And yet, and yet . . . two months later

The nights that followed the decision to quit the bike tour left me in a state of raw panic. Lying awake in bed, stating at the dark ceiling, I felt the same anxiety I felt when making the decision to quit my job and undertake this adventure in the first place. It had been my entire life since June, and I was afraid whatever may lie ahead. We had already mailed our tent and panniers back to Columbus, but I know that if we hadn’t, we would have jumped back on our bikes and continued on.

We spent four days in San Francisco with Eric, a long-ago-lost college friend of mine. We hit every tourist destination possible – the Golden Gate Bridge, Yosemite, Muir Woods and Golden Gate Park to name a few. From San Fran, we shipped our bikes back to Columbus and we hopped a plane to St. Louis. We spent four days with my parents in Illinois and four days with Melissa’s mom in northeast Ohio.

The whole time, I was itching to be back in Columbus. During the final days of the bike tour, I had romanticized Columbus. I missed my old routine and job, the quite country roads surrounding Alum Creek that were perfect for bike rides, the solitude of a long swim at Ohio State, the comfort of our old apartment.

It was twilight as we approached Columbus, the downtown buildings rising out of the pinkish purple sky in front of us. For reasons unknown, my heart beat a little faster and I found it a little hard to swallow. I felt indifferent for the city that I was so yearning to get back to. Suddenly the bike tour felt like a distant memory, something I had done in my childhood – memories muffled and fuzzy in my head. I felt like I was suddenly being snapped out of a marvelous and breathtaking dream.

“It’s back to the real world,” I muttered.

Everything in Columbus is the same as we had left it, except for a bike lane that has been added to High Street. Temporarily, we are staying with Melissa’s sister and her boyfriend, in a two-bedroom apartment, two blocks down the road from our old apartment on Hamlet Street. Oddly, there is a vacancy in that building, as if it was awaiting our return.

We’ve been filling our days by searching for jobs, which is both intimidating and exhilarating. The whole country is wide open to us. We’re applying for jobs in Columbus. And we are applying for jobs in other states, time zones away. A major intention of ours had been to leave Columbus for good, and move to a city surrounded by mountains, close to the ocean, were bike commuting is the norm and people share our values in life. But we need a home base, and for right now, Columbus will do. If we end up staying here in the long run, I’m okay with it. And if we move to Portland or San Diego or Denver or some place completely new, I’m okay with that too.

It’s cold here, winter weather threatening, just around the corner-- a pretense of what’s to come. Our first days in Kentucky, baking in the harsh and unforgiving summer sun, seem too distant a memory to even think about. Our friend Aidan, who we met on the bike tour, who has been on his bike for over two years, is only days away from Mexico. I look at his photos on facebook longingly. I hate the old adage, The grass is always greener . . . but it seems to always hold true.

Brooke

* * *

Final images from our bike tour:

Boxing the bikes up for our 15 hour Amtrak ride to San Francisco.

The Golden Gate Bridge

Napa Valley

Napa Valley

Yosemite

Yosemite

The end (and to be continued)

The TransAmerican bicycle route ends on the west coast in Florence, Oregon. It only seems fitting that our bicycle tour ends here, too.

Standing in the cramped laundry room of a seedy RV “resort”, trying to absorb just a smidgen of heat off the nearby running dryer, we hurriedly stripped out of our soaked clothes. Shivering, and performing a balancing act aimed at avoiding contact with the filthy floor and walls, we both looked at each other and said, “I want to go home.”

We were on our way to San Francisco. We were 12 miles south of Florence. The wind was still, we were happy, we were making good time. And then my bike broke. It just broke. In exactly the same way Melissa’s bike broke in Yellowstone, sending my chain into its hardest back gear.

“I’m stopping!” I yelled as we flew down a hill.

And so we stopped at the bottom of a hill and just stood there, straddling our bikes, not knowing what to do or say. The nearest bike shops were in Florence, 12 miles back, and 40 miles down the road, in North Bend. Where we were, we didn’t have cell phone service, so our only option was to ride back to a small town that we had passed five miles ago, so that we could call the bike shops.

And that’s what brought us to Dune City, Oregon, and this depressing resort. None of the bike shops were open, but we were able to talk to the owner of one of them, the one that would be open tomorrow, on Columbus Day, and he sounded none too happy to try to fix the break. It looked like our only option was to stay in Florence one more night and pray that the bike could be fixed. And if it couldn’t, well . . . we didn’t know what we would do.

There was one couple at the resort that had a truck, and they offered to drive us back to Florence. The owner of the truck said he sees people like us all the time, and that we all have death wishes. He went on to say that the roads are too narrow and if there is a possibility of a head-on collision or hitting a biker, it’s “bye-bye biker”. We passed on accepting a ride from them.

I had to use the bathroom. Of course, there was no bathroom. So for the 1 billionth time on the bike tour, I had to sneak behind a building. I’m tired of it. I want indoor plumbing to be the norm. I want a normal life. I want a bed. I want to not live out of a bag. I want to stay in one place for longer than one night.

So we called Jill and Ryan, our friends in Eugene. And Ryan came and got us. And we’re not going back.

It’s rained for days. The fog ruins every single view of the beach. All we do is stare down over our front tires at the wet road, hoping to eventually get out of the wind and rain. So, we talked about it, we weighed our reasons for continuing on and found them to be less than convincing. It’s become clear that we’ve hit a wall with touring. We did this tour because we wanted to have fun, we wanted to do something unconventional while we had the chance. We wanted to take a time out and experience the freedom that comes with having nothing -- no routine, no responsibilities, nowhere to be. But, more and more, we realize we can’t wait to get back to a routine. We miss our friends, we miss racing, and want to be surrounded by familiar faces. We are both eager to get back to work. But it’s funny, not 20 minutes after deciding that we were done touring, the sun came out, the sky was blue, and of course, it made us second guess our decision to quit.

