Day 19

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Gold Beach, OR-Crescent City, CA

54 WARM, HILLY Miles

Our deeds still travel with us from afar, and where we have been makes us what we are. 

George Eliot

We have barely left the motel before we begin the 4 mile climb over 750 foot high Cape San Sebastian, discovered in 1542 by Spanish navigators, a full 150 years before the English explorers.  The weather is sunny, clear and 51 degrees, 6 degrees warmer than forecast, perfect for me.  Even better, the winds are in our favor; maybe that will negate all the hills ahead for Joe. Or maybe not…(he looked at three separate elevation profiles last night, but still seems to believe there is only the one hill).

We stop in Brookings on the border, a perfect little town.  The day is too nice to dally long however; we continue on to California with the promise of relatively flat riding. Amazingly there are no surprises; we make it into Crescent City in time for Joe to watch the 49ers Sunday Night Football game.  Today we have no reservations and score a $45.00 room randomly(actually we now have two rooms and 4 beds due to lavatory issues in our original room- a relative mansion).

Tomorrow: the 1,100 foot triple summit of the Crescent City Hills followed by the Redwoods and then another 1,000 foot summit, if we choose to go that far. We may call it a day at the Majestic Redwoods and the Tree of Mystery. 

A word about bicycles: do you remember your first bike?  Mine was a brand new ugly brown boy’s bike(purchased I am sure with my 15 month younger brother in mind), no training wheels allowed.  I learned to ride at six years old on that bike; however, I immediately began a search for a ride more befitting my girl status.  It turned out that Evie Larson, a teenager three houses down on M Street, had one for sale at the affordable price of $5.00.  It was too big for me,  blue, rusted and old, but it was a girl’s bike!  Someone, I no longer remember whom, reassured me that orange juice on the handlebars overnight would eliminate that unsightly rust. I waited overnight with bated breath–no, there was not a significant improvement, though in my heart, I now believed my adult size girl’s bike to be perfect. 

I remember one other incident that summer with my miracle bike. We were not allowed to ride in the streets; thus we rode on the sidewalks. Someone challenged me to a race; probably my brother, though I no longer remember that detail. The result: a horrible fall with the whole right side of my face a scabbed mess; the birthday pictures that summer attest to it; all of us neighborhood girls in our frilly cotton 1960s party dresses along with my face, a reminder of my foolishness. 

Maybe Joe has a first bike tale for tomorrow?

Day 19

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