Monkey Truck

   A deep layer of damp fog kept the morning cool and Albert, departing from San Simeon State Beach where he’d spent the night, headed south towards Morro Bay. On this morning, perhaps left over from yesterday’s sense of joy, Albert rode with an absolute feeling of purpose.

   Following the coastline through the heavy fog, Albert passed through the small towns of Cambria and Cayucos, before catching sight of the impressive Morro Rock – “A national preserve and nesting ground for the rare and endangered Peregrine Falcon,” whispered J-Bird to a surprised Albert. J-Bird also reminded Albert about the importance of expressing appreciation, respect, and love for all of nature’s creatures, and not to over-look those that were the closest and a constant “support” in his life before they also became extinct.

   From Morro Bay, Albert took the Los Osos Road into San Luis Obispo, where he found himself crossing paths with the AIDS/LifeCycle riders. From SLO, Albert decided to ride with them along their route which headed for the Pismo Beach area. By now the blanket of fog had lifted leaving a warm, sunny afternoon. Albert took lunch with the lively and entertaining AIDS/LifeCycle riders and roadies, and after visually scanning the colorful crowd, re-connected with the young Buddhist, Julian. In conversation, Julian, whilst practicing some pretzel-like, yoga move, told Albert about a young roadie he’d met, that was volunteering her time in exchange for a ride back home to Mexico. Julian couldn’t recall her name but told Albert that she could be found working on one of the baggage trucks – the ‘Monkey Truck’ to be specific. Albert was sure it had to be Ali, and with a joyous feeling radiating from within, found himself on the verge of excited, about finding out for sure.

   Leaving Pismo Beach, now eager to find out if it really was Ali that Julian spoke of, Albert upped his cadence. From the time he’d met Ali back at Lake Quinalt, in Washington State, Albert held a small place in his heart for her – frequently sending her positive thoughts for a safe journey. A short distance down the road, Albert caught up with the ‘Midnight Ridazz’, a group of fast-paced cyclist from Los Angeles, and by temporarily taking advantage of this small peloton, was able to catch his breath as they carried him along. Together they hustled through the small Spanish-flavored towns of Oceano and Guadalupe, and with the now arid, dry, and dusty conditions, it was beginning to feel a lot like Southern California. 

   Heading east on route 166, with the wind pushing them along at speeds nearing thirty miles-per-hour, the small group of cyclists pulled into the town of Santa Maria. The AIDS/LifeCycle riders were camping on the north side of town at Preisker Park and Albert, wanting to confirm that it actually was Ali that Julian had spoken about, figured that he could find himself a secluded patch close by to spend the night.

   Albert quickly made camp and headed over to where the AIDS/lifeCycle baggage trucks were parked. Easily finding the ‘Monkey Truck’, Albert, from a short distance confirmed that it really was Ali. As busy as she appeared, hustling to unload rider’s baggage and tents, Albert chose not to disturb her. For the moment, he was content in just knowing that she had made it safely this far. He wanted to share road stories but being a patient young lad, was able to contain his excitement and postponed their reacquainting for a more appropriate time. Besides, after an eighty mile ride, beyond his continued sense of joy, he was fatigued and hungry. On top of which, he desperately needed to replenish his depleted supply of yarn before the following morning.

Big Sur

  The Big Sur campgrounds were located in the Los Padres National Forest, slightly inland from the rugged seashore, and after rising, Albert found a narrow trail that wound its way down to a secluded beach cove. Albert found the sparsely populated Big Sur coast, where the Santa Lucia Mountains rise abruptly from the Pacific Ocean, simply a marvel to view and explore. Climbing up and perching himself upon a rocky precipice that overlooked the pounding surf below, Albert enjoyed a little breakfast from the small surplus of food that his panniers still held. Albert reflected on some of the Artists that had temporarily been attracted to the area over the years. There were authors that he’d read like Henry Miller, Hunter S. Thompson, and Jack Kerouac, and poets Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Robinson Jeffers that he’d tried to understand – he wasn’t there yet. Albert had also heard about actors, painters, and spiritualists, along with singers and songwriters, that had all been at one time captivated in some way, by this amazing stretch of coastline – its isolation and spiritual connectivity. Heading back up to camp, Albert packed up his overnight gear and after his ritual morning stretches, rubbed the belly of his black stone Buddha, made a mental note that upon returning home he’d have a re-read of Kerouac’s ‘On The Road’, settled into his well-warn, and perfectly molded Brooks saddle, and peddled out for the day.

   Leaving behind the tiny community of Big Sur, the Cabrillo Highway climbed up a large hill before finding it’s way back down to the coast and its magnificent views. Albert found cycling in this area to be physically demanding and had to stay alert to the many touring motorists buzzing up and down the coast. The road was narrow, winding, and at times steeply rolling as it made its way up to the small town of Lucia, which sat ocean side of the 5,155 foot, Cone Peak. Eventually, Albert pulled up for a stop at a gorgeous little spot called Plaskett Creek and took a refreshing dip in the cool ocean waters.

   From Plaskett Creek, refreshed from his swim, the ride past San Simeon and Hearst Castle was long and hard, but Albert found his rhythm and cycled with an almost overwhelming sense of joy and freedom. The surface of the road was smooth and the riding felt effortless as the sun, setting in the west, warmed his flesh and soul. In ‘the zone’, Albert experienced a spiritual unity with all the characters he’d meet over the past three weeks and with loving thoughts of Blue Bird and Golden Piglet, J-Bird, Ali, Mo, and Bo, together, down the highway they rolled.

