California Here We Come

Here's another chapter from our life on the road. The vast and varied events of the past week have conjured many thoughts and reactions, so in this blog we have reflected individually in contrast to our previous joint efforts. Enjoy...

MARK:

"What do you want most in the world, in this world of the possible?" (Off The Map)

With each switchback our confidence grew, leaning into sweeping corners as we sped down the valley side. The often cumbersome load of the bikes and panniers were united in graceful momentum. We owned the road. Few cars invaded our descent, and when we eventually rolled to a halt, we sat in the remaining beams of the afternoon sun wearing huge smiles. We carefully prepared an uninspiring banana sandwich, supplemented by our current addiction, blackberries, which we browsed for at our respective heights like a gazelle and a giraffe on the Serengeti. No words passed between us, but suddenly we realised just how amazing the last 2 hours on the bike had been. We had climbed steadily to an elevation of around 2000 feet after passing Leggett before the glorious, plunging downhill. We had been apprehensive about this sharp peak on our map for days, yet when it finally arrived we relished the challenge. It left us both with the unique sensation that any challenge can be overcome, that we are capable of achieving the goals we choose for ourselves, that anything is possible. A feeling that was encompassed concisely by the quote above. The feeling that you have control, that you have the power to decide how you spend your life, is intimidating yet liberating. Endless hours on the bike speculating over possible future plans gain intensity and spice at the thought that these things could actually happen. We strive not to take this feeling for granted.

Earlier this week we crossed from Oregon into California, a state which we had both eagerly anticipated. The Oregon coastline was excellent, but the mere name of California is enough to craft vivid images in the mind. To my knowledge, there are no songs praising Oregon girls. With high expectations we pedalled towards the state border. We were greeted by a grey and overcast sky which hung its shadow over a dreary 'Welcome to California' sign. As we are always seeking new experiences, this was obviously preferable to the cliched image of tanned young beauties rollerblading along coastal paths, surf crashing onto golden sands.

As the afternoon wore on, we decided a coffee break would provide a necessary boost, and found a burger bar which resembled a front room in the small town of Smith River. As the only customers, we were settling in to enjoy our refills when the woman who was clearly the waitress/manager/owner nonchalantly collected her coat and announced that she was done for the day. We rose to leave but she insisted we should stay, enjoy the coffee left in the pot, and simply lock up on our way out. We were stunned but happy, and fulfilled the trust placed in us by not even taking a sachet of sugar to enhance our oatmeal. We did, however, accept the offer of more coffee, and I handled the pot with grace and style, as the Gallery pics clearly demonstrate.

This week has seen many new experiences for us both. We traveled on a 7 mile trail through a forest of majestic redwoods. Unfortunately this trail was designed for hardy fell runners or perhaps extreme mountain bikers, and as such it took us 5 hours to drag our heavily laden steeds up the precarious slopes. Possibly as a result of these off-road shenanigans, Greg's tyre ripped, leading to an inevitable puncture. This, unfortunately, was not a new experience, but it did give us an excuse to hitchhike to the next bike shop, something we both fancied doing at least once. The novelty of trying to thumb a lift faded with the light, and the irony of a distinct lack of motor vehicles, while so many had seemed to roar past as we rode, did not add to our humour. We consumed our weight in broken biscuits before a white van pulled over. After spying the dearth of surfboards in the back, I surrendered the front seat to Greg and was treated to a wonderful torrent of surfing lingo in the conversation which ensued. Eventually Matt left us to grab an hour in the waves, promising to return for us if we weren't picked up. We thumbed in vain as Greg drooled at the small but perfectly formed swell, and drew favourable comparisons to the legendary waves of East Runton. The return of Matt's van was a welcome sight, and he generously offered us a place to stay for the night. We discovered the joy of a gourmet root beer and received an education in exotic cigars, and vowed to celebrate our arrival in Central America with a quality 'stogie'. In Arcata we acquired a fresh tyre but then used the rain outside as a convenient excuse to delay our departure. The delay extended from a coffee, to a bagel, to a whole day. While off the bikes in this welcoming town, which hummed with friendliness and creativity, we tried slacklining, moonlit yoga on the dunes beneath a midnight sky, and gatecrashed a Zoology lecture. As a result of the time spent improving our pitiful flexibility and our knowledge of evolutionary theory, we left ourselves with over 350 miles to cover in the next 3 and a half days. This had soon become 190 miles in a day and a half and the odds were stacked against us, as we found ourselves sat in a roadside ditch fixing yet another flat. It was decision time. As Greg said, it was only a matter of time 'before common sense would prevail' and we would be reduced to calling the hostel to delay our arrival, to admitting defeat. We made a vow, a pact to delay the nagging onset of reason, and to make it to San Francisco the next evening.