I can barely type these words without tears in my eyes . . . Our bike tour is over. We’ve come to a stopping point. We accomplished our goal of riding across the county. We even made it to Canada. And while we wanted to go down the coast, we’re not going to do it this time.

We’ve been homesick for quite a while now. And during the past couple of weeks the riding has been monotonous. Neither one of us has looked forward to riding our bikes each day. We both went on this bike tour because we love riding bikes, and right now we don’t.

I’ve gained more from this bike tour than I ever thought imaginable. I know now what I am capable of doing. And I’ve learned that people are good. I’ve been to places that I will sadly never visit again; and I’ve been to places that I never want to go back to again.

I’ve seen roadkill happen
I met my nephew
I’ve cried
I’ve sobbed
I’ve feared for my life
I’ve seen the most amazing sunsets and the most beautiful sunrises
I’ve washed my hair in a public sink
I’ve gone without showering for days
I’ve laughed so hard my whole body hurt
I’ve slept at the base of the Tetons
I’ve been surrounded by hundreds of butterflies
I’ve slept on an alter
I’ve out run a dog
I’ve lied about who I am
I’ve found comfort in a church
I’ve ridden over mountain passes
I’ve ridden through triple digit heat
I’ve milked a goat
I’ve dodged willy-worms crossing the road
I’ve been mistaken for a boy
I’ve made some amazing friends
I’ve slept on a complete stranger’s floor
I’ve drank a beer with a stranger in a garage while watching old Elvis movies
I’ve pushed my bike up hills
I’ve regretted the bike tour
I’ve sat in a city park, with six other bike tourist and have never been happier
I’ve attended Vacation Bible School
I’ve been homesick
I’ve raced two guys to the next town (and won)
I’ve been flipped off
I’ve been cheered on
I survived Jeffery City, Wyoming
I’ve crossed the 45th parallel, twice
I’ve consumed an estimated 100 jars of peanut butter
I’ve slept in a cabin built in 1880
I’ve bathed in hot springs
I’ve eaten way too much ice cream
I’ve watched orca whales dance
I’ve ridden through pitch black darkness
I’ve been robbed by a raccoon
I’ve slept in a dentist office
I’ve slept on the beach
I’ve had the time of my life

We’re going home.

Brooke

Prevailing winds

Within the first few pages of Bicycling the Pacific Coast, the authors explain why the Pacific Coast route is done from north to south. The reason is the wind. Specifically, the prevailing wind, which blows north to south. AND if you pick up the Oregon Coast Bike Route Map, produced by the Oregon Department of Transportation, you will read this:

It is highly recommended that you cycle in a north to south direction, if your trip is planned between May and October, as the prevailing winds blow from the northwest.

BUT, if you read a little bit more on the subject (in the same map), you’ll come up with this (and I’ll paraphrase here):

October through December, the wind on the west coast blows NORTHwest/SOUTHwest.

Come again? So which is it? The eight mile per hour reading on my bike computer tells me it’s southwest. The plastic bags that are tied to my feet, loudly trailing behind me, also tells me it's southwest.

Over the past couple of days, we have been fighting 10-20 mph headwinds, with occasional gusts of 40 miles per hour. Forty.Miles.Per.Hour. One gust literally almost blew me off a cliff. Rounding some corners, we have to get off our bikes and push them through the wind. Oregon -- so far, (not) so good.

Brooke

The newest trend in bike fashion.

Rain, rain (and wind) go away

I’m not going to lie, biking has been a bit rough over the last few days. We gladly left Cape LookOUT behind us, ditto the family of raccoons who terrorized us all night, and headed off towards Pacific City. We were trying to find the humor in it, but it wasn’t easy as it was rainy, cold, and windy. It is so true how much the weather effects your mood and outlook. On top of it, I was drained after sitting up all night in the tent in what felt like a Blair Witch Project reenactment and I could not wait to sit down inside away from the wind, have a cup of coffee, and relish in a moment of non-camping normalcy.

We turned out of the the park, and right into a huge hill. No big deal, we plowed up it, and right into a stiff headwind. The sky was depressing grey, it was threatening to rain, and the wind was ripping from the south slowing us down. Basically, it was the kind of day that makes you want to crawl right back into bed. (Actually, bed would have been handy last night -- a bed nestled in between four walls with comfy blankets and no wild animals clawing their way into our space would have been just perfect.)

Our first stop was Pacific City. From the inside of a coffee shop, looking out the window at the never-ending gray, watching the wind tear through the town, we had the type of loaded silence where it was painfully obvious what we were both thinking -- we didn’t want to go back out. We were exhausted and the raccoon incident hadn’t faded far enough into the past for it to be at all remotely funny. Our silence was broken by a friendly, smiling guy who asked us about our trip. He asked us where we were headed that day, Brooke told him, and he quickly replied, “No way! You won’t make that today in this wind!” and in an instant, he was loading our bikes into his truck. He drove us through the stiff wind and threatening sky, right to the front steps of a cheap hotel.

The next morning, we were up and on the road early. Things were going fine, until we stopped on the side of the road to eat a banana. During the two minutes of banana scarfing, my knee somehow locked up, refused to bend and simultaneously sent shooting pains down the side of my shin. The knee has been giving me trouble the past few weeks, but nothing like this. I tried a few times to hop on my bike and ride away, but this approach didn’t work. I couldn’t even bend my knee enough to even get clipped into my pedal. Standing there, in the gray depressing cold outdoors surrounded by cheesy seaside shops that were now closed for the season, I thought, there’s no scenario in which this doesn’t end badly.

