                                                         1: Chandler the skateboarder Westport, CA

    
                                                 2. A roadside attraction, Humbug Mt., OR

3. An Adventure Cycling-recommended alternate route, north of Crescent City, CA

4.  Old road, new road, south of  Garberville

    
                                                        4.  Drive-through redwood, Leggett CA

5.  Bob's cousin Cathy's, Mill Valley CA

6.  On Golden Gate Bridge

7.  Bixby Bridge and ascent, Big Sur, CA

8.  Morro Bay and Rock, CA

9. Homecoming, Long Beach, CA, day 19, July 8, 2011

10.  Wheel dipping, Alamitos Bay, Long Beach, CA, July 8, 2011

    
     Made good progress with a slight, quartering, head wind along beachfront or on-beach bike paths through Santa Monica, Venice (that bohemian beachfront community where, among its other claims to fame, The Doors got their start), Manhattan Beach and Redondo Beach, for the first 20 miles, then turned inland on urban boulevards to approach Long Beach, passing behind the hilly Palos Verdes Peninsula, for the next, final 21.  Rendezvous'ed with Bob across the street from my old high school, about half a mile from my 1961 home, at 11:40, and met again a few minutes later in front of that home, where Bob filmed my arrival on his video camera.
      I rang the doorbell and was greeted by a pleasant, silver-haired lady with a walker, the mother of the female half of the owner couple, who were away.  The lady gave me a look at the front rooms of the house, which had not only been well maintained but remodeled and enlarged since my residence there, which ended in the summer of 1964.  The present owners had been living there since 1975.  I gave the lady one of my cards with my blog address on it and she said that she would certainly let her daughter and son-in-law know of my call. Took the official, still, arrival photo which, with the 1961 photo, like bookends, will enclose the volumes of the last 50 years of my life. 

                                                                      Afterwords   

      What happened to me:  I rested, recuperated, ate a lot, rode some and raced on Sunday mornings for the rest of the summer of 1961.  I drove the family Studebaker up to Van Nuys several times to see Marylou, but the distance and the attraction of new, local social and recreational opportunites (I was learning to surf!) put the relationship under strain and I broke it off before school started.  The only evidence of our acquaintance, other than my 1961 journal, is a high school graduation card from her to me dated June 1962 (she was a year behind me), in a parental family album.
      One day in early November, I was sitting at the dining room table doing a reading assignment when the dull throbbing I had been feeling under my coccyx for the previous several weeks drew my attention.  I gently touched the area.  It felt spongy. I pressed a little harder and a moment later my fingers were bathed in a rush of hot fluid.  "Mother," I said.  "I have a problem."
     I was diagnosed the next day with a pilonidal cyst, a kind of impacted hairball commonly known to soldiers as a Jeep-seat cyst.  Typically suffered by men with ample body hair, it was, in my case,  the direct result of many days of irregular bathing, friction, and, clearly, pressure from that unpadded, warped leather bicycle seat.  My grandfather had been right and I should have listened!
     Within a few days I underwent surgery, which consisted of the removal of a quarter-orange-sized wedge of your body with the wound left open and allowed to heal from the bottom by granulation.  Needless to say, I rode little in immediately-following months, and it wasn't until the summer of 1964 that I attempted a ride of any distance, and I had to be driven back from my destination because of bleeding and discomfort.  
     When I am asked how long I've been riding, I say, honestly, "fifty years," or "since 1960."  However, my riding was sporadic over the years following my recovery: while assigned abroad I rode with frequency only in France, where I bought a new Gitane Criterium road bike, in Suriname and in Venezuela, where a group of riders would block off on-ramps to and, in effect, commandeer a stretch of  urban freeway for our Sunday-morning riding pleasure, me on a Legnano road bike.  Following my permanent return to the U.S. in 1990, I have ridden regularly and frequently, averaging about 4,000 miles a year over the last 17 years, and I plan to keep riding as long as I am physically able to do so.  I don't have any present plans for multi-day, long-distance rides, but if I ever do it one, it will be fully supported.

     What happened to the bike: In the fall of 1964, in a moment of weakness and in an effort to mend a relationship with a former roommate with whom I had broken on bad terms, I loaned him my Schwinn Continental to use while he was car-less.  When a couple of months had passed, I called him and asked for it back. When I got no results, I called again, and again nothing happened.  Then, one morning in the winter of 1965 I opened the door of my small Seal Beach apartment, and saw, to my horror, the wreckage of my bike on the doorstep.  Judging from the extent of the damage, I could only conclude that it had been run over, possibly more than once, by a heavy motor vehicle.

     Lessons learned:

      Ride light, as light as possible.  I felt a mix of admiration and pity for all the riders I saw on their Surleys with 40 pounds or so of camping gear.  Sean had started with a trailer and sent it home very early in his ride.   If the expense of having a personal SAG driver is prohibitive (see below entry on the  topic), then at least consider riding in a group and pooling resources for a support vehicle and, possibly, sharing driving responsibilities.

     Plan your route with prevailing winds in mind.  I can not and probably never will understand why I saw so many riders traveling up the West Coast, into the teeth of a stiff, steady, afternoon nor'wester.  As I said earlier, suicide would be an acceptable option for me, but if I had in fact been forced to ride S-N, it would likely have both taken most of the pleasure out of the experience and added at least three days to my itinerary.  There's nothing like covering thirty to forty miles in the last two hours of the day, joyously spinning on the big chain ring, watching those tenths of miles roll onto your cycloputer at a rate of one every twenty seconds or less, with the wind at your back and the road rising to meet you, as that old Irish blessing goes. 

     If you are not put off by expense and can find the right driver, go with a personal SAG vehicle.  Admittedly, it would be hard to find a driver like old and faithful friend Bob, who had the time, has a  supportive wife, enjoys driving, has a good sense of direction and orientation, is patient, can entertain himelf in sometimes monotonous country for six to seven hours a day and has the sense of humor to put of with mine for four non-stop weeks, but there are spouses, partners and friends who may meet the criteria.  As for expenses, well... by the time I get back to Croaker I will have put 8,000 miles on the Jeep Liberty.  At 20 miles per gallon, that's 400 gallons of regular at about $3.80 per gallon - you do the math.  As for lodging, our trip to and from the Coast and the ride meant about about 22 nights in adequate to rather nice, but never luxurious, motels at an average of something over $100 per, including  tax   As for camping, I can't really say how much you would save, even if you always found room in a state park or commercial campground, but several of the self-supported riders I met, including Sean, who provided the term, admitted to "stealth" camping, much like I did in 1961.

     Respect motor vehicles, but do not fear them.  True, an encounter with a gas-drinking monster can end your ride, your riding days or your life, but life is about accommodating risk.  I stayed as far to the right as I could, often ending the day with vegetation stains on my right jersey sleeve, and taking full advantage of the hundreds of miles of dedicated bike lanes or wide, smooth shoulders on freeways, which you can ride on out West if there are no alternatives available.  I don't think I was deliberately buzzed by a motor vehicle during my trip, but some vehciles, for some reason often large RVs with "dinghy" in tow, passed a bit closer than seemed necessary.  On the other hand, RVs and semis passing at freeway speed bring with them a helpful, if brief, draft.  Adventure Cycling recommended early starts to beat traffic on some stretches of the ride, but my attitude was "the more traffic the merrier."  I'm not riding in traffic, but to the right of it, and the more there is, the slower it goes.

       And so, gentle readers, thus concludes my Half-Century Ride and my account of it.  Thank you for your attention and support.  Williamsburg Area Bicyclists and other local riders are invited to attend my planned slide show and presentation at a regular monthly meeting this fall or winter. 

Day 18, Part B - Art Garfunkel's walk across America

     Part of my inspiration for the structure of the ride I will finish tomorrow (in'shal'lah) comes from Art Garfunkel's (oh, come on, you know who he was - sweet tenor, sang with Paul Simon before they went their separate ways) walk across America.  Although he began doing it, in stages, in 1984, I did not become aware of it until I picked up a copy of the October 15, 1990 edition of Sports Illustrated, which covered a stretch of his walk in Kansas.  In about three stages a year, taking about 12 years, he did the whole thing, and like me in 2011, he had a driver.  Unlike me, however, because I had seen the whole thing, he would, at day's walk's end, if his chosen lodging lay ahead, close his eyes until he arrived at the overnight point and as he returned to his previous day's end point, so that he would never see the same terrain more than once. 

