textfiles/fun/CAA/gecaa-19

From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan  7 17:22:38 1991
To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-19

A WEEK OF MOVEMENT!



#19 in the second online CAA series



by



Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)



Mendocino, CA; 11,324 miles (see NOTE)



January 12, 1987



(NOTE:  Mileage from now on will include my first 10,000-mile trip, of which

this is, in essence, a part.  Actually, it was 9,760, but I rode another 240 in

central Ohio last summer to simplify the arithmetic.)



     Rolling!  Suddenly the deeply familiar texture of life on the road mingles

again with the chronic unfamiliarity of daily movement. In the week since

leaving Eureka, our range of experiences has been so diverse that only the most

abstract of themes could begin to capture the overall flavor.  So... rather

than maunder on philosophically about lifestyle sampling, constant change,

strangeness and all that, I offer a collection of daily snapshots:



                           Day 1:  Ferndale



     It was with deep relief that we pedaled away from Eureka, though the

sadness of leaving our friends was tangible.  Real tears, last- minute gifts,

hugs, a cannon salute, and then the familiar streets that suddenly, almost

shockingly, became passing scenery.  This slow cycle -- stopping, meeting,

staying, leaving -- is the bass note in the music of my journey.  I work in

tenor, play in alto, pedal in soprano...



     The first stop was Ferndale, home of Hobart Brown:  metal sculptor, museum

curator, kinetic race organizer, local celebrity, ex- Okie (from the town of

Hobart, naturally), accidental guru, astrologer, and self-styled "happiest man

on earth."  Hobart is an epicenter of successful eccentricity, with legions of

groupies, admirers, imitators, and sycophants -- as well as a few envious

enemies who accuse him of everything from scandalous behavior to devil worship.

 And his house, well...



     Imagine a cavernous Victorian mansion, occupied for 20 years by a man

obsessed with playful sculpture.  There are secret rooms, trapdoors, tunnels,

symbolic towering creations of copper and brass, suspended fanciful flying

machines, crazy memorabilia of a fun-filled life, posters on the ceilings,

private jokes, Things That Move By Themselves, spooky little dark places,

tangled excesses of twisted plumbing, one cat, and an ancient freezer-burnt

pork chop nailed to the wall.  Through it all moves Hobart, fiftyish,

arthritic, soft- spoken and twinkling -- always happy, philosophical without

being heavy-handed about it, returning every few hours to the welding torch and

his latest diorama of castles and magic.



     Not a bad place to display the bikes and spend a weekend writing about the

future of process control in the chemical industry -- and yes, Ferndale has

been added to that bulging database of places to which I must someday return.



                     Day 2:  Ferndale to Redcrest



     Into the forest -- the famed Avenue of Giants.  The theme in this area is

the 43,000 acres of redwood groves:  tourists flock to see 'em; astute

businessmen, knowing that the naked grandeur of megatrees isn't enough for

gawkers, turn them into Attractions.  There's a redwood you can drive through,

one 2,000-year-old monster carved into a 42-ton house, a hollow one known as

the chimney tree, yet another dubbed "immortal."  Next to each has sprouted a

colony of gift shops and accommodations -- you can buy live burls, polished

slabs, trinkets, seeds, postcards, clocks, gifts, furniture, sculpture, little

placards of folk wisdom, and all the usual touristy junk. Billboards advertise

the endless human embellishments to what's already perfect... but then, that's

the nature of the trade.  At least THESE trees are protected from the logging

companies, which would happily hack 'em down in an instant if given the chance.



     Nightfall found us in Redcrest -- at a motel I shall always remember for

its unwatchable television (between the immovable TV set and the immovable bed

stands a solid wood post, wide enough to fully block the screen).  But the

grounds were stalked by peacocks, silky chickens, and guinea hens; when we

pedaled off in the morning a neighbor hailed us to see his collection of

Japanese Koi -- like a marriage of carp and goldfish -- in his homemade

fountains.  Ya just never know.



