Third day on the road

Sandlake to Beverly Beach State Park: 45 miles

There is something a bit unnerving about watching your wife drive away towing your Airstream, its silver butt slowly waddling out of sight toward the beaches, and just a bicycle and pack to find her again. I was pedaling from a wide spot in the road below Cape Lookout called Sandlake (pop. 25) on the Oregon coast bike route. I had no idea I’d be experiencing this same unnerving feeling two more times that day.

Along the coast

We were on the smaller coastal roads away from busy Highway 101 with its logging trucks and motor homes (yes, and trailers, too), which made the cycling delightful. Our plan was to meet up at the end of the day at Beverly Beach State Park, nearly 50 miles down the road. This being trailer moving day, we had to pack up and get on the road from Nehalem Bay State Park, which gave me an early afternoon instead of morning start on the bike.

Just past Cape Kiwanda, the third of the Three Capes, I was well warmed up and cruising through Pacific City (pop. 1,000 – the obvious metropolis to Sandlake) rubbernecking at the birds, beaches and surf, sand and sometimes even sun. I spotted our Airstream along the road up ahead. My wife and incredibly devoted, unselfish support driver, Marsha, had found cell service and was calling our insurance company. She was looking for help get rid of my rash that had started before leaving Denver. Red itchy bumps were consuming my back and then my chest and basically everywhere. One tube of lotion from my doc wasn’t going to touch this expanse, so we were trying any alternative remedy we could think of including corn starch. She explained what she was up to and waved me down the road with a simple, “Keep riding.” That was “Unnerving Departure No. 2” – but this time I was the one leaving the trailer behind.

Ten miles later I turned onto old highway 101 at Neskowin (six times the size of Sandlake) to climb 600 feet over Cascade Head. I texted Marsha then I quickly lost my cell service. All my trust was in our plan to meet at Beverly Beach and the map in my pack to get me there. This section of the ride turned into one of the most remarkable stretches of road I’d been on in years. The rough un-tended pavement wound gradually up and past some houses, then a school, then a few old logging roads. It climbed steeper into a magically dark green lush, drippy forest with a canopy that kept the roadway wet and the hillsides a mystical misty land of emerald moss-flocked trees. The curving, climbing road crossed a single-lane bridge, cement flowing over with thick, green moss-fleece toward the gully below. I figured it doesn’t snow here much, and tried to recall how few roads in my own state of Colorado could support such a steep grade.

I reached for my Granny Gear and continued the six mile climb. Suddenly I was greeted by a loud, sharp voice passing me from above, “You’re almost there!” An older guy (in reality, probably not much older than me) passed me going downhill like some bushy, bearded Hobbit on a rocket: a one-speed cruiser bike, backpack and paisley or polka dotted shorts, I wasn’t too sure he went by so quickly. And two turns later, I’d topped out and started four miles of downhill to a surprise bridge closure and detour. “Oh great,” is not an exact quote but I was worried the detour would keep me from meeting up with Marsha before dark.

I had no choice but to pedal the detour. In 100 yards I was moving quickly downhill toward Highway 101. And as I got closer I was astonished to see our silver Toyota 4Runner pulling the Airstream right past me. I thought of waving, shouting for Marsha. The urge to catch her was surprisingly strong, and of course silly. The third Unnerving Departure of the day had happened. I stopped and texted as the trailer bobbed out of sight – telling her that I was now behind her.

Then I pedaled onto the highway en route to Devil’s Lake and Devil’s Lake Road, Lincoln City, Gleneden Beach, Lincoln Beach, Depoe Bay, over Cape Foulweather named by Capt. Cook, the first Englishman to set sight on these shores (foul weather kept him from beaching at all here), Otter Rock (no otters) and Devil’s Punchbowl State Park (no punchbowl). Then as I passed Boiler Bay I saw our unmistakable Airstream and Marsha, binoculars in hand, watching whales in the bay and making new friends of fellow whale watchers. She drove me to Beverly Beach State Park, saving me the last 5 miles of pedaling.