Going through old photos, and I can’t believe my living room ever looked like this… I mean, that’s HALF my living room!

That’s what I’m talking about! I’m still coming down off the caffeine I guzzled before the race today, think: “mud” down the hatch then mud up to your shins. Epic. Painful. My feet were so cold it felt like I was running on stumps. Gross! But I felt fast, and I passed a few boys who started two minutes ahead of me in the Men’s B race. One whimpered, “You won’t laugh at me if I puke, will you?” My bike clothes have been through three rinses in the bathtub and still excrete opaque mud water. I love mud and cold, and for me that’s what cyclocross is all about. Great times!

…A super bike-geek day! I drove out to Estacada Timber park with Tori of Gracie’s Wrench and, while handing out fliers for the Bike Craft Fair, sold a handful of caps. Then I stripped down to my little yellow bikini and mustered the best cyclocross groupie act I could. A lot of racers thought I was naked, some managed to ignore me, one proposed marriage, another humped my leg, and Andy M., who was soaked with beer, got a huge wet hug after racing three races (what a stud). My two first fingers on my right hand are missing skin on the knuckles from ringing the cowbell, and God knows just how many photographs were taken of me this week. I’m no swimsuit model, either. Uh oh. Hope people publish them judiciously, mercifully? We’ll see. Watch for me in Cyclocross Magazine…

Drove back to Portland and up to the Oregon Handmade Bicycle Show, where throngs of people were ogling hott bicycle porn. Rev Phil enticed me to go Zoo Bombing, but first I had to go to Don’s to finish putting in a new bottom bracket, crankset, and chain - and adjusting his rear shifting - on his funky Nishiki. I got him to let go of his beloved Biopace by agreeing to wrench in a bikini. He took pictures the whole time. Men.

I returned to the Zoo when Rev Phil said (9:30) but he wasn’t there. Rev Phil stood me up and I had no bike! Ass. Maybe I should have done the bikini thing again. I was all excited to go on my first bomb ride, but after dinner with Don I was so gassy (shit Don, what the fuck did you put in that food?) and starting to feel sick from standing out in a bikini half the day, so I came home to my Airborne and hot shower. And cap-sewing.

Talked with Sacha of Vanilla Bicycles and out of a distracted, casual conversation think we came up with a sick new idea for his company’s cycling caps. I’m way more excited about this one now… oh, and I’ll be breaking out some RAD Cyclisme team caps soon (so Euro-80’s). Oh, and the Super Relax Concept caps came out dope, too!

I’ve been darn tootin’ busy making caps for the third annual Bike Craft Fair. The fair will be on November 15th from 6-10pm at the Lucky Lab Beer Hall in NW Portland (1945 NW Quimby). Save the date!

I meant to sell caps at the fair last year but couldn’t pull it together. This year I compensated by making dozens and dozens of great caps. I have big head sizes (of course), but I also have caps for “pinheads,” kids and babies! The baby ones are ridiculously cute.

There are also some “surprise” caps that I haven’t photographed. You need to see them; they’re pretty friggin’ awesome. After a few years of making them I finally feel like I have “the touch.” That and I also have some nice machines. Caps are still tricky and time-consuming to make, but there are fewer goofs, better outcomes, and I’m having a good time at it. Also, I’m getting a lot more orders. It makes me wonder if I was meant to be a milliner and not a nurse! My initials are C.A.P., after all.

Check out my Little Package Cycling Caps website. I’d love it if you can drop by the craft fair, but if you can’t, maybe you’d like to buy a custom cap?

Freeways grow from weeds.
Though the wheel took you,
it returns your smile.

Brett was our friend and we miss him. There is a memorial fund set up in his name, and I’d like you to help me contribute by buying a “King of the Mountain” cycling cap.

This is the race where I discovered I was not going to be as fast as I thought I would be after spending the summer running and riding (i.e. “training”). What I am is strong. What I am not, is fast. The distinction between endurance and speed has been duly highlighted, and, OH WELL!

I think I looked rather badass anyway. And I kept my hands off the brakes!

…wearing the world’s shortest skirt to show off my strong cyclist’s legs!

