[Herewith are my last journal entries, mostly verbatim instead of summarized, as I have been wont to do before.]

27 June 2008

Spent last night tossing, turning & hunting a little mouse that was munching on the pop-tart I’d gotten myself for the morning. [The rest of the story: I was mortified that it kept making noise, thinking it was keeping the other guys up. Nope, it turns out, just me. The cheeky little bastard had kept quiet and still when I picked up my bike helmet (which had the pop tart in it) to see if it was under there, not thinking to look inside. Eventually, carrying the helmet out of my room to put it out of reach, the little pest dropped out through a vent and ran for it.]

And just as I was getting ready to go, I saw I had a flat–and I’d managed to leave my tire irons behind somehow!

But I’m in good spirits now. A hostel staffer gave me his tire irons and I fixed the flat handily. The bead jack worked perfectly too.

So I’m at a KOA campsite in Pescadero with a restaurant where I await a huge salad with salmon. [Ed. note: these "campsites" are so loaded with luxury they might as well call them "split-log hotels." I have nothing against travelers enjoying those amenities, but why call them "campsites?"] Tempting to go with the burger & fries option as I’m starved but some vegetable matter does sound appealing.

I also seem to have mislaid my sharpener–I may be forced to return to a pen! Oh, wait, there it is in my pocket. [95% of all my stress in life is summed up right there.]

The Internet at the hostel was unusably bad. Satellite, so impossibly slow, and the interface seemed to be 100% web-based and actively evil. When I tried to load up Skype, the machine seemed to be trying to bring up Hotmail (?!).

Oh, and again with the headwind today! Not nearly as annoying on the trike, but still I can even verify it now, lots of tall grasses, pointed directly at me. Sheesh.

[Herewith are my last journal entries, mostly verbatim instead of summarized, as I have been wont to do before.]

26 June

Back on the road again! It took two false starts, but I did 50+ miles today and climbed over 3000 feet! The worst of it was King’s Mountain Road. Much of that twisty torture was spent in bottom gear, grinding away at 3 mph or less. It literally would have been faster to walk–but probably not pushing 80 lbs. or so of trike and gear.

Drivers were uniformly courteous, even friendly. At one point I waved at a van as I was piling along some ascent, and I could see only the passenger’s hand–throwing horns. Implicit message: I rock! That’s right, I do. You betta respect.

After the hell (in effort only) of King’s Mountain, I ran into a motorcyclist who persuaded me to just take Highway 1 instead of Stage Road, as the guy in the bike shop had suggested when I was starting my day. Unfortunately the motorbike guy also held forth on the “problem” presented by Mexicans, Chinese, and other immigrants. He claimed to be a liberal at one point–I wonder how that change happens. I tried to listen for his needs, which was enough for me to keep my cool externally but not much else. [Upon reflection, that encounter was about as creepy as any I had in the whole trip.]

Tunitas Creek Drive was a whole different adventure. Bike Shop Guy had suggested it as safe, and it even looked [on the map] to be a fun descent. Motorcycle Guy didn’t like the various blind turns, which were many, but I wanted a more direct route, so off I went.

I thik BSG forgot to consider my trike’s lacking the Big Shock Absorbers [standing on the pedals]. The road surface looked like an airfield that had taken heavy bombardment. I could go fast on the seemingly random repaired stretches but soon had to hit the brakes. I poured water on them during a break–it sizzled right off, they were so hot.

Tunitas did turn tamer after a while, letting on to houses and organic farms. I slowed down and stopped for a cute cat, but it fled my weird machine.

Anyway, I got to Highway 1, now more south than I had originally planned, and struck out for Pigeon Point. BSG had warned me off part of it, concerned that the berm was inadequate for a trike. It ws fine, though. I find I need less room with the trike, as my control of the tracking is much more precise–seeing where the wheels are is much easier. I don’t feel the need for a lot of allowance for weaving, since a bump against one tire affects my course but little.

The last few miles were a bit of fatigue-torture, but eventually the lighthouse popped into view. And they had beds available!

Not only that, i had a great evening’s conversation and got to share a hot tub (against California tradition, in swim suits) with a couple of touring bikers from Berkeley: C– and S–. It was more good conversation, and a stunning view of the fog-covered ocean with the lighthouse beam playing through it.

My apologies for yet another “quick update,” I actually have a few pages in my paper journal to transcribe yet.

My journey ended in something of a hurry as Amtrak had seats available for 24 July or 16 August, and I wanted to get back sooner rather than later. A 40-hour train trip and 3-hour bus ride (with 1 hour of sleep altogether), I was back in Vancouver. I saw the most incredibly exciting roller-derby game Saturday night (great hitting, refs all over the players like white on rice, super-deft skating, and sudden death overtime!), have rested up, and am feeling excited about life. Today begins my networking for a new job and first thing in the morning I saw an article about a restorative justice initiative right in this neighbourhood! A good sign.

Now to fix my laptop, which I managed to lobotomize on my first day here.

Hi folks,

Ran out of money, more or less, and took hyperspace again to get to my sister’s place here in Long Beach. Some exceptionally brutal and interesting riding down Salinas valley to avoid the Pacific Coast Highway closure from the Big Sur fire, on which, more later. Spending today recovering from the train ride and hard riding, and writing, and then I should be able to catch up. That will have to be the last update as far as travel, I’m afraid, since I can’t really afford anymore.

As it is, though, I’m whole and healthy except for a teeny bit of sunburn on my legs and a slightly down attitude. Talk again soon!

I ended up going all the way to Pigeon Point yesterday and staying at the hostel there, which I’d forgotten all about. It was a 50+-mile trip with over 3,000 feet of climbing! Quite a slog.

Easier, but in some ways less fun, getting here today. But it’s an interesting town, and I’m staying an extra day to go to the (very hip) bike co-op to re-tune my bike (which I’m thinking of naming Alan–get it?) after the beating it took going down Tunitas Creek Road.

More soon when I have a computer that actually works.

Just a quick update here to note I am today continuing my journey. Stuff I need to tell you about is my 50-or-so-mile ride with the excellent and redoubtable Western Wheelers cycle club, my obnoxious propensity for false starts, and of course, huge, huge gratitude to A– and M–.

To tide you over, here is a link to some more, fully-loaded trike pics.

