So what’s your idea of perfection? I’ve got a thing about circles, which perhaps explains my aim to cycle the length of the equator, in my own imperfect, roundabout kind of a way. It’s an aim which I actually doubt I’ll achieve since the miles are going to be so much longer in continents where cycling conditions are more challenging. But either way, here I am, a moving ‘speck on a ball’, as Emily Dickinson once described our existence on earth. For me, circles combine infinite possibility with a sense of being held. Contained. My trip, like the circle, an abstract idea becoming concrete reality. A line (direction) taking shape. My eyes, circular ways of seeing the circular globe, from the perspective of my circular wheels. Am I pushing the metaphor…?! I once drove on a whim all the way from Newtonmore to Margate (a one way drive of 600 miles and ten hours if you get lucky with traffic) at the end of a hiking holiday in the Scottish Highlands to visit the reputed first ever art exhibition exploring circles – Seeing Round Corners – at the Turner Contemporary Gallery. Leonardo Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, Blake, Turner, Bridget Riley, Sonia Delauney, Gabriel Orozco, Anish Kapoor and his sculptural voids… I came away thinking that circles are like perfection, but then that perfection is itself imperfect, as is the circle. No matter where you are on a circle, the horizon appears the same. Just beyond your reach. Where, and how, can you escape their relentless continuity? Just round and round.

It’s in this sense of continuous (relentless) im/perfection, that the circle to my mind bears some similarity to cycle touring the Oregon coastline! Right enough, the scenery is spectacular, and I can see why it’s such a popular stretch of riding with American cycle tourists. There is enough climbing up and down headlands to make it feel challenging, but not on the scale of what is to come in California. The towns are pleasant and often characterful and well stocked for provisions, and since the state opts for higher income tax rates over sales tax (on the basis of equity), it’s cheaper to travel through. The state campgrounds are regularly spaced and frequent enough to cater for cyclists travelling all kinds of distances, and the quality of the hiker biker pitches is a level above. Not only are they cheap, but each site includes a cycle ‘hub’ providing lockers, charge-points, a bike stand, often a covered seating area or bench, and a pump and tools for the use of those staying. Kudos, as they’d say on Strava! En route I met numerous people who had ridden it several times, with one guy on his 17^th lap! Yet all the same, this is the first part of the trip where I’ve had to check back through my photos, social media posts, and cycling app records, to remember what happened when, and not only because I’ve become a bit behind with my writing! A bit like circles, each day started bleeding into the next one. Cycle, headland, sea, great campground, misty weather. Peering over the continuous, relentless horizon of a circle to the curved horizon above the sea. Perhaps realising that the Oregon coastline that was even more wonderful since it wasn’t perfect after all.

It was like the sun knew that I was happy to arrive in Oregon, for it came out as soon as I’d crossed the Astoria Megler bridge, its rays landing on my skin like my relief. Since so many people had talked so positively about Oregon, I felt sure that everything was going to be great, and the best way to test this theory of course was via the quality of its coffee and cookies. I was a bit too late to head into Astoria – which I’d read good things about (lots of poetry history etc, which can only be good) – to explore, having spent the morning walking Dungeness Spit and eating pizza. Nowhere near enough pizza. Instead, a small roadside drive-through coffee place had to suffice for an excellent iced coffee and (bloody hell, cookie fail) a muffin. The Hispanic barista was super friendly. ‘Remind me – what’s that pattern called? On your tattoo?’ he asked, pointing to the Fibonacci sequence inspired spiral design on my upper left arm. ‘Was it Da Vinci who discovered the sequence?’ he added. ‘Michaelangelo?’ His own sheepishness when he wandered back over – ‘it was Fibonacci’ – matched my own for not having actually known. I knew the sequence’s mathematical properties, how and where it’s discovered in nature, and one of my favourite poems (Alphabet by Inger Christensen) adapts the sequence to poetic form. But well…who’d have guessed?

I took a big bite of muffin. Sat on a useless bit of curb, which had presumably been placed there to make the drive-through a bit more like a drive-through rather to be sat on by a quasi pedestrian. Turned my round face towards the round sun. Said, ‘hello Oregon. Let’s be having this coast of yours!’

