Stage 2: May 26, 2019

I arise at 5:30am and go for a walk. Fifty yards towards the main lodge from our bank of rooms I stroll to the lakeshore. Before me is majesty. Nature creating a backdrop scene of mountains reflected into still water and a ribbon of cloud to complete a great painter’s masterpiece. I laugh as I think of something Bob Ross might say. He taught painting on PBS years ago in his very calm relaxed style but for any viewer what he really conveyed was a sense of peace we all need through the doing of something we love, something that connects us to our reason for bring and contributing to this world. What night Bob Ross say sitting here on this beach - “how about that, there’s a happy tree over here, and a cool cloud over there; yes my friends, you can do anything you want, be free, there are no mistakes, only happy little accidents...”

The view is indeed calming and spiritual. To say thank you to be able to enjoy the purity of nature’s balance. The lake and this lodge would be a fine place go sit and write a novel.

The Norsemen gather after 8:00am. Chores necessary to be done. Disorganization with the details of morning preparations. I find that my bike front has flatted again overnight. The tube is changed once again, likely a “pinch flat” where the tube is kinked inside the tire while initially lasted. Sherpa helps me to change it again. We depart and spin towards Port Angeles and stop for brunch at Granny’s Cafe. Standard fare. Continue onward and then I flat up the road again just 12miles into the day. I am worried now - perhaps a rim or spoke problem. Peter and I place my bike on the car’s roof and head for a bike shop about 10mi down the road in Port Angeles, the Bike Garage. The others will meet us there. Sherpa needs his transmission fixed as well. Tom and sister, Donna, operate a small shop full of gear and a work area. Tom kindly asks a series of questions to help diagnose and gets to work. Punch flat, he shies me. Nothing more serious. I bring along a new tube and tire as we notice a small crack in the tire as well. Sherpa arrives and Tom fixes his bike as well. Spotty needs a new helmet since his rear plastic piece that cinches to the sidewalls of his helmet has broken in transit on the plane. He selects one. We purchase more CO2 cartridges as well for back-up. I turn to my bike and begin to roll it out of the shop and the front tire has flatted again! Goodness gracious. Day 2 and I am frustrated by not having my bike working properly. Tom studies again and must admit that he caused a pinch flat himself. I am worried there is truly something more going on but he sets a new tube in place and we head out.

We begin the climb a mere block from sea level in town. Race Rd climbs steadily and we turn on Hurricane Ridge Rd. The grade increases steadily for a persistent climb. I designed our journey and realized the need to irritate our legs for the toughness needed to overcome long days in the saddle, to suffer in the legs a bit to reach higher altitudes and grand vistas, to realize anything is possible with persistence and will.


Sherpa and Breezer move ahead and I chart a steady uphill course with Spotty. He is working hard. Pushing his pedal strokes. I encourage and give him some Bob Ross-like positive imagery. We climb to the gated entrance to the National Park. Hundreds of cats are lined to enter on this beautiful Memorial Day holiday weekend. Mile 5 now into the eighteen mile climb. Spotty has had enough and I congratulate him on his accomplishment. He is getting stronger with each day. Peter is waiting for us and informs me if the other’s progress towards the apex. Another thirteen miles awaits. Spotty relaxes in the van.

I am sending a chase. I refuel with a peanut butter and honey sandwich and cool water. Turn to the road and dial up Epic North on my iPhone’s Spotify App. Norsemen. I think of Vikings, explorers, conquerors. The rhythm energized me as I accelerate uphill and pace fiercely. I eventually settle into a steady tempo with the road. “Take what the road gives you...” Balance. Posture. Set the mind to know no pain, only rapture with the elements as the mountain shoes her colors - wildflowers, mountain goats, snow capped neighbors, near vertical valleys decorated with waterfalls, the simple and complete beauty of pine cones and happy trees.

The time passes. A climbing pace of 6-8mph steadily brings me near the summit. Peter and Spotty locate Breezer a mile from the apex. Spotty rejoins is now for the finish as we gut the last mile to the apex and find Sherpa admiring the view.

