Awoke to a most grizzly morning with the familiar driving rain and punishing wind. It looked like a good day to hunker down if it was going to last the day, so I settled in for a read, some writing and lounging. True to the forecast from the good people at The Weather Network, it settled down around 11:00. Thereupon I packed my bags and headed for San Francisco for the day.

The Ocean View Hotel. A very comfortable port in another storm. Note the wet, shrinkwrapped machine in the parking lot.

Sunny and warm it was! A delightful time was had by man and machine as we toured the traditional points of interest: Fishermans’ Wharf, Lombard Street (we talked about it, but elected instead to take a picture rather than a reckless risk), China Town, and the cable car route along Powell Street. It was fun leaning back and motoring up those fabulously steep hills. City landscapes of San Francisco are like no other. There is a kind of romance in this place recognized by anyone who has ever been here.

I also thought it might be interesting to visit Haight Ashbury. Guided by my trusty little GPS we zigzagged an unconventional route and arrived at the hippy epicentre of the 1960’s. Now, two generations later , it seems like very effort has been made by shopkeepers and streetgoers alike to keep that old flavour alive. I suspect the motivation is partly cultural, partly historical, but largely commercial. Garish and trip-inspired artwork, smoke shops, Tibetan Earth Stores… and on it goes. The residents were in full costume, right down to the beads and tie-dyed teeshirts. 

Can you read the street sign?

Nearby Golden Gate Park is the haven for hordes of the young and the restless. Dressed in rags and lounging in the grass they all look like they have given up already. I was on the verge of forming a disapproving thought about their drop-out lifestyle when something occurred to me. I visited this place today because it was kind of iconic for my generation, representing a time and a place that defined us in some way.  I reckon that the disheveled young reprobates that squatted in the park in 1968 looked pretty much like these kids, and those of my current age cast the same sort of dismissal as I was inclined to do today.

But make no mistake—they are disheveled reprobates and they should clean themselves up and get a job!

How far we’ve come. *sigh*

It was an enjoyable ride back down Hwy 1 to my digs for the night. The views were lovely, the sun warm on my face. I checked in at the Pt. Montara hostel and settled myself in. It looks like I will be the lone occupant of my dormitory room for four. The place is otherwise teaming with girl guides, excited and characteristically high pitched. But we have a lot to learn from young people who have such enthusiasm for life. Pity that we can be inclined to lose that.

Pt. Montara is a lighthouse. It is also the site of a very cool and friendly hostel in a setting that is the stuff of postcard collections. I sat on the edge of the cliff for about an hour to drink it in. A low sun in a clear sky lit up the violent surf that exploded on the rocky shores. Neighbouring storms have prompted surf warnings all along the coast, and that makes for some sensational shore action!

At 8:30 we all gathered in the meeting room to observe Earth Hour. Janice, our proprietor, did a nice job talking to the kids about ways that they can act responsibly in this world—and for the management of the problems they have inherited from us. 

Hardly seems fair does it?

Sorry, kids.

On 'Suffering'. It's not so bad.

More than a few of my friends and family who have been following my humble ramblings have commented on the misery and suffering that I have endured plowing through the cold and the rain. Not stated in the kindness of their words is the concealed fear that I am a wee bit nuts!

In response to their message of concern (and thank you for checking in on me, My Dear Ones!) I must say that I am happy beyond measure with my ‘suffering’. Both in the immediate short term astride my noble steed, and in my life story thus far. Not because it is particularly heroic to ‘suffer’ or that it is an expression of masochistic inclinations, but because it is, at least to some degree, healthy and invigorating. And frankly, it is the only way to grow. To paraphrase Viktor Frankl in his essential book “Man’s Search for Meaning”, ‘suffering is the price one pays for achieving those things which are worthwhile and meaningful in one’s life’.

And let’s face it—it is inevitable!

Aeschylus was a Greek playwright (never got an Oscar nomination, poor bugger) who made a career of writing recreational tragedies. He cited Zeus and others of his godly ilk with the message for we mortals that ‘wisdom comes only from suffering’.  It enlarges us. If one was to reduce that thought to the size of a fridge magnet it might say, “those things that don’t kill you, make you stronger”. 

In the end, it’s O.K. Although I will be the first to admit that it never really feels that way at the time. And, as another nameless wag once said, “I’d rather have problems in my life than nothing”.

For me, now, being alone and surviving in constantly changing and evolving environments causes me to rely on myself, to carry a trust and an optimism and confidence in my own capacity and, I suppose, the mercy of the gods.

What else is there?  In the absence of those elements of faith there is only hopelessness and one becomes stuck and stalled and unable to face the challenges that are otherwise purposeful and constructive if we can just convince ourselves to see it that way.