Word from the road soon! I’ll be taking Foothill Express to 84 and that up to 35 (Skyline), then to 92 and down to Half Moon Bay State Park. I have a GPS, but as there’s no Windows in this house, it’s being a glorified odometer at the moment. Once I get that properly set up I should be able to post tracks and elevation charts.

I love my headlights. Dual Fenix L2Ds. That’s medium brightness right there. There’s one high setting, and then there’s “turbo,” also known as “photonic attack mode.”

So today I rode around Los Gatos trail on my second new vehicle: an ICE Trice T recumbent tricycle.

My fond readers will certainly recall I was working on a two-wheeled recumbent. I did, in fact, get to being able to ride it, a little bit. I had a little cheering section the day I finally got it started up without physical help; A– and M– were rooting for me. It took over a dozen tries to finally get my right foot up on the pedal (along with the left) and wobbling down the residential street. Further assisting was J–, who had recommended to A– that I get used to just riding around, to get the balance of the thing. In fact A– and I tried the tactic of helping me start up; it did work better to just ride first, then get into getting started. Of particular note was A–’s ability to verbally break down the physical intelligence needed to get used to the new way of riding, which I can summarize as “take all your instincts about riding and rotate them ninety degrees against gravity.” A– got it in a few minutes; but he’s a master of kung fu and stuff (OK, Tae Kwon Do and more recently Jeet Kune Do, technically).

With all this, and a new feeling of confidence, nonetheless it was very clear it would be many miles of training before I could ride it loaded and in traffic and on windy mountain roads.

Luckily for me, I had already decided, somewhat half-heartedly, to test-ride trikes at Baytrail Trikes. After my victory on the two-wheeler I very nearly canceled; now I’m very, very glad I didn’t. It took a couple of hours to get to Albany by transit. Steve, the proprietor, patiently answered all my questions, and shared his enthusiasm in a really human, low-pressure way. Also, he’s a former VMS systems administrator, so we had fun swapping horror stories. Of course, riding the trike made the sale–I was cackling like a madman just riding it in a big parking lot.

So, let me count the advantages: in a trike, if I want to take a break, I pull over and engage the “parking brake”–a velcro strap around the brake lever–and that’s it. There is no step three. You’re already sitting in a nice chair. Getting started after stopping: start pedaling. Because you never took your feet off the pedals, because you don’t need to. This is critically true on hills, where being in a really low gear may rob you of enough momentum to keep your balance. Going slow on a trike is merely slow, full stop. It’s also much, much less fatiguing–indeed, the ride is so relaxing I have to be a bit careful to pay attention. When I’m done my legs are tired. And the Trice trikes come with hub brakes. Why has the world not noticed how awesome these are? They don’t get wet and muddy, they’re not finicky, they’re easy as hell to adjust, and they require basically zero maintenance and last more or less forever. Oh yes. They’re heavy. Whatever. If you live in Vancouver, I recommend these things.

There are some disadvantages, of course. The thing is pretty heavy: 37 pounds in the stock configuration, and then you add on the usual stuff like a rack and fenders and it probably ends up over 40 pounds. Also, it’s big. Finding parking is a bit of a challenge, and getting around narrow obstacles meant to keep motorized vehicles off trails can be a nuisance too. Luckily this model breaks down into a more manageable size for going on trains and the like, but it’s not a quick fold, so going multi-modal with transit isn’t an option. So for me, it’s decidedly a dedicated long-distance or cruising machine. Some people regard the low-to-the-ground seating as less safe. It’s true you’re not so much at eye level with drivers, but I feel pretty good with the whippy flag sticking up seven feet into the air, and the width of the trike definitely encourages drivers to give me plenty of room–and I can really take the lane when I need to. Finally, trikes are even more expensive than two-wheeled recumbents. Mine was discounted for being last year’s display model (the 2008 has nifty new-fangled goodness for a higher high gear without sacrificing the low end).

Altogether though, the advantage of “I can take this out on the road immediately and feel better in nearly every respect than I did on the diamond-frame bike” is hugely overpowering.

“Where’s the philosophy, JB?” Thanks for asking. A lot of this was me again encountering my weird thinking about luxury, necessity, learning, endurance, and so on. I had actually originally planned on a trike but didn’t want to travel so far to look at one. That got me into the mail-order world (and for the record, the folks at The Hostel Shoppe were really wonderful from initial set-up to handling my eventual sad return of their lovely machine). And then, as noted before, there were delays from a damaged part. So, because I didn’t want to spend a couple days trucking around on perfectly comfortable and inexpensive transit, I actually ended up waiting a couple extra weeks, and spending rather more money than I’d hoped to.

In sum, I’m basically ecstatically happy with this choice. I’ll post some pictures soon, taken by my way-better-photographer host M–. The front lights are mounted on a little stalk, so the trike totally looks like some kind of freaky moon rover at night.

I hope to be back on the road, off to see my sister in Long Beach, in less than a week. At last! I’ve enjoyed being here of course but I’m really itching to get some miles under my bum again, and more amusing road travails for you all to read about. So, that’s it for now, and I’ll get the pictures up ASAP.

P.S. “HPV” stands for “Human-Powered Vehicle,” not “Human Papilloma Virus.”

Today I’m writing not about events but topics that have gone through my head a lot, gradually accumulating some (I hope) clearer thinking.

I think I’ve found a good distinction between violence and force. My recollection of the Nonviolent Communication definition of violence is that it’s any action taken that is done with disregard for another person’s needs. Force is usually framed within “protective force,” and the usual example is of knocking down someone who doesn’t know they are headed into traffic, in order to stop them from being harmed much worse. This is a pretty good rough definition; my intention is to add to its nuances rather than provide some wholly new idea.

I’m using an empirical kind of definition, simply put: what is someone’s response to ouch? I came on this idea while A– and I were watching World Combat League a couple of weeks ago, critiquing the technique and sportsmanship of the competitors. (WCL is a martial arts team competition with some basic rules to prevent serious injury and promote short, action-filled bouts.) It was easy for us to agree on who showed concern for the other person on the mat, and (by degrees) who showed contempt, glorying in their enemy’s suffering. Concern or its lack was clearly evident in a fighter’s posture after an opponent was knocked to the mat. One pair even embraced after a long, well-matched bout. From this, I think it is clear that even force with potential to do serious injury, and without a protective intention as such, can be nonviolent, meeting needs for accomplishment, learning, play, and of course connection, among many others. Martial arts, as A– has said, can be a very intimate exercise. Certainly willingly exposing yourself to injury is about as vulnerable as it gets.

