A Boy and His Bike.

This Saturday began like any good one should, with a little coffee in the morning and a big plan: garage sales and errands and a good chunk of time to myself. Not that I mind company on the weekend, of course, but lately that hasn't been balanced much with time for absolute solitude. By this weekend, I was ready for it. There is something about browsing through junk and walking around the grocery store that focuses my usually wandering gaze momentarily onto a single dusty plate.

This weekend, I was restricted to going to garage sales in our neighborhood for one reason or another and Miriam had called with a tip on some mason jars on Clarke Street. With backpack and cash in tow, I headed there first. Three little old ladies greeted me warmly, with all manner of things laid out on card tables, pulling evenly from the latest five decades. They were contentedly sitting in the shade, discussing the neighborhood generally while I scoured the piles until I settled on a few silly things: 3 yards of red cotton fabric, a gold barrette, a new belt and an old-fashioned metal ice cube tray. As I traded 8 dollars for the treasures, I asked after the mason jars. The oldest and least mobile of the three indicated that she'd been the one who talked to Miriam and sure, she had some jars, but no one but her knew where to look for them. She'd have to go down to the basement herself, but she wasn't feeling up to it just then. Could I come back a little later on?



Of course, I said, I could certainly stop back later but not to trouble herself too greatly after just these jars. She got a curious look and asked why we wanted mason jars after all. Her friend answered for me, Why, these girls want to make jam! The older one looked again at me doubtfully. Jam? And then what are you going to do with it! Eat it? She chuckled at the thought and told me again to stop back later on. Then she handed me back a dollar, reconsidering after this little while her earlier price on the piece of red cotton fabric.



The younger lady then nodded toward the end of the driveway where a younger boy, of 13 or 14 had set up a stand selling lemonade and had displayed some things of his. I do hope he sells some things, she said to her friend. He's such a nice boy. And you know, his parents don't help him out at all either. But he is such a nice young man.

I said I'd take a look at what I might be able to use, but glanced doubtfully at the old computer printer, skateboard and BMX bike. As a junk collector, I reach more readily for old lady junk than for 13 year old kid junk, but looking more closely, I saw that he was selling an old bike lock too. We can always use another bike lock around our house, with all of our bicycle riding friends, and I asked him the price.

He asked how much I had to spend. I offered five, and he offered seven, and I caved at the higher price, because this was a little kid after all. And a bicycle lock with a working key is a commodity indeed. As I handed him the dollars, I asked why he didn't need a bike lock himself and looked up for the first time at his face.

For a boy, he was pretty quiet and he had nice manners without sounding maladjusted. Although his sneakers weren't name brand or new, they were clean, like he'd made an effort to stay out of the dirt. Well...he said, I'm selling my bike too, so I don't need a lock anymore. I felt a sting in the end of my nose. Oh, I said, a little lump caught in my throat. He handed me the key to the lock, wrapped carefully up in a little plastic sandwich baggie and I placed it into the pocket of my backpack. I turned and headed back to my own bike, feeling fairly rotten.

I had meant to be nice, to buy something he was selling, but that was before I realized he was just a little kid, selling off his bike just as the weather here is getting nice out. I imagined that he needed school supplies or some similarly responsible thing, the kind of kid the elderly ladies next door affectionately call a nice young man, and here I was letting him sell me his bike lock.

My own little brother, another quietly responsible kid who's always been helpful and responsible beyond his years, watched too closely as my grandfather got sick when he was only 12. And here was this kid Chris, who so reminded me of Jake, both without much mischief behind their eyes.

I ran the rest of my errands and came back a few hours later for the mason jars. The bike was still for sale. Another truth hit me after leaving the second time: that if he didn't sell his bike now, he wouldn't be able to ride it without the lock he'd sold me that morning. I was fairly crushed at this thought, but didn't want to meddle. On the other hand, I couldn't bring myself to use the lock, knowing he probably needed it.

