Redwoods, Racing
Toilets
|
|
|
|
The mechanic hit us
with the bad news just before ten a.m. My '86 Ford Escort was
good enough to get me across the entire country without a hitch. To get it to
pass California smog laws I could expect to spend a thousand dollars. He
didn't wait for me to schedule the repairs. The little car that could, can't
much longer. But it did fine, farting up North 101 to Arcata to the Kinetic
Sculpture Race and along the Avenue of the Giants where this newly planted
Easterner got her first look at some real trees. Kurt did the driving. I did much of the squealing. We
had the ugly quiche by Lake Mendocino near Ukiah. We pitched a
tent that first night in Humboldt Redwoods State Park right at the edge
of the forest. Why don't the mosquitoes bite like back East? I worried I'd be
a mess of welts by morning. They are kinder like the humans here, I guess.
The weather reports threatened with a low of forty degrees. Instead, it was
a still and cool night with my sister, a ripening moon,
lighting the sky. We drove into the little lumber town of Scotia for no other
reason than I had to see a town with the very same name as that forsaken one
in New York that was my childhood home. We dined at the Scotia Inn. It is
both charming and quaint. Our waitress made foil roses on our leftovers
that went back to a tent still dusty from Burning Man. Early the next morning we deboned the tent and went
to visit a three-hundred and sixty-three year old tree. Suffice to say, this
was a big tree. Really big. Its neighbors strive, but no one had built a
deck around them. Many of the fallen redwoods are some how more
impressive than those that live on. As they decay, other plants root in them.
They are velvety with moss and shimmer with rustling clover. Charred
remains of those struck by lightning look like lost Goth poseurs. We had to make good time to catch the start of the
race in Arcata some
fifty miles North. No time for scenery or kitschy roadside attractions. The
gigantic dwarf at the corny Sasquatch stop still haunts me. Is he
friends with Bigfoot? Maybe more than "just friends?" Why the hell
is he so tall if he's a dwarf? Kurt is slowly coming to realize that I don't know
how to read a map. But this still doesn't stop him from starting many in-car
conversations with "open up the California map..." It's good that
one of us is competent with them. We had several maps with us. So, it came as
a surprise when he said he had no idea where we were going when we got to Arcata.
Hunh? He said that when we got over the bridge I should look right and
"yell out if you see anything unusual." I did as told and the first
street to the right was barricaded with a crowd beyond that. We'd found the
34th Annual Kinetic Sculpture Race. Hobart Brown, an artist who liked to screw up his
kid’s bikes, started the race (see http://www.humguide.com/kinetic/about.shtml for
more information). We got to the town square in time to see the
contestants anxiously parade. As a rainbow appeared in the sky above the
crowd they were off. All seemed quite confident and even a little cocky.
There were maybe forty vehicles. There was a rather ingenious hot dog. It's
bun served as sun protection on the first day. On day two the bun was lowered
and became two floatation devises. Yes, these folks have a racecourse of
about thirty-five miles that includes road, sand dunes and water. It's
three days long with overnight stops for camping and winding down. There is
usually a surprise obstacle somewhere along the route. This year? A large
supply of manure. One has to wonder why time would be put into a
vehicle called chips and dip. It's sails trying hard to look like
tortilla chips. Or the frightening pink elephant. It's pink fuzz slowly
wearing off as the race progressed until it looked like fluorescent eczema.
But, ah, there were many others. A rhino being chased by two other vehicles
that resembled hunters on safari hidden in the brush. My favorite was
definitely the lobster... uh, thingy. It was part lobster, starfish and
octopus with a few other fish thrown into its design for good
measure. As the drivers peddled, the various parts twirled and all the
eyes bugged out. Now that's art! Kurt paid close attention to the engineering of the
rigs while my moods swung over the aesthetics. Some I critiqued
coolly as if in Soho while others made me leap and giggle like a seven
year old. We jumped in the car and followed the route to the dunes. BBQed
oysters and Boca burger stands appeared for the waiting crowd. [Thank you,
California.] For many of these machines the sand was torture. Others had
devised ways to change the road wheels to handle the beach and the climb. The
pilots get penalized if they get out to push or pull. Moments after
taking a photo of the cigar chomping covered wagon there was a harsh metallic
grinding then snap. The gears ripped from the wagon wheel. That
was the end of the race for them. Kurt was aghast, "What? No
portable welder?" After most of the vehicles headed down the beach
we went in search of our hotel. A night of camping should always be followed
by a real bed and a hot tub. Only this hot tub was in a
cement echo chamber and had some noisy kids and their
beer-drinking Dad keeping us company. Never mind. We headed out to
Eureka's best restaurant, Avalon. We topped off a delicious dinner with
a huge chocolate souffle and waddled into the shopping district. Eureka
has a number of little galleries and bookstores. Kurt bought an elephant
marionette [with no skin condition] while I added to my devil collection. We finished the night dancing at the Rutabaga Queen
Dance. A sad little happening somehow related to the Kinetic Sculpture Race.