We are at Hurricane Ridge. We”be climbed over 5000 feet. Staring at us is the Olympic Mountain range drizzled with ice and snow and vastness. I was at this spot (by car drive) nearly ten years ago and likely never would have imagined having the opportunity to bike climb this road to its summit. How life brings you to where you need to be?

We wait for a break in the traffic. An 18 mile downhill spin needs proper respect. Sherpa and I take-off and start to corner the switchbacks in the road. Steady cadence, then accelerate. We are moving faster than the cars and pass them, others kind to pull off for us. Breezer and Spotty not far behind. The joy in speed and wind and yes, an element of real danger yet tempered by years of practice and confidence. Over forty miles per hour in the saddle. Just a number no different from one’s age in life. Youth should not relinquish to age so quickly.

We meet at the bottom. Nearly nearly four hours of climbing erased by a mere twenty minutes going downhill. Hard work rewarded with an injection of adrenaline and happiness for what was accomplished. The dividends find themselves through assisting with other challenges in one’s life. Adversity as a source for spiritual advancement.

The Norsemen head east now. We spin along a busy stretch of Tt101 and turn left onto Old Olympic Highway. Back to countryside. Farms. Mulch and manure aromas. Lavender farms. Cows. Early evening more gentle light. 

And then a road sign partially obstructed by a tree. I stop and focus my eyes fine sure it says what I think it does: Soaring Hawk Ln. indeed! Right here in Agnew, WA. A country road in a most pleasant and fertile valley brings me happiness. My nickname is ‘Soaring Hawk.’ The coincidences in life lead me to believe that there really aren’t any. The truth lies elsewhere in a grander connectivity if we only choose to accept and ask ‘Why?’ later. Maybe the ‘Why?’ doesn’t even matter to fully comprehend.

I am with Spotty. We turn left on Kitchen Dick Rd and spin past farms and a glorious home beside a resting pond. The road veers right and becomes Lotzgessel Rd; left onto Cays Rd and then right onto Marine Dr as we enter Dungeness. Couples enjoying the sunset from the expanse overlooking Dungeness Bay. We turn left onto Cline Spit Rd and the road ends at a small stretch of beach. The sun and clouds are giving a grand drive-in show to a handful of lovers. Dungeness Spit is in front of us. It is a natural extension of land into the Strait of Juan de Fuca thereby creating this wildlife sanctuary bay. A bald eagle darts and is chased by other birds. Seagulls squawk. Ducks cruise. The colors transform the water and sky into happy magical accidents.



Spotty is in a playful mood. He throws a stone into the ocean and takes o photographic burst in his iPhone. The images are creative like works of glass art. A ballet of moving yet frozen-in-time water splashes and individual droplets. Quite artistic photography.

Sun enters ocean. Darkness now. We ate hungry. Our eighty miles of riding are done for the day. We venture into the town of Sequim. The one restaurant still open at this late hour has closed its kitchen. We continue to the 7Bears Casino on the way and devour a few pizzas and rehydrate.


Peter finishes the drive into Port Townsend as we digest our dinner and our second day. Norsemen bonding and ready for yet more adventure. I check us in to the Tides Inn and we head to bed. There’s a ferry to catch early in the morning to Whidbey Island. I can hardly wait to return.

Stage 1: May 25, 2019

03:59am. I awaken to nature’s steady metronome from the ocean tides. A window open to the susurrations of the surf. Wide-eyed at this early hour I remain more connected to the rhythms of the eastern time zone than our more immediate four hour winged western migration by jet airplane. It is already morning light outside and so I arise and follow those placid ebbing surf sounds to the beach bordered from the remainder of the world by grasses and flowering shrubs. A path between them and my feet are in the sands. The gray particles stretch for a hundred yards to the ocean before me. The beach itself extends for perhaps a mile long and is strewn with graying driftwood trees, bulbous strands of seaweed, and shells pulverized by their own journey to their final resting place on this beach. To my right is Cape Flattery point rising out of the ocean floor. I stroll near the frothy surf. The moon playing its part in the endless push and pull cycle of the tides.