Then there is verbal sparring: sarcasm, trash-talking, “your mama” contests, and so on. I think here it’s also possible to tell when harm is intended, but it can be a lot more difficult to make that call, especially in the heat of the moment, or with relative strangers. Add to this the intellectual machismo that often goes with very verbally talented people, where “ouch” is a show of despicable weakness, and a lot of pain and confusion seems practically inevitable.

Even so, I have many fond memories of times when really terrible-sounding language was used in fun and everyone involved was positively joyful about it. My favourite example is a game of Jungle Speed I played at the December 2007 NVC International Intensive Training with about six or seven other people from all walks of life and a variety of different national backgrounds. The trash-talk, started by me, was ferocious, the most intense ever when playing the game, and it has a tradition of trash-talk, so that’s saying something. People’s abilities or lack thereof were roundly and volubly mocked, tasteless stereotypes about Germany, Russia, Canada, and the USA were indulged in, and physical intimidation was an element of play as well. It was unbelievably fun and would certainly have been less fun without that aspect. (Jungle Speed is a seemingly very intellectual game of pattern matching, except for the element of snatching a playing piece from the center of the table to win contests–I suspect this is what brings out the inner ape so marvelously.) The game went for many rounds, late into the night, and everyone was laughing uproariously.

The big guy who tended to position his hand so that it looked like you’d lose an arm if you tried to grab the totem before he did explained it well the next morning in our last group meeting. He reflected that the trash-talk was itself a kind of proof of container we created by our mutual respect and intimacy (very high at the end of the intensive) and its robustness and authenticity. We knew we were safe, thus we could really go all out with our “jackal talk,” something normally regarded as dangerous. And as we went all-out, and hurt didn’t result, we could tell that the judgment of safety was correct. I don’t recall any “ouch” at that table; there might have been some yellow lights, perhaps.

I guess my point is, force is another way by which we know each other and the world we live in. It is praiseworthy or regrettable not in itself but by what it does with different kinds of feedback. This is like the tool to know whether something is a request or a demand: how does the requester respond to “no?” If they respond with threats or punishment, it’s a demand. So someone who responds to “ouch” with no concern, or accuses the person trying to show their hurt of being a wimp, stupid, over-emotional, or whatever, that seems like a big flat clue that you’re looking at aggression and not play. (I’m also aware that some people use vulnerability as a weapon–indeed, it’s a tactic I’ve used myself–yet I don’t see how responding even to such tactics with contempt is really helpful to anyone.) At its best, force both physical and not represents an avenue of great intimacy and surprising (for most) opportunities to express caring and love, for others and oneself (consider how you respond to “ouch” internally, regardless of where the hurt seems to originate).

I’ve also had opportunity while here to think about conflict and what that means to various people. I like to gripe about the “pneumatic analogy” so I’ll so some of that here. This idea if some kind of emotional steam engine is very popular in my world. Where it comes to conflict there’s an idea of “pressure” building up, and a conflict is a place where that pressure is “let off” or it may even “explode.” I don’t find this set of options very appealing; I want conflict to be more of an exchange, or ideally even a kind of collaboration.

So I’m thinking of it in terms of music, which has a bigger vocabulary. Harmony, disharmony, dissonance, tension, resolution, and so on. There’s pretty good agreement out there that music accommodates different styles, and I think that translates to a possible tolerance for different kinds of conflict and ways to work skillfully with it. And tension in music isn’t anathema–it’s actually necessary for an interesting piece. Thus it isn’t a problem that needs to be fixed or avoided–it’s the condition you’re actually playing with to get a desired effect.

I don’t mean to minimize the tragedies of really intense conflicts like war, abuse, suppression of dissent, and so on. “Disharmony” is a pretty inadequate description of the terrible pain suffered by refugees of wars, soldiers on both sides of a conflict, the grieving families left behind by murder. I just think it’s preferable to the idea of “letting off steam. No big conclusion on this one, it’s a less-developed thought than the stuff above on force & violence.

I’m interested in feedback on how these thoughts strike people, whether they are satisfying ways of describing the world or lacking in some way. So please comment. Thanks!

As some have noticed, this tour is apparently sitting still, at least on the larger-scaled maps. Still, I have been getting out more often than not, visiting different cultural attractions, puttering around, and (finally!) getting enough tools to actually replace a broken spoke. (There’s something that I have yet to see in a touring guide. So here it is: you need a spoke wrench, chain whip, cassette lockring tool, and a big enough wrench to leverage that tool. That’s 3-4 pounds to replace a multi-gram spoke. There’s got to be a better way.)

Anyway, here are some recent events: over the last weekend I visited my step-brother, J–, and his lovely wife M–. It’s odd to think of him as a “step-brother” since our families were linked for over a decade before my dad and his mom actually eloped, sending an email with a picture of them happily before a Justice of the Peace in northern New Mexico. As they were into their 60s or 70s (the timing escapes me) at the time, the family’s scandalization was a bit on the affected side. Anyway, J– remarked he thought he’d missed me in a comment to the last post and I was immediately prodded into action. There was no reason I couldn’t take the Caltrain up to San Francisco, and so I hatched plans rapidly, and happily, he and M– were free that weekend. Off I went, on a nice long train ride, except for the pre-drunk Giants fans and one car that sounded so tortured every time it turned you wondered if it was going to derail.

I chose not to bring my bike, which turned out to be a good idea–the Honda Impulse that J– picked me up in would have been a real job to fit the massive Fuji into. My plan for the evening was to go to Urban Dharma, a Dharma Punx-affiliated sitting group. It was not to be, alas; my train was late (cf. Giants fans), and traffic was bad so J– was a bit late (ibid.), and finally, we ran smack into a Critical Mass ride. Of course, being San Francisco it wasn’t just any Critical Mass–this was where the whole idea was born so it was massive–thousands of bikers defining the traffic flow of the streets. It was joyous, I was perfectly okay with the delay. And I was really, really hungry, so I scrubbed the sitting mission and we met up with M– for sushi instead.

