long awaited by me, probably not by you but what the hell!
A haze hung over my head as I woke up. I gasped at the air of the dark room trying to inhale something fresh at least. I looked around me and I could see nothing but pitch black. A white line traced itself across the ceiling, bumping into the smoke detector and overtaking it like nothing. That line continued across the ceiling running into another thing I couldn't make out. It then hit the wall and then ran down over the frame of a picture and then a canvas pannier. My pannier. I recgonized the initials Z W painted over the front flap. I pulled the sheet off and stood up. A pain ran down my entire spine as I stood and I bent forward from it. Nearly bashing my head into a sleeping lump next to me. I shuddered and stood. I walked to the source of the line and pulled it apart. The curtains squealed as I opened them. I looked before me. A sprawl of green and fog pierced my eye. I looked out beyond the balcony. I saw our two mopeds chained to a pole and ice machine. Strange. I shuffled back to the warm half of my bed and sat there for awhile. I looked around, hoping to perhaps understand what happened last night.
I felt a hand grab at my waistband of my underpants and I reeled back in shock. I looked back towards the bed and saw a slender wrist with a bracelet on it. Several bracelets actually. I looked back at it. I stared at it intently. Cursing it with a slight disgust. We were supposed to meet our girls in Victoria in three days and the last thing we needed was this. I poked Ashton, or at least what I thought was Ashton.
"G'ywer over!"
I was taken aback at the harshness and femineity of the voice. I poked the other lump and then Ashton stirred.
"Wha?"
"Dude! Look."
He turned onto his side and looked. It was a female. Sort of. She was wearing heavy black corset with black satin ribbons here and there. Ashton made up with a start.
"aaagh!"
The black lifeless mold sprung to life.
"Dear god! Where am I?"
Suddenly, the bangled hand sprung to life as well.
"Candy! Where are we?"
"W-who are you two?" I asked.
"I'm Candy Jean and this is Florence. We call her Flo. Only Flo."
"Uh heyeah...."
"Wait. Who are you two?"
"I dont know."
"What you mean you dont know. Aint you two... yous two?"
"I'm Reginald." Ashton made up in a thick British accent.
"Ah, and i'm uh Sid."
"Sure... sure. You guys got any Baileys?"
We both shook our heads. The two girls then exited the room. We stared at each other in complete fear. We searched every trash can for any condoms. The cans were empty. We pulled apart the room looking for evidence of sex. None. As far as we knew.
"How wasted did we get last night?"
"I dont know, enough to lock our bikes to a vending machine and a drain pipe and apparently take those two bats to bed."
"But we didnt.... did we?"
"I dont think either of us did. As far as I knew, I passed out."
"Jesus, Buddah and Holy Zombie Jesus with Joseph Smith on their majestic steed 'Brigham Young'"
"Ditto." I said.
As we checked out, we asked the check out desk if they knew who those girls were. It turns out they were occupants in the room two doors down. We must have accidentally left the door unlocked and they wandered in and slept. We hope.
We loaded our bags and made our way down to the bikes. I tightened the sheepskin collar on my leather jacket and helmet. Ashton had a limp handrolled cigarette in his mouth. I slapped the thing out of his mouth. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes before giving me a 'fuck you' look. We both unlocked our bikes and we soon found ourselves in line for the border crossing. As soon as we made it to the border, a guard in a blue shirt and black hat came up to us.
"Hello Gentlemen. Passports if you please."
We handed them over. He came back out in a minute and then passed them back to us. He told us to enjoy our visit to the great nation of Canada. We finally made it to Canada! It was all so confusing. The liters, the loonies and not seeing US flags everywhere. We dumped our things at the YMCA hotel in Vancouver and locked up the mopeds in the garage. We both looked at each other and couldn't believe we made out to Vancouver after seven days of biking and motoring. We took in the city as much as we could and then returned to the YMCA at 10. The next morning, we would board the ferries then meet our girls in Victoria.
Showing posts with label moped diary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label moped diary. Show all posts
July 28, 2009
May 25, 2009
Moped Diaries: Day Six
Seattle at last.
It seemed like a luxury all of a sudden, to have slept in beds two nights in a row, rather than in my amazingly small sleeping bag and tent. I woke up at noon, while Ashton still slept. I sat up and nudged him a little and he only let out a fart. I laughed at his response and proceeded to the bathroom to take a look at myself. I looked at my beard. It didn't hang out like Ashton's did. It just sort of clung to my face, the way Hipsters used to grow their beards back in the late 2000's. It didn't seem epic, but this was the most facial hair I had ever had. I brushed my teeth and returned to the room to see Ashton spooning a pillow. Jokingly, I spoke in falsetto "Oh Ashiepoo, you know how to make a girl happy." With that, I saw a smile stretch over his face. In our iteneraries, we had decided to take the day we got to Seattle to visit everything we could before we would cross the border the next day. So far, a third of the day was over and we still were inside the hotel.
I pulled the pillow out from his claw like grip and his arms snapped around him like a bear trap. He shuddered awake instantly. He stared at me and went to the bathroom and shut the door. By the time he came out, it was two. But I laughed when I saw him. He shaved his epic beard to resemble the clingy hipster like beard I was sporting now.
"What?"
"Nothing. I thought your beard was epic."
"It still is."
"Nope."
"Fuck."
"C'mon, we got stuff to see in Seattle."
"Like what?"
I clawed the back of my head for things to do in Seattle. I could only muster a few, "We could see the world's first Starbucks, and go to the Pike's Market, and see the needle, and of course R.E.M. Koolhaus' library." I hoped that was sufficient.
"Sure."
This time, the cycles were lighter, not loaded with panniers, leathery oilskins and plastic cases. This time, just two riders and their cameras. We saw the sites, we ate the food, we did this and we did that, but we wanted a drink. The last beer we had was on our third day, a bottle of Moosehead lager I bought at the convience store. We found a pub, walked down into the basement and it almost felt like walking into Cheers.
