Growing up as a big fan of hip hop I recognized the name Crenshaw Blvd as I pulled into the parking lot of a small strip mall on the corner containing a bank, a Chinese restaurant, a KFC and something that was either a laundry mat or an old folks home (hard to tell). The street’s name was synonymous with gangsta music to me with images of 2pac riding by in a Cadillac, screaming profanities at the 5-0 and Eazy-E playing bones on the corner with his homiez. I didn’t relate to that life style, no, and never tried to emulate it all too much (I did have a FUBU shirt, that was multicolored and glowed in the dark…I wore it once). I admired the spirit behind the music, the unabashed enthusiasm, a window into a world I didn’t know. I wasn’t interested in “the struggle”, “the hustle”, “the grind” or anything else political, economic or social relating to the music, I was infected by the fat beats and the stories from a place that was as far away as Mars.
So here I was. After biking through the pretty arty streets of Malibu, and catching the Bohemian vibes and reefer induced rhythms of Venice Beach, 20 minutes or less away, I was smack dab right in the middle of my musical oasis, something I had heard of countless times, but had never thought would ever live up to it’s hype. But with everything, that music describes no just a place, but a time, and a right exact time to be exact.
I had met up with my friend in Santa Monica and she was showing me around the city for a few days. Chance had it that I really needed to use the restroom. My friend spotted the random parking strip and pulled in. As I stepped out into the humid air, the glint of the blue, swinging sign with white lettering above the intersection caught my eye immediately. BAM. There I was. Crenshaw. I took a deep breath. My friend waited in the car, gave me the thumbs up. I looked around. Just an average intersection in a big city, nothing too special. My first choice for bathrooms was the Chinese restaurant. Nope, no English and no bathrooms for non-patrons. Wasn’t too keen on entering the non-descript purpose buildings, men stood at the window staring out like inmates shoved into a holding cell that was too small to do anything but be squeezed against the caged walls, eyes bulging towards a dissipating freedom. So it was KFC.
And how gangster a KFC was it? It actually was! I entered into a stark room. There was no open counter, no waiters with smiles to greet you, just a two way glass wall with small slots in it. It felt like I had entered the visiting centre of a prison. I approached the glass, not knowing where I was to address, I started into my own reflection…..”Hello?”
“Hello, welcome to KFC, can I take your order?”
“I just need to use the restroom, please”
Click. Click. Clackity. A door, appeared out of no where.
“It’s unlocked”
“Thanks”
I braced myself, I expected a flickering fly filled single florescent bulb highlighting all the murky, gut wrenching details of all types of matter. Quite the opposite, I could eat, say, a popcorn chicken, off the ground it was so clean. Crenshaw, a real mind fuck it was, but I am so glad that the bottomless Mimosas had kicked in and I had to stop and see this shit hole to most, but this childhood fairytale to me.
With GPS, I would have never found this random Church!
So GPS, is a nyet for me. So what should you bring on a long haul bike trip that I think is vital for survival and sanity? Alright, here it is, I can do this…Two more things to add to your bike list
With all of the following stuff…make sure that at least the bike repair stuff is new. The paniers, the bike, etc etc can be hand me downs, but if you are even thinking about replacing a shotty tube with it’s equally as shotty brother, you are going to hulk smash something or someone sooner rather than later.
1. A Bike Pump – This is one of those things, along with a Patch Kit that you most definitely cannot skimp on. A friend of mine learned that the hard way. Pop goes my wheel and my friend offers me her handy dandy, generic, completely made of plastic pump. The purpose of a pump for this cyclist, in layman’s terms, is to fill my tube (inside you wheel) full of air and make my bike happy to ride again. Well, for with this little blue devil, being a helping hand was not in the cards. POP! Part of the bike pump is launched into a German cornfield, almost making it’s way directly into the noggin of an unsuspecting cow (or maybe it did suspect something, I think it’s just in their demeanour to always look lost). Make sure you know what your tube’s valve (the metal part you attach the pump to) type is. There are a few types, which I shall explain later in Numero 2.
A patch kit is also a very important thing to have with you. While there are many ways to jerry up a substitute (with pieces of rubber, glue…twist ties…I’ve heard many interesting inventive choices) nothing beats the actual thing. It’s the choice between tobogganing in the snow or tobogganing down your stairs. The end result with a real patch is lasting results and no surprise ending. Also patch kits come with everything you need, including the sandpaper and the adhesive, so you don’t have to play Inspector Gadget. Both a pump and patch kit can be bought at pretty much any bike shop or Canadian Tire.
