Slow slow quick quick slow (Nick)

Saturday 17th May. Newport Or.
The Harley won't be fixed until Rich wanders into work around 12. It will be a slow start. We met some of last night's truthtellers and liars at breakfast. Nat was going off on a sixty mile bicycle ride. We were welcome to join him? Was this true or false? We made our excuses.

We were allowed to leave our bags at the hotel for the day provided we cleared out of Steinbeck by 11. Deal! J and I took off along the strand known  as Nye Beach towards the lighthouse to the North, reminiscent of Mum's beach at Start in the South Hams. We talked about Scottish independence and the forthcoming vote, and, after BMW's, how an economics teacher at my old school had managed to teach a class of 14 year oldbaby-boomers how (from an economist's point of view) Germany had won the War. And so as we walked,  we "...Talked of many things

Of shoes and socks and sealing wax

And cabbages and kings"

And Big Sophie, of course. How were the spokes shaping up? I gave R & R a call at 1205, not wanting to rush Rich as he was walking into his shop. "He ain't in" said a voice from the workshop, "Suggest that you try in an hour." We phoned in an hour and a half. "Bike 'll be ready in an hour" said Rich. Good news. I wasn't certain that Big Soph was a curable patient.

We were hoping to spend the night at vsome motel or hostel in Coos Bay 130 or so miles South down R101. Everything for miles around was booked. This Saturday was some sort of regional festival. In Florence there would be a procession of girls holding flowers, or something. These activities were a huge draw. J was frustrated. The only place we could find was inland and far to the South in a place called Grant's Pass. Something called an Air Bed. Grants Pass was 200 miles away. A challenging objective.

We rejoined Big Sophie at around 2.30. Rich was reassuring. "She's good to go!" And go we did. Many of the spokes had been tightened up, particularly on the back wheel. Back to the hotel, to load up, and away South.

The route from Newport is a wonderful stretch of H101: magestic curves hugging the Pacific coastline. Every now and then J would get excited, pull in and switch on his camera, or alternatively overtake, bomb off and enjoy some centrifugal fun - well, that's what BMW riders do. Today H101 sported showrooms of Harleys heading north, the riders for the most part enjoying the sunshine in their Sunday best apparel: black leather riding jackets, black shiny helmets, black shades and wifey's perched on the back with compatible uniforms. I have now perfected the left hand laid-back Harley wave. The feeling of cameraderie is infectious, and 

Only occasionally unreciprocated when J, riding ahead, quite deliberately spoils my Masonic fun by offering the oncoming Harleys a sort of Teutonic parody, something between a Gay greeting and Sieg Heil.

Mm

At Reedsport we pulled in for a quick map check. Big Soph was travelling forwards beautifully, without hesitation, deviation or repetition.nothing like a set of tight spokes. To get to Grants Pass, however, it was time to take temporary leave of H101  and head East on R38 along the grey greasy banks of the mighty Umpaqua. We trailed a group of about 6 Harley riders travelling at a similar pace on Electaglides with monkey bars. At this rate we would be in or looking at our airbeds by 8 pm.

However when I checked my fuel gauge (which is difficult to see as you need to lean forward and take your eye off the road)I got a shock. The needle was well in the red. We were on a 60+ mile stretch of middle of nowhere land. I reduced speed to what I judged to be a fuel saving lick, kept gearing low and chugged on. J thought the Satnav had a tool prompting fueling points. And so it did. Trouble was that it kept on telling me to turn left into unmade roads or fields. I felt that it clearly did not have my best interests at heart. And now the needle was bumping on empty. Over the intercom, j with sadistic anticipation casually enquired about the level on the Richter scale I would reach when I ran out of petrol. According to the map we should have arrived at a place called Drain by now whose streets, I wishfully expected, would be awash with petrol.But Drain had disappeared....Ahead I spotted a parked pickup truck towing a trailer with a beach buggy on it, with two menwalking around it checking their load. I stopped. There was a language problem at first because i made an enquiry about petrol. This was something neither man had heard of. But when we understood one another,  I was told that there was a gas station just round the next bend. After miles of rugged countryside with few signs of civilisation this was welcome news. And as I saw the unmistakeable yellow and red livery of Shell on a hill surrounded by shiny white pumps I thought of Tintin crawling through the Desert with Captain Haddock towards an oasis mirage. Joy!

