Into July

It is unfathomable to me how it became mid-summer (yes, in my opinion, the Bay area summer begins in April and trickles to an noncommittal type of close in October. We have summer the way Alaska has winter.) It's a cliche thing for adults to say, but it's already July, really? Where does the time go? Leah and I got out for a mountain bike ride on July 4 at Skeggs, the local favorite singletrack maze. We relished in the relative ease and freedom of unloaded bikes. I even pulled my full-suspension Element off the wall for the first time in weeks. Despite it being a near-perfect seventy degrees on the fourth of July, we only saw four other mountain bikers, two who were Leah's friends (every time we go riding it seems Leah runs into people she knows, which would seem less weird to me if this wasn't a population center of 7 million people. I guess the bike community is tight-knit no matter where you go.)

And today, July 6, I'm in Frisco, Colorado. Beat snagged a rare spot the near-impossible lottery for the Hardrock 100, so we are staying here with a friend for a week while he attempts to acclimate for that grueling race. I tagged along in hopes of getting some solid UTMB training, but I admit I'm still worried about my shin. Ah, at least I don't have to run the Hardrock in any capacity. That's a load off my shoulders. (Poor Beat. He is also still struggling with a lower back injury and isn't thrilled about his odds, but the impossibility of the lottery means he couldn't pass up this chance by backing out.) We arrived just in time for what I've heard is the first major rainstorm in weeks, with liquid sheets pummeling I-70 as we drove out of Denver beside rocky slopes shrouded in clouds. I had great nostalgic moments while traveling through this small section of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, pointing out the reservoir bike path where I became nearly hopelessly turned around and riding in circles, and the Silverthorne Wendy's where the late-night drive-through employees refused to serve me because I didn't have a car, until I pulled my best puppy dog face ever and said, "Please? Please? I'm so hungry."

I'm so excited to be in Colorado. The air is so thin here at 9,000 feet that even climbing a few flights of stairs leaves me winded. And yet I want to tell my shin to just harden up buttercup for a week so I can run free through these mountains. If that's not to be, then I'll rent a mountain bike. I know it's a charmed life, I know, which is why time is unravelling so quickly right now. 

Riding among giants

We knew we could easily wrap up the rest of our route in a day. After all, it was only about 75 miles, practically flat compared to the first 162, and all paved. But the whole reason we came to Humboldt County was to pedal beneath ancient trees, and we weren't about to rush through Humboldt Redwoods State Park. That's it — we're taking back the leisure tour. We devised a plan to return home a day later and ride two half-days to Ferndale, with either hiking or unloaded mountain biking in the state park, depending on where we could find camping. 

We made a not-so-quick resupply stop in Garberville, going all out on the luxury items. Leah purchased little bottles of wine and cherries. I bought a half pound of smoked ahi tuna and a croissant. We still bought instant noodles for dinner because we didn't have that much fuel, but I chose two courses — spicy Japanese noodles for an appetizer followed by an entree of chicken (MSG)-flavored Cup Noodles, which had somehow become my favorite food ever.

As we loaded up our bags, I overhead two cops lecturing a teenager who I assumed had been nabbed for shoplifting. "Consider yourself lucky," the cop said. "Anywhere else you'd be in jail, but this is Humboldt County. You could probably murder someone and only get probation."

"But remember that you can't step foot into Ray's for a year," the other cop said. "You look like a kid that likes to get out, go down to the river. Pretty much all the stores around here are Ray's affiliated, so life's probably going to be harder for you for a while. Don't even think about going inside, either. They have cameras; they'll catch you."

For whatever reason, this lecture struck me as funny. It sounded like two cops who were frustrated with their liberal county's justice system were trying to play up a grocery store ban as some kind of horrible sentence.