                     Day 3:  Redcrest to Miranda



     But that could hardly have prepared us for Miranda, land of the thousand

pizzas.  After a short 20-mile ride of continuing redwood drama spiced with

conversation on the Garberville repeater, we stopped at the Redwood Palace.

Finding places to stay has become strategically critical:  the towns are far

apart, the days are short, and it's too cold for camping with our wimpy

lightweight sleeping bags.  We sat in the parking lot and discussed our few

Garberville- area contacts (the closest 10 miles off the highway on a hilly

dirt road), when a lady burst grinning from the doorway with a shout and a

camera.  "I don't believe it!  You're really here!"  Turns out she had spoken

with Hobart...



     In short order we were installed in the guest house, plied with beer, and

presented to all who passed by as the event of the season. The bikes were on

display until closing time, and we found ourselves surrounded by the energetic

personalities of Harry and Carol (the proprietors) and their countless friends.

 The local oil baron from the gas station, the science teacher, the traveling

sales rep, the high-school kids, the truckers, the marijuana growers, the

trickle of off-season tourists... all evening the swirl of south Humboldt life

drew us into its voracious vortex, hungry for adventure and entertainment and a

teasing hint of that wild wonderful world outside these cold winter redwoods...



     Ah yes, the pizzas:  as the lucky recipient of their 1,000th pizza, we had

dinner on the house (though we did have to go back to the kitchen and make it

ourselves).  Sometimes treats have nothing to do with our bikes at all...



                      Day 4:  Miranda to Leggett



     By now you're getting the idea that daily movement becomes a blur of

changing scenes, highlighted here and there by human delights. This day was one

of exhausted pulls up long grades, the blasting passage of trucks and campers,

ongoing ham radio chitchat, and the slowly nearing town of Leggett -- the place

where we would diverge at last from busy Highway 101 to take on the highest

hill of the west coast bike route.  Softened by the long Eureka layover, the

ride was taking its toll; we staggered into Leggett and rented a cabin, cuddled

under the covers, nibbled cheese and crackers, and stared at the fuzzy black

and white images from the only available TV station... Eureka. Odd effect:

news from there had the flavor of news from home.  We nudged each other over

changes in the transit system, fires -- even the tide reports.



                    Day 5:  Leggett to Fort Bragg



     Oooh.  This was it.  We stepped out into a 36-degree morning, fixed my

13th flat tire in 11 thousand-odd miles, and began with a short freezing

descent.  Frost on the foliage.  Violent shivers.  The occasional incredulous

driver.  And a sense that the ocean was yet far, far away.



     That notion was quickly reinforced, though not in a painful way. The climb

was manageable:  3 mph for a couple of granny-gear hours, sweat-soaked shirts

clinging to skin in the brisk morning air, light courteous traffic, puffs of

breath hanging still in the mist.  As the altimeter slowly climbed, the clouds

thinned... and thinned... and then dropped away completely to reveal a blazing

vista of sunlit cloud-tops puddled in the folds of low mountains like snow in

the frozen tracks of cosmic bulldozers.



     We stopped at the summit to take it all in, walking from one side to the

other, west to east, east to west, pointing out the sights like a couple of

interplanetary explorers perched on the first available promontory of a new

world.  Success.



     And then down, the other reward, the thing that differentiates hills from

headwinds.  Dozens of switchbacks, tight and smooth, the sensation of skiing

tangible in the rhythmic dance of a fast descent. On a recumbent, there's a

feeling of wild openness, the exact opposite of the tuck position of a

10-speed; when the speed climbs, the whole world, not just the road surface,

blurs into an impressionistic confusion of streaked light and color.  By the

time the sparkling surf welcomed us back to the Pacific, the dreaded Leggett

Hill had become a sweet memory of concentrated beauty, physical triumph, and

pure unalloyed bliss.