That began a long, happy conversation that lasted through a good bit of the night and most of the next day. M– is from Japan, and J– is fluent as few adult learners of Japanese are, and has lived and worked in Japan and with Japanese business partners for much of his professional life. Not surprisingly, Japan, its weirdness, and the United States and its weirdness, and navigating between them, were frequent topics. I absolutely love exploring other cultures, and I also tend to feel a bit weird when doing so around people actually from them; I worry that I’m asking them implicitly to be an ambassador, and maybe they’d rather just talk about their favourite TV show or something. I suspect this is a white guy thing that ironically impairs intercultural dialogue, something we’re sorely in need of in this world.

The next day we had some really lovely pastries and fruit, artfully arranged by M–, and then headed out for a breakfast that could be described with grand understatement as “substantial.” I noted the chilliness of the weather and J– shared a famous Mark Twain quote: “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” I happened later to be reading about SF’s World Naked Bike Ride day, and the email list had a brief discussion suggesting that the ride be moved to a warmer day–in September. Sheesh.

Fort Point

Originally uploaded by tquidca

We toured Fort Point, an old artillery installation near Golden Gate park. Pictured is their handicap-access system, which has been preserved in its period form from the late 19th century.

(All right, I’m having you on. I’m not sure what that thing is for.)

I also got some superb pictures at the Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate park. They had a clever set-up there to show off butterfly development, a rack of cocoons at different stages, so that you can generally witness a butterfly emerging.

Over there is a monarch butterfly just emerging. Incidentally, posting these things is a pain–flickr makes it really easy to make a blog post of one, but not multiples. Anyone who knows how to do this right, drop me a comment.

Back at J– and M–’s house again, I got to see M–’s art, mostly monoprints, a kind of lithography that gives mostly one-off images, since it’s stuff painted onto the litho, rather than etched into it. She uses a variety of media–glue, acrylics, paint sticks I think, among others–to get interesting, somewhat unpredictable affects. That uncertainty, she says, is part of the appeal for her, and the effects are a kind of semi-abstract work that’s a kind I like.

My host J– was keen that I should give him a shout-out in my journal after my fulsome praise of A– and M– and how cool they are. I pointed out that the most hits I’ve ever gotten was about 40. (Six of which, he immediately quipped, were from our mom, in the inimitable family style. The sharp banter around the dinner table was tough for me to adjust to when I was a sensitive lad, but I miss the repartee now.) So anyway, here is your shout-out, my brother: J– and M– were unstintingly generous with time and energy and interest, going into overtime without complaint when it conflicted with their original weekend plans (how’s the movie script going, eh?). I especially enjoyed all the wordplay, something I don’t get as much of as I once did.

I returned to A– and M–’s place around 9:00 PM. We had a late dinner–burgers by M–, very tasty–and chewed the fat a while. I was excited finally to meet A–’s daughter S–, and was amused to see how much his daughter she is. At 14, she’s precociously funny, energetic, and aware, and from reports, a fine martial artist in the making. I liked her instantly, and quickly developed an avuncular, protective feeling towards her. I suppose that’s sensible given my brotherly feelings for her dad.

While the father & daughter team went off Sunday to beat on each other, M– and I went to a game store and picked up Set and Robo Rally. We got to play them later; the former turne dout to have a radical gender divide. In one round of play A– and I went entirely scoreless while M– and S– battled between themselves. It would be interesting to see if this holds true across the board or if it’s a fluke. We also played my perennial favourite, Jungle Speed, and though A– had expressed reservations about the trash-talking aspect (there’s a long post coming up about the difference between force and violence, a wonderful dialogue that A– & I have developed to a very refined degree over years), he got into the spirit of it after a bit.

Finally we all went to see the latest Indiana Jones franchise. Fun, but it doesn’t bear close scrutiny all that well. I happen to have just seen the first movie again yesterday, and overall, I just don’t like Spielberg’s ham-fisted directing very much. Harrison Ford holds up amazingly well as a sex symbol though.

So, finally, onto the new topic. I got the new bike Monday, only to find that a critical part was damaged in shipment. This threw me into mourning for a bit, after the long wait. Eventually I got the replacement part (the folks at Hostel Shoppe were most helpful), and took the bike for a spin. Wait! No, I didn’t. I sat in the seat paralyzed with fear. Yes, it turns out, the set of skills for a recumbent is totally different, and basically I’m learning to ride a bike all over again. Lifting my second leg up above my center of gravity, it turns out, is not something I’m willing to just blithely pull off.

So now enter J–, who had been helping M– and I with moving stuff around for the epic paint job that the house has been getting. (There is much low comedy to it, suffice to say it has not gone to plan and no one is very happy with the contractor.) Her assistance there was invaluable, as M–’s “baby brain” and my–well, I don’t have an excuse really but staying on task is challenging for me. Anyway, having enabled all sorts of ass-kicking on that front, J– showed great kindness and caring in being willing to push the bike behind me while I got shakily up to speed, staying encouraging, and keeping the task light-hearted. It really was a major hurdle and words fail me to express my gratitude; I had been ready to just pack it up and send it back.

So chalk up a win there, and now I “just” need to get myself to where I can hit the pedal with my left foot, give a push, and get my other foot pushing in one go. I can cheat a little and pump one pedal repeatedly on a normal bike but you can’t really do that on a ‘bent. We’ll see how it goes from here.

On the weekend saw the biggest Critical Mass I’ve ever witnessed, got to visit my stepbrother and stepsister-in-law (say that six times fast), and meet my good friend A–’s daughter, who is also super-cool.

Here’s me this morning with a heated lapdesk. When rubbed it produces a soothing vibration.

So I’m in San Jose.

For that group of you rooting for my Mad Biking Ski11z, hold your applause.

A week ago, I was in Portland, which was pretty cool. I think of someone held a gun to my head and said I’d have to move to an American city, it might be the one. Unfortunately, on that Thursday, everyone else in the world also decided that Portland is cool, and reserved rooms ahead of me. I called five or six different establishments and simply could not secure housing. Also, the giant network of Buddhists eager to house me bizarrely failed to manifest, so I was out of luck there too.

I tried a new, more nonviolent type of panic: I took inventory of my needs. What did I want then? Well, I wanted to continue feeling some sense of progress–I definitely did not want to abort, though I was feeling quite discouraged. I wanted familiarity (is that a need?), and I wanted the ease that comes of not having to check constantly to see if I have a place to sleep.