GREG:

A type of madness had engulfed us. We were completely aware of this temporary insanity and were both choosing to ride it like a Californian wave. Cackling sadistically, we set about our mission of self-harming using the blunt knife of a bike tool, pushing it with sheepish yet determined vigor into the palm of our hands.

That Sunday morning we had awoken at sunrise for the usual 'escape from the campsite before the Park Ranger can charge us' routine. Our objective was clear: to arrive in San Francisco by Tuesday evening in time for free beer night. This would entail 290 miles over the beautiful yet harsh slopes of Highway 1 in just three days. This was a feasible task, but as we are beginning to discover, things are rarely that simple and sure enough, as we rolled out of the state park, I felt the all too familiar slippery instability that can only mean a flat tyre. Oh joy.

Inner tube fixed and a cheeky little 65c coffee consumed, we pedalled away, singing a stirring ditty about our determination to complete our task. Alas, less than half a mile had passed before THORN, the god of punctures had struck again, this time immobilizing my front wheel. This is when the madness set in. Both Mark and I realized that there would come a point where these set-backs would ultimately render the challenge unrealistic, and that we would be forced to cancel the hostel, relinquishing the promise of free beer. However, upon this realization, a wretched feeling of pre-empted failure slapped us rudely in the face, forcing us to make a pact that whatever adversities were incurred, we would not let it hold us back, even if it meant riding through the night and pushing our bodies past exhaustion. We decide to signify our commitment by becoming blood brothers, using the afore mentioned tool (my Swiss Army knife would have been more effective but it was really sharp) to draw blood from our palms, before sealing the deal with a firm handshake. This brave and shivalrous premise was actually extremely difficult in practice, due to the fact that we are both complete pansies, and girly shrieks and cries ensued before I eventually managed to squeeze a miniscule droplet of crimson from my palm. It would have to do.

MARK:

As I write, I am enjoying the benefits of hostel life, gorging myself on a socially unacceptable number of free bagels. We made it to San Francisco. It was after 10pm, and all we did on our arrival was sit in the corner like smelly zombies of exhaustion, being revived by pizza and beer. We had made it, and dispelled the nagging worry that we might be all talk, that we were 'all fart and no poo'. We made it, and the beer tasted sweet.

Spending time in San Fran, and in the bagel-filled oasis that is the Green Tortoise hostel, has stirred up memories of my previous stay here and thoughts of how much has changed in time. 3 summers ago we rode across the Golden Gate bridge on a hired tandem, exhilarated in the bright light of a new adventure. Crossing the bridge again, lone cyclists of the night, we wanted nothing more than to reach the other side, the glistening lights that represented our temporary place to rest. San Francisco has been a pleasure, but there is barely time for one more bagel before we ride on again. The next target is San Diego, where the promise of a visit from a certain English girl will keep me going when my legs begin to tire.

GREG:

In his book Beyond Culture, the anthropologist Edward T. Hall explores the ways in which various cultures organize time. He believes that areas such as Northern Europe and America work on a Monochronic system, which emphasizes schedules, segmentation and promptness, where as Latin America and the Middle East use a Polychronic time system whereby several things happen at once, and emphasis is placed on the involvement of people and completion of transactions rather than adherence to preset schedules. I raise this thought because I feel that it holds great relevance to my life over the past four days. By setting a deadline to arrive in San Fran by 7pm on Tuesday and assigning a daily quota of mileage that was reliant on discipline to get up early in the mornings and ride late into the night, Mark and I have adhered to an extreme monochronic system that bordered on obsession.

Hall criticized the 'M-Time' system claiming that "...it is not inherent in man's own rhythms and creative drives, nor is it existential in nature." I would be inclined to agree. It is evident in the lack of imaginative or technically decent photos in this weeks gallery (a 90 mile a day schedule is not conducive to stopping by the road to compose an epic landscape or create some witty visual narrative), and I often reflect with disdain upon the stifling 9-5 culture of the world I grew up in. I am happy to be free of that monochronic society and have vowed to not let myself be caught up in it's web, Yet here I am, unnecessarily imposing the same 'factory whistle' scheduling upon myself. The paradox lies in the fact that it was this rigidity that allowed us to reach our target. It helped me push my body further than it had ever been pushed and without it, I would not be glowing with the incredible sense of achievement that I am feeling right now.

I am eager to return to the road and the life of simplicity it brings. I am excited to explore further, more of this wonderful part of the world, with it's redwoods that reach into the heavens and its perfectly regimented, glassy waves overseen by broad winged birds, lazily hitch-hiking on thermals. I look forward to once again riding through the corridors of eucalyptus trees, allowing their fresh fragrance to fill my head as the wind cools my sunburnt nose. I want to ride into the unfamiliar, where I am forced out of my comfort zone by vast differences in culture and language, and decide for myself whether Hall's generalizations of time systems in different parts of the world is accurate. Perhaps I could devise some sort of compromise between the two. I've never been all that good with time.