End of the Road

Yesterday was an amazing, eventful end to my long journey. It had everything, some more of that dreaded headwind, threat of rain, gorgeous scenery, rocky roads, mountains, interstate, a wild ride down, an incredible sense of triumph... It was such a great feeling biking into Seattle, and then meeting up with my good friend, Erin, and knowing that I had really made it.

I woke up later than I had planned; it was nearly 7:00. And I then rushed to get ready for my big, final day. Thankfully it had barely sprinkled in the night so there wasn't much cleaning of equipment that needed done before things could be packed. Having gotten spoiled by having hosts so much of the time, it was a little disappointing eating an entirely dry breakfast (the ever constant poptarts, and a mix of cereal, nuts, and gardettos I made). But it was made better knowing I would be eating real food soon.

I set out in good spirits for my final day, as I headed for what is alternatively called the Iron Horse or the John Wayne Trail. ...My mood quickly dropped though as soon as I actually got on said "trail". Just getting on it was enough of an annoyance, as there are large gates over the trail entrances to block off vehicles from getting on...but which also happen to be a real pain to sneak a bike hauling a trailer through. And then all my worries about being on a gravel trail were met and exceeded as it turned out not only to be generally poorly packed, but at some places to be more rock than gravel. And we're talking some big damn dangerous rocks here. As I ventured out on that trail, trailer feeling like it might rattle apart, slowed way down, going away from signal and civilization for a time, I really questioned if I would make it. That's some of the roughest sections of trail I've ever been on. At one point I actually made my way down a steep, rocky incline that I had to carry my bike and hold back my trailer not to come crashing down, just so I could be on a pothole covered gravel car road that ran parallel to the trail for a ways, because that was a huge improvement. And if it weren't tough enough, the trail has long, dark, creepy tunnels illuminated only by the entrances on either side, where you can't see that rocky uncertain ground once you're toward the center. It's a gorgeous trail, it really is, but even on a mountain bike, it's bad going hauling a trailer.

So I got off the Iron Horse, John Wayne, Dreadful, whatever you want to call it, trail as soon as I could. I had the option to stay on and take the Snoqualmie Tunnel to probably not have to climb up the whole way to the pass, or take a decently steep road (the interstate is closed at that section to bicyclists for construction). I chose the climb. Mountains are at least the devil I know, and by now, I've had to do so very much worse than the rise to Snoqualmie Pass. I then got on the interstate as soon as I could, and stayed on it as long as I could, much of it a fun ride down the slope (spending all my potential energy karma on the way to sea level). Of course, the closer and closer I got to Seattle, the interstate became scarier and scarier to be on. And I was more than ready to get off at Issaquah when the sign said I had to.

At a gas station there I texted Erin and let her know I was going to make it into Seattle in just a couple hours, with less than 20 miles to go. ...It took me longer than I thought it would. Navigation was tricky, stop lights were frequent, hills were surprisingly intense, plenty of delays for that short stretch. I followed best I could (sometimes messing up and losing track of it on side routes) the I-90 bike trail that runs parallel to the interstate. It's a fun ride, though it has some crazy sections (one where you go up a steep slope one way, then back the other direction, and then back again, so you can rise quickly in a short stretch). But before I knew it, there I was crossing onto Mercer Island, then crossing a bridge again, an amazingly long, beautiful one, from Mercer to Seattle. I had made it at last.

And with a short, bit time consuming, ride through a little of the city, I arrived at the planned meeting place of Rizal Park, with perfect timing, just minutes after Erin pulled up. I walked up to her vehicle with a ridiculous grin on my face and triumphantly got to greet a person I know for the first time in over a month. Then after a big hug, with a little fenangling, we got the bike and the trailer into her vehicle, and just like that my bicycle vagabonding was at its end.

But the day's adventure was not yet quite over. I had a side quest that I had for us to complete. The day before, on the shoulder of the interstate between Ellensburg and Cle Elum, I had found a pair of keys that had a name on an equestrian and a YMCA card. Erin did an excellent job tracking her down to Woodenville, a half an hour drive away, and we set off to return them. With a little effort, we found a police officer and dropped them off with him to get to their owner. I regret slightly that I will never know how those keys ended up there on the interstate.

With that little adventure finished, we finally headed to my home for a little while, with a great stop at this part of the world's version of Village Inn for dinner. I had a great shower, a nice beer, good conversation, and then collapsed into bed (at some behest from Erin), way too tired for a real blog post.

I'm still adjusting to the notion that I've got nowhere to bike today, no reason to fear the wind, no need to make compulsive checks of my equipment and that I have everything, or any of that. I find myself alternating from being giddy at the novelness of it, and having brief instants of freaking out, like when I patted my pocket at the store and didn't have my keys...or my helmet, or gloves, or anything else I should always have when going anywhere. I imagine I shall adjust quickly, but it's truly strange at the moment. Bike vagabonding is definitely another way of life.

I will post again, perhaps a couple more times, to state some reflections on my trip and some advice for anyone who wants to go bike vagabonding themselves. After all, all my minimal research I did before I left was done by reading blogs like this one. I might as well contribute back to that cycle in my little way.

And of course, when I decide to do another trip like this one (totally eastward next time), I'm sure I'll pick up this blog all over again. Because as I was told, once you've been a vagabond it's always in you, and you have to do it again.