That said, this journey (the one on the motorcycle) is not for the purpose of suffering. I see no reason face peril or to act with recklessness just for the sake of it. (Evel Kneivel was nuts)! This is for personal fulfillment and achievement and growth and enlargement. And by its very nature, that always comes with an invoice. And that is just fine.

I believe that suffering is not a bad thing unless it is defeating. And the difference between defeating suffering and constructive suffering is acceptance and the meaning which one derives from it. A feeling of being victimized by circumstance comes entirely from one’s perception, not from the circumstance. My ultimate goal is to somehow move beyond simply knowing that, to be open to the lessons hard won, and appreciate the wonder of the seemingly mundane.

I saw a little slogan today, “You can’t wait for your ship to come in. You have to swim out to it.”

We could afford a more leisurely start this morning. So I reorganized all my ‘stuff’. Things I need quickly (like raingear, snacks, maps) go on top. Emergency ties and seldom used items like video game joy sticks and Datsun repair manuals go on the bottom. Curiously, I seem to have less stuff than I started with. It’s kind of like a box of corn flakes—shake it around and it all settles to the bottom and creates lots of space.

The day started drizzly, but not grizzly, and finally cleared and warmed up. I even stripped off the rain gear at my lunch stop, wishing I could bury it down there with the joy sticks.How delightful to feel sun on my face, if only briefly! 

The road from Geyserville to Calistoga (connecting the Sonoma and Napa valleys) was gorgeous! Vineyards were plentiful of course, with their little brown and leafless grapevine skeletons laid out with anal precision. 

There were misty hills and farmland, rustic old stone or clapboard buildings, and countless invitations to come on in and taste some wines. Regrettably I passed the kind invitations by. Yes I know. I can hear my Nanaimo friends suck air in through their front teeth at the sound of such blaspheme. I have few principles, but I very rarely drink anything at all when I am on two wheels. And given the high centre of gravity of my steed and my already compromised navigation skills in unfamiliar terrain, I need clarity more than giggles.

But it was a painful decision.

Headed west on 12 at Napa to rejoin the coast at Tomales Bay at Point Reyes National Park, just north of San Francisco. This long and narrow little inlet follows the San Andreas Fault trace as it veers off into the Pacific to form the Mendocino Fracture Zone. Most notably, this was the location of the epicenter of the terrible earthquake that leveled San Francisco in 1906.

I loved the eucalyptus forests that lined the coastal route (Hwy 1 for those following a map) and especially that heady fragrance that reminded me of hippy shops of the 60’s that were always piled high (!) with similarly scented soaps and candles. 

Twists and turns became a tangled series of tight switchbacks, climbing up and over a coastal range that would have offered breathtaking vistas had it not been for the thick fog. A blessing, actually, since there were no shoulders or barricades, so I didn’t mind not looking down. As I age I find I am not particularly fond of heights, and that bugs me.

The road spit me out at the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge. Cruised through Sausalito but was tired and hungry and had to stop and reenergize. When I did become lucid I began to think where to crash for the night. (Note to Self: Have destination alternatives planned out at the start of the day). Drove around the Tiborun Peninsula looking for a non-existent campground, but the ranger dude suggested some alternatives, none of which panned out. There is a federal campground actually underneath the G.G. Bridge on the north end, but one needs to reserve online in advance. On the up side, that particular wild goose chase brought me to an impressive overlook of the bridge and city at a time when the angle of the sun and the cloaking marine fog made an outstanding scene.

It was getting late in the afternoon, so I shot through the city towards Pacifica, a place whose state campground no longer exists. On the way I did encounter a hostel situated at an old lighthouse so I stopped to check it out. The proprietor was an absolute gem. It was filled up but she suggested a hotel less than a mile away, then she phoned and negotiated a rate on my behalf. I did reserve the hostel for tomorrow night and this will give me a chance to backtrack and spend the day in San Francisco and have a bed waiting at day’s end. 

That hostel is something else! I’ll describe it to you tomorrow.

“ In the early mornin’ rain…”

As Lightfoot sings it, the image is kind of whimsical and almost nice. Granted, he misses his loved ones and has crawled into a bottle… but really. The guy has no idea!

And while we’re at it, “Carefree Highway” is stupid too!

Let’s back up.

I had already been up an hour when my 6:30 alarm went off. The wind screeched outside, blowing the cover off The Bruiser twice in the night. The thing is almost shrinkwrapped over the bike and it is a trick to remove even when I struggle do it the right way. Then I looked across the street to see a park bench upended! Had the bike been parked sideways to the wind it would likely have been toppled.

My strategy was to get south and under the storm as early in the day as possible. Weather maps showed the storm slamming into Crescent City around noon. This is one of the worst storms on record for this region with six inches of rain expected over the next three days. How is that for timing? I believed that if I could suffer through it for about 100-200 km, the worst of it would be behind me.

