After staying the night at the Point Montara Hostel, I decided to head over the mountains from the coast to visit my friend Jackson at Stanford. The wind was blowing furiously from the North this morning, and I almost called Jackson to tell him I wouldn't make it because I wanted to ride the gust straight down the coast. I'm glad I made it over though; we had a great conversation as usual and I got to see the beautiful campus again. By the time I was getting ready to leave, the gusts were over 50 knots at the coast heading inland, and therefore I would have had to ride against the wind back over the mountain. I decided to stay the night in the valley, and Jackson let me stay on his futon.
He headed into the city for a concert this evening, and because the venue was sold out I decided to meet up with another friend from high school, Ana, and do some climbing. We went to a really great but expensive gym and had a great time catching up as well. Tomorrow I will head back West to Highway 1 and will make it to Santa Cruz or possibly Monterey from there.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Au Revoir, Napa
After four days of wine tasting, reading, and general lounging, I am back on the road today. I spent last night at the house of a man named Tom, a friend of Alan's who graciously volunteered to let me stay the night. I was offered pretty much every piece of food I could possibly hope to carry let alone eat, and had a hearty breakfast. Tom, not being a coffee drinker, nevertheless woke up early to make a pot for me. If you read this Tom, thank you again! I slept better than I have any night thus far. Tom's house was filled with books and firefighting memorabilia, a throwback to his career as a San Francisco fireman. I was sad to leave Napa, but overjoyed to be pushing pedals again.
I then proceeded to lose my way twice. I ended up in Vallejo and took the ferry to San Francisco; my only other option would have been to backtrack some 15 miles. I also lost my way along the coast, heading unconciously towards Burlingame and finding myself in Milbrae rather than Pacifica (Mom will know what I'm talking about :) ).
After all this, I made my way to the lighthouse at Montara where a hostel has been constructed. As the ocean crashes onto the rocky shore below me, the wind howls and the beacon of light warns lost ships, I sit quietly with the other travelers in front of a large fire, writing letters and reading books.
I then proceeded to lose my way twice. I ended up in Vallejo and took the ferry to San Francisco; my only other option would have been to backtrack some 15 miles. I also lost my way along the coast, heading unconciously towards Burlingame and finding myself in Milbrae rather than Pacifica (Mom will know what I'm talking about :) ).
After all this, I made my way to the lighthouse at Montara where a hostel has been constructed. As the ocean crashes onto the rocky shore below me, the wind howls and the beacon of light warns lost ships, I sit quietly with the other travelers in front of a large fire, writing letters and reading books.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Calistoga, St. Helena...
I haven't posted in the last couple of days because I have been in a holding pattern in the Napa Valley waiting for Alex to celebrate her birthday here this weekend. I've mostly been reading and tuning small things on my bicycle, and meeting people around the campsite. I'll be in Napa until Sunday or Monday, then I begin the run down the coast! The Napa Valley is beautiful but best viewed with some money in your pocket.
Songs I've been listening to quite a bit:
"Running on Empty" by Jackson Brown
"Heartbeats" by Jose Gonzalez
"Heartbeats" is viewable on YouTube, I'm not sure about "Running on Empty." Good suggestions Eli. If anyone else has song suggestions please feel free to share them!
Songs I've been listening to quite a bit:
"Running on Empty" by Jackson Brown
"Heartbeats" by Jose Gonzalez
"Heartbeats" is viewable on YouTube, I'm not sure about "Running on Empty." Good suggestions Eli. If anyone else has song suggestions please feel free to share them!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Be Prepared
The Boy Scout's motto is "Be Prepared." These two words have come to mean a lot this trip.
In order to be prepared I need to be assured that I have anything I can possibly need for the coming day organized as to be available in the correct order (food and water first in one bag, raingear in another). I like to have enough food and water to last me two days, which is a great deal of supply as I am eating around 4,500 calories per day.