Eco-pod Housing

   Albert woke at the crack of dawn with the intent of joining up with Julian and the rest of the AIDS/LifeCycle riders. The previous evening before they’d separated, with Julian entering the fairgrounds and Albert heading off in the direction of The Tannery, they had arranged to meet up and ride out together. The AIDS/LifeCycle riders were scheduled to depart at 6:30 a.m. and Julian had told Albert that he’d bring him some camp breakfast – corn bread, bananas, and juice. Albert would have liked to have found out what the Tannery Arts Center was all about, but being so early in the morning, there was nobody around to ask. He figured he'd save his intrigue for a later J-Bird conversation.

   Albert, quickly got himself over to downtown Santa Cruz and whilst waiting for the AIDS riders to pass by, noticed a poster for sanjosebikeparty.org – San Jose being a town just north of Santa Cruz. The poster announced an upcoming third-Friday ride with the theme of ‘Light It Up.’ Albert had read about ‘Critical Mass’ and other bicycle gatherings in some of the larger towns and cities around the world. These were well organized, large group rides, that brought cycling awareness to the general public. The poster mentioned that the once monthly San Jose rides, were apparently attracting up to a thousand riders per event, and that for a few hours in the early evening, cyclists of all types on fixies, cruisers, lowriders, etc., would cycle through San Jose and the neighboring towns of Los Gatos, Campbell, and Willow Glen.

   At about 6:35, Albert caught sight of the first AIDS/LifeCycle riders and shortly after, as Julian past by, slotted himself into the departing procession. Under a blanket of morning fog, the pre-arranged route took the riders through the seaside towns of Capitola and Aptos, then inland through Freedom and Watsonville. The Watsonville landscape offered a bountiful array of fruit and vegetable fields that were being worked by migrant farm workers and produce pickers. Albert noted what strenuous conditions it appeared to be for the workers, and hoped that they were all well compensated. Continuing south on Highway-1, the cyclists rode past Moss Landing and Elkhorn Slough – with its abundance of wild-life, a popular spot for kayakers. At the town of Seaside, Albert once again said his farewells to Julian and some of the other AIDS riders that he’d gotten to know. Their route took them inland and Albert, who earlier had noticed signs for Monterrey and Carmel, chose to take the coast road. They figured their paths would again cross, some place farther down the road.

    One of Albert’s favorite books was Cannery Row by John Steinbeck, and with that in mind he chose to eat lunch down by Monterey’s Fisherman’s Wharf. Although commercialized and touristy, Albert, perhaps partly due to fond memories of passages and characters from the book, could not help but like the feel of this old canning town. Now refurbished with few remaining old and weathered canneries, Albert sat on the wharf looking out on the calm waters of Monterey Bay, and whilst attempting to converse with the barking seal community, imagined how it must of been back in Steinbeck’s day. Along Cannery Row, contemplating some local neo-retro architecture, Albert’s thoughts returned to the concept of ‘Eco-pod Housing’, and looking around for J-Bird, Albert felt it time for a little lesson. A large amount of the population of Santa Cruz, like in Arcata, and Mendocino, had an earthy feel about them and Albert assumed that these were locations that the earth-friendly, ‘Eco-pod Housing’ concept would take root. Out of sight, but always close by, J-Bird felt Albert’s calling, and from her wealth of earthly knowledge, formulated an answer to his question.

   “The ‘Eco-pod Housing’ concept, is part of a response to combat America’s love affair with ‘bigger is better’, a defensive attack on it’s out-of-control ‘urban sprawl’, and a means to stem the flow of damage that modern ‘super-sized’ housing has caused the environment,” stated J-Bird. “The ‘Eco-pod’ is earth-friendly, reduces the size of the human population’s ‘carbon footprint’, and incorporates, low-emissions recycled building materials, gray-water harvesting systems, irrigated rooftop gardens that double as insulation, solar panel powering, natural light, and odorless dry toilet composting,” she continued. “Key to it’s success,” she noted, “is the use of locally produced and/or recycled products.” Albert listened intently and excited by his new-found knowledge, imagined the amazing potential for a future boom in ‘Eco-pod Housing’ development.

   After his new lesson, Albert and J-Bird followed the coastline through Cannery Row to the attractive town of Pacific Grove, past Point Lobos Light Station, the wintering spot for Monarch butterflies, and via 17-Mile Drive, into the pretty, but somewhat snooty, ‘artsy’ community of Carmel. South of Carmel Valley, the coastline became rugged and wild, with it’s hidden coves and dangerous cliffs. This was the impressive Big Sur coastline, home to artists and environmentalists, and the stunning vistas lived up to every word he’d ever read, that championed it’s beauty.

   At Pfeiffer-Big Sur State Park, Albert pulled in and made camp. It had been a seventy-mile ride, and with night soon to fall, he wanted to hike up to a point where he could catch a view of the day's setting sun.

AIDS/LifeCycle

  Albert awoke habitually early feeling exhausted. The previous evening he’d connected with a group of lawless fixed-gear cyclists and spent the bulk of the night “mashing it up” with the crew in the Mission district, China Town, North Beach (with it's legendary City Lights bookstore), and beyond. These fixie purists were the equivalent of two-wheeled anarchist, running amuck in “The City”. Extremely skilled and versatile on their minimalist, brake-less bikes, they pulled crazy tricks, and ascended and descended some of the steepest grade hills Albert had ever ridden.