From Garberville we connected with the Avenue of the Giants, a truly awe-inspiring route. The highway cuts through the heart of one of the only old-growth Coast Redwood forests left in the state, thanks to a forward-thinking conservation group that bought the land from a logging corporation back in 1917. Humboldt Redwoods remains home to most of the 300-foot trees left in the world, and it's intriguing to glimpse what this region used to look like before settlers arrived (Coast Redwoods once reigned the Pacific Coast from southern Oregon all the way down to Santa Cruz, including the largely deforested Marin Headlands.) There's a timeless silence in those dark groves, a reverence that is difficult to describe.


We made our best effort to be leisurely — long lunch break, stops at nearly every roadside pull-out so we could stand with our heads pressed against the back of our necks, mouths agape at the sheer abundance of biomass. Still, we covered the 35 miles to the visitor's center in what felt like no time. Even Leah was surprised we rode those miles so fast. "It actually feels nice to go a normal speed for once," she said. "I was starting to think it was just us."

"No, it's all about the terrain," I agreed. While we were riding through the park that day, several people stopped to ask how far we'd traveled. Every single one of them looked disappointed when we told them we were riding a loop that started at a town only forty miles away. And they didn't ask us any further questions. That's not surprising, I guess. I think a lot of people tend to focus on speed and distance at the expense of substance. I know I'm guilty of that myself. We're all guilty of looking for the easiest or fastest way between point A and B, or to a goal we want to reach, without considering what exactly we hope to discover along the way. On our Humboldt tour, we had no destination, no plan for a certain number of miles, no speed ambitions. We just rode our bikes. And while I do enjoy the challenge of setting tangible goals, sometimes my most satisfying moments come unexpectedly, while standing in the moist shade of tree that's been alive for 1,000 years, thinking, "I rode my bike here."

We had hoped to camp up on Mattole Road, but it was a Friday night in the height of tourism season, and even the hiker-biker sites throughout the park were filled by mid-afternoon. We snagged a site at the large campground next to the visitor center, wedged between RVs and the main road. It wasn't our first choice by far, and it meant the mountain bike trails were too far away to ride and return before dark. But we were close to a bridge across the Eel River, where we could access River Trail. We debated just laying around in the sun on the shoreline of the river for the rest of the day, but decided to go for an evening hike.

It was a pleasant walk. Ambitiously I wanted to aim for Grasshopper Peak, neglecting to take into account the three miles of River Trail we had to walk to access the five-mile climb to the peak. I'm not sure either of us had a sixteen-mile hike in mind for our leisure day, but I ended up being the one to cut it short 4.5 miles from the bridge. Even after 200 miles of pedaling with no problems, that was all it took to aggravate my shin splints to the point of frustration. Ah, well. I grabbed a walking stick off the ground and hobbled down, then spent a half hour soaking my legs in the river.

On the fifth day we just had to wrap up the loop, finishing up the Avenue of the Giants and wending back toward Ferndale on quiet farm roads. We caught our first rainstorm less than five miles from town, and even without an early start, made it back to the car by noon. Our final stats for the trip:

Miles: 235
Elevation gain: 26,640
Average moving speed: 9.3 mph
Max speed: 39.5 mph

On the drive home, "Yellow Light" by Monsters and Men started playing on the stereo and I gave myself a few quiet moments to feel sad about losing the distinction as the women's record holder in the Tour Divide. Actually, several people have asked me about that, so I thought I might as well address it here. I knew that Eszter wrapped up her ride on Thursday in 19 days and change (Leah looked this up on her phone as we drove. It was our first real connection to the outside world in five days.) Eszter's ride was brilliant and inspiring, but admittedly, the result was both expected and discouraging.