With all the nearby hotels being either too pricey or closed for the season, our only option was to push our bikes three miles down Highway 101 to the local bike shop, where we could re-evaluate our options. Enter Bike Newport -- a bike shop that caters to bicycle tourists, with it’s biker’s lounge, showers and laundry. And as soon as we were in the door, the owner offered to refit me on my bike to try to alleviate some of the pain in my knee. He made some minor adjustments on my bike, and prescribed a rest day. So, here I sit in the biker’s lounge, catching up on the blog, excitedly wooing customers with bike touring stories . . . and feeling pretty defeated all at the same time.

Melissa

Cape LookOUT!

While riding in the middle of the country, during some of our hardest days, what kept us going was the thought of riding down the Pacific coast. In our minds, riding down Washington, Oregon and California, with the Pacific Ocean on our right, we would be in heaven. And it is beautiful. Our first evening on the Oregon coast left us in awe.

We took a bus from Portland to the coast, made a quick stop at the Tillamook Cheese Factory (yum!) and headed for Cape Lookout State Park. We got to the park early and took our time picking out the most perfect hiker/biker site -- secluded, close to the ocean and far away from the regular camp sites. We spent the evening taking pictures and playing on the beach. It was perfect.

It was after we went to bed when it started. First was the wind. I’m not talking about a breeze; I’m talking about a fear-for-your-life-loud-as-all-get-out-gale-force-wind wind. We would hear the waves crash in a deafening roar, and then, just like counting seconds between thunder and lighting, an explosion of wind would hit our tent. Each time, our tent would cave in on us. I thought for sure our tent poles were going to snap. I didn’t even want to look in the direction the wind was coming for fear that a piece of straw would come flying through the air and embed itself in my forehead.

We both barely sleep though out the night while the tent levitated and danced in the wind, and at 4:30 a.m. I heard Melissa scream, “Someone just stole one of our bags!” While in and out of sleep, she watched as one of her heavy back panniers was drug out from under our vestibule.

Barely awake, I grabbed my glasses and headlamp, unzipped the tent and ran out into the darkness yelling back, “Stay here!”

Once outside the tent, I couldn’t see a thing. It was pitch black. I thought I could somehow chase down the person who had stolen our bag. I ran barefoot, blindly through the darkness, at nothing in particular and almost tripped over the bag. It had been dropped 10 to 15 feet from our tent. “I need your light!” I shouted at Melissa, as mine was not giving off enough and I wanted to investigate -- somehow, being half asleep, I had forgotten to be scared.

After I “searched” the area I got back in the tent where Melissa was inside, clutching pepper spray in one hand and our leatherman knife in the other. We sat still for a while, not knowing what to do, wildly waving our headlamps in the direction of any sound we heard. Occasionally I would mumble, while squinting my eyes, “I can’t see a thing.” After about five minutes of silence, Melissa asks, “Why do you have your sunglasses on?”

I reached up to my face and sure enough, I did in fact have on my sunglasses. No, they are not prescription. And yes, I am almost legally blind without my glasses or contacts. For a second we were able to forget about being scared to death. (“I must have look like a damn superhero out there!”)

We called 911. The dispatcher said she would pass on our information to an officer. After that, we somehow fell back to sleep. And then, again, I was woken up by Melissa yelling, “Oh my God!”

It was a raccoon. A damn raccoon. A raccoon who was strong enough to steal one of our bags out from under our tent. Melissa saw its beady little eyes peaking in, looking for more to steal. At least, that’s the story we are going with. Because it makes it hell of a lot less scary.

Brooke

Back to Portland

The TransAm is a popular bicycle route across the country. Most days, we met a handful of other cyclists. Within the first few minutes, we would know if we wanted to ride with these people the next day or if we would have to take an extra rest day or hustle ahead to get off the same schedule as them. Most other cyclists were great, but there were those who were very competitive about weight of gear or how many miles we were making a day. Those conversations quickly become exhausting. So, it was best for us to ride with others who didn’t take touring too seriously.

We met John, wearing his Cookie Monster bike jersey (a homage to the fact that he loves sweets) outside of Rough River Falls, Kentucky. We rode like hell that day to keep up with him, because he is competitive, but in a funny and self-deprecating way. Of course, he was faster and sped in front of us, but after we had taken a few rest days and John, a few days off for a meeting, we met back up with him in Eminence, Missouri. Those where the only two days we rode with him, but we texted with him for the remainder of our trip and continuously asked those who were headed east if they had met him. John would send us random informative texts about where to get the best ice cream or lunch in the towns ahead, and who or what to avoid. It was awesome to have his encouraging texts coming in almost daily, giving us something to look forward to in the towns ahead.

We were more than ecstatic when John and his wife, Mo, wanted to meet us on the Oregon coast. We peddled like hell out of Astoria, riding to meet John and Mo in Seaside. And when we saw them standing outside their baby blue Volkswagen bus, we couldn’t stop smiling. They took us for an amazing breakfast in Cannon Beach where we shared our stories about our tours. It turns out John rode a couple of 140 mile days!

Spur of the moment we decided to go back to Portland with them. We spent most of our time divided between exploring Portland and eating pie.

Melissa and Brooke

Entering Oregon . . . again

Um, I’m embarrassed to say it -- we went off route again . . . but we had to! Had. To. I promise. See, we were supposed to cross over into Oregon on a ferry, but the ferry we needed doesn’t run after Labor Day, so we had to improvise.

