As a cycle tour leader, I was recently asked to participate in a magazine article about “green travel”.  “Green travel”, “going green”, and all the corresponding consumer terms making up the “green” movement are an endless source of exasperation for me, but I decided to brush aside my cynicism and leap at the win-win opportunity to make money garnering publicity for my bicycle advocacy nonprofit. Fueled by fierce company loyalty and an earnest belief in the mission statement of my seasonal employer, I could easily overlook any number of suspicious corporate terms with dubious claims to environmentalism.  A three-day bike tour with a “green travel” journalist?  It sounded like the perfect paid vacation!

I eagerly began making arrangements to take the train to San Diego, envisioning myself rising to prominence and fame as the new face of the green travel movement.  I would be the first cycle tour leader to nab the cover of Sports Illustrated, Bicycling, and Velo News, eventually parlaying that exposure into my own dream career as a travel journalist for Lonely Planet’s future gay offshoot publication. I would rise to the top of my field as the greatest cycle tour leader and gay travel journalist of all time!

It was a beautiful dream, but it didn’t last. After I agreed to participate in the “green travel” bike tour, it was determined that flying my bike and I to San Diego for the project would be far more time-effective than Amtrak.  Campsite reservations would be scrapped for hotel stays, overnight gear would be shipped to the hotel rooms instead of carried in panniers, and a rental car would transport us to the photogenic desert region outside of San Diego.  I cringed as each additional detail increasingly drained the green right out of the assignment, and pondered my own level of hypocrisy.  Gradually I had transformed from bold, adventurous spokesperson for cross-country bicycle touring to little more than a particularly awkward-looking REI model.  Having already agreed to do the project, however, I begrudgingly agreed to research plane tickets.

Here’s where the real shock came in—the cost of flying a bike is out of control!  In the past three years of leading tours, I’ve used Amtrak or Southwest airlines, and had no idea that airline rates for bicycles are currently skyrocketing.  In my case, flying my bike to San Diego from Portland would be more expensive than the cost of my own plane ticket!  In the interest of adding some sort of journalistic merit to this particular blog entry, here’s the information that I’ve compiled about shipping your bike on the 8 major US airlines. This information doesn’t apply to international flights.  It also doesn’t include folding bikes or dismantled bikes with S & S Couplers which, while much cheaper to accommodate, can present their own problems when baggage handlers don’t take care to re-pack them correctly after the security check.

American:
Checked baggage fee:  $15 for first checked bag, $25 for second checked bag.
Bicycle fee:  $100 per direction in addition to the applicable checked baggage fee.

Continental:
Checked baggage fee:  $15 for first checked bag, $25 for second checked bag.
Bicycle fee:  Unless the bicycle is packed in a container under 50lbs and 62inches, a fee of $100 per direction will be charged.  Bicycle equipment over 70lbs will not be accepted as checked baggage.

Delta:
Bicycle fee: $175 per direction fee within the United States, $300 per direction for international travel!

Jet Blue:
Checked baggage fee: First checked bag free, second checked bag $20
Bicycle fee: $50 per direction, included as one of checked bags.

Northwest:
Checked baggage fee:  First checked bag $15, second checked bag $25
Bicycle fee: $100 per direction

Southwest:
Checked baggage fee: First two checked bags free, third checked bag $25, fourth-ninth (!) $50/bag.
Bicycle fee: $50 per direction

United:
Checked baggage fee: First checked bag $15/direction.  Second checked bag $25/direction.
Bicycle fee: This is confusing.  They claim to include bicycles under checked baggage, but elsewhere I found a fee of $125 per direction as of August 18, 2008.  I’m more inclined to believe the latter.

US Airways:
Checked baggage fee: First checked bag $15. Second checked bag $25.
Bicycle fee: Accepted as checked baggage for a fee of $100/direction, eerily similar to the fee for checking antlers. The limit on antlers is one rack per ticketed customer, once again, eerily similar to the limit on bicycles. Antlers, however, are required to be clean and free of residue throughout the head and skull region, while there is no such constraint on bicycles under standard baggage policy.

