Monday, August 28, 2017

Nomad

Alone

Jon and I shake hands and wish each other luck. Immediately, a steep canyon climb transitions into a gravel ridge that falls and rises rapidly. There are no visible cars or towns in the distance; merely a graveyard of wind turbines amongst various dead grass fields. This is where the wind goes to die and be birthed again.

The descent into Antelope, OR from Shan
My back starts to ache from the pack I am carrying, this time with a full pouch of water. Before long, I become conscious of my ration of water. 5 sips per hour. 15 ounces per hour. Channel your inner camel, Jim. The day peaks at 93 degrees.

63 miles in, I arrive at my planned destination -- Shaniko, Oregon. Nearly deserted, were it not for the curious travelers marveling at the ol' Western town. I filter water from a hose and press on, risking isolation. Never have I ever treated water so valuable.

Two hours before sunset is the magic number. Just enough time to settle in comfortably, wherever that may be. This time it is at a county road intersection with deep gravel. 

I notice the irrigation next to my three buddies (some cows) for the night. Jon joked about filtering poop water in case we get desperate. The route I am taking is known for extremely limited services and water, not to mention that over two thirds of it is unpaved. Maybe not today... 60 ounces left. 

Water Boy

40 ounces left. I took sips throughout the night, and apparently my protein bar breakfast took a lot of water to wash down. I use a slow-to-load Google Maps to identify any sources of water. The terrain is carved out from glaciers and rivers from ages ago. Bingo. A creek 16 miles down my route, next to a small town called Ashwood.

My legs struggle to overcome the morning lull. The smoke from the Western Oregon fires makes the air heavy in my lungs. I pause at the bridge into Ashwood and peer over the side... Nothing. Dried up, save for the thick algae substance bubbling with flies and water skimmers. I knock on doors of the nearly abandoned town... Nothing. I silently hope for a roadside savior, and unwillingly move on. 

Miles and miles of barbed wire separate me from scattered puddles of water in the creek bed. I sip at my Camelbak but only get air. It starts to drizzle. I open my mouth  to catch a few drops and take a moment to distract myself with the sight of something I haven't seen in a while -- my skin glistening in the rain. It is 45 miles (plus a mountain pass climb) to the next town that I know has services. I am losing hope. 

I spot my last chance -- irrigation water. I laugh to myself about the previous night's thoughts and Jon's words. I spend a good time filtering and re-filtering everything. Here we go.

Flesh

His tank top reveals his well-built stature -- and absurd tan lines.
"I got into an accident and ended up with someone else's arms," joking about the remarkable difference between the color of his forearm and his bicep. Josh brandishes his tan fingers, which all have a sharp transition pale knuckles and pale palms (otherwise known as the glove tan). I try to contain my laughter but the beer in my belly removes my hand from my mouth and throws my head back into an uproar of a laugh. He takes a moment to generously sip from his third beer, then oddly takes a spoonful of oatmeal for dessert.

Connor slyly makes a move to claim the bed between the three of us. 
"Oh, you would!" Josh teases.
"Go on then!" Connor retaliates in a heavy New Zealand accent.

"Do you two bike through the night often?" June asks them.
"Well, ah, we like to take our time in the mornings," Josh giggles.
"Well with your 110 mile ride to Eugene tomorrow, I'm sure you'd like to check out the Deschutes Brewery in the morning first? They open at 8." Neil's sarcasm first came to me as a surprise. Perhaps it was the soft features and warm voice that made me think he was incapable of teasing. He still manages to be playful and loving.

Michelle steps through the front door.
"Awwhh, you guys are having a little family dinner!" She takes a seat at the table.
She nods towards June and Neil. "Maybe ya'll should stop hosting bicycle tourists," she laughs. She shifts her focus to Connor, Josh, and I. "I always seem to be injured the day before one of you guys rolls through!" 
Michelle smirks as she tells us about the time she danced with a guy who was so uncoordinated that he elbowed her in the forehead and caused a good-sized welt.
"Buuuuut, he was kind of cute!" June admits.