At five o'clock I succumbed to the guilt of the thing. I called my mom and laid it out for her. She assured me that I wouldn't seem totally insane if I went back and tried to give it back. So before I really knew what I would say and before I could get nervous, I rode my bike back to Clarke Street for the third time that day. I found Chris next to his own house next door, wearing his bike helmet and getting ready to ride out on his bike.

Hey there, I said, So, no luck selling the bike then? No, he replied, Actually I'm glad you came back. He too, had realized the mistake in selling the lock in advance of the bike, but he seemed troubled over the issue of refunding the money he had already grown attached to. So I proposed a solution. I told him I wanted him to keep the lock as long as he still had the bike. If he did sell it, then he could email me and bring me the lock, but he could hang onto it until then. I wrote down my email address and told him that it didn't really matter how long it took him, I was in no hurry, and in the meantime, he could also hang onto the money I'd already paid him.

I handed him the lock and the key and my whole person felt instantly lighter. He seemed pretty relieved himself. Even if I never see that lock again, I'm not too concerned about the seven dollars, either way. For me, seven dollars is a tiny amount of money, but for a kid, I recall it being quite a lot.. And I'm happy to gamble on the possibility that it is.

How To Keep On Going

Day Two started off well, except that our amazingly seductive compact camp stove turned out to be less efficient than we would have liked and we used up most of our fuel the night before making dinner. And Long Story Short, we couldn't make any coffee. Boo! Camping with no coffee? I was ready to quit right there. But with a little coaxing and some reverse psychology, John was able to convince me that we could probably find some in town. And who knew? We were to pass through town that very Morning. I was hopeful. We took in a quick view of the lake at our campground, John secured a photo for his 2009 Christmas card and we left for our Day Two: Tour de Sonoma.


As you might expect, there were some vineyards involved. Rolling, rolling hills of vines as far as you could see. Naturally we stopped a few times along the way to sample some of the local nectar. We decided that the Chardonnay at DeLoach won for Tastiest Snack of the day. They're located outside of Santa Rosa on a rather fancy estate, but we couldn't stay long as we were headed for Guerneville and the mecca at Korbel.


But those 20 miles or so between the two were very hard work. Really, just stren-u-ous. We were parched by the time we reached the Champagne tasting room. We obliged and stayed for a few sips of Champagne in their cozy tasting room, before taking to the patio with a small bottle of Brut for sandwiches of summer snausage (Field Roast) and Gouda on sourdough baguette. Something about those flavors, overlooking the Russian River, accompanied by a small glass of Champagne made for such a perfect lunch.



We passed through Guerneville long enough to note its quaint small town feel and motley crew of townies, before beginning our homeward loop. This amusement park sums up Guerneville oddly well. While trying to get a better photograph of it, we were hollered at by a neighbor who declared the road leading up to it to be Private Property. It's a bit of an adjustment in rural places to remember that regular looking streets are often not public roadways. Getting lost can be tantamount to trespassing, if you're not careful. In any case, we found this private property declaration a bit offputting and so we scooted.


And on that note, we headed back toward Santa Rosa, but on the other side of the river. The road, a small winding country route with very little car traffic was so pretty we forgot to document it. So you'll just have take our word. So breathtaking and quiet that we forgot to take another picture until we hit the Santa Rosa city limit, thirty miles later.


And just then, I happened to notice the trip odometer, thus far.


Our whole plan for day two culminated at Russian River Brewery at happy hour where we got to have a couple of Tasty Tasty craft beers: Pliny the Elder, Consecration and Perdition. Three of the finest beers I've tasted in quite a while, though the sense of entitlement may have something to do with it.


After that we made dinner by campfire, squared away the food so we wouldn't be devoured by bears and fell fast asleep. Our two day total: 110 miles.


Stay tuned for the third chapter: How to Make it Home Alive

How To Set Out

I'm presenting the account of Our Very First Bicycle Tour (please, hold your applause) in three parts. Mostly so as not to overwhelm you with awe, but also so that you can focus more intently on the details which carried our trip from the just so-so level of fun up to the more elevated, grand level. We definitely achieved the highest level of fun.

