In 1980, a year after college graduation, I took off on a bicycle ride from Eugene, Oregon, to the town of Florence on the coast, sixty miles away, then north along the Pacific Coast Highway, where the Cascade Mountains meet the sea.
I was not the only bike rider on the highway, and most drivers passed cyclists carefully, though the logging trucks seemed to come a little too close. The smells of the Pacific Ocean on one side of me and the evergreen forests on the other were addictive, and the scenes of rocky beaches, cliffs, sunrises, and sunsets kept me going, though I was often tired and developed saddle sores after the first week. I stopped to talk to other cyclists making similar journeys, sharing stories and a joint or two as we discussed the best locations to set up our tents and portable stoves. I felt a freedom I’d never known before.