My steadfast, tolerant, and loving friends in San Jose, A– and M–, fit this bill. I checked Amtrak. Oh, look–a train to San Jose in two hours. I could just make it. I called A–. “Do you mind if I show up tomorrow at ten?”

“Sure,” he said. I could hear a slightly bemused smile in his tone. Aaaah. I felt more relaxed already.

I stuffed my things into my panniers and made for the station, not far at all from the hostel. I cast about for a pedal wrench (you have to take your pedals off and slightly box up your bike on that route). There was none to be had. I got to the station, and hauled mightily on my pedals with a 6 mm wrench. Ha ha! That fitting is on the pedal for purely cosmetic reasons, apparently.

The people on the phone lied, and the station has a pedal wrench after all. I proceeded to loosen up the headset on my bike, which does absolutely nothing to let you twist the handlebars to get parallel with the front wheel. That’s just a single, handy bolt. Oops.

So I got my bike boxed with about five minutes to spare, and got on a very long train ride (about 20 hours). As usual I was left feeling dizzy from the motion of the train and lack of sleep, so M– kindly picked me up from the station.

A– and M– have been excellent hosts, including me in their lives generously, sharing not just space and food but also a lot of hard-won wisdom. I’ve been really impressed particularly by their skills in having a polyamorous marriage. I often talk to them about such things, and it’s nice to have it be a much richer thing that just giving or getting advice. There’s a mutual reaching into our shared resources and experience, an exploration of what amounts to largely unmapped territory.

After a lot of lying around and reading comics when I’m left to my own devices, I finally mounted my bike again, after putting it back together (turns out you can use the hex key to put the pedals on, at least). As usual it feels weird when it’s not got 60 lbs. of stuff on it (I finally measured). And my wrists and knees are complaining noticeably about it. I’d had a massage a couple days after I got into town, and the masseur supported my idea that perhaps I should quit torturing my body and do what I’d been considering (but branding myself a wimp for): get a bike that doesn’t do that to me.

I ordered a Volae Expedition, after a lot of research, and determining that, surprisingly, the in-stock recumbent options in the south bay aren’t very good. Since it takes approximately forever (one week) for things to get here from Wisconsin, I will be in SJ for a little while yet.

It’s a good thing I defined this as kind of a spiritual journey as well as a literal travelogue or I’d have not much to write about.

In other retail-therapy news, people who worry about me will be pleased to know I also ordered some roadid.com dog tags, which will link to my medical and contact information in case I turn up somewhere unconscious. As long as my head remains on my body, I should be identifiable.

Other topics: I’m still trying to stretch myself here and there. I learned to jump rope with A–’s help; he’s a great teacher, motivating without being harsh. I was able to laugh at my mistakes, something that’s kind of new and kind of on purpose. I recall being at the Deception Pass campsite, and starting to get all over my case about forgetting something or other–I forced myself to laugh at it, basically faking it. But even so, it broke the cycle of self-recrimination.

Sex: I’ve meeting a variety of incredibly attractive women (lady touring bikers: they are independent-minded, very fit, and wear lycra; tourists from other lands: often fit just by being young, and they have hot accents). I normally put some energy into feeling bad about this, as being sexually attracted to attractive people is an obvious sign that I will spin into some kind of horrendous moral degeneracy where I callously use women only for sex. Because, you know, I have this long track record of treating women really badly.

Oh, wait.

So anyway, this is a stupid thing. In conversation with A–, I dug out some patterns. That foolish story has some other factors, which it is perhaps designed to “protect” me against. These would be wildly conflicting desires and stories that say (this is not an exhaustive list) that relationships “should” a) be totally fulfilling on every level, preferably immediately; b) be without effort and centered completely on my needs; and/or c) somehow heal all my hang-ups about my story that not getting laid means I’m a worthless and ugly person.

Now that all sounds sort of complicated, and it is. But of course, just going on a date is not actually all that complicated, and for all that I’ve got baggage, it is not in fact necessary to fix all of it before I am allowed the, after all, somewhat pedestrian human behaviour of courtship, dating, sex, etc. Contrary to what certain internal persons might maintain, and supported even by my own experience, when I have managed to get out of my own way for a little while.

In fact I did ask on a date someone I met at a party last weekend. She’s busy this weekend. Shoot! Oh well. I did get complimented on my email, so progress there, at least.

Reading Buffy comic books today I realized that my style of dialogue has been indelibly marked by Joss Whedon’s writing. Spooky.

But JB, oh my God, is your trip over now or something? Nope. I still have money (my corporate masters are finally disbursing my last cheque), and I still want to see my family in Los Angeles, and San Diego apparently is really nice. So assuming the new bike works out, I’ll be heading out in a little over a week or so, with about half the baggage as before.

I’ll keep having experiences and posting about them, even if I’m staying put physically.

So, today was the most outrageous cheat yet–and like all cheating, it reaped its reward. I’m in Portland, having come by overlapping civic buses ($6 for a trip from Olympia! And no screwover on bringing a bike!). The weather is gorgeous and I’m in a nice hostel. This is the way to live, man. I promise I’ll get back on my bike soon, as the weather will be getting “nice” all the way up to 90 degrees F, apparently, by the weekend. Mostly I just want the wind to go my way, and according to the ridiculously excellent Oregon biking map, it should. Whee!

I’m impressed people have stood for this for so long, it’s been almost two weeks since any substantive update here. I have kept my paper journal faithfully, though, so lots to talk about.

On the date of my last serious update, 30 April, I checked into the Drama Hostel. Fortunately it didn’t affect me too badly, but there was a pretty sad situation there with a bunch of kids, all clearly from Circumstances. They made some serious allegations about the manager’s conduct, and ended up getting kicked out. It bothers me that, though they certainly did plenty to get kicked out, I’m not certain their allegations were untrue–there is plenty of opportunity for an unprincipled person to prey on vulnerable young people in exactly that kind of situation.

Smaller places I’ve been seem to fall into three rough categories: places that are bigger than a strip on the highway, and which seem economically depressed; the punk ratio is higher than you’d expect. Places that are well-developed and “touristy”, like Courtenay and Port Townsend; these are still a little depressing in a way, since “industry” consists of arts and crafts. (There’s nothing wrong with those but they don’t speak to me of a vital, modern economy.) And the aforementioned highway strips.