Neil teases June throughout the night. I see his hand move to her thigh every now and then. Yawns are passed around the table and we all say goodnight to each other. I hear giggles from behind the bedroom door as my eyelids become heavy. 

Peanut Butta

I talk myself through how hysterically awful the road conditions are. "Yaaaaaay, bikes are so fun!.." The washouts and brake bumps pump my arms to the point of irritation as I sink into every crevice. I feel the weight of my bike shift and slow in the red and grey sand. 10 miles of descent is normally something a cyclist looks forward to, especially after a 2400 foot climb. I can't make up my mind whether or not I made the right decision to press on.

I spent a few hours at Newberry Crater gaping at the ancient obsidian, lanky pines, and fish leaping through the air above Paulina Lake. The mass of tourists and lack of available camping spots made it hard for me to breathe in my own space.

I spend the night in an abandoned US Forest Service station. I check all the corroded faucets and the knobs let out a dry and eerie squeak. When I wake, it is below 40 degrees. I had forgotten what it felt like to be cold. 

The next parts of the route are said to be the hardest. The Red Sauce Forest and the OC & E Trail have a fine mix of gravel, rocks, and deep sand, not travelled heavily enough by cars or bikes to make a firm packed line of travel. I glide over every stretch of Red Sauce, having earned some extra grit from the Paulina descent. But it is the heat of the day that breaks me on the OC&E. 96 degrees even seems to make the rocks melt.

"Like riding through peanut butta," I recall Jon saying. Yes. And how I wish I could just lie down and make peanut butter angels and eat peanut brittle and peanut butter ice cream.

Monday, August 21, 2017

Exodus

Snoqualmie Tunnel, John Wayne/Iron Horse Trail, WA
Another One

"DEEEE JAAAAAY KHALED!!" I exclaim as we meander through Lake Stevens, Washington. 
"WE THE BEST MUSIC!!"  
"Another one!"

The entire day was comprised of throwbacks and irreverent music blasting out of the small but powerful speaker housed in Jon's handlebar bag. I am surprised at how much more energy I am afforded through the music as opposed to when I belt out a Katy Perry tune when traveling alone.

"You like eggs, huh?" Jon smirked as he told me about his grandma's famous cooking. Later that evening, we rolled -- rather, grimaced (the hills are steep) -- up into Seattle. 

I was reminded of home and my identity as a first generation American as I sit back and watch the dynamic of the Lee family. Jon replies in English to his grandma, of which I was certain she was expressing her concern, but of course in Cantonese. 

We are seated at a circular dining table with a prepared feast in front of us. I serve myself a large helping of rice, cabbage, mushrooms, and a scramble. Jon's dad, Alan, artfully moves his chopsticks towards me, picking up and dropping more cabbage along the way in one swift motion. "Here, have some more."

"Oh, thank you," I smile politely, becoming aware of my belly's roundness. I'm too well fed, I think to myself.


Like Cake

"That was awesome!" Jon exclaims with the usual wide eyes. "It was so cool how everyone there was into bikes!" Elaine, our host in Yakima, took us to a gathering that evening. I still can't get over how good the food was. Grilled peppers, elaborate steak dishes, pasta salads, roasted potatoes, chocolate cake...

I wonder how long we can coast off of this meal for. Jon and I played around with the idea for a while, reminiscing about the meal that was probably twice as big as what we should have eaten. Everyone at the party cautioned us about the difficulty of the day ahead. Yakima to Biggs Junction -- 95 miles with a healthy mountain pass climb in between. 


Yakima River Canyon, WA
The last few days have been a period of adjustment for both of us. Between waking up, riding, eating, sleeping, and just living, Jon and I have had to meet somewhere in the middle. By the end of the week, we will have done 450 miles. It's hard to encapsulate exactly what that feels like in our bones, our joints, our muscles, our heads.

I grow increasingly worried about the challenges of the upcoming week. Jon and I are separating so that he can take care of some business back home and I can continue south. I'm going into some deep and isolated sections of Oregon, on dirt and away from civilization. Nothing to worry about if I can keep finding chocolate cake along the way. I settle into a plush bed and the Yakima crickets lull me to sleep.

