For the day and a half we're in El Rosario, Mama Espinoza's is as busy as it will get all year.  The Baja 1000 has come to town, as it does every year. This family-run restaurant has been at the heart of it since 1967, when the first organized race saw motorcycles and buggies flying across some of the nastiest terrain geology can dish out.  Now, the walls of Mama Espinoza's are covered in signed photographs - men on dirt bikes flying through the air in front of cacti and stony mountains, trucks kicking up huge plumes of dust - maps, and race memorabilia.  When we stop in for dinner the tables are packed with these same men.  Kelly and I wait a few minutes for a table to open, and order Pacifico.  The place hums with the nervous energy of men who've waited all year and finally have a suitable outlet for their passion.  Some drink Margaritas or Red Bull in silence, others check their phones and tablets, calling out times and distances.  Next to us, a group of six has just sat down and ordered some lobster burritos, when one checks his phone.  "Shit!  He's at mile 370, just through check 3, cancel the order we gotta get moving."  A minute later they're replaced by another group of men in dirty jeans and driving suits.

Riding into El Rosario, most of the traffic had been race traffic: Ford Raptor after Ford Raptor, beds packed with knobby tires and long-spouted containers of high-octane fuel, paraded to the pits at Cataviña.  Trophy trucks and buggies, nothing but tubing, suspension, and plastic cladding encasing obscene engines were interspersed throughout.  The trophy trucks slowed to pass us and when they tapped the gas on the other side it sounded like the earth was opening up.  The power difference between our chosen modes of transport was startling.   Kelly's stomach had been revolting all day, and though we had rested the day before, we decided to take a sick day in El Rosario, the last outpost before the 300 kilometer expanse of the Baja desert.

The next morning, after a restful night in our modest motel across the sandy parking lot, we head back to Mama's for breakfast.  We start to sip our Nescafe when a couple more Ford's pull into the parking lot.  Out pops a team we'd met in San Quintin, running the race's only stock (unmodified from the dealer, except for the addition of a roll cage, harnesses, and a skid plate).   They're goal isn't a time, but simply to finish.  They're part of a crew of 12 support trucks, 3 camera cars, and one helicopter, all funded by Ford to generate some press for a brand new truck.  They'd been chipper and excited when we'd met them at 7am in San Quintin but now, walking through the door at Mama Espinoza's, they look like the walking dead.  They sit down to chat and we find out they haven't slept since we saw them, having spent the night digging their support truck out of a mud hole at the bottom of a canyon.  The mud was midway up the doors and it took them all night, but the race truck is doing well so they're in good spirits.  "Are you going to finish?" Kelly asks.

"Yes," says Dustin, a young guy, with a thin, gallic face, who works for Ford and helped to build the truck.

Jason, hefty and freckled, shoots him a dirty look.  "Why the hell did you just say that?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah.  You were thinking the same thing.  Don't be so superstitious," Dustin responds.  One of the team's drivers, still clad in his dusty canvas jumper, pulls back the tablecloth and raps the wood underneath.  Jason follows suit.

"What I should have said is that our truck is doing really well right now," Dustin modifies.  Jason and the driver nod their approval.

Kelly understands the superstition well.  Road conditions, upcoming topography, wind, weather, and traffic are all things she'd prefer not be jinxed by an offhand comment.   As we prepare to head into an unknown desert, Kelly's as nervous as she has been before any leg of the trip.  When we leave the next morning, she'll have 20 liters of water strapped to the top of the trailer.  The when's and how's of resupplying and sleeping in the desert are hearsay at this point and she wants to be prepared for the worst case scenario.  I'm more optimistic but I try to keep that to myself.

What we do know when we leave El Rosario is that we'll have to climb from close to sea level up to 2,000 feet over the first 22 miles and then continue through a landscape that one touring blog described as "endlessly hilly."  I'm still not sure how to read touring bicyclists' terrain descriptions (they often seem more a reflection of the riders psychological state while riding through a segment than an objective reflection of the topography) but I'm pretty sure that "endlessly hilly" is going to be a pain in the ass, however the rider was feeling.

When we leave, and the road turns inland, we're suddenly greeted by a bright green valley, with some of the happiest cow's in Baja munching on a field of grass.   The oasis disappears as soon as we start climbing, up an immediately steep slope that's to set the tone for the rest of the day - sometimes brutal, sometimes gradual, but climbing, always climbing, the descents too short for the muscles to breath.  But there's always beauty to take my mind off the grind.  Surrounded by endless cacti and rings of rolling hills giving way to sharp peaks in the background, a stark and wide open sky.  Even Kelly, who's been grumbling about the lack of greenery since Oregon, started muttering, "Jesus, that's pretty," as we wound our way into the desert.  