Day 18 - Rincon Point, CA - Will Rogers State Park, CA

Day 18 - Rincon Point, CA - Will Rogers State Park, CA

Bike - Specialized Roubaix
Day's run - 66.2 miles
Total elapsed miles - 1207.1
Time in saddle - 4:12
Average for day - 15.7
Max for day - 33.5

     As can be seen from the above stats, today was my shortest day since Day 6 and the fastest day of the ride.  Thanks are owed to the general flatness of the route, excepting the third hour with some coastal climbs, and the tail winds, general except for some stretches in the second hour.
     Saw the "Entering Los Angeles" sign a couple of miles before the ride's-end and rendezvous-with- Bob site between Malibu and Santa Monica.  It's all over but the final stretch, of about 40 miles, the first third or so of which will be on beachfront bike trails, into Long Beach, and the ceremonial wheel dipping, followed by a final ride to and photo event at my 1961 Long Beach home.   Given traffic in greater L.A., I may beat Bob in.  That makes tonight the last motel night of the ride (On Ventura Blvd, in the San Fernando Valley).  Hooray for that part, too!         
     Plan to get an early start tomorrow so we can have lunch at an old haunt in Long Beach.  My daughter, who I told two weeks ago that I would be arriving chez elle on Sunday, left today for the family condo on Lake Mead and will return Sunday afternoon, so I will have their Newport Beach house to myself Friday and Saturday for rest and recuperation, poolside and elsewhere.

A demain

Robert
 

Day 18 - Lompoc, CA to Rincon Point, CA

Day 17 - Lompoc, CA - Rincon Point, CA

Bicycle - Specialized Roubaix
Miles ridden - 75.3
Total elapsed mileage - 1140.9
Time in saddle - 5:15
Average speed - 14.2
Maximum speed - 36.3

     July 20, 1961 - Guadalupe - Carpinteria

     Woke up early in dripping fog and messed around  (as in "hung out", in modern English) until I left at 9:00.  Bought more bread and honey for lunch in Lompoc.  Mountain ranges (2) hard, hot.  I miss Marylou.
     Entered fog again at coast.  Northern parks full - rode on to Sta. Barbara and ate at drive-in so I wouldn't have to cook.  Snuck into the state park and am in a large clearing near beach.  Will wait until dark before rolling out, for safety.
     Replaced three spokes at once in Goleta.
     Tomorrow I will go to Bill and Dianah's and put up for the night there.  Go on home Sat. morn - rest, clean, check bike and race Sunday morning.  Rode 92 miles.

     I sure seemed to hit the fog in 1961.  Hot, dry here this time.   Local news reported rare flash floods yesterday in mountains and desert.   My older brother Bill (two years, three months my senior) lived and worked in Compton, when, prior to the Watts riots of 1965, it was both a racially mixed community and home to numerous manufacturing firms.  As for racing, I was a member of the Long Beach Wheelmen, a group of young riders supervised and trained by an adult male with experience, who held informal Sunday-morning sprints of a suburban boulevard.  I always came in second to an athletic age contemporary with a much better, Italian racing, bicycle than my road-weary Schwinn.

     July 6, 2011 - Left Lompoc at 10:15 after replacing rear tire with a matching Serfas.  Not seeing thread yet, but better safe than sorry.  Remarkable that I've ridden more than 1,000 miles without a flat.     
     Road until noon was gradually ascending through a long valley between typical southern-California summer-browning hills colored by stands of live oak.  Road was good but asphalt especially coarse and I had some head winds during the second hour.  I was happy and relieved at reaching the high point of the day, where Rte 1 plunges down to meet Hwy 101 about two miles from the coast, and seeing a sign and icon reading and indicating "7-1/2 per cent grade next two miles".
     Once I turned left, to the southeast, and the breeze began to build, I started making good time. Left 101 before Goleta and rode a surface road about 12 miles to Santa Barbara, stopping to stoke up on my first Jack-in-the-Box cheeseburger in years.  As I was self-supporting for the day, Bob visited the reconstructed Mision La Purisima and had a bowl of famous - well, locally, anyway - Anderson's split pea soup for lunch.
     Back on home turf now, I passed several spots known to me when I was a young surfer - El Capitan State Park,  Goleta Beach, next to the campus of the University of California, Santa Barbara, and ended up at the classic winter, north swell, surfing venue of Rincon Point.  Bob picked me up to 4:40 and we drove inland to our motel in pretty, peaceful Ojai.  Probably the best motel, and certainly the best for the money, of the trip, and our Italian dinner at a small, indoor-outdoor garden, establishment a couple of miles south of the motel, was also memorable.
     Did not see on the road, much less talk to, any long-distance riders during the day, but there was a party of five, four seniors and one younger man, at poolside when I went for my daily jacuzzi and dip, who had just finished a three-day, 200-mile-plus, ride in the hills to the north, beginning and ending at our motel.  We had a pleasant visit, comparing notes and telling tales.
    Morro Bay was the same kind of watershed as the Leggett-Pacific crossing of the Coast Range several days ago (I'm losing count).  We left the cape-and-creek regime behind and have entered the plain, sometimes narrow, but largely level, and sometimes broad, which dominates the coast and upon which metropolises are built all the way down to Corona del Mar, south of Newport Beach.
     Did I mention that my Aunt Mildred, with whom I rode to Lee Vining to begin the 1961 trip, was psychic?  No, I didn't think so.  According to family lore, she was gifted with ESP, and she proved it to my satisfaction the eve of our departure.  Some of our tropical fish had been disappearing from the aquarium, so Mildred and I asked Ouija what was happening to them.
      "Fisheatfishatnightaverageforthem" came the reply.  Not surprising, I have to admit.
      The came the hard question: where was the handlebar bag that I had not used for a couple of months and had spent half an hour searching the house and garage for?  The reply was, "Lookingarage behindtrunkagainstwall."  I did as Ouija instructed and found that the bag had indeed fallen between said trunk and said wall, and lay there covered with dust.      

     Tomorrow, Malibu or Santa Monica.

     Surfer Bob

Day 16 - Morro Bay, CA - Lompoc, CA

Day 16 - Morro Bay, CA - Lompoc, CA

Bike - Specialized Roubaix
Miles ridden - 78.3 miles
Total elapsed mileage - 1065.6
Time in saddle - 5:39
Average speed for day - 13.8 mph
Maximum speed for day - 37.7

     July 17-19, 1961 -
     July 17 -  Marylou and I got up at 6:30 and went freezing in the river.  I was then invited to breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausages.  Then I was invited to throw my bike in the camp trailer   and go south with them.  Marylou insisted and here I am.  I rode in their Cadillac and we traveled slowly, seeing as much as by cycle.  The road was very rugged and there were headwinds, so I don't feel too bad about cheating.  We are in Morro Bay State Park now.  Marylou seems extremely fond of me and wants me to stay with them for a couple of days.  I must leave before too long, however.  We have exchanged addresses and I have promised to see her at her home.  
     I was brought 89 miles.
     July 18 - Got up pretty early this morning and was fed pancakes.  Marylou and I just lazed around all day and saw the town while the others went fishing.  It is always foggy and cold here.  After supper of hot dogs I took in "Mein Kampf" and "Parrish" with Marylou at the Morro Bay Theatre.
     Made 0 miles.
     July 19 -  Today Marylou made me solemnly promise to visit her in her home and kept saying how much she would miss me.  She gave me her Parrish book so I could return it to her personally.  We all left camp at 10:00.  I headed south and they, home.  Arrived in San Luis Obispo and had brake fixed ($2.36!).  I saw some back country and got to Pismo Beach at 2:30.  The S.P. was packed and I was directed to a very ratty county park.  I hung around a while, then pulled out of the fogbound place.  I reached Guadalupe at 4:45 and saw the sign "le Roy Park, Santa Barbara County."  It is a beautiful place - running water, fireplaces, wood for the picking and green grass, but absolutely deserted.  It is off the beaten path, but I can't help feeling I'll be kicked out.
     6:00 - I'll crawl in sleeping bag and read Parrish.
     Made 43 miles.