We stumbled home, walking our Mopeds, and singing a song. We locked the bikes to the chain post and to the rain gutter, and to a vending machine for some reason unknown. We retired to our room, took off our heavy outer wear, and plopped down and fell asleep.
It seemed like a luxury all of a sudden, to have slept in beds two nights in a row, rather than in my amazingly small sleeping bag and tent. I woke up at noon, while Ashton still slept. I sat up and nudged him a little and he only let out a fart. I laughed at his response and proceeded to the bathroom to take a look at myself. I looked at my beard. It didn't hang out like Ashton's did. It just sort of clung to my face, the way Hipsters used to grow their beards back in the late 2000's. It didn't seem epic, but this was the most facial hair I had ever had. I brushed my teeth and returned to the room to see Ashton spooning a pillow. Jokingly, I spoke in falsetto "Oh Ashiepoo, you know how to make a girl happy." With that, I saw a smile stretch over his face. In our iteneraries, we had decided to take the day we got to Seattle to visit everything we could before we would cross the border the next day. So far, a third of the day was over and we still were inside the hotel.
I pulled the pillow out from his claw like grip and his arms snapped around him like a bear trap. He shuddered awake instantly. He stared at me and went to the bathroom and shut the door. By the time he came out, it was two. But I laughed when I saw him. He shaved his epic beard to resemble the clingy hipster like beard I was sporting now.
"What?"
"Nothing. I thought your beard was epic."
"It still is."
"Nope."
"Fuck."
"C'mon, we got stuff to see in Seattle."
"Like what?"
I clawed the back of my head for things to do in Seattle. I could only muster a few, "We could see the world's first Starbucks, and go to the Pike's Market, and see the needle, and of course R.E.M. Koolhaus' library." I hoped that was sufficient.
"Sure."
This time, the cycles were lighter, not loaded with panniers, leathery oilskins and plastic cases. This time, just two riders and their cameras. We saw the sites, we ate the food, we did this and we did that, but we wanted a drink. The last beer we had was on our third day, a bottle of Moosehead lager I bought at the convience store. We found a pub, walked down into the basement and it almost felt like walking into Cheers.
We stumbled home, walking our Mopeds, and singing a song. We locked the bikes to the chain post and to the rain gutter, and to a vending machine for some reason unknown. We retired to our room, took off our heavy outer wear, and plopped down and fell asleep.
May 24, 2009
Moped Diaries: Day Five
sorry it's been such a long time since the last post, but here goes!
A low rumble of thunder shook me awake. I sat, surprisingly upright, stiff in an old soccer jersey, groggy and trying to get a feel for my settings. The room was dark with the exception of a mottled, dirty brown rectangle of light to the side of me. This was a welcome change from the damp green tent we usually slept in. I rustled my naked legs under the sheets, feeling my leg hairs catch the threads. I rubbed my thin beard, still blinking unconciously, trying to fit the room and the things in it into focus and eventually it did. It smelled sterile, like a cleaned smoking room. The whole room seemed to blend into the sixties fairly nicely with the fabric wall paper, ceiling lamp suspended on a brass chain and decorative metal artwork. Shuffling to the bathroom, I faced the large mirror. My face was growing again since the first time I shaved outside of the Oregon coast. I brushed, washed and scrubbed, and performed two out of the three s's. I didn't shave.
I re-entered the room to find that the curtains now were drawn and Ashton was sitting in the pleather armchair by the radiator under the big window. He had the grimy looking coffee maker switched on to make some hot water. Another low rumble. This time, the window rattled a little. Curiously, I peered over to the clock by the bed and it said 7am. Ashton grabbed the remote and pointed it at the television set. It hummed to life and a faded out image of an Anchorperson showed up. The sound hadn't quite caught up just yet. Then, the sound crackled to life.
"Today's news forecast calls for thunder storms until one, and high winds starting at seven pm tonight. If you're going south, avoid the coast as we will be getting southerly winds mixing up with a cold front from Canada."
"That settles it," Ashton cried, "we'll have to stay here until two.
"We gotta check out though."
"Yeah, forgot about that. OK, new plan. We'll hang out at the market until two."
Packing up the mopeds, we loaded them up in silence, breaking it only once when I leand over to pass a fart. The clouds still mussled themselves overhead, playing like waves, breaking on an ocean, but above our heads. He rode out to the Portland market, sat and ate fried fish, picked out fresh fruit, a tomato here, an onion there. Closer to two, we would sit by the coffee trolley and sit and play backgammon. When two passed, we apparently decided it would be safe to go out. The bridge over the river seperating Portland and Vancouver in Washington state would be our final farewell to Oregon. We pedaled north, following the roads into the interior, and the clouds kept coming. We found a small little trap along side a lonely side road that we decided to stop and take a break at. Turns out the man sold beaver and otter pelts. Ashton was disgusted and walked out while I remaind inside touching the soft furs.
Washington is quite strange you could say with a grin. I read back in college that a large portion of the state was used to manufacture the materials necessary for nuclear research during the second world war. My how the values have changed within the past sixty years. We continued to ride, this time, rejoining the coast and following the road north. By nine in the evening, we reached the city of Seattle. Tired, cold and hungry, we parked at another motel, this time, one not from the sixties, and ate at the dive at the corner, plunked onto the beds, still in our jackets, helmets, goggles and boots.
At one, I shifted over, realizing I was still in full ride up gear, undressed, urinated in the bathroom and went to bed.