Many of these fees seem to be under steady increase, so some of my listings will probably be outdated by the time this is broadcasted out onto the internet.  Good ol’ Southwest appears to be the clear victor here, with the much-maligned Delta falling into Magneto’s sinister role in the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants. $175 per direction? I wish those villains at Delta knew how much green travelers curse their very name!

After examining the evidence, I determined that renting a fancy carbon-fiber bike in San Diego would be far more convenient and cost-effective than flying my trusty touring bike alongside me.  The bike was waiting for me, the plane ticket was purchased, hotel arrangements had been made, the course was charted, and everything was in place for a two-day bike tour that looked absolutely nothing like the cross-country bike tours I actually lead.  My role in the whole affair was nebulous, but I remained a good sport throughout it all, even awkwardly describing my physical appearance to the reporter over the phone.  He demanded to know in advance if I have a “cyclist’s body” for photographic purposes, and didn’t seem particularly enthused when I evaded the interrogation with the unsolicited news that I have a large Tyrannosaurus Rex crowding my forearm, among other visible tattoos of questionable artistic merit.  I just felt like he should know what he was getting into.  Perhaps I should have asked him to rate HIS body in response?

The worst calamity that can befall any “green travel” agenda is RAIN.  Once weather.com revealed the misfortune that lay in store for our two-day luxury bike tour, the whole thing began to dissolve into chaos. RAIN did not recognize the constraints of bargain plane tickets or magazine deadlines.  RAIN can be crueler than a Delta airlines bicycle fee that way, and this time, RAIN just wasn’t havin’ it.  Mr. Green Travel decided to push back the scheduling of the trip to work around the predicted drizzly weather, and at that point, I tastefully decided to remove myself from the project.  My future as the world’s greatest cycle tour leader and gay travel journalist will have to wait. No one ever said it was gonna be easy bein’ green.

Bishop is where people who live in LA go to rock climb. It’s actually where lots of other people go to rock climb too, but the LA people are easy to identify becayse they walk around the grocery stores, tan and shirtless, with bleached dreads, saying “bra” and “sick” a lot. They like to use climbing terms for everything. Like “Do you have any beta on this marinara sauce, bra?” and “I just redpointed the oatmeal isle… is was SIIIICK!” I once took a break from being a lousy cyclist to be a lousy climber. But it didn’t last long, because I look awful shirtless and they asked me to find a more “clothed” sport. I prefer high-strung cyclists to laid-back climbers, anyway. 

The Place: The place I rode through is called Paradise, which might be a bit of a misnomer. It’s really nice. I just like to imagine paradise having more palm fronds and white sand. They had a restaurant there. It’s also called Paradise. Paradise (the restaurant) was one of those places that did “fancy” in a very 1950′s kind of way. Like canned green beans with bits of bacon in it. I like to imagine Sinatra eating there and ordering a Jell-O mold with canned pineapple floating in it, then getting irate when they bring him orange Jell-O instead of lime, and having one of his goons “whacK” the waiter. That seems like something Sinatra would do. In Paradise. Anyway, it’s closed now. So you’ll have to get your faux fancy food somewhere else.

The bike: I rode a 51cm Bataglin frame built for someone 9 inches shorter than me. It was built in 1984 for the LA Olympics. I don’t think it’s been ridden since 1990. I don’t think it’s been inside since 1995. It’s been outside, in the rain, and the Suntour Superbe Pro components were all rusty. The bike itself looked strangly like Keith Richards, if Keith Richards were lugged (“lugged” is not slang for “intoxicated”)

The Ride: The ride was as pleasant as a ride on a rusty undersized bike can be. The scenery is beautiful. The roadsides were still snowy, but it was sunny and warm. The route went through a popular cycling area called Round Valley. Past Paradise. Then continued up on a ridge high above Rock Creek mountain bike trail. Which is also beautiful and fun with lots of bridges varied terrain. But I had to stop because the snow got too thick. And because I am a sissy. 