Perhaps the racers had all retired to their tents by then for the next leg of
the race. They had to be well rested to contend with the cold harbor water in
the morning. I left my paper crown on the table. There was a definite chill in the air as they all
lined up to launch their hopefully sea-worthy contraptions. Pontoons appeared
where there had been bicycle wheels. The evil emcee coaxed many to make a big
splash. This was the undoing for many. Vehicles that surely had been tested
somewhere in water fell apart or capsized. But most persevered. Duck Tape was
our hero. Here was a twenty-year-old kid on his own with no pit crew and a
butt ugly vehicle. As it's name suggests it was a down and dirty thing
without any sense of style. It also wasn't well prepared to enter the water.
But after three sinking attempts, he paddled across the harbor with
significant speed. It was Duck Tape and his sheer determination that had us
whooping out the car window in support when we drove by him on the
highway. Yet others like the rhino and his hunters were able to perform a
well-choreographed pas de trois for all to cheer. Many of the contestants tried for laughs. One pit
crew wore plungers on their heads while the pilot wore
a subtle papier-mache turd complete with swarming
flies. The vehicle in question was named #2. It was a large toilet.
Once inside his vehicle and poised to peddle, the turdhead could just be
seen above the seat. It was crass. It was clunky and boy, did
it take off in the water! After the launch, we began heading south to wind down
the weekend. There was one more day of race, but not for us. We needed to get
back to the East Bay in time to be at work Tuesday morning. Besides, hot
springs were beckoning. We stopped in Ferndale, where the race would end the
next day. On the Town Hall lawn we picnicked in the midst of
all-too-precious gingerbread architecture. We then visited the
Kinetic Sculpture Museum.
Free to the public, it is really Hobart Brown's studio with
various dead race vehicles, tattered memorabilia plus many years of
dust. But it's free, so who's complaining? We chose another scenic route to get to Harbin Hot
Springs. The Lost Coast is one hundred miles of gorgeous farmland, winding
mountain road and breathtaking ocean views. Mattole Road is the main
road through this under-visited area. From Ferndale it took us on a
twisting, beautiful ride through Honeydew and back to Humboldt Redwoods
State Park. A pit stop to use the bathroom and we were back on Highway 101.
Kurt was tired, but kept to the driving. I read aloud from our Red Dwarf book
that we swear we will finish one of these days. I saw for the first
time vultures dining. A doe was recently struck by a car. Night had fallen by the time we arrived at Harbin. We
set up the tent in the dark and found our way to the communal kitchen.
Memorial Day had really packed them in. It was after ten and the place
was still crowded with all sorts of people trying to make dinner.
An odd assortment of folks for the holiday. The standard New Ager sat beside
platinum-coiffed bejeweled women just off the Wine Train. Our big bottles of
soda made us suspect in the midst of soymilk and brown rice, but I made some
lovely garlicky gnocchi that filled our bellies. When I first came to California for Phil and
Rachael's wedding last July, Kurt had taken me to Harbin. Rachael's mom
backed out of that trip so Harbin is our unofficial first date. It was good
to be back. Although, crowded for the holiday, the warm pool was so tranquil
in the dark, cool air with the moon shining through the fig tree that hangs low
over all the bathers' heads. In the sunshine of the next day Kurt treated me
to a sublime watsu massage in the warm pool. We napped on the lawn and
visited with a buck and pair of jackrabbits in the
meadow. All in all, it was like all my visits to Harbin--peaceful and
rejuvenating. On our way home we stopped in Calistoga at Wappo Bar and Bistro
and thoroughly enjoyed some Cuban inspired fare. The weekend came to an end and it was back to work as
usual, but I now know a little more of California. Some of what's so
different about this place is now the norm to me. I no longer expect rain on
a weekly basis or assume my customers at the frame shop are about to explode.
Things are different here. I am different here. The odd phrase "back
East" forms on my tongue. I don't know if I'm from Massachusetts or New
York. I know that soon I'll be from California. June 18th, 2002 |
