Northwest Cycle Report

Photo by Michael Pierce.

I yawn and roll over. There’s a burr somewhere near my ankle that has been pestering the hell out of me for most of the night. I struggle to locate the little… aggravation and finally succeed. There’s a definite downside to these camping… aggravations. I can’t get back to sleep. After laying in the dark for an hour listening to the night critters, there’s no more sleep to be found. I have to admit the truth. I’m wide awake.

I poke my head out of my tent to find that it is indeed as dark as the inside of any large animal you’d care to ruminate about. A firm press on the side of my trusty Timex “IndiGlow” ($12.95 at Target) wristwatch reveals the worst. I’m not surprised to find the big hand pointing to 6 and the little hand pointing to… uh… I need to put my glasses on for this. Oh…crud, the little hand is pointing to that odious blurred gap between 3 and 4. With a sigh, I launch myself into the now routine packing up camp jig. Thankfully there’s nobody but me utilizing this wee campground. I don’t have to feel guilty about waking anyone else, so I don’t. Both my bike and I grumble our way onto the road.

Twenty minutes ago I was sleeping. Now, I’m boring a hole through the inky blackness of a twisted gem of a highway. I head to Eugene on Oregon Highway 242. The Old McKenzie Pass Highway is narrow, and twirls through volcanic outflows and old growth timber, like a demented hippy-dancer at a Grateful Dead concert. It may be dark but the super bright headlamp I fitted to the nose of my beloved Kawasaki shreds the night while I play a funky beat with my right hand.

My sense of unity with the road, and with my motorcycle brings certain clarity to my head. No longer do I have feelings of failure. I am successfully living once again.

With clear skies and a warm morning sun playing through the trees along the highway, I follow the McKenzie River the last few miles to my favorite town in all of Oregon. I’m about to ride into “The World Headquarters of All Things Tie-died”. Some Hippy Haters call Eugene – ”Blue Gene”. I shrug that silliness off and admire how Eugene celebrates the free spirit in all of us. Heck, I’ve worn tie-died t-shirts most of my life. I just haven’t told anyone about my hidden Hippy.

Besides, the growling from my belly reminds me I’m hungry, and the pounding in my head from lack of caffeine increases my craving for a quad mocha. A stop at a long established café in the heart of town lets me soak up some Hippy Funk. I sit on a groovy little bentwood chair at a groovy little glass topped table and my waitress is a groovy college chick with dreadlocks and armpit hair. Soaking up all this Hippy ambiance, I listen to a cd of primitive World Music and savor some fresh free range chicken fried steak and a couple of certified organic eggs on eleventy-billion grain fresh baked bread. Hand sliced of course.

Eugene is a special kind of place. Yes, it sure is. Oh! Look! I think I just rode past the largest collection of VW Micro busses on earth!

Cool!

With a glance skyward to thank Jerry Garcia and all the Keyseyian Merry Pranksters, I turn onto Territorial Highway and head for Corvallis. My meandering route today will take me off the beaten track and onto some amazing one lane paved forest service roads.

It’s possible to ride from end to end in Oregon and do so without spending more than a few miles at a time on a road with a centerline. I won’t be pulling that feat off today or tomorrow. Instead, I’ll enjoy a sampling of some of the best motorcycle roads in the US of A.

We all know, Northern California has some famous roads. In fact, Highway 1 is one of the most frequently named “Ten Best Roads in North America”. I’ve ridden the coast route between Los Angeles and Crescent City a bunch of times. I’d never argue that it’s not a great road.

Riding in Oregon on this trip causes my opinion of ‘the best’ to waver. What I’m currently experiencing passing under my wheels is a revelation. In all my years of driving and riding in the Northwest and California; nobody told me that Oregon has so many hidden roads that rival the fantastic roads of California. If all you ever do is drive the Interstate from one end of the state to the other, you’ll never know what you’ve missed.

I’m throwing my bike through corners on yet another unknown road that gallops, falls, swirls and swoops through a dense forest. I’ve been doing this moto-dance for hours and I haven’t passed a single car or truck. Focus man! There’s no cell phone service out here and you’re still fifty miles from civilization! Plunge, bark, scritch, wail and flog. I’m working up a sweat with an outside temperature in the low 60s. I love it.

As the sun heads towards the horizon, I am sitting in yet another great coastal restaurant. Panko breading coated line caught Halibut dressed with a spicy wasabi based sauce, and accompanied by a fresh spinach salad used to hold a place on my plate. Now, it’s a pleasant memory in my belly. A crisp Rogue Ale has found it’s way past my lips and over my tongue. Life is good. I could get used to this kind of traveling.

I pay my waitperson (who’ll be here all week!) and head back up the hill from the tourist heavy Old Town area of Newport. A snug and simple motel room makes a nice break from the last week of camping. A hot shower, a book and a cold beer results in a solid night of sleep. As I fade away, I realize - there’s no burr bugging my ankle.

Morning means I continue north along the coast.

Today I dawdle, I delay, and I drag my feet like a five year old being told to go to bed. I’m very much aware that my trip is winding down. I’ve been on the road for almost a full month. I’ve grown used to riding nearly every day. I don’t fumble into my gear or waver in my riding. I’m as tuned in to being a motorcyclist as I’ve ever been. My riding is sure, confident and smooth. Yet, I take double the normal amount of time to pack my luggage. I stretch out the pre-ride walk around. I take chunks of extra time when I really shouldn’t be doing so.

I’ve become accustomed to setting my own schedule, planning (or not) my day by a whim rather than a need. Today, I have a goal. I look at the map this day, not with a sense of ‘where to?’ but with a sense of ’I need to be at that point by this time’. Already I note the subtle change in my mindset.

By this time tomorrow my trip will be a memory. I don’t want to be riding today. I don’t want this ride to end.

I press on. Riding north with the slate waters of the Pacific comforting me.

Afternoon is marked by crossing the Columbia River into my home state. The closer I get to home, the more I notice the frantic pace of humanity surrounding me. By late afternoon I’m at the southern edges of Puget Sound. The towns are closer together. My world begins to morph from a world of one into a world of suburbs, towns and cities. Finally with a knot of congestion it all congeals into one huge stewpot of people, where all those metropolitan zones merge.

I’m on the freeway this afternoon for the first time in weeks. I’m threatened again by people in their cages. They blissfully sip on their lattes as if I’m not there. The always busy cell phones are pressed to their ears with more fervor than ever. I dodge the lane changers who can’t be bothered to use their turn signals. I hover ahead of devil spawned tail-gaters in a self created safe zone as huge trucks and mini-van driving soccer moms do everything they can to squash me.

Stopping in front of a familiar door I reach down, and with a gloved finger I reluctantly press on the button of the garage door opener that has hung on my tank bag, unused for a month. I can’t hear the door open, even though I know there’s a rumble and a couple of clunks from the electric garage lift. I add an adjustment of the opener hardware to my mental list of things to do, as I pull into the comforting space of my garage.

This ride is over. I’ve covered more than eight thousand miles of roads. I’ve shared meals with friends. I’ve healed, I’ve learned to forgive and I’ve had a ball doing it.

With one last reach for the key, my journey ends.

The garage is swallowed by silence.