As if the coast, as cool as it is renowned, was going to play that easy. Initially it didn’t even answer. At first it was hiding behind a peninsula. Next it hid behind a military shooting range, probably hoping as much as I was that the soldiers’ aim was good, as the shots rang out. And after that it hid behind a strip of expensive looking houses which didn’t have a seaview either. Humpf. So much for arriving suddenly at this wondrous coastline and having this to my starboard shoulder all the way south to California as I’d imagined it. Perfection! Not even the suggestively named town of ‘Seaside’ offered up much by way of sea view from the road – just a quick peek down and around the river when the road crossed a bridge. Yet I didn’t have to wait long. One climb over a large headland later I descended to the most well-known tourist location on the Oregon coast of all: Cannon Beach, and its rock outcrops, ‘famous’ not least for having featured in the Goonies and many other TV shows and films! I avoided the temptation of joining those in the busy outdoor bars enjoying early evening drinks, and headed straight to the beach for a swim.

Who was I kidding?! Did you believe me for a minute?

Down at the beach the breeze was strong, and even though the sky remained blue, it was no longer sunny, nor warm. In fact the scene reminded me of home. Rather than being put off by the weather, people simply persevered. Clung valiantly to their beach tents. Stripped off only momentarily for the perfect Insta image. Donned yet another extra layer after a stoic paddle in the waves. Only two people were in the water beyond their ankles. And me? I looked up at the angle of the sun – there certainly wasn’t time for that! Crikey. On my way back to the main road I got chatting to a group of twenty somethings who were the first of many hikers I met who’d been forced down off the Pacific Crest trail to the Oregon Coastal path by forest fires. While cycling down the coast in Washington I’d wondered whether I’d have been better taking a more inland route through the mountains, since I feel so much more at home in such landscapes. But here was my answer. The surroundings of Crater lake down to the Trinity Mountains in California were ablaze. What kind of a climate changed world have we created?

The riding from Cannon Beach over to Nehalem spit was spectacular; the light began to fall and soften, and the landscape gained definition around its edges. I was surprised by how slowly a cycle tourist was travelling as I overtook him on the way down towards characterful Nehalem village with its spectacularly stocked shop and the sea, and bet we’d meet later at the campground. Right enough, after I’d missed what must have been a spectacular sunset by the look of the smiles on those returning from the beach (I got lost in the campsite – yes, I know) me and Daniel got chatting for a good while. He is a lovely guy, and still follows my Instagram posts. Cannabis is legal in many US states and the whole of Canada, and it hasn’t been unusual to catch strong blasts of weed from passing cars or gardens. Daniel explained that he’d spent the day cycling  back to Seaside to collect a bike part, and on the way back he forgot how much he’d already smoked, and had some more! No wonder he had been travelling slow. It was hard enough up and down the headlands anyway, let alone single or double stoned. There should be a special Strava kudos for that!

The next morning I headed down to the several miles long beach which lines the Pacific side of the spit for a wander, to make up for last night’s sunset fail, and to take a dip. Pelicans skimmed the tops of the waves as if surfing the air above them. Mist lingered on headlands in a way that I was to learn was normal hereabouts. I dipped my ankles in the water (shit it was cold) and decided I really didn’t have time for a swim today either. Shucks. Back at the hiker biker site, which had been full the night before, Daniel was the only other person who hadn’t yet set off. When I returned he was working on his bike on the campground bike stand.  ‘Did you find the charging points?’ he asked, showing me where they were hidden in the lockers. If only I could have plugged myself into them. The idea that day was to cycle to the point where the Pacific Coast cycle route left the main highway 101 route and headed inland along the old road, where I was sure that a stealth camping spot would be easier to find. But my body had other thoughts, as the impact of my hundred miler the day before last began to make itself felt. I had only ridden a few miles when I popped into a petrol station shop for my own kind of fuel – cookie – which on this occasion not having been home made, and even worse with protein added (like you what…) was fairly convincingly revolting. I held back the tears, valiantly.