I had mentioned how I thought I would only need my lip balm to survive my two-week bike ride to San Francisco. I was wrong. I only used it twice, even though my lips were dry, dry, dry, sunburnt, and dry! There were other balms I definitely used more, and they worked. So, for other people thinking about taking long bicycle rides, here’s some tips:

Hours in the saddle can be rough on your crotch and bottom, take good care of them! Regrettable mistakes include:

- poor bike fit, saddle alignment, saddle height
- wearing inappropriate clothing or wearing clothing inappropriately (ahem, you must stop wearing underwear under your chamois, people!)
- wearing dirty or wet clothing between yourself and your saddle
- going for long rides after shaving or waxing between your legs
- not listening to your body. If it hurts badly, stop!

Here are some products I recommend:

Chamois butter is supposed to reduce friction between your skin and whatever might chafe it, such as your chamois, bra, etc. It has the consistency of massage cream. You can slather your bottom with it, but a lot of people like to rub it directly into their chamois. I put enough on the chamois pad so that it’s slippery like the inside of an avocado peel. Of course, pulling on a wet, cold chamois is a weird feeling, especially when it’s cold out. But it warms up quickly and it beats the alternative.

At the end of a grueling day of riding this is what I treat my bottom with. Actually, before a grueling day of riding this is what I treat my bottom with. Chamois cream on my chamois and diaper ointment on my bottom. It smells better than A&D, and there’s something magical about the calendula. If you have any angry spots - pre-saddle sore activity - this stuff may help. It does for me. I think the best thing to do when you get a saddle sore is to stop riding for a while. That is what most people do. Make sure the thing gets a lot of air, and very little friction. If it gets any bigger than a pea, you may want to see your doctor (or a nurse).

I brought Ibuprofen on my trip, but only used it once. I now swear by arnica montana for tired, sore muscles. Rub it in really good, and breathe deep. It’s magic.

Last but not least: sunscreen. Sunscreen is very important. If you stop to think about how bright and hot the sun beats down and how little protection we have from its rays, it’s unsettling. I conjure images of my skin actively boiling and blistering under the sun. Some claim that sunscreen has chemicals in it that are equally as bad for you as UV rays, but I’d rather take my chances with the chemicals. I think Alba’s green tea sunscreen smells great, and when I remember to put it on, it works really well.

78 miles. Dreadfully wonderfully hot. I went through three times as much water as I went through on any other day, and still felt dehydrated. Three applications of sunscreen and I’m still sunburned; my freckles are really popping up now.

Bodega Bay:

Tomales Bay:

Just a gorgeous day, with cyclists of all sorts out everwhere. I tried to take my time to play out the last leg of my tour, but the closer I came to S.F., the faster I wanted to go. I stubbornly got into the city without a map. The bike lane and trail network through Marin and Sausalito is intuitive and thorough, and except for some spots in ritzy speedy Marin, very safe. I believe the entire trip could be done without a map, because the gist of the trip is simple (North to South along highways 101 then 1), people are always eager to give directions and help, and the map can be detrimental to your mental health, especially when studying elevation maps.

Here she came into view:

Being the dildo I can sometimes be whilst bonking at mile 75, I believed the big road signs on Golden Gate bridge marked “No Stopping” were intended for cyclists and did not stop on the bridge to sight-see. In fact, I even looked at some stopping cyclists thinking they were scufflaws or worse. I should have stopped and had a little snack, because ten minutes later found me calling my mother on my phone’s last minute’s woth of battery, whimpering for help in not making a wrong turn and having to do unnecessary hill-climbing. The line died, I had a Larabar, asked some kind ladies for directions, and rode directly to the hotel. That was that. My mother arrived at the same time I did. Couldn’t have been “planned” better.

I’m here. Sadly and happily my tour is over. 807 miles averaging 12.4mph. I’m in one piece, at peace. No crashes, sores, or flat tires. No regrets. I would definitely do it again. I definitely recommend it to anyone.