After 29 miles, we came across the first sign of civilization since leaving El Rosario, a ramschakle restaraunt/truck stop that consisted of a simple stone house surrounded by a few weathered out-buildings, rusting vehicles, and wind-blown trash.  Kelly goes in to inquire about camping in the area and the family inside says sure, camp wherever you like, motioning to the property behind the house.  A middle-aged man with a dark face and a toothy smile comes out of the house to investigate.  "Are you tired?" he asks.

"Yes, we left at 6am," I say.  

He nods.

"Long distances here," I say.

"Yes," He says, and walks towards an out-building.  A few small dogs and two kittens follow at his feet.

We set up camp behind the house.  Kelly rests her bike against the bald, cracked tires of some rusting heavy equipment and we clear some broken glass to set up the tent.  The ground is too hard to set stakes, so we use rocks to anchor against the mountain wind.  Two skinny mutts  come searching for food scraps and attention and Kelly gives them both.  When I pee in the dirt, the littlest one, an ugly, daschund mongrel, comes and marks over my scent.  He trots back to Kelly.

When camp's set up we head back to the restaurant for an early dinner.  The whole family's still inside, hanging out as they must everyday.  It's dark and stony, like a cave, but our eyes soon adjust to the light.  The kitchen is run by three good-looking, well-fed women who whip up some of the best food we've had in Mexico so far.  A little-boy who flashes us mischievous grins does laps around our table on his three-wheeler as we wait for food, crashing into the door when he gets bored.   I'd been nervous about camping in the desert, vestiges of fear-mongering media and vague blog-mentions of random robbery and violence.  But the reality of a family trying to sell enough food and coffee to subsist in the desert quickly makes my nervousness seem rather silly and xenophobic. The little-boy joins us at the table and starts crashing his toy bus into the salt and salsa bottles.

The next day we awake to roosters at 4am, drink coffe and make peanut butter and banana sandwiches for breakfast in the tent before the sun is up.  We're back on the road shortly after sunrise.  The day is hard, but not as bad, physically, as the previous, but it's mentally draining.  For the first 30 miles we ride up and down a procession of low hills.  "That's 7," Kelly says after riding up the seventh hill in the first 2 miles.

"Stop that," I say.  "It'll make you crazy."  The landscape is cacti and thornbrush, dirt pullouts, and bad asphalt, set on repeat.  It feels like we're spinning in a hamster wheel.  Counting or not, movement without progress will make you mad.  We stop for a snack with some 15 miles to go before Cataviña.  We're both done with the day, done with riding.  A Subaru that'd just passed us flips around and comes back to chat.  "Hey!  I saw you guys on the road, and I was like wow, look at these guys!  I was a mechanic in Colorado Springs for the U.S. cycling team.  Name's Renee, I live up in Orange County, come down here a lot though, was born in Mexico City..." he goes on.  Before long he's pulled out a homemade remote-controlled quadricopter that he's mounted a GoPro camera on.  "Okay, you guys get riding, I'm gonna take some shots."  The device whizzes into the air. "You guys have fun, until next time!" he says as he fiddles with the joysticks.

We start pedaling and the device is swooping in front of us like a Predator Drone about to take out some Afgan civilians.  Within a kilometer the landscape changes.  Huge boulders start popping up amidst the cacti and pretty soon it's a boulderer's paradise, huge piles of rock, some 150ft high litter the sides of the road, as far as the eye can see.  Suddenly we're awake and engaged, riding through a world like nothing either of us have ever seen before. It puts a smile on my face and Cataviña doesn't seem so far away.

The next 3 days go by in a blur.  We ride 66 miles through the hills, then 61.  The desert is wide open and we want to get through it.  By the time we start our last day  before Guerrero Negro both Kelly and I are so tired we can barely drink our coffee.  The last day is short and easy, only 23 miles of flat riding.  My body has become so used to the rhythm of pedaling that I catch myself trying to doze off at 11mph.  I spray myself with cold water and we keep riding.

A selection of advice we received about Mexico, unsolicited from random people before leaving the U.S. (with full consideration that these were mostly well-intentioned folks, with an interest in our safety):

"I've spent a lot of time down there, and it's frightening.  You need to be careful." (shakes head with look of grave, vague reminiscence.