By the way. This is not a bike pump, this is a pumped bike:
2. Xtra Tubes – That’s just an extra tube…I’m trying to be cool with the kids (last time I was cool with the kids, staircases was a rad type of haircut). First off, with the tubes and wheels that on your bike currently, there are a few things you should know. These are basic, kiddlings. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t know about ’em either. Puncture Proof. Know if your tires are puncture proof. If they aren’t, I would highly suggest you pick up a pair of puncture proof tires. Just go into any bike shop and say that you are going to do a bike tour and they will say the same. Unless you have a fetish for patching tires, sitting on the side of the road, ear to your tube, trying to hear air escaping above the sound of whizzing cars, then please, please, please get puncture proof tires.
Okay. Now that I got that out of my system. I can get to your tubes. Make sure your bike tube valves match your bike pump. Some bike pumps can pump numerous types of valves, but some do not. I recommend getting the multiple system pumps, just in case you find yourself on the road with the other option as your only replacement. Here are your options:
Schrader Valve
Presta Valve
Learn these well, the names are quite universal. Also, dependent on what country you are traveling to, one valve type may be more common than another. Just do a quick search on the inter-ma-nets and stick with the most popular valve type.
3. Paniers – Do not try to do a bike tour with a backpack, please, or by the end of it you will be as bent over as that perverted old man in Family Guy (talking about his physique, not his perversion). I did the backpack thing and could barely lift my head while riding to see straight. I looked like a reject costume for the Rocketeer movie and was in constant pain.Each person has their preference for paniers and their setup. I am a big fan of zippers (even though they break) and only doing back paniers, because for me, less room to store stuff means less crap I decide is necessary to haul along with me and weigh me down. Lots of compartments means more places to separate things into some form of organization, but it also means that banana you forgot about two months ago may be the culprit for why your panier smells like a dead or dying skunk. Whatever setup you try, test it out before the big send off day. While wear and tear is a way of life, starting off on the wrong foot can be avoided. Make sure the securing system to your rack, actually secures the paniers. All you need is one of them to fling off, mid pedal, into traffic behind you (or into that unsuspecting/possibly suspecting German cow).
Hell on Earth. I am a man of little faith, admittedly so. But man am I happy that hell exists for me to use it as for the descriptive purpose of summing up the worst day I have ever been on a bike. No sugar coating it, no looking on the bright side, so thinking of the starving kids in some less fortunate setting, no. All I could think about was how am I going to make it out of this endless climb and rain and speed demon logger trucks.
There is very little footage of that day. In fact, after I left Port Angeles with an unexpected amount of miles to cover, the next time I turned on the camera was late in the evening, standing half nude, eyes ablaze, red, body swollen, staring at a reflection of myself in a mirror, as if I was a cat or bird who had no concept of self.
It was all in the poor planning, which something I will note in my tips section of this site. Long story short, I ended up on a weaving loggers road, where big ass trucks whizzed by, drivers on triple overtime shifts, beeping at this pea sized biker (me) and almost several times knocking me off the side of the cliff lipped coastal switchbacks. In the back of my mind the voiceover for the monster truck infomercials kept playing as each barreling, multi wheel bullet shot by. I mapped 100 km, which turned into 140km. Rain made the roads slicks, and me a lot slower. My legs pleaded with me to throw in the towel, but my freeze corpse whinnied my chariot onwards. For some reason, I don’t recollect eating a thing. I remembering using a nameless pub as a rest stop, so I could stand in front of air dryer for a few moments to thaw.
All bike signs lead to the papermill, Port Angeles
A paper mill, a hill, more houses, road, another town, another hill, 45 more trucks. Then, the mile markers ended. The mile markers, small stubby white sticks at the side of the road, with black numbers etched into them that count the miles til the end of the road and in this case to the place I was trying to get to, Neah Bay. I looked, I searched, but no more were to be found. Where was Neah Bay? Maybe a mirage on a map, an ancient city that the forest has reclaimed. Curse you Google Earth. I turned 180 to stare at my load. My blue tarp, drenched and shining, would provide me with ample cover. I stopped at a well, thicketed turnpike. There was barely enough room, but I think I could do it. My eyes welled with tears and the salt from the sea burnt my face, into my brain. This would be a terrible sleep or more specifically a bit of shelter until the rain and trucks let off. If they ever let off. A sudden veto, pushed me a few more miles and thankfully a town emerged, twinkling lights of a waning day welcomed me in.