Yesterday morning I left Clearlake, California with the expectation of rain. My gear was packed into bags as well as covered with heavy duty garbage bags, and I had clear glasses on which kept the rain out of my eyes without limiting my vision in the low light. I felt prepared.
I've found that for me personally, I am only ever 92 percent prepared at the maximum. If I spend my entire day thinking about what I packed and what I didn't pack and didn't count on, I will still leave out some 8 percent factor. Usually it isn't too important, but yesterday it was. In those cases, I can only hope that I did everything in my power to reach my 92 percent threshold, and hope that I can improvise for the shortfall.
As I arrived in Middletown, I asked some locals at a restauraunt about the route to Calistoga. I was warned that it was a very and dangerous road with many turns, especially given the day's wet conditions. A Spanish-speaking waitress with whom I had been talking looked horrified that I would ride my bike down the mountain road to Calistoga, and said she would pray for me. This is never a good sign.
The ascent was steep, and almost entirely made up of switchbacks and hairpin turns. As I continued to climb, the rain fell harder and harder. I pressed on because the shoulder on my lane was wide enough to allow for any passing traffic, but I was becoming more and more nervous. Finally, at a hairpin turn just 300 yards ahead, I watched a descending truck with a trailer fly into the left hand lane before crashing into the guardrail, unable to hold the turn. Had it not been for the guard rail, the truck would have gone careening into the valley below. My anxiety was rising.
As I neared the summit, the rain was pouring torrentially. There was a small State Park, the Robert L. Stevenson Park, where the shoulders opened up and allowed hikers to park for the day and hike. There was no campground at this park.
I took a few deep breaths at the top and repeated to myself how I would navigate this road safely. I headed down. After a quarter mile of descent, I judged that it would be unsafe to continue down given the heavy rain, turns, and a trailer I had never used on wet roads. I pulled off and turned around, ascending back to the State Park at the Summit to wait out the storm.
When I got to the Park, I immediately set to work putting up my tent and getting my gear inside. I noticed a great number of signs about car break-ins, warning hikers to carry their valuables with them while hiking. I quickly set up my tent and locked my bike and trailer to a nearby tree. It was 3:30 in the afternoon when I got into my tent, and I wouldn't leave again until 9:00 the next morning. I lay in my sleeping bag for 17 and a half hours.
I thought often about the theft warnings, and I thought about my bike. I had plenty of time to think of these things. When my computer broke off, I had had 6,000 miles on my odometer. I had since done one more season and one more Death Ride, plus weekend rides with my Mom, plus the 330+ miles from the present trip. I estimated my total mileage on Ghostrider to be over 7,000 miles. I figured that if I rode at an average speed of 15 miles per hour for that distance, I had spent about 467 hours on that bike. 20 days straight, day and night. I thought about how sad I would be if it got stolen, and the lengths I would go to get it back. I hated to think about it getting rained on. I love my bike.
I looked out this morning; the air was misty and cold. It was so saturated that if the temperature fell even a few degrees it would start raining again. Still it was much better than the day before, so I packed up and went. The descent was as scary as I had imagined, but as I fell out of the clouds and into the valley, I was happy I had moved when I did.
When I got to Calistoga, I spent the morning doing laundry and re-packing, trying to be prepared again, and trying to get the most out of my 92 percent before I drive to the Bothe-Napa campground this evening.
In order to be prepared I need to be assured that I have anything I can possibly need for the coming day organized as to be available in the correct order (food and water first in one bag, raingear in another). I like to have enough food and water to last me two days, which is a great deal of supply as I am eating around 4,500 calories per day.
Yesterday morning I left Clearlake, California with the expectation of rain. My gear was packed into bags as well as covered with heavy duty garbage bags, and I had clear glasses on which kept the rain out of my eyes without limiting my vision in the low light. I felt prepared.