"Those drivers down there are crazy!"


"Some places are fine, but Tijuana is one of the worst.  You need to make sure you plan your route really well."


"They will kill you!"


"Be careful!"



Now, most of these came from a place of genuine concern, but weren't particularly helpful.  The "Be careful!" admonition is one that immediately causes both Schwan and my hair to bristle and we'll immediately switch off the listening part of our brains.  Oh I should be careful? I was going to play chicken with Mexican petrol trucks and search for blow in moonless alleys, but now that you mentioned it maybe I will think about being careful.




It's now been a week since crossing over to "down there" and surprise, surprise, Northern Baja from Tijuana to San Quintin hasn't been land of narcos, violent glue-sniffing robbers, and sociopathic drivers that advice would have led us to believe.  Yes, things have been a little more hectic in Mexico but that's how it goes in most of the world.

Most of our difficulties since crossing into Mexico have been environmental and physiological.    Once we got our tourist visas and started getting back onto our bikes, it felt like the border patrol had actually been spending their money on an invisible force field to keep the heat from fouling San Diego's temperate image.  9am and I was already spraying myself down.  Not good, I thought.  The other problem was that upon turning on our Garmin, I found that city maps of North America had disappeared.  No signs, no map, let's start riding and hope we can find the right highway.  Fortunately, stress was able to pry free a little of the Spanish that's been rusting in the back of my brain since I left El Salvador nine years ago.  After asking some attendants at a Pemex station - who gave looks of amused disbelief that we were looking to ride Highway 1 out of town - braving a highway overpass, consulting our very vague GPS, turning around, asking a guy in a Taco truck (who gave the same look), and turning around again, we eventual found the free highway (the ubiquitously signed toll road doesn't allow bikes) heading to Rosarito. Traffic was heavy, it was hot, and my blood pressure went to shit, but eventually we made it up the 6-mile climb out of town.  From there, brown hills spotted with large housing developments roll down to the Pacific.  An easy descent later and we were already in Rosarito.  By 2pm we were lounging by the pool of a little beachside hotel. 




Riding the stretch from Rosarito to Ensenada felt like an extension of California's Highway 1, dry rolling hills and headlands, the road winding above crashing surf and crystalline water.  We were able to put in 52 miles without terrible difficulty.

It wasn't until the highway cuts inland, away from the coastal breezes and into the Sierra de San Pedro Martira that things started to get hard.  First it was the hills, which had been steep but short since leaving the Big Sur area, but now kept getting bigger and bigger until they turned into mountains.  Then came the heat.  It behaves different in these parts.  None of the steady building until a 5pm high like in Oregon summers.  Here, the early mornings are cool, but there's a time around 8am, when the sun gets high enough, that the day's heat is released into the atmosphere and the temp can jump 15-20 degrees in as many minutes.  By 9am it's almost as hot as it's going to get.  The morning's are blazing, but the heat starts breaking around 1pm steadily descends for the rest of the afternoon.   Not that we knew any of this until we got into it.

My personal low-point of the entire trip so far came 2 days ago.  We'd spent our first night in a Mexican campground (similar to private U.S. campgrounds, but with roosters!) and were moving slowly in the morning.  Kelly and her Groucho-Marx looking cat-friend worried about food and I slowly packed up the tent.  We didn't get on the road until almost 9am and it was already in the 80's.  As soon as we started pedaling I didn't feel great, but usually it takes a little while to get into a rhythm. As we started climbing I couldn't find that rhythm.  Something was off, whether dehydration, not getting enough calories to recover from the previous day's ride, blood pressure, or a combination of all three I can't be sure.  On the rather gradual slope I had to shift into my lowest gear and crawl up.  "What's wrong?" Kelly asked as she waited for me at a shaded shoulder. "It's not near as steep as yesterday, you should be crushing this." I didn't know, so I kept drinking water and had some food. In civilized life, it's pretty easy to get through the day if you're a bit dehydrated or you haven't eaten right. You might feel a bit sluggish. But when you're pedaling for 5+ hours day, the body has a tendency to make its needs very apparent. Subtlety is not in it's best interest.

