Day 2, May 27 (Evening Entry)
Camped at Steelbend Park - on the banks of the Skagit River, Rockport, Washington.
A lot of the roads between here and Concrete, our noon stop, go up. It’s a habit thing. So if you are riding and want to go there, you go up. No choice. No matter who you are or how important. We, of course, are not important. We are anonymous and just passing through which makes us a little like a light breeze, so light the houses and lives here are not shaken by our passage. We are a channel unwatched, the tree that fell unheard; however, the uphill does not go unnoticed by all body parts that have nerve endings. They have had their loud say and even now are calling for the Ibuprofen.
The ride from Concrete was not invisible, though, to at least one driver. Let me know if you see her. Female, fortyish, pulled back brown hair, medium build, smoker, drives with one hand on the wheel, one on the horn, entitled in her mind to all the highway, resentful of bicycling, not afraid to kill - perhaps even drawn to it. Driving a green Jeep Waggoner that needs washing, had a dent in the front right fender, probably from earlier bicycle kill. She let me know I was seen and unappreciated. Came by close, horn blaring, boiling with indignation underlain by venomous rightousness. She missed, of course, or I wouldn’t be writing this, but it certainly served as punctuation in a battle uphill otherwise done anonymously and no bad thing that was, given the contrast she offered.