I've found that for me personally, I am only ever 92 percent prepared at the maximum. If I spend my entire day thinking about what I packed and what I didn't pack and didn't count on, I will still leave out some 8 percent factor. Usually it isn't too important, but yesterday it was. In those cases, I can only hope that I did everything in my power to reach my 92 percent threshold, and hope that I can improvise for the shortfall.
As I arrived in Middletown, I asked some locals at a restauraunt about the route to Calistoga. I was warned that it was a very and dangerous road with many turns, especially given the day's wet conditions. A Spanish-speaking waitress with whom I had been talking looked horrified that I would ride my bike down the mountain road to Calistoga, and said she would pray for me. This is never a good sign.
The ascent was steep, and almost entirely made up of switchbacks and hairpin turns. As I continued to climb, the rain fell harder and harder. I pressed on because the shoulder on my lane was wide enough to allow for any passing traffic, but I was becoming more and more nervous. Finally, at a hairpin turn just 300 yards ahead, I watched a descending truck with a trailer fly into the left hand lane before crashing into the guardrail, unable to hold the turn. Had it not been for the guard rail, the truck would have gone careening into the valley below. My anxiety was rising.
As I neared the summit, the rain was pouring torrentially. There was a small State Park, the Robert L. Stevenson Park, where the shoulders opened up and allowed hikers to park for the day and hike. There was no campground at this park.
I took a few deep breaths at the top and repeated to myself how I would navigate this road safely. I headed down. After a quarter mile of descent, I judged that it would be unsafe to continue down given the heavy rain, turns, and a trailer I had never used on wet roads. I pulled off and turned around, ascending back to the State Park at the Summit to wait out the storm.
When I got to the Park, I immediately set to work putting up my tent and getting my gear inside. I noticed a great number of signs about car break-ins, warning hikers to carry their valuables with them while hiking. I quickly set up my tent and locked my bike and trailer to a nearby tree. It was 3:30 in the afternoon when I got into my tent, and I wouldn't leave again until 9:00 the next morning. I lay in my sleeping bag for 17 and a half hours.
I thought often about the theft warnings, and I thought about my bike. I had plenty of time to think of these things. When my computer broke off, I had had 6,000 miles on my odometer. I had since done one more season and one more Death Ride, plus weekend rides with my Mom, plus the 330+ miles from the present trip. I estimated my total mileage on Ghostrider to be over 7,000 miles. I figured that if I rode at an average speed of 15 miles per hour for that distance, I had spent about 467 hours on that bike. 20 days straight, day and night. I thought about how sad I would be if it got stolen, and the lengths I would go to get it back. I hated to think about it getting rained on. I love my bike.
I looked out this morning; the air was misty and cold. It was so saturated that if the temperature fell even a few degrees it would start raining again. Still it was much better than the day before, so I packed up and went. The descent was as scary as I had imagined, but as I fell out of the clouds and into the valley, I was happy I had moved when I did.
When I got to Calistoga, I spent the morning doing laundry and re-packing, trying to be prepared again, and trying to get the most out of my 92 percent before I drive to the Bothe-Napa campground this evening.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Funky Fresh Chico Snakes
Any Sigma Nu, whether on a pilgrimage to visit all houses or just driving through Chico, should make a point to stop at the Iota Kappa Chapter's house. I would like to believe we in Reno would show the hospitality that I received here.
I arrived in the late afternoon. A pledge who had been working hard in the front yard putting in new sod went upstairs and told the President I was asking to see him. I had awoken Nick from a nap, but he still took the time to give me a house tour, trudging around in his pijamas and rubbing his eyes. When I asked if there was a thrift store nearby where I could buy some clothing, he pointed to the Clothing Donation bin the Chapter had set up as part of a community service event. I grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt. This reminded me pleasantly of my own Chapter, where approximately 80 percent of food collected from a drive will arrive at the homeless shelter. Let this be a warning to concerned food patrons: If you have a bag of Cheetos that you want to give to the homeless, you had better deliver it personally. If you have a bottle of clam juice, we can probably handle it.
