💾 Archived View for gemini.spam.works › mirrors › textfiles › fun › CAA › gecaa-19 captured on 2020-10-31 at 23:21:25.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan 7 17:22:38 1991
To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-19
A WEEK OF MOVEMENT!
#19 in the second online CAA series
by
Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)
Mendocino, CA; 11,324 miles (see NOTE)
January 12, 1987
(NOTE: Mileage from now on will include my first 10,000-mile trip, of which
this is, in essence, a part. Actually, it was 9,760, but I rode another 240 in
central Ohio last summer to simplify the arithmetic.)
Rolling! Suddenly the deeply familiar texture of life on the road mingles
again with the chronic unfamiliarity of daily movement. In the week since
leaving Eureka, our range of experiences has been so diverse that only the most
abstract of themes could begin to capture the overall flavor. So... rather
than maunder on philosophically about lifestyle sampling, constant change,
strangeness and all that, I offer a collection of daily snapshots:
Day 1: Ferndale
It was with deep relief that we pedaled away from Eureka, though the
sadness of leaving our friends was tangible. Real tears, last- minute gifts,
hugs, a cannon salute, and then the familiar streets that suddenly, almost
shockingly, became passing scenery. This slow cycle -- stopping, meeting,
staying, leaving -- is the bass note in the music of my journey. I work in
tenor, play in alto, pedal in soprano...
The first stop was Ferndale, home of Hobart Brown: metal sculptor, museum
curator, kinetic race organizer, local celebrity, ex- Okie (from the town of
Hobart, naturally), accidental guru, astrologer, and self-styled "happiest man
on earth." Hobart is an epicenter of successful eccentricity, with legions of
groupies, admirers, imitators, and sycophants -- as well as a few envious
enemies who accuse him of everything from scandalous behavior to devil worship.
And his house, well...
Imagine a cavernous Victorian mansion, occupied for 20 years by a man
obsessed with playful sculpture. There are secret rooms, trapdoors, tunnels,
symbolic towering creations of copper and brass, suspended fanciful flying
machines, crazy memorabilia of a fun-filled life, posters on the ceilings,
private jokes, Things That Move By Themselves, spooky little dark places,
tangled excesses of twisted plumbing, one cat, and an ancient freezer-burnt
pork chop nailed to the wall. Through it all moves Hobart, fiftyish,
arthritic, soft- spoken and twinkling -- always happy, philosophical without
being heavy-handed about it, returning every few hours to the welding torch and
his latest diorama of castles and magic.
Not a bad place to display the bikes and spend a weekend writing about the
future of process control in the chemical industry -- and yes, Ferndale has
been added to that bulging database of places to which I must someday return.
Day 2: Ferndale to Redcrest
Into the forest -- the famed Avenue of Giants. The theme in this area is
the 43,000 acres of redwood groves: tourists flock to see 'em; astute
businessmen, knowing that the naked grandeur of megatrees isn't enough for
gawkers, turn them into Attractions. There's a redwood you can drive through,
one 2,000-year-old monster carved into a 42-ton house, a hollow one known as
the chimney tree, yet another dubbed "immortal." Next to each has sprouted a
colony of gift shops and accommodations -- you can buy live burls, polished
slabs, trinkets, seeds, postcards, clocks, gifts, furniture, sculpture, little
placards of folk wisdom, and all the usual touristy junk. Billboards advertise
the endless human embellishments to what's already perfect... but then, that's
the nature of the trade. At least THESE trees are protected from the logging
companies, which would happily hack 'em down in an instant if given the chance.
Nightfall found us in Redcrest -- at a motel I shall always remember for
its unwatchable television (between the immovable TV set and the immovable bed
stands a solid wood post, wide enough to fully block the screen). But the
grounds were stalked by peacocks, silky chickens, and guinea hens; when we
pedaled off in the morning a neighbor hailed us to see his collection of
Japanese Koi -- like a marriage of carp and goldfish -- in his homemade
fountains. Ya just never know.
Day 3: Redcrest to Miranda
But that could hardly have prepared us for Miranda, land of the thousand
pizzas. After a short 20-mile ride of continuing redwood drama spiced with
conversation on the Garberville repeater, we stopped at the Redwood Palace.
Finding places to stay has become strategically critical: the towns are far
apart, the days are short, and it's too cold for camping with our wimpy
lightweight sleeping bags. We sat in the parking lot and discussed our few
Garberville- area contacts (the closest 10 miles off the highway on a hilly
dirt road), when a lady burst grinning from the doorway with a shout and a
camera. "I don't believe it! You're really here!" Turns out she had spoken
with Hobart...
In short order we were installed in the guest house, plied with beer, and
presented to all who passed by as the event of the season. The bikes were on
display until closing time, and we found ourselves surrounded by the energetic
personalities of Harry and Carol (the proprietors) and their countless friends.
The local oil baron from the gas station, the science teacher, the traveling
sales rep, the high-school kids, the truckers, the marijuana growers, the
trickle of off-season tourists... all evening the swirl of south Humboldt life
drew us into its voracious vortex, hungry for adventure and entertainment and a
teasing hint of that wild wonderful world outside these cold winter redwoods...
Ah yes, the pizzas: as the lucky recipient of their 1,000th pizza, we had
dinner on the house (though we did have to go back to the kitchen and make it
ourselves). Sometimes treats have nothing to do with our bikes at all...
Day 4: Miranda to Leggett
By now you're getting the idea that daily movement becomes a blur of
changing scenes, highlighted here and there by human delights. This day was one
of exhausted pulls up long grades, the blasting passage of trucks and campers,
ongoing ham radio chitchat, and the slowly nearing town of Leggett -- the place
where we would diverge at last from busy Highway 101 to take on the highest
hill of the west coast bike route. Softened by the long Eureka layover, the
ride was taking its toll; we staggered into Leggett and rented a cabin, cuddled
under the covers, nibbled cheese and crackers, and stared at the fuzzy black
and white images from the only available TV station... Eureka. Odd effect:
news from there had the flavor of news from home. We nudged each other over
changes in the transit system, fires -- even the tide reports.