Everywhere I’ve gone I’ve found friendly people. The grand total so far of motorists yelling out their windows at me: four. Trucks and cars that have passed way too close: perhaps a dozen or so. Really I’m very impressed how well-behaved car and truck drivers have been on these winding, narrow roads.

Back in the chronological account, I spent an extra day in Powell River to hand out with the charming and lovely Karen, a German tourist visiting friends. We went for a hike for much of the day, through some really stunning forest scenery with cool wooden bridges and an ominous set of tracks that we kept reassuring ourselves probably where just a big dog’s. It amplified my enjoyment greatly to be with someone else who appreciated the place so much. We’d been trying for a kayak tour, but it was a little early in the season for it, so we had the hike instead; for my money it was a win overall. (I do still want to kayak though.)

Oh, a side note on the forest hike: Powell River, like many places in BC, has a lot of forestry in its history (and present). To commemorate this, they had a number of massive machines placed along one hiking trail, with little plaques explaining their use and history. But of interest to me was just that juxtaposition of a tree-gobbling hulk being reclaimed by the forest over time. My photography habits since then show how much I like such contrasts.

After Powell River, I spent a few days hanging out with my old college friend S—–. We had an amiable reunion and talked a good bit about her relationship with her daughter. I preached NVC, of course, and also had to own up to my own discomfort about seeing her put herself down so often over our acquaintance; that helped me practice instead of just lecturing.

I met a number of S—-’s excellent friends, and on a trip to Denman Island I ended up staying at a Karma Kagyu retreat centre for a night. The retreat of the day was a Green Tara practice–I still feel a little peculiar about participating in something I don’t really align with like that, but everyone was very nice and the food was excellent. And it was very good to get some proper meditating in finally–my practice on the road has been basically nil. I also had opportunity to talk to the resident monk, Brother Phap Bi, about monasticism. Like most monastics I’ve spoken with, he firmly pointed out that the robes don’t insulate you against all that crap that you think you’re escaping somehow, and don’t guarantee a practice that’s better than what you have.

This brings us up to 4 May. At that point I reflected that hostels are not much more expensive than camping and a hell of a lot nicer. For the record, then: I Like Hostels. I’m getting decent at making and striking camp, though; I even managed to cook myself breakfast this morning and clean up properly.

On 5 May I wheeled my way to Nanaimo, about 40 km down the island. My legs were fine but my hands were unhappy, and, hey, hostel! So there I stayed. The Painted Turtle is an insanely luxurious hostel, very nicely appointed, located just so, and at hostel rates. I can’t imagine any reason to stay anywhere else there. I even got the t-shirt (OK, I also badly needed to do laundry and couldn’t stomach not doing both stinky synthetic shirts).

And now, as an intermission, two of my weird-ass dreams:

I was in a relationship with a woman, and maybe a pre-op transsexual was with us too, and finally there was a ditz of a man, who was only involved with the woman. She was, I guess, trying to get pregnant. I had a little vessel of the ditz’s semen, and somehow added my own to it (I’m not being cute here, it was some weird, non-sexual extraction). I warned the woman that she might get with child by the ditz, saying it in some sarcastic, indirect way.

Later on I found myself in some Games-Workshop style world (for non-gamers, full apparently of nothing but degeneracy and over-the-top violence), fighting in an army all clad in armour on a nautical theme with fancy energy weapons. A degenerate monarchy had as its ally, or perhaps master, a pinkish, consuming creature that lived in an immense well (or underwater palace, almost). The royals would periodically sacrifice enormous, pallid beasts, like some cross between a hippo and a maggot. The chaotic monster/god would bring up a great globular eye-thing, paralyzing its prey, and then it would extrude creatures of its own with shark-like teeth. Watching the dumb creatures’ flesh torn off their living bodies, in loving close-up, was really terrifying.

Eventually, in the armoured infantry battle (there were two sides here), some of the “good” soldiers got into the well and were picked off by polyp-like limbs of the monster, swallowed whole. At that point, the DVD commentary kicked in: “now, this angle should really underline their desperate helplessness.” As usual, that change of mental angle defused the horror of the situation, and I woke up.

Freudian as all hell, I’m sure.

Leaving Nanaimo, the Book takes you through Salt Spring Island. It’s hilly, winding roads with cars blasting around. By this point I was thoroughly sick of that kind of biking and took a bus trip across. Pure heaven. All the scenery, none of the stress, I even took pictures. Naturally I was all over myself for “cheating,” something that seems to be a theme for the trip. I’ve pretty well decided that if I can skip something boring or nasty by civic transit, I’m probably going to do it. I apologize to any purists out there. No, wait, no I don’t. Screw you guys. Go do a triathlon and leave us middle-aged fun-lovers alone. Ha!

Oh, side note, I met a guy on my way into Nanaimo (via a kick ass bike trail paralleling their commuter train line), who was riding a kind of bike I want–a reverse trike. He’d done construction and thus had similar hand problems to mine, but more interestingly, he said he’d vowed in his 20s to have all his “toys” be human-powered. Very cool!

Going to Victoria was my longest ride so far: 84 km, which Google tells me is 52 miles. I almost made it all the way to L—–’s house, but actually lost the Lochside trail, and as daylight was running out, I called for rescue. (Cheating again! Bad tourist!) We passed a quiet evening, and she (thank you!!!) fed me some pasta, which I consumed greedily. My capacity to stick matter down my pie-hole on this trip continues to surprise and almost offend me.

The next day, as mentioned in my brief update, I watched Iron Man, and generally lazed about. L—– pleaded for some time with her just-returned hubby, so I checked into the hostel in town. Victoria’s hostel is much more “hostelly” than most I’ve been in, with a massive barracks-like emplacement for the men. Still, it was reasonably comfortable and I slept fine. Then I did the whale-watching, which bears expanding upon.

I learned about the whale-watching biz, which has a fair bit of “coopetition” in it–if a full boat isn’t booked, one company will book the guest over to another. This way they don’t waste space on boats, and everyone seems good with this arrangement. There’s also a “spotter” network of people with truly massive binoculars, though apparently this year the spotters did not play well together and there’s no network (a tale hangs therein I’m sure but the guy I bought my seat from was professionally discreet about it).

Us civvies got suited up in bulky, class-leveling red survival suits, got a talk about what we might expect, and were off. In rather choppy waters. A Zodiac going across four- and five-foot swells is an experience all in itself, like something from an amusement park. I was proud of my ability to keep my spine relatively supple to absorb shock, but frequently resorted to grabbing the bar in front of my seat and coming slightly upright, thus eating shock with my legs instead. Just like riding a bike! I giggled hysterically several times.

