Day 10: The curse of Wauconda
I was cocky after taking Loup Loup so easily. I dawdled in Tonasket until noon thirty, enjoying breakfast and poking around local shops. Wauconda, the cruel bastard, took its measure of sorrow to teach me a lesson for it.
Just a pickin' and a strummin'
The morning began nicely enough with breakfast at the Wildwood Cafe. A sign outside advertised guitar lessons. Inside, the walls were plain, but the ceilings high, and the floors stained a dark walnut. A small cluster of people sat to the back. I wasn't sure who was staff and who visiting, until an older fellow disengaged to take my order, standing casually with me at the front counter. I failed to connect with him, and ate in silence while I listened to the other party lament the unfair balance of Democratic actors in Hollywood. ("I used to like George Clooney, until he got political.")
A couple arrived soon after that quickly found a common ground with the proprietor: it seemed that they dealt in musical instruments. I ease dropped as their conversation ranged through old blues musicians they had known. I recognized Les Paul's name. "Old time string music, fiddles and things. Those old guys played it straight. A D chord is a D chord. One guy, he'd throw in one wild jazz chord, for just one beat, then go back to playing it straight." Eventually the proprietor brought out a guitar and picked out several melodies that I half recognized.
A storm is coming. Just like that last scene in Terminator.
The driving heat and steep climb out of Tonasket set me in a fierce mood, and I sank deep into a meditation about strength and will. I imagined my blood being cleansed by the heat. No headaches. No weakness. Room and time to think clearly, the freedom to sink my claws into my thoughts and strip them bare, rend the meat with my teeth and suck the marrow from the bone of them.
I had honed my lord-of-the-flies manifesto to a fine point by the time I stopped for a rest at the three mile mark. As I sat in the hot sun on the edge of a cultivated lawn, a car arrived with a plain middle aged woman and an older woman whom I assumed to be her mother. They waved as they exited, and the younger woman said, "It's so hot. Why don't you go sit down by the creek?"
She lead me down through the brush and burrs that stuck to my shorts, to the creek behind her house, and left me with an invitation to come up for ice water when I was ready. I climbed to her back porch like a chastened kitten and tamely accepted her shade and ice water. Her name was Danette, and I learned her family had lived on this plot for at least three generations.
I resumed my painful climb toward Wauconda Pass, twenty five, thirty miles of climbing. Loup Loup was straightforward, but Wauconda kept me in agony, hiding its secrets like the cruel cellmate who grins as he slides in the shiv. I wish I could say that Wauconda was some local figure of legend, but Wauconda is not a local name. It was brought here by gold prospectors from Wauconda, Illinois, in 1898, and given to a gold rush town that left only a ghost town. Wauconda, Illinois is said to have been named after an Indian chief, and maybe that's why the spirit of Wauconda is so mean. His good name was dragged and left to rot almost two thousand miles from home.
crazy affection dog wants to ride wif U
It was Saturday, and there were a fair amount of vehicles on SR 20. Many of them honked at me throughout the day. When drivers honk, I have to assume that it's hostile. They may mean it in a friendly way, or an acknowledging way, but with a horn's limited range of expressive, and the knowledge that any single car could be the one that kills me, I can only take it in a get-the-hell-out-of-the-way way. I never know when honking drivers are happy or irritated by my presence on the road, but I always swear at them under my breath.
And so, when someone yelled out their window in a clear effort to startle me, the thunderous scream was ripped from my mouth without thought: "FUCK YOU!" Even as the words were passing my lips, I knew what I had invited. It was a white compact car full of young men. What if they stopped? I hate conflict and I don't know how to fight, but a plan was in my mind in the space of a breath.
Hit the biggest or loudest first, go for the face, use the helmet, don't give them time to react or even get out of the car if I can stop them. I'll probably have to drop the bike and I hate to do that. Whatever happens to me, I'll teach them not to fuck with bicyclists.
They didn't stop.
This is what days of sharing the road with aggressive drivers does to me. In my post-event fantasy analysis, they do stop, and I beat the snot out of them all, thereby halting all automotive traffic, ever.
I pulled off the road at the next crossing, into an idyllic valley with a large farm house at a bend in the road, a horse pasture below, and a flock of domestic geese honking in the back yard. I stopped by their front fence to cool down; even 25 yards away, I could hear the family setting down to dinner. My idyll was dulled by dad yelling at the kids, "Because you don't listen to me, that's why!"
Dad, please don't yell
I stopped a few miles more down the road to visit with a trio of horses. I stood by their fence and took a ridiculous number of photos of them approaching my bike, which amused and calmed me.