The improvisation included crossing the Washington/Oregon border right smack dab in the middle of a very long, very busy bridge. It also included a couple of hellacious climbs and rough roads. But we did it! And the success of the ride made me feel like a map genius -- as in, I’ll probably (err, definitely) make Melissa go off route again.

Brooke

The quickest way to Castle Rock

The Adventure Cycling maps tend to follow unnamed back country roads. The idea is that the roads are less traveled and, therefore, safer. While most of the time the roads are beautiful and seemingly untouched, they also add extra miles between point A and point B.

Last night we skirted around Elma, going up and down hills and coming into town on a road that I’m sure most locals are not even aware exists. Today, I thought, I’ll outsmart the map and create my own route -- a straight line between A and B.

So I bought a very detailed street map of the area. I set it out on a street corner and traced a route from Elma to Castle Rock, knocking 20 miles off the days milage. Proudly, I thought, today is going to be a good day . . . until a passerbyer randomly informed me of a road closure on my new route. Not a big deal -- we’ll go around it on this road, turn on that road, meet up with the planed route here.

Do I even need to say it? My route was a nightmare. The whole plan was diabolical from the beginning. I took Melissa on the main road in a fairly large town and found that bikes were not allowed to go over certain bridges. We’d go around the bridge and find that the town was not built on the grid system and get turned around and lost. We’d go through another town and find only one-way streets and get lost. At one point I asked a man on a bike (who looked like a biker) for directions and he yelled out street names and pointed in various directions and then went on to tell me about how President Grant, before he was president, was a surveyor and worked on the very road we were standing on. (He started off this unsolicited history lesson by saying, “You’re not going to believe this but . . .” And I wanted to yell, “you’re right -- I cannot believe you are telling me this crap!” Instead I yelled, “Cool!” He also pointed to himself every time he said Grants’ name, as if he himself was President Grant. It was all very odd.) But the kicker was the van that turned directly in front of Melissa, missing her front wheel by millimeters. (Melissa chased the guy down to “educate” him of his error. He of course yelled out something like, “What? You can’t read road signals? I had my blinker on!”)

In the end, my route only cut off five miles, but probably (err, definitely) added hours of stressful stopping. We reached our Warm Showers destination just as it turned dark -- we had been en route for nine hours. As we slumped down in our bed for the night, I made Melissa a promise that that was the last time I ever buy a map and attempt to redo a route that has been correct for over 30 years.

Brooke

Four flats and a scam artist

Ben raced us to the ferry in the morning, and we barely made it on. But, we made it! And forty minutes later, we pedaled off the ferry into Bremerton, Washington feeling simultaneously excited to be riding again, but a little nervous at the thought of heading down the coast. I think it’s normal to feel a little jittery after having consecutive rest days on this tour. Even though it was just a few days off, we always feel a little rusty and unsettled getting back on the bikes. But, it was a beautiful day, sunny and warm, and we were ready to get our day started.

Not five minutes off the ferry, we took a turn and were faced with a hill so steep it would have qualified as a vertical black diamond on a ski slope. We laughed and began our climb up the hill. Things were going great, until I got a flat. Brooke and I were like a pit crew at a NASCAR race working together to change the flat and before we knew it we were back in action. Until, the next flat. Same tire. Huh. Again, we didn’t get upset, I didn’t even feel the urge to kick my tire across the road. We changed it and again, I pumped and pumped furiously with the mini hand pump to get up to 90 PSI. Until, mid pump Brooke exclaims, “Oh no!” and covered her ears and took a staggering step backwards.

When the tube exploded it made a sound no less severe and jarring than a gun shot. This particular tube had given us trouble with bulging, and this time, it definitely was bulging and Brooke caught it just before it exploded, sending me flailing backward into my bike knocking it and all my gear to the ground. Yeah, now I admit reaching a point of raw anger and kicking something was tempting and seemed as valuable option as any. I refrained from kicking something, but that was our last tube, and it was not patchable at this point. So, after I stopped shaking, and began to find some shred of humor in this stupid situation, we grabbed the tube from the first flat, sat down and began searching for the hole. We got it patched and we headed down the road.

We made it about 10 miles until my third flat. Same tire. I know this sounds ridiculous, and I know you are thinking “why didn’t you check the tire for glass or thorns or any other obvious sharp object?” The thing is, I did. I thought I did a pretty thorough job of it, but obviously I was missing something. There was glass in the tire, which was buried in the rubber in such a sly, barely visible way that Brooke had to fish it out with tweezers. UGH. Anyhow, we moved on flat tire free for the rest of the day.

Astonishingly, we were still feeling happy to be riding. We planned to stay at a biker’s hostel that night, and we were looking forward to having a bed and a roof over our heads for our first night back in the saddle. We arrived at the biker’s hostel, and we met our host for the night. Right off the bat, he told us a strange story about his Scott carbon fiber road bike, and the story took a bizarre twist when he divulged that it was purchased with money a friend left him after the friend committed suicide. Huh. Then he trailed off with a regretful mutter that he should have done it differently and bought another brand of bicycle with the money. When it comes to knowing how to react to a story such this, Brooke is clueless. In this case, she relied on the enthusiastic smile and nod method as if she were agreeing. I however, thought the guy was a wacko and stared at him with furrowed eyebrows and left it at that. We moved on. As we were heading into the house, he took one look at our bikes and announced that we were carrying way too much. Again, Brooke politely smiled and nodded. Again, I looked at him with the same furrowed eyebrows that said, “nobody asked you”.

