I had foolishly not gotten out my poncho, mostly because it's such a hassle and creates drag in the wind, and by the time I was ready to, it was already too late for it to matter. But as soaked as my jacket and pants were, it was really my wet gloves and shoes that were the issue. I've never had the best luck keeping my extremities warm. And while my fingers mostly retained sensation with a harsh, determined grip on the handlebars, my toes were going numb in spite of all my constant wriggling efforts. I biked on seemingly endlessly through miles and miles of forest with no sign of shelter, growing increasingly desperate. I eventually took brief shelter under the porch of a farmhouse where no one was home and struggled to bring life back to my digits. I pulled out my phone there and found it was under 5 miles onward to Raymond. Getting back on my bike in my wet-stiffen clothes, back into the rain, to bike those last 5 miles took all my force of will.
But I pushed on, and the storm lightened as I went. By the time I finally reached Raymond it had almost passed. I went off the highway and into the closest cafe I could find. I got a lot of strange looks as I entered. I assumed just because I was some out of town bicyclist with a big ass trailer on his bike who came from out of the storm. I took a seat, refused the hot coffee, took the hot cider, and ordered a veggie omelette. While waiting for it, and even after I had my food, I sat at the table dabbing thick paper napkins on my gloves trying to get them dry. I ammassed quite a little pile at the table, but it worked surprisingly well. When I finished eating, I went into the bathroom...and staring into the mirror I finally realized the reason for the looks. Not only were my pants covered in sand and mud, half my face was caked with mud by one means or another, and I hadn't even realized. I cleaned up as much as I could, took off my shoes, and wrapped my socks in copious paper towels to soak up the wet in them. It worked surprisingly well, and is a technique I'll remember in the future.
The storm had passed in my time in the diner, but the sky was still not clear, and the ominous clouds drove me onward in fear of being stormed on again. Raymond was decorated with all kinds of neat sculptures, but I wasn't stopping for pictures or to appreciate them. Eventually, ever so slowly, the clouds cleared, and the sun came out. There were a few moments pushing up hills that I was actually overwarm in my jacket, and the contrast made me laugh. At one point I stopped for a picture, and saw my best friend sent me a text that said simply, "Happy birthday. I got you rain." I was chuckling for miles. The storm had passed, and while I had a long ways to go, life was good.
I detoured off 101 for a brief while in favor of the shorter highway, enjoying the marshes rather than the beach. And eventually, I was riding along the side of the massive Columbia River toward the Astoria Bridge. I was incredibly intimidated by the length and look of it, as well as the stories I had read from other cyclists. I called my best friend at a rest stop and told him that if I didn't call back in an hour he might want to tell someone. The shoulder is narrow, narrower than my trailer, often has debris, the bridge is almost 4 miles long, and it rises and then falls steeply toward the end. But I just kept my eyes straight ahead the whole time, focusing on going as straight as possible, and was generally surprised at how considerately traffic passed me. It was not nearly as bad as I expected it might be.
Then, there I was, in Oregon. With the sun lowering in the sky, I texted the man who said he MIGHT be able to still host me, after my delay the day before. He didn't answer. I waited and waited as the sun lowered, hoping for a response one way or another so I could decide what to do. Eventually, with my head lowered in shame at my lack of grit and resourcefulness, I took my parents offer. I went to a nearby hotel and took the last room they had available, a posh, oversized room with two beds. My parents' birthday present was that they would refund me the cost. It felt extravagant and unnecessary and against the spirit of vagabonding.
...But then, I decided the hell with it, I had ridden 80 miles and through a storm, and it was my damned birthday. I deserved to enjoy some excess this once. I went to the nearby mini mart and got a quesadilla, a Mike's, and a Reese's ice cream pie. In my lonely lack of interaction, I was a little more touched by being told happy birthday when I got carded than I should have. I took a crazy long, very hot shower, turned the thermostat way up, and hung out naked, eating in bed. It was superb. I lost consciousness around 11. Then I awoke at some point in the night to see that my almost host had messaged me right around 11 that if I still didn't have a place, he could take me in. Figures.
Now, since it's a short day today, I'm continuing to enjoy my fancy room until checkout time. My stay for both tomorrow and the next day have collapsed now because of my schedule shift, but I will figure it out some way or another. All told, it may not have been perfect, but it was a good, very memorable birthday.
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