I traveled for a month now, and I did and saw some things and met people I'll always remember. But the last day of riding was a day of reckoning for me: I had another flat tire, but it was on the trailer this time - I didn't think I'd ever have to worry about that, and I wasn't prepared for it, i.e. I didn't have a spare or any way to fix it really. I had my first wipe out, coming around a corner into Lordsburg. I was tired after the morning's ride and leaned into the turn too hard, landing on a pile of gravel head first, my neck was pretty raw afterward. I was tired because the heat was becoming oppressive, climbing into the high 90's/low 100's again, and knowing that I have to cross the Divide in this heat was weighing on me. It wasn't much higher than Lordsburg, around 4500' to 5000', I think, but it was more than I thought I could do in the heat. I'm tired, of the heat, and waking up at 5:30 in the morning, and being thirsty, and thinking of the 600 or 700 miles of desert and hot Texas plains to come.
So for this time around, the dream came to an end. In hindsight, I made some mistakes, primarily leaving too late in the season. I should have left San Francisco in the very beginning of April, or even late March. I talked to bikers who thought I would be fine, but I don't think any of them had ever attempted the trek. I had some bad luck with an early heat wave and unseasonably hot weather, but an extra month would have helped me avoid most of the heat. I should have brought less gear - there's no way I'll pull a trailer behind me the next time. The next trip will involve a minimum of gear carried in in bags on panniers, or maybe I can even convince someone to follow me in a car - it would be ideal to carry nothing but water bottles and a wallet on the next trip.
I look forward to the next trip, whenever it may be, but this trip ended with me sapped in Lordsburg, New Mexico, with a deflated trailer tire, a swollen, bruised neck, and a wounded ego, in a KOA (Kampgrounds of America.) I sifted through my things, trying to keep out of the desert sun under a wooden picnic shelter while deciding what I could keep and what I had to abandon, just me and the occasional jackrabbit. I managed to get a Greyhound ticket out of town, from a station behind the local McDonald's, and I knew space for luggage would be limited. So, clothes check, camera check, toiletries check. Trailer, no, bike, no. The last time I saw my bike it was sitting under a sign at the campground, "Please come again." There was no room for it on the bus, and I couldn't find anyone who wanted a road bike, i.e. jackrabbits and sparrows don't ride bikes. Hopefully a passing camper will see it and get some use out of it some day.
I'd like to thank everyone who read the blog and followed my rambling to its conclusion, and thanks for all the positive feedback. I had planned to write a book after my adventure was complete, though I think that's not likely to happen now since I cut my journey short. But it's good to know that lots of you enjoyed my entries and wanted more, so the next time maybe I'll have a books worth of material. Sorry it took so long to finish, I've been distracted while I adjust to life in Maine.
Thanks again to everyone, and if you would like to keep in touch, please feel free to write to me anytime, davidladd1@hotmail.com.
Happy rambling to all.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Safford to Duncan
The ride into and the stay in Safford was fun; I saw the desert bird icon the roadrunner just outside of town, all speckles and crazy comb over dashing from under some scrub, across the street and back under a cactus on the other side (running from the coyote, maybe?) A ladybug landed on my shorts just as I got into town and decided to hitch a ride all the way to my stop for the night before I finally had to pick her? (how do the hims feel about being ladybugs) off and send her flying away. And I saw Indiana Jones (George Lucas in the name of God why) in an air conditioned theatre; even though air conditioning wasn't really necessary it was reassuring to know parts of the world are livable. I met Sara before the movie - I'm still in the big city habit of buying tickets well before the show just in case, which in the case was prudent because it was packed - everyone has fond memories of what the Jones series used to be I guess, myself included. Sara sold me my ticket and then headed outside for her break as I was deciding where I should eat. I asked Sara and she told me about I place she used to work just across the street. She asked me where I was from and the conversation led to my adventure; Sara said she wished she could do that. I asked her why she couldn't and she told me - she was born with one lung. She said she never even knew she only had one until she was eighteen or nineteen years old; she liked to play sports but got winded fairly easily, but thought she had asthma or something. It wasn't until she went to the hospital for another problem that the doctors discovered her condition. They said it was fairly rare, and that she should be fine as long as she didn't over exert herself or (God love doctors) "get pneumonia." So she could never ride a bike across the country, or climb a mountain, or run very far for that matter; which she's learned to deal with even though occasionally her friends do things together that she can't. It made me thankful I'm even able to take this trip. Thanks Sara.
I have to say, though, that it was a hard ride to my next stop, the last stop in Arizona, the town of Duncan. The little red line on my tiny little schizophrenic thermometer is climbing again, toward the mid to high 90's. Which of course means that on the bike it feels much hotter, as there is no shade, and the heat rising from the road makes me think I need to start getting up at 5:30 in the morning again. Oh for an 85 degree day! And I'm climbing again - Duncan has an elevation of 3600' feet, and looking at my map I know that New Mexico just goes up and up and up for awhile. The climbing really isn't that bad, it's the heat that's the killer.
I was able to pitch my town in town; Duncan has a public picnic area and after checking with the local sheriff I got the okay, and said that no one should bother me there. It's Memorial Day weekend, so lots of firecrackers and beer drinking down by the river; yes, the river. On the way into town I once again passed desert oasis after desert oasis, fields of hay and some corn and cabbage, very disconcerting after passing rocky, brown, barren wastelands with hardly enough water for a cactus not twenty miles before. I passed on checking out the river scene and instead headed for the beat down diner the pronounced itself Joe's in a neon sign half lit and half dark, e's, across the street from the park. I was the only person inside, other than the waitstaff and the cook. I slid into a faded booth and ordered a taco salad and a giant glass of milk (I don't know what it is but I can't drink enough milk these days.) Business started to pick up as I was eating, though it was mostly people picking up take out orders, which I thought was a little strange. Where was everyone going in this little town that they didn't have the time (or the inclination) to eat there? Were they headed for the river too? Was it because Joe's didn't have a television?
I ate my salad and pondered these deep questions as I watched the locals picking up their orders; then I headed back to my campsite to try and write all of this down for you, dear reader. I say try because for the next two hours I became the object of interest for three terminally bored teenage girls who couldn't ask me enough questions - where are you from, where are you going, you're riding a bike, are you married, do you have kids, do you want to be married, do you want kids, you're going to sleep in that tent, did eat at Joe's, what did you have, did you like it, and so on and so forth until I thought my head might explode. They were good kids in a small town trying to pass the time, occasionally shouting at friends walking down the street, or boys driving back and forth in their cars, the local version of cruising, I guess. The road that ran along the front of the park was the main street, and nothing that happened on it escaped their attention. Eventually it got dark, and the girls were rounded up by their big sister. I went to bed and read while listening to the bats flying overhead, hoping for slightly cooler temperatures for the next day.
I have to say, though, that it was a hard ride to my next stop, the last stop in Arizona, the town of Duncan. The little red line on my tiny little schizophrenic thermometer is climbing again, toward the mid to high 90's. Which of course means that on the bike it feels much hotter, as there is no shade, and the heat rising from the road makes me think I need to start getting up at 5:30 in the morning again. Oh for an 85 degree day! And I'm climbing again - Duncan has an elevation of 3600' feet, and looking at my map I know that New Mexico just goes up and up and up for awhile. The climbing really isn't that bad, it's the heat that's the killer.
I was able to pitch my town in town; Duncan has a public picnic area and after checking with the local sheriff I got the okay, and said that no one should bother me there. It's Memorial Day weekend, so lots of firecrackers and beer drinking down by the river; yes, the river. On the way into town I once again passed desert oasis after desert oasis, fields of hay and some corn and cabbage, very disconcerting after passing rocky, brown, barren wastelands with hardly enough water for a cactus not twenty miles before. I passed on checking out the river scene and instead headed for the beat down diner the pronounced itself Joe's in a neon sign half lit and half dark, e's, across the street from the park. I was the only person inside, other than the waitstaff and the cook. I slid into a faded booth and ordered a taco salad and a giant glass of milk (I don't know what it is but I can't drink enough milk these days.) Business started to pick up as I was eating, though it was mostly people picking up take out orders, which I thought was a little strange. Where was everyone going in this little town that they didn't have the time (or the inclination) to eat there? Were they headed for the river too? Was it because Joe's didn't have a television?
I ate my salad and pondered these deep questions as I watched the locals picking up their orders; then I headed back to my campsite to try and write all of this down for you, dear reader. I say try because for the next two hours I became the object of interest for three terminally bored teenage girls who couldn't ask me enough questions - where are you from, where are you going, you're riding a bike, are you married, do you have kids, do you want to be married, do you want kids, you're going to sleep in that tent, did eat at Joe's, what did you have, did you like it, and so on and so forth until I thought my head might explode. They were good kids in a small town trying to pass the time, occasionally shouting at friends walking down the street, or boys driving back and forth in their cars, the local version of cruising, I guess. The road that ran along the front of the park was the main street, and nothing that happened on it escaped their attention. Eventually it got dark, and the girls were rounded up by their big sister. I went to bed and read while listening to the bats flying overhead, hoping for slightly cooler temperatures for the next day.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Dazed in the Desert
The rain finally stopped, almost two full days after it started. I sat in my room and watched television, and read, and gleaned Globe, Arizona's claim to fame while eating another calzone. Globe, it seems to the locals anyway, is the site of two of the world's biggest copper mines, and everyone working at the mines is both a) very busy mining for copper to sell to China and India and b) spending their off hours at the American motel, getting blitzed. Globe's other claim to fame is that apparently John Wayne stayed in this very motel once, when it was called the Copper Hills motel (the name some locals still use, including the young woman at the Safeway grocery store, who sold me some potato chips, and some chocolate, and various other snacks - I felt like I hadn't eaten in a week.)
Thankfully, the faucet in the sky was turned off, and I waddled over to my bike and made my way to the next stop, Safford. It really felt strange riding after two days of lounging and loafing and reading "The Yiddish Policemen's Union" and eating my weight in junk food:, I was sort of in a fog. But it was a beautiful day: 85 degrees, blue sky, nice breeze, good smooth road. So even though I was in a fog, it was a warm enveloping fog, not the cold fog that makes you wet and shivery.
I saw some interesting things today: a hill with cactus that looked like they were climbing to the top. I rode through the San Carlos Apache Reservation - miles of shrubs, cactus, mesas and mountains occasionally interrupted by a town. The towns were a hodgepodge of trailers and ramshackle shacks with piles of scrap metal in the yard, or the remnants of a car, or just dirt and rocks. I stopped at what turned out to be the reservation's biggest store and bought an apple and a juice, then sat out in front of store's adobe wall on a worn wooden bench and watched the clouds roll over the mountains across the street.
I was joined in a few minutes by a guy who ambled out of the store, sat down a different bench, saw me, said hello while getting up and plunking down on the opposite end of my bench. He was obviously Native American (everyone was, I was the only white man around. No one really seemed to mind, though), so I asked him if he was an Apache. He said no, that he was half Apache and half Cree - he seemed a little sad to me, then he went on to say that his father had been Cree, and a rambler and absent for most of his life. His father had also been an alcoholic and had died just a few years ago; he went to get his father in Kansas and brought him back to the reservation to bury him. He was currently living on the reservation with his mother, working as a brush fire fighter, which he said didn't pay very well but he made enough to get by. He was hoping to get off the reservation someday, like just about everyone else, he said. I finished my snack and said goodbye, and as I rode through the rest of the reservation I wondered where all the money from the casino I passed on the way in went; couldn't it provide a better life than the one my Native American friend was living?
I passed into a strange landscape: the hard, cracked floor of the desert gave way to green fields of grass, and row after row of cabbages and other greens. The land from the outer edge of the reservation to Safford is irrigated, though it seems that most of the land is dedicated to the growing of hay, to feed the herds of cattle that graze in the numerous fields in the area. An oasis; strange to see trees and grass and water in the middle of the desert, but there it was nonetheless.
And so magically there were also a lot of little towns on the way into Safford. I stopped at one of them, Pima, for a drink at the local store only to find the store had closed five minutes earlier. I stood on the wooden slats of the old time front porch drinking my water when the front doors swung open and out stepped the prototypical western cowboy: shock of white hair under a broad rimmed hat, long mustache, western shirt, cowboy boots. "If you want something right quick you can come on in and git it" he drawled. I jumped up and followed him into the darkened room, grabbed a Gatorade and brought it to the old fashioned register. As I paid and we chatted about the crazy weather I couldn't help but notice all of the guns on the wall next to the counter; rifles, shotguns, pistols, you name it it was there. Then I spotted what I was sure was a loaded rifle leaning up against the wall in a corner behind the counter: the wild west. I got my change, thanked the cowboy and went back outside thinking if I ever pursued a life of crime I'd make sure to steer clear of his store. He was right behind me, locking the door, jumping into his truck in the blink of an eye and leaving behind a trail of dust as he headed onto the road, all before I even had the cap off my bottle. I thought he either had a hot date or an NRA meeting to get to, finished my drink and followed his dust trail down the road to Safford.
Thankfully, the faucet in the sky was turned off, and I waddled over to my bike and made my way to the next stop, Safford. It really felt strange riding after two days of lounging and loafing and reading "The Yiddish Policemen's Union" and eating my weight in junk food:, I was sort of in a fog. But it was a beautiful day: 85 degrees, blue sky, nice breeze, good smooth road. So even though I was in a fog, it was a warm enveloping fog, not the cold fog that makes you wet and shivery.
I saw some interesting things today: a hill with cactus that looked like they were climbing to the top. I rode through the San Carlos Apache Reservation - miles of shrubs, cactus, mesas and mountains occasionally interrupted by a town. The towns were a hodgepodge of trailers and ramshackle shacks with piles of scrap metal in the yard, or the remnants of a car, or just dirt and rocks. I stopped at what turned out to be the reservation's biggest store and bought an apple and a juice, then sat out in front of store's adobe wall on a worn wooden bench and watched the clouds roll over the mountains across the street.
I was joined in a few minutes by a guy who ambled out of the store, sat down a different bench, saw me, said hello while getting up and plunking down on the opposite end of my bench. He was obviously Native American (everyone was, I was the only white man around. No one really seemed to mind, though), so I asked him if he was an Apache. He said no, that he was half Apache and half Cree - he seemed a little sad to me, then he went on to say that his father had been Cree, and a rambler and absent for most of his life. His father had also been an alcoholic and had died just a few years ago; he went to get his father in Kansas and brought him back to the reservation to bury him. He was currently living on the reservation with his mother, working as a brush fire fighter, which he said didn't pay very well but he made enough to get by. He was hoping to get off the reservation someday, like just about everyone else, he said. I finished my snack and said goodbye, and as I rode through the rest of the reservation I wondered where all the money from the casino I passed on the way in went; couldn't it provide a better life than the one my Native American friend was living?
I passed into a strange landscape: the hard, cracked floor of the desert gave way to green fields of grass, and row after row of cabbages and other greens. The land from the outer edge of the reservation to Safford is irrigated, though it seems that most of the land is dedicated to the growing of hay, to feed the herds of cattle that graze in the numerous fields in the area. An oasis; strange to see trees and grass and water in the middle of the desert, but there it was nonetheless.
And so magically there were also a lot of little towns on the way into Safford. I stopped at one of them, Pima, for a drink at the local store only to find the store had closed five minutes earlier. I stood on the wooden slats of the old time front porch drinking my water when the front doors swung open and out stepped the prototypical western cowboy: shock of white hair under a broad rimmed hat, long mustache, western shirt, cowboy boots. "If you want something right quick you can come on in and git it" he drawled. I jumped up and followed him into the darkened room, grabbed a Gatorade and brought it to the old fashioned register. As I paid and we chatted about the crazy weather I couldn't help but notice all of the guns on the wall next to the counter; rifles, shotguns, pistols, you name it it was there. Then I spotted what I was sure was a loaded rifle leaning up against the wall in a corner behind the counter: the wild west. I got my change, thanked the cowboy and went back outside thinking if I ever pursued a life of crime I'd make sure to steer clear of his store. He was right behind me, locking the door, jumping into his truck in the blink of an eye and leaving behind a trail of dust as he headed onto the road, all before I even had the cap off my bottle. I thought he either had a hot date or an NRA meeting to get to, finished my drink and followed his dust trail down the road to Safford.
Friday, June 13, 2008
And Now For Something Completely Different
I woke up in Apache Junction to a cloudy, breezy very cool 60 degrees; I was confused for a second and thought I must be in San Francisco. But then I saw a cactus and some jackrabbits and a Wafflehouse restaurant, just down the street from my motel, and remembered I was in Arizona. I watched the local weather and saw that the area forecast was scattered showers and potential evening thunderstorms, so I scrambled out of Apache Junction at 7:00 a.m. I wanted to put in as many miles as I could and finish up well before the threat of lightning bolts, flash floods and other desert storm miseries.
Man, that forecaster was either hitting the sauce or reading the wrong weather tracking map or something. I had a strange ride that day: it was only 60-65 degrees and pretty windy all day - I was cold. I left my sweatshirt on, even as I began sweating heavily due to the day's climb - I rode from the relative flat of Apache Junction, at 1800 feet, to the uneven, bumpy rock strewn roads leading up to Globe, elevation 3,500 feet. I left my sweatshirt on anyway, I didn't want to get sick. The mountains on the way to Globe were beautiful: dark chocolate brown, dotted with little green shrubs and all kinds of cactus - tall spiky cactus with white flowers on the crown and flowers on their branches; shrub like cactus with lunch plate sized sections hugging the ground; half tree half cactus short to the ground with long branches covered in spikes. The mountains themselves were jagged, sharp little razored teeth pushing up through the ground, looking as though they would chew up everything in their path.
The first shower hit around 11:00 a.m., raining fat little drops at a slant for about five minutes. I took as much shelter as I could from a boulder on the side of the narrow, windy mountain road. Then it passed, and the sun shone through the clouds a minute later. I thought great, hopefully that's all I'll encounter today, the random passing shower, as predicted. I let the wind and the sun dry me out, and pedaled on. Two showers later, as I was winding my way up what turned out to be the steepest hill, the clouds turned an ominous, deadly looking dark , so dark it was almost black. And then I felt like I was in a freezer, the temperature must have dropped ten to fifteen degrees in five minutes. I thought uh-oh, and then like clockwork the heavens opened up: it poured so hard I couldn't see the other side of the road. I ducked underneath the only little tree for miles around, and watched as the rain turned into little beads of hail, bouncing off the oily road, off my bike, off my trailer, off of my helmet. The little beads stopped falling after a few minutes, and I left the cover of little tree to wipe off my bike, and the trailer, and myself and then ran back under the tree as the hail made a triumphant return, a little bigger than beads this time, a little smaller than marbles. I waited out two more rounds under little tree, laughing as I thought how insane the whole storm was: for a week I'd been barbequeing, hiding out from the sun, and now I was freezing, hiding out from a hail storm.
I cleaned everything up again, pulled away from little tree and heard rumbling in the distance; at first I thought a tractor trailer was coming up the hill behind me, but I turned to look back and didn't see any traffic anywhere. I heard it again, but this time it was above me: thunder. The evening storms had arrived a little ahead of schedule (six hours or so, but who's counting?) I started pumping the pedals faster while watching a fork of lightning come flicking out of the sky like a blind white snake striking out at the dark. I didn't want it to bite me, so I pedaled for everything I was worth and was rewarded with a downhill run all the way to Globe, just a few miles from the mountain pass I'd just been stuck in. I made it to the "American" motel just before the rain started to come down for good; it rained hard for hours. The parking lot outside my room was flooded, cars driving through had water up to the top of their rims. I took advantage of a break in the rain to run next door to the local pizza shop next door for a calzone and a homemade churro, yum! The pizza shop crew said the weather wasn't normal at all; apparently Flagstaff had a snow advisory in effect and the northern mountains had two inches of snow today. Living in San Francisco with its year round steady weather has made me forget about strange weather patterns in other parts of the country, though I'm starting to remember now. I made it back to my room with dinner just in front of another downpour that lasted all night, pouring rain while I dreamed of sunstroke in a field of snow.