Just kind of sorting the whole thing out and piecing it together. Something I noticed was that riding long miles and spending days outdoors warps your perception of space and time. Other touring cyclists also admitted it was difficult to recall where they’d been and when. It was hard to even remember where I’d started the day, much less the adventures of yesterday. So I’m glad I wrote some of it down.

71 miles. Starting to feel like ass from subsisting on Vitamin Water, cookies, and chocolate. Had KOA pizza, nachos, and deep fried cheese and zucchini for dinner. Gross. Feels like a hangover. Oh wait - I DID drink last night. Maybe it is a hangover.

Many more gulches. Many, many more gulches. No shoulders. So many people were out on Sunday drives in their sportscars, trying out their fancy schmancy engines and suspensions on the narrow, windy roads. It was troubling. Someone in a silver Toyota Tacoma almost killed himself trying to kill me on a 180-degree turn; he lost traction, started fish-tailing at high speed but somehow accelerated out of it. Heh heh heh. It made me laugh at the time. The driver was very lucky there was no oncoming traffic. I mean, is it really that important to pass a cyclist who is hauling ass down a hill on a fully-loaded touring bike, going speed limit, and about to enter a sharp turn? I guess so, because it happened over and over. And why do people wait pass you until an oncoming car is also passing? Somewhere, somehow, this makes sense to someone. I finally cracked and started pulling over randomly to let random groups of cars pass, then got lucky with a construction zone light signal that only let small groups of cars go through every four minutes. Every four minutes I’d have the road completely to myself, then they’d come again. Yes, the cars got the best of me. Nevertheless, a very fun descent just North of Jenner. Big sky views of water and land from a highway precipice about 400 feet up. One driver had the same idea I did about avoiding traffic and was using the opportunity to make stops and get out with his young son and look off the ledges. Very sweet.

Sorry to say the coastline is starting to feel repetitive. I feel interested; however, in the vegetation tha grows roadside. There are some red-green spiny succulents, lots of wild pampas grass, anise, and the great grey peeling trees with long, slender leaves and shriveled-acorn-looking nuts. Another roadside feature becoming more and more prominent is the roadkill. Maybe it’s because I’m looking down more but I suspect it’ actually that Californians are crazy motherfuckers on the road. Three dead skunks and one mutilated deer all on one hill outside Point Arena!

I really wish I could watch a movie today.

57 miles. Got a late start because I procrastinated in Fort Bragg doing laundry and having waffles and cookies and chatting it up at the Headlands Café. I realized today what a huge part procrastination plays in my life. I’m a procrastinator; and it’s not necessarily bad - in fact, I wished procrastination upon myself around the same time the whole anti-procrastination craze was going on. Guess I got pretty good at it. But, it’s important to tackle the things that scare you - headlong, and promptly, but with consideration (just not too much consideration).

Anyways, while I was busy procrastinating it rained probably 100 drops of rain. The weather was very bleary, overcast — not good picture-taking weather — but I kept forgetting because I wore my polarized yellow lenses all day and everything looked sunny and fantastically vivid! I didn’t take that many pictures.

Felt like I was riding an old rented tricycle the whole way. Not sure how many more bluffs and gullies I can possibly ride. Fuck bluffs and gullies. I’d almost rather do a few huge climbs in a day than what seems to be a billion brief but steep climbs and brief but tortuous descents. Highway 1 tricks me into thinking I’m riding the U.K. coastlines. The cliffs are magnificent. There are a few weathered barns, scattered livestock, and several Victorian towns on this stretch. Except… there are more hints of MexSoCal aridity the further I go. And the Mexican food just gets better and better. Of course, I’m not even to San Francisco yet and that’s that. Looks like only two more days, and for that I’m a little sad. It’s going to suck taking this amazing bike down to box it. Piaf is serving me so well.