Freshly showered and sporting a new-to-me outfit, I was ready to take on the world. We grabbed dinner at an excellent little restaurant downtown, and made our way to a few parties. I slept until noon the next day, gently awoken by whispering pledges standing above me staring, trying to clean the front room for the "Funky-Fresh 90's party" later that day. Apparently Nick had forgotten to tell them I was in town, and they had no idea why a stranger was sleeping on the couch at noon, wearing the exact same shirt one of them had just given away to the homeless.
The entire day was dedicated to the Funky Fresh Party preparations. The Chapter had a very close relation to the house next door to the Chapter house, also owned by the Alumni, where parties with a great number of Sigma Nus took place, in no direct violation with the school's no-alcohol in school sponsored houses rule. Sneaky sneaky Snakes.
The event was well attended and I must have met about 100 people, two of whose names I remember. I slept on my couch again, awoken only at 3 A.M. by Nick asking if I wanted to get Nachos. I had been fast asleep with no notion of wanting nachos, so I gratefully declined. I grabbed a coffee the next morning with a brother and took off down the 32 towards Calusa.
Pictures to come, I promise. Below is the Sigma Nu House, as well as the "next door neighbor's" house.
The House:
The Neighbors:
I arrived in the late afternoon. A pledge who had been working hard in the front yard putting in new sod went upstairs and told the President I was asking to see him. I had awoken Nick from a nap, but he still took the time to give me a house tour, trudging around in his pijamas and rubbing his eyes. When I asked if there was a thrift store nearby where I could buy some clothing, he pointed to the Clothing Donation bin the Chapter had set up as part of a community service event. I grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt. This reminded me pleasantly of my own Chapter, where approximately 80 percent of food collected from a drive will arrive at the homeless shelter. Let this be a warning to concerned food patrons: If you have a bag of Cheetos that you want to give to the homeless, you had better deliver it personally. If you have a bottle of clam juice, we can probably handle it.
Freshly showered and sporting a new-to-me outfit, I was ready to take on the world. We grabbed dinner at an excellent little restaurant downtown, and made our way to a few parties. I slept until noon the next day, gently awoken by whispering pledges standing above me staring, trying to clean the front room for the "Funky-Fresh 90's party" later that day. Apparently Nick had forgotten to tell them I was in town, and they had no idea why a stranger was sleeping on the couch at noon, wearing the exact same shirt one of them had just given away to the homeless.
The entire day was dedicated to the Funky Fresh Party preparations. The Chapter had a very close relation to the house next door to the Chapter house, also owned by the Alumni, where parties with a great number of Sigma Nus took place, in no direct violation with the school's no-alcohol in school sponsored houses rule. Sneaky sneaky Snakes.
The event was well attended and I must have met about 100 people, two of whose names I remember. I slept on my couch again, awoken only at 3 A.M. by Nick asking if I wanted to get Nachos. I had been fast asleep with no notion of wanting nachos, so I gratefully declined. I grabbed a coffee the next morning with a brother and took off down the 32 towards Calusa.
Pictures to come, I promise. Below is the Sigma Nu House, as well as the "next door neighbor's" house.
The House:
The Neighbors:
Progress as of April 6, 2009
View Larger Map
The lettered points correspond to where I stayed for the night, and I spent two nights at the Chico State Sigma Nu house (Point D). As shown on the terrain map, I'm leaving the Sacramento River Valley today and heading back into more mountainous terrain to the West around Clear Lake, CA.
The Bells and Whistles
I would like to apologize in advance for the lack of other media displayed on the blog thus far. I haven't been able to pick up a cable to connect my camera to the computer, and almost all of my Posts have been written on an IPod Touch wireless Internet device (the equivalent of writing a long text message). I'm going to try and embed the video here using the HTML embedding code(without actually being able to watch it myself), so I hope it works!