A short visual break...

After Big Sophie had a big drink onto Interstate 5, North to South. This was what at this stage we needed - an 80 mile zip to our destination. Riders - ok. BMW - ok (well, it always is). BigSoph - happily full of fuel and singing her favourite song "Potato potato" cruising down the highway. The speed limit was 65, which we happily but safely exceeded.At Grants Pass we stopped at MacDonalds for a snack and a drink, but mainly because I don't recall our arrival time. At Grants Pass we stopped of at McDonalds, not so much for the haute cuisine as the fact that you could wash down the burgers and French fries with free Wi-Fi. Atlast we had the address of our Airbeds. Ten minutes later after chugging through acres of endless suburban real estate we arrived. Our Airhosts and hostesses, Carol and ...Fred (?) Welcomed us into their spacious one story spread built on the bend of a fast flowing river (Fred: " I wish I could fish")> I sensed we were fairly high up (Carol: "I don't know about that"). We unloaded in the last of the evening's light, and shared a little red wine left over from the picnic of the day before. And Carol and ...Fred (?)? The house has swallowed them up. They have vanished into thin air.

Sunday 18th May

Big breakfast and big trees

No wonder so many Americans are overweight. Ther breakfast waiting for us on this our first rainy start comprised pancakes like doorsteps with maple syrup, turkey bacon and a fried egg. Enough calories for a Marathon. The chef was not Carol or ...Fred(?), who were still on the missing list, but a large extravert in his late 30's called Damian. While he filled our stomachs and J with useful information about the route ahead, I brought the blog up to date. I did howeverv learn that Damien was a hairdresser working locally.

...Fred (?) put in a brief appearance as breakfast ended. So also Carol who remained to see us off. By this time I had learned that all three of them were hairdressers. It was the family business. There was obviously a lot of fast growing hair in Grants Pass.

As we left it had stopped raining but that didn't last for long. Within three miles we were climbing into our wets. I gave Big Soph another drink. I wasn't going to make the same mistake in 24 hours. A bit like never passing up on a loo when you've reached a certain age...

Now across country West back to the coast. Route 199 took us over a steep mountain ridge that had sharp hairpin bends and rocks in the middle of the road, which made for interesting riding. The weather however got worse, and by the time we reached flat country the other side, the rain was worse. 

We spotted a roadside cafe called Hiouchi as the heavens really opened. In we went. The place was full of old timers happily late breakfasting , who clearly all knew each other and had not lost the art of conversation. I read some of the Hiouchi Cafe's history printed on the place mats on our table:

"Between the loggers, the fishermen and the locals, it became a honky-tonk with a reputation for serious drinking and nightly fist fights."

Unfortunately we couldn't stay for the floor show, and rejoined H101 with a sense of relief, heading southward briefly into Crescent City. I woke up to the fact tht we had somehow crossed the State line into California. We stopped off at a Starbucks, sat outside in the sunshine and removed our wets.

We had missed a scenic stretch of H101that literature had extolled, and so we went North briefly for about 40 miles to have a butchers. We turned back at the Pistol River. The coast line was full of rocky coves and high vistas. As we turned back on our tracks I realised how much better travelling Southwards is. The light is so much more pervasive.Still a few clouds around but no more rain. Across the State line into California, and it is now time to visit some special trees.

The Redwood forests of Northern California are spectacular. Our billet for tonight where I am writing this is in a one horse town called Miranda in a cabin/ motel recommended by Damian, in a Redwood forest.We will walk in this forest tomorrow.

Big Soph had plenty of opportunity to be of good behaviour today, and she did not let me down. Long may that last.

The day finished without supper, which mattered not a lot. Damien's breakfast was still gurgling in our guts. J and I sat round a wood fire outside drinking Zinfandel. Perhaps that is California's finest. We may soon be in wine country, and will have an opportunity to find out.