Day 4 – To Seattle
N47º 36.492' W122º 20.084'
After a shorter night, I packed up and headed out to breakfast at the Wild Flower Cafe in Lincoln City. Dianne and I had breakfasted here last time we were through, so I had a fair idea of what to expect. It’s an excellent thing that I got there when I did, because by the time I left there were at least six parties waiting for tables… good food equals popular, especially where Sunday breakfast is concerned. I sat down at the table, only to be tapped on the shoulder and admonished, “I said, its rude to turn your back on someone.” The voice belonged to a lady sitting behind me, probably in her 70s, who evidently wanted to engage in conversation. As it turned out, nearly everyone in the room I was sitting in clearly knew each other — I’d been seated in the locals-only section, I guess.
That front is haunting me, I swear.
She asked about the bike, where I was from and where I was coming from. Turned out that she’d been on a bike before (pillion, and loved it — and she was most pleased that I took my Mom riding), her dining companion rode, and the lady across the way not only had ridden before, but used to have a sidecar outfit. Conversation covered the usual topics — weather, traffic, the car accident the waitress was in, the misery that is shopping at Safeway — until they had finished their meals and settled up. Everyone wished me a pleasant ride and a safe trip. “We don’t want to be reading about you in the papers!”
Leaving the Starfish Motel in Lincoln City.
Heading out on the highway, I enjoyed about an hour of pleasant riding, with delightful roads through the countryside, a generous speed limit and no other traffic. A good thing can’t last forever, through, and the RVs quickly emerged from wherever they’d been hiding overnight. The last hour into Astoria, Oregon was as heavily trafficked and as annoying as it had been earlier in the month, but at least I knew what I was in for. I relaxed and settled into the ride.
Breakfast at the Wild Flower Cafe.
Shortly after Astoria is the Oregon/Washington border, a boundary that represents freedom from 55pmh speed limits, a woeful inadequacy of passing lanes and a protectionist legislative environment that has outlawed the concept of self-serve gas (although for a motorcyclist, that just means that the attendant hands you the pump and gets out of your way, thankfully enough). The state border is crossed at the Columbia River, by way of an epic bridge and a mile-long causeway. At the end of the bridge, Highway 101 veered left, and the GPS wanted me to do the same. Having actually consulted a map after our previous circumnavigation of this particular peninsula, I discovered that turning right bypassed about 20 miles of road while connecting directly to 101. Leaving the many RV drivers to their fate, I took the road less travelled and made a right hand turn. So glad I did, as well… a beautiful winding road, that ran along the edges of the river until it was time to head back overland. Fabulous turns, beautiful scenery and all of about six cars the whole way.
Crossing to Washington. You can pump your own gas there!
From the border , 101 traverses tidal flats, swamps and bogs (sloughs, they call them, if we’re being technical about it) and forests. When last Dianne and I came through here, we bemoaned the traffic and the woeful lack of passing lanes. Turns out, there are far more passing lanes than I remember, they’re just really, really short. While that renders them unusable for normal vehicular traffic, riding a bike that accelerates from 60 to 90 in less than two seconds makes them abundantly more useful. I was able to pretty much travel unchecked, enjoying the passing as much as I did the bends in the road. Take your fun where you can get it.
Planning the trip to Seattle, I had considered my options over breakfast (in the few gaps in the conversation where I could consult a map and a web browser). Getting to Seattle from the south is an awkward proposition if only because it’s built on Puget Sound, a large and immovable body of water. This means that you can either go around the long way, which basically involved subjecting yourself to I-5 and its attendant insanity, or you could go up the other side to Bremerton and take the ferry. Having consulted the ferry schedule earlier, there were three sailings that could get me to Seattle in time to check-in and still make my dinner reservation — 3pm, 4:15pm and 5:30pm.
When I left Lincoln City, I had simply decided to keep my options open. As I got closer, it was obvious that the 3pm option was out of the question — that ship had sailed, if you’ll forgive the pun. (And if you don’t, too bad… it’s my blog, dammit, and I’ll make really bad jokes if I want to!) The 5:30pm was certainly an option that I was still floating out there, but the closer I got to Seattle, the more it appeared that the4:15pm sailing was drifting into the realm of the possible.
Deciding to take the ferry, I set off across the countryside towards Bremerton. It would be my (and Alessandro’s) first time back since I picked him up when I bought him. Now, one could argue that the reason I chose Bremerton was, as the birthplace of Alessandro (or at least the site of his midwifery–where he started at mile ‘0’ as it were), and given my issues with him to date, that some sort of cathartic renewal was required. A time to turn back the hands of time and, with a sense of renewal and regeneration, to begin again. To request a ‘do over’, if you will.
