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...two words, aligned together, that has always had the most remarkable effect. Of-the-earth, ancient, emancipative, fleeting, and pleasantly disruptive... and a damned good name for a reprieve from winter. Like the eye of a frozen hurricane. I'll take it. Being able to roam around the yard in but one layer, feeling the burn of the sun on my face... a nice reminder that the cold doesn't reign eternally. The signs were there, last night on the drive home. Bitingly cold in Ashburn, black ice on the tarmac in the parking lot... uncomfortably warm in the car, half of the way back--which never happens. Twenty degrees difference when I roused my numb ass from the seat, as I stepped out onto the gravel in the driveway. And tomorrow, it's gone. Nice to have known you. Of course, a good part of the morning was spent right where I am now, addict that I am. Blurrily going through the motions through most of the day, re-orienting myself to country life... ending with much too much for dinner, and the onset of a throbbing jaw. The last time that manifested, my face ballooned on one side. Let's not have a repeat of that, please. At least I'll have had today. ...................................................................... Hostel Environment (henceforth, unofficial title of The Bike Trip): My first experience with communal camping (that didn't involve drugs, suicide, or PseudoHippies) began on a hillside overlooking the city, again with Mt. Hood looking on. Inside the converted two-story Craftsman, rested the list of suspects that would share in the sweat, campstove-cuisine, extremes of weather, and unthinkable miles of pedal-pushing (names not changed, since it's been a generation ago): Dudley, trip leader: Japanese-descended, LA-accented hard man... who was going to have much to put up with with our lot. Got off on the wrong foot with him; I replied, flippantly, to his introductory letter, which I though was equally flippant (this was before emoticons)...which labelled me as a smartass. Doris: Feminist from Portland... strong rider, defiantly political, eventually Dudley's connubial tentmate. Brian: From PA... wry humorist, fellow music addict. A bud. Luke: Unstable, from RI. My first tentmate... not connubial.Two-to-a-tent meant less weight to carry. Steve: Well-grounded 17 year-old from Houston. To be nicknamed "Little Piss Pot." The babe magnet. Anita: Ever-silent, from China... who wound up pushing a bicycle from coast-to-coast. Tim: "The Night Stalker," from WI... stoic, also silent, whose favorite thing to was walk alone wherever we stopped for the night. Greg: From CA... who I remember precious little of. Lanky, middle-class...that's it. The Holland contingent: Jeanny: Quintessential rosy-cheeked Dutch girl. Who could out-pedal me. Henk: Building engineer, a dead-ringer for the style of Peter Sellers. Cor: The Party Animal of little english. Favorite saying... "Mmmm, quite nice." Capable of eating more chocolate than any human I've ever known. Uncanny ability to show up at the most inopportune times. After a tentative evening of getting-to-know-you, our first day together included a twenty-five mile orientation ride to the confluence of the Willamette and Columbia rivers (wide, fast-moving, salmon-filled). And three wrong turns, thanks to our dodgy map-reading. Dudley was not pleased. Our posteriors were sore. Humble beginnings, which were discussed, at length, in the evening discussion of the trip itinerary. Which began, the next day. No. Sleep. 'Til Yorktown! |
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