textfiles/fun/CAA/gecaa-14

From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan  7 17:19:26 1991
To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-14

ADVENTURES IN SOUTH ECOTOPIA



#14 in the second online CAA series



by



Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)



Eureka, CA; 1,043 miles.



November 28, 1986



     Do you ever read my stories and wonder what it REALLY feels like to be out

here, exposed to the world, unsure from one day to the next where I'll sleep,

who I'll meet, what pleasures and pains will strike with the whim of chance?

Do you ever try to see past the rhapsody, the humor and philosophy -- looking

for clues in the rhythm of my words, sensing exhaustion in torpid prose or the

giddiness of new friendship in silly sentences of puns and alliteration?



     Narrow-bandwidth communication like this is frustrating.  I'm living an

adventure of intense visceral sensation, and the only way I can share it with

you is through words -- and maybe a stack of photos if I ever camp in your

livingroom and swap tales over pizza.  Not enough.  Last Thursday I wanted to

share more:  I wanted you to BE there.



     It wasn't a normal day, this 18-mile explosion of violence and insanity.

It was a day of curses lost in the spray of trucks, of stinging eyes and cold

sweat.  It was a test of hardware, a test of nerves, a challenge to muscle and

mind alike.  Thursday was one of those days that will live on as a caricature

of the entire journey -- a day that will instantly spring to mind whenever

anyone mentions riding in the rain... or redwood trees... or the sheer

looniness of challenging truck-infested mountain roads on a bicycle in a heavy

storm.



     Imagine sweat, lots of sweat, steaming inside layers of polypropylene and

Gore-tex.  Its pressure builds, hot and stifling, as you strain in a headwind

up a mountain road.  You think to disrobe, but the icy trickles of rain leaking

through zippers and seams warn otherwise -- better to be hot and wet than cold

and wet.  Your shoes begin to squish, and you make a fist every few minutes to

squeeze water from expensive "waterproof" neoprene gloves.



     Soon you accept the discomfort and pay more attention to the other

problems:  packs soaking through, computers and humidity, trucks blasting by in

an opaque spray.  Those can be challenging as you waver unsteadily up the grade

at 3 mph, fighting crosswinds.  Sometimes they catch you broadside in a soaking

explosion of white water and roar off into the mist, trailing diesel fumes and

the smells of chopped fir, leaving you struggling for control as a motorhome

passes too closely and a knot of vegetation forces a swerve into traffic.  Ah,

recreational cycling.



     The water is everywhere -- inside you and around you.  You need to vent

the morning's coffee, swilled so long ago in a fluorescent-lit 50's cafe, but

the grade is too steep for parking... so you press on into the rain, splashing

in brown runoff like a spawning chinook, pedaling numbly and dumbly and trying

not to think about the place you could have stayed a few miles back.  Giant

trees pass slowly, shrouded in mist; the sounds are a muted cacophony of patter

and splash, drip and roar, bicycle chain and your own wheezing breath.  Higher

you go.



     And then the summit, understated, no sign but a warning to trucks, no

place to pull off and congratulate yourself.  Without fanfare you coast the

level part, breathing easily, relaxing slightly -- then your speed picks up and

the curves fly by and the bumps are terrifying... the brakes are wet and your

hands grow numb... raindrops sting your face and you squint into the gray, peer

into the murk, scan the blurred submerged pavement for signs of potholes and

glass and ruts and bumps and -- HEY! GIMME SOME SPACE, JERK! -- anything else

that could drop you in a blink and spread you like a high-tech road kill across

two lanes of uncaring violent glorious redwood highway.



     This is the kind of cycling that makes the first motel look like a sort of

paradise.  You hand over a dripping Visa card then drag your bike inside,

spreading wet fabrics over every door, chair, and light fixture -- steaming up

the room while lying numb and smiling in a real bed.  What a life...



     And I wouldn't trade it for all the BMWs in suburbia.



                                * * *



     So.  What else is happening?  We rode on to Arcata, "where the 60's meet

the sea," and immediately began finding friends.  Another of those surprises:

there (and here, and here and there) prosper the values and attitudes that made

the 60's what they were -- not in a degenerate way, but in a productive and

creative one.  Social consciousness lives!  It's a mature and quiet force,

unlike the frenzy of days gone by that became de rigeuer for everyone under 30.

 Dig it? I mean... remember how confusing it was when you started meeting

people who acted like hostile rednecks but looked just like gentle hippies?

Most disturbing, wasn't it?  That's what happens when style outweighs

substance.  But today's hippiedom is a thoughtful lifestyle, not just the way

to be IN style.



     The emphasis now is on health, not drugs.  On growth, not destruction.  On

efficiency, not depravity.  The famed hallmarks of the 60's -- strange music,

long hair, and dope -- are but the textural backdrops in what has become a

quiet, unaggressive community.  Fashion has long since moved on (mercifully),

leaving people who care about ecology and world peace to do what they can, for

the most part so passively that the effects are but a gentle breeze in the

absurd maelstrom of current events.  But it matters, and they care, and it felt

good to be in a place where people still believe in something other than

abstract entities and their personal bottom lines.



     We stayed at the Humboldt State Campus Center for Appropriate Technology

for a couple of days, wandering the well-cultivated grounds through the shadows

of windmills and solar collectors.  Dinners had the feel of family, and nobody

even asked how much my bike cost (one of the first questions in anyplace even

CLOSE to Yuppiedom).  I began writing a Whole Earth Review article, invigorated

by an atmosphere more fitting than a xerox motel room or suburban vinyl

tabletop. Quiet music.  Good company.  Smells of teas and spices, composting

toilet and vegetable garden.



     And then on to Eureka.  "Don't go there!" said our Arcata friends.  "Come

on down!" said our Eureka friends.  The balance tilted, as always, in favor of

change, and we rode 8 lazy miles to the Samoan Cookhouse -- an old logging camp

s becomifestyle sampler of infinite

scope.



     Humboldt County is the mecca of kinetic sculpture.  Every year, Eureka is

the scene of strange madness as 40-50 amphibious human- powered vehicles cover

a 38-mile course of highway, water, and mud. Some racers are bent on sleek

efficiency; most are bent on artistic fun -- and it is with those of the latter

category that we find ourselves staying.  Through an unplanned sequence of

serendipitous events, we fell immediately into a house-sitting deal... a chance

to stop for a week and attempt to hit about 50,000 keys in the right order,

ideally yielding a couple of magazine articles on the eve of deadline.

Procrastination followed by despair:  nothing has changed, even as everything

changes.



     So here I am, on Thanksgiving night, fresh from dinner with an exquisitely

eccentric friend in Ferndale (more on THAT intriguing character next week),

pattering away on a lashed-together desk of plywood and C-clamps as a cat

half-dozes beside me.  Yes, here I am again:  settled into a place I'd have

never imagined a week ago, as much at home as ever.  It's not even strange

anymore.  We watched ourselves on San Francisco's Evening Magazine last night

-- saw the "world's smartest bicycle" laden with computers and solar panels --

and realized with a start that it was US, that we are still a curiosity even as

we settle into the journey's routine.  What's so bizarre about a couple of

high-tech nomads?



     It's those around us that we find curious, not ourselves.  That's probably

why, in 14 GEnie columns, I still haven't gotten around to explaining how this

machine works.  With all the wonders of the planet to explore, how could I

remain obsessed with a bicycle -- even if it DOES happen to talk?



          -- Steve