bishop_rockcreek

SAC CX (the Sacramento, CA cyclocross series) is pretty much as different from the Cross Crusade as it could be: 

*The biggest category, A Men, consisted of maybe 25 people. 
*People are very serious.
*Everyone seemed put off when I cheered loudly 
*I only saw one cowbell, and I actually never heard it
*No free oatmeal

The Women’s categories consisted of 2 A’s, 4 B’s, 3 C’s, 1 Master, 4 Juniors, and 5 Junior Men. Our small group assembled at the start line, and were then informed that the masters, C’s, and junior women would be starting fifteen minutes after everyone else. After they cleared out there were about 10 of still lined up.

 I wasn’t clued in to the fact that they’d start us all at the same time. I stood next to my bike as the official explained how the race would be (but never said, “you all have to start at once”). I was dumbfounded when everyone took off together at the sound of the whistle. I wasn’t even standing over my bike! After a moment of confusion I finally started riding. For about ten minutes I tried to pass all the 12-year-old dudes ahead of me. Then I realized that either way I would be getting 2nd place. 

My objectives quickly changed from, “I’m going to try to win” to “I’ll try to not get DFL” to “I’d rather not be out of breath at all during this race”. And the actual course was really fun, very short track-ish, so non-racing racing was actually a great strategy here.

It turns out that the top 3 people in each category win prizes. Since I finished a solid 2nd-out-of-two, I was given a medal. Which was cool, but it was sort of a mockery medal, a medal of shame. Still, that didn’t stop me from requesting to stand on a podium (which they hadn’t brought because it was raining), or from wearing my prize for the rest of the day.

I went to high school in Western Nevada, between Reno and Tahoe. I was new to the area and everyone hated me. I think that I may have threatened the Okies with my big city ways, including pegging my pants and listening to Bell Biv Devoe.  Or they may have just hated me because I’m a prick. But I’m pretty sure that the pants pegging didn’t help. At one point during my freshman year, after coming to terms with the fact that no one would ever want to be my friend, I did what any 14 year old girl would do: I stalked a celebrity.

I knew that Greg Lemond had lived near my neighborhood. He went to my high school. I had an art teacher that was keeping a bunch of his miserable paintings because she thought they would be priceless someday (when the professional cyclist adolescent art scene blew up.) I met someone at school who’s uncle was on the hunting trip when he got shot, though she kept clarifying that her uncle did no shoot him. That was someone else.

These all seemed like nice, casual introductory conversation topics. So I wrote a letter and left it in the mailbox that had “Lemond” written on it. I talked about how much I enjoyed cycling. I did not talk about the time he shit his pants during the ’86 Tour de France. I figured it’d be best to go the classy route.

A week later, I got a really nice autographed postcard  and a nice note from Greg Lemond’s mother. They seemed like very pleasant people.

I eventually adjusted to Reno, and learned to make the most of everything the city had to offer. I made friends. I went to casinos and ate cheap prime rib dinners for $2.99 and tried to get free drinks. I learned to shoot guns and drink bad beer. I tried to become a professional bowler. I learned the act of lovemaking from a prostitute named Reginka, whose father was a Russian cosmonaut and whose brother trained wild bears to ride unicycles for Circus Circus.

And I bought a mountain bike (then I drove my mountain bike into my garage.) My friend Dan took me up to ride something called the Flume Trail in Tahoe. The trail is well known now, I think. But back then it was a pretty casual mountain bike trail that ended up in the parking log of the Ponderosa Ranch where they filmed the cheesy 60′s Wester TV show. The trail maintained beautiful views of the lake while traversing the rim, crossing over rickety old mining equipment.