Payday

"What's your favorite candy bar?" He asks out of the blue. We pass a lot of time just by talking about food. I had just chugged an Orange Crush soda and eaten half of his PopTart. I stare methodically beyond expansive dry fields of Goldendale, Washington. Mount Hood and Rainier tower at the opposite ends of my periphery. It's been a long day of riding a desolate Highway 97. All I want is more sugar. I proceed to explain my favorite candy and we discuss the nuances of chocolate, nuts, and sweeteners. Our conversation is cut short by an exhilarating descent into the Columbia River Basin.

He smirks as he pulls out two Pay Days, perfectly intact despite the heat of the day. I shake my head with guilty pleasure, knowing he carried those for 75 miles.

Between bites of peanutty goodness, we marvel at the explosion of twinkles and dust in the night sky. 

"Not too sweet for a candy bar... a very underrated thing." 
"Dude, yeah!" His eyes widen. Jon has a way of energizing the conversation with the intonation of his voice. "It's like the type of candy old people would like!"
Old people candy," I chuckle to myself, sharply exhaling through my nose.

Exodus

A mass of tourists crowds the neatly organized pillars of rock. I look below and Jon is rounding the final bend of the climb up to the Stonehenge memorial in Maryhill, Washington. Jon jokes that we've biked to Scotland.

"Dude, that was rough." I high five him.
"My knees are feelin' it." His head is hung and the way he pedals conveys his pain. I apologize.

We've been accustomed to being dirty, and our ashy dry skin shows it. We plop down on a dirt patch and take out a pair of paper glasses. "Time to press our sweaty faces together!" We previously agreed on splitting the glasses because everywhere else was out of stock or upselling them. The ambient light dims but the blue sky remains. Mount Hood becomes a mere silhouette. I peer through the paper glasses and see a dark shadow moving across the big hard sun. In mere moments it is finished. 


"Ready to get hit by a car?!" I joke. People flocking home in their RVs makes for bad cycling. His mouth hangs open and his nose wrinkles. It's a laugh that fuels more laughs. Within minutes, the crowd thins and the air is still. Like fish in a pond avoiding a sinking rock.

We mount our bikes and our tires churn and sink through the gravel parking lot.

"To Cinnabon?" 
"To Cinnabon."


I giggle to myself maniacally while crossing over into Oregon, knowing that I was more excited to cram sugar in my mouth than I was to witness the event of a lifetime.

Sunday, August 13, 2017

When The Rain Comes, When The Smoke Clears

This idea was planted in my head when my friend Jon said he might get a new bike back in January. "Dude, let's go touring!" The next few weeks included discussions about where we would go, how long we'd be gone for, what we'd carry. In the following months, both of us sent periodic texts saying, "Yo, we still going?" A few days would pass and the reply would say something along the lines of, "I dunno dude, my boss isn't too keen on the idea of me being gone for 40 days..." Even tonight -- 36 hours before the trip -- it seems surreal, yet it is indeed happening. Bellingham to Los Angeles by bike.



~

 We are eagerly awaiting for the drive-thru line to scoot forward. It is 10:30 p.m., and to our delight, the Gig Harbor McDonalds is still serving ice cream unlike Burger King. I was frustrated at being turned down ice cream earlier that night, but Mikey, having restaurant experience, explained to me the process of cleaning out a soft serve machine (apparently it sucks). I hand Mikey his large strawberry shake, and I alternate between a bite of fresh strawberries and licking my ice cream cone. I'm an idiot, I think to myself. Long after close, I drove across town to pick up Mikey and have him unlock my workplace just to pick up my lights and stove that I had forgotten earlier in the day.

~

Given the spell of heat, dry days, and smoke from the northern wildfires, I welcomed the pattern of rain and mist splattered on the windshield. I'm nearly nodding off while driving because of how late I stayed up, packing and re-packing everything. Don't forget the TP. Don't forget the TP. Dad is explaining to me the long period of stress he's encountered with buying a house, dealing with drama and work, and his health. I feel sorry to leave him behind. I brush off a few strands of fur from my pant leg. I wish you could come too, Colby.