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
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