First so we're on the same page about what exactly it was that we did, let me say that our trip was a bicycle tour, with camping. Not bike camping, but a short trip with camping accommodations and cycling every single day. Bicycle touring generally refers to traveling by bicycle over some distance, with the emphasis on the journey, while bike camping is just biking to your camping destination in order to camp. In both cases, the rider carries all belongings atop the bicycle, though on a tour, one may opt to sleep in hotels, houses, hostels in addition to camping. In my mind, the inclusion of the word Tourism helps to emphasize the leisurely pace of travel, the emphasis on sightseeing and the ambitious nature of such plans.

We left mid-morning on Sunday with our sights set on a small campground outside of Santa Rosa which would be our home for the two nights of our three day excursion. Mostly so we could leave some of our weight behind the second day and tackle more countryside. In addition to regular bike clothing, extra socks and a toothbrush, we also carried with us a full outfit of camping equipment: one tent, 2 sleeping bags, 2 sleeping pads, 2 aluminum plates, a 2 qt. pot and a small stove.

All of this was carried by way of a handlebar bag for each of us, and a set of panniers for each of us; in fact, my set had been whipped up in a frenzy only 12 short hours prior to our departure. Like magic!


John gets full credit for devising our route, which was concocted from a combination of Google maps, Mapmyride and the various county bike maps available in pdf on the internet. That way we were able to investigate the route accurately and with an eye for safety, in order to make it ultimately the most enjoyable. Because it's much more fun to obviate potential arguments over traffic situations, it was worth it to spend plenty of time perfecting the cue sheet and double checking the size of a road's shoulder.


Our route began with a short 9 mile warmup ride up to the El Cerrito del Norte BART station, where we caught a bus across the Richmond Bridge and into San Rafael, CA.


And really we were off to a good start. We met John's ghost of cycling future in San Rafael, who rode with us a good three miles or so. A man of 60 or so who shared John's facial bone structure, cycle enthusiasm and hometown of Charlottesville, Virginia. The coincidence was eerie. In spite of all the interesting similarities, we failed to snap a picture of the man and so he lives on as a mere figment of our imaginations. Instead, we got a shot of how the man might remember us:


From there we took a scenic route to Santa Rosa, via Petaluma. This leg involved a great valley, a big hill and a small redwood forest.




John wasn't always way out in front of me, but he was some of the time. Especially when we were headed uphill. We did manage to arrive at our destination together. We made camp quickly before the sunset and were so tired we didn't even have a campfire. This exhaustion turned quickly to lunacy; somewhere between setting up the tent and sleeping inside it, we all but lost it, as evidenced by that wink. I couldn't stop winking! The wilderness works in mysterious ways.



62 miles down. Stay tuned for How to Keep On Going, the next installment of Our Very First Bicycle Tour.

Big Plans

A few weeks ago we hatched a scheme for biking and camping up in Sonoma County at the end of John's semester. But then there was the craft fair, and other things, and you know how it goes, it's almost June and we're still planning. Tuesday one of us, fell off his bike and sliced open his hand. To the tune of Three Stitches. I'm not going to name any names of course, but let's just say our ETD was Sunday morning and now it may be a bit further afield than that.

But, ever ready lady that I am, I whipped this little number up on Monday. It's a handlebar bag for myself. For carrying some tools maybe, the map or some variety of snack. Here it's modeling on the front end of John's bicycle, just because his bars are shinier than mine are. And that makes them more photogenic.



It came together from the scraps of some newly shortened Dickie's and some leather scraps that were just lying around. So whenever we do head out on this grandly planned small adventure, I'll be ready to roll.

Advocacy

Bicycles, Rolling Stops, and the Idaho Stop from Spencer Boomhower on Vimeo.

Great video. Good information, but even more impressive I think is the brilliantly simple and effective animation. And it's true! Rolling stops are usually very safe and this law makes a ton of sense. Way to go, Idaho.