It’s funny the way you end up running into the same riders again and again on a tour. Met up with Nick and Steve in Elk - the handsome Canadians who wear boxers under their chamois. I first met them two days ago a little north of Phillipsville. Earlier this evening they were going to stay in Elk because they started their day with the brutal climb I ended mine with and were tired. I went ahead, only making it to the krazy kommune kalled KOA, which klaimed to have kozy kabin kamps with kable. The kabins were sold out, but the klerks sold me on the hiker-biker site: $9 and access to showers and a hot tub. And karaoke (I’m serious). Nick and Steve rolled up saying that the only inn remaining in Elk wanted over $100 for a room, and that’s without the komfort of KOA thick krust pizza, volleyball kourt, arkade, and laundromat. So far KOA is rad. I had always scorned these KOA kompounds, but when you’ve been outside for a week, a “campground plus” has mucho appeal. I didn’t even blink at the heated pool, and even bought a couple fire-starting logs. Internet access: icing on the kake.

It’s midnight and we just finished learning slang off one another. Evidently “touque” (rhymes with fluke) means “winter hat.” In turn I taught them “tucus.” Oh - and all about how and why to use chamois butter. You know me!

We’re all happy kampers.

Last night I fell asleep to the sound of barking dogs, which convinced me there WERE bears and that camping on a motel room porch was a better idea than ducking into the redwoods alone. Another motel guest had the most outgoing flea-ridden-but-adorable black kitten, and it slept with me - on me - most the night. The temperature dropped into the forties but I stayed warmer in part because I’d stopped and bought another cheap fleece blanket. A lot of it was pride. I was intent on camping even though I was invited in.

Don, Bruce, Gary and I rolled out at around eight, my earliest start yet, and while they all oohed and ahhed over how good the market coffee was, I had hot water. The caffeine in those energy gels kept me up really late last night, and I didn’t want that again. It’ now 8:00pm and I’m on the verge of unconsciousness.

63 miles. *Loads* of climbing. I estimate about 3500 feet of elevation gain from my crappy maps. Arfter seeing Bruce’s maps I have to recommend the (expensive) maps through “Adventure Racing.” They provide great detail of the routes, availabled services, alternate routes, and elevation gains, etc.

I stopped twice at a little market just before route 1 breaks off from 101 and mentioned how I was loitering avoiding the inevitable climb. The barista grabs the tip jar, on which is a detailed list of “fines,” one of them being $1 for “procrastinating doing the hill,” another being “whining about the hill.” Good way to make tips at the base of the coast’s largest climb. Someone told legends of the hill beding strewn with cast-off panniers and cyclist’s carcasses. The little markets around here have been feeding me well, to my satisfaction. Lots of healthy hippy food and other surprises. Like, LOADS of NoCal hippies that put Eugene hippies to shame.

Today’s roads were esentially shoulder-less and generally unsafe, but I’m numb to that now. I did have a massive d?ɬ�j?ɬ� vu just before passing around a large redwood on the right of a sharp right turn, and stopped frozen for several seconds. Just as I pulled over a string of about a dozen speeding cars blew through the turn, cutting it close on the right. Strange.

Again thanks to my little iPod and Johnny Cash, I jammed up the hill, stopping once to pee, and even wondered at the top if that “was it.” That was it. Well, almost. One more 600ft climb after that and highway one spat me out on the coast. The hardest of the climbing is over with. Anyway, the sunset was so beautiful and I was so exhausted I cried. A lady stepped out of the RV she almost killed me with to tell me what a “brave girl” I am. Heh. Brave or stupid?

I took the first lodging I can find in an old town of fifty people. I’m positive the room is haunted, but it has a bathtub and the market across the way has organic beer, fizzy water, bagels and lox, and epsom salts, so who gives a fuck?

75 miles. It felt like a safe section of the road, esp. if you take the Avenue of the Giants alternate route, which parallels 101 for 32 miles.

It’s weird riding on the “freeway,” riding through on- and off-ramps and dealing with higher speed traffic. And completely sanctioned. Great wide shoulders on the freeways make it feel cozy somehow. I’ve always wondered, now I know what it feels like.

Avenue of the Giants. Humboldt redwoods smell like Christmas when entering and leaving. Rolling gentle ride today with a lo of sun and tailwinds. Stopped at a marvellous rock and gem shop and museum and picked out some things for friends. Outside the museum are piles of what appear to be astroids and petrified logs, which I had never seen or heard of befor?ɬ�, and which totally fascinated me. Stone. Wood.