Meet your replacement
Soon after, I reached the top of the pass, though Wauconda wasn't done with me yet. My progress was slow and night was falling rapidly.
Here's your fucking elevation marker, you fucking fuck.
Soon I found myself riding in darkness. As I neared the town of Republic, where the road dipped below town, I was forced to brake to avoid a deer in the road. Wauconda relinquished me to Republic, but not before making me climb the last quarter mile.
Don't let the sun go down on you, boy
There'd been a stock car race in town that day; Republic's three motels were full. The parking lot of the second motel was half full of motorcycles, mostly Harleys. A party of about sixteen people, whom I took for the bikes' owners, spilled into the parking lot. They were a mixed bunch, men and women, mostly in their 30s. It occurred to me that I might buy a spare bed for sale among them.
Many people would not know it of me, but I'm naturally shy (despite my winning ways). I can approach a group of strangers, but it takes a conscious boost to get me over that hump of apprehension. I tamped down the timid and cranked the charm up to eleven before pushing my bike into their circle. As I'd expected, my recumbent caught their attention. They admired the fairing and made the requisite jokes about the missing motor.
They had no bed for me. They were doubled up themselves because the other half of the hotel had been booked by a funeral party. But, they offered me a beer, and took an interest in my trip. I spent an hour chatting with them, since I had no hurry by that point: it wasn't getting any darker. I learned that they were from the Seattle / Tacoma area, out for a weekend cruise. When the time came for them to move the party to a bar, I moved on.
Oooh, scary
I knew of a campground 3 miles down the road from Republic, but I feared of the dear in the dark. Instead, I settled for a public lawn on the edge of town. It was a strip of cultivated grass at the entrance to a wilderness trail, just up the street from a gas station. At least I'd have coffee and a restroom in the morning. I lay my bedroll down in a needle filled hollow beneath a small grove of pine trees, and cursed Wauconda before fitfully drifting off.
Sleeping Arrangements
Wauconda had one final indignity for me, when I was woken just before sun-up by the gentle patter of lawn sprinklers on my head.
Just a pickin' and a strummin'
The morning began nicely enough with breakfast at the Wildwood Cafe. A sign outside advertised guitar lessons. Inside, the walls were plain, but the ceilings high, and the floors stained a dark walnut. A small cluster of people sat to the back. I wasn't sure who was staff and who visiting, until an older fellow disengaged to take my order, standing casually with me at the front counter. I failed to connect with him, and ate in silence while I listened to the other party lament the unfair balance of Democratic actors in Hollywood. ("I used to like George Clooney, until he got political.")
A couple arrived soon after that quickly found a common ground with the proprietor: it seemed that they dealt in musical instruments. I ease dropped as their conversation ranged through old blues musicians they had known. I recognized Les Paul's name. "Old time string music, fiddles and things. Those old guys played it straight. A D chord is a D chord. One guy, he'd throw in one wild jazz chord, for just one beat, then go back to playing it straight." Eventually the proprietor brought out a guitar and picked out several melodies that I half recognized.
A storm is coming. Just like that last scene in Terminator.
The driving heat and steep climb out of Tonasket set me in a fierce mood, and I sank deep into a meditation about strength and will. I imagined my blood being cleansed by the heat. No headaches. No weakness. Room and time to think clearly, the freedom to sink my claws into my thoughts and strip them bare, rend the meat with my teeth and suck the marrow from the bone of them.
I had honed my lord-of-the-flies manifesto to a fine point by the time I stopped for a rest at the three mile mark. As I sat in the hot sun on the edge of a cultivated lawn, a car arrived with a plain middle aged woman and an older woman whom I assumed to be her mother. They waved as they exited, and the younger woman said, "It's so hot. Why don't you go sit down by the creek?"
She lead me down through the brush and burrs that stuck to my shorts, to the creek behind her house, and left me with an invitation to come up for ice water when I was ready. I climbed to her back porch like a chastened kitten and tamely accepted her shade and ice water. Her name was Danette, and I learned her family had lived on this plot for at least three generations.