So my body yelled at me and I yelled back and eventually Kelly and I made it to the top of the pass at 1,600 feet. It always feels good getting to the top of whatever you've been climbing, for you get to enjoy the descent. And a helluva descent it was, a fast open road that sped us past hardy scrubland and dusty arroyos. The problem was that as soon as we dropped onto the other side of the mountain the temp jumped into the low 90's and kept climbing as we descended. Kelly likened the descent to driving in an old car in the summer and having to blast the heat to keep the radiator from overheating. I knew I was going to have issues when I saw my spedo at 40mph and I still wasn't cooling off. As soon as the road started rolling and I had to work, I was cooked.  My struggles only prolonged both mine and Kelly's time in the blazing sun, though Kelly was as patient as a sweating Schwan can be. By the we pulled into San Vicente at 1pm, Kelly's black helmet straps were caked white with salt. We'd only done 24 miles and I couldn't do anymore. In that heat, all the niggling doubts about whether this trip is physically possible for me started to come to the forefront and we almost hoped on a bus to San Quintin to get back down to the coast. But after some rest, food, and a few dousings of ice-cold water, we decided to just find a room where we were and see if tomorrow went better.

We found a room, a market, and met some of the local kids who wander the dusty side-lanes of town on their BMX bikes. By the time we'd bought some food to cook dinner, the sun was setting over the mountains. They cut sharply into angry red sky that slowly deepened to purple. The kids were racing after passing Baja 1000 trucks, pleading for stickers. People smiled when we passed because not many people stop in San Vicente unless they have to.

The next morning we were up at 4am and on our bikes heading for a quick coffee at 6am. The sun hadn't yet peeked over the hills and already the town was bustling. Everyone going to work, or already working, and we didn't feel so special for getting such an early start. That day we climbed in the early morning sun, bumped over miles of stony construction zones, and made it out of the inland sauna before worst of the heat arrived. Both our bodies felt good so we kept on riding, over hills and through dusty valley's, out of the mountains and into agricultural land. Kelly towing another 30-40lbs of water weight in addition to her normal road. 69 miles in 85 degree heat towards the promise of an air-conditioned room for Kelly's birthday. It's amazing what your body can do when you decide to try again.

We made it to Mexico!! We couldn't fit through the turn-style on the pedestrian crossing though this is where we were told to go. The guards couldn't open the gate next to the turnstyles, so we were told to go on the highway with the cars. We ended up riding on I-5 through the maze of cars to get to customs. We were not-so-kindly greeted by an official wanting to know why we were there. After some explanation (thank goodness he spoke English), he was nice and actually walked us across the border.

Then we were left to navigate Tijuana. Up to this point we've been navigating with a book and google maps on Seth's iPhone. Now that we were in Mexico, it meant we'd have to rely on our Garmin GPS. Seth turned it on, only to find that the maps woldn't load. Which meant that we had to navigate through a huge Mexican city with an unsafe reputation -- all without a GPS. Our only map was not detailed enough. Luckily Seth's Spanish pulled through for directions and we both have a decent sense of direction...we found our way onto the highway. We can't say that riding on Mexico 1 through Tijuana is the safest route. It's 6 miles up with 6 lanes of fast moving traffic. But -- we made it!! And at the top of those 6 miles, the road drops down and we were suddenly in Rosarito along the ocean.

While in Rosarito we were able to get some Mexican money, eat some Mexican food and drink some Mexican beer. Good times.

Our second day ended up being our second longest at 52 miles....and rivals our most difficult days. We expected flat with 1 big hill, but instead found rolling hills along the coast and 1 monster climb into the mountains that led to several medium-sized climbs.

Today was awesomely difficult but we made it to Ensenada. The terrain has changed back to difficult climbing only this time there's the added element of heat. We're always up for a good challenge!

Wow. Here we are, in a hotel room 2 miles north of the Mexican border. We are prepping everyting - our gear, our heads, getting our last taste of American food and dark beer and pumpkin pie. We are ready for the next step of this adventure despite how huge this step may feel right now.



We are posting this blog so that everyone is updated on our last week of activity, pictures and all.....and because we are unsure of when we will have internet again to send updates.



This past week has actually been quite restful in terms of cycling. We have been busy on our rest days with last minute adjustments and preparations to our gear as well as visiting family. We started the week by visiting Box Wheelchairs in Norco, CA for some adjustments to Seth's chair (this is the company who sponsored Seth with his awesome wheelchair -- definitely check them out). Then we spent time with family in Dana Point, exploring replicas of historic boats and enjoying some beach time.

From Dana Point, we continued riding, as you guessed it, SOUTH! We stopped in Carlsbad for a night and rode through Camp Pendleton before making it to San Diego to stay with Kelly's cousin, Stacey. While we were in San Diego we got to use Stacey's car to visit Challenged Athletes Foundation (they gave Seth a grant to help cover his handcycle...fantastic folks!) and run errands for last minute restocking of our gear. Riding around town with the air conditioning, going from point A to point B without any physical effort was quite a treat, one we do not take for granted. In the following pictures, you will see that we were haunted by the flat tire spirits.

