The wind and the waves

Bearing the essential
at the Roosevelt Mini Mart

I lay shivering in my tent last night till 3 a.m. when I finally had the gumption to put on my heavy-weather gear and try again. Then I slept till 8 -- pretty late on a bike trip. I didn't get rolling till about 10:30, went 7 miles, felt like I couldn't face it, and checked into this $68-a-night Quality Inn. "We got plenty of rooms," the clerk said.  Call it a day off. Or, maybe, an office day.

This is my third, and the way it's working out, it's been one every three or four nights.

Bruce left Thursday and I stayed in The Dalles that night, then took Highway 30 and a frontage road about 22 miles to the thriving little town of Biggs. I had to cross a bridge there -- one of those busy, two-lane, no-shoulder, no-sidewalk bridges -- and I gathered myself, said a prayer, and ventured out. A strong wind was blowing from up the gorge, throwing me sideways toward the rail, and I had to fight to stay on course. Cars and trucks passed me on the left, threading the needle between my shoulder and oncoming traffic. I was honked at only once -- remarkable under the circumstances -- but that was little comfort at the time.

Then, about two-thirds of the way across, the passing stopped. I saw a beige sedan in my mirror. He was behind me, not too close, and not trying to pass, just sitting there. I was puzzled, irritated. If you're going to pass, just get it over with, I felt. But he continued to follow me patiently all the way off the bridge, until I was settled on the road, and then he drove off. I wasn't until later that I could interpret this. It was an answer to the prayer, possibly. He'd put an end to the passing -- deliberately, I think. Nobody would try to pass him and me -- there just wasn't space. It only cost him a few minutes -- but that was more than anybody else was willing to give, and it made a huge difference. So, thank you, beige car driver.

Washington's Highway 14.
 As fast as the wind.

I spent two days on Highway 14, on the Washington side, a road advertised by my map as "limited services" --  no gas stations for 82 miles. I brought a gallon of water, a water filter, and extra food. There was little traffic, and on the first day, Friday, the wind was blowing at 35 miles an hour right at my back, and I sailed. I could sit still, pedaling idly, for miles at a time and go as fast as 20 mph without effort. The rolling hills became minor irritations -- just push up and over with a handful of strokes. But when the road turned me sideways to the wind, the bike became difficult to control, and I would have preferred milder help.

I landed, finally, at Roosevelt, Washington, across the river from Roosevelt, Oregon. I ate tacos at the Mini-Mart -- more like a cafe than you would think -- and had eggs and sausage for breakfast the next day. So, there was service in the "limited services" desert. In between meals I stayed at the town park, full of windsurfers and kite surfers, enjoying the blasting wind. It is a famous place for this, and some of the dozens of people there had come in their vans from Utah and other points east.

On my second day, yesterday, the wind was mild, and dwindled to nothing as the day wore on. I rode numbly, depleted, finding no services, this time for real. Every one of the few eating spots was closed for the day, or closed permanently. I got water in Paterson from the local fire-rescue station ("We cover 300 square miles, from the dam to the county line and 10 miles wide," said David, one of the three paid employees) and pushed on to Plymouth, where I had my awful night.

I'll be back out there tomorrow.

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