Poison oak

I’ve been too tired to even write one post and it’s been a month, so I thought I’d better say something.

One interesting story so far is that I rode to the Pigeon Point International Hostel, the same company of which I am an honorary committee member and lifetime member, and having no beds and not allowing me to pitch my camp in the field next to the picnic table and outhouse, they turned me out into the cold with one hour of sun left to find a place to sleep. So after riding another 8 miles, which at the end of the day feels more like 80, I snuck around a farm gate and the standard “trespassers will be prosecuted sign” — Ah, the joys of riding a bicycle in America — and pitched my camp in the corner of a brambly field. The next morning, I left nothing but footprints and a bit of fertilizer.

A few days later, a rash began to slowly erupt on my body like tiny volcanoes. It seems that I pitched my tent in a field of poison oak. I must have gotten it on my bike and then my hands and then transferred it to my arms, chest, neck, face. The rash continued to spread the next few days. Revealing every bit on my body that my wandering hands wandered over: my left ear resembles beet red cauliflower and feels as if it might fall off, my lips are blackened and blistered, and, to be polite, let’s just say that I’ve reduced my chances to have children by a couple of percent.

It’s been ten days and I’m still in an impressive amount of pain. This poison oak is serious stuff.

The good news is these are the events that make good stories. Or perhaps my ability to write an entertaining story about sipping that perfect cup of coffee in North Beach has not yet evolved.

Below you will notice a new Google Ad…. if it works. As I continue to attempt to monetize my adventures. What can I say… I need to eat and I’m only selling about 1.5 books per day.

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