A low rumble of thunder shook me awake. I sat, surprisingly upright, stiff in an old soccer jersey, groggy and trying to get a feel for my settings. The room was dark with the exception of a mottled, dirty brown rectangle of light to the side of me. This was a welcome change from the damp green tent we usually slept in. I rustled my naked legs under the sheets, feeling my leg hairs catch the threads. I rubbed my thin beard, still blinking unconciously, trying to fit the room and the things in it into focus and eventually it did. It smelled sterile, like a cleaned smoking room. The whole room seemed to blend into the sixties fairly nicely with the fabric wall paper, ceiling lamp suspended on a brass chain and decorative metal artwork. Shuffling to the bathroom, I faced the large mirror. My face was growing again since the first time I shaved outside of the Oregon coast. I brushed, washed and scrubbed, and performed two out of the three s's. I didn't shave.
I re-entered the room to find that the curtains now were drawn and Ashton was sitting in the pleather armchair by the radiator under the big window. He had the grimy looking coffee maker switched on to make some hot water. Another low rumble. This time, the window rattled a little. Curiously, I peered over to the clock by the bed and it said 7am. Ashton grabbed the remote and pointed it at the television set. It hummed to life and a faded out image of an Anchorperson showed up. The sound hadn't quite caught up just yet. Then, the sound crackled to life.
"Today's news forecast calls for thunder storms until one, and high winds starting at seven pm tonight. If you're going south, avoid the coast as we will be getting southerly winds mixing up with a cold front from Canada."
"That settles it," Ashton cried, "we'll have to stay here until two.
"We gotta check out though."
"Yeah, forgot about that. OK, new plan. We'll hang out at the market until two."
Packing up the mopeds, we loaded them up in silence, breaking it only once when I leand over to pass a fart. The clouds still mussled themselves overhead, playing like waves, breaking on an ocean, but above our heads. He rode out to the Portland market, sat and ate fried fish, picked out fresh fruit, a tomato here, an onion there. Closer to two, we would sit by the coffee trolley and sit and play backgammon. When two passed, we apparently decided it would be safe to go out. The bridge over the river seperating Portland and Vancouver in Washington state would be our final farewell to Oregon. We pedaled north, following the roads into the interior, and the clouds kept coming. We found a small little trap along side a lonely side road that we decided to stop and take a break at. Turns out the man sold beaver and otter pelts. Ashton was disgusted and walked out while I remaind inside touching the soft furs.
Washington is quite strange you could say with a grin. I read back in college that a large portion of the state was used to manufacture the materials necessary for nuclear research during the second world war. My how the values have changed within the past sixty years. We continued to ride, this time, rejoining the coast and following the road north. By nine in the evening, we reached the city of Seattle. Tired, cold and hungry, we parked at another motel, this time, one not from the sixties, and ate at the dive at the corner, plunked onto the beds, still in our jackets, helmets, goggles and boots.
At one, I shifted over, realizing I was still in full ride up gear, undressed, urinated in the bathroom and went to bed.
April 26, 2009
Moped Diaries: Day Four
Finally, I got the acheies to write again!
Our stint just across the Oregon border didn't last long, the place by far was the most beautiful leg of our journey, yet the journey wasn't half over. My hands held onto the cork and leather handlebars tightly, feeling the vibrations of the little two stroke, hearing the gasoline sloshing. I revved the engine again, lurching forward, faster, over the small hill, and up into the sky. I twisted the handle yet further, the moped roared into the sky, leaving the ground, floating or being pulled up by strings as if some great being desired to meet me in my bike. Suddenly, before me, the clouds amassed themselves, to form a great greek temple, and sitting was a great, white stony face of Zeus himself. Where his pupils should have been, only was a great distance of white, like in those ancient roman statues. His mouth opened, lightning seem to flash into it, and began to suck me into his mouth, darkness enveloped me. Shutting out all light, the world closing thick in, there was a terrible ringing. It didn't cease. It was like the sound of a million hammer heads falling onto one single anvil.
My eyes popped open. It was Ashton's fucking alarm clock going off. What a weird dream, I hadn't had a dream in years, taking careful note to orient my bed in a way in which dreams wouldn't filter into my head. But I guess, in the wilderness, that doesn't matter whichever fucking way you slept. Today marks our fourth day, four days since I last showered, since I last shaved, shitted in a porcelain god, eaten in a restaurant with leather bound menus and since I last remember sleeping on a mattress between clean bed linens. I looked around me, a low misty rumble kept me constant companion, other than Ashton of course. The tent seemed to sag with a bit moisture, the entire thing in itself wanted to suffocate the two of us. Ashton had thrown the clock out of the tent and resumed his face plant into his small bundled up jacket, now an improvised pillow. I leaned back again, closing my eyes, squeezing the lids as tight as possible and opened them. That bleak green color of the tent burned as I stared. I sat up, grabbing my fountain pen and the weather-all journal. I wrote a few lines and tossed them aside again.
The past three days, I had been wearing a ratty pair of old Abercrombie and Fitch jeans, and once, a pair of Columbia waterproof pants. I looked at the old jeans. There was a hole where the seat would be, the threads were stretched bare thin. I chuckled at them, reached into a side pocket of my backpack and pulled out a small silver case and an old paisley bandanna. I ripped it into two, sewed it into the seat and replaced the items into the little pockets here and there. I retrieved a silver pin from the case and gave Ashton a quick prod.
"Oi!
"Morning sexy pants
"Oh hello. Me breakfast in thirty?
"Sure sure. Cook it yourself mkay?
"Lol, Of course.
I pulled on a thick pair of corduroy pants, I wrapped the thick pea coat around me, placing the cashmere scarf she had given me between my neck and the rough wool. I stepped out, pulling on my heavy, sheepskin lined boots. I chunked around the campsite, nudging the remanants of the fire pit from last night and trying to stoke some life into it. I threw a few dead branches, a few wodges of newspaper and a little splash of fluid. I dropped a match onto the papers and they sprung to life. Opening up and crisping again as the newsprint faded into obscurity. I placed another log on top, then arranging the cooking platform on the side and placed the kettle with a small amount of water into it.