   Through morning showers, Albert departed San Francisco by way of Mission Street, which soon became the El Camino Real. Reaching the outskirts of the city, Albert found his way to Juniper Sierra Blvd., where he found himself being swooped up by a large group of cyclists heading in the same direction as himself. Albert realized that he’d stumbled upon a well organized event and asked one of the riders as to who, what, and where they were all heading? He learnt that there were more than two-thousand, three hundred cyclist, all on a seven-day ride, over five-hundred miles from San Francisco to Los Angeles. They were all part of a fully-supported and sponsored ride called AIDS/LifeCycle, and each rider had raised a minimum of $3,000 that went to one of two non-profit organizations that helped in bringing public awareness to the AIDS/HIV pandemic. Albert, chatting with Julian, a young rider from Los Angeles, was informed that the ride was annual, that this was the ninth year (in its current format), and that this year’s crop of riders had raised over ten million dollars for the cause.

   Albert was amazed and enthralled at the sight of so many cyclists at one time. Riding in single file, with the appearance of a multi-colored snake, the line of riders stretched out ahead as far as the eye could see. Past Crystal Springs Reservoir and up Half Moon Bay Road they traversed, and upon reaching the summit, Albert bade farewell to Julian, parted ways with the pack, and headed south along the rolling and twisting Skyline Road. At the crossroads of Skyline and route 84, at a small motorcycle gathering spot, Albert swung west and via the hamlets of La Honda and San Gregorio, sped down to the Pacific Coast Highway. Here Albert found himself reunited with the AIDS/LifeCycle riders and quietly slotted himself back into the long and colorful line. Albert had never ridden with a large group of cyclists before, but welcomed the experience as they swept along at a steady pace. Albert imagined that he was riding in a brake-away on one of the European grand tours.

   With an on-shore fog bank, the weather along the Pacific coast was seasonally cool, damp, and gray. The road rolled up and over coastal bluffs, lined by grassy headlands and near-empty beaches. For most of the ride the ever present ocean was calm and the limited surf ritualistically peeled and broke along the remote shoreline. Traffic on Highway-1 was light and Albert rode with the large group of riders past the town of Davenport and shortly after into the city of Santa Cruz where the gray skies had departed leaving the area drenched in late afternoon sunshine.

   It was on the west side of downtown that the AIDS/LifeCycle riders were spending the night at the local county fairgrounds, and as Albert’s yarn was about to run out, it was the right time for him to find a location to pull-up for the evening. Exploring around, he was able to secure an out of the way spot at the base of the Santa Cruz Mountains, on the grounds of the Tannery Arts Center. 

   Before calling it a night, Albert took a curious stroll back to the fairgrounds where the AIDS/LifeCycle riders were camped out. Here, around a hub of alphabetized rows of closely placed little blue and green tents, was an incredible buzz of activity as thousands of people came and went, visiting food, medical, and technical tents, as well as utilizing shower-trucks and port-a-toilets. Like a nomadic tribe, this was a well-organized, three-thousand strong, portable community. Heading back to the Tannery for the night, Albert witnessed a beautiful visual. As the sun dropped beyond the western horizon, he came across a flood-lite field that was a temporary home to thousands of gleaming bicycles, all neatly corralled side-by-side, row after row. It appeared, that they, like their riders, were ready to snuggle-up the night after an eighty-five mile day on the road.

Local Grown

   Throughout the night, a brisk cold wind had blown in off of the ocean, but by morning it had completely dissipated and Albert awoke to cobalt-blue skies and the growing warmth of the sun as it began to reveal itself over the eastern ridge line. It was still early, and Albert took some time to enjoy the dawn by strolling through Bodega Bay’s small marina and over her dunes. Early morning was his favorite time of the day. For Albert, this was the “quiet hour,” when most people weren’t yet up and there’s was a sought of pre-day calm, where an anything is possible kind of feeling hung in the chill morning air.

   Whilst sitting on the dock of the bay, Albert found himself in the company of J-Bird and decided to strike up a conversation on the subject of a posting he’d noticed that read, ‘Local-Grown.’ J-Bird, in great detail, explained the benefits to both the consumer and producer of purchasing locally-grown goods. She explained how by buying local, it enhanced the economic, environmental, and social health of a particular place, and that it was a means of cutting out the global corporations, processors, manufacturers, and shippers, providing the consumer with a fresher product, one that was conducive to a much more healthy lifestyle. An alternative to large, grocery chain stores, packaged, frozen, and travelled foods, where the middle-man controls the quality and reaps the financial profits. Albert had a hundred questions for J-Bird, who he felt was a wonderful representative of mother nature, but with the morning fleeting, opted to hold his questions for a later date.

   By ten, with a head-full of great new food knowledge, Albert was back on the road. Leaving Bodega Bay, Highway 1 turned inland and slowly rose its way up to the small town of Valley Ford. Thereafter, the road took a ninety-degree right turn and rolling over challenging hilly countryside, headed for Tomales Bay. This area, as the road paralleled the sparkling bay, with its Eucalyptus trees and water views, was quite lovely. Here Albert noticed an increase in fellow cyclist on the road, and gathered that this area must be quite the popular spot – taking in the location, he could understand why. At Point Reyes Station, Albert took Sir Francis Drake Boulevard and with a noticeable increase in elevation, temperature, and poor road surface quality, headed up and over to the town of Fairfax. Beyond came the towns of Larkspur, and Marin City, and here, just north of San Francisco, Albert sadly recognized a change in attitude amongst his fellow cyclists. Over the past three weeks of open road cycling, he’d been greeted by the genuinely friendly, smiles, waves, and nods, from every cyclist he’d encountered, but suddenly here in this neck of the woods, the spandex crowd appeared to have their noses turned up – here, sadly, there was a stink of cycling-snobbery in the air.

