Chapter 10: Rain Country Hospitality
© 1986 by Steven K. Roberts
Nomadic Research Labs
Lake Oswego, Oregon (435 miles)
October 29, 1986
The warnings were true. It does
rain in the Pacific Northwest.
The trip from Castle Rock to St. Helens was a 42-mile marathon of spray
and puddle, drizzle and bubble. Trucks blew by in a rage of wild
grayness, my microphone tube filled up with water, and I settled into a
grim rhythm of pumping water under my wheels with Gore-tex legs. Such
are the rides that don't fit
the freewheeling fantasy—the days when waitresses look you over with
obvious concern for your health as well as the messy cleanup job that
will follow your visit.
It has been an eventful week, with too much to cram into a column:
camping in the rain, riding lively Klein mountain bikes down the Punji
Stake Trail, passing the Trojan nuclear power plant (PREVENT TROJANOBYL
says the bumper sticker), getting tips on winter street survival from a
homeless woman in Portland, and meeting politicians who see us as
potential campaigners. The life of constant change I have written about
is upon us now, and we’ll just have to settle for a few vignettes.
“This is bicycle mobile KA8OVA, listening,” I said into the foam-tipped
tube at the corner of my mouth while touching a handlebar button with
my left thumb. The reset beep of a distant ham radio repeater told me
that I was
hitting the 147.26 machine in Longview, Washington—on the Oregon border
about 25 miles away.
“KA8OVA, this is KA7JBW. Handle here is Toby, that’s tango oscar bravo
yankee, mobile in Kelso. You say you’re bicycle mobile?”
I told him yes I was—and where I was, and why. After a basic exchange
concerning radios and roads, I popped the question: “Hey, Toby, I’m
about ten miles north of Castle Rock at the moment, and don’t think I
can make it all the way down to your end of the world before dark. You
have any club members up this way?”
Well, one thing led to another, as it always does, and soon there was a
new voice in my ear—KA7QOX, otherwise known as Al. Did I need a place
to stay? Hey, no problem...
Within the hour, we were unpacking our bikes in a
micro-hangar—surrounded by dozens of radio-controlled aircraft. A
quarter-scale Cessna took up one end of the room, its detached wing
against the wall over 8 feet long. Five or six helicopters, exquisite
machines accurate in every detail, lay poised in various attitudes—some
suspended from the ceiling, others on the floor. Walls were hung with
aircraft photos, unfinished projects were layered on cluttered benches,
and all around were the hallmarks of a passionate interest in this
intricate hobby. I felt right at home.
“Ah, play,” I said to our host. “I see you have no plans to grow up
either.” Al, balding and nearly old enough to be my father, grinned
knowingly and agreed. His career is industrial control system repair,
but his life’s work is radio control—and as the evening progressed we
sensed the kinship that comes from high-tech obsession: showing each
other our creations, swapping tips, and enjoying that warm glow of
mutual respect. There really are a lot of interesting people in the
world...
After a morning helicopter flight and hearty breakfast we were off, my
head filled with fantasies of adding a mini-chopper to the bike and
letting it roam ahead to transmit live video of the mysteries around
the next bend. Why not? “Viva Madness!” writes Ray Rolls, one of my
correspondents here on GEnie... and indeed, why not? What else, besides
learning and fun, should be our bottom line?
Onward. Chats on the radio, new friends gradually fading into the
static. Coffee stops, curious stares. Heavy weather, wringing out
gloves, wiggling numb toes. The terror of the Lewis & Clark bridge,
which managed to combine all the most unpleasant cycling conditions
into a single 10 minute ordeal: rain, gusty sidewinds, slippery
expansion joints, heavy two-way traffic, logging trucks, steep grades,
and no escape route. I caught up with Maggie at the summit, touching
her shoulder en passant and
offering a word of encouragement. Her whimper was lost in the roar,
then I was flying downward at 37 mph,
rain stinging my face, bike jolted sideways by surprise grooves and
passing 18-wheelers. Passing? At this speed? What the hell’s the hurry,
guys? The little blinking green LED on my console kept saying —but
what does it know outside its artificial little world of nicely
decoupled 5-volt logic?
But hey. The miles go by, experience becomes memory. The next afternoon
we were in Portland, Oregon.
Normally, finding contacts is easy. On my first trip around the country
I would roll into town, scan the faces in the crowd for that familiar
spark, and gently hint at my need for a place to stay. Rarely did I
wander around a city after dark and try to rationalize a night of
credit-card camping. But two things conspired to make Portland
difficult: a pair of 8-foot high-tech recumbents gives the misleading
impression of complete self-sufficiency, and Portland is a city with a
huge street population—hundreds of homeless people living on the
handouts and waste heat of a large but friendly town. Conversation was
easy and pleasant, but finding a place to crash nigh impossible. After
giving up, we fought our way across the city after dark to the AYH
hostel—which, like every other hostel, was absolutely unlike every
other hostel.
Hostels have character.
This is one of a network of places that helps shape the traveling
culture—not the tourist culture (which provides the shallow thrills of
“attractions” while insulating people from wherever they are), but the
traveling culture, which is exactly the opposite (a lifestyle instead
of a diversion). At hostels you meet people on journeys, people who
throw their entire selves into the experience of movement, change, and
meeting other people. Long bicycle odysseys are commonplace in the
hosteling world, as are solo wanderers from Australia, Swedish girls on
holiday, and people of all ages seeking a bit of work to fuel the next
stage of travel. Someday I’ll tell you more about the hosteling life,
but suffice it to say that we found ourselves in a sort of haven from
the confusion of the city, grateful for the chance to sit around the
big table and swap stories with new friends. A pretty 18-year old
Canadian girl named Bettina cut my hair for the next day’s TV
interviews, and my winsome Lifestyle Maintenance Manager put the
kitchen to good use. Ah, pasta.
Everybody we meet thinks we’re intriguing, but some kinda crazy to be
this far north this late in the year. TV weather reports talk about
storm systems and Alaskan fronts, and the single word “south” is my
stock answer to that constant question: “where ya headed?” As we fled
the continuous roar of Portland on the delightful Terwilliger Trail, we
could feel it: trees denuded, leaves on the ground soft from rain,
joggers puffing breath from faces locked into grimaces of self-imposed
agony. Tomorrow we’ll dive back into the soup after a lakeside day of
writing and relaxation—down to Corvallis, home of Hewlett-Packard
portable computers... a mecca of sorts. And closer to the sun.
“Back on the freeway, which is already in progress!”