Ashton stepped out, walked to the bikes and pulled a smallish rectangular box from a rear side pannier and a small blue enamel bowl. He poured several handfuls of Cheerios into the bowl and commenced eating. I took a tin of sardines and a slice of bread and speared it with a sharpened stick, held it over the fire for a few moments and removed it and placed the little sardine fillets onto it and rolled it up. We both looked at our watches, mine said 9:30am, ashton's for some reason said 10:10. We looked at each other, puzzled, and grabbing each a section from the newspaper, we walked off to defecate. The newspaper served purpose twofold. Literally.
We put out the fire, loaded the panniers, buried the trash and unlocked the bikes. Portland, here we come!
I read a book somewhere about the amazing and beautiful bridges of the Oregon Highways once. The pictures in the book certainly did no justice to the genuine articles. They simply were amazing as our little motors hummed peacefully over them. The graceful arch of concrete, design celebrated and oriented carried our loads so carefully over the span, Ashton and I were compelled to take pictures of each and I remembered again to remount the camera on the front pannier rack. Ashton took the lead and we were chugging it north, further north. We arrived in Florence around lunch time, only a third of the way there. We refilled on gas, stocked up on provisions and treated ourselves to lunch in the diner. I had ordered a small pork chop with onions and mashed potatos on the side, Ashton ordered himself a salad with a side of tuna. We left the diner, our tummies and our gas tanks full and we roared off again.
By three PM, we arrived in Tillamook, this was our farewell to the 101, We now had to turn up onto the five and continue into Portland. Portland would be the first city where we would treat ourselves to a night in a motel. As a chance for the tent to dry in the shower and for once, enjoy sleep in a spring mattress and with clean white bed sheets. By five, we arrived in the outskirts and we checked into a Super 8 motel in the north part of town. We parked our bikes in one parking space, locked them and took our bags off. We checked in, then placed the panniers and bags all over the room. Then took out the tent, shook it and hung it to dry in the shower. We exchanged looks and stepped outside again, and unlocked the bikes.
We rode into the downtown, grabbed a few drinks at a local bar and rode back to the motel. We pulled a map out and stared at it. We literally could now walk right into the state of Washington. We covered the majority or Oregon within one day and dash it all, it was fucking amazing. Tomorrow morning, we would follow the five up into the city of Vancouver and enter the State of Washington. We each took turns using the shower for the first time as well as making use of the washing machine facilities in the building. Soon we both looked decent again, with the exception of our fairly scraggly looking beards we both now sported. Ashton's fully fledged and possibly hiding a bird, mine only covered my cheeks and my chin and upper lip. It didn't hang, it looked like lichen clinging to a tree. Our clothes cleaned and packed into the leather and canvas and nylon bags, we each climbed into our beds and turned out the light.
Our stint just across the Oregon border didn't last long, the place by far was the most beautiful leg of our journey, yet the journey wasn't half over. My hands held onto the cork and leather handlebars tightly, feeling the vibrations of the little two stroke, hearing the gasoline sloshing. I revved the engine again, lurching forward, faster, over the small hill, and up into the sky. I twisted the handle yet further, the moped roared into the sky, leaving the ground, floating or being pulled up by strings as if some great being desired to meet me in my bike. Suddenly, before me, the clouds amassed themselves, to form a great greek temple, and sitting was a great, white stony face of Zeus himself. Where his pupils should have been, only was a great distance of white, like in those ancient roman statues. His mouth opened, lightning seem to flash into it, and began to suck me into his mouth, darkness enveloped me. Shutting out all light, the world closing thick in, there was a terrible ringing. It didn't cease. It was like the sound of a million hammer heads falling onto one single anvil.
My eyes popped open. It was Ashton's fucking alarm clock going off. What a weird dream, I hadn't had a dream in years, taking careful note to orient my bed in a way in which dreams wouldn't filter into my head. But I guess, in the wilderness, that doesn't matter whichever fucking way you slept. Today marks our fourth day, four days since I last showered, since I last shaved, shitted in a porcelain god, eaten in a restaurant with leather bound menus and since I last remember sleeping on a mattress between clean bed linens. I looked around me, a low misty rumble kept me constant companion, other than Ashton of course. The tent seemed to sag with a bit moisture, the entire thing in itself wanted to suffocate the two of us. Ashton had thrown the clock out of the tent and resumed his face plant into his small bundled up jacket, now an improvised pillow. I leaned back again, closing my eyes, squeezing the lids as tight as possible and opened them. That bleak green color of the tent burned as I stared. I sat up, grabbing my fountain pen and the weather-all journal. I wrote a few lines and tossed them aside again.
The past three days, I had been wearing a ratty pair of old Abercrombie and Fitch jeans, and once, a pair of Columbia waterproof pants. I looked at the old jeans. There was a hole where the seat would be, the threads were stretched bare thin. I chuckled at them, reached into a side pocket of my backpack and pulled out a small silver case and an old paisley bandanna. I ripped it into two, sewed it into the seat and replaced the items into the little pockets here and there. I retrieved a silver pin from the case and gave Ashton a quick prod.
"Oi!
"Morning sexy pants
"Oh hello. Me breakfast in thirty?
"Sure sure. Cook it yourself mkay?
"Lol, Of course.
I pulled on a thick pair of corduroy pants, I wrapped the thick pea coat around me, placing the cashmere scarf she had given me between my neck and the rough wool. I stepped out, pulling on my heavy, sheepskin lined boots. I chunked around the campsite, nudging the remanants of the fire pit from last night and trying to stoke some life into it. I threw a few dead branches, a few wodges of newspaper and a little splash of fluid. I dropped a match onto the papers and they sprung to life. Opening up and crisping again as the newsprint faded into obscurity. I placed another log on top, then arranging the cooking platform on the side and placed the kettle with a small amount of water into it.
