There Will Be Hills

By the time we’d reached Missouri, we had 2 months cycling under our belts. We’ll that’s not correct, we weren’t wearing belts- cycling shorts aren’t designed for use with belts, or underwear for that matter. Or conversations with small town locals. “Hello? Hello? I’m up here!…I’d like a bag of ice and some milk please…”

2 months on the road does play a little on your daily habits, you can’t manage more than one beer at the end of the day without regretting it the next. You also stop eating for pleasure and begin eating to avoid ‘the bonk’, a cycling term for low blood sugar.

Our diet soon became a ritual. A typical day, consisted of:-

Breakfast.
Bananas, Cold porridge with honey, tea. If we were lucky, we’d have orange juice.

Morning tea. Usually after our first 20 miles -
Bagels with honey and peanut butter. Or jam. An apple.

Lunch.
Bagels with peanut butter and honey, chocolate milk.

Afternoon tea.
A bagel. A milky way (actually a Mars Bar but by another name).

Dinner
Cous Cous, beans, Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. (or local microbrewery if available)

This sequence was repeated until Lauren couldn’t bear bagels any more, and she switched to muesli bars. Maybe it was the combination of Kansas and bagels that made her feel like a hamster on a treadmill.

So, to follow the tedious beauty of Kansas, we were looking forward to entering a landscape that offered shade, a bend or two in the road, and towns of more than 200 people. We were even keen to see the occasional hill, if only to break up the landscape. We got all that and more in Missouri.

Missouri is the home of ‘The Ozarks’- a mountain range that Keith and
and countless other cyclists had warned us about. “How did you find
the Rockies?” they’d ask us, “Hard Work”, we’d reply. “just wait till
you get to the Ozarks….” We suffered this conversation verbatim for
4 weeks before we actually got there.

But by this stage we thought we were ready, we’d been on the road two months. Surely we were fit enough. How hard could it be?

Slowly the gentle waving landscape, became steeper and steeper. I should point out that the Ozarks aren’t a high mountain range, they don’t sit at an asphixiating elevation. They are just hill after hill of extraordinary pitch. Just as you’ve climbed one hill, you come down the other side and repeat the process. For days we both loved and
loathed the ‘self propelled rollercoaster’ – as another cyclist put it.

The trick is to get enough momentum on the down, to make it to the next up. Bit you never know if you’re going to make it. The angle of these hills makes it look like you’re staring at a wall when you hit the hollow at 60km/hr with your stomach lurching from the g-force. It’s enough to make one feel sea sick.

Of course the uppie downie monster didn’t beat us. Although we did consider taking the ‘Katy Trail’, a flat gravel trail which bypasses the worst of the Ozarks. Many cyclists had suggested or wished they’d taken this alternative. In retrospect, we’re glad we hadn’t. At the time, we wished we did.

We emerged from the Ozarks to find ourselves in small town called Farmington not far from the Mississippi river. Our residence for the night was to be the town jail.

The old town jail that is, newly and lovingly restored and converted into a hostel for cyclists and cyclists only. It turned out to be so fantastic that we stayed three nights. Al’s Place, as it’s called, was a community project and was even built by inmates from the local prison. Named for Al Dziewa, a local restauranteur and cyclist who died of cancer in 2005, a much loved member of the community. Al’s place is a wonderful tribute to him.

It was hard to leave, but eventually we had to stop pretending we were living in a loft apartment in New York and get back on the bikes. The Mississippi was just a day away.

Keith had warned the wind in Wyoming was just like someone flicked a switch at 11am and he was not wrong. It was fierce.

Wyoming is home to the Wind River, the Little Wind River, the Wind River Range, the Wind River Canyon, the Wind River Indian Reservation, the Wind River Casino, Little Wind Casino and a few wind farms. I think it’s fair to say it was quite windy.

Wyoming is part of ‘big sky country’. The clouds roll across the sky like waves and the blue-green sage bushes move like coral against the pounding wind. When we were told these wide plains were once part of a sea bed, it wasn’t much a stretch of the imagination.

In big sky country, storms could appear on the horizon and travel to meet us in the blink of an eye. We would start out saying, ‘hmm..I don’t think we’ll get that rain’ and end up with lightening, thunder and hail an hour or two later. Nevermind the bears, being caught right in the middle of an electric storm was possibly the scariest moment of our lives. We have to admit, too, pretty freakin’ exhilarating. For days when we were asked where we were going, all we could answer was “We nearly got struck by lightning”

In the near deserted Jeffrey City, a former uranium mining town, we met up with Neil and Adi, avid cyclists from New Zealand. How nice it was to hear a familiar accent. We spent the next few days trying to out run them. But they always seemed to catch us around 3 o’clock in the afternoon. ‘Here they come’ became a familiar catchphrase. It was a great to have such good company. Happy cycling Neil and Adi!

Crossing the border into Colorado was a joy. It seemed like the wind dropped instantly, the road improved, the wildflowers and the mountains reappeared and the famous Hoosier Pass, beckoned.