I tried not to put any emotional attachment on "the record." First of all, it was never my goal. I knew it wasn't the best on the course (Trish Stevenson's 2005 ride was the border-to-border record until this year.) I knew that 24 days wasn't even the best I could do. Actually, while I was writing "Be Brave, Be Strong," I mapped out my ideal way to ride the course in 21 days. I was convinced it wouldn't be any more difficult, even with similar set-backs — all it took was less diddling around and a few different decisions about eating and camping. But 19 days? Realistically, probably not. It's a matter of horsepower. My average moving speed during the 2009 event was just a hair over nine miles per hour, if I recall correctly. In order to ride the route in 19 days, one needs to average 144 miles per day, which amounts to 16 hours of moving time at that speed. Which means that sleeping, eating, shopping, repairs, emotional crises, quick breaks, peeing, stumbling, and general diddling around (unavoidable) has to be wedged into the eight remaining hours. All things considered, even with better training and nutrition, I doubt I could bump my actual moving speed up all that much. Realistically, I just don't have the appropriate athleticism. And when I thought about our long day on the Humboldt tour — just under nine hours of moving time — could I really double that, every day, for 19 strung-out days? Most people, even the event's small clan of fans, don't really understand what it really takes to put in that kind of effort on the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, for almost no reward. Eszter is incredible. And she's posting a well-written, compelling report on her blog, too.

So I had to let that go. It was harder than I expected it to be, although actually still not that hard. "Yellow Light" wrapped up and I was smiling again, already dreaming about incredible summer adventures still in front of me. (Please heal, shin. I took a bunch of rest days after the tour. I hope that helps.) I did come home and ask Beat if he still likes me even though I'm not the Tour Divide record-holder anymore. (Honestly, I think it was a selling point early in our relationship.) He said yes, and that's what matters to me.

Because the theme of this trip report seems to be the fact I'm reading Annie Dillard books right now, I thought I'd end with a final quote:

"There are no events but thoughts and the heart's hard turning — the heart's slow learning where to love and whom. The rest is merely gossip, and tales for other times.” 

Roads less travelled

As much as I objected to its shrill chipping, I heeded my 7 a.m. alarm. Apparently eight solid hours of sleep is not enough for me on a bike tour, and I struggled to fight my way out of smothering grogginess. Leah fired up her stove as I took down the tent, then I sat down to my morning brew of three Starbucks Vias. Instant coffee — in the charred titanium of Beat's snow-melting pot with flecks of fish still stuck to the side — never tasted so wonderful. "It's the little things in life," I mumbled. "The little things."

Usal Road saved the best for last. We skirted a rare sandy beach beside the cliffs and renewed the climb into the sky. Zero to 1,200 feet in less than two miles, with lungs burning as though we were climbing into oxygen-starved mountains instead of coastal cliffs. There wasn't enough air left over for talking, but the fog was moving out, the sun was emerging in a brilliant blue sky, and we were both in good moods — loving this ridiculous road and hoping today's adventures would be just as awesome.

We were just beginning to drop into the woods when I heard a loud rustling of brush and the sound of hooves hitting the dirt. I turned my head to see a flash of cinnamon-colored fur and hind feet — broad, dark brown, distinctive pads. Those weren't hooves, they were paws!

"Bear!" I called out as the animal emerged from the forest, briefly glancing in our direction before it turned and galloped down the road away from us. "Oh wow, that's a big black bear. I wouldn't worry about him. He's definitely seen us and he's retreating. That's a relief." I didn't even slow my pedaling pace. Black bear clearly wanted nothing to do with us and I hoped to catch a few more glimpses before he got away.

"That was my first bear sighting," Leah said after the noise subsided. "Wow, it's cool to see such a large animal in its own environment."

"It's amazing, isn't it?" I agreed. I couldn't even tell you how many bears I've spotted at this point in my life, but they take my breath away every time.

Even though this was just a short tour, Leah and I were already settling into our pace and finding a rhythm. Our lives were more basic than black bear's out here. We ate when we were hungry, slept when we were tired, and moved at our own natural pace across the land. Ever since I discovered bicycle travel in 2002, I've often turned to the idea of it as an emotional escape during tough times. I told myself that if everything else went bad in my life, I'd just get on my bicycle, point it in a random direction, and ride. I wouldn't turn back because I wouldn't need to. I'd become a bicycling hobo. Even though I recognize the impracticalities and real hardships of this fantasy, it's given me a lot of comfort over the years. I think I've even taken a few more risks and made a few more leaps of faith thanks to this irrational dream. The draw of the simple life pulls deep enough that I've been able to convince myself I have less to fear. If everything else falls apart, I'll still have my bike.