Day 5: Leggett to Fort Bragg
Oooh. This was it. We stepped out into a 36-degree morning, fixed my
13th flat tire in 11 thousand-odd miles, and began with a short freezing
descent. Frost on the foliage. Violent shivers. The occasional incredulous
driver. And a sense that the ocean was yet far, far away.
That notion was quickly reinforced, though not in a painful way. The climb
was manageable: 3 mph for a couple of granny-gear hours, sweat-soaked shirts
clinging to skin in the brisk morning air, light courteous traffic, puffs of
breath hanging still in the mist. As the altimeter slowly climbed, the clouds
thinned... and thinned... and then dropped away completely to reveal a blazing
vista of sunlit cloud-tops puddled in the folds of low mountains like snow in
the frozen tracks of cosmic bulldozers.
We stopped at the summit to take it all in, walking from one side to the
other, west to east, east to west, pointing out the sights like a couple of
interplanetary explorers perched on the first available promontory of a new
world. Success.
And then down, the other reward, the thing that differentiates hills from
headwinds. Dozens of switchbacks, tight and smooth, the sensation of skiing
tangible in the rhythmic dance of a fast descent. On a recumbent, there's a
feeling of wild openness, the exact opposite of the tuck position of a
10-speed; when the speed climbs, the whole world, not just the road surface,
blurs into an impressionistic confusion of streaked light and color. By the
time the sparkling surf welcomed us back to the Pacific, the dreaded Leggett
Hill had become a sweet memory of concentrated beauty, physical triumph, and
pure unalloyed bliss.
A mile or so down the road, I stopped to offer assistance to an old maroon
Washington state Eldorado driven by a tubby Shriner and his nervous wife. The
right rear wheel was smoking heavily, reeking of charred brake composites.
"Want me to call for help?" I asked, gesturing at my boom microphone. The man
hesitated; the woman urged him to say yes; the man mushed crackers and washed
them down with beer; the woman fretted about these awful steep hills. Finally
he decided against calling AAA, tossed the beer can onto one of the most
beautiful coastlines in the world, and turned to go. "Expecting somebody to
pick that up for you?" I asked, but there was no response. He drove away in a
stink of automotive overkill. A mile later, I added an entry to my huge file
of Things I Should Have Said: "Here. I have room on my bicycle; let me dispose
of that properly." (This week's assignment: Give a Shriner a shiner.)
Now the narrow winding road began taking its toll. Traffic picked up as
we wound our way through the steep, abrupt turns, more than once forcing a
driveway detour to let a truck pass. Pedaling grimly, we hit the day's 48-mile
mark in the noisy mill town of Fort Bragg. It took but a moment: while I was
a mile away seeking a "big gun" ham operator I'd heard about, Maggie fell into
conversation with a quiet couple in front of the library... who promptly
invited us home for the evening. The connection? Technology, of course:
Charles, a cyclist/ham, had spotted the unmistakable 2-meter rig on her bike
and hailed her in passing.
Day 6: Fort Bragg to Mendocino
But Mendocino, not Fort Bragg, is the town we've been hearing about. A
lazy 10-mile ride got us here -- to a place that has optimized its
tourist-oriented picturesque character without seriously compromising a deep
counterculture flavor that continues to attract artists, writers, musicians,
and New Age refugees of the City. Street conversation was peppered with
references to acupressure, astrology, macrobiotics, energy, brutal exploitation
of the coast for corporate gain, and so on; within hours we had a network of
local contacts, a three-hour lunch at the Sea Gull with visitors from Napa, and
one particularly interesting invitation.
It came from John, owner of the Brewery Gulch Inn -- a classically relaxed
Bed and Breakfast on two acres south of town. "I saw you two holding hands on
TV a while back," he told us as the rain began. "Being an incurable romantic,
I couldn't resist -- do you need a place to stay?"
Within the hour we were settled: my machine dripping on a sheet under the
antique dining room chandelier, Maggie's outside on a covered porch. We were
given the Garden Room -- with fireplace, huge windows, and antique furniture --
suddenly warm and comfortable in graceful surroundings thanks to one man's
recognition of the strange romance of our life. Those "soft dollars" keep
mounting up...
Day 7: To L.A. -- and Back
Ah, the unpredictable daily grind of touring. As I sat quietly tapping HP
keys on the comfortable bed that night, warmed by a roaring fire and Maggie's
soft presence, there came a knock on the door. Into the room burst exuberance
personified: Mendocino Cyclery folks who had finally managed to track us d
the consternation of passing trolley riders. Chinatown, the stripper district,
the Friday night swirl of Big City life... it was all quite dazzling after six
weeks in Humboldt and Mendocino counties where the only noises are surf,
highway, laughter, and the chill wind in your ears.
But the show! After thehe traditional boring diamond-frame bicycle -- and still more
innovation in its welcome spinoff, the agile mountain bike. Computers, pulse
sensors, and graphic-display training cycles that simulate mountains. Automatic
transmissions, freewheels, halogen lights, sealed bearings, composite tubing,
tools, posters, silicone seat pads, kevlar tires, disappearing locks,
streamlined helmets, energy drinks, camping gear... name anything even remotely
connected with cycling and it could be found in Long Beach in a dozen hotly
competing variations.
For two days I wandered this mecca, passing out book info, riding demo
machine is... oh, never mind. I should know by now not to make
predictions.
I'll just see you next week from somewhere else. Probably.
-- Steve