That was nearly true.

As I readied myself and secured the gear in the face of  this wicked storm, I felt like I was preparing to run into the guns at Gallipoli!

On the road at daybreak. For a couple of hours it was wet but not horrible. Some side gusts body-slammed me and at times I feared that I was going to be flicked off the road like a bug, but I reached Crescent City and was feeling cautiously optimistic.

Then the firehose hit me without pause for 8 hours and almost 500 km. I was wondering if I needed to drive to Mexico before I could get this storm behind me.

Each town had a fast food joint with wifi, coffee and warm, dry air for me to marinate in and I used them like stepping stones. I did attract some attention as I slogged in through the door and sat down in a little puddle. “Ah shore hope thet’s waterproof”, one fellow ventured.

“Parts of it are”, I said.

I am quite certain that the waitress in Prince Rupert would not have selected these particular gloves I bought which, in spite of the promise emblazed upon its little tag, are neither warm nor waterproof. I wrung buckets of water from them at every stop.

The big rollers were sensational! I was compelled to stop whenever I touched the coast to marvel at their perfect curls and the effect of the wind upon them. The waves were so high, and the wind was so strong, that the tops were ripped off them and flung away in an explosion of seaspray. I regret that I just couldn’t wrestle off my soggy mitts and extract my camera to photograph the scene each time. And of course when I did, I missed the moments.

And then, the Redwoods! What a marvel! Timeless monsters shrouded in a thick mist, appearing only as ghostly images in the distant, secret places in the forest background.

And some other curious sights.

Oh, and the rain! Sometimes I would “come to” and be suddenly aware of how awful it was. If I had had windshield wipers they would be set to‘high’. It was the kind of rain that forces one to pull over and wait for the deluge to pass. But as I had no intention of sitting on the roadside for three days I felt I had little choice but to brave it. Luckily, the wind and the rain did not conspire to drill me simultaneously, and my rain gear was pretty effective for the most part.

And, as you have rightly surmised, I did survive the day.

What I know about geography suggests to me that it is drier in the rainshadow of coastal mountains. So I ditched my plan to follow the coast to Mendocino and instead cut inland on 101 to Ukiah and the Sonoma Valley. Arriving at Willits, soggy and exhausted, I puddled in to the McDonalds, whereupon one of the locals pointed out that the coast is usually much drier than this valley.

So where was this guy when I needed some good advice?

Just south of Ukiah and at the fringe of Sonoma County, the torrent eased to light rain and then virtually ceased. I crossed the Russian River, which, I cannot resist saying, was indeed a rushin’ river.

Sorry.

Lots of vineyards on the broad, flat plains, and the vines are still in a state of winter dormancy.

I finally settled into a cute, well dressed little town called Cloverdale where I found a motel with wifi (here I am!) and a bathtub. In good haste, I filled the latter with hot water, threw myself in it, and greedily sucked heat back into my body.

Cranked the heater to maximum and tossed everything I own over it. The windows and mirrors are now all fogged up and paint is peeling from the walls.

And I don’t think I have ever enjoyed a beer so much!

The scene outside the window of my cozy little retreat early this morning was frightening. Rain was bouncing 4 inches off the ground and the wind bent the trees in half.

But I saddled up anyway.

I learned something important from a waiter in Prince Rupert one rainy afternoon. She said “There is no such thing as bad weather, only wrong clothing”.

I thought that was brilliant. It even has great metaphoric value, but the Zen stuff will have to come later.

So I stopped in Tillamook and bought some warm and waterproof gloves. Otherwise I think I am adequately prepared to handle a good rain. And I know that will be tested on me soon.

I even have heated handgrips. Well--I have one heated handgrip. The left one gave up on me recently. I do need to fix that.

The rain settled down by noon and the sun even made brief appearances. But I wasn’t prepared for the wind! Wow! It gusted up to 90 km/h on occasion and that made for a tough ride. The Bruiser gets skittish in the wind and we had a good wrestle much of the way, especially on exposed roads and bridges when I really struggled to keep from wobbling off course. With all my gear and big windscreen there is a considerable sail area, and at low speeds and when I was stopped it was a challenge just to stay upright!

That said, there can be no finer place to see the effect of a good storm than the Oregon Coast! Wild wind stirred the sea into froth, like a blender set at “frappe”. The endless series of huge and most majestic, curling waves stampeded on shore like herds of white stallions, their manes whipped as the wind tore off their crests. It probably made an impressive sound too, but with biker earplugs stuffed in my head I could only imagine it. I stopped often to gawk, but it is such an ordeal getting on and off and dressing and undressing for the weather that I took fewer pictures than I would have wished. Once I was driven away by high velocity sand grains drilled into my face by the ridiculous wind.