   At the peak of Corte Madero Road, off in the hazy distance, Albert caught his first glimpse of the impressive San Francisco skyline. Albert rode through the small tourist town of Sausalito and climbing up a steep wind-blown hill, pulled up to the entrance of the Golden Gate Bridge – standing firm since 1937, this was one of the most famous tourist attractions in the world. One thousand, two hundred and fifty miles from home, dodging the hundreds of tourists, Albert rode across to the City of San Francsico.

   Albert made his way through the popular Golden Gate Park and into the legendary Haight-Ashbury district, a mix of touristy camp, post-punk trendies, and neo-hippies. Continuing on through the lively Castro neighborhood, Albert rode down into the Mission quarter and finally ran out of yarn, sixty-five miles from Bodega Bay.

Mendocino Coast

  The following day, refreshed from a long rest and with a belly full of healthy food, courtesy of Georgette, Albert was able to get an early start. This was much appreciated, for as the day’s ride unraveled, Albert was surprised by the road conditions that he encountered. There were some quite challenging climbs along this portion of coastline, some of which hugged steep cliff faces featuring sheer drops to the rocky shoreline and its fishing vessels below. Today, to Albert’s advantage, the winds were on his back and shortly into the day, the remains of the morning fog had burnt off, leaving blue skies and bright glorious sunshine.

   By mid-day, Albert passed Fort Ross, which turned out to be the start of a strenuous ten-mile stretch of winding coastal highway, that included a five-hundred foot climb, culminating in a fast, hair-raising, switch-back descent. Shortly after came the town of Jenner, where the Russian River meets the Pacific Ocean. Here, Albert pulled up to catch his breath, and made his way out to the sand spit found at the mouth of the river, to bask in the sun with a handful of beachcombing tourists.

   Leaving Jenner, via a narrow bridge over the Russian River, Albert rode passed Goat Rock State Beach. This was the first in a series of Sonoma County beaches culminating at Bodega Dunes State Beach. Albert soon found himself in Bodega Bay, where the classic Hitchcock movie, ‘The Birds’ was set. He hadn’t seen Blue Bird or J-Bird for the last two days and wondered if perhaps they might be here – catching up on a little chatter.

   After another hard, but relatively short fifty-miles, Albert found a quiet peninsula beach, and with one eye out for gatherings of large clusters of birds, set himself up for what looked like a cold, windy, night.

Georgette

   Albert over-slept and awoke to the creaking sounds of an old heavy door being pushed open. In the charming little town of Mendocino, Albert had spent the night in a converted old water tower, and now faced the tenant of what (looking around him) appeared to be an artist’s studio. The tenant, Georgette, turned out to be a sweet-spirited, elderly lady, from San Francisco. Georgette, originally from Paris, France, was a slightly eccentric, abstract painter, who, for a slower-paced lifestyle and the sheer natural beauty of the area, had relocated to Mendocino a number of years back. Slightly surprised, but not overly concerned by Albert’s presence, Georgette, returning from a short gallery trip to the Bay Area, whilst sharing a hearty breakfast of fresh bread, butter, raspberry jam, and sweet coffee, listened intently as Albert explained his story and the reason for his overnight stay.

   Georgette, captivated by the picture painted of Albert’s colorful tail, offered up samples from her own collection of yarn, enabling him to continue his blossoming adventure. With sincere thanks and farewells, Albert, panniers restocked with food and drinks, a generous gesture by Georgette, was on his way. Heading down Highway 1, through thick, damp, fog, Albert made the arduous ride south, passed the small towns of Albion, Elk, and Manchester. Highway 1, here along the Mendocino County coast, turned out to be, whilst beautiful and awe inspiring, a struggle to cycle. Narrow, with limited shoulders, the wind swept area, winds its way through rolling grassy hills, and steep broken coastline.

   By early afternoon, Albert reached the town of Point Arena, and visiting its famous lighthouse, perched himself above the cliffs and ate his lunch. After eating his meal, continuing his ride down Highway 1, the road wound steeply over headlands and dropped sharply into deep coves, taking its toll on Albert’s strength. Just before the town of Gualala, Albert got a front tire flat, the first since leaving Vancouver – his white, Vittoria Randonneurs, had travelled well. Now on the verge of reaching town, fifty miles south of Mendocino, Albert called it an early day and pulled up at the Gualala Point Regional Park.

Legend of Leggett

   Albert awoke to the fresh, cool, Garberville mountain air, but could sense that the day was going to be hot. Today, Albert faced the two-thousand foot summit of Leggett mountain. The ‘Legend of Leggett’, was that many a touring cyclist’s remains and gear, were left scattered by the wayside. Albert, with respect to Leggett, heeded the warnings, and with love and not fear in his heart, set out to conquer.

   Albert swooping down highway 101 from Garberville, took the Benbow side road, quickly passed through the town of Piercy, and started his ascent. Rejoining 101, he passed by one-thousand year-old trees, and for the next ten miles, the road wound up the face of the mountain and with surprising ease, Albert summited Leggett.