     I was a late bloomer, even by 1961 standards, so meeting and spending over two days non-stop with blue-eyed, fair-haired Marylou made her my first girlfriend.  And when Mr. K handed me the keys to his Cadillac to take his daughter to the movies, it was the first time I went on a date in a car not driven by a parent. It was a rite of passage, under the most unusual of circumstances.

     July 5, 2011 - Got away from the motel at about 10:45.  Fine morning - clear, cool, dry, seabreeze filling in from NW.  Did a little sightseeing in Morro Bay, took a few pictures, including of the still-in-business theatre and the entrance to the state park.  Planned to meet Bob in SLO at 1:00, but wind was so favorable and road so fast that I was there at 12:30.  So was Bob, so we linked up and found a bike shop so I could replace my mirror - this time with one that clips to the bow of my sunglasses.  Left town at 1:00 and agreed to meet again at 2:00 for lunch in the next town, Arroyo Grande.  For the record, SLO is a very pretty town with a vital, bustling, historical city center area and Arroyo Grande is equally attractive.
     Couldn't say quite as much for Guadalupe, whose business is farming.  Didn't see the park where I stayed in '61, but didn't really look because the day was wearing on.  As the road passed through Guadalupe and bore off to the southeast, it disappeared into infinity, probably ten miles down the empty plain.  I had a dantesque "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here" moment, but I was not on the road to Hell, because I had a fifteen-mph wind at my back.  I knocked off those ten miles in about thirty minutes.
     I had agreed to meet Bob at 6:00 on the far side of Lompoc, but had underestimated the distance and was slowed more than I expected by the third climb of the day, over Harris Grade on a fast, four-lane road with wide and smooth shoulders.  Got into Lompoc proper at about 6:30 and, with liquids exhausted some miles back, stopped at the first motel I came to, verified availability, and called Bob.
     Drank my fill, had a most relaxing visit to the jacuzzi, dined with Bob, did laundry, worked on this blog and went to bed relatively late.
     Talked to my daughter on the phone this morning about visting and sleeping arrangements following our arrival in Long Beach, now planned for the afternoon of the 8th, more than a day earlier than originally projected.
     It's hard to believe that only 16 days ago I was dipping my wheel in Oak Harbor.  A lot of miles under my skinny tires.
     I also called Sean this morning: he was planning on flying back to Denver the same day.  After two weeks on his bike, he said, and having done pretty much what he set out to do, he was ready to go home.  I wish him luck and success in his bike-repair and -building, as well as his riding, endeavors.
     Tomorrow night, Santa Barbara.

     Bob
    
 


.

Day 15 - Santa Cruz, CA - Big Sur, CA

Bicycle - Specialized Roubaix
Miles ridden - 76 (Happy Independence Day!)
Total elapsed miles - 987.3
Time in saddle - 6:19
Average speed - 11.9 mph
Maximum speed - 29.9

     July 16, 1961 - Got a late start today.  Broke two spokes in Castroville.  Ate bread and honey... at Watsonvile.  Got to Monterey about 2:00.  Called Mother and Hilda is in Long Beach.   Toured Monterey for a while then moseyed 28 miles to Big Sur.  Got into a private park for 50 cents at 6:30.
     Had a big swimming hole in Sur River.  Met a girl in the water.  Marylou K. (not her real name) , 16.  Recently from Texas and now living in Van Nuys.  On vacation with father, mother and 14 year-old brother.
     Ate spaghetti and then went to K camp where I popped corn and we cooked marshmallows.  Got to bed at 11:00.  Rode 69 miles.

     I clearly remember that while at the checkout counter buying bread and honey in Watsonville, I  heard a woman saying to a cashier, "So I told him, 'I was born in Watson, I live in Watson, and by God I'll die in Watson'."  A lot of people were born in, moved to and live in Watson.  The population in 1960 was 13,293; in 2011, 51,199.     
      My hardest day, if not my longest.  Got off to a slow start after a good breakfast at one of old Santa Cruz's iconic cafes.   Before I started riding, we found the famous surfing spot Steamer's Lane and were amused to through the fog that it was crowded with kooks and gremlins on identical boards taking a class in 18 inches of surf.   The wave of the future, so to speak.
     A very mixed route, beginning with urban Santa Cruz and taking me through suburban Aptos, where I just missed getting blocked for six hours by an Independence Day parade.  From there, I was shunted off Interstate 1 onto agricultural roads through some of the most fertile-looking fields I've ever seen. Want to know where your strawberries and artichokes come from?  Just ask me.
     Met a local rider and hung with him for 20 minutes or so before my first serious headwinds of the trip began to take their toll on me, making my fourth hour of the day the hardest on level ground to date.  Rendezvous'ed with Bob in Seaside, where I rested for an hour and we partook of yet another Mexican meal (quite good, actually).  Bob had also had the kindness to pick up for me a headband, which solved the constant irritation of my eyes from helmet-liner brine - don't know why I didn't bring one from home. Lost my rearview mirror somewhere on the morning's run - will look for another in San Luis Obispo today.
     The afternoon was also long.  Turned away from the head winds but had to make a long climb over the heights of Carmel before beginning the last, hilly coastal leg to Big Sur (in 1961 I "moseyed"?  Life was so much easier then!).  That route took me over the famous Bixby Bridge, famous as the venue of an old Chevy commercial and for a much-published photo of a Tour de California peleton in full cry.  As were all the bridges on this leg, it was built in 1932, before which time it was presumaby impossible to get to Big Sur from the north by motor vehicle.  The bridge was followed by another monster ascent to another imposing headland, after which the road began to descend and level out. The final five miles into Big Sur were dead downwind and the fastest of the day by far.    
      I found Bob waiting for me at mile 75.  I asked him to follow me up the road until my cycloputer showed 76 miles, in honor of Independence Day.
      For reasons that will become clear when you read the retrospective, 1961, portion of tomorrow's post on this blog, we shuttled the next 93 miles to Morro Bay in the Jeep.  It was challenging and scary enough in the comfort and relative safety of a motor vehcile to make me very happy that I wasn't seeing and doing it from the saddle of my spoke pony.  My hat's off to the one group of riders we passed, a man and two twenty-something women, heavily-loaded and heading south.
     The final approach to Morro Bay took us past one of the few sea elephant rookeries on the coast and gave us a view of San Simeon Castle on a mountain ridge far to our left.  We found our pre-reserved  room at a Best Western a few minutes from the waterfront and drove into town for dinner.  Didn't stay for the fireworks, but could see and hear them from our motel.  I really can't say whether it's changed a lot since 1961.  It was so foggy when I was here that I couldn't see anything outside my 50-yard radius of visibility.
 
      Watch this spot for the next few days.  ETA and wheel-dipping in Long Beach now likely for June 8.

      Signing out, from Morro Bay

      Bob

Day 14 - Mill Valley, Ca - Santa Cruz, CA

Day 14 - Mill Valley, CA - Santa Cruz, CA

Bike - Specialized Roubaix
Miles ridden - 84.6
Total elapsed mileage - 911.3
Time in saddle - 6:22
Average speed for day - 13.2 mph
Max speed for day - 41.8

    July 15, 1961: Slept well in motel and ate cereal there.  I don't know when I started; watch stopped.  Rode through 17 miles of rough mountains before I reached the Bridge.  Very foggy and windy.  The Bridge routed me onto a freeway, which nearly panicked me, and made my only aim to get out of town.  S.F. is not for bicycle tourists.  Really moved from Half Moon Bay to Santa Cruz with tail winds and good road.  Bought more sourdough bread and honey.  This park is actually full, but the ranger fitted me in.  For the first time, it cost - a dollar.  But at least I'm legal and I won't be turned out at 10:00.  
     A man gve me a Presto-log and I cooked soup.  My left knee sure hurts at times.  I am only forty miles from Monterey.  I sure hope I can get hold of Hilda (my mother's first cousin) tomorrow.
     Made 100 miles; passed 1,000 mark south of Frisco (apparently including the over-the-Sierras-to-Yosemite leg). 
     Still have $29.  I should have the $20 left when I get home.  I am running over a dollar a day, but living well, and that is what matters.  

