Typically it just takes a quick glance at the forecast to satisfy my scant informational needs, having embraced minimalism in my planning strategies many years ago, but change lingered in the air, at least today.
Very seldom do I plan much ahead, with most of my routes determined after I’m rolling down the street either on my bike or in the truck. On this occasion, I decided three days earlier that Friday would be a special day.
I would get up and hit the road early, and alone. Friday would be mine. I would ride the Banks-Vernonia State Trail.
I stumbled upon this 21-mile paved rail trail a few months back, and tackled it on an out-and-back adventure like I haven’t enjoyed for a few years.
In the intervening time, I’ve driven my wife out twice to ride on it. Each time I’ve spent her riding time with my Golden Lab hiking the trails with of L.L. Stub Stewart State Park that lies just about at the halfway point of the trail.
I’ve been itching to get back on my own. Today would be the day.
I shelved the quick glance at the weather in a heartbeat. This would be different. Toying around with a little planning instead of just letting the magic unfold on its own, let’s get the details.
Suddenly it struck me how much planning has evolved since I divorced myself from most of it right around the time you’d have to print out pages from Mapquest that, at least in my case, seldom kept me from getting lost.
Looking at the highly specific forecast, I could see that drizzle would arrive in Vernonia around 3 p.m.
Hmm. I want to ride for four hours, so that means I better be on the trail by 10 or so. It’s about a 90-minute drive, so that means I better leave by …
I caught myself blankly staring at my iPhone as a smothering feeling squeezed the air — or more accurately, the spontaneity — from my lungs.
Way back those many years ago, my Dad, the ultimate trip planner, had what they called a heart episode. He lost his short-term memory.
One morning we sat and had a long discussion, something that was few and far between with my Dad, and he explained the beauty of living in the present. The past?
It really doesn’t matter, he told me, what I had for breakfast, what I read in the paper, what I saw on my walk. All that matters is now, the present.
I’ve learned over the years as I’ve focused on the present that the future doesn’t really matter much either. I have as much control over the future as I do the past.
Drizzle at 3 p.m.? We’ll see about that.
I finished packing up and hit the road. Typically I would have a fresh cup of home brewed coffee in my hand rolling out of the driveway, but even that, in these crucial moments after my epiphany felt like just a bit too much planning ahead.
Onward.
A sense of relief washed over me as I drove through the backroads of the Willamette Valley, the rolling farmlands stretching to the Coastal Range, where misty clouds hung over the peaks.
Traffic was light, which is pretty much always the case on these two-lane highways like Highway 47. The twists, turns and sporadic small towns keep my speed relaxed.
My mind wanders to the first spontaneous action of the day: Where to land some java?
The lines at Dutch Bros and Starbucks in McMinnville wouldn’t quench my thirst for adventure today. Instead, just before a coffee shop I’ve seen before appears in Carlton, I catch a glimpse of the town’s bakery.
Growing up in Milwaukee, good old German bakeries were everywhere. Each Saturday morning my Dad would take us. They would have every baked good you could imagine. We would literally leave with two or three paper grocery bags filled to the brim.
Real bakeries like that, even back in Wisconsin, are few and far between these days. The Carlton Bakery? Heaven.
As I stared at the incredible variety of pastries with the woman behind the counter smiling with an inviting “I’ve seen that look before” grin. I asked for a decaf latte, but she said they don’t have decaf espresso grounds.
My heart sunk a bit, my first defeat on the road.
Just then a baker emerged from the backroom with a basket of fresh Artesian baguettes. Immediately I decided on one of those and then, well, then I ordered a full-strength latte, and, away we go!
The Marionberry tart looked other worldly, as did most of the pastries that showed off their distinctive talents. I ordered two pastries, of course the Marionberry as well as a Pecan Sticky.
I jumped in the truck to continue my drive, wrestling the crust end off the warm baguette as I rolled out of town. It needed nothing to enhance its wonder.
A few miles down the road, slowly moving through Yamhill, I popped open the box for the Marionberry tart. I took one bite and ascended to another dimension.
In an exceedingly rare move for me, a gobbler, I set it back in the box to savor its glory. I took a sip of my latte, that, too, seemingly been brewed by the Gods.
I’m not sure how far I drove down the road, floating on a culinary and adventurous high. Eventually I tasted the Pecan Sticky that also exceeded anything I’ve eaten in years and years.
My stage had been set for the day, albeit with insanely lofty standards. No way this dream will continue on this level. It’s wake up time right?
Ah, time will tell.
Time to ride