   From the summit, Albert exited 101 and via Highway 1, started his descent to the coast. Passing ‘The Drive-through Tree’, out of the corner of his eye, Albert noticed a hand-written sign that read, ‘False Summit!’ “False Summit?”  questioned Albert, “what’s up with that?” The road continued to descend, and shortly after crossing over the Eel river, flattened out. It was here, around a sharp corner, that Albert suddenly faced a second ascent - the actual ascent to the real summit of Leggett Mountain!

   This was a haul! The road, not the steepest Albert had encountered, was simply unending. It twisted and turned as it made it’s way up through the deep pine forest to the two-thousand foot summit. Albert, sitting back in his seat, with a firm grip off his handle bars, pulled for all his worth. About two-thirds of the way up, with his arms and lower back burning, Albert just had to get out of his saddle. Standing, using all his strength to turn over his Campagnolo crank, Albert thought he could hear voices. Dripping with sweat, his heart and lungs working overtime, on the verge of faltering, he was now positive that he could hear voices. Yes, there, just up ahead he could see Blue Bird and Golden Piglet calling to him. But wait, they weren’t alone, alongside them, Albert could see J-Bird, Mo and Bo, and was that Ali? Yes, that was Ali, and they were all right there at the summit beckoning to him. With re-newed drive and a second wind, Albert turned up the pace. Now, off to his right he noticed wild deer – they were running alongside him, and what was this, on his left were a pair of beautifully marked skunks, and just off in the brush, there were rabbits and squirrels, snakes and frogs, and now it appeared that the forest was alive with the sounds of little critters and bugs, all pushing for him. And looking up in the sky he could see hawks and falcons, and below them there were butterflies, and humming birds, and dragonflies all pushing for the summit. J-Bird was right there, just off of his left shoulder, and now Golden Piglet with her little legs, was scampering along below, and of course, in her usual place, right out in front, was Blue Bird leading the way. The pace grew faster and faster, and even the trees and the shrubs, and flowers appeared to be helping as the collective energy seemed to pull a weightless Albert, effortlessly up and over the mountain. His experience was amazing, it was heavenly, it was Albert’s, ‘Alpe d’Huez’ moment, and in a spiritual, Pantheist sense, it was “Godly!”

   Now on top of the two-thousand foot Leggett summit, perched on the precipice of it’s descent, Albert, pulled to a momentary stop and while still strapped in, balanced his bike, rolled back a foot or two, rocked for a moment, and then settled into a comfortable, seated track stand. Turning to look behind him, there was the collective, all smiles and waves as they individually drifted away. “Ready for the descent?” he quickly asked. “No Little Prince,” replied the logical Golden Piglet. “Speaking for the collective, this one’s all yours.” “What about you J-Bird, you with me?” asked Albert. “No, Albert, I’m with Golden Piglet on this one,” responded J-Bird. And turning to Blue Bird, “how about it, you up for this?’ asked Albert. And being the spontaneous, little thing that she was, “wouldn’t miss it for the world Albert,” was her natural response. “Come on Albert, let’s rock ‘n’ roll!” And with that, Albert took a glance at the 8% grade sign, took a deep gulp, and from a standing start, with Blue Bird alongside, took the plunge.

   Down and down they flew, two-thousand feet of dark twisting, narrow road, straight down. Thirty-five plus miles an hour around tight unforgiving curves. It was pure exhilaration! Albert couldn’t believe the thrill and the joy of the moment. Nothing else matter beyond the here and the now. This was everything! Right now, Blue Bird and Albert were one with the world, this was flow, this was Zen, this was love!

   Reaching the bottom of Leggett Mountain the road headed west to the great blue Pacific. From there Highway 1, through coastal rolling foothills, lined with wildflowers and thistles, wound its way to the town of Mendocino. Here, under a blanket of fog, the day’s yarn expired, and with Blue Bird, now napping on his handlebars, after the most heart-pounding eighty miles of cycling, Albert pulled up for the night.

Avenue of the Giants

  The moment Albert awoke, possibly while he still slept, he knew from the scent in the air, that he was embedded in farmland. Slowly rising, rubbing a hard, deep sleep from his eyes, Albert remembered flashes of his night’s dream. It was a funky dream, one in which he co-starred in a Hollywood blockbuster movie with actor Will Smith as Barack Obama. From the bits and pieces that he could recall, Albert played the roll of Obama’s assistant, a sort of Robin, as in ‘Batman and Robin’, and together with Obama, their super-powers, and their spandex, saved the world from the off-smelling, “evil ones” – whomever they might be.

   Albert always liked Joe Strummer’s lyrics, “...cold water on the face, brings you back to the human race...,” and with doing so, was off and running. From Ferndale, Albert headed east down Grizzly Bluff Road, a narrow country lane, lush with fauna and wild flowers, to the small town of Rio Dell. From here he crossed over the twisting Eel river for the first of many times that day, and passing through the town of Scotia, entered the ‘Avenue of the Giants’. Albert thought that there must be many beautiful locations in the world to cycle, but this had to rank right up there. The sun was high and the temperature warm, but the air under the canopy of ageing redwood trees was cool. Albert cycled the dark, wooded avenue, narrow and winding, rising and dipping, for over ten miles – sometimes alone, sometimes together with the life-affirming, optimistic, little Blue Bird.

