Low And High Tides

The day started without breakfast, my food supplies gone, but I had planned an early cafe stop in Dune City, just four miles up the road. That was a mistake. Dune City had none of the provisions the map promised, which left me another sixteen miles to cover on nothing, twenty in total. I had woken up already ravenous, and this did nothing to improve my mood. A road marking somewhere along the way was about the only thing that kept me going.

I passed through the ghost town of Gardiner before finally reaching Reedsport and breakfast. These places were grim, a stark contrast to the Oregon towns we’d passed through so far. Not everywhere can be shiny and affluent, I know, but these felt like they were actively decaying — the sort of place only the industry workers would ever have lived in, except the industry had since died. They sat inland on the small river bays, well away from the glorious coastal views I had grown used to. The sky was grey, the buildings were grey, and I’m fairly sure the air was grey too.

My mood wasn’t helped when I arrived in North Bend. Coming over the bridge into town, a man in a blue pickup drove up onto the white line and shouted at me for riding on the bridge, which left me furious. Needing to regroup, I found some coffee, only for my unbalanced handlebar bag to tip sideways and knock the cup to the ground to the general amusement of the public. I felt like calling it a day there and then, and ended up staying in North Bend until three in the afternoon with thirty very hilly miles still to go. The ACA maps had us come off Route 101 and over Seven Devils Road, a devil apiece for each of the steep climbs waiting to be overcome. By the time I reached the biker camp in Bandon I was cyclist number ten and in no mood for conversation, so I simply bought some Floridian cyclists a round of beers and went to bed.

Flavia must have been out already this morning…

I woke the following morning with renewed enthusiasm and hit the road early for a proper breakfast, with plenty of options this time in Bandon. I parked my bike against the side of a cafe so Eal would spot it when he came past, only for the woman inside to come out shouting that she had just planted something on that patch of ground — it looked like nothing but sand to me. Dragging the bike off with the rear wheel still locked, I managed to tangle the cable between cassette and spokes, and it took ten minutes and thoroughly filthy hands to sort out. By then I had lost my appetite for that particular cafe and found another spot instead.

Once riding, I heard a huge pop — a flat. The shoulder was littered with enormous chunks of roofing tack, nasty stuff. I caught up with Eal to find he’d suffered a flat from the same cause, his first in the whole of the US. He went on to pick up a second heading into the next town, from a staple this time, then a third shortly after, while I picked up a second of my own. Five flats between us. In Port Orford I passed a genuinely homeless cyclist with a dog and a sign reading “Any food helps.” Hoping for a little mercy from the cycling gods, I rode over and handed him my freshly restocked bread, peanut butter, and jam. He was overjoyed and shared it out among his friends, and we talked for a while before I went to find the library. My spirits had lifted by then, helped along by a lovely email from Flavia, which I badly needed — I had been struggling to find the brighter side of things without her around, and I think that had a lot to do with it. Things picked up further that afternoon once I gave up on the ACA route and stuck with 101 instead, wide, clean, and flat-shouldered.

In Gold Beach we met a man named Clifford, riding the coast on his own. He told us the RV park looked closed, so we ended up splitting a cheap motel room three ways.

ugh.

Stuck with 101, flat, clean and wide.

Clifford was up and gone early the next morning to take on the nasty-looking climbs between there and Crescent City, which would carry us into our final state, California. I was curious to see what the north of it had to offer, having already covered nearly every inch of the state south of Sonoma. What I found was a far more rural California — charming, pretty back roads that could pass for France, and as many blackberries as anyone could want, which I duly gorged on throughout the day. Clifford met back up with us at the campsite that evening, a wonderful spot right on the beach. Sea lions barked all night, though it’s hard to stay annoyed at creatures that goofy.

We woke to a sopping wet tent, soaked through by the mist tumbling in off the ocean, and packed up with numb fingers. I had on almost every layer of riding gear I owned, which is saying something, given I’m usually fine in the cold. I found myself picturing Flavia riding through this in her sleeping bag, holes cut through the bottom for her legs. The road out of Crescent City began with an immediate climb of around fifteen hundred feet, and within half a mile I had already stopped to strip down to just my jersey — remarkable how quickly you can warm up under that kind of effort. It was Eal’s birthday, and at the top of the climb sat a lovely wooden lodge cafe where I bought him a proper birthday breakfast. The whole morning was spent riding through vast redwoods; my lens wasn’t wide enough to do them any justice, but they were phenomenal, and I filled my lungs again and again with the warm smell of bark.

Our destination for the evening was Arcata, where we planned to take a day off in the small college town several people had recommended along the way. The roads in the afternoon deteriorated into little more than a single crumbling lane of sand and rock, though cars were still using it regardless. Fed up with the ACA route, we jumped back onto the wide-shouldered 101 and pushed into town, only to arrive at the motel we’d reserved and find it completely shut down — it had apparently moved, and the address hadn’t been updated anywhere. We eventually found the new location, had a few beers, then went for ice cream at Arcata Scoop, which Flavia had told us to visit. We found out the following day that she had left her card details and a description of us so we could eat for free — best girl — though the shop had realised at the point of sale that they were missing her zip code and couldn’t process it. The gesture alone was sweet enough.

Our day off in Arcata was spent doing laundry, grocery shopping, and then exploring town in the afternoon — a look around the campus, some hippy-watching in the town plaza, of which there were hundreds, and a stop at the brewery. It’s a quirky place, and we later learned the timing was no coincidence: the marijuana harvest was approaching, and people converge on the town every year to help bring it in.

Arcata Scoop’s selection.

Hippies at the Arcata Plaza