But the point is whales, and we did get to see a couple of orcas. The rough seas here actually helped since we could see more of the creatures as they would surface through the side of a wave, revealing more of their impressive form. This wasn’t revelatory or anything for me, but it was certainly cool, and I recommend it.

A wet spot down the front of my pants dampened my spirits just as we were returning to the dock. I was petrified that I had somehow wet myself–but several others shared my fate, and it seems the suits are not perfectly water-proof. Even so, somehow I found it hard to bounce back after that, and facing the continuation of my trip into the USA was difficult. I did finally buy my insurance and get ready, though.

On 9 May, I realized I’d been on the road two weeks. The day’s riding was incredibly annoying–Whidby Island’s development has gone (I guess) at a ferocious pace since the Book was published, and street names changed insidiously. I did as much time going in wrong directions as I did progressing. The ferry ride was fun, though, as I met several other touring bikers and one ferry commuter, all very encouraging.

Finally I did make it to Deception Pass–the most awesome sight I’ve seen so far. It’s a hugely impressive vista of mountains and water, crossed by a long, classic bridge. There’s that combination again. I took pictures, and there I also scattered some of mom’s ashes–her first American locale. I’d been thinking I’d stick with water, but it was impossible to safely reach it from the island halfway across, so on the ground and in the wind it was.

The border, by the way, was totally easy and informal. Big signs informed us of the “Seamar Security Level,” but an attack on the San Juan Islands seems not to be a big worry.

I met a lovely man, T—–, who gave me some tips. Worryingly, he asked “shouldn’t you be going the other way, though?” His impression of the prevailing winds is different from the Book’s.

9 May’s evening at Deception Pass campground also marks the first time I have peed outside in probably over 10 years. Certain people may be aware that this is pretty important, for so trivial-sounding a thing. Way convenient, anyway.

I eventually took yet another ferry, meeting another commuter biker, to Port Townsend, a nice little town with a hostel smack in the middle of the campground. I took a long time getting away, and did lots of beating myself up after meeting a guy who had followed the same book as me–and was now there after one week, instead of my two. Obviously I suck so much and am so slow.

(A side note on NVC here: I’ve found this new form of empathy. Well, it’s not new, people do it all the time: speak out the inner jackal voice you know is going on, with a heavy dose of sarcasm. In the right circumstances, it says “I understand the kind of suffering you have, and the delivery method–and please look at it again and realize how unreal it is.” I need a suitably technical term for this. I’ve received it with much gratitude on numerous occasions as I list off my insecurities to total strangers.)

The same day, I finally got a handlebar bag. Just a little one. And became totally convinced that it was wrecking my handling. Now I think it’s dead handy. Go figure.

The God Damned Wind got much worse after that. Note here: I have had wind in my face every. Day. Anyway, on Sunday it was bad enough that I spent a second night in a $70 hotel (argh) to avoid it. Turns out, with basic cable, you can watch nothing but CSI and 48 Hours all day. My brain rot continued to progress in the midst of indulging such insane luxuries as not riding in wind that, I later found out, had given car drivers a hard time keeping their tires where they wanted them. Apparently I was also sacrificing babies and sodomizing angels and no one had told me, to listen to my interior judge. Also it was pissing rain.

Today, once again, pissing rain. Met another nice tourist, coming from San Francisco. How was the wind, I asked. Headwind the whole way, she said. Also, every tourist she meets says there is a headwind. I’m pretty sure this is physically impossible.

So, I “cheated” again and took a bus from Shelton to here, Olympia, thus my clever post title. It turns out to be possible to go all the way to Portland by cleverly taking overlapping civic buses. I had been thinking I’d do Greyhound, but it turns out they follow the airline standard of “screw cyclists hugely.” (Greyhound! You could put a rack on your buses just like cities do and make friends and customers instead of inspiring snarky blog posts.)

The excellent folks at Oly Bikes helped me out with thinking about my route, and one thing I know is that I wanna be in Oregon. From there I may strike directly for the coast, or possibly cruise over to Bend to see cool Dharma Punx people there. And now I’m ahead of my paper journal–horrors! I appreciate everyone’s patience & hope you’re enjoying the story. It’s certainly fulfilling its promise of being a trip in the hippie sense, for me.

I’ve been in Victoria for a day. Yesterday I mostly lazed around and watched Iron Man. (It was pretty good, but the “boss battle” ending was kind of dull. Should have been longer.)

Today I’m taking an afternoon whale-watching tour. Of course since they don’t keep them in a cage, there’s no guarantee of actually seeing any, but the outfit I’m going with seems to be pretty professional, so odds are good. I’ve always wanted to do this, I’m expecting it to be fun regardless!

Lots more coming soon, and tomorrow–America! Strange land of hyper-mega-ultra everything!

Wow, lots in my paper journal I haven’t gotten to yet. Well, nice to have more material rather than not enough, I guess.

So, the riding: up the Sunshine Coast, frankly it’s pretty brutal for a beginner. Cars blowing past (including heavy trucks that can blow you a couple feet off course quite easily), steep ascents, scary descents, rain, and headwinds: these are things that I can more or less take one at a time. Usually I had at least two or three going. (I note that in my paper journal I wrote “12 km after we dock [at Langdale]. That should be pretty manageable & get me there in time for dinner.” Ha ha!)

I got some very helpful advice from Marney at the hostel, mostly in its encouragement as opposed to any specific details. Though I know more about bears and cougars now than is strictly comfortable.

I again split the book’s distances in half. I spent the night after leaving Roberts Creek in Smuggler’s Cove, where I had the campsite all to myself. I had to walk a good bit through land made boggy by some beavers’ industriousness (as a sign explained rather apologetically). Finally, bold, muddy, and resolute, I made camp. Lonely and a bit spooky but I made out all right in my hammock.

The following day’s ride was a raw evil of hills (I’ve been doing a fair amount of pushing my bike), and rain started up as soon as I was off the ferry. And kept going. All night long. And into the morning.

Making camp in the wet is about as awful as it gets. Hands getting raw from trying to tie knots to hang up one’s food bag and putting up the hammock, nothing dry or clean, and even in the relatively dry hammock, everything was clammy. I hate to be a bummer, but that night was miserable. Shouting at the rain to stop was totally ineffective.

