I’m impressed people have stood for this for so long, it’s been almost two weeks since any substantive update here. I have kept my paper journal faithfully, though, so lots to talk about.

On the date of my last serious update, 30 April, I checked into the Drama Hostel. Fortunately it didn’t affect me too badly, but there was a pretty sad situation there with a bunch of kids, all clearly from Circumstances. They made some serious allegations about the manager’s conduct, and ended up getting kicked out. It bothers me that, though they certainly did plenty to get kicked out, I’m not certain their allegations were untrue–there is plenty of opportunity for an unprincipled person to prey on vulnerable young people in exactly that kind of situation.

Smaller places I’ve been seem to fall into three rough categories: places that are bigger than a strip on the highway, and which seem economically depressed; the punk ratio is higher than you’d expect. Places that are well-developed and “touristy”, like Courtenay and Port Townsend; these are still a little depressing in a way, since “industry” consists of arts and crafts. (There’s nothing wrong with those but they don’t speak to me of a vital, modern economy.) And the aforementioned highway strips.

Everywhere I’ve gone I’ve found friendly people. The grand total so far of motorists yelling out their windows at me: four. Trucks and cars that have passed way too close: perhaps a dozen or so. Really I’m very impressed how well-behaved car and truck drivers have been on these winding, narrow roads.

Back in the chronological account, I spent an extra day in Powell River to hand out with the charming and lovely Karen, a German tourist visiting friends. We went for a hike for much of the day, through some really stunning forest scenery with cool wooden bridges and an ominous set of tracks that we kept reassuring ourselves probably where just a big dog’s. It amplified my enjoyment greatly to be with someone else who appreciated the place so much. We’d been trying for a kayak tour, but it was a little early in the season for it, so we had the hike instead; for my money it was a win overall. (I do still want to kayak though.)

Oh, a side note on the forest hike: Powell River, like many places in BC, has a lot of forestry in its history (and present). To commemorate this, they had a number of massive machines placed along one hiking trail, with little plaques explaining their use and history. But of interest to me was just that juxtaposition of a tree-gobbling hulk being reclaimed by the forest over time. My photography habits since then show how much I like such contrasts.

After Powell River, I spent a few days hanging out with my old college friend S—–. We had an amiable reunion and talked a good bit about her relationship with her daughter. I preached NVC, of course, and also had to own up to my own discomfort about seeing her put herself down so often over our acquaintance; that helped me practice instead of just lecturing.

I met a number of S—-’s excellent friends, and on a trip to Denman Island I ended up staying at a Karma Kagyu retreat centre for a night. The retreat of the day was a Green Tara practice–I still feel a little peculiar about participating in something I don’t really align with like that, but everyone was very nice and the food was excellent. And it was very good to get some proper meditating in finally–my practice on the road has been basically nil. I also had opportunity to talk to the resident monk, Brother Phap Bi, about monasticism. Like most monastics I’ve spoken with, he firmly pointed out that the robes don’t insulate you against all that crap that you think you’re escaping somehow, and don’t guarantee a practice that’s better than what you have.

This brings us up to 4 May. At that point I reflected that hostels are not much more expensive than camping and a hell of a lot nicer. For the record, then: I Like Hostels. I’m getting decent at making and striking camp, though; I even managed to cook myself breakfast this morning and clean up properly.

On 5 May I wheeled my way to Nanaimo, about 40 km down the island. My legs were fine but my hands were unhappy, and, hey, hostel! So there I stayed. The Painted Turtle is an insanely luxurious hostel, very nicely appointed, located just so, and at hostel rates. I can’t imagine any reason to stay anywhere else there. I even got the t-shirt (OK, I also badly needed to do laundry and couldn’t stomach not doing both stinky synthetic shirts).

And now, as an intermission, two of my weird-ass dreams:

I was in a relationship with a woman, and maybe a pre-op transsexual was with us too, and finally there was a ditz of a man, who was only involved with the woman. She was, I guess, trying to get pregnant. I had a little vessel of the ditz’s semen, and somehow added my own to it (I’m not being cute here, it was some weird, non-sexual extraction). I warned the woman that she might get with child by the ditz, saying it in some sarcastic, indirect way.