If you have ever seen this coast you will recognize the cypress trees, swept up like a 50's hair style by the relentless onshore blow.






I found a great website for weather forecasting at www.weather.com (the Weather Network) that now has interactive weather maps. But no matter how I looked at it, the news is bad for the next couple of days. More wind and heavy rain with 1-2 inch accumulations. I’m stuck! It gets marginally better in California, but at latitudes over a day’s ride from here. If I hunkered down in a motel to wait it out I would be here for several days.

By 6:00 I was spent. I had intended to cross out of Oregon today, but at Gold Beach I found a decent little fleabag hotel than gave me a senior’s rate (I’m still not sure how I feel about that) just as the sun started to roll up the carpet for the day and rain started up again. Picked up some haute cuisine-in-a-can at the grocery store across the street,  cooked it up on my little propane burner, and enjoyed a bottle of beer with the blues streaming away on my complimentary Wi-Fi

And the wind is howling.

As it turns out there is a whole lot of rain and cold air down that road and it got steadily worse as the day progressed.

Rolled down the hateful I-5 to Olympia and was happy to get off that 12 laner and begin exercising my steering apparatus for the first time. About an hour into the freeway my left arm went numb and felt oddly disembodied. I thought I was having a stroke! Pulled off the road, shook it, did pushups on the shoulder of the freeway, drank water, ate an apple and tried to shake it loose. I realized that I had put so many layers of shirts and sweaters on under my jacket to keep warm that the circulation was being cut off!

Hwy 8, 12 and 101 at the southern neck of the Olympic Peninsula winds through rainforest and marshland.  Even the birds seemed to think it was too icky to land and walk around on. There is still very little evidence of spring here. The only green to be seen on the big deciduous trees is a heavy crop of moss. Naked branches thrusting to the road seemed like witches’ fingers casting a hex on lone motorists. I felt like Ichabod Crane! The shades of grey and pale brown were so muted  I thought someone should Photoshop the scene and crank up the colour saturation a notch or two.  But I finally started to see the art in it just as it started to be replaced by rugged coastal scenery.

Crossed the big bridge across the mouth of the Columbia to Astoria, Oregon. What a mother of a bridge! It is over 6 km long! 

Rain was heavy at times,  puddling up on the road surface. Wore my raingear over top my leather jacket and chaps. Latex gloves in a startling shade of mauve kept my hands dry and eye-catching but not particularly warm.

The forecast is more of the same for the remainder of the week, so my plan at the moment is to put Oregon behind me as quickly as I can. California seems warmer and dryer from the looks of it. I must say that the stormy Oregon coast is something to see if one can peer through the fog and catch a glimpse. I reckon it will put on a show for me tomorrow.

As I was running out of gas (both literally and figuratively) I happened upon a humble but funky little roadside motel just 25 miles north of Tilamook that offered a ripping good deal. I am its happiest and its only resident. I am drinking pots of tea with the heater and fan cranked up to dry my soggy duds while blues is streaming over the WiFi. Sublime! Next I will do the stretching excercises that Sandra the R.M.T. assigned me for correcting the egonomic damage that sitting in one position for extended periods has exacted on my old body. Long miles today and I am not yet game fit.

Monday March 26, 2012

And we’re off!

Strapping everything on The Bruiser is no small feat. Even after minimizing my collection of everything I think I really need, I am piled high. The only thing that is missing is Granny Clampet in her rocking chair tied to the top.

My daughter, Sandra, waved me off into the rain storm and so down the road we go.

After explaining to the border guard my intention for this trip, I heard him ask his partner as I began to drive away, “Did you believe that story?”

Is it that weird?

There was rain in my face and cold in my bones as I rolled down I-5. I have a little thermometer on my “dashboard” that helped me to understand why I was shivering, but as I rolled south I noted how the temperature rose gradually until I could finally feel my feet and move my fingers. Extrapolating the temperature gradient versus distance traveled, I calculated that it should reach the boiling point of water by the time I reach Oregon and the melting point of lead near the Gulf Coast.

My only mishap so far was indicated to me by a wide eyed teenager in a passing car who pointed at my luggage and, bereft of words, mouthed “your thing!”

That can’t be good, I thought.

My MEC raincover had blown off, exposing my luggage to the same rain splatter that was streaming off my body. Originally designed to cover backpacks, it clearly was not engineered for the high velocity hiker.

Greeted by my old friend in Seattle at my first port in the storm, I was treated to good vittles and libations, and took the opportunity to repack and reorganize. Granny has been resituated to a more comfortable viewing platform, and I am now ready to see what is down the road.