We drove from Westport to Long Beach by lunch, enjoying a fantastic bike ride on a paved trail that snakes through dunes of beach grass about 100 meters from the shore. With peek-a-boo views of rollers and waves of mist, it was absolutely the best leg stretch imaginable. Yesterday I jogged with Michael and Jake in the morning; by noon my good knee felt bad. Like there’s a pea in there. So no jogging for me. But biking is heavenly. We met folks who directed us to Fort Stevens campground for the night. Its wooded, private and rather posh. RV culture spans the two extremes, neither of which are quite our scene. There’s the rat pack and the brat pack. The rats are tattered and woebegone, with tarps and moss and hard-luck story to be sure. We pass them on the fringes, in little gypsy camps.  Brats are big and shiny and aloof like a bunch of refrigerators. They take up a lot of space.