Later on I found myself in some Games-Workshop style world (for non-gamers, full apparently of nothing but degeneracy and over-the-top violence), fighting in an army all clad in armour on a nautical theme with fancy energy weapons. A degenerate monarchy had as its ally, or perhaps master, a pinkish, consuming creature that lived in an immense well (or underwater palace, almost). The royals would periodically sacrifice enormous, pallid beasts, like some cross between a hippo and a maggot. The chaotic monster/god would bring up a great globular eye-thing, paralyzing its prey, and then it would extrude creatures of its own with shark-like teeth. Watching the dumb creatures’ flesh torn off their living bodies, in loving close-up, was really terrifying.

Eventually, in the armoured infantry battle (there were two sides here), some of the “good” soldiers got into the well and were picked off by polyp-like limbs of the monster, swallowed whole. At that point, the DVD commentary kicked in: “now, this angle should really underline their desperate helplessness.” As usual, that change of mental angle defused the horror of the situation, and I woke up.

Freudian as all hell, I’m sure.

Leaving Nanaimo, the Book takes you through Salt Spring Island. It’s hilly, winding roads with cars blasting around. By this point I was thoroughly sick of that kind of biking and took a bus trip across. Pure heaven. All the scenery, none of the stress, I even took pictures. Naturally I was all over myself for “cheating,” something that seems to be a theme for the trip. I’ve pretty well decided that if I can skip something boring or nasty by civic transit, I’m probably going to do it. I apologize to any purists out there. No, wait, no I don’t. Screw you guys. Go do a triathlon and leave us middle-aged fun-lovers alone. Ha!

Oh, side note, I met a guy on my way into Nanaimo (via a kick ass bike trail paralleling their commuter train line), who was riding a kind of bike I want–a reverse trike. He’d done construction and thus had similar hand problems to mine, but more interestingly, he said he’d vowed in his 20s to have all his “toys” be human-powered. Very cool!

Going to Victoria was my longest ride so far: 84 km, which Google tells me is 52 miles. I almost made it all the way to L—–’s house, but actually lost the Lochside trail, and as daylight was running out, I called for rescue. (Cheating again! Bad tourist!) We passed a quiet evening, and she (thank you!!!) fed me some pasta, which I consumed greedily. My capacity to stick matter down my pie-hole on this trip continues to surprise and almost offend me.

The next day, as mentioned in my brief update, I watched Iron Man, and generally lazed about. L—– pleaded for some time with her just-returned hubby, so I checked into the hostel in town. Victoria’s hostel is much more “hostelly” than most I’ve been in, with a massive barracks-like emplacement for the men. Still, it was reasonably comfortable and I slept fine. Then I did the whale-watching, which bears expanding upon.

I learned about the whale-watching biz, which has a fair bit of “coopetition” in it–if a full boat isn’t booked, one company will book the guest over to another. This way they don’t waste space on boats, and everyone seems good with this arrangement. There’s also a “spotter” network of people with truly massive binoculars, though apparently this year the spotters did not play well together and there’s no network (a tale hangs therein I’m sure but the guy I bought my seat from was professionally discreet about it).

Us civvies got suited up in bulky, class-leveling red survival suits, got a talk about what we might expect, and were off. In rather choppy waters. A Zodiac going across four- and five-foot swells is an experience all in itself, like something from an amusement park. I was proud of my ability to keep my spine relatively supple to absorb shock, but frequently resorted to grabbing the bar in front of my seat and coming slightly upright, thus eating shock with my legs instead. Just like riding a bike! I giggled hysterically several times.

But the point is whales, and we did get to see a couple of orcas. The rough seas here actually helped since we could see more of the creatures as they would surface through the side of a wave, revealing more of their impressive form. This wasn’t revelatory or anything for me, but it was certainly cool, and I recommend it.