‘Have a great day in this mediocre summer we are having!’ the shop assistant called after me as I set out into the misty damp day, pulling up my hood beneath my helmet. It’s a look. Thanks, I thought, reluctantly. Not only had I just had I wasted an eating opportunity on the world’s worst cookie, but the infamous Oregon weather was taking a downturn this year from what I understand is rarely a convincing upturn! I don’t know why I’d imagined that the west coast of the USA would have good weather. In my naivete I’d anticipated 25 degree sunshine all the way. As if…of all the days I cycled the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH), I took les photos that day than on any other, as if the effort of removing my phone from its clamp on my handlebars was an effort too far. The road curved inland before rejoining the beach at Nedonna and Rockaway, where the road ran parallel with a railway line through a strip of tourist joints and cafes. Almost certainly out of use these days, I thought, hopping onto the tracks for a pee, only ten minutes before a tourist steam train hooted its way in my direction, only just missing the glorious sight of two round buttocks which have never looked whiter against my tanned legs.

If I’d known that I was going to stop off far earlier than planned that day (and also bring forward my rest day) then I’d have stocked up with supplies in the relatively large agricultural town of Tillamook, but at that point in time I remained resolute. So I was surprised by how relieved I was that the road up Cape Meares peninsula had been closed by a landslide. Was I really that tired? It was meant to be a stunning stretch. The spraypainted-white woman’s bicycle installation by the side of the road took further wind from my sails – was this in memory of the young woman who my warmshowers hosts in Aberdeen had told me had been killed by a passing truck only weeks after her stay? I shuddered. Ccontinued. Huffed and puffed. Decided at the summit of the shoulder (if shoulders can have summits) that I’d really had enough and that a far better plan was to stop off after only 40 miles, stock up on supplies at Netarts grocery, and stay at Cape Lookout State Park campground both tonight and tomorrow. I’ve found the cost of groceries in the US extortionate, but the prices in the Netarts store were something else. £4 for an avocado? As a Scot, living in Yorkshire, I should have stinginess nailed. Like – you could grow an orchard for that! A fellow customer stopped me on my way out to deliver a lecture me about how dangerously cyclists rode, and how I must take care. I held my tongue about the quality of car driving hereabouts, and didn’t tell her either that I always wore my seatbelt (it has been a recurrent thought of mine as I set off cycling that I ought to strap in, and so it’s true at least to my imagination.)

The road south to the campground ran alongside a marshy inlet popular with egrets, herons, pelicans. A pod of seals which looked like it had just been massacred by the pelicans. But no, I’m certain of it. One just moved, which was enough of a boost to enable me to continue the last few miles. At least I didn’t feel as fucked as they looked! I have heard other cycle tourists complain about Cape Lookout state park because the showers and toilets are so far from the hiker biker sites. That’s true. But I loved it. Each hiker biker has their own small area between the trees and beach scrub and a picnic table, and the pitches are so close to the beach that you fall asleep to the sound of the waves. No excuse for missing the sunset this time…a couple from Portland and their dog provided a wonderful foreground to my photos, which I shared with them.

‘They are beautiful,’ they said. ‘Could you email them to us? This is our last trip with the dog – we’re going to have to put her down when we get home.’

‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ I said.

Not really. But what else do you say when someone tells you they are going to put down their darling pet?

My rest days tend to have a certain rhythm and pattern, with laundry always top of my to do list. Bugger, was the first thought that morning. Never the best start to any day. In my horror at the price of the avocado, and having been so preoccupied with my seatbelt, I’d forgotten to buy either laundry powder or shower gel in the grocery, let alone had I remembered to take out the loan which such extravagant purchases would have required. And no way was I cycling ten miles today, even though it was super flat and fast. I was done in…At the pitch next to mine a Quebecois couple were valiantly cycle touring with a six year old boy in a trailer (‘doesn’t he get bored?’ ‘Not yet, we only go a short way each day’), and they kindly gave me two sheets of laundry paper which proved useless in the context of the shower laundry method as opposed to the washing machine approach I’ve heard they used in a distant past life. The washing up liquid I cadged off an Argentinian cyclist was fail safe. ‘But, laundry?’ the guy had replied when I asked him if he had any detergent, as if washing clothes was a novelty he hadn’t quite considered.