Our plans are to continue to push our pace through the Baja until we meet up with Kelly's parents around Thanksgiving. As we hit towns along the way, we will continue updating as much as possible though we will no longer have the convenience of a data plan.

Thanks again to everyone for all of your support. Continue to spread the word on the importance of movement and physicality...and do yourself a favor by doing something active today.

Hasta Luego

As you may guess, Seth is the author here, the one responsible for the eloquently-written blog posts. He writes well and several people have commented as such. With my guest appearance, I can guarantee you a (sometimes brutally) honest change in perspective.

 We have a lot of time to think every day while riding our bikes. Sometimes we can at least talk to each other, but we are typically too far apart or separated by deafening winds, whether it's a head wind from dear Mother Nature, or caused by increased speed traveling downhill (our favorite), or created by the many cars and trucks passing us by. It was in the past few days that I started to think about a blog post from me. And when discussed with Seth, he confirmed my thought, "Schwan, that's a great idea!" So -- here I am.

My perspective on this trip is an interesting one. I am an able-bodied person riding a typical upright bike with no obvious musculature aiding in my propulsion (such as Seth's arms that gain many comments). I don't like to be the center of attention, but neither does Seth. Only, he has no choice here. Everyone we encounter goes straight to him. They either stare with no spoken words or say things like: "That looks comfortable!" or "You like that bike? I bet you'd get used to it." (Implying that he has a choice to use a handcycle). Or as the ferry workers in the Bay Area demanded several times, "Get up and walk, you can't ride that on here." They even said it with a smile, assuming we were joking as we informed them of Seth's inability to walk. One of my favorite comments was said to me after giving Seth a good stare-down, "Why you making him do all the work?!" I guess the guy didn't notice the trailer, wheelchair wheels attached to the trailer, 4 paniers and 2 sleeping pads that are hanging off my bike. Seth and I just laughed.

I am curious to see how this perspective changes as we start to cross southern borders.  Simply said, Seth is a beast and deserves the attention and accolades. Of course people notice him. Good thing he's so chill and able to handle whatever comes his way, including the awkward questions and comments from strangers.

It's always an adventure when a McBride is involved. And to think we still have 11 months on this journey together...

Three days of rest sounded like an eternity when we were pushing 50 mile days through the rice fields north of the Bay Area, but it's amazing how time flies when you're not riding your bike.  Oakland marked the first major transition of our trip - from inland to the coast, we caught our first view of the Pacific in the hills above Vallejo.  It's a companion we'll be staying very close to for the next 9,000+ miles.

We had all sorts of stuff to keep us busy in Oakland, between hanging out with family and friends, running around doing errands to resupply our gear needs, and eating as much good food as possible (side question: why is it that road food in the US is a bunch of fried nastiness, and in other countries it's simple deliciousness?).  Still, there were a couple of things that we had to make time for.  One was making a day trip up to Petaluma visit Linda Garrigan and the great folks at CamelBak, who are supplying all our hydration needs for The Long Road South.  CamelBak is a large company that still has the feel of a small business and it looks like an amazing place to work.  We showed up at lunch time and there were employees hoping on their road bikes and lacing up their running shoes to get in a quick workout.  The company even provides cruiser bikes that employees can check out if they wan't to make a run into town to pick something up for lunch.   It was`awesome seeing that, if a company provides the environment and infrastructure to keep people moving, they'll readily take advantage.

After meeting some of the people that helped get us supplied, Linda gave a tour of the facility, including  a peek inside their design lab, which featured some amazing toys and machines abusing water bottles and bite valves until they failed.  All in all, a nice glimpse into the workings of a pretty awesome company.

A day later we made a trip up to Berkeley, which has been a place on the forefront of the disability rights movement since such a thing existed.  Kelly and I wanted to go check out the Bay Area Outreach and Recreation Program  (BORP), which is doing amazing things getting people with disabilities outside and moving. 

