Blog 17

July 18

   The mail wasn't available until 11:00, so I had plenty of time to kick around Fort Bragg for even longer than I wanted to.  I had pretty much resolved myself to the fact that I wan't going to get the gloves until my trip was done, so it was only minorly disappointing when they didn't arrive.  I'd paid good money for them, however, and was solidly bent on eventually tracking them down.  After consulting with the post office lady, I filled out a card with a relative's address in Palo Alto and rode out into the fog.  

   For some reason, I had been growing increasingly hungry for the last week or so, and honestly couldn't remember a time when I'd actually been full in that time period.  In an attempt to get myself even close to enough food, I'd fallen into the habit of eating lots of $1 390 calorie McDonald's cheeseburgers.  Fort Bragg had a McDonalds on the south edge of town, so of corse I pulled in and laid down my $2 for a bit of lunch.  Back outside, I reorganized my stuff to make room for the food and rode off.  2 miles down the road I realized I'd forgotten to actually put the bag in my pannier.  Hoping that the homeless people loitering about hadn't noticed my mistake and snatched my calories, I turned around and pedaled as fast as I could back to the restaurant.  Fortunately, the sandwiches where right where I'd left them, and after a quick double check to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything else I retraced my earlier tracks.

   If I remember correctly, I actually had a tailwind today, and was thus motivated to push myself and my speed to the the upper limit of sanity.  It was seriously fun, and I now realize one of the reasons why.  

   Recently, I was talking to this hyper active middle aged college graduate drug addict homeless woman, and she mentioned, "you know, long distance running and bicycling release some of the same chemicals that heroine does".  Now that she'd mentioned it, I do seem to recall hearing that at some point in the past.  I'm afraid I can't provide a side by side comparison, but I can say that cycling is addictive.

   So anyway, I was cranking 20mph down the rugged hilly coastline, through the cool mist, with the wind at my back.  I was hungry, was missing a pannier, and nearing the end of my trip.  But I was having the time of my life.  Maybe the drug effect becomes stronger the longer you ride for, or maybe it was the extra effort I was putting out today, but I was up in the clouds, no longer on earth.

   My destination of Gulala Point Park was before me in no time, and I set about my usual campsite routine of showering, eating, and setting up my tarp.  I was once again sharing the hiker biker area with one other person, this time a guy named Shane of 30 or so.  Shane had quit his job, cashed in his 401k, and packed up some stuff and his cat onto a bike he'd purpose build for wandering America.  It was quite the rig, fully loaded with panniers plus a BOB trailer that had been altered to fit the cat box.

   There was also a bunch of other cyclists who where riding on a supported tour.  While waiting for the single shower, I chatted with some of them, and later ended up with a bunch of food from one of the women in the group.

   Speaking of food, I seriously needed some.  I had stopped at a close by supermarket on my way in and snagged some chocolate milk and a small french baguette, which I ate with jam while cooking my customary 4 hot dogs.  Later, Shan said "What do you think about barbecuing some chicken?"  I told him I thought that it was an excellent idea.  

   "You fly I buy?"

   "Sounds good to me"

30 minutes later I was back with 8 chicken drumsticks, a bottle of Sweet Baby Ray's, and another 1/2 gallon of chocolate milk.  Shane had purchased some firewood, and with the help of some of my spare stove fuel, soon had a fire going.  4 pieces of chicken and another quart of chocolate milk later, I was actually comfortably full for the first time in quite a while.

   Shane had stayed at the campground before, and warned me about the raccoons.  Apparently they were quite bold, and would descend on the campground like the plague as soon as darkness fell.  Almost as if it had been waiting for the cue, we suddenly heard a feral snarl from the direction of Shane's tent.  Sure enough, it was a raccoon, and had been surprised by Shane's cat.  Living up to reputation, it didn't even flinch when Shane approached, and it took a forcefully hurled chunk of firewood to get rid of the the thing.  

   Hoping the wild animals wouldn't take an interest in my face, I climbed under my tarp and fell asleep.