   Near the hamlet of Weott, Albert pulled off of the avenue to a wayside, and trekked down to the edge of the glistening Eel river. This section of the river was wide, with a broad expanse of stony beach on either side. It was whilst taking in this glorious view of nature that Albert had a ‘deja vu’ experience. This, he realized, was the location in his dream that he’d had that heavy stormy night back in Forks, about the white, and the red wolf. Here, Albert was sure, was where in the dream he found himself running with the two wolves along the banks of a remote mountain river, only to lose sight of them as they sped off into the distance, eventually taking flight. Albert, sitting himself down on the edge of the river, blocked out the ridiculous, petty problems of the world from his thoughts, and concentrated on the pure beauty of the setting at hand. In a moment of meditation, becoming one with the environment, Albert envisioned the two wolves as they playfully ran together, wild and free, joyful and loving, in what could only be termed as ‘A Wolf’s Nirvana’.

   With a warmth in his heart, and little Blue Bird by his side, Albert and Blue Bird (like Batman and Robin) returned to the ‘Avenue of the Giants’ and passing ‘The Immortal Tree’, The Foundation Tree’, and the ‘Dyerville Giant’, rode on passed the towns of Myers Flat and Miranda, eventually ending up in the post-hippy town of Garberville.

   It was summer-hot in Garberville, Albert had cycled seventy miles this day, and night was falling. Finding an empty meadow, Albert, too exhausted to pitch his tent, pondered over the past two-weeks on the road, and the more than one-thousand miles he’d cycled, lay his head down on (what he imagined to be) a bed of California Stars, and drifted off.

Inner-City Blues

  The Camper Coral was located just outside of Klamath, near the Trees of Mystery, where an oversized Paul Bunyan and Babe, his giant blue ox, welcome visitors to the world’s largest collection of redwood carvings. Albert awoke to a light-ocean mist that looked about ready to burn-off. Heading south for a few miles, with barely time to warm up and prepare for the day’s ride, Albert was confronted by the first of many climbs.

   This climb had a double summit, the first at five-hundred feet, the second reaching a whopping one-thousand, five-hundred. It sure was an early morning wake-up call. From the top it was one fast ride down, but unlike yesterday’s descent, the morning mist had been replaced by bright sunshine, the road surface was smooth, and Albert’s visibility was good.

   About thirty miles into the day’s ride, Albert passed the town of Orick and getting close to the ocean, the blue skies were replaced by coastal mist. Just passed Big Lagoon, Albert reached the Pacific, and exiting Highway 101, took Patrick’s Point Drive, and soon pulled up for lunch on the high cliffs over-looking the small town of Trinidad. Patrick’s Point Drive was a narrow road that hugged the Trinidad cliffs and was at times a single-lane due to winter wash-outs. The view from on top, of the beach and surf below, due to a pocket of blue sky and sunshine, was simply spectacular.

   Returning to 101, cycling up and down many a hill, Albert made his way to the college town of Arcata. He found his way to the town square, a hub of retail commerce, cafes, and restaurants, that was chock-full with the hustle and bustle and comings and goings of shoppers. On the grassy plaza, in the center of the town square, loitered and lounged quite a few of what appeared to be, free-spirited hobos, looking for hand-outs. Albert encountered one of these characters, who claimed to be a young ‘fixie’ cyclist traveling from Victoria, British Columbia, to his home town of San Diego. Albert felt that he was being befriended under false pretences and that the lad (a little sketchy) had actually, while Albert was arranging for a cup of tea, been scoping out his bike for a snatch and run. Albert, with a pocket full of street-smarts and the J-Bird’s ever-present, maternal keen eye, never really felt overly threatened and he hoped that his instincts and impression of the lad were wrong.

   From Arcata, under Gray skies, Albert passed through the city of Eureka – his first major city since Vancouver. Passing through the center of town, Albert immediately noticed the huge differences between cycling in an urban setting from cycling in the country. From the traffic congestion and the loud inner-city noises, to the manufactured processed smells of industrialization, and the vulgar images of blight. This in comparison to the open space of the road, the sweet sounds of nature: the wind, the rivers, and oceans, the birds, the insects, and the animals, to the earthy scents coming from the trees, the plants, and the flowers, and the natural visual beauty of the land, the mountain, and the seascapes. Albert being raised a city boy, knew that (in most) towns and cities, along with their packaged conformity and materialist consumerism, there could be found wonderful, creative, and interesting places, and that his noted thoughts were merely from a cycling point of view.

    With a touch of the 'Inner-city Blues', Albert, pleased to be departing Eureka, headed back out to the countryside where within thirty minutes, he once again found himself riding down quiet country lanes, surrounded by livestock, where the earthy smells and the sounds of nature immediately replaced his short inner-city experience and raised his spirits. Albert found his yarn tighten up as he reached the small attractive Victorian town of Ferndale, eighty-three miles from Klamath.

Triple Summit Hill

   When Albert finally woke, it was around 10:00 a.m. This was the latest that Albert had slept, and peeking out from his yurt (unlocked the night before by J-Bird he assumed), was confronted by the hard reality of an absolute down-pour. On this morning, Albert also found that he was totally out of yarn. Still beat tired from the previous day’s ride, Albert thought that if there was ever a day to slip back into his sleeping bag for an extra hours rest, with the silly notion that the strength of rain might subside, then this was that day. In the blink of an eye, an hour had past and with a second gander outside, nothing had changed. Or had it? For sure the intensity of the rain hadn’t altered, but what was hanging from the door handle?... you guest it, a ball of yarn! Why that sweet J-Bird, thought Albert. Oh well, no point in hanging around, it’s just a little rain, right.

