Day 12 (May 1): Manzanita, OR-Pacific City, OR -- 55 miles biked

Miles biked: 55 (529.8 overall)

Roads taken: 101 South, in Tillamook: 3rd Street ... 131, Netarts Highway, Netarts Bay Drive, Cape Lookout Road, Sand Lake Road, McPhillips Road, Cape Kiwanda, Drive.

Places stopped: Rockaway Beach (to make myself a cup of tea to go with bread and peanut butter), Tillamook Cheese Factory (for cheese and ice cream), Tillamook bike store (to buy and learn how to apply chain oil; to buy presta adopter for my mini pump and learn how to use it), Tillamook Library (for Internet access), Sandlake general store (to buy Gatorade and chat with other bikers), Pizza joint in Pacific City, Kiwanda RV Park (for the night).

I began my ride a little before 9 Friday morning with one thing on my mind: cheese.

Sean and Mel had told me all about the Tillamook Cheese Factory, which is very well-known in these parts for making dairy products -- especially cheese -- for the last 100 years. I knew I had to visit the factory after devouring that amazing Tillamook ice cream cone in Astoria.

So the first 26 miles or so of my ride were geared toward making it to that factory. With the threat of rain holding off and the sun actually coming out, I made good time and could smell the cheese before 11 in the morning.

I locked up my bike and raced inside. Sure, there was a little historical exhibit that explained how they make the cheese, etc. I kind of like history, but not in this instance.

I made a beeline for the sample counter, where I made sure to take a toothpick attached to each kind of cheese. Yummy, good stuff.

Then I went about buying a small bag of cheese blocks, which, I'm sure, were specifically designed for bikers passing through so we wouldn't have to go to the trouble of digging out knives to cut the cheese.

Next, I headed to the ice cream counter for my second cone in three days. Yes, I knew this wasn't exactly a good choice health-wise, but there was no stopping me. I had to try to Marionberry flavor.

It was good, but I must say this: The high-school kid at Subway in Astoria was way more magnanimous with his serving. His double reminded me of the cones I used to serve up at Washtenaw Dairy back home.

The kid at the factory, on the other hand, was obviously under strict instructions to keep his cones to a certain size. I only got a single, but it could have been called a kid's serving.

The Subway kid has simply stated, upon handing me my cone, "I just make sandwiches." Not bad for a sandwich-maker...

Anyway, after my cheese-factory experience, it was time to get schooled. The funny thing about this trip I'm on is that I really don't know much about bikes. Seriously. I love riding 'em, I ride 'em a lot, but when it comes to repairing 'em, I know about as much as your 2-year-old daughter (if you have one).

While that could be an exaggeration, I did need some schooling. So I stopped by the local bike shop, where the kind man behind the counter instructed me how to properly lubricate my chain -- I hadn't done so since beginning the trip -- and also showed me how to use my pump, with a converter, on my Presta tire valves.

(To update, I haven't had to pump up my tires once. They are rock hard and durable; kudos to them.)

After I lubed the chain for the first time, I headed out of Tillamook on the "Three Capes Scenic Route." Well, I made it about the "One Cape Scenic Loop" by going the wrong way accidentally.

Maybe that was a good thing, considering the challenge that I faced on Netarts Bay Drive. As I passed by Cape Lookout State Park on my right, I began climbing a hill that started at sea level and -- I'm guessing here -- climbed a good 1,000 feet or so.

It kept twisting around curves, leading me to the next ascent. If it wasn't so damn taxing -- and if a soft rain hadn't started to fall -- I might have gotten off the bike and taken pictures of the neat trees that overhung most of the road. They mildly reminded me of the Tunnel of Trees road in Northwest Michigan that I biked on with my man Port during my first bike trip nearly 4 years ago.

But I kept pushing, and finally I reached the top -- finishing a 2.5-mile stretch that, I'd estimate, took me about 35 minutes to complete.