    Got under way around 9:00 on the Sausalito bike trail, well known to me already from rental-bike rides during visits to the Bay area.  Called Lynda at about 10:00 from the Golden Gate bridge.  A much smoother and safer crossing that 50 years ago this month, when riding a BIKE acros the bridge was an outlandish proposition.  Since the west, usually southbound, sidewalk was closed for maintainance, the eastern sidewalk was crowded with riders and walkers, especially in the last couple hundred yards, where Chinese tourists ruled the pavement.

     The first thirty miles were Sausalito trail, bridge, urban, suburban and slow, eating up the first three hours of riding time of the day.  The steepest and longest climb of the day, reaching 600 feet, was through a residential neigborhood of suburban Daly City.  The first section ended with a slow slog around the backside of a headland.  The danger of the extremely narrow shoulder was tempered by the equally slow speed of the bumper-to-bumper traffic, and revenge was mine on the descent as I overtook and passed the same vehicles which had edged past me on the ascent.    

     As long as the wind is at my back, I do not dread hills.  I gear down, focus on the front wheel and the shoulder lane, and remind myself that every foot climbed is a foot taken back on the descent.  No matter how fast you descend, however, your average falls, because you spend so much more time climbing than descending.

     The coast then flattened out somewhat, population decreased to almost nil and the wind increased as the afternoon advanced.  Windsurfers and kiteboarders were having a field day as I continued south past accessible beaches.  I was making 25 mph on flat ground and 15-plus uphill, and covered the last 30 miles to Santa Cruz - meeting up with Bob once for an urgently-needed topping up of fluids - in about half the time the first 30 miles had cost me.  Linked up with Bob in Santa Cruz at about ten to five and we made our way to  our lodgings in Watsonville.

     We're gaining time over my projected itinerary.  Rather than overnighting in Monterey tomorrow as originally planned, I'll ride to Big Sur and we will car-shuttle, as in 1961, to Morro Bay, gaining several hours.  We may arrive in Long Beach with usable time available on Friday the 8th rather than Saturday the 9th.

     And now the burning question you've all been waiting to ask: Do cyclists wear underwear under those lycra tights?   It is conventional wisdom among serious recreational cyclist that they do not, and professional racers certainly don't.  I did, most of the time, until this ride - it seemed... well, cleaner to do so.  However, to use the words of former Miami Herald humor columnist and book writer Dave Barry, my underwear zone,  especially the part of it where the leg-opening seams rub against some of the body's most sensitive flesh during the 14,000-or so pedal strokes I make during the average riding day, was paying the price.   Thus, today I ditched the Fruit of the Looms and the difference, and relief, have been remarkable.

     Also, to quote, in its entirety, the poem Babies,  by that most succinct of American poets, Ogden Nash:         A bit of talcum
                  Is always walcum

    1:  Alex - Cape Perpetua
    2: Cousin Jean's, Seal Rock

    

Regards, and until tomorrow,

     Roberto

Day 13 - Jenner, CA - Mill Valley, CA

Day 13 : Jenner, CA - Mill Valley, CA

     Bike: Specialized Roubaix
     Miles ridden: 75.8
     Total elapsed mileage: 826.7
     Time in saddle: 5:58
     Average speed for day: 12.6
     Maximum speed for day: 36.1

     Today we lost Sean's company.  Bob and I arrived back in Jenner at 8:30 after a pleasant drive from Santa Rosa and shortly found Sean.  He had spent an overpriced and not particularly comfortable night in a B&B, had not had breakfast and was still feeling pretty beaten up from the previous  day's marathon.  After some discussion between the two of us and a reassessment of Sean's motives and goals, he said he would ride the 43 miles to Point Reyes Station, then reclaim his panniers and other gear from Bob at noon, take a long rest, then make his way to San Francisco for the rest of the 4th of July weekend.

     But it was not to be quite like that.  Sean was flagging before the day really began, and by the time we reached Tomales, at 11:30 and still 16 miles from Point Reyes Station, he insisted I go on and said he would catch up when he could.  I did so, but at 12:00 I called Bob and asked him to head back north until he met Sean and bring him in, and we arrived in the boutique- and Saturday farmers' market-rich crossroads of Point Reyes Station at about the same time, 12:40.  A grateful Sean bought us lunch and readily accepted our offer for Bob to drive him to Sausalito, our chosen day's end point, so he could ride across the Golden Gate and enter San Francisco, one of the cherished life goals of this Colorado-born and -raised 41 year-old, who had never seen the sea until his first day out of Astoria.  We exchanged emails and promised to keep in touch. He also promised to follow this blog.

     Rather  than try to replicate my 1961 day's run and end in Stinson beach, I followed Adventure Cycling's map advice to take a more inland route to enter Marin County from the northwest.  After a challenging, sometimes hot (low 90s)  and highly varied ride that took me from 3.5 miles of paved forest trail through rural and then suburban communities to fast, four-lane highways, and after wasting about five miles and 25 minutes on a wrong turn and a missed turn, I arrived in Mill Valley, a few miles short of Sausalito but where we were to spend the night with a cousin of Bob, at 4:40, and he arrived with cousin at about 5:00 and brought me in.  A shower and glass of wine never felt or tasted better, and our hostess's spare ribs and corn on the cob truly hit the spot.

     Bob assured me that I had made a good choice in following Adventure Cycling's advice rather than replicating my 1961 route through Stinson Beach and over the Coast Range to Sausalito.  Fourth of July weekend being upon us, traffic was heavy all the way, there was no place to stop, much less to park, in Stinson Beach, and the road over the top was harrowing,  poorly maintained and clogged with bumper-to-bumper traffic.  

     With today's greater-than-anticipated mileage we are again ahead of what I programmed.  If I add ten miles to my planned day's run tomorrow and again on Monday, we can shuttle to Morro Bay Monday afternoon-evening rather than Tuesday and, I hope, arrive in Long Beach/Newport Beach as early as lunchtime Saturday, July 9th, day 20 of the Half-Century Ride.

     Didn't speak to any other riders today, but saw or crossed paths with many.  Our day's itinerary,  at least from Bodega Bay (where Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds was filmed, if memory serves me), is apparently very popular with riders from the Bay area.  Point Reyes Station is clearly a popular rendezvous place for men and women in lycra and on high-end bikes.  

     Until tomorrow,

         The Phantom Cyclist

Day 12 - Fort Bragg, CA - Fort Ross, CA

Day 12 - Fort Bragg, CA - Fort Ross, CA

Bike: Specialized Roubaix
Miles ridden: 85.5
Total elapsed mileage: 750.9
Time in saddle: 6:28:26
Average speed for day: 13.1 mph
Max speed for day: 39 mph

   July 14, 1961 - Got a very early 8:00 start this morning after breakfast of Raisin Bran.  Spent an enjoyable hour at historic Fort Ross from 11 to 12.  Mountains not as bad as people led me to believe.  Foggy and damp and windy from NW.  Met a college student, 28, who doesn't appear a day older than myself, and rode last ten miles with him.  From U. of Colorado.  Bought crud in Marshall and split box of milk with friend and had chicken and cake and a peach.  Am in Stinson Beach S.P..  Now I must clean up and turn in.  I make the big Foggy Town tomorrow.  I am about 16 miles from the Golden Gate.  No change in schedule foreseen.  Made 95 miles.
     P.S. 11:00 P.M.
     I have been most rudely banished.  My map showed overnight camping, and having entered from the back, was not told otherwise.  But alas, at ten o'clock, my smiling ranger came and told me the place to camp was six miles away, all uphill.  I looked around for a while, then got a motel.  I have a small but clean and warm room with no bath (actually shared bath with another room) for $3.00.  It will be worth it to sleep in a bed.  I still have $32.  I should easily get home on $10.

     Mountains not as bad...?!!  Either I wrote the understatement of my youth or there has been a tremendous amount of upthrust in that part of that Coast Range in the last 50 years.  After having seen it all on the Oregon headlands and crossing from Leggett to the coast yesterday, the stretch from Fort Ross  to Jenner took the cake.  It is a monster -  narrow road with tight curves, some without guardrails on the sea side, little to no shoulder, a vertiginuous 700-800-foot drop to the rocks and water below, a leg-burning ascent followed by a brake pad-burning descent - in sum, not something that riding companion Sean (still with me) or I care to tackle first thing tomorrow morning or that Bob is willing to drive over again to deliver us to today's end point at Fort Ross, then again cross southbound toward tomorow's planned destination.  In short, faithful readers, please forgive me my planned sin of omission, but discretion, in this case, is the better part of valor: I ain't doing it again in 2011.

