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Thank the gods for my second wind... a couple of hours ago, I slammed headlong into the Wall Of Sleep (sorry, Smithereens), and remained awake to tell about it. This is a tired, recurring subject... but Mondays whip my dog ass. All those days off are like dealing with life like it's gentle surf, with a little offshore breeze. Monday is a tsunami... with a coral bottom. Oofah. Of course, if I wasn't the Great Procrastinator, this wouldn't be the problem it is... avoiding all of the stupid shit (i. e. anything that requires an adult demeanor) until hours before packing up for Ground Zero. S'OK... Wall Street will do well enough, without me. Of course, there is that nagging situation with building a house... maturity seems to be eluding me. Like that Dylan song: "Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that, now." Literally and figuratively. At least the financial situation isn't as bleak as I'd expected... considering sportscar purchases, when there's other things to manage. And, I guess I'm supposed to be the "daddy," here. For the first time since we met, Miss Jane's being the enabler on this bit of backsliding... lending me some of the mad money until the tax return arrives. Makes me feel a bit of a bastard... as much as I've been ragging on her in past months. Though, it's not like some guys have done, I suppose... I'm sweating paying it back, already. And, I haven't done any skating on her, yet...I'm not sure my conscience would let me, anyway. Still, there's still a lot of points that I'm uncomfortable with... like stumbling across some of her bookmarks on the Seventh Day Adventists. As soon as I find a snake in that house, I'm out. OK... I'm creeping up on the real wall, now. ....................................................................................................................................................... Hostel Environment (Astoria to Cannon Beach) Day three had pretty well clued me into the fact that my first days in Oregon were an anomaly... sunshine wasn't normally expected until past the middle of June. Waking again to rain on the tent was a good illustration... two seasons, two kinds of weather. Summer wasn't here yet. While salving the mosquito bites, and lashing the packs to the bike frame, the route instructions had us winding between the coast road (I do so love the PCH... HIghway 101) and crossing over the coast range into the green valley that paralleled it on our way to Cannon Beach. Swapping between the traffic and pace of the PCH, unable to sightsee much through the spray of Winnebagos, we bridged with agonizing climbs the valley on the other side... a narrow two-lane chasm painted in the colors of Ireland. As the day wore on, every pump on the pedals was like digging an ice pick into my left knee... if I had had aspirin, it would've been wet, anyway, so I decided to suck it up and see how it felt after I'd had the chance to rest it. A monster climb up into Ecola State Park rewarded some unexpected payback for the effort... a panoramic view of the coastline, and the gargantuan rock outcroppings just offshore. So large, that the colonies of gulls living on them were like microscopic christmas lights against the green/black of the monoliths.
I believe, that was when I fell completely in love with the west coast. Rather than camping, we found a hostel to house us for the night, and restaurant food for sustenance. While most of the group made back for the bunks, Luke, Brian, Cor and I decided to partake of some malty comestibles... and proceeded to get rip-roaring pissed until the wee hours. Tip-toeing into the snore-accented darkness of the bunkroom, until an emulsified Cor managed to get his feet tangled in the ladder of an upper bunk... we all exploded into a hail of teenage-girl giggles. For which, of course, we would be branded as the fuckups of the group, henceforward. Like a Badge of Courage. Or Pissheads. |
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