A wet spot down the front of my pants dampened my spirits just as we were returning to the dock. I was petrified that I had somehow wet myself–but several others shared my fate, and it seems the suits are not perfectly water-proof. Even so, somehow I found it hard to bounce back after that, and facing the continuation of my trip into the USA was difficult. I did finally buy my insurance and get ready, though.

On 9 May, I realized I’d been on the road two weeks. The day’s riding was incredibly annoying–Whidby Island’s development has gone (I guess) at a ferocious pace since the Book was published, and street names changed insidiously. I did as much time going in wrong directions as I did progressing. The ferry ride was fun, though, as I met several other touring bikers and one ferry commuter, all very encouraging.

Finally I did make it to Deception Pass–the most awesome sight I’ve seen so far. It’s a hugely impressive vista of mountains and water, crossed by a long, classic bridge. There’s that combination again. I took pictures, and there I also scattered some of mom’s ashes–her first American locale. I’d been thinking I’d stick with water, but it was impossible to safely reach it from the island halfway across, so on the ground and in the wind it was.

The border, by the way, was totally easy and informal. Big signs informed us of the “Seamar Security Level,” but an attack on the San Juan Islands seems not to be a big worry.

I met a lovely man, T—–, who gave me some tips. Worryingly, he asked “shouldn’t you be going the other way, though?” His impression of the prevailing winds is different from the Book’s.

9 May’s evening at Deception Pass campground also marks the first time I have peed outside in probably over 10 years. Certain people may be aware that this is pretty important, for so trivial-sounding a thing. Way convenient, anyway.

I eventually took yet another ferry, meeting another commuter biker, to Port Townsend, a nice little town with a hostel smack in the middle of the campground. I took a long time getting away, and did lots of beating myself up after meeting a guy who had followed the same book as me–and was now there after one week, instead of my two. Obviously I suck so much and am so slow.

(A side note on NVC here: I’ve found this new form of empathy. Well, it’s not new, people do it all the time: speak out the inner jackal voice you know is going on, with a heavy dose of sarcasm. In the right circumstances, it says “I understand the kind of suffering you have, and the delivery method–and please look at it again and realize how unreal it is.” I need a suitably technical term for this. I’ve received it with much gratitude on numerous occasions as I list off my insecurities to total strangers.)

The same day, I finally got a handlebar bag. Just a little one. And became totally convinced that it was wrecking my handling. Now I think it’s dead handy. Go figure.

The God Damned Wind got much worse after that. Note here: I have had wind in my face every. Day. Anyway, on Sunday it was bad enough that I spent a second night in a $70 hotel (argh) to avoid it. Turns out, with basic cable, you can watch nothing but CSI and 48 Hours all day. My brain rot continued to progress in the midst of indulging such insane luxuries as not riding in wind that, I later found out, had given car drivers a hard time keeping their tires where they wanted them. Apparently I was also sacrificing babies and sodomizing angels and no one had told me, to listen to my interior judge. Also it was pissing rain.

Today, once again, pissing rain. Met another nice tourist, coming from San Francisco. How was the wind, I asked. Headwind the whole way, she said. Also, every tourist she meets says there is a headwind. I’m pretty sure this is physically impossible.

So, I “cheated” again and took a bus from Shelton to here, Olympia, thus my clever post title. It turns out to be possible to go all the way to Portland by cleverly taking overlapping civic buses. I had been thinking I’d do Greyhound, but it turns out they follow the airline standard of “screw cyclists hugely.” (Greyhound! You could put a rack on your buses just like cities do and make friends and customers instead of inspiring snarky blog posts.)

The excellent folks at Oly Bikes helped me out with thinking about my route, and one thing I know is that I wanna be in Oregon. From there I may strike directly for the coast, or possibly cruise over to Bend to see cool Dharma Punx people there. And now I’m ahead of my paper journal–horrors! I appreciate everyone’s patience & hope you’re enjoying the story. It’s certainly fulfilling its promise of being a trip in the hippie sense, for me.