Driving a 2 wheeled big-rig

Day 1:
Morning one, I decided my bike was too heavy. I packed an old liquor box with more clothes and my book (I’ll be too tired to read, right?). Still, as I pulled the bike propped off the wall, I wasn’t so sure. I wobbled like a big rig until I gained speed. I cursed every stop sign that made me stop (and start again). The Vancouver neighborhoods sat quaintly upon rolling hills. I wasn’t impressed at its cuteness at the time. Once out of the city I could maintain some speed, stay along the well planned bike paths and head up and down coastal mountain roads with less trouble. Two bridges later I was well into the interior of British Columbia, riding through gridded farmland, past numbered streets filled with blueberry farms, Christmas tree farms and raspberry patches. The numbers both helped me chart my progress and play the ‘are we there’ game with myself. With one aggravating closed road just before the border I zigzagged my way into the country, crossed the border with minimal trouble and realized that all the anticipation to get into the US still meant that I had another 30 miles to ride until my planned 1st night stop at Larrabee State Park, south of Bellingham.

Luckily there was ice cream within minutes of the border.

The agriculture changed to cows, corn and wheat and Edaleen Dairy was doing steady business. Edaleen figured out that Canadians like their cheap milk and have set up a virtual dairy cartel along the border. With Canadian border agents looking on, and probably stopping in for their 79 cent cone, “Beautiful British Columbia” license plates flow over the border to Edaleen’s. Americans may go to Tijajuana for plastic surgery, cheap narcotics and saltillo tile. Canadians go to Edaleen’s for milk, cheese and ice cream. They don’t kid around either. Grocery carts lined the store, filled to the hilt with gallons of milk and tubs of ice cream that could double as kiddie pools. Signs along the windows tell patrons that Edaleen’s isn’t responsible if they try to smuggle more than their legal limit. Read: “you can buy it. Just hide it well”. Kids swarm outside with ice cream dribbling down their faces while their parents load their trunks with cheap dairy products. I wonder how far a Canadian will drive to get cheap milk. And if a single family can drink 20 gallons of milk before it goes bad or if they become the middle men in a cheap milk smuggling industry in southern Canada. It’s all hidden by the wind mills and dancing cow sculptures nestled in the grass. No one would suspect.

I got some ice cream, promised to have been made locally behind the shop. I vowed to eat only local food and bought BC cherries and peaches for the road. By the time I made it to Bellingham, the sun was going down and locals told me that Larrabee was still another 15 miles south along the coast. I rode by a vibrant main street and wished I could have stayed and checked it out. I worried if I stopped my legs wouldn’t start again. Without a small local food shop to stop at, I bought a can of chile from the gas station (Amy’s Organic, mind you. However made in Petaluma) and continued along winding Chuckanut Road towards Larrabee. I made it at 7:57pm. The park office closes at 8. There were a number of small walk-in sites along a ridge and after eating a cold can of chile and some malt balls, I went to bed.