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 19, 2014

Day 37. Chasing Boys.

Miles: 73
Elevation: ask Vinny
Temperature: freezing then a perfect 72 degrees and sunny. 

Northern California has rippled my skin. Waking up with a hangover probably didn't help my lack of patience. But I quite had it the moment I realized our Burning Man camp neighbors left their dog to shiver in the wet and cold all night. I could only have wondered if their toddler had crawled into the ocean during their sleep. Winston was the furry dudes name, and he gladly accepted my toasty warm sleeping bag upon sunrise. He sat with contentment for hours while coffee and tea were prepared and his owners slept their high off. 

It only got worse. Happy to be at the best and warm cafe in the crafty quaint town of Arcata, instantly disgust and annoyance ripped away any moment of happiness. This pricy town yanked every bad mood to the surface. We were served gourmet coffee with an attitude, as if spandex wasn't the hippy crews attire. There ain't no grit to this town, only shadowed societal runaways. Grungy elitists stroll the streets, and cell phones are banned from the cafe. Coffee that was roasted in our hometown of Oakland was served at at an outrageous $5 a cup. Reused glass jars were filled with homemade morning smoothies. The locals coax their magic concoctions of every color blended drink and seed imaginable. So liberal, their stench is a denial of flamboyant conservancy: jaded, unopened to the box outside their square town. These people lack realness and friendly hellos. They are proudly pampered in Patagonia jackets as if their alternative ways are the road to enlightenment. As my grandpa, raised in the slums of the Great Depression would say, "you paid how much for thoes jeans with holes in them!?"

Don't get wrong, I loved my job and the industry, but I know this crowd too well. Having spent years catering to their prudent ways, it was all too reminiscent of an 8 day work week waiting tables. When burnt out the rockridge housewive with the word bitch tramp stamped across her forhead sat down for lunch. Politely taking her order while holding back the lash of truths about to spew, she orders a gluten free sandwich, sauce on the side. Two lemons are a necessity with iced tea and it's Splenda not Sweet N Low. As chatter over glamorous royal vacation plans and underpaid nannies trample eaves dropping ears, she can't help but stare you down impatiently waiting for lunch to arrive. And then, icing on the cake is when she nibbles away at a fresh baked wheat loaded chocolate chip cookie as if gluten was only an allergy in "health foods". We needed out. Our exit was completed with a drunk walking a wabbly line to be handcuffed at 10am with a DUI and an overly pregnant women smoking cigarette butts in front of anti abortion billboard. 

Northern California, what a place. I was about to loose it on the 101 headed south. We hasn't seen Vincent and the Australian since we left the decreptive town of Crescent City with our lovely church host. Vinny was off on a blissful backroad I thought. Were we even on the right road, this was the freaking freeway? Sure enough guess who rolls up just as we were stopped trying to find a quiet backroad: Vinny and the Aussie. The four of us now sized up any car, and now visible to any driver, we cruised down the shoulder. 

Boys...O'Reilly...testosterone. Fucking shit, really? Of course O'Reilly spearheaded it all taking off, at speeds he never matches with our posses of five. And yes, our two international friends chased. Seriously guys, we are on touring bikes pushing 18mph up a coastal hill. Tall skinny boys are annoyingly fast. It wasn't fair, but I had nothing to prove being the girl with a stuffed reindeer and hung on, leaving my bad mood behind. 

Ralph had a new backseat. Over the past five weeks his organs had been pushed all the way down to his butt due to his suspender tight seatbelt. So he now sits facing forward in the side of mrs white. And seeing the action ahead he was not having it that we were falling behind. How did we go from cycletouring to strutting manliness? Ralph foraged for vanilla power bars deep in the bag, screaming, "go faster". Yea, I unhappily held on for the 20 miles until O'Reilly pooped himself out. It was time for serious revenge after chasing the instigator down for a half an hour. Thinking over the perfect retaliation prank, brilliance would be purchased come sunrise. It's called morning decaf coffee, my treat.

Sorry, mind the typos, but I'm short an editor tonight due to tomorrow "caffeinated" suprise. 

Our new friend Winston!

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