What I have noticed about Oregon hills, and this is a good thing, is that they're very reciprocal. One minute, I might be cursing as I pedal up a long one. But the next, I'm grinning as I cruise down a hill just as long.

That's what I was doing as I sped down a just-as-long hill into Sand Lake. It was quite the breather after that killer ascent.

I would have rode that momentum forward, but I noticed the tiny town's general store and two interesting-looking bikers sitting on the porch as I approached. So I stopped, figuring I deserved a Gatorade for the work I put in on that climb.

And for the next 20 minutes, I chilled out on the porch. I watched, amazed, as my two fellow cycles each downed a six-pack of donuts. These guys, I thought, were not your typical bikers.

I didn't get their full story, but here's what I can tell you: They were in the country on three-month visas, and they had started cycling from the same spot as me: Vancouver, B.C. They had started a few days before me, but had taken a different route on 101 down the West Coast of Washington.

Here's where their tale gets nutty. They were doing the trip, with a purported ending spot of San Francisco, with single-speed bikes -- something that seems absolutely crazy even for biking in Kansas (I can just imagine them in Northern California's hills).

And when they headed down the road, my man with the orange hair -- I only got the other cat's name, a dude with long braids named Jake -- strapped a guitar over his shoulder and onto his back. "That's awesome," I exclaimed, simultaneously wondering how they'd made it that far.

But they had, there was another "Jake" on the road, and I had hopes of maybe riding alongside them for a while.

Alas, when I stopped in Pacific City for the night, I lost them. (And to update, I haven't seen them since. Who knows? There remain hundreds of miles -- and hills -- until San Fran.)

Anyway, I did stop in Pacific City because it seemed like the perfect spot to call it a night: A little town, right on the ocean, with places to stay. Unfortunately, there was no state park to crash at -- those are the easiest places to camp at for free -- but I negotiated my way into staying at the Kiwanda RV park for $15.

It wasn't cheap, but it had an indoor pool and hot tub! That, folks, was huge. My left knee was aching a bit, but after 20 minutes in the jacuzzi it was like new. The heated pool wasn't a bad refresher either.

The town, like all of them in Oregon, offered its share of friendly people, willing to talk at length about their own traveling adventures. Tom, who came up to me on the beach and started talking to me because I had briefly chatted with his wife by the pool, had done the same trip I'm doing.

He talked about many of the beautiful spots, particularly in north-central California, and then he mentioned a trip he wanted to do in Wisconsin and Michigan's Upper Peninsula. I was able to help him there, offering up info about the journey Port and I took.

Tom then departed quickly -- a habit of his I noticed throughout the night -- and pointed me toward the Kiwanda State Park dunes, which loomed to the right of the beautiful city beach.

I spent the next 46 minutes (or so) exploring an area that was partially roped off by a "Danger" sign. That, of course, was the reason I proceeded. I walked over rocks and then through tiny forests -- made up of small beach trees -- and eventually got to the farthest-out slab of rock in the ocean, looking back at the dunes to my right and the beach to my left.

A couple was also on the slab of rock, toasting champagne or another tasty beverage. I didn't want to ruin the mood for them, so I turned the other way to take some pictures before heading back.

Prior to returning to town, I couldn't end my day without running down the large sand dune. So I sloshed my way to the top -- feeling each step in my fatigued legs -- and finally jogged down just as I felt a couple rain drops.

I stopped on the beach to pet a handsome pair of Golden Retrievers -- who were the same hue as the late, great Copp -- before returning to the RV park.

Friday night I headed over to the Pelican Brewery across the road from the campground for a brew and a cup of chilly. There I met yet another character during a day filled with one. I never got a name for him, but "Guy" from Saskatchewan (try spelling that; I couldn't).

He was originally from the West Coast, and he made sure to tell me about many places I needed to visit -- about half of them breweries -- in southern Oregon and then into California.

Unfortunately, I wasn't thinking about all those cool locales when I stepped outside. Rather, a steady rain grabbed my attention.

It would stay that way for quite sometime.