This morning the waters are receding - returning to their source - and revealing gifts from the sea. An abundance of sinewy cords-green and purple laced kelp, silver dollar shells with their floral patterned etchings, and jumpy small inch-long crustaceans dancing to their own tunes. Seagull feathers. I pluck one from the sands and dust it off. So delicate, weightless. And then I see a massive Golden Eagle, wings tucked, perched on a small rock not more than twenty yards forward. It turns to observe me just the same. Two beachcombers at dawn. Checkered abdomen, curved beak. I approach slowly and it lifts off briefly, more like a 747 then an F16 fighter jet. It stretches its massive wingspan and flies away only to land just a bit further along the beach. We repeat this dance a few more times. Soaring Hawk playing with a kindrid spirit. I accept the Eagle dance as a healthy sign as we begin our journey today. In some measure I believe the hawks and eagles will be observing and guiding us along our course. Perhaps even protecting for safe passage. A connectivity that I shared on my previous cross country expedition. I return to our cabins. Shower and dress into my cycling costume. Comfort elastic overall bibs with a generous chamois pad and our Norseman’s Passage team bike jersey. Everyone is stirring awake now. Peter prepares our breakfast rations of Quaker instant oatmeal. Others enjoy their hot coffee.

We pack up the van and head five miles to the end of the road at Cape Flattery point. From here we take the wooded walking trail downhill as it winds through a lush forest to reach overlook outcroppings. A narrow last stretch brings us to the spot I am searching for - the end of land. The furthest western longitudinal point in the continental US. A cliffhanger adjacent to a wooden deck. An island just off shore. Waves crashing into massive sea cave holes and over jutted rocky slabs. The energy of water. Mother Earth designing, reshaping, incessantly carving the land. A group photo at the point. A prayer to our creator in kind request for safe passage. I recite a reading from the Book of Proverbs, Chapter Four: “Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life. Let your eyes look directly forward, and your gaze be straight before you. Ponder the path of your feet; then all your ways will be sure.”

 We return to the parking area and provide final preparations to our bicycles. Four riders of different seasons in life. Sherpa and I closest in age, and close friends for a decade. Both of us just on the upper side of fifty years now; Breezer now sixty-five, retired and ready for adventure. And my son Jonah, with the full vigor of his youthful eighteen years. In transit from recent high school graduation to university studies. A bright future ahead of him. Peter, a vibrant South African septuagenarian, Safari lover and patriarch of wonderful children and grandchildren - he is our all-around support person and van driver and has signed up, voluntarily I might add, for his second tour of duty; Peter joined “Blaze Across America,” the maiden cross country venture, two summers ago. Three seasoned experienced cyclists and a naive rookie yet also ready for adventure - my son Jonah (aka ‘Spotty’). He will require tutelage from all of us and I trust Peter, Sherpa and Breezer to assist with looking after Jonah’s safety and development of his cycling skills. Perhaps even to enable a very positive rite of passage to manhood.

Wheels roll eastward. The sound of spinning returns me to my own youth ever again. The cycle of life. I am gaining an enduring appreciation for the interconnection of all things. The completeness I receive through cycling. I revel in this moment and squawk with joy towards my kin. A new adventure finally begins. Cape Loop Rd spins us towards Neah Bay, the most western town along the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The Makah Indian headquarters. Large totem carvings. Bird images. Pass the cultural center as we exit the quiet stretch. A cemetery with grave plots decorated with Native American art. Steady short climbs and bends and descents. We are hugging the coast from a precipice. Coolness mixed with episodic rainfall. Ever shifting cloud cover. The Strait to our left is known as the Whale Trail for our migrating mammal friends who are often sited along their own journey to warmer waters. We cross the Sekiu River where its mouthy effluent finally meets the ocean. Then across the Hoko River and spin through the small town of Sekiu and onward a few miles to Clallam Bay. The road bends right and inland as we begin a steady 18mile climb along Rt112 to the Sappho Junction.