It took us an hour and twenty-three minutes to pedal the last five and a half miles of the Usal Road. I didn't share this tidbit with Leah, either. We turned onto Highway 1 and began the 2,000-foot climb to the pass. On pavement, with a luxurious eleven miles to the top, it felt like coasting. Our bags were both getting light on food, and we rolled right by the "World Famous Drive-Thru Redwood Tree" as the promise of the Leggett general store propelled us forward. Once inside we went into another frenzy — no longer sugar-based, but obsessed with fresh fruit and protein. This is another nice perk of California — even in the smallest out-of-the-way convenience stores, you can usually find good fruit.

Leggett was decision-making time. There were 21 mostly-downhill miles north on Highway 101 to a place where we thought we would likely camp that night, Benbow Lake. OR ... we could ride south on 101, connect up with a rugged gravel road that would carry us to the top of a high ridge of unknown length and steepness, drop off a steep spine back to the Eel River Valley, and backtrack on 101 until we reached Benbow. How much time would take to go the direct way? Maybe an hour and a half. And how long on the scenic route? Unknown. Seven hours, at most, was our available daylight. It was 2 p.m. Leah and I didn't even debate the options. We just finished our fruit and turned south.

We were able to skirt the freeway for a few miles on a quiet frontage road above a beautiful gorge, but once we were forced onto 101, it quickly became apparent we were both miserable. The shoulder was only a foot or so wide, with trucks and RVs streaming past at 65 miles per hour, and a few scraped the rumble strips seconds before they passed, setting off the panic alarms in my head. We just put our heads down and pedaled, covering four or so miles in short order and breathing a sigh of relief when we saw the sign indicating "Bell Springs Road." Where the road supposedly started, a grassy hillside rose up like a wall. I could see a car rumbling through a cloud of dust at least 300 feet over our heads. How the car got so high so fast was not immediately apparent.

Right at the base of Bell Springs Road, a woman in a small, rusty pick-up stopped and rolled down her window. She was a classic Humboldt County character — yellow lab riding shotgun, ratty blond dreadlocks draped over her shoulders, and a pungent aroma that Leah could detect even over our own smelly cyclist state. I grinned, expecting a friendly hippy greeting, but instead she glowered at us. "You girls gonna try to ride bikes up this road?" she asked.

"Yeah," Leah nodded.

"I don't think you want to do that," she said. "This road is really steep and narrow. People drive fast, too."

"We've been riding a lot of the back roads around here," I chimed in. "Wilder Ridge, King Peak, Usal Road. Is it steeper than Usal Road?"

"Steeper than Usal Road? Yeah, it's pretty much steeper than anything around here."

"Well, we're going to give it a try," Leah said.

"Yeah," I agreed. "It beats riding on 101."

"Well, good luck," the woman said, and with that rolled up her window and turned onto the highway.

We gained 2,000 feet in the first three miles, and then struggled along steep rollers to a high line at 4,000 feet altitude. The afternoon sky was blazing blue and the air was hot; our skin was coated in sweat and dust carried by a warm breeze. We had already chatted about the possibility of retreat if this road looked too ridiculous, and this road did seem ridiculous. Even after we gained the ridge, we had no idea how steep and long the continuous climbs and descents would be. We couldn't camp up here even if we wanted to, because the area was entirely private property, and in Humboldt County there are enough, um ... independent farmers ... that you don't want to mess around with trespassing. Plus, we were now on the dry side of the coastal range and there was clearly no water up here. But none of these struck us as reasons to retreat. We had returned to our happy place.