Turned out that washing my clothes was less of a problem than drying them hereabouts. Despite it being a gorgeous sunny day at the beach, only just inland the mist hung about the tree tops, and I spent most of the morning lugging my washing line ten miles around the gaps between the tall trees where the sunshine was able to peek through. Later, down at the beach, I took a long walk along the sand towards the Cape Meares rock outcrops – there on the horizon anyway, where I hadn’t needed to cycle to them – and stared the thousand yard stare of the weary at the sea. The beach was long, so even though it was fairly busy with people doing their ‘thing’, there was plenty of space for all. I watched my Argentinian friend toy for a good hour with the swim he had assured me he was going to take, standing calf deep in the water looking freezing cold even before taking the plunge. And if he could do it? My own approach was certainly more direct. Wade in, dive beneath a wave before my brain could think otherwise. A second wave. Three. Hair wet. Done. I’m a hero.  Now where are the showers? Not only a long way away, but busy it turned out since it was now post beach rush hour, and in the only empty one there was a human poo on the bench.

‘You might prefer this one,’ an American grandfather said to me delicately as he left another cubicle holding a young boy’s hand.

‘Is that the shower with the poo poo in it?’ the boy asked his grandfather repeatedly until the old man hurriedly agreed.

That evening the beach dealt another knockout sunset with a shrug of its misty shoulders, as if this was the kind of thing it did every day.

‘Are you writing a novel?’ an elderly cycle tourist asked me, pointing to my laptop on which I was furiously typing up the start of my Washington blog post. The best office view and screensaver in Asus Zenbook history? ‘And you carry the laptop in your bags?’ I held it out to the guy who agreed it was super light. No heavier than a tablet really. It is the one extravagance in terms of weight that I have allowed myself, which seems fair enough, being a writer and all.

The following morning, mist weaved its way through the campground, and from the top of the first headland it created an eerie, haunting vista. It was as if the seascape were on cold wet fire. Yet I knew that this was going to be by far the best bit of the day. Thunder and lightning were forecast to arrive at 10.30am, which it did, and to stop at 12.30. Likewise. I can only assume that the storm was using the same weather app as me, and obediently following it, as was I. First the rain. Heavy. Vertical. Then the forks and flashes of lightning, and thunder rumbling ever closer. Rain bounced off the road. I decided I would seek shelter if the gap between lightning flashes and thunder became less than 5 seconds. Obedient as ever, the storm remained just within these parameters. But not before it had had the chance to soak me through. You just get so cold. Rain dripped off body parts which I didn’t even know were appendages. My eyebrows. My nose and chin perhaps inevitably. My bottom lip, like for goodness sake, my bottom lip…a change of clothes in an upmarket café. Flat white, chewy cookie. Now that’s the way to make a drookit cyclist smile; what I didn’t then know was that it was the best that my culinary experiences were to be that whole day. Note to self: supermarket chicken and chips are not recommended, no matter how many times you hope it will be better than the last time.

Shortly afterwards, I left the 101 state highway to take a loop inland on the old road, where I thought previously I’d stealth camp. As if. The USA trespass police had been out in force, and the backroad was lined with the kind of ‘no trespassing’ signs that most annoy me. What harm would be caused by someone entering that overgrown field, pitching a tent beneath a tree by the river, and moving on? The road climbed up between old trees, but I was so glad to get away from the intensity of passing traffic that I really didn’t mind the lack of view. In fact, on those moments where the view opened up that day, it was just grey and damp anyway. I made a quick detour to Yaquina Head lighthouse on the recently learnt basis that lighthouses create light (see Washington chapter); most spectacularly, the rock outcrops had been turned into guillemot ghettoes, but in the circumstance that the lighthouse couldn’t offer up sunshine, instead I had to stop off at a brewery in the next town of Newport which had a huge outdoors gas fire to warm my hands by. The campground was across one of the many fabulous bridges which span the Oregon coastline rivers, which I learnt from a fellow cycle touring guest the next morning had been designed by Conde B McCullough, Oregon state bridge engineer in the early 20th century (the right person to give the job by the sounds of it). I peeked briefly at South Beach – yes, another beautiful beach. Very well. And continued on to the site. It had turned out to be a long day; despite, or perhaps because of the weather, I hadn’t stopped much, and somehow I’d put more than 75 miles on the clock again.