Don, Gary, and Bruce, “three married men,” are inside falling asleep and I’m on the porch keeping watch. Plan to sleep on the porch of their motel room, though I could have snuck into the room below it (unlocked, but yet uncleaned). I did use its toilet. Little black kitten with flea collar sleeping on my chest; likes to kiss and cuddle and makes me miss Lux. Wonder what this kitten woud do if I packed it in my panniers to S.F. And to Portland. What would Lux do?

Dogs barking. A lot of bears are out. The campgound I planned on staying at (Hidden Springs) was closed due to numerous bear events. My gut feeling told me not to camp out alone tonight, so as it was getting dark and I was getting tired I was lucky that Don scooped me up and made me part of his posse. He’s on a loaner $4000 road bike and has a sag wagon. It’s a little confusing to see these people out with light road gear in the middle of nowhere. I mean, I thought he was on a training ride; it didn’t occur to me he had a sag wagon. And literally in the middle of nowhere - at the “Drive Thru Tree” which people see postcard pictures of but are never really sure exists. He made me feel like a stud for pulling these heavy panniers and going it alone but at the same time I got A LOT of slack for riding without a helmet. Shit, I already know, Dad.

Another great Mexican dinner and good conversation with someone besides myself, and with Pacifico, spinach enchiladas and horchata.

63 miles. More climbing. Sunny, windy, bone-chilling weather. No pictures. It’s hard to capture the breadth of a redwood with a cell phone, and I don’t want the coastline pics to grow repetitive.

The hostel was just as cheery this morning, I happily receiving a tune-up from sweet, kind Ryan of Veloshop and an impromptu but thorough yoga lesson from a hott school teacher. Ryan recognized me from Portland because I was wearing my Ira Ryan jersey. What a small world.

Took the parkway through the redwoods after I was summarily passed by the tree-trunk-legged CoMotion group for the THIRD time in three days - them on their single-fucking-speeds pulling B-O-B trailers with huge grins on their faces (are they HUMAN?), and a Guinness book world-record-setting Dane named Lars on a blue Greg Lemond.

Later the Dane and I regrouped and rode together for a while, I catching him because the bike side-route was actually straighter and less hillacious. He had stayed on 101 was hard to read when I told him that not only had my route been a shrtcut with less traffic, but that I had got to see many great redwoods and some elk.

I felt very suspicious of his Euro riding style, which involved taking up much more of the road at variable speeds and a certain lackadaisical fearlessness I obviously lack. He has ridden literally from one end of the world to the other and has not been hit. Except for that time in England… Still, even though I was in awe of him, I had to ride alone.

Doing the ride alone has been good. Everyone I have met has been pleasant (except for the asshole who “complimented” me on my “outfit” yesterday), still, alone is a great way to vacation.

Tonight, Mexicañ Corona Extra under a palapa, a California King to sprawl out on, a jacuzzi tub, and - duhnduhnduhn - cable television.

70 miles. Another blessed day, the wind at my back, skies clear and warm, nice bicycle under me. There nevertheless were some sketchy shoulder-less sections and gusty winds that threw me into the road a few times. Cars have been mostly very forgiving. Today on the Pacific bike route - which leads you on detour-like side roads (but which I recommend taking both for safety and scenery) I saw many reminders of why I try not to eat cow. Not sure how ranchers do the work they do when it can be so brutal. Saw a bunch of sick, bloody, and very timid cows. I like cows. Burgers are great, but cows are better.

Anyway, I conquered the Crescent City/Redwood Forest State Park pass at the end of a full day of riding - just put on my iPod at the foot of the hill and jammed up it. Thanks be to Alison Goldfrapp. As I mentioned I don’t have a set itinerary or even reliable maps, and as the sun was setting and I was quickly running out of water I began to think about hanging my hammock from one of these magnificent Redwood trees. My straps aren’t long enough to wrap around a Redwood.

It’s been years since I’ve seen the Redwoods, but they’re still as impressive (it’s not one of those things where things seem smaller and less significant as you grow and age). The air smelled perfectly clear.

