Friday, September 22, 2017

2400


Trabajo 

"Do you smell that?" I grin as I look at Jon and point my nose up into the air. Enticing fragrance fills our nostrils. The wind billows over each row of strawberry plants. I'm eager to reach the fruit market in Moss Landing that I went to on my last tour. Some of the most fresh and tastiest fruit lives there. It was so good that it was a highlight of that trip!

The miles between us and the market seem to go on forever. I recognize the Moss Landing smoke stacks and they don't seem to be getting any closer. We crest a hill and see dozens of people -- all Latinos and Latinas -- working the strawberry fields frantically. The expression on the workers' faces was not one of ease. Jon and I ride by in silence, making no mention of what we had mutually witnessed. The fruit market was ahead.

We gaze in admiration at the rows of colorful produce as we circle the market. Jon always jokes that grocery stores are dangerous. Our metabolism curses us with a ferocious appetite. We always do a couple laps of the aisles to make sure we didn't miss out on any opportunities. We calorie count and weigh packages in our hands in order to find the foods with the most density. If it passes "the test," we scan for price tags for the final stamp of approval. We spend far too long doing all of this.

We feast on plums, pears, strawberries, mangos, and kiwi. Even more satisfying to know we only paid three dollars. I swallow a bite of strawberry and pause.

"That's so messed up."
"Wha-- Oh..." Jon pauses and remembers."
"Did you see those workers? They were running. I wonder if they're told to do that or --" 
"Yeah, fruit's not as innocent as you think it is."

I recall the scene from an hour ago. The rapid fire of a staple gun puts together cardboard crates. A man aboard a truck yells urgent directives in EspaƱol. One woman runs with a shouldered basket of harvest. I have this cultural instinct to look at the scene the same way that I look at roadkill. Ignore. Look away. The almond farms near Modesto, the orchards of Watsonville, the rows of artichoke and lettuce in Monterey County. The land tilled, planted, and picked by brown hands. This is America, the land I choose to travel.

'Za

"I think I'm gonna go dumpster diving," I chuckle to Jon. I shake my head at my bill as I settle up for a pint, cocktail, and fries. 

My head feels airy and the handlebars especially wobbly. We sometimes joke about how easily our adventure could be ended by injuries and/or poor judgment. 
Biking drunk? Broken collar bone. Tour over.
Sprinting for the California State sign and failing to see a curb? Eating cement. Tour over.
Balance thrown off from the case of beer we're carrying? Broken parts. Tour over.

I see a Papa John's across the street and get a lucky feeling. The gate to the dumpster easily unlatches and we peer in. Pizza boxes lay on top of leftover dough the size of a human body. I open one... two... and --

"ZA!" Jon exclaims. Artichoke pizzas and barbecue pizzas. We laugh giddily as we precariously carry a box of assorted slices up the switchback climb into camp.

40 Dates and 40 Nights

"So do you guys have girlfriends?" Patrick asks out of the blue. We've ridden with him for a few days since Monterey. He's good company and offers a refreshing change up to our chemistry.

McWay Waterfall, Cabrillo Highway
Jon and I look at each other. I can tell we are both hesitating and waiting for each other to start. We've told the story a few times. My ex is probably somewhere within 50 miles of us, touring the coast, and Jon just broke up with his girlfriend. I open my mouth, about to say something --

"Well, uh, are you guys dating?" Patrick raises an eyebrow. We hesitated too long.

I grin from ear to ear. Yes. Yes we are. I'm tempted to play along just to screw with him. This isn't the first time someone has made this assumption. Jon's mom read my blog and asked him if we're having a bromance. I think it's hilarious. If anything, it speaks to our friendship and compatibility as traveling partners.

"I mean, basically. We're on a forty day date," I chuckle.

Our ticket out of Big Sur -- Nacimiento-Fergusson Road, which climbs from sea level to 2800 feet in less than seven miles
Figueroa

Sunset, Refugio State Beach
We are "sleeping" on the patio of a coffee shop in Ventura, California. A semi-truck charges through Highway 101 less than a block away. I know that if I looked up at the sky, the stars would be extinguished by all of the light pollution. Several sets of bicycle tires skid on the sidewalk just as soon as pairs of eyes fondly look at our bikes.

"What?!" Jon yells.

I roll over in my sleep. He repeats himself. The inkling of consciousness in me freezes. I hear Jon talking to someone. It's three in the morning. I hear a gruff voice mumbling. Concern and defensiveness arise in my gut, but sleep beckons me back.

"I'm glad I was awake and our bikes were locked up." Jon says in the morning. Apparently many people were eyeing our bikes, then left in a hurry once they realized Jon and I were in our sleeping bags nearby. The sounds of the city made for a poor night's sleep. Thankfully we only have one more day to go. Jon has a quad shot of coffee and we are off.

Barrelhouse 101, Ventura CA -- 101 beers on tap!!
Arrival

The In-N-Out fries and shake don't sit well in my stomach. After all, I am lactose intolerant. It's a "treat" that I've been waiting for in order to reward myself at journey's end. Quite evidently I have poor self control.

We arrive at the Santa Monica Pier. End. A flock of tourists flies through the theme park, gawking at the street performers.

"What now?" He asks. "It looks like everyone just comes here to take a selfie."

"Yeah..." My eyes glaze over. Somehow this seems anticlimactic. Somehow this seems like it hasn't been hard. Should it have been? I internalize all of the obstacles we took to get here. The roaring winds in the canyons. The failing equipment. The dried up riverbeds of the Oregon high desert. The hunger and knee pain and back aches. The blistering heat of Nevada. The fight against gravity in the Sierras. The lungfuls of smoke at altitude.