Different hiker biker sites have different vibes. This one guy, the one on his 17^th cycle trip along the Oregon coast having taken early retirement as a pilot with South West Airlines, made the South Beach site how it was that night, despite the soggy conditions. There were only a few of us staying, but he extended a friendly and interested welcome to all of us, and before I left the following morning we shared a good moan about Donald Trump. He told me how those Trump followers he knew wouldn’t believe the rest of the world’s incredulity at Trump. ‘What, they don’t think much of him?’

Dangerous buffoon might sum it up. If being polite. Unless you’re Putin. I’m not Putin.

‘Are you hopeful that Kamala Harris might do it?’ I asked, and he nodded.

‘With Biden we had no hope. But I’ve got a good feeling.’

Good feelings, I thought to myself, were what made the Oregon coastline go round the way it did.

The next day it was once again raining. Heavy drizzle. The kind that gets everywhere no matter what you do. And I was feeling as grumpy as I had all trip. I could even feel the contours of the grump on my face. Chiselled in. My initial euphoria at buying a new camping mat in Victoria had quickly turned to despair as even my new mat had begun to leak, and I had woken up on yet another occasion on the ground, so hadn’t slept well.  The road was super busy, and cars, trucks and lorries sped past fast and close. How could so many American people consider this cycling perfection when accompanied by the constant buzzing drone of traffic? There was a headwind. I couldn’t wear my glasses so the world was blurred. And I received a message from my sister about a speeding fine from back home which I’d paid, but about which there were problems with some technicality (long story)…Did someone say that this was meant to be fun?! You couldn’t pay me! By the time I crossed my first (super impressive) bridge of the day the rain had at least eased, and a woman pedestrian offered to take my photo. My first non-selfie pics since Canada, grimacing, eyes closed into the sun. It would have been so much better a photo if it had been raining, I thought, grumpily.

At least the coffee and cookie in Yachats was quality, if a bit small in my expert opinion, and I took advantage of the café wifi to conjure up a plan to resolve the speeding ticket issue via video chat with my sister in London. I can’t get more points while cycling out here, I thought, seeking out a positive spin on the situation, even if I’ve probably broken a speed limit or two on my bike. The section of coastline south of Yachats along Cape Perpetua is one of the most scenic in the whole of Oregon. The road clings to the coast as it winds in and out of rocky headlands and coves. But even though the sun had come out, and I was loving the scenery, I was also struggling. Having recently had a rest day or not, I was still feeling exhausted, and the headwind was super stiff. As of late, I had been doing increasingly large mileages, with an average of in the region of 70 miles per day, and it was like the road had finally caught up with me and said: ‘ha! Too much! Tired, ain’tcha?’

The rugged trees bent sideways. The road was busy. I took many photos, as I realised that the effort of removing my phone from its handlebar bracket was more than offset by the rest time involving in taking the pic. Yet more people than ever all trip asked to take my photo and took the chance to tell me that I was wonderful; as sceptical as I felt about this, at least it encouraged me not to be entirely crap! I nipped down to the beach at Heceta Head lighthouse on the recommendation of Mr 17 times already, and walked halfway to the lighthouse itself before turning on my heel. I could see the lighthouse. I knew how lighthouses worked, right? And it was already sunny now, so what need did I have of it? Back at the beach people clung to their beach blankets as they persevered with a sunny but mighty windy lunch. I didn’t swim. Shortly further on along the road the rain set in again with a vengeance and I met a group of three hikers who, like so many others, had been forced off the Pacific Coast Trail down the coast path. I got chatting to one of them who had fallen a bit behind. As miserable as the rain was on my bike, their own journey looked so many times worse, and I felt almost happy as I cycled off away from them! The coastal path frequently goes along roads, including at times along Highway 101, which was busy / fast enough cycling, let alone walking. He explained they often took the bus for those bits. Who could blame them?

On the approach to Florence I stopped at a shop for emergency rations. Sour sweets. Diet coke. The radio was playing eighties pop loudly. Diet and soundtrack of champions. I sat outside taking selfies as if to prove how broken I was, as justification to stop off early yet again, after only about 52 miles. The ‘designers’ of the original Florence must be turning in their grave at its US namesake, through the middle of which a busy road ran. The duomo of Walmart. Ponte not especially interestingio. The shopping mall galleries nothing like Uffizi. Perhaps I’m being harsh. By that point in time all that I wanted was to have already have arrived at Jesse M Honeyman State Park campground. Another long bridge, across which a car considerately protected me by driving slow behind me and preventing any idiots from overtaking where there wasn’t space.  I gave them a mighty wave of thanks – it wasn’t the first time this had happened, and it was very much appreciated. But there was no accounting for the jeep who obviously hadn’t liked being held up 25 seconds who actually swerved into a layby which I’d pulled into to pass close.