Ashton stepped out, walked to the bikes and pulled a smallish rectangular box from a rear side pannier and a small blue enamel bowl. He poured several handfuls of Cheerios into the bowl and commenced eating. I took a tin of sardines and a slice of bread and speared it with a sharpened stick, held it over the fire for a few moments and removed it and placed the little sardine fillets onto it and rolled it up. We both looked at our watches, mine said 9:30am, ashton's for some reason said 10:10. We looked at each other, puzzled, and grabbing each a section from the newspaper, we walked off to defecate. The newspaper served purpose twofold. Literally.
We put out the fire, loaded the panniers, buried the trash and unlocked the bikes. Portland, here we come!
I read a book somewhere about the amazing and beautiful bridges of the Oregon Highways once. The pictures in the book certainly did no justice to the genuine articles. They simply were amazing as our little motors hummed peacefully over them. The graceful arch of concrete, design celebrated and oriented carried our loads so carefully over the span, Ashton and I were compelled to take pictures of each and I remembered again to remount the camera on the front pannier rack. Ashton took the lead and we were chugging it north, further north. We arrived in Florence around lunch time, only a third of the way there. We refilled on gas, stocked up on provisions and treated ourselves to lunch in the diner. I had ordered a small pork chop with onions and mashed potatos on the side, Ashton ordered himself a salad with a side of tuna. We left the diner, our tummies and our gas tanks full and we roared off again.
By three PM, we arrived in Tillamook, this was our farewell to the 101, We now had to turn up onto the five and continue into Portland. Portland would be the first city where we would treat ourselves to a night in a motel. As a chance for the tent to dry in the shower and for once, enjoy sleep in a spring mattress and with clean white bed sheets. By five, we arrived in the outskirts and we checked into a Super 8 motel in the north part of town. We parked our bikes in one parking space, locked them and took our bags off. We checked in, then placed the panniers and bags all over the room. Then took out the tent, shook it and hung it to dry in the shower. We exchanged looks and stepped outside again, and unlocked the bikes.
We rode into the downtown, grabbed a few drinks at a local bar and rode back to the motel. We pulled a map out and stared at it. We literally could now walk right into the state of Washington. We covered the majority or Oregon within one day and dash it all, it was fucking amazing. Tomorrow morning, we would follow the five up into the city of Vancouver and enter the State of Washington. We each took turns using the shower for the first time as well as making use of the washing machine facilities in the building. Soon we both looked decent again, with the exception of our fairly scraggly looking beards we both now sported. Ashton's fully fledged and possibly hiding a bird, mine only covered my cheeks and my chin and upper lip. It didn't hang, it looked like lichen clinging to a tree. Our clothes cleaned and packed into the leather and canvas and nylon bags, we each climbed into our beds and turned out the light.
April 04, 2009
Moped Diaries: Day Three
A familiar feeling stirred me awake this morning. I sat up again, this time, I felt unaware of what was going on. I stared around, taking in the green nylon walls, the large purple mass besides me. The walls of the tent were pushing and pulling, the wind battling against the human element. Every of often, it sounded as if the tent was being pummeled with peppercorns and I realized it was rain. I nudged Ashton to stir him and he turned over and sniffed. I nudged him again but this time, he farted in retaliation. Giving up, I tried to cozy myself back into the position I was sleeping in. My eyes couldn't put the darkness before them again, the flashing green nylon kept my eyes open. Suddenly, I hear a buzz. It sounds like a small gong going off. I realize Ashton brought an alarm clock. He sits up instantly, clicks it off and runs out the tent.
"ASHTON! IT'S RAINING!"
He doesn't hear me. He's too busy frolicking in the tempest. The rain is coming down hard and fast, Ashton starts to disappear into the rain and through the thick of it and the fog, you cant see him. I pull out the church key and open a tin of milk. I sit watching the grey figure shuffle through the rain jumping over logs and running through the grass. A few minutes later, he reappears in the tent sopping wet. I hold out the can for him to have a sip of milk. He takes it and finishes it. I pull on compression leggings for warmth, and a pair of waterproof pants. Heavy woolen socks and I replace the boots on my feet. I pull on the heavy pea coat and the rain slicker.
We climb onto our bikes and start to ride. The world immersed in rain is different, gray figures muscle around us as we continue riding. We are soaked, the headlights barely cast into the gray fog. We ride, our cyclometers read 130 miles. My tank is running a little dry and Ashton switches his motor off. We pedal, we keep moving. We are in Oregon.
There are hardly changes in scenery from when we left California to when we arrived in Oregon, the trees are just as majestic as ever and the only noticeable difference was the lack of sales tax when we filled up our tanks at a small roadside gas station. This was truly a paradise as we kept riding up the coast.
Evening seems to come faster when you are in Oregon, no sooner had we crossed the border did the sun begin to set and run. We pitched our tent in a dry spot under a fallen tree in a gully, parked and set up the stove and a small fire. The orange sky turned to a madder lake deep red into a convulsing purple then into the cold, clear darkness of the heavens. The clouds had parted, the rain stopped and the stars vivid. I felt as if we were camping beneath the tip of the world. I pulled a small square frying pan, placed two sausages in it, and let it roast over the campfire. Ashton on the other hand was trying to cook a small pot of rice over the campstove and it had a little trouble, but in the end, with some ketchup, we were fine. We washed the dishes, placed them aside, away from the tents and we pulled out our instruments again. I started strumming out, picking "Little Brown Church in the Vale and Ashton took up the harmony. We sat and sang until our little fire went out. Into the tent, into our sleeping bags and lights out.
"ASHTON! IT'S RAINING!"
He doesn't hear me. He's too busy frolicking in the tempest. The rain is coming down hard and fast, Ashton starts to disappear into the rain and through the thick of it and the fog, you cant see him. I pull out the church key and open a tin of milk. I sit watching the grey figure shuffle through the rain jumping over logs and running through the grass. A few minutes later, he reappears in the tent sopping wet. I hold out the can for him to have a sip of milk. He takes it and finishes it. I pull on compression leggings for warmth, and a pair of waterproof pants. Heavy woolen socks and I replace the boots on my feet. I pull on the heavy pea coat and the rain slicker.
