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.

Riding at last - the first day

Astoria to Nehalem Bay State Park: 43 miles.

Self portrait at Astoria, Oregon

When a young cyclist asked how far I was going, I replied simply, “California”. And at that exact moment, with that one declaration, this bike trip transformed from vaporous, intangible wishes and desires to something real and living; like tissue and bone and breath.

He was replacing his tire and tube at the bike shop in Seaside, Oregon after running over a screw and walking into town. I was ready to clip into my pedals after a chain repair. The realization that I was biking to California created one of those “Holy Shit” Moments, like, “I’m doing what?”. Gilbert Gottfried (the parrot in the Disney movie, “Aladdin”), was shouting in my ear, “What was I thinking!” California was only 390 miles away (depending on which measure you use) minus the 20 I’d just pedaled to Seaside (or limped to Seaside is more accurate, given the chain separation that happened as I left Astoria). Lesson: if you carry a chain tool, which I did, carry a chain link to do the repair too. Doh!

But the committing word “California” had been uttered to this stranger; the proverbial stake driven in the sand, and I was on the road after days of doubt and questioning of sanity gnawing at me across Wyoming, Idaho and Oregon (Oh, yeah, Marsha will attest: I was pretty difficult to live with for a few days there). We'd parked the car in Astoria so she biked to Seaside and shuttled back to the car by bus while I rode on. The first one to the Airstream at Nehalem Bay would start dinner! (it was I, surprisingly).

Jim atop Arch Cape.
Three Capes Route and tomorrow's ride is behind.

Later that day after passing through Cannon Beach I stopped to photograph (in addition to the gorgeous beaches and famous sea stacks) an interesting house under construction on the climb up to Arch Cape, about 1,000 feet from sea level (which was, of course, "right down there!"). I was told that it is in its third year of construction and is essentially a very hand-crafted house. Uses all natural materials (“no sheetrock anywhere”) and custom hand-crafted millwork throughout, with much natural stone and brick. The roof above the steel beams is overgrown with mosses because it has had three years to weather in, not because it’s an old roof and this is a remodel. You can look straight through the glass walls from the road to the ocean.

Other highlights of Day One:

• We needed to go easy the first day; not burn the legs out; back off on the pace; drink and eat often (before you are thirsty or hungry). We did, and that really helped get through the days of longer miles.
• Stop and take photos and read historical markers. I did that – until the rains came. Learned how Cannon Beach got its name (from a cannon washed ashore near Tillamook from the wrecked military frigate “Shark”). And how the Lewis and Clark expedition bought some very welcome whale blubber from friendly Indians at Tillamook during their winter stay on the coast.
• Pedaled through the first of two tunnels on the coast route that have special flashing lights to warn drivers there are cyclists in the tunnel. This was at Arch Cape, right past Cannon Beach.
• Learned that 1,000 feet of climbing is still 1,000 feet of climbing whether it’s at sea level or above Denver’s 5,280 feet. Yes, having ridden at altitude made a difference I think, and the breathing was easier than, say, at 7,000 feet outside Bergen Park, near Evergreen. But a hill is a hill is a hill.

A different challenge

What can I say? My left leg is different. You'll see it in the photos - this rather stern, bald-pated look is of me before a ride up in Boulder County, Colorado, in July. I have had a condition known as lymphedema basically since birth, but as with most cases of Primary Lymphedema, it didn't show up until after puberty. Mine came on late, when I was 18. Nobody knew what was causing my ankle and calf to swell during senior year on the wrestling team. Within a few months the whole leg was swollen and getting nasty infections and nobody knew why. I wore ill-fitting compression garments for decades because that's all anybody could advise me, even at the famous Boston medical centers. It wasn't until I was in my mid-Thirties that I finally learned that I had lymphedema. Today I know that millions of people get this ailment as a Teenage, as I did, or as an after-affect of surgery that has included the removal of or damage to even a few lymph nodes. Breast cancer survivors often have significant lymphedema in their arm following a mastectomy. These post-surgery or post-injury patients have what is known as "Secondary Lymphedema". Lymphedema never goes away; there is no surgery and no magic pill. You just have to manage it carefully to keep the swelling from getting out of control.

Why and wherefore

I suppose we blog because we believe we have a story to tell. Hopefully one that others would find interesting and short of lobotomizing without anesthesia. Or because we blog to keep others up to date on some special activity. Which leads us to my blog. I'm cycling the Oregon coast in September, 2011 with my wife, Marsha, and our Airstream trailer. Yup, from top (Astoria) to bottom (Cali). 390 miles in 7 days of pedaling over and past dunes, shore and sea lions. It takes us through basically the largest continuous stretch of public beach in the country. Thanks to the Oregon governor in 1917, I think, who declared that the highway 101 right-of-way extended to the water. Now, I grew up cycling the backroads of some famous little coastal towns north of Boston where the beach has been privately owned since the days of the Pilgrims. And where residents of "Manchester by the Sea" are still restricting public access to an ocean you'd think should be free as the sky.

And is this "on my bucket list"? Well, I've stated that once or twice but please don't think I'm some Jack Nicholson with a negative forecast. My dad is 92 and so it seems I have at least another 30 years in me. You know, if the creek or tide don't rise too fast and all that.

Bucket list or not, biking the Oregon coast is something I’ve wanted to do since Elizabeth graduated from Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon in 2005. Marsha and I nested in a cottage in Netarts overlooking the bay south of Tillamook (remember those great radio commercials for Tillamook cheese and capturing for the queen! in the early 90's? That Tillamook) for a week. And we biked parts of that Three Capes Loop of the Oregon Coast bike route over what, it turns out, is the highest point on the entire coast ride - all of about 1,000 feet above sea level. Which, of course, you can actually see instead of in Colorado where "sea level" is just a reference point on a topo map. It was incredible fun despite one day of chilly, wet riding. Hey, it’s the coast, what could we expect? And it’s quite different from cycling in our home state of Colorado where rain is considered a special event instead of another degree of normal.

As for blogging this event, two special people in my life – my daughter Elizabeth and my college friend, Lynn Welbourn have both blogged before me. Elizabeth shared her adventure of three months in Thailand and India in 2011 at thevirtuesoflivingdangerously. Lynn told us of her bike ride last summer from the Pacific across the Rockies and Montana to Fargo in her blog Lynn's Blog. So it can be done, regardless of your age. I may as well dive in and see what you think.