Sunday, August 6th
I set about four alarms in the morning, fortunately I only needed the first one. Up at 7.30, I showered, checked out, redeemed my complimentary bagel and coffee from the hostel, then walked to Target to buy a memory card for my camera. I took an Uber to the station from there and collected my bike and box and the laundry bag containing my panniers and camping gear – both heavily battered after enduring a 32 hour something journey. I felt much the same. But it was almost over, and, just beginning.
The bus to Astoria made a few calling points along the coast before reaching the end of the line. This gave me a taste of the road I’d have ahead of me, and provided some temptation to jump off earlier, but I decided to stick to the plan. Astoria was the very tip of Oregon, and the finishing/start point for riders taking the Trans America route coast to coast. It seemed a fitting start point for my much smaller trip.
I was one of the few remaining passengers when the bus came to it’s final stop. Most had departed a Cannon Beach – a popular tourist spot 30 miles down the coast. Astoria seemed less of a destination judging but the empty seats, but seemed a pleasant enough place with colourful houses of San Francisco and hills which made me think of San Francisco.
I quickly got to work on my bike. Locating my knife and cutting through layers of cardboard, tape, foam, and bubble wrap, to get to the steel and rubber within. At first glance at least it seemed to have weathered the journey. The only damage was caused by me when I overinflated the front tyre causing the tube inside to explode. Otherwise everything came back together as good as I could have hoped for.
I rushed packed my panniers and bag, deciding instead to sort them out when I camped later. I was conscious the day was slipping away and I was still just at the start line.
I put everything on the bike and took a quick cycle around the car park I’d be assembling it next too, then I pulled the back brake and the cable immediately snapped. Ultimately this could have happened at a much more inconvenient and dangerous time. There was a bike shop two blocks away. As it turned out it was a popular place for riders on the Trans Am to finish and leave their bikes to have them packed up at the end of their 4000+ mile trips. There were a few on the shop floor ready to go home.
I had my brake cable changed and my gears tuned and bought a tube to replace the one I’d popped. I bought a coffee whilst I was waiting and talked with the shop owner who was telling me about a trip he’d made around Europe in the late 80s.
Ready to go again, I eased my way out of the city, picking up a Subway along the way, before joining a waterfront path which passed under the Astoria-Megler bridge which connected with Washington on the other side of the water.
I took the 101 for a while, slowly adjusting to the weight and feel of the bike, and the journey ahead of me. With all travel and effort of getting here I’d almost forgotten why I was here. But as I diverted off the highway and a long open road opened up ahead of me I remembered feelings I’d not had for almost a year. I relaxed and let myself sink into the surroundings.
Off the 101 (the road which I’d be on for a large proportion of this ride down to San Francisco) I took the Lewis and Clark Road. A quiet but winding and climbing route which would rejoin with the coast after 10 miles or so. Everything seemed to be named after Lewis and Clark around here. I know only vaguely off their journey but assume they reached the Pacific nearby.
The cycling was pleasant but a little tougher than it should have been, I was still jet lagged and exhausted from the last 48 hours or so i’d been on the move.
I was happy when the road plummeted downhill, and met with the town of Seaside which unsurprisingly lived up to its name. I followed a long beach promenade which was ran parallel to some dunes and a sandy beach busy with people out enjoying their Sunday.
I kept pushing ahead. The 101 became a busy two lane road. The sky had become grey and though it was still two hours from sunset it felt dark already, and cycling on the highway made me and my tired mind tense.
I stopped at the next town along – Cannon beach, somewhat ironically where the bus had stopped this morning. It felt right to end things there though – despite being around 13 miles from where I had been hoping to sleep. But with a climb and a tunnel up ahead, increasing fog and fading energy and concentration, I knew it was time to stop.
I pulled into a campsite just back off the highway which I’d found on Google. Not a state park, but a family run place which had been going since 1959. It was fully booked but had spaces free for bikers and hikers – just 10 dollars. I was more than happy to pay. I was shown to my spot, a little further away from the main campsite where families had their RV’s and grills setup, but in a quiet area between tall dark trees.
After putting my tent up, repacking my bags, and eating what was left of my lunch, I headed down to the beach in time for sunset. Except there was no sun to set – just more grey and bleakness, fog in the distance surrounding rocky coastline, and the smell of fire wood. I went and looked at Haystack Rock – a jagged mass sticking out on the beach like a mountain top. Birds hovered around the various peaks of it.
I looked at the Pacific, small fires had popped up all along the beachfront, but I was cold so I turned back to the campground stopping at (famous local brewery) Pelican Brewing, and with a bottle of beer in my hand made my way to my tent.
Map