We climb onto our bikes and start to ride. The world immersed in rain is different, gray figures muscle around us as we continue riding. We are soaked, the headlights barely cast into the gray fog. We ride, our cyclometers read 130 miles. My tank is running a little dry and Ashton switches his motor off. We pedal, we keep moving. We are in Oregon.
There are hardly changes in scenery from when we left California to when we arrived in Oregon, the trees are just as majestic as ever and the only noticeable difference was the lack of sales tax when we filled up our tanks at a small roadside gas station. This was truly a paradise as we kept riding up the coast.
Evening seems to come faster when you are in Oregon, no sooner had we crossed the border did the sun begin to set and run. We pitched our tent in a dry spot under a fallen tree in a gully, parked and set up the stove and a small fire. The orange sky turned to a madder lake deep red into a convulsing purple then into the cold, clear darkness of the heavens. The clouds had parted, the rain stopped and the stars vivid. I felt as if we were camping beneath the tip of the world. I pulled a small square frying pan, placed two sausages in it, and let it roast over the campfire. Ashton on the other hand was trying to cook a small pot of rice over the campstove and it had a little trouble, but in the end, with some ketchup, we were fine. We washed the dishes, placed them aside, away from the tents and we pulled out our instruments again. I started strumming out, picking "Little Brown Church in the Vale and Ashton took up the harmony. We sat and sang until our little fire went out. Into the tent, into our sleeping bags and lights out.
April 02, 2009
Moped Diaries: Day Two
A low moan rattled my sleep. I shuddered waking up and sitting up in my sleeping bag. I rubbed my arms in the heavy woolen sweater, blinking without my glasses and taking in my surroundings. The light green nylon fabric of the tent walls glowed eerily as I sat. Ashton still was rumbling with sleep in his sleeping bag and I gently rocked him to stir.
"Wha? Huh?"
"Morning sleeping beauty."
"Oh. Hello."
"Is that all you have to say to me?"
"Yep"
"Come on. Lets get washed up."
I drew the narrow silver canteen from the front pannier and poured it into a small wash pan and set it on top of the propane burner. I set up a mirror on a fence post and set up my shaving kit, carefully setting the badger brush on the post by the mirror and setting up the razor. The water began to steam and I poured half into the mug and set the rest aside for Ashton to wash his face. Slowly stirring the cream into a foam, I wrestled it onto my face and carefully shaved off the growth from the last two nights.
"Dude, this water is hot."
"What? You dont wash up with hot water?"
"No. Duh."
"Just do it. It'll feel better."
"You ought to keep your beard. It might keep you warm on the road."
Suddenly, that thought hit me. Warm face. I wiped off the cream and packed up the shaving things. We sat on our camp stools and as breakfast was cooking over the stove, we talked about where we were. While I was shaving, Ashton had taken a location with the lensatic compass and plotted our position on the map. Thirty miles out of Fort Bragg. We decided to fill up on gas there and one of us would move one of our panniers to the other person's bike and would hold a jerry can instead. I volunteered my front canvas pannier. Ashton stared at it, and clipped it behind my rear pannier.
"Hey!"
"Problem solved!"
"Fine. But you're carrying your own gasoline too."
"Fine!"
We pedaled to Fort Bragg and made it there by lunch time. We bought and filled to jerry cans and hooked them to our panniers. We stopped in town for an hour or two, to replace the things we had used up last night. A new tin of beans, a tin of beef, a loaf of sourdough bread and a pack of extra socks. I stopped outside the hardware store to pick up a small hatchet. We might need firewood at some point I thought. My moped was staring to look like a carry-all on wheels. The nice thing about it all was it looked rugged. The classic looks and lines of the derringer bike, the old school seat and panniers, it was meant for this. Ashton rolled by, his panniers and carriers filled with sketchbook paper, pencils, cans of lighter fluid, some old newspapers and a small bag of charcoals. We pulled out of Fort Bragg at three and continued up old highway one.
We rode, the wind pushing against our helmets and faces. It made me wish I had bought pilots goggles from the surplus store. As we rode, the flat rolling landscape soon became a harsh, rough, terrifying yet subtle landscape. It undulated but it fought back sometimes. Highway one was truly a road built to the world. It didn't plow through the landscape like most interstates did. This truly was second to god. We rode and rode. Our tanks not seeming to grow empty. Every so often, we'd stop and stretch, enjoy the land. Ashton would pull the sketchbook out and draw. I realized then, I forgot to use the camcorder. I quickly pulled out the small powershot and set up a rig on the handlebar to record us as we went.
Winding through steep and curving road, we rode over gigantic, beautiful concrete arch bridges, walked through forests now and then and stopped for a hot dog for dinner. This time, night caught up before our tanks were empty. This time, we settled camp away from road. We drove down a small path and parked in a clearing. We pitched the tent up, locked the bikes together and started a small fire. The darkness seemed like a cold blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I missed that feeling of someone wrapped up besides you. Ashton and I certainly were missing our better halves. The girls were going on a trip with each other to Florida. Ashton had scoffed at the idea and said it was only helping the industry. He could be like that sometimes, but it was fine. We balanced each other out. I had managed to strap my mandolin to the front pannier and I pulled it out. Ashton pulled his uke out and we started to jam into the night. Our two bodies, illuminated by the slowly dying fire, our fingers jangling around, pulling out a tune as best as possible. We laughed, shared a can of beer and turned in.
Yet more to come!
"Wha? Huh?"
"Morning sleeping beauty."
"Oh. Hello."
"Is that all you have to say to me?"
"Yep"
"Come on. Lets get washed up."