We moved on into the house where he began telling us how he makes very little money running this hostel, and how he was giving us a real deal. It seemed like a total hassle to move on down the road, so we took a room and paid way too much. When we were bringing in our gear, he told us to be quite because his wife was sleeping. Turns out, she was sicker than a dog, and Brooke and I had the pleasure of falling asleep to the hacking and coughing of his wife in the next room. Right before bed, our hostel host made the announcement that he was sleeping outside in the RV because his wife was too sick to be in the same room with. ICK.

The next morning he tried to give us directions to a place where we had no intention of going. Brooke’s attempts at explaining this to the guy were cut off in mid sentence, while he blathered on about a road we would never ride. Finally, we were out the door and on our way. Good riddance scam artist!

Melissa

Seattle

We took off for Seattle where we stayed with my friend Ben, his girlfriend Megan and their dog Wendy for four nights. While there, I wrote a lot, immersed myself in an intense and focused job search, and came up with a few strong and well defined cover letters to compliment my new and improved, slightly tweaked resume.

Kind of.

In reality, our stay looked more like this: we rode our bikes unloaded around Seattle and through an industrial park that had multiple trains clanking around on several sets of railroad tracks; we ate at the amazing Thai restaurant that I have been raving about since my first visit to Seattle a couple of years ago; we went on a 10 mile hike where we spotted many different types of crazy looking mushrooms; and we drank some pretty fantastic pumpkin ales which reminded us all too clearly that fall is upon us.

Melissa

Port Townsend

Out of the corner of my eye I could make out three, maybe four photographers snapping away. I think, although I did not look, if I would have looked up, I would have seen a boom mike.

“Did you come to Port Townsend just for this?” an excited voice asked. How could I break the news that we did even know what festival we were currently at.

So I replied, “Yes! We did!” with a huge smile and nod.

Just twenty minutes earlier Melissa and I had gotten off the Port Townsend ferry and entered the town with one purpose: to stock up on food before pitching our tent at the state park a few miles down the road. We rode down the town’s Norman Rockwell-ish main street while people (and I can’t say for certain if I imagined this or not) waved and smiled at us. The air of the town felt different. It felt . . . festive.

I had been concerned with looking to my right while riding through town, where we could see the cold gray water that we had just crossed. But in a quick glance down a side street to my left, I saw a flurry of action. There were twenty people in official looking matching t-shirts setting up rows of hay bales, which were being set to face an official looking stage. Others, to the back of the street, were setting up a massive buffet line under a grand white tent.

“Did you see that?! A festival!” I barely managed to shout as I whipped a u-turn (of course, in true Melissa fashion, she was oblivious to all of it.) I’ve been begging for a town festival as of late, so I was thrilled.

We walked our bikes through the buzz of activity and stopped at the back street corner, trying to figure out what was going on.

“Are you ladies here for the film festival?” a small, impeccably dressed older woman sporting a ‘Women for Obama’ button asked. Her question was followed by another person’s question (“Where are you two coming from?”), who was followed by another (“Bike tour, eh?”), who was followed by another (“All this way for the festival?”) until Melissa and I were surrounded by what seemed like 50 questioning townspeople and accompanying photographers and videographers.

For a minute, we were the main event at this festival. Questions were being asked rapid fire and we could barely answer them all, both of us holding four different conversations at once.

“Where are you staying?” no one in particular asked.

“Well you could probably stay at my dental office,” said another voice.

“Really?” I asked, racking my brain for what this man might have just said. . . . stay at my garage . . . ? extra office . . . ? guest room? I thought what he had just said started with a “D” and sounded like “dental”, but that couldn’t possibly be it. We’d never been offered a business to sleep in . . . let alone a dentist’s office. Or any place with needles and drills (or any other place the Melissa fears and avoids -- he might as well have said, “Here! Sleep in my airplane! While I fly through turbulence! And oh! My dentist is on board! Can he clean your teeth for you?!). Wait-- did he just offer us a place to stay at his dental office?!

He did! He totally did. He gave us a key and directions and sent us off. We dropped off our bikes (at the dentist’s office!) and attended the outside viewing of American Graffiti at the11th annual Port Townsend Film Festival.

Brooke

Anacortes

Months before we left for the trip, I was scouring Columbus for other people who had completed bicycle tours of their own. To put it mildly, over the rather depressing Ohio winter, deep in the planning phase of this trip, I had a few anguished moments which left me feeling like my plan was stupid, unrealistic and half baked. I was worried that I was just running from some as yet unidentified problem, or taking the easy way out. I was desperate to find someone who had done some touring of their own, so they could reassure me, so they could tell me it would be worth it. Realistically, I knew that was a tall order. Ultimately, I am the only one capable of deciding what risks are worth taking in my life. But still, I needed to hear the plus side of someone else’s pivotal decision to take off on a bike across the country.

That person was Todd Shaw. I was in court wrapping up some cases from the morning docket, when the judge who was hearing my cases for the day suggested I go talk to Magistrate Shaw about my plans to embark on the bike trip. I was sheepish, and totally overanalyzed the entire thing. I didn’t want to bother the guy, and I felt insecure about just popping down to his office to pick his brain about bike tours. And, I especially didn’t want to come off like I needed I pep talk, I wanted to seem self assured. Determined. So I put it off for a few days. But, finally I decided to go introduce myself and ask him to share some of his bicycle touring stories.

Man, his face immediately lit up while he riffled through his desk to pull out pictures from the trip he and his wife took across the country on a tandem. He traced for me on a map the route they took, and it was evident that he cherished the memories. He said it was the best time of their lives. He told me just what I wanted to hear. He told me with certainty that I’d never regret going on the tour. I left his office about an hour later with my enthusiasm and confidence was restored. As I was walking out the door, he said, “if you go through Anacortes let me know and I’ll arrange for you to stay at my home there.” At the time, I didn’t think I’d ever take him up on that offer. I thought it was probably just a polite gesture. But, now that I’m in bike touring mentality where I make it a rule to accept the kindness coming my way, I called him up and asked him if the offer to stay in Anacortes was still open. It was. It turns out that his wife Kathleen was just getting back in to town and was happy to accommodate us for the night.