BORP occupies a couple of ramshackle-looking buildings near the Berkeley Marina.  Greg, a tanned, wiry man with an exuberance of energy runs their adaptive sports programs.  Greg cycled across Africa in the mid-90's and is especially excited to talk about bikes and BORP's cycling program.  Many disabled sports programs operate under what I like to call a duckling mentality.  Activities are group-based and highly structured, and as a result, participants who might simply want to do their own thing are liable to shy away.  BORP's cycling program features a stable of adaptive bikes and allows program participants to show up, check out a bike, and take it out for the day.  While we were there, we even ran into one of Kelly's old patients from Emmanuel Hospital, Jorgé, who comes by BORP regularly to ride one of their handcycles.  He was super excited to hear about our long tour and eager to share his own bike stories.  At BORP, staff and volunteers are around to help those who need it, but folks who can manage themselves have a place to try out different equipment and get a workout in on their own terms.  As a way of facilitating physical activity among people with a wide variety of disabilities, it seems highly effective.

After visiting Borp, we headed back to Oakland to finish preparing our gear to head out on the road, this time with my sister Jessica and her boyfriend Steve , our first participants in The Long road South, riding with us.  We've had some epic riding since leaving Oakland, and that story's to come shortly, but now I'm tired and it's time to take a shower, go to bed, and put in some more miles tomorrow.

South of Tulelake, where horseradish fields stretch to the horizons and Mr. Wong's potato trucks rumble by, stacked high with unwashed Russets, civilization drops off in a way that's only possible in the mountain west.  For six days we rode through the backcountry of NE California, at one stretch - between TuleLake and Adin - we pedaled for 73 miles without seeing more than a few lonely houses.  We pedaled big miles because there was nowhere to linger.  The landscapes were epic but the weather harsh, with piercing high-altitude sun, raking winds, and below-freezing nights.

Luckily, we know some pretty awesome people, like one Mr. Jared Cure, who decided to ride his BMW GS Adventure up from Oakland to join us for a couple of nights of wild camping.  He showed up in the dark, after we'd finished a 52 mile day, busted out a bottle of Crown and a can of tuna to ward off the cold and proceeded to freeze his ass off for the rest of the night.  We were just as bad, sleeping in every layer of clothes we brought with us.  When it gets down to 25, whiskey can only help so much.  The next day, eager to hang out and talk to someone other than ourselves we put in a short, but grinding day - 22 miles of varied ascent, the road rising through a gash in the trees like a series of stepped plateaus.  Some 50 miles into California there was an agricultural check station, the woman working looked bored and waved us through without a second glance.  At Howard's Gulch, a free, limited-service campground that seemed plush compared to the clearing we'd slept in the night before, we arrived right as Jared was returning from an expedition to the closest store, some 30 miles up the road.  Camp tacos, salami, and grapes, might not sound like a feast, but if you ever find yourself through the Modoc National Forest, such foods present as wondrous and exotic as spices from the West Indies. 

After Jared zoomed away on his 1,170 cc rocket ship, we got back to the task of putting in some serious miles.  For three days we rode over mountain passes and through flat, cattle range valleys.  Kelly's first years of life were spent next to cow pastures in northern Kentucky and as a little girl she'd spend hours watching and talking to her bovine neighbors.   Now, rarely seeing a person not clad in automotive armor, the herds upon herds of black angus made this wide-open landscape seem a little less lonely.  Often I'd hear Kelly's voice ahed of me and yell, "What?!" into the wind.  "Just talking to the girls..." she'd respond more often than not.

The miles, mountains, sun, and wind took their toll on our bodies.  After seven consecutive days of riding, even gentle gradients started to feel like L'Alpe D'Huez (one of the monster climbs in The Tour de France).  Our worst day of the trip came when we pedaled out of our campsite amongst a herd of Hat Creek's noisiest cows, and the road that had been described as "mostly flat" by every motorist we'd asked was actually a 1,000ft climb over 12 miles.  We stopped for lunch in Old Station at a place called JJ's Cafe where the new owners had sold their home in Hillsboro, Oregon to settle near Lassen Mountain.  There we learned that the road, that was "pretty much all downhill to Redding" actually continued to climb another 2,000ft to Eskimo Pass.  Blazing sun, toasted muscles, a tuna melt (damn you tuna melt!!) sitting heavy in my stomach and wreaking havoc on my blood pressure, all combined to wreck our afternoon.  Four or five miles from Old Station and I could barely turn my cranks.  We pulled over and I laid on the ground for 10 minutes while Kelly held my legs above my head - a bizarre scene for passing motorists, I'm sure.  Trying again, my blood pressure slowly got better but my arms felt leaden, and then even heavier.  I looked down and saw a now familiar sight, flaccid rubber of a punctured tire.  Dejection and anger.   We pulled over again, now already past 4pm and still 8 miles from the summit, and over twenty miles from our destination for the night.  Even at without mechanical issues, the fatigue and terrain were making it uncertain whether we'd have enough light to get where we needed.