I drew the narrow silver canteen from the front pannier and poured it into a small wash pan and set it on top of the propane burner. I set up a mirror on a fence post and set up my shaving kit, carefully setting the badger brush on the post by the mirror and setting up the razor. The water began to steam and I poured half into the mug and set the rest aside for Ashton to wash his face. Slowly stirring the cream into a foam, I wrestled it onto my face and carefully shaved off the growth from the last two nights.
"Dude, this water is hot."
"What? You dont wash up with hot water?"
"No. Duh."
"Just do it. It'll feel better."
"You ought to keep your beard. It might keep you warm on the road."
Suddenly, that thought hit me. Warm face. I wiped off the cream and packed up the shaving things. We sat on our camp stools and as breakfast was cooking over the stove, we talked about where we were. While I was shaving, Ashton had taken a location with the lensatic compass and plotted our position on the map. Thirty miles out of Fort Bragg. We decided to fill up on gas there and one of us would move one of our panniers to the other person's bike and would hold a jerry can instead. I volunteered my front canvas pannier. Ashton stared at it, and clipped it behind my rear pannier.
"Hey!"
"Problem solved!"
"Fine. But you're carrying your own gasoline too."
"Fine!"
We pedaled to Fort Bragg and made it there by lunch time. We bought and filled to jerry cans and hooked them to our panniers. We stopped in town for an hour or two, to replace the things we had used up last night. A new tin of beans, a tin of beef, a loaf of sourdough bread and a pack of extra socks. I stopped outside the hardware store to pick up a small hatchet. We might need firewood at some point I thought. My moped was staring to look like a carry-all on wheels. The nice thing about it all was it looked rugged. The classic looks and lines of the derringer bike, the old school seat and panniers, it was meant for this. Ashton rolled by, his panniers and carriers filled with sketchbook paper, pencils, cans of lighter fluid, some old newspapers and a small bag of charcoals. We pulled out of Fort Bragg at three and continued up old highway one.
We rode, the wind pushing against our helmets and faces. It made me wish I had bought pilots goggles from the surplus store. As we rode, the flat rolling landscape soon became a harsh, rough, terrifying yet subtle landscape. It undulated but it fought back sometimes. Highway one was truly a road built to the world. It didn't plow through the landscape like most interstates did. This truly was second to god. We rode and rode. Our tanks not seeming to grow empty. Every so often, we'd stop and stretch, enjoy the land. Ashton would pull the sketchbook out and draw. I realized then, I forgot to use the camcorder. I quickly pulled out the small powershot and set up a rig on the handlebar to record us as we went.
Winding through steep and curving road, we rode over gigantic, beautiful concrete arch bridges, walked through forests now and then and stopped for a hot dog for dinner. This time, night caught up before our tanks were empty. This time, we settled camp away from road. We drove down a small path and parked in a clearing. We pitched the tent up, locked the bikes together and started a small fire. The darkness seemed like a cold blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I missed that feeling of someone wrapped up besides you. Ashton and I certainly were missing our better halves. The girls were going on a trip with each other to Florida. Ashton had scoffed at the idea and said it was only helping the industry. He could be like that sometimes, but it was fine. We balanced each other out. I had managed to strap my mandolin to the front pannier and I pulled it out. Ashton pulled his uke out and we started to jam into the night. Our two bodies, illuminated by the slowly dying fire, our fingers jangling around, pulling out a tune as best as possible. We laughed, shared a can of beer and turned in.
Yet more to come!
April 01, 2009
Moped Diaries: Day One
The start of a new series
http://www.derringercycles.com/slideshow/gallery.htm
That site should give you an idea of what I want to ride.
The cold gray fog still shrouded San Francisco, wrapping its misty arms around the towers and pooling in between the buildings. In the narrow back alleyways of the Western Addition, I woke up, I looked at the big ben clock on the nightstand. Six thirty four. The slow whirring ticking sound resonated on the table. I sat up in bed, rubbing my thighs briskly through a pair of old basketball shorts, blinking in the cold sunlight streaming through the shutters.
The hot tap rumbled as the steaming water emerged out of the tap into the dirty porcelain basin. I washed my rough face and brushed my teeth and packed my toothbrush. The canvas leather saddle bags sit by the door, ready and waiting to be mounted. One final check around the apartment, it will be a long time before I see this place. I grab the pairs of saddle bags and sling them over my shoulders. With my free hand, I grab the square leather case with smaller things, and the small camera case. The door behind me clicked, I locked the deadbolt and walked downstairs, nearly stumbling down the narrow flight of stairs.
Outside, the cars rush by on Hayes street, not noticing me or even giving a second thought as I begin to strap the saddles onto the pannier carriers on my new Derringer moped. I stand back and admire the handiwork, the craft of how everything just fell into place with each other. The drop head handle bars, the chrome plated twin vee engine, the heavy sprung Brooks saddle, I was ready to go. Ashton is supposed to meet me at the corner of California and Arguello and I take off, setting the chronometer as I go to keep track of how much time I would spend on the road. The pedaling part would come later as I speed up hills, through Golden gate park and arriving at California and Arguello.
Around ten minutes later, I hear the whinny of a 1972 Pierce engine with Ashton in the seat. We shake hands, we grab a coffee in the gas station, and stop one last time at the bicycle shop. We wait outside for a few minutes until a skinny girl in flannel and tight jeans opens up the shop. We wander in, pick up a set of ten extra tubes, several extra tires and an extra pannier basket. This one is going on Ashton's moped since one fell off on the way over. We fill up the last time before we leave San Francisco for our journey north. I pulled the heavy pea coat up close, tightening the crash helmet and adjusted my mirrors. It's time to go and make the pilgrimage.
