Day 01

DAY 1:

September 03, 2013, Tuesday

Florence, Oregon to Bastendorff County Park, Charleston, Oregon

57 miles (running total = 57 miles from Florence)

At 6:45 AM, I heard the laundry room door open, and the familiar voice of Matt Jensen say: “I’m in the garage Steve.” We had arranged to leave the house at 7 AM, so things were proceeding according to the schedule. My ICE Qnt recumbent tadpole tricycle was fully loaded with panniers the night before, so only my final preparation this morning stood between me and pedaling out of the driveway for the wild ride south along the Oregon Coast Highway and Pacific Coast Highway. I had eaten my bowl of granola, brushed my teeth, made my cozy bed, and mentally prepared myself to begin pedaling long hard hours on the road each day, and sleeping each night on the ground outside in a tent. The transition mentally can be a challenge, but at least with someone else sharing the experiences, thoughts were kept manageable.

Three of us had agreed to embark on this journey as a team. Matt and I would be meeting up with the third member tonight, at Bastendorff County Park in Charleston, Oregon. His name is David Massey, and he drove to Coos Bay in a rental car from his home in Glendora, California. From Coos Bay, he would be riding his Azub TRIcon tricycle to our camp this evening at Bastendorff.

Matt used to have a Catrike 700 recumbent tadpole trike too, which he sold a couple years ago, and today he is pedaling a Surley Long Haul Trucker touring bicycle loaded with his gear in Ortlieb panniers. David and I have Arkel and Radical Design panniers. Only the hours of this day and a few miles separated Matt and me from David. From the departure point in Florence to the campsite David would be securing for us mid afternoon, 57 hilly and picturesque miles paved our path.

The morning is warm already. September is typically the most pleasant month of the year when measured in terms of human comfort zones. Matt and I ride south on Highway 101, only 5 blocks from where I live, cross the Siuslaw River bridge, pedal up the hill south of town, and begin our forested coastal ride in earnest. The trike is slower on uphills, so Matt pulls ahead out of sight. I see a car parked up ahead, and a man waves me to pull over. He is a close friend of mine, and wishes to say goodbye one more time, while wishing me all good things. He hands me a small piece of paper with a quotation on it, one that I had included in one of my books. Uttered by Marcel Proust many years ago, the short thought says: “The real voyage of discover consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” I thank my friend for his thoughtfulness, we speak briefly, sad to depart one another’s company, and I return to the road to catch up with Matt.

The huge evergreen trees tower above my diminutive tricycle as I enjoy the landscapes from my reclined position, a view that traditional bicyclists do not have with such ease. Highway 101 has wide shoulders here, making the ride a breeze. Matt and I speak briefly with a man called Len from Colorado, who is also riding a tadpole trike (two wheels in front, one in rear), except that his is powered by an electric motor, allowing him to travel 160 miles per day with little physical effort on his body. Hills that I slowly labor up using human power, Len flies up with electric power. We bid him adieu, and continue on.

Crossing the Reedsport bridge, we pedal south through Winchester Bay, stopping at turnouts with ocean views for a Clif or Odwalla bar and water now and then. The day has already exceeded 70 degrees Fahrenheit, so seeking shade in which to eat and rest is the order of business, especially since we are warm from pedaling up steep hills. It feels good to cool our bodies at intervals, and get our feet off the pedals a bit.

Today it is fully sunny and a robust 73 degrees Fahrenheit. A trucker’s weigh station is up ahead. It is a huge scale used to weigh the big rigs, the tractor/trailer units everyone calls semi-trucks. In 2009, I rolled my trike and trailer onto one of these in the Cascade Range of Oregon. The displayed number was 350, which I figured was accurate because prior to leaving on that trip, my calculations revealed the rolling weigh (including the organic engine called “me”) was about 375 pounds. Ugh! Wiser after a couple of overland journeys, this year’s PCTA is easier due to less weight. I pull onto the truck scale with my ICE Q trike. The red-lit number popped up at 250 pounds. My calculations this year put my rolling weight at 265 pounds. Newbies always pack everything including the kitchen sink. Live and learn the hard way is always the name of the cycling game! Run light, fast, and easy – the only way!

