Posted by on Jul 3, 2020 in Uncategorized | 6 comments

Before we even got to the coast, I was thinking about getting a bicycle so that I could ride around the area right from our spot. Marika and I used to be avid cyclers, sometimes riding fifty miles in a weekend. But my twenty year old bike had seen its best days, so I left it with the rangers at Fort Pulaksi two years ago.

 

The only bicycle store in town sells mostly high end bikes, and, because of the virus, Walmart had limited stock. I looked on Craigslist with no luck, but kept envisioning an inexpensive fun bike to ride. And then I found a community bike shop in town listed on Facebook, where folks could share tools and work on their bikes. They also sold refurbished bikes, and they had a yellow Spalding mountain bike that fit my five foot, three inch frame.

It’s not a fancy bike, but it’s got fifteen indexed gears, a kickstand, and water bottle cage, and it fit me like a glove. I paid seventy dollars, put it in the back of the car, came home, and took it for a ride.

 

I rode out of the RV park, crossed Cape Arago Highway at the crosswalk, and rode the half-mile to the marina. I pedaled past the boat charter companies, and the fish processing plant, then out to the jetty at the end of the road, before heading home. It was glorious. Just like riding a bike. 

 

The next morning, the back tire was flat, and I noticed that both tires were cracked. I felt some shame for not having looked at them before I bought the bike. I also understood it was a refurbished bike, but shouldn’t it have safe tires? I checked the price of two new tires, and realized I could get a new bike with new everything from Fred Meyer for about the same price.

 

So I drove into town and bought a purple bike at Fred Meyer, with the intention to returning the yellow bike to the community shop the next day. I got home, took it for a ride, and my whole body hurt. The next morning I measured the distances between the seat and the handlebars and the pedals on the perfectly fitting yellow bike, so that I could make the adjustments to the purple bike. But the numbers were the same. There were no adjustments to make.

 

I returned the purple bike and took the yellow bike back to the shop for two newer but not new tires. The guy also tuned up the gears and the brakes. I gave him an extra five dollars and I was happy.

 

In the past, my riding was all about building stamina, adding distance, getting in shape. This time it is all about freedom and exploring, and getting out of the RV. I have an app that tracks my miles, and another that even adds photos to the route.

 

I ride every morning, across the crosswalk, down Boat Basin Road, past Crabby Cakes Bakery and Beauty By the Sea. Sometimes I turn down Metcalf Drive, past the fish company office, the stacks of crab rings, an AirB&B and the Dockside Cafe. Sometimes I stay on Boat Basin and turn right at Captain John’s Motel, following the Scenic Tour Route signs to the marina.

Both routes take me past the Charleston Marina RV Park where we stayed for a whole month, three years ago, and the small tidal basin where we used to take the dogs for walks. The road continues past the Coast Guard housing and dock, to the commercial fishing boat marina where you can buy live crab, rockfish, and tuna right off the boats.

 

I ride past the bright orange Basin Tackle shop, the public boat ramp, and the public fishing station that is wrapped closed with yellow caution tape due to the virus. I pass the Lost At Sea Memorial Park, then follow along the edge of grass and Monterey pines, stopping at the corner picnic table where Cody and I sometimes sit and watch the boats in the marina.

One morning, there were big puddles in the parking lot from the previous night’s rain. I remembered how I used to love riding my bike in puddles, feet up and off the pedals, flying through, the water making one of my very favorite sounds.

 

But I told myself, no, you don’t have a fender, so your pants will get all wet. And I rode past. And then I thought, So what! And I turned around and headed toward the water. I hesitated slightly, and stayed on the outer edge as I pedaled. I barely got a woosh.

 

I circled back and tried again, this time, aiming for the very center of the puddle, the deepest part. The swoosh was full and long and delightful. But I forgot to pick my feet up, so my boots got splashed. But they’re waterproof, so who cares.

 

I turned around to ride through again. And then again. After five or six times, each one faster than the last, I was full up and happy. Yes my boots were wet and my pants had a line of muddy water up the butt, but I didn’t care. I rode through every puddle on my way home.

 

The morning that it was drizzly, I put on my rain jacket and rain pants and headed out, not even minding the water spots on my glasses. One afternoon, I was feeling lazy, but I heard my body say “Please!” And so I got on my bike for a second time and headed to the marina. And, of course, it felt so good.