     A mile or so down the road, I stopped to offer assistance to an old maroon

Washington state Eldorado driven by a tubby Shriner and his nervous wife.  The

right rear wheel was smoking heavily, reeking of charred brake composites.

"Want me to call for help?" I asked, gesturing at my boom microphone.  The man

hesitated; the woman urged him to say yes; the man mushed crackers and washed

them down with beer; the woman fretted about these awful steep hills.  Finally

he decided against calling AAA, tossed the beer can onto one of the most

beautiful coastlines in the world, and turned to go.  "Expecting somebody to

pick that up for you?" I asked, but there was no response. He drove away in a

stink of automotive overkill.  A mile later, I added an entry to my huge file

of Things I Should Have Said:  "Here. I have room on my bicycle; let me dispose

of that properly."  (This week's assignment:  Give a Shriner a shiner.)



     Now the narrow winding road began taking its toll.  Traffic picked up as

we wound our way through the steep, abrupt turns, more than once forcing a

driveway detour to let a truck pass.  Pedaling grimly, we hit the day's 48-mile

mark in the noisy mill town of Fort Bragg.  It took but a moment:  while I was

a mile away seeking a "big gun" ham operator I'd heard about, Maggie fell into

conversation with a quiet couple in front of the library... who promptly

invited us home for the evening.  The connection?  Technology, of course:

Charles, a cyclist/ham, had spotted the unmistakable 2-meter rig on her bike

and hailed her in passing.



                   Day 6:  Fort Bragg to Mendocino



     But Mendocino, not Fort Bragg, is the town we've been hearing about.  A

lazy 10-mile ride got us here -- to a place that has optimized its

tourist-oriented picturesque character without seriously compromising a deep

counterculture flavor that continues to attract artists, writers, musicians,

and New Age refugees of the City.  Street conversation was peppered with

references to acupressure, astrology, macrobiotics, energy, brutal exploitation

of the coast for corporate gain, and so on; within hours we had a network of

local contacts, a three-hour lunch at the Sea Gull with visitors from Napa, and

one particularly interesting invitation.



     It came from John, owner of the Brewery Gulch Inn -- a classically relaxed

Bed and Breakfast on two acres south of town.  "I saw you two holding hands on

TV a while back," he told us as the rain began.  "Being an incurable romantic,

I couldn't resist -- do you need a place to stay?"



     Within the hour we were settled:  my machine dripping on a sheet under the

antique dining room chandelier, Maggie's outside on a covered porch.  We were

given the Garden Room -- with fireplace, huge windows, and antique furniture --

suddenly warm and comfortable in graceful surroundings thanks to one man's

recognition of the strange romance of our life.  Those "soft dollars" keep

mounting up...



                     Day 7:  To L.A. -- and Back



     Ah, the unpredictable daily grind of touring.  As I sat quietly tapping HP

keys on the comfortable bed that night, warmed by a roaring fire and Maggie's

soft presence, there came a knock on the door.  Into the room burst exuberance

personified:  Mendocino Cyclery folks who had finally managed to track us d
the consternation of passing trolley riders.  Chinatown, the stripper district,

the Friday night swirl of Big City life... it was all quite dazzling after six

weeks in Humboldt and Mendocino counties where the only noises are surf,

highway, laughter, and the chill wind in your ears.



     But the show!  After thehe traditional boring diamond-frame bicycle -- and still more

innovation in its welcome spinoff, the agile mountain bike.  Computers, pulse

sensors, and graphic-display training cycles that simulate mountains. Automatic

transmissions, freewheels, halogen lights, sealed bearings, composite tubing,

tools, posters, silicone seat pads, kevlar tires, disappearing locks,

streamlined helmets, energy drinks, camping gear... name anything even remotely

connected with cycling and it could be found in Long Beach in a dozen hotly

competing variations.



     For two days I wandered this mecca, passing out book info, riding demo

machine is... oh, never mind. I should know by now not to make

predictions.



     I'll just see you next week from somewhere else.  Probably.



          -- Steve