Sailing down Park Presidio with the traffic is exhilirating, coasting down the road through tunnels and up slopes, we find ourselves crossing the golden gate bridge, north into Sausalito and the rest of Marin county. Our engines pumping warmly between our legs, we cruise at a comfortable 30mph through on side roads, winding up on narrow coastal roads, finding log cabin like buildings nestled into the network of trees. Minutes turn into hours and there never seems to be an end to the ceaseless forests and windswept beaches. Here and there, our bikes emerge from the woods in a road cut into a mound, the sand blowing from dunes over our heads. Crooked slat fences undulate into the landscape. Falling and rising and collapsing and in some places gone. Cattle here and there dot the cold fields. Grey clouds moving only so still as if a statue in a museum were moving in the corners of your eyes. We run out of juice 8 hours into the trip. We are now halfway between the border of California and San Francisco.
We pedaled for another few hours, until the weaning hours of darkness began to settle. We pulled off into the side of the road, locking the bicycles to a fallen tree and to each other in opposite directions. I pull out the old pup tent my father gave me as well as a tin of beef and a tin of mixed vegetables. For the longest time, I knew Ashton to be vegetarian. I knew for this trip, he would have to at least eat some meat and he obliged. The tins sit under the burning propane flame. He lights his hurricane lamp and darkness begins to envelope us all around. We pitched along a fence along highway one. The only people who would bother us were the CHP and I doubted that they would really bother with a lonely stretch of road alongside the ocean.
We shared stories, dreams, hopes and what we were expecting. our sleeping bags unravelled into the tent and the light out, we began to fall asleep. We lay there for a little while before we broke into conversation again. We just couldn't believe what we were doing was actually, finally happening. We had been planning this trip since the second year in college when I was at Berkeley and he was at SF state. He had an obsession with the moped since high school and I was and still am into fixing up my 1970 Raleigh Imperial road bicycle. He would laugh, I would too. Sleep caught our better sides and we were out for the night.
more later! Stay tuned.
http://www.derringercycles.com/slideshow/gallery.htm
That site should give you an idea of what I want to ride.
The cold gray fog still shrouded San Francisco, wrapping its misty arms around the towers and pooling in between the buildings. In the narrow back alleyways of the Western Addition, I woke up, I looked at the big ben clock on the nightstand. Six thirty four. The slow whirring ticking sound resonated on the table. I sat up in bed, rubbing my thighs briskly through a pair of old basketball shorts, blinking in the cold sunlight streaming through the shutters.
The hot tap rumbled as the steaming water emerged out of the tap into the dirty porcelain basin. I washed my rough face and brushed my teeth and packed my toothbrush. The canvas leather saddle bags sit by the door, ready and waiting to be mounted. One final check around the apartment, it will be a long time before I see this place. I grab the pairs of saddle bags and sling them over my shoulders. With my free hand, I grab the square leather case with smaller things, and the small camera case. The door behind me clicked, I locked the deadbolt and walked downstairs, nearly stumbling down the narrow flight of stairs.
Outside, the cars rush by on Hayes street, not noticing me or even giving a second thought as I begin to strap the saddles onto the pannier carriers on my new Derringer moped. I stand back and admire the handiwork, the craft of how everything just fell into place with each other. The drop head handle bars, the chrome plated twin vee engine, the heavy sprung Brooks saddle, I was ready to go. Ashton is supposed to meet me at the corner of California and Arguello and I take off, setting the chronometer as I go to keep track of how much time I would spend on the road. The pedaling part would come later as I speed up hills, through Golden gate park and arriving at California and Arguello.
Around ten minutes later, I hear the whinny of a 1972 Pierce engine with Ashton in the seat. We shake hands, we grab a coffee in the gas station, and stop one last time at the bicycle shop. We wait outside for a few minutes until a skinny girl in flannel and tight jeans opens up the shop. We wander in, pick up a set of ten extra tubes, several extra tires and an extra pannier basket. This one is going on Ashton's moped since one fell off on the way over. We fill up the last time before we leave San Francisco for our journey north. I pulled the heavy pea coat up close, tightening the crash helmet and adjusted my mirrors. It's time to go and make the pilgrimage.
Sailing down Park Presidio with the traffic is exhilirating, coasting down the road through tunnels and up slopes, we find ourselves crossing the golden gate bridge, north into Sausalito and the rest of Marin county. Our engines pumping warmly between our legs, we cruise at a comfortable 30mph through on side roads, winding up on narrow coastal roads, finding log cabin like buildings nestled into the network of trees. Minutes turn into hours and there never seems to be an end to the ceaseless forests and windswept beaches. Here and there, our bikes emerge from the woods in a road cut into a mound, the sand blowing from dunes over our heads. Crooked slat fences undulate into the landscape. Falling and rising and collapsing and in some places gone. Cattle here and there dot the cold fields. Grey clouds moving only so still as if a statue in a museum were moving in the corners of your eyes. We run out of juice 8 hours into the trip. We are now halfway between the border of California and San Francisco.
We pedaled for another few hours, until the weaning hours of darkness began to settle. We pulled off into the side of the road, locking the bicycles to a fallen tree and to each other in opposite directions. I pull out the old pup tent my father gave me as well as a tin of beef and a tin of mixed vegetables. For the longest time, I knew Ashton to be vegetarian. I knew for this trip, he would have to at least eat some meat and he obliged. The tins sit under the burning propane flame. He lights his hurricane lamp and darkness begins to envelope us all around. We pitched along a fence along highway one. The only people who would bother us were the CHP and I doubted that they would really bother with a lonely stretch of road alongside the ocean.
We shared stories, dreams, hopes and what we were expecting. our sleeping bags unravelled into the tent and the light out, we began to fall asleep. We lay there for a little while before we broke into conversation again. We just couldn't believe what we were doing was actually, finally happening. We had been planning this trip since the second year in college when I was at Berkeley and he was at SF state. He had an obsession with the moped since high school and I was and still am into fixing up my 1970 Raleigh Imperial road bicycle. He would laugh, I would too. Sleep caught our better sides and we were out for the night.
more later! Stay tuned.
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