T+22: Utterly Exhausted

Mile 333. INN AT PORT LUDLOW, WA: I am listening to Wes snore behind me and that’s a good thing.  We have been on the road for 11 days straight.  We had quite the day yesterday which left us gasping for air, and pushing our bikes up intense hills today.

We left our camp at Belair State Park fairly early in the morning.  We had been in the “hiker/biker camp sites”.  These are pretty marginal camping sites kept open for people who walk or bike in and who cannot be asked to go any further.  Unlike the other sites which are wooded, somewhat secluded, and with water taps.  The hiker/biker sites are glorified parking lots, next to the highway, but away from the 5 jillion families and their 12 jillion kids who are here to enjoy the beautiful scenery and play in a very gentle version of the ocean.

We have walked out to the shore, which is the furthest reach of the Hood Canal.   Thinking that a canal is man-made waterway, I have already embarrassed myself asking a local  “what the two bodies of  water does the Hood Canal connect.”  She points out, gently, that humans could not have dug the waterway we are viewing, where just a few weeks ago there had been a whale.  

There are visible oyster beds just off shore, and piles and piles of oyster shells showing that generations of humans and animals have been feeding here…and big signs warning people not to eat these oysters raw because of a disease called vibrio.  We don’t know the first thing about digging for oysters, or cooking them, so I guess we don’t have to worry about that risk.

When we return to the campsite, we see that other bikers have moved in and to our surprise, they are also pulling B.O.B trailers.  The vast majority of touring bicyclists use panniers.  David and Annie are very close to us in age and have made very many of the same choices we have.  We note the same choices in tents, in pants, in handlebar bags.  We compare choices for beds and cooking, and of course, share “war stories” from previous bicycle journeys.  They give us invaluable tips on using the trailers. 

They have a real estate and insurance business in Phoenix and are happy to be away from its heat in the summer.  They are stunned, as most people are, when Wes says we are from Detroit, “the greatest city on earth.”  A little while later, Annie says she always heard that Detroit was nothing but “abandoned factories, burnt-out houses, and (she whispers)….black people…”
I puzzle about this for miles.  I wonder why she thought it necessary to whisper “black people.”  Is it because she felt uncomfortable mentioning race at all? Is it because she can’t conceive of a place with lots of African Americans as having value?  Is it because she is uncomfortable with the idea of living with African Americans?

Both Wes and I recognize that our ability to travel as we do is a function of our white privilege.  We can go into dive bars, or fancy restaurants, or some outback village, pretty much without fear of being harassed or mistreated.  This is not a freedom most people of color have---and a freedom European Americans take for granted.

We cycle 30 miles fast as we can to a bicycle shop in Silverdale, where Wes’ bike will get some much needed maintenance.  He will eliminate the balloon tires, change his failing free wheel, adjust his derailleurs and get a new chain.  The guys at the bike shop are stunned at his 30 year old all-steel Raleigh.  The owner makes sure a young guy works on the bike so he can experience what bikes worked like “when they still made sense.”

Silverdale is essentially a far-flung suburb of Seattle, so there is no camping near about.  The owner, who cycles 18 miles to work every day, asks us if we have another 10 miles in us.  There is a great state park just ten easy and flat miles away.

Well, ten easy and flat miles to a road bike cyclist who travels nearly 40 miles every day is not the actual 14 miles it takes for slow, fat, Midwesterners pulling their life in a trailer.  For one thing, Washington road planners apparently don’t believe in going around a mountain to go up it.  Roads go straight up, then straight down.  After the first hill down, I notice that I don’t have any front brakes.  I reconnect the brake, which the bike shop had disengaged to replace the tube we had repaired on our first day out.

The next seven miles are up hill.  Both Wes and I are getting quite tired.  Our exhaustion starts to be problematic, when we take a wrong turn (for the second time this day) and realize a mile later that we are in the wrong place.  We push on and on.  I can barely make it up the hills.  Even the down hills are not great and I think I am losing control of my muscles and bike because of exhaustion.
After we reach the much awaited Lofall Road and zoom down, expecting to find the camp at the bottom, I was disappointed almost to the point of tears, to see another big hill loom before us.   By now, the shadows are stretching across the road and it will not be long before sunset.   I can barely move at this point and while I am getting whiny and emotional, Wes is getting cranky and gruff.   We come to the main road, and still haven’t seen our camp.  Wes waves over a passing pick-up and asks where the camp is.

He points us back down to the previous corner,  to a street fortuitously named Wesley Way.  He tells us to take that hill, then the first right and follow that back road to the park.   After about another mile, we finally turn into the park.  We have travelled 44 miles this day, in addition to getting major repairs done on Wes’ bike.  It is late, the sun is almost down, and we are utterly exhausted.  We manage to get the tent up in this hiker/biker campsite with hard, hard ground.  It is all we can do to make a cup of tea, before we crawl into the tent and go to bed without any supper.
The next morning, we are both still dragging, but do take the time to go look at the inspiring view of the Olympic Mountains which are gleaming in the morning light.  Just as we get ready to take off, I check the brake that I had re-attached on the road.  It was deployed.  No wonder that last 14 miles was soooo difficult.  I was riding against my brake the whole way.   Sheesh.

The ride that morning, even though beautiful, was just plain difficult.  Neither Wes nor I had any strength to make it up the many steep hills that are the hallmark of this part of the country.   We use whatever adrenalin we have to ride across the 4 mile Hood Canal bridge, and then are completely disheartened to see an extra steep hill greet us on the other side. 
Every hill has to be pushed up and even though the scenery is stunning as we travel through Paradise Bay, we are having such a hard time moving, it is not fun.   We crawl into the little town of Port Hadlock, something of a planned community/resort for the well-to-do, just 12 miles from where we started.  We eat lunch, ask about local camping, and are told that the next stop is great, but….the whole road has just been oiled and it is pretty darn hilly too.  Our hearts sink at this.

Around the next corner, we look down and see the very upscale Inn at Port Ludlow.  I tell Wes I am giving them a call, just to see.  I tell the reservations desk we have been bicycling for 11 days, and we are just beat.   I quiz her about the rates, which are high.  We decide, “What the heck?”  Wes says, “Let’s call this your birthday celebration.”  So we zoom down to the pretty hotel on the bay.   The desk clerk agrees to lock our  bikes away, gives us a bottle of wine as birthday present, and before long, we are drinking wine, using the Jacuzzi, and looking out our balcony onto the marina and the view of the Brothers Wilderness in the Olympic Peninsula.  Free of what feels like our wretched bicycle clothes, we collapse on the big, soft bed and sleep.

When we wake up, it is nearly twilight.  We go the restaurant and have expensive drinks and delicious food.  Afterwards, I catch up on my blog, while Wes takes a Jacuzzi, reads the paper, and falls asleep early. 

The next morning, after a lovely breakfast and brief walk around the grounds, we load our bikes, and make our way back to the road.  We both feel 100% better.  The ride to the place to the recommended campground was difficult, especially the five mile section in which we were the only bicyclists following a pilot car on a single lane of the highway.  The trail of cars left us far behind.  We felt obligated to go as fast as we can, so as not to delay the drivers waiting on the other side.  After clearing the last hard hill, we are panting hard, and know we never could have made it the previous day.   Wes notes, “Even God took a day off.”  Maybe we should take a clue from that more often.