Days 0 & 1 & 2. 153 Miles. Rail(Trail) Reunion Ride.

Posted on July 13, 2024 by anthonycaferro

Bags and cases is a problem to me. Are problems. Problem. Problems. Is. Are. Shipping them around empty is also still quite a pain and not very environmental and wasteful in general. Yet. Right now right now, like even here wherever I am, right now, I’m returning hospitality that Lori and Wayne — the fine folks down in Florida who two years earlier showed me hospitality — by stowing the cases and bags to a three piece carbon fiber touring tandem bike in my garage whilst their tour the Erie Canal Trail. Plus two other cyclists hard cases and what not. It’s a lotta goddamn luggage all for a long bike ride.

Chad, who’s joining toward the end of day one of this ride, boxed his up at a shop and brought it on his flight. He’s landed and all seems well. I’m encouraged. I got lucky. I got family in Astoria and we’re all kinda from Whitefish Montana. Thanks to the rail roads and my grandfather and his brothers. There won’t be daily updates because there won’t be cell service.

I digress.

So yes, my bike comes on the plane with me. Delta flight to Atlanta then another to Portland. It’s a little banged up though quite rideable. So I do have that going for me. Something rough in the rear wheel though.

I get 12 miles of a warmup day while staying in Astoria Oregon with cousins Sharon and Dennis. The Caferros have railroad history out west, one might even consider us railroad royalty. But without the wealth and fame. So not really. Check the railroad museum in Whitefish Montana to really smell what I’m stepping in. Astoria though. Funky historic place, the first established city west of the Mississippi River, I’ve been told. If. One doesn’t count the Mexicans or any native populations whatever. So really not really though. But as least Lewis and Clark killed a bunch people to make it all the way out here. That’s American AF. A luscious patriotism wants in my belly. Really it’s the blueberry honey brown sugar oatmeal out on my cousins’ deck right now, now. Breakfast. Yum. Nom. What’s really hardcore is how L and C went solo for their second albums, thus offing twice as many humans on the way back home. It’s the most ballingest thing you can do for the flag.

Miles pile up. Heat climbs. I climb. And ride. Breakfast was hours ago, why you bringing up old shit?! 1800 feet on the day at just 22 miles and it after a 3 mile long 1000 feet at once climb comes a ferry party. And after the ferry party comes Puget Island. And Washington.

I like Washington not because of George; more of a fat kid liking cake kind like. And really because of the no turn away policy their state camp grounds adhere to. It. Just. Makes. Sense. Small tent equals a small need for legal land to camp on. Especially when you consider the restrooms and the showers, I’ll gladly pay and are happier to when the parks consider what it’s like out chea! Google no turn away policies, I believe Arkansas and Virginia have them amongst other states. Not in New York tho. So google it, learn more and support it with any emcee in any 52 states.

Fade from black 55 miles into the day. The Longview Washington Starbucks is the setting. In an alternate universe version of Trees Lounge, I’m Steve Buscemi acting and directing. That’s were the similarities end though. And that’s where Chad and I connect. I’m sipping a nitro cold brew, he’s rode north from Portland where’s he problem been doing weird shit for the last three days. English teachers on summer break are the wildest bunch when left by themselves. I seen it. In the Trees Lounge redux, Chad’s probably dressed in drag as the Chloe Sevigny character or in black face as the Sam Jackson character – partly because I’d want him to be both offensive and yet also a famous and talented movie star. I can’t call it but I’m happy to see him.

Ah. Push it. Ah. Push it, real good… to the shadow of Mount Saint Helen. Sea Quest State Park to be exact. Pop up the palace like it ain’t no thang.

Not much sleep is to be had. Sandman rarely cometh, that boring old fart. Lots of peeing all night. Yay hydration. Chilly morning means I later it up; Chad forgot pants. Amongst many other items. What a god damn nube I brought along.

Hitting the road and we’re skirting alongside Mount Rainier, catching glimpses not feelings. Actually, I kinda have all the feels right now, and all the climbs to Centralia. Mad climbing. Those dumb 10% grades. Then I get the double whammy of a 15% grade climb and my long standing, never having had to walk my bike streak comes to an end. Like all good things. Centralia has a solid coffee shop. Cold brew and panini. Chad goes to buy pants. Oat milk latte and protein balls. I’m fueled the fuck up, all hopped up on (not) Mountain Dew: imma be on you like a spider monkey old man.