Eventually, we arrive at the huge bridge that spans Coos Bay, variously called by folks the North Bend bridge, the Coos Bay bridge, or the Conde B. McCullough memorial bridge. Conde designed this bridge in the early 1930s, but failed to give any serious thought to human powered humans, especially cyclists. A major renovation was just completed prior to our crossing today, yet the state made no modern modifications to accommodate cyclists any better than Conde’s short-sighted creation decades ago. Many cyclists live in sincere fear of this bridge on their Pacific Coast adventures, but there is an easy bypass that avoids the bridge and the two automobile-congested towns south of it. Today, Matt and I will cross the bridge however, because we are going to meet David in Charleston, so the bypass is not appropriate.

On the south side of the bridge, we stop and relax in a beautiful park setting, using the bathroom and refueling with a snack. A few more miles and we stop at a Safeway supermarket for additional calories in the form of mixed nuts and V8 Juice. As we coast down a hill into the small town of Charleston, west of Coos Bay, the drawbridge is in the “up” position so a fishing vessel can cross underneath it. All the cars stop. I pull forward to the head of the line on my trike to take a photograph of the tilted roadway. The fishing boats in the bay also make for picturesque memories.

At long last, the 57th mile is completed and Matt and I arrive at the Bastendorff Beach road to the campground. The uphill grade is insanely steep, not meeting any modern requirements for reasonable grade, and requires me to stop four times to rest on the way to the top. Fortunately, it is only about 50 yards long. Even in my low/low gear on the trike, which gets me over the longest and steepest highway grades on mountain ranges, I must mash on the pedals hard and slow to reach the tiny summit.

Matt and I find David already in a campsite, his tent pitched, and his electronic devices in full use as he documents his adventure thus far and calls his wife to keep her posted as to his safety. The sound of the jetty foghorn pierces the air every 30 seconds to warn ships. We pitch our tents in the same campsite, after some rest and relaxation to recover from the first day’s miles, which are the most difficult of the entire trek just by virtue of being the first day. As the days roll on during a tricycle journey, they get easier because the body adapts to the expectations placed upon it. We three cycling rogues eat dinner and enjoy the camaraderie of our endeavor.

On coastal overland journeys such as this, where state and county campgrounds are common, the order of the evening camp is as follows: 1) find a level place to pitch the tent, 2) pitch the tent, 3) toss your gear in the tent, 4) take a shower, 5) fix and eat your dinner at the picnic table while sharing your experiences with fellow cyclists, 6) write in your journal, 7) use the bathroom one more time, and 8) hit the sleeping bag to rest your weary body and drift off into dreamland. I have found that there is little to no desire to do anything more. The days of pedaling are long and challenging, so the essentials of survival rise to the forefront of one’s needs. Imagine taking a 57 mile day-ride at home, but then getting up before sunrise the next morning to do it again, and imagine doing this every day for the next 18 days.

The body needs as much rest and recuperation time as possible. The scant hours of the night are really not enough initially for the body to be ready for the next day. It does get easier day by day, but the process can be rough for the uninitiated cyclist who does not know what to expect. On a recumbent trike, the legs grow noticeably in strength and muscular size over the weeks, while the upper body is reduced to a lean and gaunt appearing presence. The evening’s procedure becomes well understood, and you become very efficient at setting and breaking your camps. Within the first week, you know where all your little items are stashed in the panniers. The procedure outlined above is typically all a cyclist has time for each evening if covering the maximum amount of ground possible during the daylight hours.

I drift off to sleep, occasionally hearing the distant sea lions at Cape Arago, a few miles south. Bastendorff campground is on the Cape Arago Highway, a road that dead-ends at the cape where the sea lions bask on the rocks.

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