     Got off a little after 8:30 in fine, cool, sunny, dry weather with the northwest wind building and put the hammer down.  Country generally gently rolling, but the coastal plateau is broken often by streams that required us to drop down to the left to cross them then grind our way back up to the right to our original level on the far side and continue on our way.  Once we were on the plateau again, the wind was our friend, its 20-miles per hour-plus at our backs providing for long stretches of 20 miles per hour-plus bike speed.   We stopped for liquids and, for Sean, a sandwich at the one store in the one-time lumbering boom town of Elk (there are few trees left on the coastal plateau now).  Bob caught up with us during ur third hour and we topped up our fluids and agreed to meet in Fort Ross.  The rest of the day was wearing and we were very happy to see the blue Jeep SAG vehicle on a pullout ahead around 4:30.

     Sean found lodging and planned to eat in the very small town of Jenner and Bob and I continued down the coast and inland to a pre-reserved motel in Santa Rosa. We'll leave early tomorrow morning to rejoin Sean at about 8:30 and continue on our way south.  Met no other riders today.

     In trying to reconstruct my love affair with spoke ponies (Sean's term), I keep coming back to a vague memory of coasting down a sand dune road in Nantucket on a two-wheeler, with my parents, when I was probably five or six.  At a speed of maybe twelve miles per hour, it was the fastest I had ever moved under my own power, and the thrill was overwhelming.   I bought my first English racer three-speed when I was about nine and wore it out in the three years we lived near Oak Harbor.  It was followed by a J.C. Higgins (an extremely shoddy Sears product) newsboy bike, used for that purpose both in rural Hawaii and in suburban Long Beach, delivering the afternoon papers.  I probably saw my first ten-speed, derailleur bike in 1959 and when I realized my savings could cover the $100 purchase price of a Schwinn Continental in the summer of 1960, I was hooked for life.

     Oh, as for that warped leather seat on the Continental:  it bothered my grandfather a lot more than it bothered me.  He warned me several times that it would do me bodily harm, but what did he know?  He was 70 years old, and the bike he rode from his house in Buena Park to work as a volunteer blacksmith at Knott's Berry Farm had a seat like the one on the Farmall tractor he had taught me to drive when I was eight.
     

Day 11: Garberville, CA - Fort Bragg, CA

Bike - Specialized Roubaix
Day's run: 67.8 miles
Total elapsed miles: 665.4

July 13, 1961 - Standish-Hickey S.P. - Anchor Bay

     Got an 8:30 start after breakfast of Grape Nuts.  Climbed over Coast Range - roads are uh-troshus, full of vertical and lateral curves and rough.  Bought honey spread, loaf of sourdough bread and margarine in Ft. Bragg and lunched and dined on it (some left!).  High fogginess and cool here.  Replaced one spoke.  NW tail winds should be with me from now on.  Made 97 miles.  Bought Raisin Bran for breakfasts to come.  Am in private camp area in Anchor Bay.  Sign says $1.50 per car.  They haven't tried to make me pay yet.
     Should camp at Stinson Beach S.P. tomorrow.  About 15 miles from Golden Gate.  Very mountainous route, they tell me.
     P.S.  Rear brake out of it.  The cable slipped or was broken in mountains.  Front one doing nicely.  Maybe I will get it fixed in Frisco or just let it go 'til I get home.

     Joined Sean for a breakfast burrito at 9:00 AM and got under way at about 9:40.  Weather sunny but cool, breeze still favorable as we hit the freeway again.  Bob joined us twice, once on the open road shortly after we stopped to talk to two heavily-laden German men, Stephan and a younger one, possibly his son, en route to Los Angeles.  They wanted to know if it would be more advisable to continue south on 101 or to take Hwy 1 over to the coast.  I suggested that if they were truly touring and not just eating up miles, then go to the coast.  We did not see them again, so I don't know what they chose to do.

     We caught up with Bob again at Leggett, where Hwy 1 begins, and topped up fluids.  Sean and I took a little detour to see the famous drive-through redwood tree and photograph each other going through it.  Then we hit the road in earnest, summiting the coast range at 1:45 and reveling in roughly 50 minutes of fast downhill work before hitting the last rise before the coast.  After about 25 minutes, we were on top of it and in 10 more, back on the shores of the Pacific.  The road is still full of vertical and lateeral curves, but no longer rough at all.

     The next hour or so was of serious up-and-downhill work and then we pulled into the only country store on the coast before Fort Bragg, in a wide place in the road called Westport.  There on the porch, resting and enjoying cool drinks and pizza, were three men already known to Sean from farther up the coast.  Two were young middle-aged touring bike riders (both on Surleys, a very popular brand, from what I've seen) and the third, to my surprise, was a 18 year-old named Chandler, my surprise both because he was going down the coast from Seattle to San Diego on a four-foot long skateboard, with pack on back, and because the road repair traffic control man who I spoke to while waiting on 101 on approach to Crescent City had told me about him.  Chandler told me he will be written up in "Cement Wave," a skateboarding magazine.  I am not surprised about that part, at least.

     Sean told Chandler he thought he was crazy.  Chandler said he thought we were crazy.  Sean countered, "But we're on bikes," to which Chandler replied, "But you guys are OLD!"

     We pulled into Fort Bragg at about 5:30 and I found Bob in a comfortable room at the Best Western on the northern edge of town.  Sean also checked in and we'll make space for him in the Jeep to drive to the eating, drinking and shopping venues a little bit south.

     It's good to be on Rte 1 again.  Part of the inspiration for my 1961 trip was a National Geographic article of that or an earlier year named "California's Wonderful One," memorable to this day for its deeply saturated Kodacolor prints of the great scenery that makes the route wonderful.  The day's run also puts us at about the halfway point between the Oregon state line and San Francisco.  This also came as a bit of a surprise to me because I have been working from detailed Adventure Cycling maps of sections of the coast only, not seeing the big picture.  Also, getting over the coast range from Legget to the Pacific is a kind of watershed, in that it is physically the highest point on the whole route as well as some distance into the second, "downhill" portion of my ride.  Day 11 is winding down; 9 to go.

     Until tomorrow, in the neighborhood of Ft. Ross.

Day 10 - Eureka, CA - Garberville, CA

 Day 10  Eureka, CA - Garberville, CA
Bike - Specialized Roubaix
Day's run - 68.2 miles
Total elapsed miles - 596.7

July 12, 1961 - Burlington to Standish-Hickey

     Got started at ten-15 and hot by then. Bought quart of milk and Grape Nuts and rolls for breakfast.  Broke another spoke and replaced it.  Rode 'til one o'clock when it got too hot so stopped and spent three hours in and around the Eel River.  Rode from three to six-thirty and am now camped in Standish-Hickey S.P.  Mosquitoes pretty bad.  Cooked chicken-rice soup for supper.  Redwoods very pretty.  Time for campfiire gathering.  I am at the junction of Hwys 1 and 101.  I get back to the cool coast tomorrow.  Over 100 here today.   Tentatively plan to get home Wednesday night.  Made only 47 miles.

     As in 1961, today was everything that yesterday wasn't: dry and fast.  Launched at 12:05 after a visit to The Blue Ox, a still-functioning antique woodworking facility that, among other things, produces custom gingerbread, filigree work and wood gutters for Victorian restorations, including of the California State Capitol in Sacramento.

     The breeze was fair and the roads (mostly US 101) gently rising to ascend  the downward course of the valleys of the Eel River and its eastern branch.  Made more miles in the first hour (14, including a couple of miles of stop-and-go in the city (of 26,128, not what I said in my last post) did in the first two-plus hours yesterday, and ended up in Garbersville, at the end of the day's run of 68.2 miles, at 5:30.

