When I met Mario he was drinking from a wine-bottle-sized can of Four Loko. The drink, once bourgeois misconceptions about the importance of taste have been cast aside, is a wonderous concoction of artificial flavourings and malt liquor, and though neither of us could say we knew exactly what malt liquor was, despite the wording´s poetic evocation of whisky, we both agreed that upon its consumption the miles went by quicker, and almost without effort it seemed.
We raced into the wind, taking turns to bear its full force, and Mario told me about his journey so far. From Wyoming, through Montana and Idaho, East Washington, and now toward the coast and Oregon, back home to Long Beach, California. He spoke of the joy of movement and the freedom of cycling, the time he´d spent in Montana, rafting and seeing family, and of encounters he´d shared with strangers. After each recollection, by way, almost, of punctuation, he´d say, in a voice so full of wonder it seemed surprised at itself, "I love people. I just love people!"
Winding through trees on forest roads and catching, occasionally, brief glimpses of the sea, the afternoon slipped happily by. Under an overcast sky, tangled ropes and lobster pots lay on crumbling concrete piers, and empty oyster shells piled high against breeze block walls.
A logging road brought us to an open clearing in the woods. Huge thistles stiffly shuddered in the breeze, and with bravely outstretched limbs they clawed at passing skin. In their vicious bluff however, they forgot their fragile roots, that clung too lightly, and at such inadequate depths, to the dry and sandy earth, and the most abusive of our assailants were kicked easily from the ground and let to lie above the soil, horizontally, to die.
Foxgloves hung in fragile cascades, catching the last few rays of light that reached them through the trees. And the foxgloves made the clearing beautiful. Even as I pulled the most pacific of thistles from the earth to clear space for my tent, the foxgloves remained - shivering and untouched.
We set up our stoves and combined various packets and tins to form a culinary cacophony, and though the disharmonious nature of our creation may not have pleased every palate, after cycling all day, we were thrilled with our acheivement. As the last light fell away, we both sat down to eat the Spanish rice, Palak Paneer and tuna that lay before us.
...
The following evening we stopped in Garibaldi and Mario asked at a cherry stand if they knew of anywhere we could camp. It was here we met Scott, who said we could sleep on the floor of a hall they had hired for their high school reunion the next day, and we gladly accepted the offer.
We put our bikes inside and drank beer under the warm, rare, Oregon sun, and Scott suggested a drive to the beach to see the sunset.
We clambered into his car. And, from the back seat,Mario asked, "What´s this? An AK?" which would have been a joke in all the other countries I have cycled through.
"Oh," replied Scott. "Yeah," which would have been a joke too. Only looking behind me, seeing the gun under a blanket on the floor, did I realise that it wasn´t.
"You never know," said Scott.
And Mario agreed, "You never know."
...
We decided to stay the next day. We ate a free pancake breakfast that the Scouts cooked and we watched the town´s parade. We drank beer and we met Scott´s friends and old classmates. We were welcomed, with unfailing warmth, into a high school reunion at which we knew no one, and at some point, after the parade though still very early in the day, Karen bought a bottle of Tequila, and the sunny afternoon turned to a heavy, happy haze. Those memories that do not escape the grasp of recall are all happy ones: meeting Karen and Robin, Travis and Kevin, Kaylyn, Braden and Nicole, as well as so many other people. Cold beer, beautiful barbecued oysters and shrimps with olives and melted cheese. And the whole day was addled and fun.
At 2am, after Mario had intruded, quite eloquently I´m sure, but without expressed permission, on somebody´s karaoke rendition at a bar, and after we were asked to leave, Scott received a phone call from the police - ´his boys´ were coming home!
We left Garibaldi in slight and much deserved pain, but thankful to Scott, and everyone we met, who caused us both to smile, or laugh and shake our heads, whenever we mentioned the words "Garibaldi Days"
...
At the intersections of freeways in America, outside shopping malls, by traffic lights, sitting on pavements, or on rolled up blankets, clutching heavy plastic bags or a battered old suitcase, by dogs that lie, faithfully beside, people hold out cardboard signs to express their current plight. They are hoping for someone to take them away from the intersections and traffic lights to a place where their lives will be better. A ride to greener grass. All along the Interstate 5 people proclaim themselves homeless, jobless and hungry. America is moving. It is looking for work.
...
Mike left Tacoma, near Seattle, on a bicycle that, among over flaws, had no brakes. To stop he would clamp the rear wheel, with both his feet behind him, before slamming both feet on the ground and hoping that friction would do the rest. The system was effective, but not completely reliable. In Oregon he had spent two days, in a motel room he had been given rent free, recovering from a crash, waiting for the bruising and swelling in his legs to die down, before continuing. He was riding to California to find a job, or to go to school, or, so it seemed, just be anywhere that wasn´t Tacoma.
Bad luck appeared to follow him, almost as a tangible presence; a small heavy shadow tied with an old piece of string to the back of his bike, lightly bouncing along the road behind him. Apart from the accident he´d had all his money stolen and was riding to the next town to apply for food stamps. Yet he seemed to bear the ill fated passenger happily; when we meet him entering northern California he was smiling, carrying a two litre bottle of milk and a loaf of bread on his handlebars.