Through this area lay thick forests, dotted lakes, and ugly clear cut harvested tree sections. I focus on the beauty of the blue wildflowers and yellow budded bushes reflected by the sun’s warmth. The air remains cool, a crispy refreshing taste from the mix brewed by oxygenating forests and the sea. Skies ever threateningly gray. Shifting light. I am accompanying my son for his first long and steady climb of the journey. It is like observing a child’s first steps. The struggle to maintain proper posture and balance and stamina. Encouragement offered. A bit of razzing as well. His buttocks and quads not quite ready for the more dramatic ascents that we will soon attempt to conquer along this journey but I know he is a quick learner and was born with a naturally inclined hearty dose of motivation to succeed. A self-learner and tinkerer. Jonah and I, along with my daughter Abigail and a few close friends and our dog Violet, have been hiking sections of the Appalachian Trail (AT) these past eight years or so. I recall now a well-known aphorism on the AT among thru-hikers, those who venture to hike the entire 2200mi length of the AT northbound from Georgia to Maine (southbound sojourners not withstanding) in one continuous stretch. “No Rain, No Maine.” The travails of hardship through rainy mountain passes, the mental toughness needed to overcome weather’s challenges that can sap morale through depravity of homely comforts along the trail. I turn to Jonah as he struggles physically to pedal up another steeper section and think of a slightly more appropriate version of this phrase for the moment, perhaps many more ahead on our own “thru-bike”across North America. “You know Jonah: No pain, no Maine.”

Our journey is headed to the coast of Maine in forty-one days. No pain, no Maine... Hopefully he will elevate his mind just as he does his tush off his bike seat to lessen his discomfort from time-to-time. I notice his icy blue eyes are beginning to engage nature. The calls of birds and insects and the wind. The aromas of dewy ferns and wildflowers. The tastes of ocean air and cool gusts. We push to the junction to mile45. “Well done, Spotty!” I congratulate him. Jonah earned his nickname in Capetown, South Africa one year prior. We were visiting Peter’s family and enjoying bucket list bush safaris near Kruger National Park. We entered the grand cycling event - the Cape Argus race in Capetown - and Jonah was wearing a colorful spotted jersey. Not nearly a single mile from the start and the locals lining the route kept offering him congratulatory words - “Well done, Spotty!” and I laughed and sneered at them. But we have 66 more miles to go?! Turns out it is a common British and South African slang for encouragement. Peter, Sherpa and Breezer are relaxing at the van. Jonah calls it a successful first day. He is drained and needs rest. I take in some nutrition. The three older Norsemen continue onward as we turn right on Hwy101, cross over the Sol Duc River and turn left onto Mary Clark Rd. We enter the Olympic Discovery Trail, a tremendous network of paved forested bike-walk paths in the region. Wonderful planning by those with the vision to create the opportunity to enjoy the solitude with nature on foot or bicycle.

Twenty miles later we pop out of the dreamy verdant woods in a euphoric state to see the van parked at the trailhead. No reason to stop just now. The evening is young and our hotel accommodations just ten miles down the main road. But across the road the Discovery Trail continues. Why not continue on and enjoy a bit more of the forest. We do, of course. Adrenaline-enriched excitement of day one still pulsating through us. Peter and Jonah venture off to check into the hotel, the Lake Crescent Lodge, located on the south side of the nearly twelve miles long lake. Our trail winds and we take care cornering on wet pavement covered with pine needles and slick moss. At mile66 I see a straightaway before me and begin to experience a surge of energy emanating from my legs and to my core. I relax my breathing rate and pace through the forest light. I begin to notice blue waters below a ridge line to my right.

This must be Lake Crescent. Uh oh - I realize we are on the north side of the lake instead of the south. Oh well. What’s a few extra miles added here and there to another journey of over three thousand?! I think back to my Blaze trip two years prior. The wonderful experience of serendipity. ‘Take what the road gives you.. Everything will be alright...’ It will be alright. I accelerate. Thirty mph and holding gloriously steady. Three miles in a forest tunnel. My mind I returns me to dawn at the beach. Soaring with the eagle. I am beside my son rushing downhill. Menories etching a new adventure. Glorious endless flow of radiant energy. Happiness. An interruption. ‘Kchhh-Ssssssss.’ I have struck a small rock with my front wheel and have flatted my tire’s inner tube. Stop or go on. Sherpa and Breezer are somewhere behind me now. I can ride for a bit on a flat without injuring my wheel rims. I decide to continue for a few more miles as the flow recedes. But then the paved trail section turns to gravel. Not good. Hopefully it is for just a brief section. I continue carefully but then travel becomes too dangerous as gravel becomes chunks and boulders and roots and tree splittings. I need these wheels for forty more days. I stop reluctantly. The irony is that, while immersed in nature, our delicate racing bikes require man-made pavement to take us safely on this journey. Sherpa and Breezer arrive. Sherpa demonstrates his flat fixing skills once again. I admit I am not very adept at the machinations but am learning.

