295 lines
8.3 KiB
Plaintext
295 lines
8.3 KiB
Plaintext
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From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan 7 17:19:26 1991
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To: wordy@Corp
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Subject: chapter-14
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ADVENTURES IN SOUTH ECOTOPIA
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#14 in the second online CAA series
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by
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Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)
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Eureka, CA; 1,043 miles.
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November 28, 1986
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Do you ever read my stories and wonder what it REALLY feels like to be out
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here, exposed to the world, unsure from one day to the next where I'll sleep,
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who I'll meet, what pleasures and pains will strike with the whim of chance?
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Do you ever try to see past the rhapsody, the humor and philosophy -- looking
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for clues in the rhythm of my words, sensing exhaustion in torpid prose or the
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giddiness of new friendship in silly sentences of puns and alliteration?
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Narrow-bandwidth communication like this is frustrating. I'm living an
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adventure of intense visceral sensation, and the only way I can share it with
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you is through words -- and maybe a stack of photos if I ever camp in your
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livingroom and swap tales over pizza. Not enough. Last Thursday I wanted to
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share more: I wanted you to BE there.
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It wasn't a normal day, this 18-mile explosion of violence and insanity.
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It was a day of curses lost in the spray of trucks, of stinging eyes and cold
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sweat. It was a test of hardware, a test of nerves, a challenge to muscle and
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mind alike. Thursday was one of those days that will live on as a caricature
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of the entire journey -- a day that will instantly spring to mind whenever
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anyone mentions riding in the rain... or redwood trees... or the sheer
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looniness of challenging truck-infested mountain roads on a bicycle in a heavy
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storm.
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Imagine sweat, lots of sweat, steaming inside layers of polypropylene and
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Gore-tex. Its pressure builds, hot and stifling, as you strain in a headwind
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up a mountain road. You think to disrobe, but the icy trickles of rain leaking
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through zippers and seams warn otherwise -- better to be hot and wet than cold
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and wet. Your shoes begin to squish, and you make a fist every few minutes to
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squeeze water from expensive "waterproof" neoprene gloves.
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Soon you accept the discomfort and pay more attention to the other
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problems: packs soaking through, computers and humidity, trucks blasting by in
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an opaque spray. Those can be challenging as you waver unsteadily up the grade
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at 3 mph, fighting crosswinds. Sometimes they catch you broadside in a soaking
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explosion of white water and roar off into the mist, trailing diesel fumes and
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the smells of chopped fir, leaving you struggling for control as a motorhome
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passes too closely and a knot of vegetation forces a swerve into traffic. Ah,
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recreational cycling.
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The water is everywhere -- inside you and around you. You need to vent
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the morning's coffee, swilled so long ago in a fluorescent-lit 50's cafe, but
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the grade is too steep for parking... so you press on into the rain, splashing
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in brown runoff like a spawning chinook, pedaling numbly and dumbly and trying
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not to think about the place you could have stayed a few miles back. Giant
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trees pass slowly, shrouded in mist; the sounds are a muted cacophony of patter
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and splash, drip and roar, bicycle chain and your own wheezing breath. Higher
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you go.
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And then the summit, understated, no sign but a warning to trucks, no
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place to pull off and congratulate yourself. Without fanfare you coast the
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level part, breathing easily, relaxing slightly -- then your speed picks up and
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the curves fly by and the bumps are terrifying... the brakes are wet and your
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hands grow numb... raindrops sting your face and you squint into the gray, peer
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into the murk, scan the blurred submerged pavement for signs of potholes and
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glass and ruts and bumps and -- HEY! GIMME SOME SPACE, JERK! -- anything else
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that could drop you in a blink and spread you like a high-tech road kill across
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two lanes of uncaring violent glorious redwood highway.
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This is the kind of cycling that makes the first motel look like a sort of
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paradise. You hand over a dripping Visa card then drag your bike inside,
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spreading wet fabrics over every door, chair, and light fixture -- steaming up
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the room while lying numb and smiling in a real bed. What a life...
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And I wouldn't trade it for all the BMWs in suburbia.
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* * *
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So. What else is happening? We rode on to Arcata, "where the 60's meet
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the sea," and immediately began finding friends. Another of those surprises:
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there (and here, and here and there) prosper the values and attitudes that made
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the 60's what they were -- not in a degenerate way, but in a productive and
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creative one. Social consciousness lives! It's a mature and quiet force,
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unlike the frenzy of days gone by that became de rigeuer for everyone under 30.
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Dig it? I mean... remember how confusing it was when you started meeting
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people who acted like hostile rednecks but looked just like gentle hippies?
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Most disturbing, wasn't it? That's what happens when style outweighs
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substance. But today's hippiedom is a thoughtful lifestyle, not just the way
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to be IN style.
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The emphasis now is on health, not drugs. On growth, not destruction. On
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efficiency, not depravity. The famed hallmarks of the 60's -- strange music,
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long hair, and dope -- are but the textural backdrops in what has become a
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quiet, unaggressive community. Fashion has long since moved on (mercifully),
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leaving people who care about ecology and world peace to do what they can, for
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the most part so passively that the effects are but a gentle breeze in the
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absurd maelstrom of current events. But it matters, and they care, and it felt
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good to be in a place where people still believe in something other than
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abstract entities and their personal bottom lines.
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We stayed at the Humboldt State Campus Center for Appropriate Technology
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for a couple of days, wandering the well-cultivated grounds through the shadows
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of windmills and solar collectors. Dinners had the feel of family, and nobody
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even asked how much my bike cost (one of the first questions in anyplace even
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CLOSE to Yuppiedom). I began writing a Whole Earth Review article, invigorated
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by an atmosphere more fitting than a xerox motel room or suburban vinyl
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tabletop. Quiet music. Good company. Smells of teas and spices, composting
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toilet and vegetable garden.
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And then on to Eureka. "Don't go there!" said our Arcata friends. "Come
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on down!" said our Eureka friends. The balance tilted, as always, in favor of
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change, and we rode 8 lazy miles to the Samoan Cookhouse -- an old logging camp
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s becomifestyle sampler of infinite
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scope.
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Humboldt County is the mecca of kinetic sculpture. Every year, Eureka is
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the scene of strange madness as 40-50 amphibious human- powered vehicles cover
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a 38-mile course of highway, water, and mud. Some racers are bent on sleek
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efficiency; most are bent on artistic fun -- and it is with those of the latter
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category that we find ourselves staying. Through an unplanned sequence of
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serendipitous events, we fell immediately into a house-sitting deal... a chance
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to stop for a week and attempt to hit about 50,000 keys in the right order,
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ideally yielding a couple of magazine articles on the eve of deadline.
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Procrastination followed by despair: nothing has changed, even as everything
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changes.
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So here I am, on Thanksgiving night, fresh from dinner with an exquisitely
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eccentric friend in Ferndale (more on THAT intriguing character next week),
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pattering away on a lashed-together desk of plywood and C-clamps as a cat
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half-dozes beside me. Yes, here I am again: settled into a place I'd have
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never imagined a week ago, as much at home as ever. It's not even strange
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anymore. We watched ourselves on San Francisco's Evening Magazine last night
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-- saw the "world's smartest bicycle" laden with computers and solar panels --
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and realized with a start that it was US, that we are still a curiosity even as
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we settle into the journey's routine. What's so bizarre about a couple of
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high-tech nomads?
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It's those around us that we find curious, not ourselves. That's probably
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why, in 14 GEnie columns, I still haven't gotten around to explaining how this
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machine works. With all the wonders of the planet to explore, how could I
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remain obsessed with a bicycle -- even if it DOES happen to talk?
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-- Steve
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