Day 3. 207 Miles. Peachy Plans Gone To Shit.

Posted on July 15, 2024 by anthonycaferro

Plan your work. Work your plan.

Picture it. Heat wave in the Pacific Northwest. 70 mile days. State Park no turn away policy. Campsite, then day use area. At the end of the day, I’m floating in the Green River. It’s cooler than cool Andre Benjamin… yup: ice cold. Like anti-inflammatory for my legs and sit bones level ice cold. It’s PROBABLY the cleanest I’ve been in two days and ACTUALLY my forth time getting watered today and DEFINITELY the least shit-laden of those waterings. I said it, I meant it. Poop. Crap. Fecals. Doo doo. Let me recount the ways:

Rail trail to restaurant to remote sleep had me real confident about plans around 10pm last night. Now it’s 1am and my how the mighty have fallen. We are now the vagrants. Fragranced. One of those middle of the night rude awakenings I usually get paid for and while this isn’t a firefighter thing (yet) I should have seen it coming. Motherfucking sprinklers. Getting me every time I tell ya. Garden sprinklers, not the indoor kind – so no, still not a firefighter thing. A through middle of the night soaking right about now is what it is though. Funk soul brother. I am out mostly naked in the darkness putting my rain fly up in it. Check it out now. Like some tragic moonlit dance. I envy Chad for camping on the high ground and staying dry, then he gets his dose of it at 2am, I hear him yelling across the park, “what the fuck!” I could and or should have said something to him an hour ago I suppose. “Wouldn’t” or “didn’t” wins. If there’s winners or losers anymore. I stay fetal in my fecal cocoon of a sleeping bag, trying to find some sort of stinky peace.

Morning finally breaks a soaked and chilled night and we’ve relocated to the nearby community center. I copped 2 hours of shuteye. Straight banked it. Now I’m brewing up a cup of that coarse ground. The DPW worker opening up the restrooms, after hearing our tale, proceeds to inform us that we got doused with “reclaimed” water, nearly straight from the sewage plant. “Poop water” he calls it. I’m calling him Pete. Poop Water Pete. Yum. We’re hanging at the picnic tables, trying to dry out and looking like some real hoboes. Smelling like them too. It’s quite a site I’m sure. I sip my coffee and fart.

For two days now, we’ve been told of some massive bike ride. Seattle to Portland or something. 8,000 people. Some start riding at 2am. Cascades bike club or something. It’s a lot of people. We’re rolling out of Yelm Washington being most definitely mistaken for one those 8,000. People look at us in stores and are like “oh yeah, the bikers”. Whispers and stank eyes abound. “Bikers”. It’s just Saturday yo. Either way. Some are down with them. I am a firm maybe. There’s a marked and noticeably increased fuck police presence, we’re basically undercover stank homeless bums disguised as weekend wheel warriors. Definitely. Just unsure on who the good guys and bad guys are anymore and so we just roll out. Covered in the local smell of local poop, even the dogs don’t notice us on our way through town. We pass a few dogs. And then a few cops. And then a few cyclists. I realize I mistook what I thought was gonna be an 8,000 person critical mass style bike mob for what I’d actually a bunch of scattered middle aged men in Lycra. Oh well. They’re cool enough and not in my way. Mostly they pass and give me puzzled looks. Maybe judging me for whatever norm I don’t adhere to or insecurity assist I won’t be providing them. They pass by and their profiles pop up on my ride with gps bike computer r2d2 thingie. Cute. Bye bye bicyclists. I’m going with the dogs being the good guys.

I ride right past Mount rainier. Eat a juicy peach. That means something slightly different nowadays. It probably has a new third meaning by now too. Butt. Both. To the pit. All of the above.

We ignore a sign telling us we can’t continue even this it feels like a right of way. Some might call this illegal. I call it energy efficient. Down to a single track and then it’s poop in the water number two on the day. Fjording through a little water ain’t a thing but I don’t know how deep this is so i give it a whirl and pedal my way through it. Seaweed and muck on much of the spokes so I suspect this might be the least amount of poop and the least amount on me. Some consolation.

Lots of hills and heat and trucks. Hills are cool. Let’s talk about planning instead. I recently talked about not planning these rides. So now let’s do the other. I planned the living shit out of this one. Chad thanks me on day one and day two. And today. So yeah. Daily planned routes for the first time ever. We shall see. Many times a plan goes to shit. Damon seems to love this style of touring and he put me on to the bike computer. So here’s the basic ridewithgps set up for us, known as Tone and Chad’s Pacific Northwest Adventure.

I get that cute triangle traffic sign with the downhill truck and “8% grade” on it and the warm and fuzzies kick in where it counts. Screams is the word I’m gonna use. This road then screams downhills, winding and looping back and uh, whoa again it winds and loops back – fast as all hell. One of the more exhilarating 35-40mph episodes in my vida loca. Feeling all sorts of trippy oxygen rich kinda ecstatic (Mike Tyson voice) winding down and bam – sucky Saturday in America slaps me: migrant workers busting ass on one side and yard and garage sales galore on the other. The two won’t even exchange glances. It’s always. And again I don’t know who’s team I’m on or who’s right or wrong. Strange days indeed. Glad I’m living a retired-esque life. Or is it retarded-esque? Offended yet? Remember it, write it down, take a picture… IDGAF!

Now we’re on a goddamn horse trail. It’s not maintained. I don’t even know if it’s gonna get us back to a road or dump us on some private farm. And there it is: final shit water of the day. Horse shit. This is just horse shit. Literally. It requires the removal of my shoes and yes — walking my feet and bike clear through the other side in this murky crap.

I succeed with only marginal stank-grime-fecal-foot; I walk up the hill and turn the corner, still walking my bike — I lean against my bike to pop my left sock and then left shoe back on. Right sock and —- pop pop pop. They shootin! Oh snap. The crackle of gunfire. I pop on my right shoe and pedal the fuck on. Hoping Chad didn’t just get shot gunned for our trespassing. I look back a few moments later and he’s behind me again and we tear through this tall grass mixed with manure, then some gravel, then a gate, then back on the road. Gunfire still going off in the distance. Always in some shit. Just various degrees.

That shit creek was the terminus of another short trail and so we’re back fighting for our lives on the road another 10 miles or so. Late Saturday means unique traffic situations, it’s not all too bad and we finally land at another state park. They are full. We remind and/or inform them of the no turn away policy. They cease acting like there’s no room and take my doll hairs. Pay sews. You rows. No yens. Or yinz. Penthouse tent pop up. Shower. Snacks. The aforementioned dip in the crispy cool river. I think you see where this is going. I haven’t slept for more than 2 hours in a few days and I dive into the worlds tiniest tent, passin out upon entr…. Zzzzz zzzzz.

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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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