I drank a Jumex and watched some sunset from this lover’s rock, then rolled the rest of the way down the mountain to “Rock Lobster.” Top speed 39.7mph (Mom forget you read that).

At the base of the hill is the fantastic Redwood Hostel, run out of a splendid, restored 1908 oceanfront farmhouse built by the old DeMartin family. Evidently, for a quarter they would put travellers up and feed them; Mrs. DeMarten made delectable breads and pastries. Nowadays it’s a cheerful hostel. I highly recommend it if you’re passing between Crescent City and Klamath - even if you’re not the hostel type. From my window I can see and hear the ocean waves.

I’m royally lucking out finding lodging. Last night I had a nice bath and watched cable for hours stretched out on what seemed to be the most comfortable motel bed in the world (but I think that’s my muscles speaking.) My legs are like two Incredible Hulks. Roar. Maybe tomorrow night my Hulks and I will camp, but I doubt it…

Today was so special I almost want to keep it to myself.

I could really use some coke right now. A coffee will have to do. It’s my first in weeks, so I’m expecting coke-like results. Time to blow Bandon.

I ordered a lot of food because 2 Loons Café was recommended to me. (Actually it’s because I’m starving.)

Mmmm! Portland’s great breakfasts are not exclusive!

Sitting on my bunkbed (the bottom, if you’re wondering) enjoying a Jumex. Came into Bandon around seven after a rather complicated argument with myself about whether to take the day easy or not. I had told myself 50 miles would be enough, but ended up riding 72.2 for two winning reasons. One, I wanted a bed (but not in Coos Bay). Two, I met a great older gentleman outside the North Bend Safeway, also riding a bike (with a trash can as a basket) who suggested I might not be able to make it to Bandon because of the difficult pass. Seeing as he was very knowledgeable in not only local, but also world, bike culture, I might have taken his advice and camped somewhere along the byway to Bandon. If you know me, you know how dogged I can be on a dare, and I took his hint as a dare.

The Charleston-Bandon scenic byway mostly follows Seven Devils Road. I have pretty good gearing, but I was forced to walk a section at the onset. After several more steep inclines (devils) there was spray paint on the pavement: “Devil #1.” Devil number one? I just climbed, like, FIVE hills! I thought maybe “#1″ means “the steepest.” A few more hills later comes the marking “Devil #4.” OK. Nevermind I seem to have missed #2 and #3 (excpet, again I started to wonder if this was the “rating” of the climbs). I passed #5 and #6 was marked “#6… I think!?” Is it #6 or not?! Because I think I need to know.

Being alone in near-silence on the devils inspired reflection on personal devils and gave me the sense I was conquering some (except the three I walked part-way). But - I did roll into Bandon before dark. And I got TWO beds in a little hostel-like place! Yay for beds!

Not only doesn’t it scare me when trucks pass closely, but I think I like it. The draft sucks me along. The best draft is created by a truck towing something wedge-shaped, like a boat. It’s distinctly stronger. Maybe you physics geeks can explain that.

(S&M courtesy mud flaps from Sellwood Cycles, Portland Oregon)

Umpqua Lighthouse uses irreplaceable French crystals, imported in the late 19th century, to better throw light. You can’t get near the structure unless you go on a scheduled tour. I imagine the best time to visit a lighthouse is at night. The side-trip down to the cape was so steep I almost skipped it. Glad I didn’t.

Did you know that just about the entire coastline is a Tsunami zone? Nevermind it’s been 300 years since the last significant tsunami hit Oregon. These signs are everywhere, marking stretches of populated, low-lying beach. The signs, though simple, are not like standard road signs. They really convey the terror of being chased by a 20-foot wave well! Not sure how I would pedal away fast enough… Although, come to think of it, the escape routes would be snarled with car traffic. I’d just drop the two-ton panniers and I’d feel so weightless I’d be able to practically fly to safety. Yep.

Newport to Lagoon Campground south of Florence
63.63 miles

Somehow I’ve managed to end up in a campground on an island surrounded by lagoon, which is in turn surrounded by dunes. The lagoon is quite peaceful; the dune riders are not. After I’ve gorged myself with enough cookies I’m going to try to find the dune guys and see if it looks like any fun. Must be, because it sounds like there’s dozens of them roaring around just behind this line of trees past the lagoon.