Jesse M Honeyman state campground marks the start of the Oregon dunes, but I was too weary to explore on this occasion. I can’t see everything, right? Turned out I was the only one at the hiker biker site, although I met two mid 60 something British cyclists at the cycling ‘hub’, charging their phones (having chosen to pay more for the ‘luxury’ of a whole site to themselves). Their own shrugging off the headwind made me feel ever so slightly pathetic, even if they hadn’t come so far. Time to woman up Burnett? And the next day I did, as my energy suddenly and inexplicably returned to me.

Perhaps it had as much to do with the sunshine as anything. It makes such a huge difference to how I feel. The road headed inland from the sea, so once again I didn’t see much of the dunes, but from what I’d read anyway, they were especially popular with ATVs which was a scene (and soundscape) which didn’t feel magnetic! The scenery was mixed, variable, and I got my head down (into the headwind again) and just put miles on the clock. Watched a cormorant spread their wings to dry. Thought about the circles I was making with my pedals. My feet in themselves, going nowhere. That night I stopped at a campground just before Bandon; whereas the last few sites had been quiet, this one was once again busy. A Canadian guy was doing the rounds, chatting to all of the other guests. A Danish woman who had come down from the Oregon Crest Trail who was annoyed how everyone thought she was German – because, well, she sounded really German. An Italian guy who was travelling heavy, laid down with jars of top quality pesto. A Belgian couple, who were slightly too far away to learn much about on the hiker biker grapevine. After a few minutes of chatting to Mr Canada I became aware that even though I hadn’t asked a single question of him, I hadn’t needed to, since every question he asked of me was an invitation for him to tell me about himself. Time for bed.

Can’t say I slept brilliantly, since a flat camp mat had by then become routine as I waited for Thermarest to reply to my warranty queries and complaints. But the next day I really got the bit between my teeth, despite a relaxed start. The sun was strong and the sky more blue than blue itself, and just beyond Bandon a string of rock outcrops, the like of which Oregon specialises in, peppered the coast. People rode horses along the sand. It was becoming hot – the heat of my imagined Oregon. I whatsapped video called my good friend Susie, and shared the ridiculous views with her and her 11 year old son Rufus. ‘Are you riding and talking at the same time?’ they asked me. Ahem. ‘Yes, don’t try this at home,’ I replied. Nobody needs more points on their driving licence.

That day was the epitome of bad planning. The route started off rolling and easily manageable before a beast of a climb right at the end of my plans for the day. Yet both the scenery and landscape were rugged and spectacular, it was a perfect 24 degrees celsuis, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I had a tailwind. Oregon is cool, I thought, as for the first time of my entire cycle through the state, it lived right up to everything I’d expected. I pulled into my final campground of the state, and sipped on my beer, reflecting back on what had been a perfectly imperfect journey through Oregon. It wasn’t its fault that the sea and coast (at least to my mind) are in general so much less varied than mountainscapes. I was the only hiker biker that night in the campground, and the isolation on this occasion was appreciated for the larger thinking and reflecting space it provided. I began to wonder, as wonderful as they were, whether the state campgrounds had actually begun to detract from my trip. They were safe. Wonderful. Predictable. The opposite of the kind of adventure I seem to seek out.

And as for what was coming next? California. Now only ten miles further down the road.

That next morning I woke up feeling good, and returned again to the idea that the Oregon coast was perfect. Well I might have, had it not been for the small matter of having to spend a good part of that morning liaising (and arguing with) Thermarest who wanted to see better evidence of the manufacturing fault which had so obviously caused the holes in my camping mat. But to say that Oregon had been perfect would be circular, and we can’t be having that, can we? Instead, let’s call the state’s coastline a lumpy circle; just like a cookie. Others might say the route is linear, and, well then, they’d be wrong, wouldn’t they, just like anyone who believes in perfection. Just ask Leo Da Vinci. His Vitruvian Man knows.