The miles and elevation pile up like dirty laundry in an ill raised 19 year old’s college dorm room. Once in Tenino, we are blessed with 15 miles of rail trail and proceed to pass up several solid camp sites because it’s too damn fun even at mile 70. At the terminus is Yelm, “gateway to Mount Rainier” and the return of the remote sleep. Otherwise known as ghost camping or stealth camping or illegal homelessness. Thank a lot Supreme Court. Dumb fucks. Anyhoo. We need to burn the last hour and d a half of daylight so we hit The Local. It’s the best bar and grill Friday night in Yelm had to offer. “Girls girls girls” blares over there in house system. Motley. Not beastie. Fail. I suppose. The food is good. Service is meh. They forget the salad dressing. And after offering to keep our waters full, lack in the required follow thru. We meander off in the darkness to set up in a small secluded town park. I don’t even need a light to pop up the palace and I dive right into it.

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Motherfucking Bikes on a Plane b/w ADKBFF

Posted on July 11, 2024 by anthonycaferro

I imagine what it’s like being a pilot walking through an airport, fully uniformed up. Equally all parts everything. Strike that, I’m looking at two pilots walking by through an airport. I like airports. Even the fake international buffalo airport. Fake in that it’s not geographically in Buffalo and that it doesn’t really fly internationally for shit. Actual airport though. Wearing shirt blue shorts and a black on black slow roll tee, I’m walking like a pilot through this mahfucka, having just checked my watch to get this:

I’m not even frazzled about it. But to be as clear as a 90s bottle of Zima, this is my first time. I’ve heard it hurts. I dunno. Not sure what I’m doing but I’m trying to be safe. Plus, for real – the cost in shipping my belovedly precious Raleigh Sojourn now prohibitively outweighs my fear of bikes on planes. It’s like that Sam Jackson flick with snakes, but, you know – the snakes are bikes. Or something. But it only cost $30. I put it in this large canvas nashbar bag that is built for the occasion. I came up on it free like 15 years ago and found it in the back of the garage last year. Delta gets me for another $30 for a suitcase full of my tools, camping and cooking gear. I hath no camping fuel sir. We might have snakes on this plane.

Maybe it’s a good time to be kind and rewind. Get real specific riding shotty while Einstein brings the Delorean up to speed. I enter May 15 2024 in to the time circuit display and away we go.

Bikes in a train station

Days 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. 325 Miles. 16,447 Feet of Elevation Gained. ADKBFF:

BTW that the best rides are usually impromptu rides, yet TBH, long rides don’t typically lend themselves to improvisation. I’ll pause the abbreviations for a moment in homage to the amount of planning that usually goes into a well executed and enjoyable bicycle tour. Routes. Gear. Weather. Training. Get it? Got it? Good. Now that this is clear, FTW I’m riding without much planning.

Damon hits me up. He’s leading another cadre of boomers on self-supported ride through Alaska and up into Denali. Sounds awesome. Except for the low wages and high likelihood that the retired pansies he’s leading are gonna wine and complain and need babying the entire way. Gross. But nonetheless, Damon plans. He trains. He’s telling me that he wants to hit the Adirondacks for a few days and do some elevation riding to train on the hills. Hills? I tell him the earth must be flat because the internet says so. He proposes doing this in two weeks. I only have next week off work. He says he can make that happen and I now have just a few days to gather my gear, check for routing options and get my ass ready for thousands of feet of daily elevation gain. Fully loaded. My legs twitch. I pack my shit. I hit the Amtrak. I reconnect with my dude. Literally my best friend. It’s fun how my friend circle has gotten smaller but the level of love and respect for those in that circle has exponentially increased one hundred fold. It’s only gonna be a few days long and usually my writing takes longer than my riding to get good on these sorts of rides. So I doubt this will be enough time for a this here web blog to develop into anything truly worth reading, best if you just tune out now. Better yet, get off the goddamn internet and go outside. Ride your bike. Take a walk. Say hi to other humans. Disconnect. Digital disconnect. I promise you won’t miss a god damn thang. The technology is truly inhumane, existing only to us all in a feedback loop of repetitive algorithmic-based stimuli. An echo chamber of stupidity, where every opinionated jackass is now an expert witness. Spouting out and popping off on whatever issue as if that will do anything. If the end of the world comes, you won’t need your Facebook or Instagram or Tik Tok. And if it doesn’t, you still won’t need any of that shit. I’ll be out there. Shit, maybe we will even cross paths and create a social network based on actually connecting in real time and space. Like it was for thousands of years. I could complain more, but no one’s listening, not even me.

That’s it’s. No more, no less. Enjoy these pics of the five day ride through the peaks of the Adirondacks.

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TTT23 #1: Ocracoke Island (aka Money in the Outer Banks)

Posted on January 18, 2024 by anthonycaferro

Walking around making money having fun, cause even then I’m still number one…

That’s TWO old school hip hop references here to highlight THREE days on my April long ride that constitute the number ONE travel spot for 2023… and it’s definitely my time in the authentic, unadulterated Outer Banks of North Carolina. Right now you should be thinking to yourself, “well, it’s one of his bike tours, so there’s already really great words”. And you’d be right! We’re all winners here, so enjoy the account of what is probably the most relaxing and enjoyable three days of my life, navigating ferries and sandy roads of the more remote sections of OBX (we ain’t talking Kitty Hawk or Nags Heads here), the absolute highlight being the bridge-less (and thus nearly more vehicle-less) step back in time that is Ocracoke Island.

