Headin’ for the ‘Ham

Wouldn’t you know, I try to finish work early and end up getting out of there an hour later than usual. Pffft.

Orin O’Neill photos

At least the weather is good. Better than good, fair-weather rider weather. Lots and lots of scooters buzz around on Seattle’s streets as the afternoon commute winds down for city residents. I offered to lead an afternoon ride to the Hamster Run, but there were no takers.

Just as well. I want to make good time going up, and you set your own pace riding solo. You can stop when you want and take pictures, too.

The PX feels eager. Yes, I keep saying it’s just a machine, but maybe there is something to the idea of it having a soul. Tires freshly inflated to recommended pressures, a fresh spark plug, and a fill of fresh 2-stroke oil have given it a new vigor. The temperature and humidity are ideal. The PX is ready to run.

Decision time. I’ve crossed the Fremont Bridge and climbed the hill to 46th. Do I continue on Fremont and jog over to Phinney, or go right to Greenlake Way?

An opening appears in the right-turn lane. It’s a sign. Greenlake Way it is. There’s not much traffic at all, and the 5-way stop near Gregg’s Cycle is an unusual breeze.

Aurora Avenue seems strangely deserted. It’s not a holiday weekend, so there must be some other explanation. But I’m not going to question this, I’m going to be thankful I can go.

Yes Aurora, aka SR 99, is boring. But it’s direct. It was once the West Coast’s main drag, and in concept it’s not much different from its pre-Interstate form. Big-box retail is the only thing a mid-20th century traveller wouldn’t recognize.

The Snohomish County line appears. That was quick. Not much more time passes before reaching Everett’s city limits, the right turn onto Everett Mall Way made shortly thereafter.

I think about taking a small detour on Beverly Boulevard, but opt for Broadway. Going north, it starts out as a 2-lane residential street, then becomes an Aurora-like main drag at the AquaSox ballpark. Before you reach the ballpark, you pass very close to I-5. Northbound, it’s a parking lot. This route would be good in the Escape.

North on Broadway. More of the same retailers, strip malls and fast-food joints. Oy.

The street numbers get really small when the sign appears: right lane, I-5 exit only, left lane, Marysville. Left lane. Speed limit, 55 mph.

This is the part I hate, even though there are two lanes. The wind has kicked up, making the PX even more squirrelly as the large vehicles blow by on the left. Yes, it will go almost 60 mph, but it’s no fun doing that.

I’ll take self-preservation over fun at this point. The PX does an effortless 47 mph, so I won’t get trampled by what there is of the herd.

Downtown Marysville

As I approach 4th Street in Marysville, I realize this main drag has gotten more threadbare the further north I’ve gone. As if to emphasize the point, a beater Chevy Cavalier pulls alongside. The occupants look like Central Casting’s response to a request for trailer-park residents, right down to each one missing half their teeth.

Go left, you head toward the Tulalip reservation. The strip-mall sprawl gives way to tribal housing. “Needful Native Things,” says a sign. I’m not sure I want to know just what those needful native things are.

Suburbia gives way to forest

It is fitting that you round a corner as the landscape changes to lush forest. The PX loves the heightened oxygen level, and so do I. The road sweeps over hills and through valleys. The once-blazing sun is by this time partly obscured by clouds rolling in from the west. No chance of rain, but I wish the light were better.

The term “arterial” seems out of place in the woods

Soon there are signs pointing to Warm Beach. I’ll have to look into how the place got that name. It sounds inviting. It must be, judging from housing tracts ranging from the Warm Beach Senior Community, a trailer park, to walled subdivisions with giant houses nestled among the trees. Lots of those giant houses have “for sale” signs planted in their yards, most of which sport red bursts with the words “new price.” New, lower price. Maybe much lower.

Over the crest of a hill, the McMansions disappear and the smell of manure becomes intense. We’re into farm country now, a flat expanse of soft green stretching to the horizon. Not sure what the crop is, but it makes a great photograph.

Downtown Stanwood is not far from this idyll. You cross the railroad tracks and go up the hill to make the left onto Pioneer Highway. Going north, there are more scenes of rural Americana, of old barns made of faded wood, crops in fields, livestock grazing on vast expanses of green.

Somewhere north of Stanwood

I am shaken from my reverie when I notice the white Mercury Villager hanging a foot off my license plate. No, I was doing the 40 mph speed limit. Heading for the fog line is a good way to invite an overtaking vehicle to pass, the Villager driver taking the invite and speeding into the distance.

To my right, the fast-moving forms get bigger and bigger, the whooshing noise louder and louder. That’s Interstate 5, meaning Conway is getting close.

I pull into the 76 station. I don’t want to risk running out of gas on Chuckanut Drive, so even though the gas gauge shows more than half a tank, I fill it up. And fill myself up with water.

It’s gotten cold enough to make closing the vents in my jacket necessary. The sun is getting low in the sky, though it has a ways to go before reaching the horizon. Back on the road, I’m headed in the general direction of La Conner. There are more farm houses, more fields full of crops.

There are also more signs. “Fresh Berries,” or something similar, say most. Fresh Cod? Fresh Crab? Where are the fishing boats? I pass a large field full of spinach. I know it’s spinach because there are signs about every 100 yards that say so.

My favorite was the one that said, “Immodest Ice Cream.” The stand was closed. Damn! I would love to know just what Immodest Ice Cream is. Maybe on the way back…?

Best Road has straightened out, heading due north. There are more fast-moving forms in the distance, and a traffic signal. That’d be SR 20. Our friend Chuck led a fast ride earlier in the day, and I’m guessing he and his group were on that road. It’s basically a freeway. Not PX-friendly.

Farm to Market Road

Once you cross the highway, Best Road becomes Farm to Market Road. Is that a great name, or what? Get your crops from the farm to the markets in, I guess, Bellingham, Mt. Vernon and Burlington.

Farm to Market Road is nearly arrow-straight, with hills that can be a bit steep. But you’ll see mountains in the distance, and the waters of Samish Bay to your left.

The town of Edison approaches. Oh, boy, oh BOY! Once past Edison, Chuckanut Drive is mere yards away.

The view from Chuckanut Drive. Yes, I stopped to take this picture…

I have been looking forward to this all year. The PX and I begin our ascent, the view to the left alternating between bright flashes of sunlight through stands of trees and wondrous vistas. The sun, partially obscured by moist smears of clouds, is nonetheless able to cast a pale orange glow on the earth and the sky, the moisture making the distant landforms of the Olympic Peninsula into soft, surreal shapes in pastel blues, browns and greens, layered one on top of the other.

The road twists, turns and snakes through sometimes impossibly small rock outcroppings, and at other times along impossibly small ledges that still manage to hold houses that surely have incredible views.

The sign up ahead says “Entering Bellingham.” Almost there. The forest gives way to newer buildings with neatly landscaped yards, which themselves give way to the older structures of Fairhaven, Bellingham’s historic district.

And look what I saw in Fairhaven:

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