     En route, at about 2:40, I overtook another solitary rider on a freeway bridge, and we ended up hanging and riding together until our arrival at Garbersville.  Having checked into our motel, the Sherwood Forest (a better establishment than last night's, with a certain rustic charm) on my recommendation, he joined Bob and me for dinner of pasta in an establishment a minute's walk away (in G'ville, nothing is more than two minutes' walk away - in fact, the main street ends in a turn-around that shunts you back toward the freeway entrance).  My riding companion, Sean Kelly, an early-forties,  free-lance, high-end bike repairman from Denver, Colorado, is on his first multi-day ride.  He shipped his Salsa adventure bike from Denver, along with trailer, to Astoria, flew to Portland, and bussed down to Astoria.  After the first day or so, he lost the trailer, commissioning a bike shop to ship in home for him.  We turned out to be a pretty good match, with his extra 35-40 pounds of bike and gear traded off against my 25 years, and plan to meet tomorrow for breakfast and to continue our ride over the 1800-foot crest of the Coast Range.

     Sean is plugged in, ordering the delivery of a dinner to his girlfriend back in Denver on his PDA while partaking of pasta and salad with Bob and me.  After he apparently fixed the shifting and skipping problem on my Giant Innova with a few twists of an adjustment screw and some liberal shots of WD-40 into the shifters and cables, I invited him for a nightcap at the Branding Iron Saloon, two minutes away from our lodging.

     Will make reservations in Fort Ross, back on the coast, in the morning.

    Three things come to mind as different from 50 years ago:
     --The roads are a lot better, with far more vehicle-bicycle separation.
     --There's a lot more awareness of the threat of tsunamis.  Every lowlying coastal town displays signs warning of the hazard and advising when you have gained enough elevation to avoid it.  There was a massive tsunami on the central Oregon coast in 1700, triggered by a Richter nine earthquake in the Cascadia subduction zone, and it could happen again any day.  Crescent City, our overnight place the night before last, suffered damage and deaths both following the Good Friday Alaskan earthquake of 1964 and the March 2011 Japanese quake and tsunami.
     --The population is much more diverse.  In 1961, if it wasn't brown and white or salmon, it wasn't food.  Now, there's a Mexican restaurant in every town and village, including Garbersville.  Last night in Eureka, our Mexican restaurant server was Cambodian (she said there are four Cambodian families in Eureka) and we drove by a Pho house this morning while looking for a bike shop and a Bank of America.

     Until tomorrow.

     Bob



      

Day 9 - Crescent City, CA - Eureka, CA

Day 9 - Crescent City, CA - Eureka, CA

Bike(s)    First - Giant Innova - 37 miles
                Second - Specialized Roubaix - 43.3 miles

Day's Run: 80.3 miles
Total elapsed miles - 528.5

July 11, 1961 - Slept in this morning and got a very late start at 11:00.  Replaced yesterday's spoke in Orick and broke another 5 miles later.  Made disgustingly slow time most of day.  Fixed spoke in Trinidad  (last one).  Reached Eureka at 4:10 and was directed to P.O. where I got mail and $20.00.  Haven't broken first one yet.  Really made time from Eureka on up here to Burligton S.P..  Averaged 15 mph uphill.  Got ride last few mies on a flatbed truck uphill.  S.P. full again.  Squatted in a burned-out tree stump.  Made popcorn, went to campfire circle.  Took sponge bath, washed out wool socks.
P.S.  Bought ten spokes in Eureka.  Hope tires last 250 miles to S.F.

     I recall well that cheating uphill ride.  An advanced-middle aged working couple, the female half of which decided I should be a Mountie and repeated her suggestion several times in a somewht strident voice several times during my time in the cab.

     Made disgustingly slow time on June 28, 2011 as well, also getting of at 11:00, this time after a visit to the local commercial aquarium. The first leg, beginning just a couple of miles from the motel, ridden in a light rain, was on the Giant hybrid and took me over the second-highest summit of the ride, a headland of about 1,250 feet.  Going up was a grind and coming down was harrowing, with the pavement being wet, the shoulder narrow, the white fog line likely slippery and trucks and motor homes nipping eagerly at my heels.
     Made it in one piece, however, and caught up wth Bob in the burg of Klamath, where I replenished fluids and ate a couple of breakfast bars.   Several more long but more gradual climbs later, all on the interstate, Bob and I met up again in Orick for lunch.
     Met my only other rider of the day in the cafe, Robert, 56, northbound.  Robert's clothes, Robert's bike-trailer rig and Robert's person had clearly been well-used.  Not only did Robert have no fixed itinerary, he paid no attention to speeds and days' runs.  I don't know if he was literally homeless or not, but he clearly spent a lot of his life sitting on his bike and sleeping on the ground.  We had a pleasant chat at the luncheon counter.
      After one more climb and partial descent on the interstate I turned off onto the Prairie Creek Redwoods scenic route.  After a grueling 30-minute climb I was rewarded with a gentle six-mile downgrade through redwood forests - wet, cool, verdant, sweet-smelling, it was exactly what a primeval forest should look and feel like.
     I took another alternate, "scenic" route off the interstate through Trinidad. The first four miles were all right - gently rolling, little traffic.  But then the road literally began to break up, with stretches of gravel and eight-foot wide pavement on the edge of a sea cliff, all in a dismal North Coast drizzle. I eventually made my way back to Interstate 101, with its smooth pavement, gentle grades and wide, bike-friendly shoulders and made the last 20 uneventful and, admittedly, monotonous miles to the watefront town (12,000-plus population) of Eureka in about 80 minutes, finding Bob in our budget motel (where we reconfirmed you pretty much get what you pay for) at 8:00 P.M.
     Got two clear reminders I've made it to California: the first scent and sight of eucalyptus trees; looking for local TV news and getting San Francico
         

Day 8 - Gold Beach, OR to Crescent City, CA

Bike - Specialized Roubaix
Day's run - 58 miles
Total elapsed miles - 448.2
Time in saddle - N/A
Average speed - N/A

July 10, 1961 - Humbug to Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park

     Was windy at first then quit for good.  Very mountainous coast along S. Oregon.  Highway badly torn up in places.  Bought pancakes for breakfast.  Met same family with trailer about five times.  Three spokes broken on hard side, two on easy side.  Reached border at 2:50 P.S.T.  Got caught in mountains south of Crescent City after dark trying to reach state park.  Met people in trailer again who were fixing flat tire.  They fed me and I gave them tire patch, then they brought me last six miles.  Will reach Eureka in the morning.  Made 113 miles!

    Ah, to have the energy and endurance of a 16 year-old again!  Made only 58 miles today.  Coast is still mountainous (surprise, surprise) but the beginning miles, over the last of the Oregon coast's 800-foot plus-headlands, wasn't all that bad.  Asphalt was so fresh that I had to wait for ten minutes at the summit with cars and trucks to get around a paving crew on the down leg, and the average grade was probably no more than three to four per cent.  Coast road was rolling, but worst part of the day's ride was the southerly breeze, the harbinger of the low-pressure area that was moving ashore and bringing the rain that is now falling on Crescent City.

     Met up with Bob once a few miles before Brookings for an energy-bar-and-fluids replenishment
and again in Brookings proper for a sit-down Mexican lunch. 

     Crossed the "border" into California at 1:45 - two states down, three quarters of the last one to go!
This time, Adventure Cycling's advice to leave 101 for alternate routes was sound.  Not that 101 was that bad, even if they were working on the shoulders, but the alternates were smooth, flat and bucolic.  The coastal plain widens here for the first time since Astoria, and is extensively farmed.  Smith River, the only town between the border and Crescent City, is, it turns out, the lily capital of the northwest.

     Rode past the entrance to level five, "supermax," Pelican Bay State prison, also a major contributor to the local economy.  Already met two hotel admin staff who are related to prison employees.

     Saw only two other riders today, just a little way north of Brookings.  Older than those I have so far met , but equally heavily loaded, the couple spoke a foreign language - Swiss German, I suspect - and exhibited no interest in speaking with me, or perhaps lacked the ability to do so.

      As I have no interest in riding in rain and against wind tomorrow morning, especially with the chain-slipping problem on the fendered hybrid, we plan to sleep in and perhaps visit the aquarium a couple miles north of our Best Western lodgings until the rain tapers off and the southerly breeze blows out.
   
     In 1961, I entertained myself by reading and vocalizing road signs backward, a totally useless skill I have kept alive to this day:
     Pots rof snairtsedep
     Tfel nrut no tfel worra ylno
     Rewols ciffart peek thgir

     Now I anagramize my first and last names, giving such results as:
     Bret Rusatino
     Rebus Orttina
     and my favorite, Snout Rarebit

     Hope to make it to, or just short of, Eureka tomorrow.