Be sure to read the surrounding days’ entries as well, just because they’re truly all so much better than the garbage I pass of as creativity in these year end wrap-ups… With titles like My Godless Commie Legs, who can resist?!

BUTT…

If you don’t wanna click, the main entry is pasted below. Just know you’re missing out… What I’mma do about my legs?!

Days 11 & 12. 790 Miles. Money In The Outer Banks.

Aprils 19 2023 10:39am

If you could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could you wake up as a different person?

I come in the back door on the OBX. Come to find out even the most astute first timers and repeat returners all come down through the populated areas further north. Via Kitty Hawk. They rarely get past Nags Head, which is where all the really bawesome stuff is. Even an older gentleman from Virginia who owns property and has been coming his whole life admits he rarely get to Cedar Island National Wildlife Refuge. My entry point. Orcacoke, my current location, is seldom visited, because you can’t drive there. There’s a sign calling this “the authentic outer banks”. Fuck yeah. No bridges. Boats and planes only. Win.

I’m up before sunrise. The stars are gone, though they were out in the billions last night. Just solid black space fading into blue skies. Cool breezes all up in the palace. Also, it’s a goddamn murder scene in here. Blood everywhere, on the sides a floor. I sent a few infiltrating mosquitoes to their death — that’s my blood on my tent. Good sign I suppose. Not dead yet.

Campground coffee is so surreal and peaceful. Better than the yooshjz. I hear the ocean. And the songbirds. Life is alive. I hear no motors. At all. The air is fresh and clean. This is the place, David Byrne.

Pedal. Hours.

Ocracoke Island is an overwhelming step back in time, a mix of old traditions and community spirit infused with a steady flow of visitors from around the world. No community loves a good story more than Ocracoke, and locals can tell a tale with great expression. The island is a place of supreme solitude, especially in the off-season. Ocracoke has long been sought out by poets, nature lovers, and the tenderhearted.

That’s all from the sign at the visitor center. I love me an island. I’m looking at both of you, New Zealand. And don’t think I forgot about you, Cuba. The best islands have no bridges to them. I mean are you really truly on an island if any harry dick or Tom can get in their Ford Fucknut and drive to you? Doubtful. Here I am, island hopping in the outer banks. Cedar. Orcacoke. Hatteras. Pea. Bodie. To the next spot on to the next spot on to the next.

Pedal Miles.

Cape Hatteras National Seashore ruins all other beaches for me forever. I’ve got the place to myself. Miles and miles and miles of sand beaches juxtaposed right beside dense forest piney greenness. Ocean waves aka the most bestest relaxation rhythm invented. Courtesy Mother Nature. Thanks, boo.

Pedal. Hours.

“Take care in the sand” says a woman, passing me with a group of day cyclists. There’s sand dunes to my right for miles. Some of it had blown over the road itself, which doesn’t see much vehicular traffic. Sand everywhere. Beaches. Shoreline. It’s soft and squishy under my feet. Like memory foam. I find out later that none of this sand is from here. Not a one of these shells. All of it washes up from across the oceans or comes down from the Appalachian Mountains.

Ferry ride numero tres is an hour long. Previous ferry deux takes nearly three hours. This will be my last opportunity for an electrical outlet in days. As soon as we depart from Cedar Island en route to Orcacoke Island (yes we’re actually in the past now) I get the feels like I left something or forgot something. Yikes. I am out here. Outchyeah.

Pedal. Miles.

There’s word of hammerhead sharks near the (cold) showers at the Beach on the other side of this one hour ferry to Hatteras Island. This guy uses the word terrified. So I jump in and refreshingly cool my parts. I can tell it’s real though because adults and kids alike are in like ankle level. There’s dudes out there on whatever those stand and paddle boards are called, they are definitely all out of the water and looking around. So I’m in the water up to my waist — saddle sore stuff so sensationally soothed, seriously. I didn’t see any sharks, but I didn’t swim all the way under because I wouldn’t have been able to see them with goggles, and I don’t have those. So I get out and now I’m writing this. Plus, tbhonest, I’ve already swam with hammerhead sharks on a long bike tour before. It’s on this site from 2015 Florida keys. Look it up. Back to now, I take this photo and if you look closely you’ll see one of those paddle stand dudes, then look behind him to the right a little…

I gotta tell you, when I really look. I see Portugal. Maybe Morocco. Probably England. I left my globe at home.

Finally got some seafood.