As we worked on the tire a lady towing a horse trailer pulled over and asked if we needed any help.  Sometimes when you're at your lowest point the kindness of strangers is impossible to pass up.  She offered to throw our bikes in the trailer and give us a ride to the summit and we accepted.  The bikes nestled amongst hay and horse dung, us packed in the cab and it felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from our shoulders.  Britt lives in Orland, CA but runs free range cattle up in the mountains, and they'd been rounding up 18 cattle that got lost and were wandering near the road.  "I was worried that you'd run across some as you were riding,"she said as I reveled in the engine's rumble.  "But you'll be past them up at Eskimo so I guess I don't have to worry about that anymore."

After a long descent and a short night in a cabin we kept riding.  Mostly down for real this time, but every hill that kicked up, Kelly and I could barely turn the cranks.  Our bodies were breaking down and we had to listen.  So yesterday we took a rest day in Red Bluff, two-nights of luxury in a Best Western that Kelly's parents generously booked for us.  It felt fantastic.  Today we had the kind of day we needed, 50 miles of fast, flat, and tail-wind aided.  All of a sudden we're riding through olive groves and onion fields.  With any luck we'll be in Oakland three days from now, resting and recovering at my sister's house, and preparing to keep pushing South.

Chemult, Oregon isn't a place many people choose to stay the night.  A half mile strip of a town that looks like it's barely hanging on, its buildings look like they're slowly being stripped away by the elements, one splinter and paint layer at a time.  I don't know the economics of central Oregon, but it looks like most of the money in the region passes through quicker than the semis that rumble down 97.  Kelly and I stopped in Saturday night and booked a room at the Chemult Motel, a collection of wood shingled buildings that surround a parking lot of puddly gravel.  The office is located across the street at the Chalet Restaurant where Ray, the owner of both establishments, also serves as the sole cook.  Ray was busy Saturday night.  With the Ducks opening up Pac-12 play in a night game vs. Cal (Goooooo Ducks!), hunters in town for opening weekend, and  mushroom pickers camping out to scour the surrounding pine forests, the Chalet was stretched to its capabilities.  Most of the attire was camo, ducks gear, or combinations thereof.  While the Ducks have turned into a modern and moneyed brand that may seem at odds with Oregon's rural roots, the family in front of us, from weathered grandpa with missing teeth to the motocross sweatshirt wearing grandson knew as much about Josh Huff, Braylon Addison, and the intricacies of the spread-option as the rest of the restaurant.  Huge cheers erupted whenever Thomas Tyner touched the ball.

We arrived after a long day into a demoralizing headwind.  44 miles took over 5 hours of actual pedaling time.  Nevertheless, it was our farthest day on tour.  With a high wind advisory, 40 degree rain and the forecast, it finally felt like we'd earned the chance to hunker down indoors for a day.  So hunker we did, taking trips to the Pilot and the Double D Market, but otherwise doing nothing but laying around and watching football.  

By Monday morning the rain had blown through but the winds remained, a steady southwester.  Somewhere around midday I actually fell into a rhythm for the first time in the trip, not that there was anything to distract me.  The road cut an unwavering path through the pine forest and what I kept imagining to be distant rises in the terrain flattened as we approached.  Such was the monotony of gradient that Kelly started comparing central Oregon to the midwest and I started imagining that I could see the curvature of the earth.  The day's excitement was a sheriff pulling us over to ask if we'd seen an older gentleman wandering along the side of the road.  "Sorry sir, we haven't seen much of anything since Chemult.  Should we keep an eye out?"

"Nah, he'd be north of here.  Say, how far are you planning on  going today?"

"Somewhere around Chiloquin is about as far as we can make it today."

He furrowed his brow and lowered down to his s authoritative voice, "Now, I wouldn't stay in Chiloquin if I were you, tough town there, lot's o problems.

We'd heard the same thing in La Pine, while discussing the ammenities of central Oregon's small towns with a RV driver who'd pulled into the diner parking lot where we'd stopped for breakfast.  "Chiloquin?" He'd said.  "Don't stay there unless you have to."

"Why not?" I'd asked.

"Well I hate to say it," he'd replied, then switched to the inside voice that bigots use when they think they're in like-minded company, "but there's a lot of drunken Indians."

