Because I Can...

"Now, Mrs. Johnson, this is Ralph from triple A, I was just at your place. You didn't believe me when I told you I was from triple A, so I came here and had Julie from the grocery store call you. She knows me and she told you that I was who I said I was. So, Mrs. Johnson, if you want me to jump start your car, you can't pull that shotgun on me like you did a while back..."
This was the conversation we heard at the little store in Swenson, Oregon, when we stopped biking long enough to get a drink and get out of the sun. A guy who looked like Bluto, the lumberjack axe murderer was talking on his cell phone sitting in his red pick up truck. It was surreal enough to make all five of us forget about the heat and the sore butts and the miles and start laughing.
Leo and I were on our annual biking trip. This year we chose to join Liam, California Chris, San Antonio Chris, Lance and Chuck, guys we had met on last year's tour in the Canadian Rockies, and cycle part of the Oregon coast. Chris' wife Jan would join us also. Jan and Chris would bike for a few days then go on to Crater Lake. Chuck would return to Eugene after a couple of days. Liam and Lance would bike to San Fransisco while Chris would go all the way to the Mexicn border. Even though we were only going for ten days, I had been looking forward to this trip, another one, like the Hog Loppet last February, to again say farewell to the Pacific Northwest before moving back to Chicago.
Eighteen years ago we had cycled almost the same route. This time we just pedaled from our little Seattle house on Bagley Avenue. And this time we were 18 years older. I knew it would be easier biking than in the mountains, but I remembered some of the hills that we would be climbing. Of course back then I was a novice at bike touring. Now I was an old pro, complete with old knees and an old back. In fact I had been a little worried about my left knee, the one I hurt in a step aerobics class a few months back that got worse when I kept lifting one of the grandkids. But my body held out. Maybe I was in better shape than in 1989.
As it turned out, the hills weren't the biggest challenge. It was the heat, 104 degrees and we were biking in it, sweating as we tried to pedal up a hill with a fully loaded bike carrying tent, sleeping bag, stove, cook kit and food. Chris got sick, I got dizzy and Leo got pissy. It was so hot we couldn't even pedal up one of the hills, we just pushed our bikes, which was even harder.
After record-setting temperatures, the weather became more bike friendly as we left Washington, pedaling over a bridge onto Puget Island in the middle of the Columbia River. We pitched out tents in Nadine and Paul's backyard. These lovely friends of Lance's not only opened up their yard but their kitchen. The next morning after stowing away our tent and sleeping bags in our panniers, we found the patio table set with fresh raspberries, watermelon, coffee, and juice. "And now, how about some hot breakfast?" called Nadine from the kitchen. And we followed her into the dining room for a biker's breakfast of sausages, scrambled eggs, toast and more coffee. By the time I rolled my bike onto the little car ferry that took us to Oregon I was full of fuel and ready to head for the coast.
Finally, after leaving Astoria and Fort Stevens State Park, we had views of the Pacific Ocean! "I'm still amazed that some guy almost a hundred years ago had the vision to preserve this coast line for the public and not sell out to the developers," I said, one morning as we stopped at a viewpoint to watch surfers far below us in their wetsuits waiting for just the right wave.
"Here's who to thank," Leo said, pointing to a rock with a plaque on it.
His name was Oswald West, and he was Oregon's governor not so long ago. Thank you, Oswald West! Oregon's coast was precious. But some of it's coastal towns weren't as pristine, in fact some had fallen on hard times. The timber industry had waxed and waned, and some of the towns had turned to tourism, their over-flowing hanging flower baskets lining streets with stores that sold knick-knack, antique, Christmasy, froo-froo stuff. These other towns showed signs of wear and tear, vandalized public bathrooms, old clunkers for cars, and neglected parks and campgrounds.
"Which is easier, walking like me or riding a bike like you two?" asked a guy named Frank. He was carrying a huge pack on his back, and like us, deciding to take a break from his journey at the entrance to a general store. He told us his sleeping bag had been stolen at the mission where he had stayed a few nights before. He had picked up an Army-requisitioned -40 degrees bag at a yard sale the previous day for ten bucks. "Isn't it really heavy though?" I asked him, adding that I thought it was easier to carry the weight while riding a bike. He told us that he was headed to Bellingham to the job waiting for him at the Lighthouse Mission. "I'm a Christian and I try to help others."
We saw quite a few guys on the road like that, carrying their belongings going who-knew-where. One guy asked Leo for a handout. "I'm hungry." Leo gave him five bucks. At the A&W where we said goodbye to our fellow bikers, the guy walked in and bought something to eat. Leo said it made him feel good that he had given him the money.
We woke up on the last biking day of the trip to rain. The tent was soaked and our picnic table and chairs were wet. We found a table and umbrella near the laundry room and while Leo made coffee, I tried drying the tent in the dryer. That was where I met Caroline. She was sixty-five and in that hour it took to do the tent, I found out her story. It was a full life: raising three kids, nursing a sick husband who eventually died, meeting a man ten years her junior, moving with him to Alaska for four years with the consent of her adult children and grandkids, getting her first bike at fifty years old, being the assistant director of a summer camp for special ed kids, and now living in a trailer and traveling around with her second husband while he worked. I felt privileged to hear her story. It was the ups and downs of a life being shared with me. Just like the ups and downs of a road, of a bike trip, of day to day experiences. I also knew how fortunate I was to be able to do this physical challenge. I had been biking for ten straight days, 525 miles. My body had been pushed to the limit.
When Leo and I got into the motel room in Eugene, unpacked and made the family calls, our bodies slowly began to unwind. The bed's mattress enveloped Leo as he lay talking to his son, the packs, the tent, the plastic bags, the remains of the trip lay all around. It wasn't the longest trip we'd ever taken nor the hardest, but it was the most recent one. Someone asked me once, "Why do you like to do this type of travel?" I'd answered "Because it slows down time." It was true. It seemed like we had been on the road for two months. But I have another answer now. "Because I can."