When we got off the ferry in Anacortes, Kathleen was there with her bike ready to lead us to her house. We followed her to her place, and not five minutes in the door we were swapping bike tour stories. It was awesome to hear the enthusiasm in her voice about her and her husband’s bike trip, which was about ten years ago. The experience is still with her in such an apparent way, so again, talking with her I was reassured that these memories will be with me forever. This trip will shape who I am, in so many positive ways and I’m really looking forward to the day when I can give back the kindness that has been tossed my way.

Kathleen cooked us a delicious vegetarian meal and had chocolate bars and cookies for us. We did laundry, got a good night’s sleep and took off for Port Townsend the next morning.

If this bike trip has taught me anything, it is this: be willing to accept the kindness of strangers and be kind back. Take the extra step to be nice. Offer to help people when you think they need it. It is enriching for everyone involved. I know this sounds unsophisticated and obvious, but to really put it in practice is a tremendous thing. So, thanks Todd and Kathleen for the amazing night of rest in your home. We will pass the big-heartedness and generosity forward!

Melissa

Bridge coming out of Anacortes.

Orcas Island

We went to Orcas Island ready to climb Mt. Constitution. The view from Mt. Constitution, we had been told, is the eighth wonder of the world. The climb is “epic” and “brutal”, with 80 hairpin switchbacks and steep inclines. One three mile section has an average grade of 10%.

I wish that I could tell you about that climb. I wish I could tell you how we soldiered up that mountain and took in the 360 degree views of Vancouver, the Cascade Range, the rest of the San Juan Islands and the Olympic Range. But . . . we didn’t see much beyond the fog and rain from inside our tent at the base of the climb.

On a clear day, you can climb up Mt. Constitution and see forever. On a foggy, rainy, windy day, you can barely see one foot in front of your face. We went to the island with the main purpose of getting to the top, but left the island without even attempting to make the trek.

Brooke

San Juan Island

By the time we got off the ferry and through U.S. customs on San Juan Island, it was 7:40 p.m. and getting dark fast. Looking lost, as we so often do when staring at the map, a man, speech slurred and stance slightly wavering in the breeze, offered to help us find a campground. Melissa and I weren’t, but probably should have been, taking into account that we were standing outside a bar.

“Go this way,” the man said, pointing at an island on the map that was not the one we were currently standing on.

“Here,” he said firmly, then pointed in a huge gesture down the road. “Just follow this road, towards that big cloud.”

And the crazy part is, we did. We followed his directions. Until . . . we ran into a dead end not but two blocks away from the bar. But we thought, hey this is an island! we can’t get too lost! So we continued out of town on a nearby road (towards the cloud), which went smoothly until it got way too dark way too soon.

We stopped at a house, hoping to get some more directions, but it proved useless. And then, like angels sent from above, Katie and Kyle rolled up on their bikes. “You guys okay?” they asked. And just like that, they offered to let us sleep on their property.

We followed them, and their headlights, six miles inland, up a huge hill and down a steep gravel road, in the pitch dark. We arrived on their property, which they share with Katie’s parents, and were immediately invited in for a late supper, which turned into an invitation to sleep in their guest room.

The dad, Dennis, is a retired Lutheran minister and the next morning he cooked us a great breakfast and packed us a sack lunch, complete with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (cut in half, of course) and freshly baked zucchini bread. After hugs and pictures, Melissa and I headed off to the San Juan County Park on the other side of the island.

The San Juan County Park, without a doubt, is the most beautiful place we have ever camped. The park sits on a bluff, overlooking Puget Sound, with views of the Olympic Mountains, Canada and the many, many orca whales who migrate in the waters below. It was so amazingly calming there and we sat on the bluff and stared at the water, orca whales and passing boats until the sun went down.

Brooke

Before we could find a map, Kyle drew us an almost perfect rendering of the island (to which Katie exclaimed, "It's a kidney!").

Victoria, B.C.

After a two hour ferry ride we arrived in Victoria, British Columbia. Mike and Jenna had set us up with a place to stay, Jenna’s sister’s place on the island -- a cute, quite farmhouse on the southern half of the island. The directions getting there (on paper) had been simple: get on the Galloping Goose bike trail and head south. For the life of us, we couldn’t find the trail, and ended up riding the non-scenic highway to our destination.

The next morning we work up early so that we could see some sights in Victoria before boarding the 10:30 a.m. ferry to Port Angeles. Three measly miles before the ferry, I felt that awful foreshadowing mushy feeling of a flat tire. Turns out I not only had a flat, but I had a big gaping, not-so-friendly looking hole in my back tire. After a not so quick detour to a bike shop, and an $84 tire, we had missed the ferry.

So on to Plan B: taking a later ferry to the San Juan Islands in Washington state (which quickly became Plan B when the employees at the bike shop told us about the amazing bike riding the islands offered. Previous to Plan B, we were on the Be-Pissed-Off-And-Cry-Because-You-Missed-Your-Ferry-And-Have-No-Idea-Where-You-Are-Going-Or-What-You-Are-Going-To-Do-Next Plan). Plan B seemed like a nicer option. Plan B also gave us time to explore Victoria.