Saturday, April 4, 2009
The Toughest Sixteen Year Old in Forest Hill, Perhaps the Whole World
Just as we must develop strong legs, a cyclist must also develop a tough skin when facing insults. Although bicycles have been around for quite a while and there is in fact a reason for why I wear the clothing that I do, why my shoes make sound when I walk, and why I have a helmet on my thick-skinned skull, bystanders still ask questions as avidly as if I just arrived with a sled dog team wearing a Speedo. Most of the time I smile and walk away when asked why I am wearing "tights", but every so often I will take the time to educate my tormentor. The Toughest Sixteen Year Old in Forest Hill, a town with a whopping population of 1500, is such a case.
Yesterday I was enjoying a chocolate milk in the afternoon before dropping the last ten miles into Chico. As I sat in the parking lot, two dirt bikes screamed around the corner and parked, drawing off their helmets dramatically as if they were delivering news from the battlefield. One was a dopey looking guy in his early to mid-twenties, the other was the Tough guy. They exchanged a few words, and I overheard that Dopey would go into the store to purchase two cans of Sparks, a half energy drink/ half booze concoction that undoubtedly improves the performance of any dirt bike. While Dopey was inside, Tough decided to chat with me while I finished my snack.
Tough: What the hell is that?
Trevor: It's a bike with a trailer attachment.
Tough: It looks gay! I'd kick your ass in a race!
Trevor: I sure hope so. You're riding 125 cubic centimeters of engine powered by exploding fire. Mine has two pedals and a trailer.
Tough: Haha, yeah! Real men ride real bikes!
(five seconds pass as we look at each other)
Trevor: Is that an insult or a compliment?
Tough: Huh?
Trevor: I mean mine is a bicycle, and the abbreviation of bicycle would be "bike." Yours is a motorcycle.
Tough: It's a dirtbike!
Trevor: A dirtbike is a kind of motorcycle.
Tough: Yeah, duh!
Trevor: Plus the bicycle was around way before the motorcycle. So who has the "real bike?" Or by "real" (by this time I was being facetious because I was annoyed) did you mean "not imaginary?"
Tough: What the hell are you talking about?
Trevor: Did you mean that not-imaginary men ride not-imaginary bikes? If so, I agree.
Tough: You're hella weird. The tights are starting to make a lot more sense.
(Our conversation ended just before Dopey exited with the two cans of Sparks. I mounted my bike as they enjoyed their beverages.)
Yesterday I was enjoying a chocolate milk in the afternoon before dropping the last ten miles into Chico. As I sat in the parking lot, two dirt bikes screamed around the corner and parked, drawing off their helmets dramatically as if they were delivering news from the battlefield. One was a dopey looking guy in his early to mid-twenties, the other was the Tough guy. They exchanged a few words, and I overheard that Dopey would go into the store to purchase two cans of Sparks, a half energy drink/ half booze concoction that undoubtedly improves the performance of any dirt bike. While Dopey was inside, Tough decided to chat with me while I finished my snack.
Tough: What the hell is that?
Trevor: It's a bike with a trailer attachment.
Tough: It looks gay! I'd kick your ass in a race!
Trevor: I sure hope so. You're riding 125 cubic centimeters of engine powered by exploding fire. Mine has two pedals and a trailer.
Tough: Haha, yeah! Real men ride real bikes!
(five seconds pass as we look at each other)
Trevor: Is that an insult or a compliment?
Tough: Huh?
Trevor: I mean mine is a bicycle, and the abbreviation of bicycle would be "bike." Yours is a motorcycle.
Tough: It's a dirtbike!
Trevor: A dirtbike is a kind of motorcycle.
Tough: Yeah, duh!
Trevor: Plus the bicycle was around way before the motorcycle. So who has the "real bike?" Or by "real" (by this time I was being facetious because I was annoyed) did you mean "not imaginary?"
Tough: What the hell are you talking about?