Neah Bay, The Most Northwest Tip of the US of A
I had no address, but found a pay phone at the one, the only, the Tye Motel. Hiding under the lip of the small bent out of recognition, rain gutter, I shoved my scummy last quarter into the well used rotary time relic and slowly dialled the numbers. Couchsurfer Vicki answered. She asked where I was. Tye Motel. Well let me lead your vehicle to my place. I don’t have a vehicle. How did you get here? bicycle. Hang up. She gave up her bed so that I would have a warm sleep. She fed me elk soup. She said I was to never bike on that road again. Not even her grandfather, who would walk everywhere would set foot on that road. Sleep.
The next day, bright and early ,I was up. Vicki said….no, ordered that I was to stay the day in town and learn about the Makah Tribe, of which she was part of and who were the people of this land. With a past that extends back to the dawn of time, She told me many stories about the goats of Wada Island, the lighthouse operator and many other tales of peril and survival of living on the most Northwest tip of America. Before I left, I meekly asked her son to help me figure out my tent. He didn’t need to figure it out, he knew. With a smirk on his face, he showed me the paint by numbers version of how to set it up. Then I was off.
Many Ships - Neah Bay
I explored the art of the people at someone’s private home gallery. A sign read please ring the bell. I did and I was let into a single room, full of brightly colored oil paintings of fishing and hunting, hats of earth tones made of bark from local trees. The Makah museum informed of a town near by Ozete, that had had a mudslide and had resurfaced and had excavated in the 70s. 100 of relics painted a beautiful picture of a very distinct and proud nation of hunters and whalers. I sat inside of a reconstructed log house and stared out the window at a fake ocean scene. If someone was teleported here from the past of anytime that had lived in this area, the only thing that stays somewhat constant in character is the sea. Interesting how much cosmetic work we have put into our cities and landmasses. To what avail? To make it our own? Nature seems more individualistic than anything else could be, from humans to drops of water. Too many surgeries, our planet looks fake, over prothesised and all the same.
I purchased a bumper sticker to put on the Klalita. She looked so pretty with it on, I blushed for her. Evening was slowly making it’s lumbering way in. I returned to Vicki’s home to say my goodbyes to her and her family. She was my mother for a mere two days, but her impact and kindness and big heart will be something I will never forget. One of those wonderful people that description does no justice describing. She alone is worth a trip, by car or bus, the mythical shores of that enchanting other realm.
Forks at Night. Go Spartans Go!
Onto the bus…vrooooom! I was in Forks. It was the dead of a cold night when I arrived. I emphasize dead and will continue to make vampire references throughout this paragraph, much to most people who read this’s chagrin. I bet not a person with braces reads my posts. Anyways, why vampires? Well if you love the Lights (the solo artist) and have just acquired a low voice (still with occasional pitch problems) and/or have a Chris Brown moustache, then you know that Forks is where the Twilight Series takes place. Art here, does not imitate life, but the other way around. That movie MADE Forks. Vampire pizzas. Vampire road signs. Even a guy selling wet kindle, saying it will “ward off the dark forces”. Wow. The kindling was tempting to buy, but I restrained myself, as I needed to find a place to sleep.
Fork's Past - Lumberjacks for days
Picking up some vampire pizza, which tasted as bland as Robert Patteson’s character, I got a lead that the Forks visitor centre is left open at night and was heated. So to the visitor centre I went and made my bed on a bench, across from a snoring burly road worker, who smelled of a couple rounds to many to get back to his wife. The next day it was up with the sun again and off down the road to Amanda Park.
Ever changing plant life on the road
Stopped in Klalaloch for food. Curiosity of the odd had be follow a sign a few kilometers off course. The sign said “Big Tree” and I was curious as to what makes this tree worthy of a sign. Unfortunately the only way I could tell THE tree from all the other trees in the Hoh Rainforest was a placard below with a very distinct arrow pointing to it. The arrow almost seemed to expect that you were looking for Waldo in a forest full of waldos. So, saw the uninspiring tree. Thought positively about deforestation for a second and then I was on my way. Amanda Park was a trust exercise. A leap of truck faith and thank goodness trucks aren’t that sketchy looking thief at the beginning of the Aladdin movie or this story would have never been told (probably would have cut off my ear, cuz they didn’t like my face…it’s barbaric, but hey, it’s home). Check it out:
Even when everything seems miserable, you are reinvigorated by this.
