First California Climb
What I most love about big climbs along the coast is that, once I've done my bit and I'm zipping down the other side of the mountain, there's usually a good stretch of road where it looks like I'll be flying straight into the ocean. Today's plunge was a particularly good one, inspiring Crush-like screams of "Righteous! Righteous" and cackles of maniacal speed demon laughter as gravity gave me some props and sent me hurtling towards the sea. The climb itself was arduous, of course, with narrow to no shoulder, but I pedaled in the cool of towering redwoods.
I managed to secure a new flag in Crescent City, taller even than my antenna mast, and I took to reaching behind me and pulling on the pole so that it waved back and forth, whenever traffic was coming up behind me. It gets dark beneath those giant trees, and I knew from watching other cyclists ahead of me that I'd be hard to see. It seems as though my flag-waggling actually prompted some cars and even trucks to switch into the uphill passing lane, giving me plenty of room. And even if the waggling had nothing to do with it, it made me feel better, so I shall continue doing it.
I'm at an RV park in Klamath, now, undistinguished, but run by nice folks, with WiFi and a flat place for my tent. Tomorrow there will be a 35-mile run to my first California State Park, at Patrick's Point. I'm looking forward to it...KOAs and RV parks are fine, but expensive, and I tend not to encounter other cyclists there. Here, though, there is a Russian man camping with his family, who was so impressed with my rig and my journey that he brought his somewhat embarrased son over, so that he too would be impressed and perhaps engage in similar feats of daring-do. "Two thousand miles!" he exclaimed when I told him what my final mileage would be. He poked his son in the shoulder. "Two thousand!" To me, he added, "You are number one man to me, you understand?" There's something about a thick Russian accent that I just love...somewhere between the lilt of Italian and the crunch of German, there are the rolled "r"s and tubular "o"s of that Slavic tongue.
I think I'm finally getting back into the groove, especially now that I've done the first big climb, and found it much less torturous than I feared it might be, and much more pleasant than certain Kentucky mountains. My legs hurt, but they're in good shape, with big melons of muscle clinging loosely to their bones. It's strange to have space between my thighs, space that was formerly taken up by extra flabby bits. The knees ache a bit, but not too badly. And now I can easily contemplate 35-mile jaunts, instead of 15- or 20-mile hops, even with the climbs. The air is cool, the sea sparkles, and the redwoods beckon!