     Until then,

        Rustin Boater

Day 7 - 10 miles north of Bandon to Gold Beach, OR

Bike - Specialized Roubaix
Miles ridden - 63.0
Total elapsed miles - 390.4
Time in saddle - N/A. Can't zeroize cycloputer
Average speed - ditto

July 9, 1961 - Florence, OR to Port Orford, OR

     Got late start.  Woman gave me two eggs and I cooked on their stove.  Replaced spokes and changed tire.  I hope I can buy one in Eureka.  Front one wearing down.  Wind still blowing.  Fishing captain told me this is the second day of a seven-day nor'wester.  Stopped in Coos Bay park and museum.  On standard time here. Am camped in Humbug Mt. State Park six miles S. of Port Orford.  Fine place and free for me.  Had hot shower and (washed some clothes).  Soup now cooling.  Should reach California tomorrow.  Made exactly 100 miles.  A century!

     About those spokes:  I had bought my bike new the previous summer, but it was already pretty beaten up.  In early March, 1961,  a junior-year classmate, red-haired, freckeled Ralph, an "anything you can do I can do better" kind of guy, got wind of one of my weekend adventures and, assuring me he was up to the challenege, asked if he could join me on my next one. I suggested a day ride to the San Bernardino Mountains, about a 120-mile round trip.  I said I would check with my parents if he could sleep over so we could get an early start, and all was arranged.  We left well before dawn, flashlights on handlebars, and we were approaching Riverside at first light.  Ralph, who was riding a nine-speed, three-speed, conversion street bike, said that he was having trouble keeping up, likely because his lubricating oil was freezing, and asked if he could ride my bike.

     Accepting a lift in a pick-up, we finally reached the recreation area, but, finding it abandoned on this off-season weekend, quickly began our descent.  A couple of hours later, as night was falling, we were rolling down the main street of Norco at about 30 miles per hour.  I was on the left, Ralph on the right, when, suddenly, we saw the pavement narrow, in an hourglass pattern, and we were at a railroad grade crossing.  Banking to the left, I stayed on pavement, but Ralph was doomed: I watched as the front wheel of my bike struck the near rail and crumpled, and as Ralph and my bike went airborne, doing a
full endo.  Somehow, Ralph missed the far rail, and the bike, Ralph still in the saddle, landed on its rear wheel before falling on its side and coming to a rest. 

     Ralph, or his father, bought me a new front wheel, but balked at a new rear wheel or a new fork, which had been slightly bent to the left.  We did not insist, instead trying to get the flat spot out of the rear wheel and retune it. However, we failed, and broken rear spokes, always on the more heavily-loaded right, derailleur, side, of the wheel, plagued me for the remaining lifespan of the bike.

     The denouement of the crash story was even more interesting.  The occupants of the police station just up the street from the grade crossing came to the rescue and took us in.  Within minutes, however, they discovered that Ralph was a Missing Person.  Sure that his parents would not approve of his accompanying me on my day ride to the San Berdoos, he had simply not told them of his intentions.  The ride home with Ralph's father was memorable for its silence.   

    A great ride day.  My growing seating discomfort apparently remedied by a saddle readjustement (tipping it forward a few degrees) and the wearing of two pairs of tights, I was a new man.  Winds continued fresh and fair, the road gently rolling, and I made it from yesterday's end point to our first waypoint in a little over two hours.  Bob met me there and we had a pleasant and informative visit to the Port Orford Lifeboat Museum before I partook of a light lunch at a Mexican  cafe on 101.

     The next two hours to our end point in Gold Beach were just as pleasant.  Grades were manageable and I just took it easier, gearing down earlier and further and not worrying about keeping speeds up.  The ride from where the highway curves inland from the coast and passes east of Humbug Mountain
was particularly rewarding.  This stretch of coast was most unlike the area  north of Florence.  Far less traffic - a full minute could pass without my meeting or being passed by a vehicle, and while just as scenic, was both less daunting, less... intimidating, and less pretentious from the tourism point of view.

     Met two other southbound riders after Humbug Mounain. Toma, originally from Bulgaria, and Adam, from Pittsburgh, PA.  Like all other riders I've met, they were heavily-loaded, self-supporting, cruisers and had no fixed schedule.  Adam planned to reach the Mexican border sometime this summer and Toma had to be in Las Vegas around the middle of August.  They were also, like other riders, confused about where I was coming from - so lightly loaded - and where I was going, and I had to fill them in.  Adam asked me what has changed most in the last 50 years.  I said roads are far better but that there is about the same amount of traffic - just that before it was more cars pulling trailers, some campers, and nothing like today's RV's on the road.  They, like me in 1961, were working hard at staying on budget by finding low- or no-coast campsites.  Got their photo but can't upload just yet.

     Pulled into the Motel Six just across the Rogue River (a great whitewater dory and jet boat venue) on final approach to Gold Beach at a little after 5:00 and, as agreed, Bob had already gotten a room.  After a most enjoyable and highly therapeutic Jacuzzi we went for drinks and seafood (what else, pray tell?) at the Porthole, a minute two from our lodgings.

     Tomorrow, by early afternoon (depending on my start time): California!!
  
 
        

Day 6 - Heceta Head tunnel to 10 miles N. of Bandon

Day 6 - June 25, 2011.   Heceta Head tunnel to 10 miles N. of Bandon    

Bike - Specialized Roubaix
          Day's run - 76.4 miles
          Average speed - 13.7 mph (zeroized cycloputer)
          Time in saddle - 5:33:10
          Total miles - 327.4

     A long, hard day. Saddled up at about 10:00 and headed south.  Got off the headland and hit some miles of flat land as far as Florence, when a long stretch of climbing and rolling hills began.  Passed one rider - a single man in his 20s, en route to the Mexican border.  Like every one else I've met, he's on a more relaxed schedule than I am - he left Vancouver on the 12th of June.  Caught up with Bob in Reedsport and had lunch, then continued south on more friendly terrain as far as North Bend, which I reached somewhat before 4:00.  Wind continues to provide a kick in the pants - according to my hand-held nautical anemometer, at one reading the wind was NW at 15 kts-plus.  Met and pitied several northbound riders.  I can't imagine why anyone would willingly ride south to north along this coast, at least not at this time of year.

     In spite of its name, Hwy 101 is bike-friendly.  Amply wide and smoothly paved, at least outside the towns, it has well-delineated shoulder bike lanes.  Traffic was not a problem today, either.  Very few trucks, a moderate number of cars, campers, motor homes and SUVs, and lots of motorcycles.  Groups of six to twelve riders passed in one direction or the other every couple of minutes and our Coos Bay motel is hosting several heavy-set, Vietnam-era-aged, men and their wives, some in the required leather, with their Harley V-twins parked outside their doors.
     Should you ever pass this way on a bicycle, do not fall for Adventure Cycling and the Oregon DOT's signage suggestions that you leave 101 and head south on the Scenic Route, via the coastal fishing town of Charleston.  You make a several hundred-foot climb onto a ridge as you leave Charleston and the only scenes over the next 16-plus miles are of the winding, twisting, rising and falling, coarse asphalt ahead of you.  Bob had gone ahead to find no "room at the inn" in Bandon and we had to return to Coos Bay to find overpriced but comfortable lodging.

     Should you ever pass this way, I suggest dinner at La Costa, an unpretentious Mexican/Peruvian
restaurant well to the west of 101, at the corner of Broadway and Newmarket.

     #1:  Dipping the wheel in Oak Harbor, WA, June 20:
     #2:  Megler-Astoria Bridge, in far background (duplicated below)
     #3:  Aunt Vivian, Cousin Jackie, Shelton, WA, June 21
     #4: Arch Cape tunnel, OR, June 23
     #5: Oretown start, June 24

lic

     #3:


 

 

     We plan to phone ahead tomorrow morning for reservations in Gold Beach, 70 miles to the south.  We're about 40 miles ahead of  my rough, theoretical itinerary.  I hope I can stay on schedule.  Today was a challenge.

