What's a book tour without an epic journey? And what makes a journey epic like cycling? In June, I rode and read from Seattle to San Francisco. I wrote about that journey for Mountain Gazette. Those accounts are linked below:
I think this is where I’m supposed to insert a quip about my undertaking, an X Games meets Jackass open-ended sloganized question: Can this overweight man who’s just spent a winter writing instead of ski-touring make it from Seattle to San Francisco on a bicycle in time for his reading at the Booksmith? The tag would work better if there was prize money attached, and maybe a romantic liaison,
Do: Spend at least a month riding and tuning the bike you’ll use on your tour. Get a good night’s rest the night before your first tour day – or any day you plan to ride real distance. Plan out your route enough in advance to know how to avoid major highways; at a minimum, own a map of the region. Don’t: Set hard destination deadlines, especially for the first day of your tour. Get drunk with your friends the night before you have to ride a considerable distance. Use a bicycle you built up between midnight and three a.m. two days before your departure.
State Campground, three miles south of Waldport, Oregon Coast - I wish that I could say that I was writing this from the men’s room, but I can’t. Turns out I’m too timid to type in the steam of the communal showers, so instead I’m hiding from the rain in my tent, crouched on a sleeping pad, leaning away from the damp plastic walls. It occurs to me, that the cyclotourist, much like the debut novelist, isn’t entitled to anything.
Sometimes we must embrace the things that inspire fear in order to make liveable, to allow us to love, the conditions of our existence. Yes, I’m thinking of you, high, windy, narrow, coastal bridges, especially you, Newport Bay Bridge, and Umpqua River Bridge and Coos Bay Bridge. Your narrow exposed lanes leave no leniency when a tractor-double-trailer log truck passes alongside a cyclist, disrupting the gusting wind against which he leans, yo-yoing his balance
I’m writing this from Fairfax, in Marin, spitting distance from San Francisco. In fact, if I don’t make it to SF in time for dinner, it’ll be because a tsunami’s struck, or an earthquake, all of which is to say that this will be my last post from the road. And since it’s my last post, I thought that I’d finally write something that actually read like travel writing. Last Sunday at noon, I was riding fast and easy into Eureka, eager for a half-day and a night indoors at a friend’s house after a series of long days.