Meaghan Marie Hackinen - South Away: The Pacific Coast on Two Wheels

H IGHWAY 1 TAPERED SOUTH OF SAN FRANCISCO as my sister and I closed in on Devils Slide. One behind the other, Alisha in the lead. Rubber tires clinging to the crumbling white line at the asphalts edge. Devils Slides reputation for landslides and collisions preceded itwarnings about this treacherous, winding stretch of highway had plagued us since the Oregon-California border. Knowing this, we could have taken another route, detouring inland along the Interstate, but that would have added an extra half-day. Moreover, after sitting on our asses for a week in the San Pablo suburbsan hour-long train commute from the bright lights of San Francisco properwe were anxious to hit the road.

It was November 10, 2009. Ten weeks earlier, I had collected my final paycheque, packed my bicycle panniers, and rolled down the driveway of the house in Terrace, British Columbia, where Id been renting a room for the summer. I am as fresh and untried as they come, a brand new university grad with a B.A. in Archaeology and no actionable plan for the future. I knew I didnt want to end up like my motheror the rest of the content-in-their-mediocrity middle class who populated the Surrey suburbs where Id spent my childhoodand I knew I wouldnt survive doing something that I hated. Rather than settle into a career (assuming there was a job waiting for me, which there wasnt) I had decided to ride my bicycle six thousand plus kilometres down the western coast of North America, from Terrace to Cabo San Lucas at the tip of the Baja Peninsula. A month into the journey, my sister, Alisha, had joined me.

Now, we were careening down the dusty California coastline, halfway to Cabo, the torrential downpours of Washington and Oregon behind us and SoCals palm-lined beaches beckoning us south.

At Devils Slide the highway wound further inland, and soon Alisha and I found ourselves on a wooded mountainside, the rock-scree slope topped with deciduous trees whose fire-hued leaves were carried off by gusts of wind. Pale, near-bare branches ribbed over the roadway. Out of sight, a couple hundred metres to our right, the jagged cliffs of Devils Slide promontory dropped into the frothing Pacific Ocean.

A horn honkedaimed at us? My heart slammed. Cars in quick succession, inches from the sides of our back panniers. Like a pair of rabbits that had inadvertently wandered onto the track of the Monaco Grand Prix, we were trapped. Why hadnt someone thought to lay the road six inches wider? With no place to pull off to let vehicles pass, wed become hostages to this devil of a mountain.

I followed the hitch of Alishas hips as she rocked up the slope, the incline so sharp that we were barely making headway; simply balancing, maintaining a straight course among the rush-wind of passing cars, was challenge enough. My ears echoed with the whir of traffic until at last we reached the summit. The woods cleared, our surroundings suddenly arid, barren. Straws of yellowed grass poked between smooth hillside stones to our left; sheer cliffs plunged into violent surf on our right. Once Alisha and I began our descent, I lost sight of the drop, but the snaking guardrail stood as a reminder of our precarious position on the mountainside. My eyes sped along the twisting white line of the highway shoulder. Another blaring horn, and my chest cinched tighter. My bike computer read thirty miles an hour, but traffic streamed past as if we were standing still.

Abruptly, Alishas rear tire leapt into my field of vision. Too closeand still decelerating. I snapped the brake levers. My back wheel locked. Panic.

Go! I shouted. A fast-approaching potato chip delivery truck loomed like an aggressive T-Rex in my side-view mirror. Go-go-go-go-go!

I clipped her from behind, tire against spinning tire. She screamed. A feral, deep-bellied wail.

I knuckled down on the brakes again. My bike frame shuddered from the force, skidding. Even closer to the guardrail. Eyes fixed on the quicksilver sea, hundreds of metres below.

Holy shit, I thought. This is where my story ends.

TERRACE, BC

A DOZEN HELMETED, SPANDEX-CLAD WOMEN GATHER in front of McBike Shop on Lazelle Avenue, road bikes like sleek, ergonomic whippets at their sides. I wheel my steel-blue Norco commuter into the jumble of steel and flesh, bike cleats scritch-scratching against sidewalk cement as women mix pastel-coloured electrolyte tablets into water bottles and complete pre-trip once-overs on their bikes. Its my first Monday in Terrace, my first outing with Ladies Bike Club. I wonder how Ill learn anyones name when they look nearly identical, tanned knees and trim waists cinched into spandex.

You here for the ride?

I turn to see a woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and sunglasses. A white, pink, and powder blue cycling jersey clings to her torso like a superhero costume.

Yes, Im Meaghan, then add: I just moved here.

Im twenty-four years old, and Ive been in school for sixteen of those years. Until now, that is: June 2009. Less than a week earlier, I boxed my bicycle, a recent graduation present from my parents, and ventured by Greyhound from their home in Surreya burgeoning sprawl that fills the gap between urban Vancouver and the cornfields of the Fraser Valleyto Northern British Columbia for a summer position at the museum in Terrace. My official title is Events Coordinator, but as it turns out, I will do everything from interpretive tours to indexing homestead artifacts in the office basement. The salary isnt generous, but through friends of friends Ive found a townhouse sublet with two Irish brothers and Margaret, a free-spirited anthropology grad from Little Rock, Arkansas. After my three-month term of employment is over, I wont return to Surrey.

Im Shannon, the woman says. Looks like your tires could use some air.

I follow her critical glance to my rear bike tire. Why hadnt I noticed that on my own?

Until this moment, Id held my Norcoa second-hand bike that Id christened Blue Steel after Ben Stillers infamously ridiculous model pose in the film Zoolanderin high regard. She had been carefully selected from an array of Craigslist ads based on all-around utility. With medium-width tires and a sturdy frame, Blue Steel could navigate bustling streets, washed-out hiking trails, and anything in between. She was hardy enough to tackle city curbs, yet could be relied on for those lonely stretches of highway I hoped wed explore together.

But here, in the gathering of performance bicycles on the pavement in front of McBike, Blue Steel stands out like an awkward dinner guest who didnt get the dress code memo. Her cheap plastic pedals and mountain bike handlebars look clumsy and uncouth in contrast to the skinny tires and titanium seat posts around her.

Ive been cycling about a year now, I say, eager to wheel conversation away from my bike. Like most people, Id cycled as a child, but had given it up in my early teens. Id hit the pavement again a year ago as a way to strengthen my right knee after a snowboarding injury. Id still undergone surgerytorn ligaments dont mend themselvesbut had returned to cycling soon after. Aside from croquet and swimming, cycling was one of the few activities that my physiotherapist had deemed safe.