Chapter 14: Adventures in South Ecotopia
© 1986 by Steven K. Roberts
Nomadic Research Labs
Eureka, California (1,043 miles)
November 28, 1986
Do you ever read my stories and wonder what it really feels like to be
out here, exposed to the world, unsure from one day to the next where
I’ll sleep, who I’ll meet, what pleasures and pains will strike with
the whim of chance? Do you ever try to see past the rhapsody, the humor
and philosophy—looking for clues in the rhythm of my words, sensing
exhaustion in torpid prose or the giddiness of new friendship in silly
sentences of puns and alliteration?
Narrow-bandwidth communication like this is frustrating. I’m living an
adventure of intense visceral sensation, and the only way I can share
it with you is through words—and maybe a stack of photos if I ever camp
in your livingroom and swap tales over pizza. Not enough. Last Thursday
I wanted to share more: I wanted you to be there.
It wasn’t a normal day, this 18-mile explosion of violence and
insanity. It was a day of curses lost in the spray of trucks, of
stinging eyes and cold sweat. It was a test of hardware, a test of
nerves, a challenge to muscle and mind alike. Thursday was one of those
days that will live on as a caricature of the entire journey—a day that
will instantly spring to mind whenever anyone mentions riding in the
rain... or redwood trees... or the sheer looniness of challenging
truck-infested mountain roads on a bicycle in a heavy storm.
Imagine sweat, lots of sweat, steaming inside layers of polypropylene
and Gore-tex. Its pressure builds, hot and stifling, as you strain in a
headwind up a mountain road. You think to disrobe, but the icy trickles
of rain leaking through zippers and seams warn otherwise—better to be
hot and wet than cold and wet. Your shoes begin to squish, and you make
a fist every few minutes to squeeze water from expensive “waterproof”
neoprene gloves.
Soon you accept the discomfort and pay more attention to the other
problems: packs soaking through, computers and humidity, trucks
blasting by in an opaque spray. Those can be challenging as you waver
unsteadily up the grade at 3 mph, fighting crosswinds. Sometimes they
catch you broadside in a soaking explosion of white water and roar off
into the mist, trailing diesel fumes and the smells of chopped fir,
leaving you struggling for control as a motorhome passes too closely
and a knot of vegetation forces a swerve into traffic. Ah, recreational
cycling.
The water is everywhere—inside you and around you. You need to vent the
morning’s coffee, swilled so long ago in a fluorescent-lit 50’s cafe,
but the grade is too steep for parking... so you press on into the
rain, splashing in brown runoff like a spawning chinook, pedaling
numbly and dumbly and trying not to think about the place you could
have stayed a few miles back. Giant trees pass slowly, shrouded in
mist; the sounds are a muted cacophony of patter and splash, drip and
roar, bicycle chain and your own wheezing breath. Higher you go.
And then the summit, understated, no sign but a warning to trucks, no
place to pull off and congratulate yourself. Without fanfare you coast
the level part, breathing easily, relaxing slightly—then your speed
picks up and the curves fly by and the bumps are terrifying... the
brakes are wet and your hands grow numb... raindrops sting your face
and you squint into the gray, peer into the murk, scan the blurred
submerged pavement for signs of potholes and glass and ruts and bumps
and—HEY! GIMME SOME SPACE, JERK!—anything else that could drop you in a
blink and spread you like a high-tech road kill across two lanes of
uncaring violent glorious redwood highway.
This is the kind of cycling that makes the first motel look like a sort
of paradise. You hand over a dripping Visa card then drag your bike
inside, spreading wet fabrics over every door, chair, and light
fixture—steaming up the room while lying numb and smiling in a real
bed. What a life...
And I wouldn’t trade it for all the BMWs in suburbia.
So. What else is happening? We rode on to Arcata, “where the 60’s meet
the sea,” and immediately began finding friends. Another of those
surprises: there (and here, and here and there) prosper the values and
attitudes that made the 60’s what they were—not in a degenerate way,
but in a productive and creative one. Social consciousness lives! It’s
a mature and quiet force, unlike the frenzy of days gone by that became
de rigeuer for everyone under 30. Dig it? I mean... remember how
confusing it was when you started meeting people who acted like hostile
rednecks but looked just like gentle hippies? Most disturbing, wasn’t
it? That’s what happens when style outweighs substance. But today’s
hippiedom is a thoughtful lifestyle, not just the way to be in style.
The emphasis now is on health, not drugs. On growth, not destruction.
On efficiency, not depravity. The famed hallmarks of the 60’s—strange
music, long hair, and dope—are but the textural backdrops in what has
become a quiet, unaggressive community. Fashion has long since moved on
(mercifully), leaving people who care about ecology and world peace to
do what they can, for the most part so passively that the effects are
but a gentle breeze in the absurd maelstrom of current events. But it
matters, and they care, and it felt good to be in a place where people
still believe in something other than abstract entities and their
personal bottom lines.
We stayed at the Humboldt State Campus Center for Appropriate
Technology for a couple of days, wandering the well-cultivated grounds
through the shadows of windmills and solar collectors. Dinners had the
feel of family, and nobody even asked how much my bike cost (one of the
first questions in anyplace even close to Yuppiedom). I began writing a
Whole Earth Review article,
invigorated by an atmosphere more fitting than a xerox motel room or
suburban vinyl tabletop. Quiet music. Good company. Smells of teas and
spices, composting toilet and vegetable garden.
And then on to Eureka. “Don’t go there!” said our Arcata friends. “Come
on down!” said our Eureka friends. The balance tilted, as always, in
favor of change, and we rode 8 lazy miles to the Samoa Cookhouse—an old
logging camp tradition that serves up an all-you-can eat
mega-breakfast, ideal for cyclists. Pain and pleasure... raw
gluttony... new insights into the term “lumbering.” Torpid and heavy we
crossed the bridge and stumbled into yet another culture—another
unexpected treat in what has become a lifestyle sampler of infinite
scope.
Humboldt County is the Mecca of kinetic sculpture. Every year, Eureka
is the scene of strange madness as 40-50 amphibious human-powered
vehicles cover a 38-mile course of highway, water, and mud. Some racers
are bent on sleek efficiency; most are bent on artistic fun—and it is
with those of the latter category that we find ourselves staying.
Through an unplanned sequence of serendipitous events, we fell
immediately into a house-sitting deal... a chance to stop for a week
and attempt to hit about 50,000 keys in the right order, ideally
yielding a couple of magazine articles on the eve of deadline.
Procrastination followed by despair: nothing has changed, even as
everything changes.
So here I am, on Thanksgiving night, fresh from dinner with an
exquisitely eccentric friend in Ferndale (more on the character of that
intriguing place next week), pattering away on a lashed-together desk
of plywood and C-clamps as a cat half-dozes beside me. Yes, here I am
again: settled into a place I’d have never imagined a week ago, as much
at home as ever. It’s not even strange anymore. We watched ourselves on
San Francisco’s Evening Magazine
last night—saw the “world’s smartest bicycle” laden with computers and
solar panels—and realized with a start that it was US, that we are
still a curiosity even as we settle into the journey’s routine. What’s
so bizarre about a couple of high-tech nomads?
It’s those around us who we find curious, not ourselves. That’s
probably why I still haven’t gotten around to explaining how this
machine works. With all the wonders of the planet to explore, how could
I remain obsessed with a bicycle—even if it does happen to talk?