Cheese Is Not a Breakfast Food!

David momentarly ceased the stirring of his daily ration of of Instant Quaker Oats just long enough to look over at Jenny lay thick slices of swiss cheese atop a healthy dollop of peanut butter spread across a whole wheat tortilla.

A look of disgust fell across his boyish visage before he announced in his perfect Cambridge-educated English accent;

Good Lord you American's know no boundaries!  CHEESE-IS-NOT-A-BREAKFAST-FOOD!

The verbal dart bounced off like rubber as Jenny squirted a top layer of honey over the breakfast taco, folded it neatly and handed it over.  I smiled, dipped the delicacy into my coffee and devoured half in a single bite.  I chewed with a content smile, swallowed and reminded young David,

Wasn't porridge the meal that Oliver Twist was served three times a day as an orphan in a Parrish Workhouse?  Why on earth would you subject yourself to the same daily punishment?  

Without hesitation or missing his next spoonful of tasteless pale mush David retorted,

Of course they served porridge; That way the boys all felt rich, lucky and fortunate.  It is truly the breakfast of Kings.  

I smirked, inhaled the remainder of my breakfast sandwich and washed it down with the balance of my coffee.

You have obviously never had a decent breakfast scramble, and it doesn't change the fact that oatmeal tastes like shit David, I retorted just to be sure that I had the last word.




Those who know me well can attest to the fact that I often can't be bothered with polite niceties and feel more comfortable with folks who are sarcastic, witty and a little bit politically incorrect.  My suspect social skills favor those who are not easily offended as well.

Within moments of meeting Dave and Tom at Honeyman State Park, I could tell that they were my type of folks.  Drinking tall Budweiser beers while tossing a rugby ball inches over the heads of fellow tourists long before they bothered to change out of their matching Union Jack jersey's that reeked of sweat gained my respect in a minute and announced to World that fun was high on their priority list.

When the road becomes your home, you seek the community of those you feel the most kinship to. David and Tom's easy smiles, quick charm and ability tolerate my sophomoric humor made them easy to like.  For the next ten days Jen and I shared campsites, meals, beers, and many laughs as we built a friendship with our new British companions.  While much of the cycling along the Pacific Coast was nothing short of stunning;  sharing inside jokes, trading juvenile insults, and celebrating idiosyncratic norms of both our cultures will remain my most most vivid and joyous memories of the Pacific Tour.

San Francisco marks a fork in the road for Jen and me.  Wednesday we will turn our noses east, brave the heat of the Sacramento Valley and head into the steeps of the Sierra Mountains.   As we depart this ocean for the other and leave behind the cool mornings and magical sunsets of the Pacific Coast, it is the familiar faces of companions from the road that I will miss the most.  I am saddened to leave some new friends behind but I am confident that the next bend in the road will bring another opportunity for camaraderie with those I do not yet know.

Kloshe Konaway,
Kloshe Nanitch

Matt

Pace

Jenny looks up from her milkshake with a look of alarm,
It can't be noon already.

No joke Love, ten till mid-day and we've got about seven miles in so far, I respond with a smile as I grab the styrofoam container from my ice-cream loving wife before I lose the chance.

Where the hell did the day go?!?   Are we in a time warp?  Did we get abducted by aliens? Jenny's line of questioning seems reasonable given our best intentions for an early start and arriving at camp before dusk today.

The thick blankets of heavy coastal fog that envelope the morning air make it easy to justify the comfort of the sleeping bag for another half an hour or so.  The daily routine of a third, and often fourth round of strong black coffee over conversations with interesting travelers from around the world derail the best intentions of early morning departures.   Our delayed embarkations have a way of leading to belated finishes, and I am rarely denied my birth right to a couple of beers at the end of a hard days' work; many of my fellow bicycle touring companions seem to embrace a similar ethos and I am seldom left to celebrate around the camp fire alone.  The sunset setting over the ocean on the West Coast beats the heck out of the sunrise sneaking through the trees here anyhow.

And so the pace of the West Coast Tour unwinds as the Highway 101 carries us ever south.  Miles of riding on amazing coastal bluffs in the cool marine air are suddenly juxtaposed by turning just a few miles inland and sweating in the hot sun surrounded by hundreds of acres of dry farmland filled with robust grazing bovines.  Oregon saves the best for last and in our final day of riding along the sheer cliffs, inlet beaches and jagged sea stacks of the coast I catch the spout of Gray Whale out of the corner of my eye.  Jen and I pull over along the highway and watch mesmerized by the sight of a mother and calf dancing in the ocean a quarter mile away.  RV's bigger than our house scream past at 60 miles per hour oblivious to our private viewing of some of the most majestic animals on earth.

California greets us rudely with strong headwinds and sudden cool temperatures.  We escape the fog of Crescent City and climb steeply over 1200 feet into the coastal mountains of Redwood National Park.  Two thousand year old Sequoia trees towering over 300 feet into the air bring a sense of humility and insignificance to my existence; I am comforted by these thoughts.  A screaming and bone chilling descent through a waning evening light in this ancient forest leaves a smile on my face and etches deep a memory not soon to be erased from my mind.  We arrive in Elk Prairie and are greeted by many familiar faces from the road and a warm glowing campfire.

The world is a small place and shrinks with every new friend you make.  I am reminded of this again when I run into Brookside students and their parents at the Redwoods National Park visitor center.  After a short conversation Jen and I are invited to join them for dinner in Eureka.  We enjoy an evening of laughter over the best of meals and sleep fast  camped on the lawn of their vacation rental home.  Grateful does not adequately describe my feelings towards the Gallagher Family for their graciousness.  

A rest day in Arcata finds us strolling through the farmers market amidst dreadlocked youth in haze of of cannabis smoke.  A large portion of California's 13 billion dollar underground marijuana economy is centered here in Humbolt County.  Jen and I stick to sampling the best of Northern Californian micro-brews over an intense game of UNO with our new friends Sam and Marcelle.  A $35 camping fee at the KOA or a $60 dollar motel finds Jenny and me at the Travel Lodge in Eureka.  Thin walls have us second guessing our decision, but the smoke clears and  noise subsides by midnight; stuffing our food bag with butter and cream cheese from the "continental breakfast" in the am helps ease blowing our daily budget on accommodations.

The morning dawns thick gray and cold as Jen and I prepare for the last leg of the Coast Route.  We should be in San Francisco by next week and I look forward to spending time with family and exploring the city for a couple days before our journey takes us eastward towards the steep climbs of the Sierra and the land of the rising sun.

Kloshe Konaway
Kloshe Nanitch

Matt