Back on that ferry number three down here, i chat a great deal with a guy from Virginia. He’s clearly familiar with the entire outer banks and gives me great advice. I realize that what I actually left behind on the orcacoke ferry was everything I don’t need. All the baggage. Concerns. Fears. Trepidation. My confirmational biases. So much of what used to collectively create me, myself and I. I’ve got no schedule, no agenda, no needs. Just a few days to ride and sleep under an amazing amount of stars. Later I’ll pass a sign indicating the end is USBR 1 and the start of USBR 2. I take it as a sign. Which it is.

Pedal. Hours.

To walk back from the campground toilet and see your entire world in one single vantage point, splayed out in a tent or on a picnic table and next to a bike. A world under the sun. A world in motion in which everything in it has two or more purposes. With that one glimpse of myself, my feels are feeling for reals in a way no one will ever feel from reading these words or looking at this photo. Won’t get the feeling riding your bike around town or to work or school. Or my roaming around “camping” in your “RV”. You won’t get this feeling from running into burning buildings with a flamethrower (I can’t be 100% about that last part, because if Hollywood has taught me anything it’s that flamethrowers make everything way more awesome). Nope. You’ll only get this feeling of oneness from doing this. Liberated. Living outside. With nature and life. In motion. Under our own power while we can. However long we can. 3 days, 7 days, a month, a year… let’s not get me started on time…

Morning in Cape Hatteras Point Campground is wild tranquil. And moist. Dew point. Apparently Moms Nat got her wet dream on last night and me, myself, I and everything I possess is covered in it. Like Ghostbustin ass Bill Murray getting slimed — do not swallow, Bill Murray. Seriously though, I kinda blame deep blue Daddy Atlantic on this one. Believe me; dude’s clearly my right hand man on this ride. I fire up the jetboil — who still doesn’t pay me (at least send me a new stove!) — brew up some serious delirium goodness and set things out to dry, eagerly awaiting the sunrise on the Atlantic to burn off all the morning fog, word to the ol dirty Chinese restaurant.

Pedal. Miles.

Cold showers for three days is getting real old. I could add three dips into the ocean. The further north, the cooler the ocean gets. I smell as such. Three days of incomplete hygiene. Wait a minute, oh here’s Oregon inlet campground all up in my visuals. Shit, it’s like 1pm. I had this third national park service campsite on the radar, before adjusting my time space continuum, just a moment ago. I think long and hard about camping here. Orcacoke and Hatteras Cape National Parks campgrounds equal dope in my book, and this one is supposed to have hot showers. So cutbacks mean self check in and online reservations now. No entrance guard to talk to. I roll up and tuck behind the shower, behind the bathroom. Scout mission. Be prepared. $25 for a tent only loop, toilets, water. I yank on the shower cord and wait — warm water!! Got everything except power, yet I spy the GFI next to the bathroom sink. All this is legit. I say fuck it and sneak a quickie midafternoon warm shower. Wash it up good and fast, fire academy style. I think more about this campsite. It’s so early. I have a tailwind. I gotta take advantage. This is the end of the National protected seashores. Forward is basically the beginning of real civilization. More than one road. The non-remote and tourist-typical parts of the populated outer banks with towns cutely named Nags Head, Kill Devil Hills (not a cotdayum hill!), and Kitty Hawk. Bye bye remote tranquility and isolation period.

Pedal. Hours.

The lady at the Peas Island Wildlife Refugee Visitor Center tells me there’s really nowhere to camp past Oregon inlet. I believe and tell her that I’ve got a hook up for a backyard screened in porch up in kitty hawk. Power outlets and an outdoor and warm shower as well. Tits. 80 plus miles with the wind is better than 40 miles into the wind.

Pedal Miles.

I have a feeling this going to end badly. Not going to end well.

Kitty Hawk looks like every other suburb but with beaches, I suck down this Starbucks oat milk latte in their AC while charging my phone like a methhead sucks down anyone anywhere for meth. It’s small, this Starbucks. The barista, she looks like a Jan and asks “you aren’t from around here are you?” “I don’t look it huh?” “No sir.” She ogles my Jomon hand tattoo the way 55 year old men ogle DD titty cleavage. Jan’s got all sorts of love suck and bite marks on her neck and is not in high school. What the fuck Jan. I bet her dudes name is Han or Fran. This place is strange. I’m out. Food Lion around the corner is robust. Most I’ve seen in a while. My spot is 2 miles away, I grab some staples and decide to snatch up a small salad and rotisserie chicken. Rolling in, my hosts have told me they are not in town. I creep around the back of the house, nice deck. Screened patio locked. Fuck. That’s where the outlets are. Outdoor shower, not working. What the actual fuck. This is the worst. I house an entire chicken after rotting up their hose on a hook for yet another cold shower.

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