Colorado was the icing on the cake. After weeks of climbing hill after hill, the majesty of the top of the Rockies was awesome. The landscape, literally and in our experience, had reached a new level. With every elevation marker we were reminded there was no where in Australia, or Ireland, as high as this.

Before Hoosier, the last and biggest of our climbs at 11542 feet, we thought we’d have a night of luxury and stay in hard roofed accommodation. On the lovely Bruce Moore’s recommendation ( a chap who’d stopped to give us some tips while we mended a tyre) we stayed at the Fireside Inn in Breckenridge. Run by Brits, Niki and Andy Harris, the Fireside Inn was so marvelous we ended up staying three nights!

Breckenridge (Breck to the locals) is a ski town with a soul, high in the mountains. We fell in love with it instantly. This might have had something to do with the 10 miles of delightful rolling bike path leading up to it;) but mostly because the Fireside Inn felt like it was home.

A home decked out with memorabilia from Andy’s Army service and that of his family’s (two Victoria Crosses were mentioned). A home complete with Gaspode the Wonder Dog (and Antigua).

After finally deciding that staying in the ‘sweethearts room’ for another night was going to blow our budget, we reluctantly left Breckenridge on a chilly morning to make the slow climb up Hoosier. The last four miles were tough, one hairpin bend after another, cars snaking past us. And then the top!
Higher than we ever cycled or been before! Hooray! We made it! We’re alive! Joy! It was an emotional moment, we can fully understand Marie’s one footed attack on her bicycle when she reached the summit.

Coming down took on a new meaning. 130 kilometers of downhill in one day seemed to discredit the previous 2 weeks of climbing. In many was it was like getting to the end of a really good book.

Although we were sad to be leaving behind the beautiful Rocky mountains, we were looking forward to a bit of Kansas flatness too!

But we didn’t quite realise just how flat it could get…

Inside an old church in Montana a cyclist can make a different sort of spiritual pilgrimage. It is at 150 East Pine Street, Missoula, Montana, that a touring cyclist can get a sugar hit and words of encouragement, without spending a penny.

It is at this address, one will find the Adventure Cycling Assocation national headquarters. the ACA is an organisation who’s  mission is to “inspire people of all ages to travel by bicycle.” Seeing they were the folks behind the original Bikecentennnial cycled by Keith, Marie and Jeff Hook, we thought it only just to take a detour to visit their fine offices.

In the ACA offices they curate, compile, and update cycle touring maps (over 40, 000 miles are covered), sell cycle touring gear, offer free internet and ice-cream to tourists and have a heaving repository of fine cycle touring memorabilia. I was quietly chuffed to see their library contained Keith’s book on his 1976 TransAm adventure.

On entry, you’re welcomed, and your photo is taken, where your polaroid is placed up on a wall with all the other cyclists that have passed through the offices  that summer. We saw a few familiar faces we’d met on the road, and were encouraged to see so many worn and sunburnt TransAm cyclists still managing to crack a  smile for the camera.

Earlier in our trip we had been told about the ’1976 Collection’ of photos for the original ‘Bikecentennial’ where over 4000 people cycled across the US to commemorate 200 years of  American Independence. Greg Siple, one of ACA’s founders kindly took us through to one of the back rooms where the finest of the 1976 black and white photos are framed on display.

Also in the offices, hanging from the walls, are the retired bicycles of cycle tourists. Notably is Dan and Lys Burden’s touring tandem – the bike they used to plot the TransAm trail. Also is Robert Hammersmith’s tourer. He rode the TransAm trail in 76 days, at the ripe age of 79, alone. Respect. We’ve met a lot of folks in their 60′s on the road, but thinking about this bloke puts perspective to our complaints on how sore we are at the end of a day’s ride.

This Chap rode the TransAm at 79 Years, in 76 days, and this is his bicycle.

Mr Siple was also kind enough to take our photo for the ACA’s Archive – with a black and white Nikon film camera -he’s been doing this since 1982.  As this tour is somewhat part of a Legacy to Keith And Marie’s trip we  proudly held up our spurtle, handmade by Keith and presented to us before our departure. The Spurtle has been an essential tool for stirring countless pots of beans, rice and chickpeas – which have fueled us across the country.

And so with our photo taken and a crew of English lycra clad tourists entering the building for their turn, it was time to leave.   We reluctantly left Missoula in the direction of more hills, the Rockies and Yellowstone National Park.

The Oregon border is marked by a wonderful and large ‘Welcome to Oregon’ sign. On the opposite side a diminutive ‘welcome to california’. It’s literally a tenth of the size. So with this modest farewell – a reminder of Califonia’s lack of public funds, we felt a little sad leaving our wonderful welcome to the USA.

The most immediate difference after the change in road quality was the bicycle lane road markings. The painted Oregon cyclist in the bike lane had no helmet. Poor thing.

