Intro

Welcome to a story, or stories I should say. A compilation of adventure tales. An ongoing itch to see, smell, and touch the world, or at least the deserted roads and rarely trampled mountains of America. Characters within the descriptive paragraphs of these stories carve out the coming and going companions in life; vital life people and pieces that parallel a universe for moments, days, years. And then spear off, leaving granules of magnificent memories of magical places. They leave a lasting trace, a gained sense of courage to stand tall on oxygen deprived mountains and shout absurdities like: I love you Ralph! Ralph is a teenage reindeer stuffed of the finest synthetic polyester fiber poof; he says made in Indonesia but really tells me he is from the North Pole. Delivered through a chimney one December night 20 years ago, we instantly became cuddle buddies upon that morning's sunrise. He is the instigator. The inspiration. And the imagination. He breathes creativity. Laughter. His is a dear companion. And yes, at 4lbs he tags along atop a pack or strapped to a rack. In delirium of 107 degree heat, the small possession of material belongings gain a persona. Innate objects become friends of the road and trails. And as for the humans who accompany, their presence reads priceless. Without O'Reilly, a 29 year old New Hampshirian with superior taste buds, the mathematical six foot four inch tall German, or handful of organic peanut butter and 99 cent jam eating munchkins, there would be a lot less excitement. The encounters we make with our specie, encapsulating the world with their awkward ways and over consumerist love, somehow we have managed to become overly adored creatures. Their generous hearts restore a faith that goodness prevails in the upheaval of a sometimes lost humanity. As for myself, I'm just the navigator, paddling up the stream of life munching on Clif Bars, with an iPhone documenting the frailties and goodies underneath all the simplified complexities in the world we reside. So again, I welcome you to get lost and dream a little through this typed text and your imagination. My name is Kristen Gentilucci. I live in Berkeley California and I love dogs.


Tuesday, August 12, 2014

31. Homebound. South to Salem

Miles: 70
Elevation: flat bike lanes sling shot out of the city to a headache of navigating around rolling HWYs. 
Temperature: coldest its been. 80 degrees and cloudy. 

The images of Portland ran though our veins with excitment for a real city as the outskirts neared. A massive town full of the original "hipsters" strutting the streets in red plaid flannel. A town where coffee is roasted to perfection, beans picked with utmost polical consciousness, breweries renowned for prestige, thrift stores packed with gems, and book stores lined with rare and delicate specialities. 

But Portland wasn't that idealized dream. The fairytale utopia was sown with flaws; the type that come with any major crowd of busy people. Like any massive city we had entered with our posse, it was chaotic, overwhelming, and congested. Without proper time to adapt from the silence of open landscapes into the buzz of bustling humans, hatred is found in any hip city. As quickly as the bike lane shot us into downtown, we wanted to know its path out. 

Seeing old friends is always comforting, but somehow homesickness finally struck. The desire to be in familiarity, the potholed streets and lengthy gum stamped sidewalks of home. The sound of neighbor's voices shouting in the background. The creak of my front door as it swings open. The happy look of my furry friend as I enter his pink carpeted nap space, and that platinum view of the San Francisco skyline. 

It's not home can't be created in the heart while traveling. It exists in the warmth under that purple sleeping bag. Or with the friendly sight of Henry, Mama Jude, Ralph, Action boy, Zeb, sunsets, stars, a neon tent, bike shoes, the smell of fresh air, sunscreen, and clif bars. But suddenly the itch tugged deeper at heart strings and O'Reilly socks did more than wreak, they burnt the insides of nostrils. 

The though of sharing laughter with friends and indulging in luxury were loving reminders of what awaited. We ditched Portland in a mere 24 hours, leaving behind all its loveable niche characteristics. Exiting with a morning of coffee stops and cruising neighborhood burrows, a glimpse of warm light shined on this city. Erasing some of the anxiety this town had caused, it had its hidden attractions afterall. All those imagined pretty little details masked by interlaced cement grids. But it was too late, the signs that finally read San Francisco appeared like a mirage in the wooded distance. Suburb waterfalls peacefully flooded our franticness. Christmas tree farms dotted hillsides and Ralph sang his famous reindeer song as if we had reached the North Pole. And yes...it rained!