Wow, Bell Springs Road. The thin ribbon of gravel often contoured the exact high line of the ridge, a rolling traverse with sweeping views of the King Range and fog-shrouded Pacific Ocean to the west, and the rockier, higher peaks of the Mendocino wilderness to the east. The whole road was nothing but views, on all sides. After the warnings of the woman in the truck, I expected unfriendliness from the likely reclusive locals who lived along this road. But instead, the few vehicles that passed often stopped completely, or at least slowed to avoid kicking up dust. As we mashed pedals up dusty climbs, several even rolled down their windows and cheered.

"You're doing great!" one guy called out.

"Awesome!" shouted another.

"I don't think they're used to seeing too many cyclists up here," Leah said.

I nodded in agreement. "But it's strange if that's true. This is such a cool place, maybe my favorite road yet."


We dropped off the main ridge and ascended toward another, all the while gazing across the region we had traveled, then turning our heads to view the exponentially larger region we had yet to explore. We talked about coming back and riding logging roads and trails in Mendocino. We talked about ways we could prolong our current trip. We climbed until my head pounded with hot blood, and then plummeted until tears streamed along my temples. After a while, we didn't talk much. There just didn't seem to be much to say anymore. Our thoughts were simple here, overshadowed by the absolutes of forward motion and endless space.

The day's effort was, again, stretching beyond leisure mode. Soon I began to feel that oh-so-familiar fatigue, that sensation I both crave and dread, the feeling of being both strung-out and blissfully content. Sometimes it seems that the more physically stressed I am, the more peace I feel. I think that instead of competitive ambition or emotional intensity, it's peace that drives me to experience the world in a physical way. I have a habit of self-examination, and I often wonder if my love of the physical is my own way of coping with the existential. The world is too big to comprehend. Yet the desire to understand gnaws at me, spinning, until I feel bewildered, even fearful, of everything. Maybe I am happiest when I step out of my own head. Maybe I am happiest when I let my body take over. Maybe I am happiest when I'm not asking myself "Where is the world?" but instead, "Where are my candy orange slices?"

I ate some candy orange slices as we took a brief, mostly quiet break at yet another stunning overlook. The simple sugars slid down my throat and trickled into my bloodstream, dulling the more stressful edge of my fatigue and amplifying my contentment. Candy orange slices are magical like that. And somewhere in the background of my simple thoughts, I remembered another Annie Dillard passage that I love, and it made me smile:

“The mind wants to live forever, or to learn a very good reason why not. The mind wants the world to return its love, or its awareness. The mind's sidekick, however, will settle for two eggs over easy. The dear, stupid body is easily satisfied as a spaniel. And, incredibly, the simple spaniel can lure the brawling mind to its dish. It is everlastingly funny that the proud, metaphysically ambitious mind will hush if you give it an egg.” 

We hit a long descent and thought we were home-free, but Bell Springs Road was not done with us yet. I announced that, based on my GPS map, we had about two miles left to the junction, and then the road shot toward the sky. We were down at 2,000 feet and would have to climb back to 3,200 before all was said and done. I think Leah did not have candy orange slices, and she admitted she was feeling bonky. Her backpack was pressing painfully into her back, and a cold wind was starting to whisk along the ridge. Another thousand-foot climb in two miles was not on our list of favorite things ever.

Still, when we finally reached Alderpoint Road and began descending back to the Eel River Valley, I had this odd desire to prolong the struggle. We passed the intersection of the Dyreville Loop Road, another ridge-top dirt route that we had considered when planning the trip. I pointed it out to Leah, wondering what she'd say. There would be nowhere to camp up there — stealth camping on private property was still out of the question — and it would likely be three to five more hours of hard pedaling before we descended into Humboldt State Park. The sun was definitively setting over the western horizon. The evening wind was cold and we had only crappy headlamps for lights. We were hungry, cracked, and more than ready for Cup Noodles and sleep. It would be madness to continue on the high ridge with nothing to look forward to but more painful climbs and views shrouded by darkness, and yet there was part of me that wondered ... just wondered.

Of course I was relieved when Leah said nothing and we continued coasting the steep descent to Garberville. We ended our day with 71.1 miles and 9,576 feet of climbing, nearly 11 hours on the go with 8:45 in the saddle.