In Orick, the campground toilets were locked. In Brookings, we saw deer. In Port Orford, we thought of everyone at home and wished we were at Charlie and Mikaela’s wedding. In Mapleton, we camped in the heat beside an empty swimming pool and in Eugene, we discovered that asking for directions will get you a lift to the supermarket!

Eugene, is a fine college town, that boasts more than one micro brewery. But with a 5 am starts to beat the heat – it’s the second beer that hurts the next day.

Oregon was also the official start of the Trans America route for us and we were full of anticipation. We were able to begin following Keith and Jeff’s book on their 1976 tour, ‘It’s all uphill’. It was fair to say some places haven’t changed since they visited in 1976, and the hills certainly haven’t gotten any easier.

It wasn’t long before we hit our first big climb, a 22 mile stretch rising to over 5000 feet at McKenzie Pass. Worth the effort though, as we reached the top we saw three snow capped mountains, glaciated volcanic peaks, surrounded by ancient lava flows as far as the eye could see. The whole way down we craved ice cream covered in chocolate sauce….

We came down to earth in ‘Sisters’ a tourist hub at the base of the Three Sister mountains. Think ‘High noon at the ok corral’ meets Lorne (or Tramore) in high summer. We rode on and ended up off route in Smith Rock, a spectacular canyon perfect for rock climbers. Smith rock is also an eagle nesting ground, we were told some of the nests weighed up to 1000 kilograms. It was the most visually stunning place we’d yet been to and it was hard to leave in the morning.

The next day was seriously hot. Jack resorted to peanut butter milkshakes and I was none too happy at the end of the day, knowing there would be no shower. Mitchell, our destination, was a dying town that hasn’t seen much development since the mining rush over 100 years ago. We learnt in depth about the economy from an obliging local. The Mosquitos were horrific and I was almost about to say ‘this was all your idea’ when we discovered an oasis, the Oregon Motel, complete with bathtub. Happy days again.

It was here we met fellow cyclists riding the TransAm- Ellen & Joe, Bruce & Clay. We traded notes and stories on the hotel porch until dark. Ellen and Joe, a couple in their sixties were riding a fantastic ‘bike friday’ tandem with trailer. Clay, a history teacher from Washington state was completing an unfinished TransAm after having to cease his first attempt due to injury. His cycle blog is titled ‘unfinished business’.

It was greatly encouraging to meet others cycling the transam too. And so, we felt a lot more confident riding the next dry stretch to the gold mining town of the wild west, Baker City. It also meant a much needed rest day, and a bed with sheets.

Leaving San Francisco over the mighty Golden Gate bridge, we dropped into pretty Sausilito. A former fishing village about to implode from cuteness, it was a flat and easy first day of 50 miles as we passed through the city’s fringe. Our first night’s camping was icy cold, but the novelty kept us warm and we were up and out early the next day.

The next few days were a challenge. The Californian coastline is as majestic as Victoria’s Great Ocean Road, but as we have learned, everything in The USA is bigger. The view was tempered by the fiercest headwinds we had ever experienced.

We didn’t feel alone though, there were plenty of cyclists on the road they were all going the other way. We were to discover later, from Californian locals, that these were the most consistent and reliable wind patterns in the United States. Everyone we met, thought we were crazy. We dreamed of taking the train.

It wasn’t to be. The nearest trainline was at least a few days cycle inland. Not an easy way out. So on we pushed, and pushed.

The roads in California were the only thing that left us wanting. The locals call it the Californian pave. Despite its massive economy, the state of California is broke. Unable to raise taxes, they have just stopped spending. They have even threatened to close state parks to save money. As it It turned out, they are still all open and full.

This is the American summer vacation and the Americans love camping. Getting back to nature, with their double decker sized campervans, The locals take with them more creature comforts than a Harvery Norman store. Many of these RVs chugged past us on the road towing boats, quad bikes, bicycles, canoes and four wheel drives behind them.

We tried to resent them in their air conditioned comfort, as we struggled up the road. But, when we were handed a margarita by our neighbours, in the caravan park, these feelings melted. A 100 proof margarita after a 60 mile cycle is a powerful thing.

All along the coast, people were warm and generous, we have received nothing but encouragement and interest from the people we’ve met so far. In fact we are stunned by how friendly folks are here. It’s like visiting a Beckley household every day. Even truckers slow and give us a wide berth.

Our first real hill climb was the hill leading to Leggett. When the wind wasn’t blowing it was hot. After the punishing incline, we thought we’d deserved a hearty lunch. We sat down at the Leggett roadstop and ordered Mexican chili cheese fries a burger and a pizza on the side. Delicious. Big mistake. The rest of the day was painful and slow. We’d just learned the hard way to eat little and often.

To conclude this fine meal, Lauren’s tooth broke. It was five days before she could see a dentist.

At the end of this eventful day, we ached for a shower, as it turned out the local campsites were completely full. We found a spot beside a river, had a dip and slept hoping bears didn’t travel this far south.

Still alive the next day, we pushed onto to Ferndale, in time for the 4th of July celebrations.

Next: the national holiday….