Over the Saddle

In Corvallis I had a regiment schedule that I had to complete in order to sustain. I know I had debt to pay back and a role to play in community. I hadn’t begun to pay back my thousands of dollars in debt and I had been off the grid of community—at least for long stints—while on the road for the nine months that I was. Needless to say, I was messy with my attempts to do either. The debt was easier because I could work and apply money to those loans while I watched them dissipate. Community on the other hand took a concise effort.

Other than flagship tough times, I found the most heart-breaking incident of settling down to be my lack of time in the wild or what was on the road. When I came to Corvallis I had just finished up a bicycle tour over 4,000 miles through four states where every day was new adventure. To land down in community was fine. I wanted that; but when I arrived there was so much complacency and a short window of time during my work week that I had to take trips or go on adventures.

There was my Portland Vacation that just took me back in ways that my spirit needed. There were also my trips to Scott’s house, floats on the river, hikes, or the similar that kicked me into gear. There was one event that shattered my patterns. I had a friend from work named Grant “G-Money, Geezy” Scauvignon who I met when we both worked together in the produce department.

When I first met him I said,  “You remind me of Ulysses S. Grant (because of his beard).”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“He’s on the $50 bill.”

I loaded up my cart with a few items to stock in the department and puttered around when he came out with valiant stride with six times as many items than me and he seemed to be carrying a fleet with him wherever he went. He had zing, stride, swagger, maturity, and was an impressive young man to be 22. He had already worked for our company six years.

He was a fermentation science major at Oregon State University and drank a lot. He walked me down the beer aisle and pointed out craft brews. In his free time he drank craft but was known as well to enjoy PBR or Hamm’s. When I became a cashier I would go visit Grant on my breaks or lunches to just hang out with him. I had ideas for us to hang out: river floats, but he didn’t want to get in the mercury-tainted water.

He texted me on one of our free days from work and I proposed over text that we go on a bicycle ride. We both had nice bikes. His was made of carbon fiber. My fork was made off carbon fiber. He was down and confessed when we met up that he thought we would ride to some sweet bar that I knew about. No; but kind of.

When I waited for him to meet up with me outside of my favorite coffee shop—Tried & True—I browsed online for popular bike routes in Corvallis. The list of them had their respective mile count. I looked for some with double digits. That was an exertion of mine and I figure for most of humanity—the heart to attempt the irregular. I wouldn’t go on a lengthy bike ride on my own or wouldn’t go for a hike on my own. I cherished the bond that people have with one another that can accomplish the unusual.

He showed up and we walked our bicycles up to one another. The first thing he said was that he didn’t want to go far and was already sore from both his own six mile ride into town as well because he had just walked his grandparents around campus. That blew some wind on a new flame of mine, but didn’t extinguish it. I told him I had a route picked out that was 24 miles. He gasped and joked that “No way” we would do that. He was just too tired. I said that I had a shorter one in mind, about four miles that would take us up a hill and down a fun descent.

I didn’t find out until we were 900 feet up a mountain that he had a one speed bike with no brakes. As we rode through downtown for the lighter route he shouted up to me with profanity, “[Fudge it], let’s take the long trip.” I had to accept that new wind to heighten my flame as I then saw the route as daunting. That complacent outlook collapsed as we took off for the hills.

Our route went up to a popular part of the area called Lewisburg Saddle. The bike route took us to the northwestern outskirts of town that began a steep ascent right when you crossed a perimeter road of the city. We had a steep ascent through switchbacks and a forest of old-growth for up to 1,000 feet. It was a gorgeous ride up with thickets of wood that took me back to road life in so many ways. I had 27 gears and led Grant all the way. I didn’t want to discourage him early on so I stayed far enough ahead where he had to keep going. I stayed on my bike until just about 100 feet from the summit. He had gotten off just before me—200 feet below the summit. He hated to have to get off his bike. It was a blow to his pride.

I thought at times he would turn back so I waited until I saw him around the bend and then would push on. I hadn’t worked out in a while, save a few runs here and there. My body yearned for the type of exercise that a tumultuous trip like that would need out of me. I was happy to push myself that far.

At the Lewisburg Saddle we got off our bikes and wandered around a bit. There were two hiking paths that spread off on either side of the road that we didn’t hike but thought to. We were very exhausted and had another 17 miles to go. I was told later on that there were old-growth firs off to the right side of the road but there was tape up because of tree harvesting. Cars were parked up to where people would hike to the left and into the thicker forest. It was up top that I learned he had no brakes.

What he had was a peddle system that was connected to his tires rotation. If he wanted to go slow he would have to peddle slow—difficult on such a steep ascent. We took off and I pulled over a few hundred feet down because I held on the brakes which could get too hot. I waited while my tires and brakes cooled. Grant came down behind me, “Don’t let me ruin the fun for you Caleb.”

On my next time down I flew like a car through the rest of forest and opened out to fields that stretched out in the valley. The sun was in full burst, a light wind cooled us, the view was American, and we both rode at top speeds by ourselves. We were at the reward of our efforts from this trip and in life altogether. We cruised in valiancy like we were made to and agreed that that section was our favorite.

At a crossroads we rode our bicycles in circles to escape a grip of hornets that hovered near us. We didn’t know which direction to go. I hadn’t had any water all trip. We had ten miles left to go. We decided on a direction and pressed to a rural highway with an adequate shoulder that was littered with traffic and just like that we left our prize where it may dwell for another. I kept an eye peered and turned us off at a convenient store where I got 44 ounces of lemonade for 99 cents. I drank half of it in the shade with Grant while he sipped a cherry-flavored Gatorade.

We had eight miles left and both decided to go to Block 15—a brewery and restaurant in downtown Corvallis. The final stretch was just a familiar press to the brewery where we locked up our bikes and got a table together upstairs. We split nachos and both got a couple pints of craft brews. We shared the conversations we had always wanted to go in depth on and continued the brotherhood I saw would thrive through his last school year in Corvallis before the workforce.