Mendocino, California (1,324 miles)
January 12, 1987
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 in the narrow ribbon of
revenue-generating highway are protected from the logging companies,
which would happily hack ‘em down in a heartbeat 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 2-meter 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.
If you're bicycling the Pacific
Coast, this classic book (substantially updated since we used it) is
absolutely
essential!
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. “Here. I have
room on my bicycle; let me dispose of that properly.” He drove away in
a stink of automotive overkill.
(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 down after a few frenzied hours of trying. Once
past the initial greetings and basic tale-swapping, they mentioned that
they were leaving the next day for the famed Long Beach bicycle show
(otherwise known as the Bicycle
Dealer Showcase Expo). We moaned in envy. This is the big
time—the COMDEX of the
bicycle world. My mind reeled with visions of dazzling new gadgets,
potential sponsors, book buyers, old friends, new friends, and a warm
southern California weekend...
Why not? We left the next evening, armed with hastily produced book
flyers, our bikes locked in the B&B’s garage. We crammed four
bodies into a tiny Toyota, motored over to Willits and down 101 to San
Francisco, then crossed to I-5 for that endless drive through the
central valley... lasting until well after dawn. (Now I remember why I
prefer pedaling: it takes a lot longer, but is never as numbing as the
sameness of auto travel.)
It was well worth it, though, for the weekend was rich with images,
absurdity, and high-tech excitement. We stopped in San Francisco for a
triple espresso on Columbus Ave, and watched a guy running furtively
through side streets with a parking meter—post and all—tucked under his
coat. We raced on foot up the switchbacks of Lombard Street, collapsing
at the top to 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 the sleepless all-night drive in heavy fog we
arrived in Long Beach, plunging into an international orgy of the
surprisingly diverse bicycle industry. Hydraulic brakes. Clever new
recumbents, finally combining quality and affordability. Not just
shoes, but shoe systems.
Endless sleek variations on the 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
machines, picking up 8 new equipment sponsors, and seeing even more
familiar faces than I do at computer shows. Must be some kinda change
of life...
But now we’re back in Mendocino, it’s raining again, and I’m trying to
sort out all this new information so we can continue the long-overdue
southward trek. Since chapter 18, we’ve made it about halfway to the
Bay Area, and our next known stop is... oh, never mind. I should know
by now not to make predictions.
I’ll just see you next week from somewhere else. Probably.