July 19

   Sarge had given me some ideas for where to stay the night before I rode into SF, and I decided to make for Samuel P Taylor State Park (SPTSP).  Once again, the riding was beautiful.  For some reason, highway 1 took a bit of a jog inland, and I got to see some agricultural land.  The downside was that as soon as I got off the coast, the wind once again swung into my face.  Soon enough I was back on the water, and riding on nearly deserted roadway past little towns.  It was very damp; there was a thick mist that seemed perpetually suspended in the air.  Because of this, everything was covered in thick green algae, or something similar.  It had an interesting effect on what it covered, and made things look uncared for, abandoned.  

   Anyway, I actually didn't know exactly where this state park was, and stopped at a restaurant to see if I could get some directions.  The restaurant was closed for the day, but a friendly guy outside with a smartphone was able to point me in the right direction.  After riding through a bit of a touristy looking town, I turned left onto Sir Frances Drake Boulevard and continued on.  

   I had once again pounded it out pretty hard during most of the day, and climbing up over the ridge that separated me from the SPTSP was slow going.  To make matters worse, the cement road became very bumpy, with large height differences between the slabs.  After a few miles of enduring this, I finally made it to the campground.  Except the campground didn't have any room.

   Apparently, there was only supposed to be a certain number of campers in the h/b area, and there were already that many there.  Fortunately, the young woman at the check in booth wasn't a stickler for rules, and with a quick pucker of her lips said, "oh well, as long as they have room for you, it's fine with me".  Of course, the eclectic group at the campsite not only had room for me, but offered me some dinner as well.  

   That night, I once again had animal problems.  I had anticipated that, however, and put all my food into the onsite bear box, leaving only my panniers exposed.  Sometime during the night, I was awakened by a raccoon going through my panniers, apparently attracted by my dishwashing scrubby.  He was not at all afraid of me, and it a large rock to convince him to vacate the premises.  

July 20

   This, I am afraid, is the narration of the final day of my journey.  

   Upon waking up, one of the first things on my mind was figuring out how I was going to get into San Francisco.  I didn't have a map detailed enough to navigate by, and really had now clue how I was going to make it to the bridge.  Instead of just heading for a freeway and enduring the traffic, I decided to ask some of my fellow cyclists if I could check out their maps. Mel and Holly, a pair of post-college girls from Canada, were also ending their journey in SF, and instead of just giving me directions they suggested we ride together.  After a brief moment of considering if this was how I wanted to end my ride, I accepted.  

   Before we made it into populated areas, we still had a bit of hillage to ride over.  Apparently, the road we were on was a cyclist stomping ground, and we were passed by dozens of yuppies clad in team colors astride composite bikes that probably cost 3 times what my car is worth.  From the perspective of living on our bikes for the last few months, the whole cultural act of fitting in with your Italian bike, $130 jersey, and color coordinated sunglasses was pretty fake, and we made appropriate remarks to each other as each ego-obsessed cyclist passed by.  Even if they were ego-obsessed, I still envied their 17 pound bicycles a bit as we labored up an especially large climb.  At least I kept up with a knot of them as I cranked 40mph down the far side, outdistancing the girls.

   Within 10 or 20 miles, we where out of the wilderness and into the Sausalito area.  It was still fairly early in the morning, and I don't think any of us really wanted to see the bridge that would signal the end of our respective trips.  So, we took our time and rode slowly as Holly guided us through a mess of civilization from the map zip-tied to her handlebars.  As we rode, we talked, telling each other about the experiences we'd had on our tours.  Holly and Mel lived on Vancouver Island, and the whole idea had been Holly's idea.  Apparently, it took some convincing, but eventually Mel had climbed aboard the crazy train and purchased a bike and gear.  

   The closer we got, the slower we went, taking every excuse we could dream up to stop.  A tourist welcome center, bike shop, and mexican restaurant where all utilized to kill time, and I think we where all extra careful to enjoy the whole thing as much as we could.  Inevitably, the time came when we had to part ways, as the girls were headed to a hostel north of the bridge, and I was headed to a warmshowers host in the city.  It was a sad parting, as we where not only saying goodbye to new friends, but to the end of an amazing journey.  

   Finally, after 3,200 miles and two months, I rolled my bike onto the golden gate bridge.  Incidentally, the bridge was wreathed in fog so heavy that I couldn't see the top.  As I rode over, I tried to reflect back on what had happened in those last two months.

  

 On hardship.

