Getting There!

 Getting There!  

(This article was written in 2001)

If you have been bicycle-touring as long as I have, after you have exhausted all the places you can ride to from your front door (and that can be a great deal), eventually you will have to start looking at alternate modes of transportation to get you to where you want to start your ride.  Of course, flying, train rides, and using your personal car comes to mind, but if you are going to less traveled places eventually experiencing a ride on a Greyhound Bus may end up as your only choice. 

I have been bicycle-touring for over twenty years now.  My first trip, suggested by my wife, was a short trip to Victoria, British Columbia, in the spring of 1979.  My wife and I took a 4-hour leisurely ferry ride, including visits to the bar and dining room on the boat, from downtown Seattle into Victoria Harbor.  The ride was magical and scenery beautiful with fantastic views of the San Juan Islands on the way.  My last trip this summer was one of the last sections of the Pacific Coast Trail; I had not yet ridden from Eureka to south of San Francisco, California. 

Between 1979 and 2001, my family (my two daughters, 12 and 16 now, and my wife) and I have done a number of bicycle trips.  These have included three bicycle trips in Europe and many on the west coast.  During the years when for one reason or another they were not available to do our annual bicycling adventures, I would pick-up a section of the Pacific Coast trail and ride it by myself.  Most trips would start by my getting the bicycle ready and on a Saturday morning leaving my front door in Seattle, riding to downtown ferry terminal and taking the ferry to Bremerton, across the Puget Sound. 

The ride from there follows the south end of Hood Canal southwest and eventually ends on the Washington Coast south of the town of Aberdeen, and follows the Pacific Coast trail.  I would be on the road for about 3 to 5 days, which is all I could be away from family and work.  By the next weekend, my family (if they were not riding with me) would meet me at a predetermined location on the Oregon coast for a few days and we would head back home in the family car together.  The next time we would reverse the trip, by all of us driving down to somewhere on the Oregon coast and after a few days of family fun, rest of the family would go home, while I would ride south on the coast, and then cut inland to Eugene, Oregon and take the Amtrak train back to Seattle.  These trips all have become memorable one-week long vacations. 

Eventually however, I had to go greater distances and the family car rides were getting too long and tiring for the kids, so other methods of Getting There were necessary.  Planning my last summer’s trip, I had to have a new strategy. 

Early one sunny Friday morning on a fully loaded bicycle, I rode to my office about 9 miles away, changed clothes and went upstairs to work.  In the afternoon, after changing back into my travel clothes, I rode down to the train station in downtown Seattle, about a mile away.  I had already reserved a ticket for myself and for my trusty bicycle.  I rolled the bicycle up to the luggage compartment, removed all my panniers, put them in a light nylon duffle bag and handed the bicycle to the train staff.  The ride to Portland along the Cowlitz and a portion of the Columbia Rivers was great.  The train service was clean and efficient included a bar and deli compartment for lunch break and drinks. 

Arriving in Portland, I walked my bicycle and luggage into the Greyhound Bus station next door.  I had already purchased a ticket for myself and my bicycle and checked in advance to make sure bicycle boxes were available at the station.  So, I was quite surprised when after standing in line for 15 minutes, the attendant informed me that only leftover boxes (already used by other cyclists) were available, and they came as is.  This of course could only mean that the only box left was the right size for the first bicycle I had owned when I was 11 years old! 

Here is the scene, while keeping one eye on the bicycle and a pile of panniers in the middle of the floor, I am ringing the bell at the counter and trying to get my hand on any kind of a cardboard box to append the size of the bicycle box, which only fitted about ¾ of my bicycle.  After taking off the pedals, the handlebar, the seat, and the front wheel, I had to cut the front of the box so part of the front fork and front pannier frame could stick out.  Next, I had to attach an extension to the end of the box to hide the portion of the bicycle sticking out.   Then, back to the counter to wait for another 15 minutes behind a couple who’s last stop was a full dunk in the beer vat, arguing with the woman at the counter to get money back on unused tickets not in their name. 

Finally, at the counter I have the tickets, but the next surprise is that Greyhound will not accept the box for the trip (it has to be hand carried to the bus by passengers) and there are no lockers where my luggage can be stored for a few hours.  So, while I wait for a 14-hour bus ride starting at 9:00 p.m. that night, I have no way of unloading the luggage to get something to eat or use the rest room, you get the picture. 

The waiting room at the station here is something out of a prime-time soap opera, in several languages.  The best part of course is the guessing game to attach backgrounds for each live character on the screen at your disposal.  The first impression when you walk in is of a tough crowd that puts you on your guard.  People look at you and you know you are in the wrong place, wearing the wrong clothes – this is not a bicycle friendly place.  But after a few minutes everyone is back to his or her conversations. 

There are several groups of people each waiting for the bus to their destination.  Mostly people on the fringes of society that cannot afford air-travel, don’t have a car or have lost their licenses.  In one corner, two young girls – sisters – ages about 8 and 12 have joined forces with another girl of about 10 or 11 traveling by herself to Los Angeles (later on during the trip she was asking for money to call her mother to tell her the progress). 

A Mexican family is in a circle, children and friends awaiting the arrival of the bus across the room, too far for me to hear the conversation. New friends show up from time to time and Spanish greetings fly across the room, making me feel like I am in an exotic country, on a tour.   Two women and man (the boyfriend of one of them with fake gold chain and open shirt) are engaged in an argument across the room.  A few drifters are in and out casing the place for left baggage. Earlier while I was tapping the bicycle box someone picked up my Swiss Army knife laying next to me, and then when I noticed, he dropped it on the floor saying that he was wondering if it was mine.  A few European youths with backpacks are huddled together also watching the activities. 

Finally, its 9:00 p.m. and the bus arrives and is instantly divided up in zones.  The three young girls convert the very back of the bus into their bedroom.  The loud couple and a few others are just ahead of them, behind the Mexican family.  I sit just ahead of the Mexican family and across from the European youth and behind a man whose job for the next 14 hours will be to talk loudly and non-stop to the bus driver keeping him awake and distracted. 

Bus leaves Portland about 9:30 p.m. heading out southwest to eventually arrive on the coast after a couple of hours.  Before midnight, we arrive at a McDonald's for our stop right before it closes.  The smokers are the first to get off the bus and huddle together outside, with the rest of us heading for the last chance dinner and drinks.  The rest of the night consists of stops along the coast of Oregon in small, picturesque towns about once every hour.  My sleep comes in small chunks, with dreams in Spanish language, discussions about religion and cars in the dark corners.  We finally arrive in Eureka at about 10:00 a.m. and after claiming my duffle bag and the bicycle box, I drag everything to the side of the station, where I spend the next hour putting the bicycle back together. 

It’s 11:00 a.m. in Eureka, the sun is shining, and you can smell the ocean just a few blocks away.  There are 400 miles between me and where the trip ends, I am a very happy man - life couldn’t get any better.