Trevor: Did you mean that not-imaginary men ride not-imaginary bikes? If so, I agree.
Tough: You're hella weird. The tights are starting to make a lot more sense.
(Our conversation ended just before Dopey exited with the two cans of Sparks. I mounted my bike as they enjoyed their beverages.)
Friday, April 3, 2009
As I dropped into Chester, California yesterday I stopped on the side of the road to take a picture of Lake Almanore as the sun set. A Jeep pulled up behind me, and as the driver stepped out I asked if she too had stopped to take a photo. I then realized the woman was wearing a Forest Ranger uniform. I thought back to ten minutes earlier, when I had been stealthily trying to photograph a bluebird, which was no small task with the zoom feature on my camera broken. It required extra sneakiness and probably looked ridiculous if not predatory when viewed from the Highway. As I prepared my defense, the woman asked me if I would be camping that night, and offered me a room at her family's house instead. I was more than happy for the offer to get off the road for the night, and I was very grateful for the offer. I biked into the small town and rode to the address I had been given.
When I arrived, I discovered that Chuck and Lisa had been touring on bicycles for many years, including a world tour. Their son had just been picked up by a sponsor while living in San Diego and was leaving for Belgium to ride professionally. Chuck owned the Chester bicycle shop, Bodfish Bicycles. The couple shared tips and tricks of bicycle touring, as well as great stories from the road. We had an excellent dinner and I slept well in a warm bed.
Chuck and Lisa are exactly the type of people I was unconciously hoping to meet on this trip. They opened their home to me without knowing anything about me, and I appreciate their hospitality more than they could imagine. If you ever find yourself in Chester, CA drop into Bodfish Bicycles, because Chuck knows more about cycling than almost anyone I've ever met and can surely set you up for a great ride, as he did for me!
-TH
When I arrived, I discovered that Chuck and Lisa had been touring on bicycles for many years, including a world tour. Their son had just been picked up by a sponsor while living in San Diego and was leaving for Belgium to ride professionally. Chuck owned the Chester bicycle shop, Bodfish Bicycles. The couple shared tips and tricks of bicycle touring, as well as great stories from the road. We had an excellent dinner and I slept well in a warm bed.
Chuck and Lisa are exactly the type of people I was unconciously hoping to meet on this trip. They opened their home to me without knowing anything about me, and I appreciate their hospitality more than they could imagine. If you ever find yourself in Chester, CA drop into Bodfish Bicycles, because Chuck knows more about cycling than almost anyone I've ever met and can surely set you up for a great ride, as he did for me!
-TH
Thursday, April 2, 2009
"Miniature horses for sale. Acreage available."
When asked to write a story in six words, Hemmingway wrote "For Sale: baby shoes. Never worn."
I saw the advertisement for miniature horses spray painted on a piece of plywood just outside of the small town of Doyle. When you move as slowly as an untrained cyclist riding with thirty extra pounds of cargo going straight into the wind, you find yourself reading a seemingly meaningless sign for long enough that you start to make something from it, and I can create a biography for the miniature horse breeder from the time my near sighted eyes see the sign until I pass it. Yeah, I'm going that slowly. I also saw the little guys attempt a small scale stampede in their pin. It was hilarious.
I'm told a storm is moving in, which explains the early morning wind I felt at dawn. I'm shooting for Sierraville today.
I saw the advertisement for miniature horses spray painted on a piece of plywood just outside of the small town of Doyle. When you move as slowly as an untrained cyclist riding with thirty extra pounds of cargo going straight into the wind, you find yourself reading a seemingly meaningless sign for long enough that you start to make something from it, and I can create a biography for the miniature horse breeder from the time my near sighted eyes see the sign until I pass it. Yeah, I'm going that slowly. I also saw the little guys attempt a small scale stampede in their pin. It was hilarious.
I'm told a storm is moving in, which explains the early morning wind I felt at dawn. I'm shooting for Sierraville today.
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