Peenie Wallie

As I move down the coast, it dawns on me why they call it the Emerald Coast. Because it's so green. Obvious, I know. But I'm not a gemologist. I thought it was the Emerald Coast because it was like the Diamond Coast....Very nice and expensive and glistening. I didn't think green. But this comes to me now.

I recognize the flowers now as they blow past me. And they scream past me. I'm going through the turns with my elbows scraping the asphalt, hanging off the bike like you see the guys on tv doing when they're racing crotch rockets on a closed course. Of course, I'm on the US 101 heading south. Not technically a close race track, but hey. You make do with what you have, right?

The fireweeds sometimes don't have flowers on top of them, and they look thin and ratty then. But I recognize them now, just the same.

Same goes for the Fox Gloves. Sometimes, there's only a flower or two at the top of the plant. Sometimes, no flowers have bloomed yet, but I can recognize these plants before they bloom.

The hummingbirds and the bees pollinate these plants and I wonder, as I'm screaming down the 101, I wonder if they recognize the plants like I do...before the bloom...I wonder if the birds and the bees look at the plant and think "I bet it will bloom tomorrow" This is what I think as I race down this dream that is the US 101.

Now, some of you are probably wondering..."The US 101? WTF? Why is he not on CA 1?" It's a fair question. The reason is because CA 1 ends at something like Redding or Leggitt. Somewhere down there. So, I can't get on the CA 1 because it doesn't go to Eureka. I'll get on it as soon as I get far enough south that I can find the silly road.

So...where were we..oh yes...racing down the US 101 like a crack addict on a crotch rocket. So, I'm racing south now. This ride is like being at Disney World, sort of, on Space Mountain. Like on the wildest roller coaster you've ever been on, only that, instead of being fine and safe and strapped in, you could die at any second, with one misstep. One mistake at these speeds and you'd be dead before your carcass stopped tumbling. This is where we are. We're on the edge of a razor blade. Heading south.

Occassionally, the roller coaster winds down, but instead of it being the end of the ride, it's just a town with stoplights and I roll through, seeing the towns for the second time in a week or so. Some parts I remember. Some parts I don't.

Always, the main streets are dominated by closed businesses. Shuttered dreams. They line the main streets of every town I went through, from Alaska to British Columbia to Washington to Oregon to California. Like a plague has wiped out the dreams of a trillion entrepreneurs.

The greatest threat...the greatest risk to a startup business is failure, and now countless entrepreneurs have been dealt a massive dose of failure. What will our future look like, if all of the entrepreneurs have been beaten senseless with rubber trucheons? Won't we all grow into mindless dolts, serfs of the state, waiting for our share to be handed down from the government? Bleak. Not good.

At some little cove in Oregon, I stop to shoot the bay, but I stumble into a bramble patch and it's just chock full of black berries. Big fat thumb-sized berries. All of them ripe. No reds. No greens. Just dark, ripe blackberries, as far as the eye can see. I gorge myself on them.

The brambles here are as thick as vines. They grow like Kudzu in the south, threatening the roads, the bridges, everything. So thick, I'm afraid to drive over the brambles, that they may poke my tires.

This is what I see, as I scream down the Oregon coast. Blackberries, fox gloves, and fields of fireweed.

Occassionally, the 101 leaves the coast and goes inland for a stretch. This is a godsend. A chance to open the throttle, instead of stopping every nine yards to shoot the most breathtaking scenery you'd never imagined. If the 101 didn't leave the Oregon coast, it would be impossible to drive down it.

When I ask someone how far it is to Eureka, the answer is always in hours. Never in miles. Why? I dunno. It's very confusing to me. How do they know how many times I'll stop? Do they assume I drive straight through? Or that I stop every 130 yards, as I tend to do? This confuses me to no end.

Every time I stop for gas, my credit card is declined. Why? I dunno. They started declining it a day or two ago. I have plenty of money in my checking account, though. And it works as a debit card, but it rejects an credit transactions. Go figure.

Fortunately, I have enough cash with me to get home, because I don't trust the banks. So, I pay cash as I move down the coast. But I wonder why those bastards are trying to screw me.

The bike is a really an odd way to see the world. Like, in theory, you're not in a car or an RV, so you're closer to the world around you. But that's all theory. In practice, you're going so fast, that it's very difficult to slow down and really see what it is you're supposed to be seeing.

I don't think I ever once got my feet wet in the ocean on the whole trip. I followed the coast for thousands of miles, but I never swam in it. Never waded. Never went tidepooling.

When I climb off of the bike, I'm like an adrenaline junkie...a crack addict...and I come down from the high and crash out in a big way. I sleep, and then I get back on the bike.

So, there really isn't any time where I have an opportunity to take close-up shots with the long lens, because I'm always moving so fast. The ferry was an odd sensation. We went really slowly through the inland passage, but I seriously wanted to hang myself. I felt like we should be on a hydroplane instead. Something that would plane out.

As I roll south, eventually I come to Florence, Oregon. This is where the dunes start, but the dunes aren't in Florence. They dunes continue south, at least as far as Coos Bay. Possibly to the border with California.

I pull over and watch the people ride the dunes on ATV's and dirt bikes with sand tires. They're catching air and just acting completely stupid, which is as it should be. But I don't ride the dunes. I've ridden in Pismo and St. Anthony. These dunes go on for miles. If I lived here, I'd go hit them pretty hard, but as it is, it just seems like a way to kill an hour or so. So I keep moving.

The nice thing about where I ended up, is that there were no screaming kids. No sirens. No crime. No firemen. No ambulances. It was quiet. Serene. A welcome break from the city life.

In two weeks, I never stayed in the same hotel twice. Every night, I collapsed with a new remote control. The only thing I cared about was the "sleep" button. Sometimes they had it. Sometimes they didn't.

Eventually, I roll into Eureka more dead than alive.

I order fish and chips and a local dark beer at some restaurant in Eureka, CA.

"Do you need anything else?" she asks.

"Fish and chips. Beer. What else is there?" I ask. Like, pretty much, that's all there is in my book. I dunno what scorecard you're looking at, but that works for me.

And I tell the waitress how tired I am and she's like "Dude...I've been working since 7:00 this morning. " It is 9:39 at night. She's not joking. That's a long freaking day.

I give her my phone number and tell her to call me because, wtf, right?

How long are you in town for?

Tonight.

OK. I'll check with my roommate. I'll call you for sure. You made my night.