I haven’t ridden the trail in awhile. But I’m trapped inside my Aunt’s house in Reno at the moment, with no bike, in a foot of snow, talking to my family about their respective planned deaths due to cancer. So I’ve decided to get drunk and go back to my happy place. Which at the moment is the Flume Trail.

flume-trail-to-rim-trail-incline-village

The cool thing about going to college is you get to look forward to all the times that you don’t have to be in college. With an epic 3 weeks of winter at my disposal, I headed to the Bay Area for a vay-cay and some warmer weather. Before I left I visited the internet and googled myself up the Northern California bike race calendar. As luck would have it, there was a cross race happening in Folsom while I was in town. And for some reason I decided that this was something I should participate in.

Right as Portland was attacked by the “winter blast” (or whatever Dentine Gum flavor the local news was likening it to), my bike and I had boarded a train for the 18-hour sit-a-thon that is the trip to Oakland from Portland. I got maybe 3 hours of sleep, every part of my body lost feeling at some point, and the lady sitting next to me consumed a whole bag of “vanilla flavored raisins” while I watched in horror. But it only cost $5 to bring my bike.

The day before the Sacramento race, my friend Starla and I rode up to Sausalito to Adnan’s house. We had discussed going on a ride when I got there, but I wasn’t aware that this ride would start the moment we arrived…or that would be an actual “training” ride (as opposed to just riding around, chatting, while wearing spandex).

This ride is also known as the “Alpine, DAMN LOOP!” (To be yelled when you realize how hard this ride really is). As far as I can remember, this ride takes you through Fairfax, up a medium hill, across the Alpine Dam, up Mount Tam (a big hill), along some road that is in a lot of car commercials, up the Seven Sisters (a series of seven small climbs), and finally down a long descent into Mill Valley. The views are all totally epic. At one point the ocean was stretching out to the right, and to the left was the Bay with the downtown SF buildings just poking through the fog. It was like living in a post card. Virtual reality. Periodically deer would prance by us. Also there’s a part called “Lance Armstrong Corner”, but I can’t remember why it’s called that.

Basically, California is glorious and hilly. Marin County is full of spandors and rides that have pretty views. The coffee and food of the area is expensive. And you should probably check it out if you are visiting here.

Sometimes we have to leave Portland to realize that there is another world out there. A world very, very different from the cycling utopia of Portland. A world where things don’t revolve around coffee, bikes, and bridges. In Ashland, Oregon things revolve around coffee, bikes, and patchuli oil. Lots of patchuli oil.

It had been a long time since I lived in Ashland, and the things I remembered were vague. I remembered that everyone had blond dreadlocks, and the panhandlers generally offered to send you “positive vibes’ in exchange for change. I remembered that the ramen cups at the local grocery store has weevils in them. I remembered that for 9 months out of the year the city was overrun with old people who pretended to enjoy Shakespeare plays. And I remembered that the mountain biking was amazing and the mountain bikers were equally amazing. The trails are beautiful and endless and vein up into the hills right from the center of town.

Ashland is buried in a valley, so all of the road biking involves at least one hill. Depending on the direction you go, it may be a big hill. Like Mt. Ashland. Which is a mountain. Which is why it is named the way it is. Each Summer the locals compete in the Mt. Ashland Hill Climb, a road vs. mountain competition whose record was once held by Bobke. Or so I’m told. By liars.

The restaurant situation is somewhat bleak, with a large percentage of the establishments catering to the wealthy tourist. The all star breakfast option of the area is Morning Glory, and everyone knows it. The wait can be over an hour on the weekends. The Ashland Food Coop has a pretty fantastic deli area that makes great smoothies and soups, and they should be able to provide any number of foods that contain either quinoa or hemp. Another grocery option is Shop n’ Cart (yes, with just an “n”). This large grocer is local-friendly, has an amazing selection of beers at the lowest prices in the area, and on special days when the moon is just so, a family sells delicious tomales in the parking lot for $1.

For your riding pleasure, here’s a map of the the road route up Mt. Ashland:

Here’s a map of the classic Lakes Loop route: