Tour de Whatcom

18 July 2026

Whatcom County gets its unusual name from a Lummi word, perhaps meaning "noisy" or "noisy waterfall." The Lummi, Nooksack, Semiahmoo, and other native peoples have lived here for many millennia. The county seat of Whatcom is at Bellingham, a city of about 90,000 in northwest Washington, named for a guy in the Royal Navy at the time of the Vancouver Expedition in 1792. Most modern inhabitants of Washington pass through Whatcom on Interstate 5 en route to the border crossing with Canada at Blaine. Off the major highways though, Whatcom has some of the prettiest country roads in the state. The annual Tour de Whatcom is a bike event that starts in Bellingham. The imperial century route took us over 100 miles from Bellingham, to the raspberry and blueberry fields of Dutch-settled Lynden, to the oil refineries of Ferndale, to Blaine on the Canadian border, to the wind-swept coastline of Birch Bay on the Salish Sea.

Won always dreamt of staging a long bike ride from the RV. Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could securely store our road bikes, park near the start line, and have our own food and a hot shower waiting for us at the finish? Why yes, turns out it really is awesome. We pedaled away at sunrise, hearing the gulls of Bellingham Bay. The Garmin logged almost 110 miles when we arrived back to the van, where two bags of jalapeño ranch and spicy dill pickle potato chips, and luxurious cotton sheets, waited.

On the way from Wenatchee to Bellingham for the Tour, we crossed the Cascade Mountains on Highway 2, which traverses Stevens Pass. We camped for a night at Flowing Lakes County Park outside of Monroe, WA. Just a few miles outside of town, the forest is thick and green. Wild blackberry bushes climb over fallen trees trunks, and western red cedars drape their evergreen leaves over our campsite. The serenity was occasionally ruptured by the whine of a jet ski engine far across the lake, and the obnoxious music of a party boat with an impressive bass speaker. Despite the interruptions, it feels like peace out here.

I get better sleep in the motorhome. Even though the bed is smaller, the temperature is never quite right, and RV campgrounds always seem to be next to highways and train tracks. Despite the train horns and everything else, I sleep like I’m blissfully dead to the world. My theory is that there is nothing else that needs to be done. Once we arrive at the campground and have dinner, the day is complete. My mind is free to relax. Life on the road is reduced to what you can carry with you. Choices are limited. The mind does not have to think about what to eat, because we’re going to eat what we have on board. Nor does the mind have to choose a form of entertainment, because there’s just that one book to read. It’s easier to put unimportant things off, because what’s the urgency? The sun is not going to rise or set any slower or faster.

My favorite part of long bike rides is the day after, when I can eat with abandon and claim that I don’t have to exercise again because I have met my moderate intensity quota for a week. Zeke’s at Gold Bar on Highway 2 offers a “honeymoon special,” which is a half-pound cheeseburger and a pile of French fries meant for 2 people. I polished it off myself, plus a slice of peaches and cream cake we picked up at Costco when we got gas.

Back over the Cascades, we camped at Lake Wenatchee State Park, north campground, spot #114. It is sunnier and hotter on this side of the mountains, which is wonderful for a dip in the glacier-fed lake. Douglas fir and pine trees provide a canopy for the blackbirds to cackle and caw, and for Won to hide from the sun.

Five things I see, 4 things I hear, 3 things I feel, 2 things I smell, 1 thing I taste. I don’t recall where I got this from, but I quite like the ritual. By the time I get to the 3 things I feel, I’m reliably back in the moment. It’s a brain hack, cutting through the cacophony of sensory inputs, memories, ruminations, and narratives, to ground myself in what is real. On the shores of Lake Wenatchee, I see the bird and its reflection glide over the still waters. I hear the distant sound of children laughing, and the scamper of a chipmunk as it darts across the deserted beach. I feel the warmth of the rising sun on my cheek. I smell the scent of pine, and I taste a hint of dark roast coffee. It’s all so beautiful, and I am glad to be alive.

Nothing to do, except read my one book, and look forward to a long, restorative sleep.