Tomorrow, September 11, has long represented an important anniversary for me. This day thirteen years ago was the first installation day of the first batteryless residential grid-tied PV system, the system type that is now mainstream dominant in the U.S. We were on a roof that entire day, trying to hear the news as it was being broadcast, on our service truck’s radio. I have always felt that we were doing our own part for global peace and security by installing PV.
I knew well in advance that I’d leave Oregon with reluctance. I’m not even sure what the two states represent as symbols. I have lived in both years ago, and feel more of an affinity to Oregon. That sentiment played out today – I’m here for a second night.
I had held off laundry once I heard that this park has laundromat facilities. The last time I washed everything ( meaning not just a jersey or shorts, but gloves, helmet and shoe liners, jackets, and the like) was in southern Washington. The combination of a simple shower and a whole set of clean clothes always feels like the start of a new chapter of travels. But it meant that it was noon before everything was back in place and I was riding.
But in Brookings I slowed to a crawl. My speedometer had been acting up over the last few days, and today wasn’t registering at all. Assuming a weak battery, I replaced it, and the device now only reads in German or Klingon, and can’t be reset. I’ll call the manufacturer in the early morning, but for now I have lost all of my mileage records. [Later, as it turned out, I called the manufacturer and was guided through proper setup. But I still lost the cumulative data when I replaced the battery.]
Eventually too much of the day had passed to ride into California, and I had some words itching to be transcribed here, so I returned to the same campground. I was treated well in Brookings. In the market, I asked the checker if I could buy a single stick of butter, as that is all I can carry securely at a time. When she said no, a woman checking out (named Theresa) sold me one of the quarters in the pound she was buying. Later, when I needed to stop to handle some email, and drank coffee in a local cafe, the waitress simply gave it to me on the house; my sense is that she can do that by her own discretion, and it was just sweet. It’s like the town is saying in little us “Don’t forget us.”
The tremendous support the state gives to bicycle tourers helps my sentiments too: I’m riding with a state cyclists’ map of the coast, and have enjoyed the camps, the healthy local food, the well cared for campgrounds for cyclists. I’m open to what I’ll find in California, but not expecting it to be as nice.
The Harris Beach State Park biker/hiker section
My campsite tonight
The ride to Harris Beach CG yesterday was epic. Much of the 45 or so miles had a strong tailwind and I could coast, with just a couple of decent climbs. Coming down off of the climb over Cape Sebastian, I clocked over 45 miles per hour, my fastest speed yet on this tour.
Harris Beach is a gem. It’s the last B/H CG for all of us heading south, and the welcome mat for those iconoclasts (or masochists, given the prevailing winds) who head north. A beach just below us, and a whole section set aside for us, close to bathroom, shower and laundry services, yet separated from the masses, dark and quiet at night.
At the beach, just before the sun set