   From Harris State Beach, with new yarn (thanks to J-Bird) attached, Albert headed towards the California border. At border crossing, Albert humorously expected a large door to swing open and a great big blue sky, and a high yellow moon to be waiting on the other side. No such luck, just more rain. About a mile past the border crossing, slogging away in the rain, Albert heard the sounds of honking coming from behind him. The honking grew louder and louder and as the vehicle passed him by, he heard two voices yell out, “Aaaaallllllllbeeert!” From the passenger window of a ratty old trailer, were the beaming faces of the two young English lads from Milton Keynes. Albert, with a smile and a wave, had a good laugh – looks like they found an easier (and dryer) way of reaching Crescent City. Not looking for an easy way out, from Smith River, Albert took Lake Earl Drive into Crescent City, a country road that passed open fields, cattle ranches, and the Pelican Bay Correctional Institute along the way. Pulling up in Crescent City, Albert changed into a new set of clothes that had dried out over night in the yurt, and mentally prepared himself for his assault on the triple-summit hill that awaited. This could possibly be his highest climb and biggest challenge so far.

   Albert, in the only gear his bike had, gripped his handlebars, and gritted his teeth. The next seventeen miles where to be some of California’s most hair-raising. The first summit (three miles straight up) at 1,200 feet, was the highest and was reached with sheer grit and determination. From on top, Albert almost thought he could see the California sun trying to brake through the clouds. This was followed by a short descent before an attack on the second summit. With pouring rain, booming traffic, and a shoulder-less road, only one more summit to go. After the third, it was all down hill for the next three and a half miles and before he began, what turned out to be one heck of a crazy descent, Albert noticed a truck Brake Check area off to the side of the road. This made Albert take a quick look down at his only brake, a Paul Racer center pull on the front, and hoped he wouldn’t need it. With a deep breath, Albert felt like he was dropping in to the deep end of an eleven foot swimming pool on his skateboard. Instantly, with seven and eight percent grades, Albert was flying. Flying!?...that’s what Blue Bird had said, and now here he was, about as close to flying as he was going to get. Down and down he went, unable to see due to the rain and thickness of the clouds. His glasses were completely fogged up as he zipped past signs announcing, ‘loose gravel!’ “Wait, what did that say?” – too late!!! Albert, his backside bouncing out of his Brooks Swallow seat, due to the rough unfinished road works, hung on for dear life. Albert knew that pro-cyclists got up into the fifty-plus mile-per-hour range, but that was with multi-gearing, dual-brakes, and the ability to coast. When you’re strapped into a bike with a fixed gear hub, reaching speeds of thirty-five miles per hour is pure crazy – Albert’s hips and knees felt like they were coming apart. Only one more mile to go!!!

   At the bottom of the hill, Albert took a little time out for the feeling to return to the many parts of his body that were numb, and reflecting on what just went down, blurted out, “Wow! that was absolutely wicked! Pure craziness.” Albert rode at coaster speed for the next ten miles, passing the trees of mystery, before his yarn concluded. Albert was able to roll into the Camper Coral and tent up for the night, still buzzing from his dizzying downhill thrill. It had been a short fifty mile day, but one heck of a ride.

Wind and Rain

   It appeared that on this morning, Albert awoke simultaneously with the wind and the rain. From Bullard Beach, Albert rode into the town of Bandon, where leaving 101, he took the scenic ocean route that passed through the colorful little downtown and on through a neat residential neighborhood overlooking the sea-stack-studded beach, at Face Rock viewpoint.

   Just past Face Rock viewpoint, Albert noticed ‘The Devil’s Kitchen’ and wondered about the many locations he’d past in these last few days, with names that referenced the devil. There was the fore-mentioned Devil’s Kitchen, and Devil’s Lake, Devil’s Elbow State Park, Devil’s Punchbowl, and the Seven Devils Road. These references to the devil also made Albert think of the abundance of churches he’d noticed over the past two weeks and he started to ponder the ‘big picture’, the concept of God and the Devil, of Heaven and Hell. Through cycling, Albert could easily relate to the term of “the hellish” and “the heavenly”, he’d had (though mostly heavenly) both experiences. Albert understood that words were (for the most part) good for communication, but he also understood that some words were abstract, and until filled with an experience, were empty. That the experience created the concept, that gave meaning to the word. Like the word “God”, Albert new that so many people had so many different concepts of the word. This, creating diversity, Albert thought was a wonderful thing. Now, Albert had heard of the concept of Pantheism, that “God” was life, that “God” was a part of everything, and everything was a part of “God”. That rivers and oceans, trees and flowers, dogs, cats, squirrels, man and woman, etc., were “God”. Sometimes, Albert imagined “God” as a naked Rubenesque woman (like Louisa, who would walk around her room without clothes on at the ‘Old Vic’ – the curtains drawn), lying on an over-stuffed couch. He thought that when “God” (Louisa) lying there on that couch, laughed with humanities humor, smiled with its compassion and joy, all of existence was right there, in the turned-up corner of her smile, and that when Louisa cried for humanities pettiness, its crimes and wars, all of existence was right there in the teardrop that rolled from her eye. “God” was simply everywhere, a part of everything. And I, thought Albert, like Blue Bird and Golden Piglet, we are a part of everything and everything is a part of us.

