textfiles/fun/CAA/gecaa-10

From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan  7 17:18:49 1991
To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-10

Rain Country Hospitality



#10 in the second online CAA series



by



Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)



Lake Oswego, OR; 435 miles.



October 29, 1986



     The warnings were true.  It DOES rain in the Northwest.



     The trip from Castle Rock to St. Helens was a 42-mile marathon of spray

and puddle, drizzle and bubble.  Trucks blew by in a rage of wild grayness, my

microphone tube filled up with water, and I settled into a grim rhythm of

pumping water under my wheels with Gore-tex legs.  Such are the rides that

DON'T fit the freewheeling fantasy -- the days when waittresses look you over

with obvious concern for your health as well as the messy cleanup job that will

follow your visit.



     It has been an eventful week, with too much to cram into a column:

camping in the rain, riding lively Klein mountain bikes down the Punji Stake

Trail, passing the Trojan nuclear power plant (PREVENT TROJANOBYL says the

bumper sticker), getting tips on winter street survival from a homeless woman

in Portland, and meeting politicians who see us as potential campaigners.  The

life of constant change I have written about is upon us now, and we'll just

have to settle for a few vignettes.



     "This is bicycle mobile KA8OVA, listening," I said into the foam- tipped

tube at the corner of my mouth while touching a handlebar button with my left

thumb.  The reset beep of a distant repeater told me that I was hitting the

147.26 machine in Longview, Washington -- on the Oregon border about 25 miles

away.



     "KA8OVA, this is KA7JBW.  Handle here is Toby, that's tango oscar bravo

yankee, mobile in Kelso.  You say you're bicycle mobile?"



     I told him yes I was -- and where I was, and why.  After a basic exchange

concerning radios and roads, I popped the question:  "Hey, Toby, I'm about ten

miles north of Castle Rock at the moment, and don't think I can make it all the

way down to your end of the world before dark.  You have any club members up

this way?"



     Well, one thing led to another, as it always does, and soon there was a

new voice in my ear -- KA7QOX, otherwise known as Al.  Did I need a place to

stay?  Hey, no problem...



     Within the hour, we were unpacking our bikes in a micro-hangar --

surrounded by dozens of radio-controlled aircraft.  A quarter-scale Cessna took

up one end of the room, its detached wing against the wall over 8 feet long.

Five or six helicopters, exquisite machines accurate in every detail, lay

poised in various attitudes -- some suspended from the ceiling, others on the

floor.  Walls were hung with aircraft photos, unfinished projects were layered

on cluttered benches, and all around were the hallmarks of a passionate

interest in this intricate hobby.  I felt right at home.



    "Ah, play," I said to our host.  "I see you have no plans to grow up

either."  Al, balding and nearly old enough to be my father, grinned knowingly

and agreed.  His career is industrial control system repair, but his life's

work is radio control -- and as the evening progressed we sensed the kinship

that comes from high-tech obsession: showing each other our creations, swapping

tips, and enjoying that warm glow of mutual respect.  There really are a lot of

interesting people in the world...



     After a morning helicopter flight and hearty breakfast we were off, my

head filled with fantasies of adding a mini-chopper to the bike and letting it

roam ahead to transmit live video of the mysteries around the next bend.  Why

not?  "Viva Madness!" writes RAY-ROLLS, one of my correspondents here on

GEnie... and indeed, why not?  What else, besides learning and fun, should be

our bottom line?



     Onward.  Chats on the radio, new friends gradually fading into the static.

 Coffee stops, curious stares.  Heavy weather, wringing out gloves, wiggling

numb toes.  The terror of the Lewis & Clark bridge, which managed to combine

all the most unpleasant cycling conditions into a single 10 minute ordeal:

rain, gusty sidewinds, slippery expansion joints, heavy two-way traffic,

logging trucks, steep grades, and no escape route.  I caught up with Maggie at

the summit, touching her shoulder en passant and offering a word of

encouragement.  Her whimper was lost in the roar, then I was flying downward at

37 mph, rain stinging my face, bike jolted sideways by surprise grooves and

passing 18-wheelers.  Passing?  At this speed? What the hell's the hurry, guys?

 The little blinking green LED on my console kept saying OK, OK, OK -- but what

does it know outside its artificial little world of nicely decoupled 5-volt

logic?



     But hey.  The miles go by, experience becomes memory.  The next afternoon

we were in Portland, Oregon.



     Normally, finding contacts is easy.  On my first trip around the country I

would roll into town, scan the faces in the crowd for that familiar spark, and

gently hint at my need for a place to stay. Rarely did I wander around a city

after dark and try to rationalize a night of credit-card camping.  But two

things conspired to make Portland difficult:  a pair of 8-foot high-tech

recumbents gives the misleading impression of complete self-sufficiency, and

Portland is a city with a huge street population -- hundreds of homeless people

living on the handouts and waste heat of a large but friendly town.

Conversation was easy and pleasant, but finding a place to crash nigh

impossible.  After giving up, we fought our way across the city after dark to

the AYH hostel -- which, like every other hostel, was absolutely unlike every

other hostel.



     Hostels have character.



     This is one of a network of places that helps shape the traveling culture

-- not the TOURIST culture (which provides the shallow thrills of "attractions"

while insulating people from wherever they are), but the TRAVELING culture,

which is exactly the opposite (a lifestyle instead of a diversion).  At hostels

you meet people on journeys, people who throw their entire selves into the

experience of movement, change, and meeting other people.  Long bicycle

odysseys are commonplace in the hosteling world, as are solo wanderers from

Australia, Swedish girls on holiday, and people of all ages seeking a bit of

work to fuel the next stage of travel.  Someday I'll tell you more about the

hosteling life, but suffice it to say that we found ourselves in a sort of

haven from the confusion of the city, grateful for the chance to sit around the

big table and swap stories with new friends.  A pretty 18-year old Canadian

girl named Bettina cut my hair for the next day's TV interviews, and my winsome

Lifestyle Maintenance Manager put the kitchen to good use.  Ah, pasta.



     Everybody we meet thinks we're intriguing, but some kinda crazy to be this

far north this late in the year.  TV weather reports talk about storm systems

and Alaskan fronts, and the single word "south" is my stock answer to that

constant question: "where ya headed?"  As we fled the continuous roar of

Portland on the delightful Terwilliger Trail, we could feel it:  trees denuded,

leaves on the ground soft from rain, joggers puffing breath from faces locked

into grimaces of self-imposed agony.  Tomorrow we'll dive back into the soup

after a lakeside day of writing and relaxation -- down to Corvallis, home of

Hewlett-Packard portable computers... a mecca of sorts.  And closer to the sun.



     "Back on the freeway, which is already in progress!"



          -- Steve