 

Sometimes I’d go for a ride so I could cry about Cody. Without his regular acupuncture treatments, he was having trouble getting himself up and walking with stability, and he was mostly incontinent. Marika spread pee pads in his bed at night, and washed the area rugs every few days. By the fifth week without treatment, he was dragging his back legs in the morning, and she was talking about putting him down.

 

Instead, since we still couldn’t go in with him for acupuncture, I called a different vet in town who offered cold laser therapy, and they said we could go in with Cody for the treatments. He’d had good success with laser in the past, and it was better than no treatment. We signed up for six sessions, Monday, Wednesday and Friday, for two weeks.

 

I saw small improvements with each treatment. He was walking further, enjoying sitting in front of the screen door to watch the squirrels, and he was still coming over to me at my desk for neck massages. But Marika said he was suffering and, after the third treatment, she said enough, she wasn’t going to do it anymore. So I took him for his fourth treatment on Monday by myself.

 

A dear friend reminded me that we see what we’re used to seeing. Marika, with her twelve years of hospice nursing, saw how much Cody struggled, and how uncomfortable he was. I, the forever optimist, saw small improvements, and how much he enjoyed his walks in the grass at the marina, and smelling everything. And, even when he was panting, I saw him smiling.

But after that fourth treatment I could see that even small improvements weren’t going to make enough of a difference. He had a degenerative disk disease, and it was only going to get harder for him. And it was obvious that he was in pain. He flinched when I touched his back, so he no longer enjoyed being brushed, or even petted by people, one of his very favorite things.

 

I told Marika I agreed with her, and she made the calls. The vet came last Tuesday to put him down.

 

After he died, it was so wonderful to hug on him like I haven’t been able to for months, wrapping my arms around his very soft coat, rubbing him up and down, feeling all the feels. I stayed in the bedroom while Marika helped the transport man put Cody’s body in the van. Marika picked up his ashes yesterday.

 

We had an amazing five years together, spending almost all day, every day together. We traveled across the country twice, in two different motorhomes. He visited thirty states, and ran in both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. He lived at the beach, in the mountains, in the forest, and along rivers and lakes. His favorite things were running after a ball, meeting strangers to get pets, joining Marika in the kitchen for late night snacks, neck and chin rubs, (he’d touch you with his front paw if you stopped too soon), and sitting in front of the screen door, watching the world go by.

He was alert and engaged, with a healthy heart, and normal bloodwork. Even on his last day, after our walk at the marina, we gave him four valium, and he was still alert enough to sit up and bark when the vet arrived. It took two injections of the vet’s sedative to knock him out for the final injection, which he also needed a second dose of, for his heart to finally stop. His front half wanted to go and do and explore, but his back half just couldn’t keep up. He died eight days shy of his thirteenth birthday. Now, he is free, and he is running, running, running.

And every morning, I am riding. It gives me a new routine, it gets me outside, and it helps move the grief through my body.

 

Sometimes I ride directly to the marina. Sometimes I take the back roads, so I can check on the progress of the ice house being built at the end of the commercial pier. Sometimes I stop to watch people crabbing off the docks, putting their boats in the water, or fishing off the pier. 

 

Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time riding around the boat trailer parking lot, curving and coasting up and down the lanes. I feel like I am nine, biking around the blacktop at Fern Place School with Fran and Karen, pretending we are teenagers, driving cars.

 

Sometimes I ride wide circles around the lines of the parking spaces. Sometimes I ride across the lines, cutting angles with my front tire. Sometimes I ride parallel to the line, trying to keep my wheel as straight as possible. And sometimes I ride along the squiggly patched sections in the asphalt, imagining I am riding on a giant topographic map, following the lines of a river.

 

Sometimes I ride to collect my thoughts, sometimes to let go of them. Sometimes I think of Cody, lying in the grass in front of the corner picnic table, smelling the air. Sometimes it makes me teary, and other times I smile.

 

Sometimes Marika will drive to the jetty and I will meet her there so we can walk together. One day we walked to the end of the jetty, further than I go on my bike because the road turns rugged and too bumpy for comfort.

We found a trail down to a small, private beach that opens onto the bay. It smelled salty and fishy and healing. The sand was soft and the waves barely rolled. We sat on the rocks and watched the water. Cody would have loved it.