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Though the Mid-Atlantic has had it pretty soft for the past few winters, this one is chilling me to the depths. Outside, fine pellets of snow are bouncing off of the cars and highway... so cold, the six points are plainly visible on each flake. Predictions augur that temperatures will be down in the single digits through the weekend, more snow to arrive every few days. Makes the hours interminable, and every day seem like a test of endurance. And the season's just begun. Too bad we can't hibernate... I'd purely love to make a cave of quilts and comforters, spoon up against warm flesh and turn off the lights until the thaw occurs. Nice dream, anyway. That's one thing I'm good at. Inside, the system seems to have the same glacial attitude: infinitessimal flow of ones and zeros to the point of being static. The effect, tranferring from the keyboard to my fingertips... slowing the bloodstream and embedding into my bones like petrification. An endless night. Drugs would be good. ................................................................................................................................................... Hostel Environment (Cannon Beach to Cape Lookout) It's one thing to be hungover when you're in your own element: TV, refrigerator, bed, four walls... another, when your home is strapped to a bicycle, to be assembled when the day's destination is reached--after miles and miles of pumping on cranks. Exertions uphill, exhiliarations own the downstroke. At the very least, the visual payoff of interrupted mountain crags beseiged by relentless surf, viewed from a vast beach took some of the nauseating edge off... until the time inevitably arrived to make way for places unknown. Another day of hopscotching over the coast range and back, surrounded by sheer walls of firs, rocky backbones erupting along the crests. Thankfully, the sun baked away the chill from days previous... replaced with the grind of bone-against-bone in my left knee with every spin of the chainrings. Dulled, the charm of Tillamook Bay, improbable towns like Netarts, and Neskowyn. The final destination of remote Cape Lookout State Park, thrust out into the Pacific, seeming almost mythologic until late in the day... I expected to see smoke rise from my leg from the friction upon the final climb. Dinner, chores done, we made for the beach... at this point, even walking through sand was more than I could bear. And the affliction now had a name... bursitis/tendonitis. Would I have to end the trip so soon? |
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