I wanted to find the beach and thought this “Stagecoach Trail” would work, but the further I went, the darker and more cavernous it got. I was wrapped in a blanket, clutching my bag of cookies and thinking I’d make great bear food. I got spooked, turned around and took the long way. Which brings me to tell you of what it is like to ride your bicycle though a dark tunnel with traffic. It is a nightmare, much worse than the creepy trail. It is thundering loud. The walls drip crap. Cars insisted on passing me even though I was pedaling for my life and having difficulty maintaining the concentration to hold my line. Shit.

Well, me and my handgun. You know, it REALLY DOES NOT scare me when you revv your engine as you drive by, no matter how big or fast your man truck is. If you want to scare the bejesus out of me, keep barking dogs in the back of your pickup. Roof! Ack!

It’s Tillamook milkshake time! Oregon black cherry. When your highest gear feels like penance, you know you’re bonking. That and howling along to the B52’s “Roam” is another clue.

That reminds me. Thursday’s song was Beck’s “Black Tambourine.” Yesterday’s song was something by Morrissey, I forget which. Not sure if I’ll let “Roam” be the song of the day. Too soon to tell - I’ve only gone 20 miles. Goal is to get near Florence, Oregon this evening. Mmmmm… sand dunes.

So did not want to leave the bed and breakfast this morning. Got a very late start and am concerned about 1) not being able to play much along the way today and 2) sanctioned campsites being al full. We will see. This is a blast!

Sorry no pics yet. You want to see more, you’ll need to do it yourself.

That’s a picture of some stuff floating in the water at Boiler Bay.

Looks like GIANT seaweed to me. Except the picture is smaller than my thumb (think I have this figured out for the future - my camera has a thumbnail setting!?!). I also got to see about 25 playing sea lions that probably nobody else got to see because nobody gets quite the shoulder-edge-down-the-rock-cliff view that a cyclist does on mountain passes. Sea lions are cute. Are they slippery?

Yesterday I rode 62.7 miles averaging 11.49mph. Today I comforted myself saying that once I hit 75 miles I could stop wherever. Only thing is, once I hit 75, every motel I passed was full. I decided to take a chance on some fancy bed and breakfast up some fancy driveway. The innkeeper - bless her soul - was so accommodating as to knock 75 dollars off the rate, which includes a beach view, beach access, a bathtub (where I lay resting), fireplace, all the heat, tea, wine, and bottled water I could possibly want (which is a lot), and breakfast for two in the morning (me and my legs). Not to mention she is letting me use their fancy front-loading washer and dryer combo. Heaven. Oh! It gets better. She (Charmagne) just knocked and delivered hot quiche so that I don’t have to go out to eat dinner. Jackpot!

Today I averaged 12.27mph. I think it,s a little quicker because there was no inner-city riding or HUGE mountain passes. But, I’ve already come to terms with the fact that I must climb hills to get to San Francisco. Some of them are ungodly. I notice people making horrified looks as they drive by, and it makes me question my sanity. Wait. Nevermind.

I’m so happy for warmth and food - as always.

The sunset was awesome. Or at least I assume it was.

The MAX grew up and left me behind. I used to be a master of Portland public transportation, these days it takes me three separate trains and almost two hours to get out of town. Flabbergasting. So when I realized I’d left my helmet on the train I said fuck it and kept going. Yes, no helmet. All the way to San Francisco. Believe me, it was not the plan!

My first thought when getting out of Cornelius into Yamhill’s farmlands was “I can hear myself think.” Dissappointingly, I wasn’t thinking anything great.

I took The Nestucca River Trail to the coast. Something like 2000 feet elevation gain in less than ten miles… it gets tough about 12 miles out of Carlton. Someone called from her car, “good job!” and that was about the only good part of the climb. Never underestimate the power of a kind word.

Foggy. Alden Glen (or something like that) was damp. Plus sweat, I’m drenched. Soon the stink will kick in.