I feel these things in my past and I know they made even the most mundane experiences blissful and exhilarating. Some people shook their heads at us when they learned what we were doing. I would have doubted myself too if I hadn't known that nobody got anywhere in life by taking the well-travelled road. It takes a little oomph, a little grit, a little crazy.

I get a few ideas stirring in my head. "I think I know what's next," I grin at Jon.

Sunday, September 10, 2017

Ascension

The Brighter Side

Jon and I double check that we have everything as we load up our bikes. Heather and Marco's garage is chock full of outdoor equipment that could easily be mistaken for ours or vice versa. I carefully set my belongings in a separate pile. Jon finishes to pack his bags.

Heather bids us goodbye. Marco pokes his head around the corner.
"Do you guys want a cookie on the way out?" He says with eager eyes.  Jon and quickly looks up and sets his last belonging down on a workbench, and not in his bag.
We were still full from the night before.
Jon's Blue Steel and Mount Shasta
"Oh, I think I'm okay..." Jon smiles politely.
"It's a ganja cookie..." Marco cocks an eyebrow.
"Oh..." Jon and I look at each other, surprised.

We settle in along a cool and roaring creek after a long day of rolling hills. Jon swears and stomps his foot. 
"My headlamp..."
"What?!"
"I left it at Marco's!"
I play with a ginger snap cookie in my hand and laugh at the irony. Thankfully the stars were magnificent that night.

Boiling Point

The day before, I checked the weather and saw an unexpected warning: "the valley will reach temperatures upwards of 108 to 112 degrees Fahrenheit." Not being locals, and everything seeming a little extra mountainous in the last week, Jon and I concluded we were not in any "valley." A long descent along a river proved us wrong. 

Not even 20 minutes into the day, we both unzip our jerseys for ventilation. By noon, it is already over 90 degrees. The hot air penetrates the shade as it climbs well into 100 degrees. A much needed stop for an indoor lunch only makes going back outside much worse.

"You know that feeling when you go to take cookies out of the oven and you just feel hot air in your face?"
We both laugh, but in nervous misery.

Sapphire blue water near Lassen Peak, Volcanic Scenic Highway
We begin moving again out of obligation. I ask Jon to stop pedaling so I can diagnose something on his bike. His wheel wobbles violently, which is symptomatic of a broken spoke. I feel nervous to tell Jon about anything that is wrong with his bike. He's had a lot of misfortune when it comes to his bike holding up, mechanics doing wrong by him, or salesman up-selling him.

Thankfully in a tourist town, we stop at a bike shop to buy a spoke. The one staff member seems ill-prepared and -equipped for Labor Day Weekend business. I explain our situation and it soon becomes clear that he doesn't know how to help us solve our problem (to which he doesn't admit). He offers to let us behind the counter to do the work ourselves. I am hesitant because I know it is a liability issue. However the urgency of our situation takes precedence over formalities in my mind.

I sequence the procedure in my head. The heat gets to me and I wipe sweat from my forehead, taking care not to get grease all over my face. My hands tremble in anxiety. Perfect timing, I scoff.

We were treated to a gorgeous sunset in the Sierras that evening
By the time I finish, we see the first signs of golden hour, and we still have 25 miles to go with lots of climbing. It is still above 95 degrees. Jon and I both worry about how the day will end and how the next day will start. Biking, setting up camp, and eating in the dark are less than favorable conditions, not to mention starting again after little downtime.

My temper is simmering and I know it will carry on into the day if I don't do something about it. Jon buys an Italian soda float and pays for my "stress cone" next door.

To date, that is the most frustrated I have ever been while eating an ice cream cone.


The "I" in Team

Golden hour in Lake Tahoe
A green sign reads "Lee Summit." Jon makes a hard acceleration for a good while. He taps into his matchbox of energy and burns one or two just to claim the mountain pass that coincides with his last name. I follow but I have no rebuttal in the gas tank. I grit my teeth not in defeat, but because I am suffering. He pulls away from me. It is the small rewards that matter. 

The entire tour has been an informal race. Each city, county, and state limit is a finish line. The toughest days are when we surf the highways all day. It is not uncommon to see nearly a dozen signs on these days.

There is an art to racing. How many matches can I make him burn? When do I GO? Can I get away with a cheap shot? Can I feign tiredness or a cramp in order to get the jump? Has he had more caffeine and sugar than I have today? When will that Coca Cola and jelly beans kick in?


The "We" in Suffer

You are only as fast as your slowest teammate. 
- WWU Cycling Team



It is difficult to tell whether or not we are climbing. The canyon narrows and towers higher but the road seems to point down. The wind howls in our faces and I am taking big pulls (a turn at the front blocking the wind) for Jon and slowing down to his pace. I know he is hurting by the way he clutches his back and hangs his head. He laments that he would rather ride Lassen Peak (elev 8511 ft) twice than go south on this dreary stretch of 395. Miles later, the hum of our tires on pavement ceases. I turn to him.

"I'm glad you're here, man. Thank you."

Smoke rolling in through Tioga Pass, Yosemite National Park
Sun beaming down through storm clouds, Tuolumne Meadows, Yosemite National Park
Oyster

Jon uses my draft to slingshot past me. I accelerate hard to get into his slipstream. The gap between us and the cars tailing us grows larger. A steady speed of 40 miles per hour propels us down into Yosemite Valley. The landscape commands our attention with unfathomable scale and depth. I signal to stop and we both know why. Bliss overcomes us and we laugh and cry.

I feel birthed into a new world of wonders. The air anoints me with smoke in my lungs, salt on my skin, and rays of intense sun on my back. A resounding call echoes off of the gargantuan domes. It tells me: I am alive.

Half Dome, Yosemite National Park
Tunnel View, Yosemite National Park