Fixed up, we continue and need to portage our bikes over the terrain. No riding on these unorganized cobblestones and forest debris. If only we carried mountain bikes in our back jersey pockets for just these occasions. We continue our “bike-hike” along a trail hugging a plateau of the lake. I can see our lodge across the way now. How pleasant it would be to sip a cold drink wrapped inside an Adirondack chair along the lake beachfront. If only a “bike-swim” could be easily accomplished instead but I imagine the 300 foot deep waters are a bit frigid in this early Spring. Eventually, after a few miles of bike-hiking and passing hikers and mountain bikers enjoying their experience, the messiness of the trail gives way to civilization at a parking lot where friendly pavement allows us to continue to cycle around the northeastern tip of the lake.

The sunset igniting the farthest mountains over the wondrously serene waters. A lone kayaker making a perfectly geometric triangular wake. Lake Crescent is one of the most beautiful natural amalgamation of water and land one can be thankful to see in a lifetime. Curved around a massive cropping of granite and trees. Mountains layered behind and above the horizon. It will be our home tonight and a visual sunrise feast for tomorrow.

We arrive at the lodge nearly ninety miles into our first quite pleasant and full day. Our bikes muddied from the trail. It is after eight o’clock. Sherpa and Breezer hose off our cycles as I shower quickly and then drive with Peter about twenty minutes up the road in the van to fetch take-out dinner from Tendy’s Garden on East First St. Website declares it has been voted a “Top 100 Chinese Restaurant in the US” but no saying by which agency. We enter and order a mix of dishes to satisfy the hungry Norsemen. We race back to the lodge. Breezer is in a philosophical mood as dinner is devoured and begins to discuss pleasant life memories and meanings. His love for his now departed mother. The essential question of the meaning behind our existence. Heady thoughts for day one into our journey. I like his style nevertheless. We may have more in common than I have realized. Fortune cookies are sorted. I inform my new traveling clan how I love the wisdom of fortunes but warn them to choose their cookies wisely. They scoff. As they read they find nothing particularly special inside. Accidental duds? I open mine with an open mind and smile before reading its contents out loud: “A quiet evening with friends is the best tonic for a long day.” How about that! Indeed, it is.

As others turn in, Breezer and I relax at the main lodge. Blog time to collect our thoughts. The building is a beautiful structure, not too imposing to challenge the beauty of the lake. I sit beside the fireplace and relax and type a few notes but my eyes are heavy. Nineteen hours into the first day I must return to the room and drift to sleep. It is my wife Judy’s birthday today. We have been created and paired together to realize that love has no end. A cyclist’s dream climb awaits tomorrow. There will be no shortcuts to Maine. —————— “Soaring high, through Norselands Ocean to Land, and back again No beginning, No end”

-SH-
 (I will end each stage with what I like to call a “Bike-OO” (similar to a haiku)

En Route to Starting Point

Down the last minute packing tasks and colorful adventures begin the transformation from daily life to adventurers. The Delta flight from Atlanta to Seattle is uneventful. I have been consistently thinking and tweaking the upcoming journey’s itinerary. The map that will undoubtedly be re-routed from time-to-time despite best intentions.

We arrive at 1:00am and depart by shuttle to the car rental location to retrieve our minivan. Angst crested by concern for a “rare” minivan available with roof rack side rails is quickly dissipated by the abundance of vehicles available with such an intact system. We select a Toyota Sienna and head to the nearby Comfort Inn on International Boulevard and immediately crash into our beds. Spotty and I share a room. Father and son. We have had a most fortunate close relationship. He falls to sleep quickly in his bed. I smile recalling his early childhood joi de vive and holding him in my arms. Now 18yo, a bright young man with an even greater shining soul. Mature, aware. An ember of adventure that needs stoking. How I look forward to sharing this journey with him, my young Jedi.