   With that thought, at that moment, a jaybird landed on Albert’s handlebars and looking him straight in the eye said, “so, Albert, how about me, does that make me “God” also? A little startled from being lost in thought, Albert pulled over to a safe place and replied, “jaybird, you can talk?” “Yes, I can talk, believe me, I can talk. In fact I can talk for hours and hours about anything and nothing, but right now I’m tired and frustrated of not having a good conversation for the past two weeks. Now, answer the question Albert, am I 'God'?” replied the jaybird. Avoiding the question, now more interested in the talking jaybird, Albert asked, “say, are you the same jaybird from back at Lake Quinalt and in Florence?” “Why yes Albert, the same. In fact, I’m the same jaybird that’s been following you from day one. You could say that I’ve had a bird’s eye view of the ride since Vancouver,” responded the jaybird. With that, Albert asked, “why are you following me?” “Good question Albert, I ask myself that a dozen times a day,” snapped the jaybird. “Truth be said, though she has total faith in you, your mother trusted in me to make sure that you were safe along your journey. That’s what I do Prince Albert, I take care of people,” said the frustrated jaybird. “Well” smarted Albert, I think I’ve been doing just fine by myself.” “Seriously Albert, really? Do you really think that there are that many good-natured, generous, park rangers out there just offering up yurts, that yarn just simply appears in dumpsters, that rhubarb pie just slips into your panniers?” replied the jaybird. A little put in his place, Albert asked, “that was you, you did that...you set that up? Well, er, I, er, guess a big thanks is due.” And feeling a little bad, Albert then asked, “well seeing as you’ve been along from the start, witnessed it all, had a bird’s eye view of the ride, so to say...how’s the journey been for you?” “Well nice of you to ask,” squawked the jaybird, “I’m a gregarious character who needs a strong support system, who’s been without one for two weeks. All my friends are back at home, wondering why the heck I’m doing this, and I, quite honestly don’t think I realized what I signed up for. For two weeks I’ve tried to communicate with you, but you with your singular focus, can’t seem to see or hear me. Let’s say it’s been quite difficult to say the least.” Ouch, thought Albert, feeling terribly bad, that must be mighty tough for her, and how giving of her to sacrifice herself like that. Some how he knew he must (at some time) return the favor. However, right now he knew not how. With that, her feathers a little ruffled from the verbal confrontation, something she was never really comfortable doing, J-Bird, needing time to herself, flew off to do whatever she did in her personal space to recoup. Albert made a mental note to himself, that from here on out, he would do his best to engage in conversation with J-Bird whenever possible. Besides, he had so many questions he wanted answered about organic-farming, free-range, eco-friendly housing, sustainability, etc. 

    Returning to his singular focus, Albert continued south. From Bandon, the road travelled inland over rolling farmland, dotted with a variety of livestock: llamas, sheep, pigs, cows, horses, etc. The area reminded Albert of old postcards of North Wales (or was that Tiera del Fuego in Argentina?) that his mother had. Moving south, Albert, through the wind and constant drizzle, cycled passed the one-store town of Denmark, and on into the fishing town of Port Orford. Here Albert visited the harbor for a quick peek at the morning catch. From Port Orford, the road temporarily returned inland and began to rise as it headed past the damp, lush, HumBug Mountain State Park. Road works pulled Albert up, and with a lively chat with the friendly State employee (who’s job it was to direct traffic), discovered that around thirty or so cyclists had past through the previous day. He also discovered that the Jack, the State employee, was working towards his second retirement, was an ex-military man, had moved with his wife from Indiana, had three kids, seven grand-kids, loved the Pacific North-West’s out-door life style, loved to camp, hunt and fish, was thinking about heading east for a summer visit.... Nodding politely, Albert wondered if he might come across Ali in the days ahead.

   Returning to the coast, the road hugged the shoreline and the strength of the winds increased. Albert, with his head down, wondered where the often mentioned north/north-westerly winds were. Over the past nine days, he’d only had favorable winds on two occasions, and only once for a full day. Just before Gold Beach, Albert turned off of Highway 101 and took the Old Coast Highway, where (bad mistake) the winds were at their strongest, bringing Albert almost to a standstill. Albert, crossing the Rogue River, finally pulled into Gold Beach where he caught his breath and rested his aching triceps and shoulders. Where were Blue Bird and Golden Piglet on this day? – wisely hiding from the elements he thought.

   Before leaving Gold Beach, Albert changed his soaked clothing and ate lunch. Warm, and with belly full, Albert was ready to tackle the climb over Cape Sebastian. Cape Sebastian was a semi-tough climb, but Albert, with a smooth, steady rhythm, found comfort in the ascent, as the landscape held off the winds. You couldn't say the same for the descent as the winds and rain thrashed and battered him on the way down. At the base of the hill, for a short while, the road flattened out. However, it wasn’t long before the next wave of hills began, and though really feeling the strain of the day’s ride, Albert, with positive attitude, pedalled past Arch Point, Whalehead Bay, and on into the commercial town of Brookings.

   Totally drenched and battered, Albert’s yarn yanked him to a stop at Harris State Park where he was fortunate to find an unlocked yurt. The yurt was snug and warm, and Albert, with his last ounce of energy, changed into his final set of dry clothes, crawled into his sleeping bag, and after an eighty-seven mile beating, past out.