As I was packing up my tent, a little girl about 4 years old was calling for her grandma. There was a bit of hurt in her voice, smacked with some desperation. She passed my site and stopped just past it as I was close to the exit, not far from the registration area. She then waddled into my site, watching her step and stopped, looked up at me and said, "I can't find grandma." I asked if she was with her earlier and she sobbed "Yes!" I asked where her parents were and she pointed towards the campground. I said she should go to her parents but she said she didn't want to go back without grandma. I told her grandma was OK, that she was not lost. She blubbered a bit and I asked her name. She said, "Pee-ann-dora". I think her name was Pandora, but she said it like See-Ann Free-Ann-Cisco. I said my name was Adam and she squinted, jutted out her chin and smiled as big as she could showing both rows of teeth. It was the cutest thing I had ever seen. I reminded her that her grandma was okay and she should not worry, that she would be along shortly. And she went back to her parents at her campsite, mich happier with the false knowledge I fed her, which I was sure was reasonably accurate.
Just the day before, I was singing the theme song to Green Acres. Not sure why. So it was a surprise to see this sign by the side of the road.
It wasn't long before I got to Fort Bragg. I was surprised I got there do soon, and thought of David whose trip would end there later that day.
The town is famous got its army base and it's Skunk train. Apparently it had to do with the oil used to run the train causing a foul odor. It no longer stinks.
The main drab had a pretty cool clock. Cool old looking clocks are almost always present in towns that desire some sense of historic authenticity, whether they are old or not.
But unfortunately, it's equalized by For Sale signs and old boats marooned on the site got sale.
When I got just outside of Mendocino, I took this picture of a windswept tree, an anchor, and a bench made for lovers, hence the heart carved into it. A guy asked me about my trip, and when I told him where I had come from and where I was going, he immediately stuck out his hand to shake mine. He wished me luck and told me to be careful.
Mendocino was a quaint town that seemed to cater to the wealthy with jewellery shops and high end cafes ANC restaurants. And the signature Fire Department that every town, no matter the size, had prominently displayed on the main drag.
I found the Cafe Mendocino Robert from Luna Fish in Yachats had mentioned, and ordered the Thai Burrito as instructed. It was ok, but not great considering the price. The cilantro was garnished on top, but I would have preferred it in the sandwich. The lemonade wasn't even that great, but I needed the vitamin C fit my cold, according to my mom, even though I don't believe vitamin C helps that much.
I managed another one lane construction thingy, and become quite an expert, in that I deftly wave cars ahead of me as I cruise into the lane, then pedal my little heart out till I make it out the other end and wave thanks to any cars that may have been caught behind for the inconvenience.
These signs suck. They no longer held any redeeming quality even though they are a warning to cars to watch for bicycles. They are a teasing message disguised as a helpful message to make bikers feel safer, but really they taunt with the message, "You're in for one helluva ride bikers! Mwahahaha!!!!"
Bit then you see stuff like this...
And this...
And it ain't so bad. At the turnout of the above pic, I was taking the picture and this couple pulled over in their car. Becca and Fred asked if I wanted a picture taken, and I declined, but offered to take their picture. And then we all took pictures of each other with the turnaround feature on our phones. I assumed they were honeymooning for some reason.
I grabbed some drinks at this fancy store which was sparse with goods, but all were quality. I think it was new-ish as they were arranging flower bed boxes out front.
When I got back to my trike in the parking lot across the street, I got a nod from the bus driver who was waiting for his scheduled time to leave.
Apparently some of these hills were some of the steepest of the entire trip. I still managed then ok, but I stopped once in a while. This picture doesn't do the steepness justice.
I don't know if thete's a place where you can rent old cars to drive around, but tons, and I mean dozens, of old style cars and hot rods wizzed by! Some drove by the other way afterwards as well. I only managed to get my camera out in time for this photo, and had to snap it off quickly. He's actually going downhill but I couldn't compose and get the shot quick enough.
Manchester Beach State Park was a self pay area, and I think I ended up choosing a spot on a campsite just off the hiker biker sites, but it was pretty sparse, so it ended up being ok. And yes, I managed to use the word sparse twice in one post.
As I made my way to the washroom, or where I hoped a washroom was located, I ran into a biker and I asked if I was heading in the right direction. He said there were no showers, but they had "drop washrooms" where I was headed. He then engaged me in bike travel talk. As much as I had practiced lettjng conversations end organic than cutting them off, I eventually had to end the conversation before it ended organically by going to the washroom while talking to him. I said I would drop by to continue talking. After I went to the washroom, I set up my tent, and after I got set up, Mike was know longer at his picnic bench, so I ate at my bench. I guess he turned I early. Even though I was two days from San Francisco, Mike and his friend were going to try and get there the following day, getting up at 5am. He had bragged that they had done so many Centuries (100 milers) that the 110 miles to San Fancisco wouldn't be a problem. They had bikes from Indiana and Missouri, and just wanted to get to San Francisco to relax and enjoy some time there. I was looking forward to getting there too, but not by way of a Century starting at 5am.
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