Morning light at 05:00am. I am already awake anyway by text messages from the east coast. The three hour time change urging my being-and-becoming energy source towards full early morning awareness.

Lobby breakfast. A busy place with Memorial holiday weekend travelers.  I am sitting in the hotel lobby drinking my OJ and I glance to the side table along the wall and open a Holy Bible. Perhaps a little start-the-day meaningful reading is just what my multitasking mind, tired body and hopeful soul needs just now.

The Norsemen assemble and head to the minivan. I-5 brings us south and last the to a

Three hour time change means the mind and body and spirit return to an an alive and refreshed state of being before 5am. Light already outside the Comfort Inn room window. Spotty and I, father and son-bunkmates.

Breakfast in the hotel lobby of eggs, bread, yogurt and orange juice. Not very hungry just yet. Sedentary travel curbing the appetites that we will surely witness in the days ahead as the cycling miles compound.

Relaxing in the hotel lobby I open a Holy Bible on the table stand and flip through randomly. Proverbs appears. Written long ago by King Solomon of Israel, son of the Psalmist King David. I make a note of a few salient passages that will do for tomorrow morning’s brief prayer blessings for us Norsemen before our ride ‘s commencement.

We depart in the Toyota Minivan and head south on I-5 through Tacoma,

crossing the Nasqually River bridge and arriving in Olympia, WA, the state Capitol, an hour later.

First chore-REI store to collect our ordered Thule Bike roof rack system that will hold our four bikes safely for any necessary transits.

My good friend from South Africa, Peter Loeb, our first segment’s support driver from WA to Wyoming, has studied these racks in great detail and leads the cumbersome installation of cross bars attached to minivan side rails followed by bike rack arm wrestling mechanisms. Bolts and screws and proper alignment. Adjustments until, nearly two hours later, the job is done. The task of deciphering the various parts and physics of mechanical engineering initially appeared daunting but, in time, we succeed at harnessing all bikes to the roof with optimistic security. On to Target across the street for a short list - a storage cooler, snacks bars while biking, sandwich bread with peanut butter and honey, etc...

Now racks without attached bikes is like a herd of adolescent male elk without antlers. Lost in the world until their purpose for being becomes clear.

We drive urgently to downtown Olympia and past the state Capitol dome beside a lake. Our two-wheeled friends are awaiting us. We stop at Old Town Bicycle on Capitol Way South. The bike shop has rebuilt our shipments from Atlanta and all is in order. Pick up some chain line and CO2 cartridges (used to inflate an inner tube in case of a flat tire). They are not allowed on board a flight - in check-in or carry-on luggage.

We mount the four bikes on the roof rack. Learning the proper technique for best fit and balance. All seems snug. We make a brief stop for lunch sandwiches at a Panera restaurant.

The van ride from Olympia to our starting point for the Norseman’s Passage is about 200mi venturing westward and then north along the Pacific Coast Scenic Byway. The meandering road brings us inland, the hugs the Pacific shoreline. Massive vertical sheets of Sitka Spruce and Douglas Fir trees greet the the rocky Northwest shoreline. A painter’s green palette of endearing chlorophyll pigments. Ferns and yellow-bud flowers align the roadway for miles.

We turn at Upper Hoh Road to venture to the Hoh Rainforest in the Olympic National Park. A simple taste of the massive forests that absorb the Pacific rainwaters each day as clouds gather like blankets between the ridge lines.

From the Hoh parking lot we stretch our legs with a lung-oxygenating brief trail hike. A loop through a majestic rainforest. Sitka spruce, Hemlocks, maples and conifers and curly ferns and wildflowers. Clubmoss clinging to maple boughs like hairy bearded gentile beasts. Fallen massive Spruces serving as nurselogs-their nutrients from decomposition giving rise to a whole ecosystem from its cavities. Life’s passage, rebirth. The grand circle before me and reminding me to live fully. I glance at my young son. He will need some nursing along this journey. My job as his father is not nearly done. And our time together over these next six weeks will be magical.