After the second warning, we started to figure that whether the drunks were Indians, hillbillies,  or Klamath teenagers looking to binge,  it might be better to just bypass Chiloquin altogether.

 

Somewhere after mile 35 the road curved west and I sang a little ditty of excitement.  Not long after it really did appear that the earth was dropping away and soon we were zipping along at 30 miles an hour.  

It's funny how landscaped can change so suddenly, for as soon as we began descending, the forest thinned and evergreen hills dotted the skyline.  Within a half mile it looked like we'd entered the high sierra landscape of Northern California.  We found a campsite at Collier Memorial State Park about 5 miles from Chiloquin and found nothing to worry about but the overly friendly RVers who wanted to tell stories of the crazy things they did in their younger days.  

We made it to Klamath Falls this evening, and are fully enjoying the luxury of a hotel that the incomparable Jared booked for us.  Southern Oregon is beautiful and neither Kelly or I can wait to make the push into Northern California tomorrow.  Neither of us has ever been here before and we're stoked to see what the road brings.  Wild camping, long days riding on remote roads, and a visit from a man on a motorcycle are what we have to look forward to.  

 I've heard that 99% of an expedition is in the logistics, and the adventure comes when you're telling stories about it later.  It's something that made sense, but Kelly and I couldn't fully understand until the last month before departure.  That month was a whirlwind of logistics - packing, moving, coordinating supply and gear drop locations, finances, doctor's checkups, immunizationations,  prescription refills, buying last minute gear (dromedary bladders, ipad case, first aid kit, sd card, rechargeable batteries,  compass, rehydration salts, the list goes on), dividing trip gear into climatic regions, organizing gear storage, packing into bike bags, repacking into bike bags - that continued right up until the departure party.  Then the madness continued, with an audience now - dozens of amazing people, all of whom we love and owe a great deal of gratitude for help and support and just plain being awesome.  But there's no time for all that, so we load up and people cheer and parents cry and suddenly we're riding.

By design, the first 3 days were abnormal.  My parents (Ken and Mary) and my aunt Patty (any of you at the departure party probably noticed her dancing around with shimmering green pom poms) joined us in a rented RV.  We still had a lot of bike and gear issues that we'd been unable to iron out before departure so the fam formed a support crew to help get everything squared away.  It was luxurious.  A dry space to retire to when we'd finished the day's riding, home cooked meals, and the ability to call in help when the need arose.  We cheated all three days they were there.  The first day they gave us a ride the last 8 miles to the campsite because light was failing.  The second day they gave us a ride from route 26 to the RV resort they'd booked for the night because it was 21 miles off our route.  The 3rd day we rested, worked on my handcycle (under the comforts of a roof and heat while it poured outside) and reconfigured the gear we needed on the road, handing the rest off to be taken home.

Departure was 4 days ago.  Kelly and I said goodbye to my parents this morning.  Tears were shed. Just now, as we lay in our tent, it's beginning to feel like the swirling beast that was the idea of the trip is finally unwinding into what will constitute the actual trip.  We rode 30 miles today.  It was difficult.  Not as bad as Monday, when we crested Mt. Hood and her eastern passes to breach the pine forests of Central Oregon, but pretty damn hard.  I knew it was going to be like this - it's near impossible to prepare for the physical strain of pedaling a loaded touring bike over mountains, but foreknowledge doesn't lessen the fatigue.  So, for the first month or so we're going to struggle - riding long days to barely achieve our target miles - and somewhere down the road our bodies will adapt and our minds will start to think this routine is normal.  Laying on a thermarest, with no worries except what to eat when the dehydrated macaroni and canned tuna (camping version of tuna casserole) that we had for dinner subsides, I think we're going to be just fine.

It's finally here! All our bags are packed, we're ready to go, gonna be spending a lot of time on the side of the road, we hope you'll wake up to say goodbye...We're leaving (on our bikes, though a jet plane may get us home)!

Come join us at Seven Corners Cycles as we prepare to head South. We'll be getting there at 9:00am and departing the shop at 10:00am. We'll be heading out of Portland towards Mt. Hood on the Springwater Corridor. We'd love to have you get moving and come ride along with us for the first stretch. It's about 20miles to the end of the Springwater.  Feel free to ride for as long or as little as you can or want to. Kids welcome too, we'll be moving plenty slow!

When: Sunday, 9/22.  9:00-10:00am
Where: Seven Corners Cycles - 3218 SE 21st                                                                                                                                                  Ave, Portland, OR
                                                                                                                                Woot: Woot!