When it was time to head to the ferry, Melissa and I looked (again) for the Galloping Goose bike trail. (Again) we could not find it. Apparently, the elusive Galloping Goose is rarely seen, except by those native to the area (hence, when we would ask a local for directions, they would point in the distance and say, “right there. You can’t miss it.” And then we would miss it.).
We would catch glimpses of it, be on it for a second, round a corner, and then be off of it, in the middle of a housing development, completely lost. But magically, like an angel from heaven, a cyclist on a carbon Trek Madone came to our rescue. “I’ll take you there,” he said, “As long as you can keep up!”

So, lungs bursting, legs pumping, we followed him a couple of miles (in the opposite direction of the one in which we were originally heading) to the Galloping Goose -- a beautiful rails-to-trails bike path that is so heavily signed and well kept, I’m not sure how anyone, including us, would ever miss it.

So Plan B: Island hopping!

Brooke

Lining up for our first ferry ride of the tour!

The Parliament building in Victoria.

The mythical Galloping Goose.

On the ferry to the San Juan Islands.

Vancouver, B.C.

After eight fuzzy and dazed, but restful days in Eugene we took a Amtrak train to Vancouver. It was so awesome to be with our pals in Eugene, but we have to keep moving down the road. FYI-Amtrak is a pretty good deal if you are traveling with a bike. It was $5 per bike, which is pretty unbelievable considering how pricey it is to box up a bike and stick it on a plane.

We got into Vancouver late, around 11:50 pm. It was a 9 hour train ride, plus a three hour lay over in Portland. However, the lay over was perfectly timed right around lunch, and Brooke and I had just enough time to hop off the train and ride our bikes to the food carts for delicious vegetarian indian food! It was fun to sail through the streets of Portland, the country’s most bicyclist friendly city. Portland’s cyclist friendly vibe is heaven for me, with bikers everywhere enjoying their safe and roomy bike lanes!

We arranged to stay with a Warm Showers host to keep our costs down, and our host graciously agreed to pick us up at the train station, despite it being so late. (For those of you who don’t know about Warm Showers, it’s an organization where touring cyclists list their homes as a place for other touring cyclists to spend a night for free. It’s a great organization!) Brooke and I were dead last off the train, and on top of it customs held us up so they could personally check out our mace. While riffling through our panniers looking for our mace, Brooke and I were exchanging anxious glances fearing that Mike, our Warm Showers host, was on the verge of leaving us because we were so late. Alas, I was relieved to see him standing in the station with a smile on his face when we finally emerged off the train.

Wow! Vancouver is hands down my favorite city, and every time I go, it gets better and better. I must confess, the thought of moving to Vancouver is becoming more and more tempting. It’s rare to find a city so aesthetically pleasing, there are mountains and water everywhere you look. The city is surrounded with kick ass mountain bike and running trails. Everywhere you look, people are engaging in outdoorsy activities.

The first day we were there, Mike took us on a killer run along the water, and then up into the woods on a trail. Our pace was pretty fast as we headed off the paved path and up into the woods. We ran hard over roots and rocks, the path became hypnotizing to me as I settled into the pace. It was so awesome to fly though the woods breathing hard, it was the best run I’ve had in a long time!

Brooke and I spent the rest of the day walking around the city, we checked out the public market and bought some awesome vegetarian soup mixes that we plan to cook while camping on the San Juan Islands. That night, Mike and Jenna told us all about their 11 month tour down the Pacific coast and into South America all the way to Argentina as we drove around the city and over the Lions Gate Bridge to check out the amazing views. While we were staying with Jenna and Mike, they made sure we ate the best vegetarian food available! They were amazing hosts, and made Brooke and I eager to give back to other cyclists in the future.

The next morning, we rode off towards the ferry and headed for Victoria!

Melissa

We had a quick lunch at the Portland food carts on the way to Vancouver.

Japadog! Japanese inspired vegetarian hotdog, complete with teriyaki sauce, Japanese mayo and seaweed.

Revelations and relaxation in Eugene

Well, I might as well make it official with an announcement on my blog. Not that announcing an extremely personal life decision on one’s blog is the last step in finalizing said decision, but it’s a start, right? So, for all of you who would rather not read uber-divulge-y personal revelations on a bike touring blog, read no further!

I want a baby. Henry did me in. He proved too cute and irresistible with that little smile. He’d sneak it on me, wearing me down little-by-little and, 8 days later I’m convinced I want a baby. It wasn’t just his cute happy little smile. It was his cutesy socks, the sweet little hats he’d wear, and his adorable little t-shirts. He’s a charming little peek-a-boo player too, and he knows it. Suddenly, I have this fire under my ass to reproduce. It’s probably just some ancient chemical in my brian that kicks in right around my current age, telling me to spawn, but still, it’s there. It’s undeniably there.

So, now that the cat’s out of the bag on babies, it’s on to Eugene . . . Eugene was great. It was awesome to see one of my oldest friends doing all sorts of mom things with her first child. And, what’s cool, is that Jill is still the same old Jill, just with an adorable precious gift of a son. Eugene is such a hippy town, and Brooke and I liked it a lot. Good vegetarian food is easy to come by, and the vibe there was definitely laid back.

Other than jogging along the bike paths by the river and walking around the city, Brooke and I spent a lot of time getting caught up on True Blood. I know, such a stimulating and interesting TV program. Even though we burnt too many hours watching trashy vampire shows, we also started looking for jobs and thinking about what we want our futures to look like.

Unbelievably, I really enjoyed searching for jobs and imagining what type of work I may want to pursue when the bike tour is over. I’m definitely nervous about all of the uncertainty of the future, but on the other hand, I’m also trying to be positive and I’m attempting to enjoy the process. I usually get really worked up about stuff like this, I worry about qualifications, and whether I’ll fit in but this time I’m not going to get bogged down with that stuff. My stance on this is all way more zen than I am usually capable of pulling off, but it beats second guessing myself, and worrying myself to death. Before you know it, I may be reading Buddha books!