But I made it. Some part of me is crying and saying “I can’t do this, I can’t,” and then I’m just doing it. I walk when I have to, I stop often, but I keep putting the miles under my butt. Last night I slept in a proper bed, got nice and clean, and had food served to me. Man, do I ever love civilization more than ever. I’m not sure that was the intended idea, but I don’t think I’m likely to become some fully stoic fellow, impervious to the blandishments of material comfort.

“Ashes,” it says above. I almost didn’t bring them, but in the end took the portion of mom’s ashes that don’t fit into the little urn I have. They’re in a plain plastic bag. I first let some ashes out at Robert’s Creek. I dithered about it a long time, back and forth between doing anything at all, dumping all the ashes, or just some. I was getting more and more anxious, till eventually a wiser voice said “if you can’t let go all at once, let go a little.” That small act gave me a pretty big sense of relief and I wept a bit for all mom and I never had.

I released some at Smuggler’s Cove, and that night had a nightmare that mom was a junkie, with a sketchy new boyfriend, some quiet thug. She denied to everyone that she was using, and I screamed at her that I had seen her rig so I knew she was lying. At some point later in the dream, I declared I was making a circle and I would be the one to decide who was allowed in or not–a literal “boundary.” Some others were gathered there, including my friend Brian, who I invited in, a bit imperiously, while denying mom entry. The curious thing, to me, is how the delivery, and just the feeling of it all, was much younger than my present self. As if letting go and maybe forgiving a little is also letting me make the requests I wish I could have many years ago.

Still not caught up, but one more cafe visit should get me there. Until then!

Well, I’m here at Roberts Creek on the lovely Sunshine Coast. Cycling the Pacific Coast Route did not advise me well on how to get here. The recommended route commences with a 3 km death-march of an ascent (and indeed I marched it, already tired after the brutal up-and-down of getting to the Horseshoe Bay ferry terminal), and then winds along a very fast highway with a usable shoulder of about 16 inches. (My excellent host reminded me I should take the lane in situations like that. Sometimes I’m still too timid.)

The bike is way overloaded and I’m going to pack some stuff to send home tomorrow on my first, rather early rest day. What can I say, I packed in a hurry, always a recipe for over-doing it. Annoying when you’re packing luggage for a plane trip, but a daily drain for biking!

I had a really lovely dinner at the Gumboot restaurant, a popular place here, and they have their own produce garden. A sign boasts that it’s 100 feet from soil to plate, and I thought that was “cool,” until I ate my salad, when it was upgraded to “awesome.”

Of course biking 50 kilometers before certainly improves the savour.

Also, the women here are ridiculously gorgeous. Healthy living, I guess.

I’ve written down a good deal more than is here, and will add it in later. For now, must rest. Talk to you all again soon.

One thing that’s given me courage to carry on with my plans in the face of obstacles, especially the obstacle of my own fear, has been remember the “Narnia test.” Back when I was in high school it was a popular question to ask: if a gate to some unknown world opened up and you knew you had only a moment to decide, would you go through?

I usually answered “yes” back when I was a teenager. Now I don’t think I’d be so ready to abandon this whole Earth; I like the place more than I did back then. But that desire for adventure hasn’t really changed. I remind myself that I’ve been willing to leave everything behind, irrevocably–this is just a trip, momentous as I might try to make it. So why balk?

It’s me that will change and really, I know that. That changes everything, but my friends, my family, the people I care for and love, will all still be there, and they’re excited about my change for me. That gives me a lot.

I’m looking good for a departure for the first leg of my trip, the Sunshine Coast, tomorrow, 24 April. Later than planned and sketchy weather but the journey of a few thousand kilometers starts with one stroke, even if it’s raining.

Someone is coming to kill me. Or at least, that is how I am reacting, in a lot of ways, to this upcoming trip.

I’ve had my first significant delay in the form of an impressive respiratory ailment–probably a flu, followed by a secondary bronchial infection. It had me barely able to get around for about a week and at reduced capacity for another week. I didn’t manage to get nearly as much done as I had wanted in the way of getting my stuff into storage, final bike fix-ups, etc.

So that exacerbated the anxiety, guilt, and mournful feelings all balled up together. I freak out pretty badly in general when I have to move, or do move-like things–some part of me deeply hates the prioritizing of Stuff and the opportunities are many for feelings of regret about things not done or lost, represented by my belongings. And finally, I think there is a part of me that’s in advance grieving about itself–I want to change, it’s why I’m doing this thing. That means some parts of me going away (or being submerged)–and they react just as I would to an impending death. With fear, lots and lots of it.

At that point it’s easy to get angry, as my energy for change tries to re-assert itself, and then before long I’m hopping on the depression train of self-recrimination, passive-agressive counter-attack, and eventually paralysis and exhaustion.

Luckily I have remembered to reach out, at least a little, this time. And I’ve gotten big help from Kyira, Jackie, and John. (Thanks guys!) Some material, some conversational, and some just presence. And I have helped myself, actually managing to do at least a little each day so I have progress, and got past the big impasse of simply cleaning my room so I don’t end up putting a mess in storage.

I know what I’m doing will in all likelihood be a great thing, and probably at least mostly quite fun. But it’s been a little hard too, to celebrate with people who tell me how jealous they are, when I want them to understand that I’m having a lot of other feelings too, but don’t want to wreck their enjoyment of my good fortune.

I usually reach for a happy ending, some peppy reassurance that it’s all going to be okay, when I’m talking about the more painful aspects of my life. And, sure, it has been okay so far–I’ve kept a roof over my head through the worst of it, never been in danger of starving, and when I allow it, there’s lots of people who care about me and really want what’s best for me.

I guess the point is, it’s complicated–my life is not some tidy trajectory of steady improvement. I have some intense trauma in my background that makes me really sketchy around changes and taking risks, and habits that have held those anxieties in place and even made them worse sometimes. That’s what I’m up against, and dealing with it compassionately is difficult and tricky.

I’m interested in other people’s thoughts on this. I know the people out there are rooting for me and I really do appreciate that; at the same time I’d like you to hang onto any “you can do it! Don’t worry!” sort of cheering for now. Instead I’d like to hear about your difficulties with facing change that includes grief over losing something, even something that’s toxic. Thanks for reading.