   It is my sincere belief that americans need more hardship.  During this trip, I didn't have many of the amenities that we have grown used to.  Instead of having a bed with a roof over my head every night, I slept in whatever place I could find that particular night.  When it rained, or if it was terribly hot, I often didn't have the option of simply retreating indoors and watching a film.  Because of my tight budget and massive calorie requirements, my food wasn't exactly gourmet.  I couldn't even make coffee in the evening.

   Instead of disliking this lack of comforts though, I found myself enjoying them, or at least the effects of them.  Simply put, I've discovered that my brain works better when I'm not perfectly comfortable.  Comfort kills creativity.  It seemed that the worse the situation was, the sharper my mind seemed to be.  Of course, this is a reaction of necessity, but I found it refreshing nevertheless.

   Another reason for hardship was that it increased my appreciation of what people tend to take for granted.  During this trip, I realized that I'm not really the hardcore backpacker sort, that I still really like coffee, that I still really like sushi.  However, the best way to enjoy something is if you can see it from a perspective at the opposite end of the spectrum.  Because I've had the experience of being forced to live off hotdogs and oatmeal for an extended period, I'm able to see coffee and sushi for the luxuries they are, and consequently enjoy them that much more. 

   

On people

   Without people, this trip wouldn't have been nearly the event that it was. Throughout it, I met many different people with wildly different perspectives, viewpoints, and life experience than mine.  

   Probably what I appreciated most about the variety of different people I met was getting to discuss with them what they believed/thought.  I grew up in rural west Michigan, where there isn't a lot of cultural diversity.  Of course, I knew about what other people thought, and in some cases had even studied it, but often was experiencing it for the first time when I talked to new people.  The effect of this was unbelievably beneficial, and truly expanded my horizons of the world.  For example, from a biblical standpoint feminism is obviously a flawed view point, and if your were to try to have an "argument" with someone who shares your view it's going to be a pretty short one.  However, if you happen to stumble upon the subject while talking with someone who happens to be a feminist, you will suddenly hear a lot of new questions presented in a way you've never heard them before.  

   Really, it's impossible to have a well rounded view of a subject when you've only been exposed to it in a sterile, academic environment.  There will always be a blindingly obvious question that you will never think of unless you genuinely believe something.

   Not all my encounters with other people involved debate.  In fact, most of the people I met shared many of my own opinions.  This was one of the more enjoyable bits for me.  Of course, most of the other cyclo-travers I met had lots in common with me, but many of the people I stayed with where also on the same bandwidth of thought as I am.  I had many good conversations with people questioning the system, discussing education, and becoming frightfully lost in philosophy. 

   

On zen

   I can just hear all you back in Michigan going "Oh no, Marc's finally gone off the deep end".  Just take a deep breath, relax and be reassured that I have not "gone off the deep end".  What I have been doing, however, is reading a book called Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.  In it, the author, Robert M. Pirsig, takes a motorcycle trip over almost exactly the same ground I rode.  During the course of the journey, he discusses a variety of topics, which all eventually come to a philosophical climax.  One of the things he mentions is how sometimes it takes something like a long journey to clear the mind, to allow someone to see the world clearly.  I can genuinely say I experienced what he was talking about.  As I rode further and further into the trip, something grew more and more still.  It was as if the wind that constantly ruffled a pond had slowly died, letting the water settle to a mirror into which one could look and finally see a reflection of the world for the first time.  That, combined with the addictive effects of cycling, and the constantly foggy atmosphere of the northern pacific coast, created a transcendent world for me in which all that existed was me, my bike, and my thoughts.

   So it was with mixed emotions that I crossed into San Francisco.  I can't say I was ready for the trip to be over, but sometimes that's the best way to end.  What I can say is that without a doubt, bicycling across the northern part of Americas was the most amazing thing I've ever done.

 

     

   

   

Afterward

   After hanging out in SF for a few days I drafted a Semi down to Palo Alto, where I stayed with my uncle for 9 days or so.  I then flew to Hawaii, and after spending a night in the wilds of some HNL landscaping, boarded a Cessna and flew to my final destination of Maui, where I now have a place to live and will soon be starting employment at RadioShack.  If you have any questions or would like to hear more stories of my adventures, hit me up on Facebook, m.wilson1011110@gmail.com, or (734)262-1837.  Thanks for reading the blog!!

   

Foggy bridge, clear mind