Certainly, I have had my fair share of problems with Alessandro. We started when I tried to pull out of the parking lot after first picking him up, when the shift mechanism hadn’t been loosened as part of the assembly process. Then there were the disconnected front turn signals. The over-torqued and thus damaged clutch cable. And now my latest problem. There has always been a sense of reticence, of concern, of ‘what don’t I yet know about?’ And so, some form of restoration and revival could indeed seem appropriate, one could argue.
To which I would reply, “Nah, not particularly. It’s just really, really cool to arrive in Seattle by ferry.”
Of course, first I had to get to the ferry. As I progressively homed in on Bremerton, I did a continual recalibration of distance remaining (courtesy of the GPS) with estimated arrival time ( a mental bit of arithmetic on my part, given the historical challenges of trusting ETAs as provided by that self-same GPS). At 20 minutes to 4pm, I had 20 miles left to go. Given that I was in a 55mph zone, and managing a fairly sustained 60+mph, all seemed good. Then came traffic and a sustained 35mph zone through some suburb or other, and things were looking tight. Then a stretch at 55mph, with me passing wherever seemed reasonably prudent. Or possible.
I finally reached the exit to the ferry just after 4pm, rode 3 miles through town at an aggressively respectful speed (fast enough to move, slow enough to be ignored (hopefully) or slam on the brakes (more likely) should I run into the local constabulary (who have their station on the way to the ferry, as luck would have it), and finally got within sight of the ferry docks. “I can do this,” says I to myself. Particularly given that ferries are notorious for their generosity towards motorcyclists. Except there is a line of cars waiting to pay their toll. Figuring that they’re still selling for the 4:15pm sailing, I get in the line and inch my way forward. Three cars ahead, and there’s a bit of consternation, and the car does a U-turn out of the line, but it’s only 4:10pm, so I don’t worry. I finally get to the head of the line ten minutes after I arrive, however, and I’m advised that they’re selling tickets on the 5:30pm ferry. I try my best sheepish expression, and ask if they can’t squeeze me on the 4:15pm. “Its already sailing,” says the ticket agent. Apparently, Washington State Ferries operates with an efficiency that United Airlines can only fantasize about. I look over the dock and see that it in fact is, by mere metres. As it recedes into the distance, I resign myself to sailing on the 5:30pm ferry. Like I have much choice in the matter.
Wait for baby! Wait for baby, you sumbitches!!!
Sent to the front of the first row (for motorcyclists do rate first on the ferry) I park the bike and do the only thing possible for someone with time on their hands this close to Seattle: I go hunting for an Americano. I also get a chance to catch up on my email.
My messages include several recent missives from my dear friend, Breton, providing an update on his own current motorcycle journey. Given the title of “Planting Pearl”, one is left to surmise that he and his (very recently) late aunt were not close, or that she was good and ready to shuffle off this mortal coil. The good news is that he has generously referred friends and family to my blog in order to catch my updates. Apparently there is an appreciation for the eloquence of the entries herein. Also apparently, ‘eloquent’ is code for ‘uses too many multi-syllabic words.’ There is even a suggestion that such eloquence might be a barrier to comprehension, although he encourages readers to persevere nonetheless. Not sure what the fuss is all about, really. As my Daddy always said, “Never use a big word, when a diminutive one will do.”
Alessandro on the ferry, trying to not attract seagulls.
Waiting for the ferry, I casually chat with one of the workers on the dock. Mentioning my near miss, he asks whether or not the ticket agents noticed me or not. “If they noticed me, they weren’t saying anything,” says I. He suggests that I should have honked or gone straight up to the window. But no, I cannot do that, for I am a Canadian. If there was one skill ingrained in me from the womb, then it’s how to queue politely (Breton: that means get in line).
Approaching Seattle. It doesn’t look like this from I-5.
The consequences of a 5:30pm sailing are that we arrive in Seattle at 6:30pm. A dozen blocks to my hotel, where I can check in, shower, and change. I should be able to still make my 7:30pm dinner reservation with moments to spare (it really is ride, eat and sleep here, I keep telling you). All goes well until we get to the checking-in part. Having entrusted a saddle bag and tank bag to the bell desk, I have little choice but to wait until both arrive in my room. Three increasingly anxious phone calls later, and they finally show up at 7:25pm. Quickest shower on the planet (wash up as far as possible, wash down as far as possible and then wash possible) and I’m in a cab and on my way to Cafe Campagne, closest thing to a French bistro this side of the Seine. If I’m going to ride, eat and sleep, then I’m going to do it very, very well.