I resumed my painful climb toward Wauconda Pass, twenty five, thirty miles of climbing. Loup Loup was straightforward, but Wauconda kept me in agony, hiding its secrets like the cruel cellmate who grins as he slides in the shiv. I wish I could say that Wauconda was some local figure of legend, but Wauconda is not a local name. It was brought here by gold prospectors from Wauconda, Illinois, in 1898, and given to a gold rush town that left only a ghost town. Wauconda, Illinois is said to have been named after an Indian chief, and maybe that's why the spirit of Wauconda is so mean. His good name was dragged and left to rot almost two thousand miles from home.
crazy affection dog wants to ride wif U
It was Saturday, and there were a fair amount of vehicles on SR 20. Many of them honked at me throughout the day. When drivers honk, I have to assume that it's hostile. They may mean it in a friendly way, or an acknowledging way, but with a horn's limited range of expressive, and the knowledge that any single car could be the one that kills me, I can only take it in a get-the-hell-out-of-the-way way. I never know when honking drivers are happy or irritated by my presence on the road, but I always swear at them under my breath.
And so, when someone yelled out their window in a clear effort to startle me, the thunderous scream was ripped from my mouth without thought: "FUCK YOU!" Even as the words were passing my lips, I knew what I had invited. It was a white compact car full of young men. What if they stopped? I hate conflict and I don't know how to fight, but a plan was in my mind in the space of a breath.
Hit the biggest or loudest first, go for the face, use the helmet, don't give them time to react or even get out of the car if I can stop them. I'll probably have to drop the bike and I hate to do that. Whatever happens to me, I'll teach them not to fuck with bicyclists.
They didn't stop.
This is what days of sharing the road with aggressive drivers does to me. In my post-event fantasy analysis, they do stop, and I beat the snot out of them all, thereby halting all automotive traffic, ever.
I pulled off the road at the next crossing, into an idyllic valley with a large farm house at a bend in the road, a horse pasture below, and a flock of domestic geese honking in the back yard. I stopped by their front fence to cool down; even 25 yards away, I could hear the family setting down to dinner. My idyll was dulled by dad yelling at the kids, "Because you don't listen to me, that's why!"
Dad, please don't yell
Postscript, July 28
Two days later I caught up over breakfast with the news from home about the altercation between Critical Mass cyclists and a motorist, that resulted in injury to two cyclists, and the driver beaten. My violent fantasy acted out. The omelette in my belly turned to lead, a cold mixture of shame and dread.
I've only attended one, Critical Mass, and I've long suspected it of a burgeoning mob mentality that frightens me. This kind of activism only serves to alienate the opposing side. I hope that people who are interested in pro-cycling reform will instead look to Cascade Cycling, an activist group that works through legislation, not confrontation.
I stopped a few miles more down the road to visit with a trio of horses. I stood by their fence and took a ridiculous number of photos of them approaching my bike, which amused and calmed me.
Meet your replacement
Soon after, I reached the top of the pass, though Wauconda wasn't done with me yet. My progress was slow and night was falling rapidly.
Here's your fucking elevation marker, you fucking fuck.
Soon I found myself riding in darkness. As I neared the town of Republic, where the road dipped below town, I was forced to brake to avoid a deer in the road. Wauconda relinquished me to Republic, but not before making me climb the last quarter mile.
Don't let the sun go down on you, boy
There'd been a stock car race in town that day; Republic's three motels were full. The parking lot of the second motel was half full of motorcycles, mostly Harleys. A party of about sixteen people, whom I took for the bikes' owners, spilled into the parking lot. They were a mixed bunch, men and women, mostly in their 30s. It occurred to me that I might buy a spare bed for sale among them.
Many people would not know it of me, but I'm naturally shy (despite my winning ways). I can approach a group of strangers, but it takes a conscious boost to get me over that hump of apprehension. I tamped down the timid and cranked the charm up to eleven before pushing my bike into their circle. As I'd expected, my recumbent caught their attention. They admired the fairing and made the requisite jokes about the missing motor.
They had no bed for me. They were doubled up themselves because the other half of the hotel had been booked by a funeral party. But, they offered me a beer, and took an interest in my trip. I spent an hour chatting with them, since I had no hurry by that point: it wasn't getting any darker. I learned that they were from the Seattle / Tacoma area, out for a weekend cruise. When the time came for them to move the party to a bar, I moved on.
Oooh, scary
I knew of a campground 3 miles down the road from Republic, but I feared of the dear in the dark. Instead, I settled for a public lawn on the edge of town. It was a strip of cultivated grass at the entrance to a wilderness trail, just up the street from a gas station. At least I'd have coffee and a restroom in the morning. I lay my bedroll down in a needle filled hollow beneath a small grove of pine trees, and cursed Wauconda before fitfully drifting off.
Sleeping Arrangements
Wauconda had one final indignity for me, when I was woken just before sun-up by the gentle patter of lawn sprinklers on my head.
posted by Ivan at
10:17 PM
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