I have had a crazy day. A completely surreal day with random acts of kindness, luck, mishaps and people. Last night I was so bursting with thoughts and impressions that I had a hard time convincing myself to go to bed instead of staying up and blogging.
We were excited to finally cross the Californian border and were planning to ride 80-90 km and arrive at Crescent City. We ended up staying in Brookings, OR just 7 miles shy of the border, not by choice. We should have known the day was going to be funky when Misty announced that she had a rear flat tire as we pull out of the Nesika Beach RV Park at 7:30 am. This is fairly minor stuff, so we took about a half-hour on the side of a quiet road to change the tire. As we finish up, an older man with a carefully groomed white beard about 8 inches long and matching mustache, with a jogging suit pulls up on a bike. He asks us if he can be of assistance since his wife had driven by earlier and called him about us. He turns out to be a cyclist as well, and was planning his own tour in Utah. We thank him since we have already changed the tire and were on our way.
Misty and I resume our biking and meet Mariana for breakfast in Gold Beach. As we arrive we notice that another bike with panniers is parked in front of the diner. Cyclists on tour customarily greet each other and exchange stories and info about the upcoming route, so we were looking forward to small talk about the dreaded hilly cycling in Northern California. We chatted briefly with this unnamed cyclist, found out that he's touring solo and started out with twice as much gear as he needed. We laugh knowingly since big weight and big hills make cyclists unhappy. We wish him luck on the rest of his journey and go back to making a difficult choice from the wide array of breakfast goodnesses. The waitress takes our order and adds: "Ladies, you don't have to worry about the tab, that gentleman there paid for your breakfasts. He's gone now, he told me not to say anything." This brings a short silence to the table as the three of us digest this unexpected announcement. We are feeling pretty lucky and it's not even 10 am yet.
Our cycling route is moderately difficult with several long hills to climb but at the same time, peppered with viewpoints and places to take a break. It takes us 4 hours to go 50 km, and by 2 pm we realise that we still have another 30 to 40 km to cover before setting up camp. A little hurried, we decide to take a late lunch in Brookings and set off for a good 2 hours of solid riding to Crescent City. Entering the town, a roadside fruit stand selling California strawberries, peaches, apricots, cherries, etc... catches my eye. I am stopped, getting ready to dismount and next thing I know my bike is tipping left, my previous-free left foot was somehow firmly clipped back into the left pedal and SLAM I land on my left elbow and knee. I am so talented that I have scraped off the exact scars from the last time I did that three weeks ago. The vendor lady runs over in a complete panic screaming "Oh my God! Are you OK? Do you need a Band-Aid? Oh my GOD, you're bleeding are you going to be OK? Do you need a hand getting up? Oh you're up that's good, do you still need a hand? Oh look you're still bleeding! Good thing I was there to help you up, are you going to be ok?" Meanwhile I have quickly picked myself up, put water on my scrapes, and wiped the blood away and am trying to reassure the distraught vendor lady. Misty is quietly observing and trying hard not to say "hey lady, it's ok. She's a doctor and I'm a nurse, I think we can handle this." Fifteen minutes later, carrying fragrant strawberries and peaches and nectarines, I painfully cycle into town, cursing my apparent lack of balance.
It's 4 pm when we finish lunch and resume biking. We leave Brookings on the bike route, fighting a strong headwind. I turn right onto the highway shoulder and I hear a loud BANG. The bike starts shaking and shuddering, I brake and clip out. I look behind to my rear wheel and the tire not only flat, it is in shreds. My heart rate is up, because this doesn't look like a problem with a fast solution. Flipping my bike upside down, I realise that the tire is completely destroyed and the rims are shaved down in several places from having skidded on the pavement. To go on, I'll need a completely new rear wheel, but it is 4:30 pm, on a Friday, 8 km south of Brookings. I heave a big sigh, and wish that the man with the bike tools we saw this morning would ride by somehow.
Being women of action and of common sense (heh), the three of us do our thing. We manage to flag down a cyclist from Brookings, who gives the phone number of the bike shops in town so I can call them as soon as possible and organise a repair. We flag down a truck who can bring me and my gear back to Brookings, where the folks at Escape Hatch Bike Shop are waiting. I feel that the universe loves me in its strange way.
The retired elderly gentleman who brought me back to Brookings was on his way to the hardware store when he saw us. On his way back, he picked me up and I got to meet and share the front seat with his bull-like Shitsu named Mopsie. During the ride, I told him I was living in Montreal, Canada. He proceeds to exclaim: "I've been there! I was there in 1952..." and tells me the story of how he met a really hot blonde transvesitite. How some things don't change...He made sure that I was taken care of at the bike shop and gave me his business card as he left saying "send me a postcard from California!"
Bringing my bike into the shop area in the back, I stop in my tracks and exclaim "YOU!" The gentleman with the long white beard from this morning was standing in front of me, with the same gleam of recognition in his eyes. We laugh. I introduce myself to Scott, and we proceed to trade bike stories. He's been here since the morning building a new bike, and I told him what happened to me.
The shop was busy in a lazy kind of way, so we spent the rest of the afternoon waiting. Scott waits as well, as the manager Eric tries to figure out why the computer system has broken down. Mariana and Misty have joined me by this point, and the four of us keep chatting. It's looking more and more like we have to stay here overnight, since the guys at the shop have already stayed 1.5h past closing time to help us and the repairs can't be finished right away.
Scott decides that he will stay in town. He organises his accomodation and we girls discuss what we are going to do tonight. He walks over to us and announces that he's got it all figured out. He has found two rooms at the Best Western on the waterfront and it's on him. Misty, Mariana and I look at each other dumbfounded. What is this day?!!? Despite our protests and offers to pay for our own room, he stands firm and explains his situation. He does however, accept our offer to buy him dinner. Misty and him leave on their bikes and Mariana and I grab a lift from the store manager Eric in his ancient diesel BMW. The beast has 346000 miles on it and needs 10 minutes to warm up and definitely had character.
I wanted steak and potatoes for dinner. I polished off a fabulous 12 oz prime rib in the company of three fabulous people. We listened to Scott tell us about his colourful history, his family and his upcoming trip. This man's story could have been a movie, except that it was real. Does art imitate life or the other way around? His father was a Nazi, and his mother was a hidden Polish Jew. He left home to join the Navy at an early age. Having served for 4 years, he was ready to leave, but then got extended to serve in Vietnam, which he refused. He was court-marshalled, and sentenced to 12 months of solitary confinement. After four of those months, he was given another option. Go to Vietnam and we will let you go afterwards. There he was injured and send home, where he became a vocal anti-war protestor. He married,had children and lived a hippie life for many years, coping with his disability. The night went by fast.
It was 11 pm by the time our heads hit the plush pillows in the room. I fell asleep listening to the ocean waves, marvelling at the richness of life.