Day 5 - Oretown, OR to Heceta Head tunnel

Day 5 - 24 June, 2011 - Oretown, OR - Heceta Head tunnel, OR

Bike - Specialized Roubaix
Day's run 77 miles - total elapsed miles, 328
Average - not available; unable to zero out cycloputer

July 8, 1961 - Cooked rice for breakfast, left camp at 9:15.  Made real good time all day. Hit real hard mountains near Otis.  Offered ride but refused when I found I was 1/2 mile from top.  North wind is fab, you louse*.  Passed Sea Lion Cave.  Pulled into Honeyman State Park near Florence.  Full up - no pay.  Am squatting between two other camps.  Neighbors feeding me like a king.  Sirloin steak, potatoes, vegetables, etc.  I need it.  Rode 117 miles.  Got to get home before tires wear out (haha). 

     *Fabulous.  A Dad'ism.  My father, a Jack of many trades, finished his naval career as a Senior Chief Journalist.  An inveterate wordsmith, he was a lifelong letter-to-the editor writer and a pubslished poet and novelist.
      I seem to have gotten fed a lot.  I don't recall any of my hosts showing much interest in how old I was or how I kept in touch with my parents, or even if I had any.   Earlier on this day, while I was lying on my back on a roadside-rest picnic table recovering from a hard climb, a distinguished-looking senior citizen regarded me for half a minute, reached into his pocket, withdrew a  fifty-cent piece and pressed it into my hand.

     Bob and I left Seal Rock around 9:00, had a solid breakfast in Newport, got the Jeep's oil changed and arrived at yesterday's end point at 11:30.  After a photo opportunity (some of which will be uploaded and attached when I find and buy the camera-computer connector I forgot to pack), headed south again at 11:40.  First climb, over a seaward-pointing ridge - two slow miles up and two fast miles down - wasn't so bad.  You hit your rhythm  and tell yourself this, too, will end, and it does, before you know it.  From there, over the next three hours,  the northwest wind, as well as the traffic, built.  As for the wind, it makes all the difference in the world.  If I were condemned to ride south to north, I would abandon or kill myself.  As for traffic, as long as it stays to the left of the bike lane or shoulder divider line, it really doesn't bother me.  In fact, it's especially gratifying to overtake in the towns the cars and trucks that passed you on the road in.

     Had a great burger in a non-chain establishment in Depoe Bay and pushed on to a state park near Bob's cousin Jean's.  Called and told Bob I though I was good for two more hours and 27 miles and asked him to meet me at 6:00 just before the Heceta Head tunnel.

     Passed the same pair of riders twice, once between Newport and Seal Rock and again, after my phone and bathroom break, on the beautiful, relatively new bridge that spans Alsea waters on the approach to Waldport.  We stopped and chatted a few minutes.  They, a man of maybe 40 and another in his 20's, were heavily laden and on a less ambitious schedule than mine, having left Vancouver, BC well over a week ago and not planning to arrive in San Diego until about 23 June.  Just after Yachats (pronounced YaHATS, locals tell me), and as I was beginning to think seriously about the upcoming 450-foot climb to round Cape Perpetua, I was overtaken by 19 year-old Alex, a Seattlite off-and-on college student on his way south on a voyage of undetermined destination or duration, on  a well-packed hybrid.  Pleasant, animated and possessed of considerable charm, he was a welcome companion on the next 20 miles of low-traffic, scenic and rugged coast - the prettiest and most difficult part of Oregon, Alex quoted a volunteer bike service-center worker back in Yachats as saying.  Thanks to the inspiration of each other's company and a by-now extremely fresh (as we mariners like to understate) afternoon northwesterly, we literally sailed over Cape Perpetua and burned up the remaining 18 or so miles before my rendevous-with-Bob point in not much over an hour.  The only thing that disturbed me about his company was his insistence on riding to the left of the white line, in the traffic lane, so we could visit as we rode.

     If the wind holds I hope to make 80 or so miles again tomorrrow.

     Tot morgen 

     Bob

    

Day 4 - Cannon Beach to Oretown

Day4 - Cannon Beach - Oretown
             71.0 miles
              Bikes - first 40 miles, Giant Innova
                           second 31.0 miles, Specialized Roubaix
              Time in saddle - about 5:30
              Total elapsed miles: 251
        
             July 7, 1961 - Got late start.  Bought breakfast in Ilwaco.  Pancakes.
     Reached Megler at 10:00.
     Caught ferry just right!  Paid 25 cents.
     Hills along coast very hard. Looked like rain for a while but cleared up.  Almost stopped at Oswald West State Park but pushed on 36 miles more.  Rode 86 miles today for an average of 100 for 2 days.  May be home in two weeks yet.  Camped in roadside rest area four miles south of  Tillamook at 8:45.
     P.S.: Changed spoke.  Bought extras in Tillamook.  Man gave me tea, pie, coffee.  Some boys with their supervisor from McLaren School for Boys just brought me a plate of food, sandwich and Kool Aid which, naturally,I accepted.
     Just cooked popcorn.

     I don't know exactly when the Megler-Astoria ferry was replaced by the existing bridge.  However, according to the "50 years Ago" column in the local paper we read this morning, they were drilling core samples for the footings for the bridge, so it must date from the early-mid sixties.
     The man who gave me tea, pie and coffee was the owner of the one bike shop in town,  He invited me into his kitchen after selling me my spokes.  I wasn't able  to determine if Tillamook's one bike shop now, Drake's, descended from the 1961 one.  We couldn't find it and they didn't answer their phone.   In later years McLaren School For Boys morphed into the Oregon state youth reformatory system.  Seemed like decent enough boys.  They invited me to play chicken-fight with them.

     June 23, 2011:  We spent the night in a Shilo Inn in Seaside and drove back down to  Cannon Beach to look for bike shop,  Found one, Mike's, just opening, who agreed to have a look at the Giant's drive chain and do the needful while we waited.  Ninety minutes, $120, a new chain, cassette and center chain ring later we still had mysterious skipping and slipping in the second and third-highest gears on the rear sprocket, but as we were burning daylight I said I would work around it and began my ride in an intermittent drizzle.
     Those hills along the coast are still very hard.  After going through the Arch Cape tunnel - a slightly scary experience in spite of the flashing of rider-activate warning lights, the climb began in earnest.  Afteer about the first 600 vertical feet (think eight or so consecutive Campground Hills), you get a downhill, then you do it again until you reach 800 feet and the Oswald West State Park overlook, providing a spectacular view down the coast.  It is no longer a camping park.
     After three grueling hours I finally caught up with Bob in Tillamook, where we had a sandwich at the Tillamook Cheese works, now a major tourist attraction.  Some miles before the town I had overtaken three other southbound riders, a young man I'll call Blackbeard, who said he was "local," a 20-something woman laded with serious gear, and a man of about the same age, also heavily laden, and towing a one-wheel trailer.  One of them was riding all the way to San Diego, the other only as far as Santa Barbara.
     As the rain had long before stopped and the land flattened out, I switched to my Specialized, and with a steady breeze at my back, headed south on 101.  By doing so I was also taking bike shop Mike's route advice and bypassing what would have been the second,  and even more vertical, 800-foot headland of the day.
    Several miles south of T'mook, as the highway began to rise, I saw a group of riders resting on the shoulder. As I got nearer I recognized Blackbeard and company.  As I slowed and asked the obligatory, "Are you all right?", Blackbeard took a long draw on a stick of Oregon's best, exhaled, passed it on to the young woman and assured me things were cool.
     After a  relatively fast and comfortable 30 miles I rendevous'ed with Bob at 6:00 at a rest stop a little south of the crossroads of Oretown.  We drove the 51 miles to Seal Rock and the lovely seaview home of Bob's cousin Jean and her husband Charlie.  I had not seen Jean since Bob and I were still young, but did not get to renew my acquaintance with Charlie.  Although retired from the U.S. Forest Service, he still works on an on-call basis managing firefighting crews around the country, this time combatting a blaze in Georgia's Okefenooke.   We enjoyed an excellent, healthy, carb-rich dinner of Jean's tortilla soup and a good Oregon Chardonnay.
     Tomorrow morning, Bob will shuttle me back north to today's end point and return to Seal Rock to spend the day woth Cousin Jean.  I will ride the 51 miles back south and add another 20 or so before calling Bob to pick me up.  I'm looking forward to another pleasant and restful evening and night chez Jean.








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