Hog Riding Fools

by Doug Nufer, The Free Press

icycle touring is more of a pastime than a sport, and can be more job than adventure. With global warming in full swing, good-hearted souls might even take it for that shibboleth of business books, the win-win situation: save the planet while you save your cardiovascular system. Romantic types envision life as a cowboy, riding the wide open spaces and sleeping under the stars, while masochists imagine themselves pushing to define pleasure as the end of pain.

Whatever your approach to the road, Bicycling the Pacific Coast by Tim Kirkendall and Vicky Spring, third edition, 1998 (Mountaineers), provides essential guidance for over 1800 miles, from Vancouver to the Mexican border. They divide the trip into 30-80 mile stints, giving topological profiles of the terrain and campground information. Although the book is geared more for campers than for the motel set, who favor the cocktail lounge over the campfire (let alone the mileage addicts who crave a leisurely 200 miles a day), it hardly suffers for its failure to supply restaurant tips.

After following their directions from Seattle to San Francisco, I have just one serious complaint. Kirkendall and Spring aim faithful readers down one of the most dangerous roads I have ever traveled, the dark and pot-holed gauntlet of Samuel P. Taylor state park, the worst of three possible routes from Pt. Reyes Station to the Golden Gate. Of course, by the time Northwest bikers reach this point (Southbound in summer, with the wind at your back, is their strenuously endorsed way to go), California's heavier traffic and narrower shoulders have become customary traveling companions.

For the most part, the authors do a good job of warning riders about difficult passages, such as the hills south of Crescent City and the Oregon tunnels. Not to dismiss the sensible awareness of traffic in the realm of the logging truck, but mile-for-mile I've had fewer problems with drivers on the highway than with drivers around Seattle. For that matter, the Oregon coast highway with its deluxe shoulders is probably safer than the Burke-Gilman trail.

Two photos from earlier editions didn't make the third, and so no longer threaten prospective tourists: Kirkendall repairing a spoke and an anonymous cyclist climbing the 2000-foot Legget Hill, king of the coastal route mountains. With dozens of bike shops along the way and many more steep hills than that, these twin fears of inexperienced bike travelers prove to be practically groundless. The Bicycle Doctor's advice on spokes is, if you break one, loosen the opposite spoke to make the wheel go more or less round, then let the next bike shop take care of it. I also suggest taping a few spokes to the frame. Not only are they nifty cosmetic accessories, these featherweight talismans ward off bad road luck, if only by reminding you to be prepared.

One crucial preparation for a bike trip is a shake-down cruise. At least a week before you go, pack all your gear and take a long ride. This is at least as important for the engine (that's you) as for the chassis.

At this point it would be responsible of me to blab about being in shape, warming up properly, and eating and drinking the right stuff. So here goes: forget about it. Anyone even thinking about a long bike trip will be in good enough shape to ride into better shape and will ride into great shape as the trip progresses. Anyone who's thirsty will guzzle plenty of water (don't run out, and you'll do fine). And if there's any higher purpose about riding a bicycle for hours several days in a row it's this: you can eat and drink whatever you damn well please.

While Kirkendall and Spring say the point of bike touring is to have fun, this doesn't quite explain why I spent most of eight days working harder on vacation than I ever work on the job. Nor does it speak for that peculiar breed of two-wheel traveler you encounter on the road, best represented by a couple of German chain smokers dressed in black, whose guide book was a map. I asked how far they were going; they shrugged. They'd begun this trip in Newfoundland and the map went at least as far as Chile.