On a side note, this trip has made my brian mushy. I was supposed to meet up with some fellow bicycle tourists in Eugene, and I totally forgot. I don’t really know how this happened. So, my apologies to Aaron and his very generous wife who gave up her room at the Marriott so we could have a place to stay in Missoula. I’m really sorry I’ve turned into such a scatter brained dingbat. I wanted to hear about your trip down the coast!

Melissa

The final pass on the TransAm

Hey everyone, we did it! We’ve reached the grand finale of passes on the TransAm! McKenzie Pass--DONE! There were no fireworks at the top, however we had something much better! We were warmly (and hilariously) welcomed to the top of the pass by a bus full of rowdy and vocal senior citizens clapping, whistling and cheering us on. Lucky for us, we reached the top amid the hoots, hollers and cries of “you rock!” and “go girls” and “you can do it!” So, a huge thank you to the tour bus full of sweet senior citizens for the kind words of encouragement! What a great memory for Brooke and me. And, a somewhat sad goodbye to the TransAmerican Bicycle Trail, at least for the time being.

I know what some of you are thinking. You’re thinking, why didn’t they finish the route all the way to Astoria to the Pacific Ocean for god sakes!? The answer may disappoint some of you. The truth is, we don’t care about completing every last mile nearly as much as we care about spending time with our friends in Eugene. For us, it’s never been about completing miles, or doing the entire route. Plus, we will be riding down the Pacific Coast soon enough. Riding the TransAm has been simultaneously fun, crazy, terrible, terrifying, awesome, thrilling, hilarious... and hell, let’s just say we’ve certainly had our moments, all of which have been life enriching in their own way. In many ways, the ride hasn’t even sunk in, and i’m sure (keeping finger’s crossed) after I have some time off, I will have more to say on the matter. But it’s time for a rest, and it’s definitely time for the sanity and comfort of waking up in a snug and warm bed in the welcoming home of my friends!

But, back to McKenzie Pass. We started off good and early this morning, because last night while partaking in a few local brews at the bar, we were constantly warned of bad weather heading our way. We had a long ride and we needed to get a jump on it, so we took off early. The pastor at the Episcopal church was nice enough (read: concerned for our safety) to print off a weather report and leave it for us in the morning. So, at least we knew beforehand what we were getting ourselves into. The weather report was rather gloomy, and might as well have read: stay the hell at home unless you are batshit crazy. Nevertheless, Brooke and I batshit crazy as ever, pedaled out of Sisters, Oregon feeling great. There was a slight drizzle, but the lovely scent of rain and cedars hung in the foggy air making me feel thankful for the chance to ride through this stretch of forest, no matter what the weather forecast predicted.

It was chilly and wet, but beautiful right from the start. Being sandwiched between towering cedars, and lush ferns and feeling the mist on your face is totally worth the slight discomfort of being damp. As I was saying, I was feeling grateful for all kinds of things when I woke up this morning, and the most obvious being that we were scheduled to arrive at our friends’ place in Eugene late that afternoon. We had about 90 miles to go in what promised to be cold and wet riding conditions, and I couldn’t have cared less knowing that at the end of the day good friends, good beer, and one very smiley 4 month old baby boy awaited me.

We were about 8 miles into our ride when the road started creeping gradually upward. It was nice to ease into it, taking some time to focus on getting a rhythm. It was raining, and as we climbed it rained more. As no surprise, it also got much colder the further we went up. We were working hard though, which kept us toasty except for our hands and feet. The climb is full of switchbacks, so you really can’t see far enough ahead to know what steep pitch is right around the corner. But, wow, it’s such a amazing scenery, and when you are crawling along at 4 MPH, you really get a good look at things. We climbed for about an hour, curving with the road through the gigantic cedars and hugging the shoulder of the narrow road, which sometimes was cut so close to the rock that my shoulders or panniers would bounce off it. When we reached the top of the pass, it was raining hard, and there was nothing to be seen except age old hard black lava rocks in every direction. The combination of the rain, the black jagged rocks, and the grey lifeless sky may have been too much to take, but thankfully the seniors livened it up a bit for us!

On the way down, we immediately started winding through roads cut through the spiky and ragged lava rock. I’ve never seen anything like it, and it was pretty cool. It wasn’t long until the hill really got going and the grade steepened rather quickly. As you probably know if you’ve been following along, Brooke hates steep descents. Her fear was amplified by ten thousand today when she faced not only a steep decent, but a steep decent full of sharp switchbacks in the driving rain and visibility blocking fog. In short, this was Brooke’s worst nightmare. Meanwhile, it’s kind of the stuff I live for. We’re different in this respect! Brooke and I headed down, slowly, sometimes even stopping to walk. I would get ahead, then stop and wait for Brooke to catch up. Rain was pooling on the tops of my panniers, and dripping from my helmet. The forest was still as beautiful as always, and the trees were covered in a beautiful yellowy moss that glowed in the fog. It took us as long to get down the other side of the pass, as it did to go up it. When we got down, our hands and feet were numb and drenched, but our pricey rain gear worked tremendously, keeping our bodies dry and warm. We pulled into a coffee shop, and I noticed a bus stop on the edge of the parking lot. I didn’t think twice about checking to see if it headed to Eugene. It did, and there was not a moment of hesitation when we each forked over $1.50 to ride the bus in. Getting to my friends’ house and meeting their tiny adorable little baby 3 hours sooner than I would have had I rode in, was worth the insignificant pang of guilt or regret of skipping out on miles!

Melissa

90 miles, two passes and a tree of shoes