Rainwaters filter through these forests into small clear pools and streams. Percolating through rich nutrients and Mali Guthrie way to the rivers and onward to the ocean. More circles. Life cycles. The wheels of eternal motion no different then what awaits us tomorrow morning. Human locomotion but just the same as mere billions of drops of rain.

We return to the main road. Dinner time. We stop near the Sappho junction at the Hungry Bear Cafe. A mom and ooo family establishment for limberjack locals and everyone else traveling through. The Norsemen enjoying our company together. Jonah educates us on the theory of interstellar travel through wormholes. A shortcut between universes. Anyone present want to wormhole to Maine? No-that’s not what we signed up for although there may be a wishful “Wormhole Day” or two when energy wanes and the road dies not give you what you need. Mental and physical toughness to withstand the challenges of interstate bicycle travel.

Jonah devours the one-pound Hungry Bear burger in less than five minutes like an engorging python. I know he will need the energy in the days ahead.

On checkout at the restaurant counter Breezer notices the owner, Gary Johnson, preparing a fresh vase of colorful flowers and an unopened large stock bottle of Jack Daniels at the bar.

“You can’t lose with whiskey and flowers for the Mrs. Secret to a happy marriage.”

Our waitress comments to the owner about our upcoming cross country cycling journey. Gary replies, “Then you’re going to need a hell of a lot more than whisky and booze to make it.” Laughter. All good. Don’t think I’ll have much alcohol on this journey but the flowers evoke images of my lovely wife Judy back home. I left her roses on the countertop on departure. She deserves them daily. Judy signed up to join the ride from Jackson Hole, WY to Buffalo, NY. She will meet us in a few weeks time as assist with van support along with a good friend, Sonya.

We continue to Clallam Bay and then west along the coast to Neah Bay. Threatening gray low-lying heavy clouds continue to hover throughout the day.

Sundown races to dusk. Lights from boats along the Strait of Juan de Fuca, briny boundary waters between the USA and British Columbia, Canada.

Winding roads along rock strewn beaches and bays. It is a cyclist’s dream to ride beside the tides. The ebb and flow of a new journey that awaits with great excited anticipation.

I receive a text from Buffalo from home. Buffalo and I cycled cross country in the summer of 2017 from Tybee Island, GA to San Francisco, CA. I’ve been at work these past months writing chapters of my upcoming book about our journey and decided to share them with Buffalo before departing. He’s been enjoying them and is with me, and my fellow Norsemen, on this new journey.

He writes words of encouragement and knowing-ness. “Enjoy, my brother. Spread your wings and enjoy. G-d speed.”

From Neah Bay we take the road to Cape Flattery. Miss the turn to the cabins and run out of road five miles later. I realize this is where our starting point is tomorrow morning. We circle back and locate the turnoff to Hobuck cabins. It is after 10pm when we settle in for the night on comfortable cabins adjacent to tent camping sites. I hear the ocean. An early morning look awaits. An adrenaline-fueled form of dreamstate arrives. The cycling journey is set to begin in mere hours. The countdown has dissipated from months to days to hours now.

We have arrived at the beginning.

It is now nineteen days to the ride's commencement in the Pacific Northwest. Final preparations are underway. Last training rides to be taken before packing and shipping our bikes at the end of the week ahead.

One significant difference for this 2019 cross-country journey, compared to the 2017 edition, is our direction of travel. Heading west-to-east this time means less sun exposure towards the end of a long mileage day - the need for a strong headlight beam becomes essential for safety. I also ordered custom multicolored team jerseys with bright green, purple, and orange colors for better visibility. The jerseys will surely serve as a lasting memento for us four riders.

Spotty and I, father and son duo of the four riders, were interviewed by the regional Appen Media newspaper at their Alpharetta office. The paper was very kind to splash us on the front page this week! My hope is that it will generate traffic to this blog and springload donations to Children's Healthcare of Atlanta (CHOA). I kindly ask any blog readers to please spread our story to family and friends and share this blog address. Your support and interest truly provide the soulful fuel for a successful journey.

The newspaper story online can be found here (front page with article on page 12):
https://issuu.com/appen-inc/docs/ar_050219_40web

A very hearty thank you from me and my fellow Norsemen!
-Soaring Hawk-