We set up camp on a piece of wasteland in a small town, hidden from sight by a hedge. Children´s voices could be heard, playing near houses across the street, and cars pulled into drives, returning home from work, or shopping. We sat on the long, neglected grass, the sky heavy and dull, slipping from grey to darker grey.
As we sat there talking and waiting for dark, I felt as if I was peering down into a microcosm of a great American migration. "I feel like I´m in The Grapes of Wrath" I said to Mario, and he laughed and agreed.
"All that´s missing is a trash can fire."
...
We left Crescent City after an eventful morning. Eternal life and happiness forever in God's Kingdom had been promised to us in an encounter with a Jehovah´s Witness lady, which, in itself, seemed to last for days and, upon reflection, perhaps pointed to some element of truth in what she was saying. Mario had made a phone call to the police, after a lady ran, screaming, into the street, "Call 911! A man just attacked me and put a knife in my car!" We were happy to be heading south when we were beset upon, by a monstrous individual who had somehow figured out the workings of a car. After leaning on his horn and swearing through the window at Mario, he then pulled over to wait for us. For fear that children might read this blog, I cannot quote him directly, though I will say that it was not until being called a faggot that I felt I had truly arrived in the States.
Above Crescent City redwoods stood on hillsides, the very highest branches disappearing in the mist. The light fell, now grey and dull, now in blinding golden shafts that transformed the light and swirling mist to solid forms, and let the forest dance in perpetual quiet movement. We craned our necks toward the sky in silence. The oldest of these trees had been here for more than 2000 years: they had survived forest fires, the industrial revolution, the rise and rise of the car, and yet, in all this time, I felt certain, that they had never existed in such close proximity to a settlement so barbaric.
...
We looked down from the cliffs at the grey blue sea, and even as the mist gave up its hold upon the cliffs, and the sky returned to blue, the water looked cold and uninviting.
Then beneath us, as though we too were birds, gazing down from greater heights, the vast wingspan of an osprey beat the air; too easy and too slow. Its talons stretched down towards the sea below and, tightly, held in their grip, the still and lifeless body of a fish, flying through the air, and high above the waves.
...
By the time we reached the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge the sky was black. The mist that had hung about the famous red arches, appearing at first to aid the bridge´s suspension, wedged as it was between the structure and the sea, only to turn almost instantaneously, its dull translucent arms rising and clinging to the bridge with a desperate downward force, could now be seen only in the yellow glow of street lamps, falling, uncomfortably, in its shapelessness, around the clean sharp lines and elegant masonry of central San Francisco.
That afternoon, before the mist had fallen and the skies were still clear, as we hugged the winding roads of a headland, a little lost, to the north of the city, we had met Robin Williams, out for a bike ride. Or, more accurately, Mario had met Robin Williams. He asked him for directions, spoke to him for a while, and then, upon realising who he was talking to, said, with a coolness I could never have summoned, "Well, it was nice to meet you Robin Williams."
I, unable to link the pale man who rode past me with anyone I had seen in a film, did not meet Robin Williams. Rather I stared, fixedly at his bike as he overtook me; a hollow frame, with only a few thin strands of carbon fibre, forming a cylindrical web. I had never seen anything like it before.
As the road turned onto a long straight, Robin Williams disappeared into the distance. We continued, in a round about way, toward San Francisco, Mario delighted, while I lamented some kind of prosopagnosia, and an obsession that causes me to stare at bicycles.
In the mist we rode, Four Loko fuelled, through the streets of San-Francisco. We were heading south, following my compass, but when we found ourselves making strangely inconsistent turns, Mario told me I had to hold the compass straight for it to work. And he was right: it worked much better after that!
At some point around midnight we found ourselves at Zach´s house, meeting the members of his family who were still awake, and jumping into much needed showers. Thanks to Zach, Edwin and everyone else in Daly City, a wonderful two days ensued, and we soon found ourselves saying goodbye at the beach in Pacifica.
...
North of Monterrey the sweet, sugary scent of strawberries filled the air. Spanish radio blared from pick-up trucks and armies of Mexican workers moved along the rows of plants, across the vast fields, hands moving quick, in perfect darting motions, and backs bent double to pick the ripened fruit.
...
Then Santa Barbara lay behind us, and really it felt like our ride together was coming to an end. Summer had finally arrived in California. Under the warm blue skies and cool ocean breezes our legs moved slowly and our heads still ached from the good times we had shared with Nate, and everyone in Goleta.
We camped by the sea, west of Santa Monica, in the last small pocket of unspoilt land before LA. We passed the mansions of Malibu, on hillsides overlooking the ocean, and rode along the busy sandy beaches to Venice Beach; people danced to hip-hop, tattoo shops and medicinal marijuana stalls stood by burrito stands, bars and restaurants, and we sat down on the grass to watch the crowds and eat.
It was strange to watch Mario come home. To take keys from his pocket for the first time in three months and unlock the front door, and to sit on sofas in the unchanged comfort of his home. Soon though we were meeting his family and friends, who had come to welcome him home, and the evening turned into a great party. A month with Mario had flown by. He had made the journey so easy for me with his positivity, each challenge seemed lighter, and it had been a time full of memories and fun.
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