Cape Sebastian Man
Over the summer I saw something that has stayed with me and I keep assaying that sight over and over. It was: an elderly man was bicycling up Cape Sebastian on the Southern Oregon Coast on a kid's bike loaded up with so much gear that he sometimes coasted backward. It was early in the morning. I was the only one on the road.
He wore loose, dirty clothes and tennis shoes. He had matted hair, a shaggy beard, and a creased face tan to the point of darkness.
Fog enshrouded his upward ride, but once he reached the top, he'd stare into sunshine and gain a view out of the coffee table books. I could see the sun at the top as I came up alongside him and slowed down.
How did he get there? What was his journey to the moment I saw him? He once rode a kid's bike for fun, now he rode one for survival. There weren't men in my youth riding kid bikes like this; now I see it all the time, on Highway 101, on Powell Boulevard. In Sellwood, in Elkton. Why?
I slowed down to watch him pedal. Some optimistic soul music from the 70s played on CD. Ohhhh child, things are going to get much brighter...
Are they 50 years later?
I know there were drifters back in the day. They were a staple of film and literature. They were portrayed as semi romantic, occasionally dangerous, edgy, somewhat rebellious, definitely unconventional.
Does anyone drift anymore?
The image of the elderly man riding the bicycle miles from any services with all his possessions strapped to a kid's bicycle doesn't feel like drifting to me as I understand the term. I also think drifters would stop every once and a while and work, like pick pears or beans. Maybe work on a ranch or sling hash.
I think about the last moment I saw him, in my rear view mirror, pedaling, pedaling, and almost at a standstill pace. I thought:
I wonder what will happen when the man makes it to the top of Cape Sebastian. The descent to the ocean is a good two miles and he could hit 40 miles an hour if the bike doesn't tear apart. What will he think when he rounds that turn out of the trees and sees the ocean and the sun blasts his face? Will he smile? Will he think the view beautiful? Will he nod? Will he reflect? Do men like this have this luxury? He's got miles to go before he sleeps, and has no place to sleep except off the shoulder in a hidey hole of brush. But when he does sleep, he might hear that old sound of the ocean, the rolling sound that has rolled long before human beings and will roll long after we are gone.