Man, that forecaster was either hitting the sauce or reading the wrong weather tracking map or something. I had a strange ride that day: it was only 60-65 degrees and pretty windy all day - I was cold. I left my sweatshirt on, even as I began sweating heavily due to the day's climb - I rode from the relative flat of Apache Junction, at 1800 feet, to the uneven, bumpy rock strewn roads leading up to Globe, elevation 3,500 feet. I left my sweatshirt on anyway, I didn't want to get sick. The mountains on the way to Globe were beautiful: dark chocolate brown, dotted with little green shrubs and all kinds of cactus - tall spiky cactus with white flowers on the crown and flowers on their branches; shrub like cactus with lunch plate sized sections hugging the ground; half tree half cactus short to the ground with long branches covered in spikes. The mountains themselves were jagged, sharp little razored teeth pushing up through the ground, looking as though they would chew up everything in their path.
The first shower hit around 11:00 a.m., raining fat little drops at a slant for about five minutes. I took as much shelter as I could from a boulder on the side of the narrow, windy mountain road. Then it passed, and the sun shone through the clouds a minute later. I thought great, hopefully that's all I'll encounter today, the random passing shower, as predicted. I let the wind and the sun dry me out, and pedaled on. Two showers later, as I was winding my way up what turned out to be the steepest hill, the clouds turned an ominous, deadly looking dark , so dark it was almost black. And then I felt like I was in a freezer, the temperature must have dropped ten to fifteen degrees in five minutes. I thought uh-oh, and then like clockwork the heavens opened up: it poured so hard I couldn't see the other side of the road. I ducked underneath the only little tree for miles around, and watched as the rain turned into little beads of hail, bouncing off the oily road, off my bike, off my trailer, off of my helmet. The little beads stopped falling after a few minutes, and I left the cover of little tree to wipe off my bike, and the trailer, and myself and then ran back under the tree as the hail made a triumphant return, a little bigger than beads this time, a little smaller than marbles. I waited out two more rounds under little tree, laughing as I thought how insane the whole storm was: for a week I'd been barbequeing, hiding out from the sun, and now I was freezing, hiding out from a hail storm.
I cleaned everything up again, pulled away from little tree and heard rumbling in the distance; at first I thought a tractor trailer was coming up the hill behind me, but I turned to look back and didn't see any traffic anywhere. I heard it again, but this time it was above me: thunder. The evening storms had arrived a little ahead of schedule (six hours or so, but who's counting?) I started pumping the pedals faster while watching a fork of lightning come flicking out of the sky like a blind white snake striking out at the dark. I didn't want it to bite me, so I pedaled for everything I was worth and was rewarded with a downhill run all the way to Globe, just a few miles from the mountain pass I'd just been stuck in. I made it to the "American" motel just before the rain started to come down for good; it rained hard for hours. The parking lot outside my room was flooded, cars driving through had water up to the top of their rims. I took advantage of a break in the rain to run next door to the local pizza shop next door for a calzone and a homemade churro, yum! The pizza shop crew said the weather wasn't normal at all; apparently Flagstaff had a snow advisory in effect and the northern mountains had two inches of snow today. Living in San Francisco with its year round steady weather has made me forget about strange weather patterns in other parts of the country, though I'm starting to remember now. I made it back to my room with dinner just in front of another downpour that lasted all night, pouring rain while I dreamed of sunstroke in a field of snow.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Three Weeks and a Day
The greater Phoenix area is huge! I rode out from the middle of the city and for the next 50 miles I was riding through downtown Phoenix, the outskirts of Phoenix, and then into Tempe, and miles and miles of suburban strip malls, business parks, gated communities, even an urban horse farm. Easily the most urban miles I've ridden since I left The City, but surprisingly carefree: drivers were careful to give me a wide berth, lots of the streets were designed for bike riders with either designated bike paths or really wide shoulders, all the way out to Apache Junction.
Still no camping, the winds were really kicking up hard about ten miles from AJ. The weather forecasters had been predicting the local version of a whiteout: the wind was whipping across the desert floor so hard that it was lifting the sand into the atmosphere. The sky for miles around was a dense white; it was like driving through a fog bank with the exception that this fog was hard, gritty and dry. The Superstition mountains are just outside of Apache Junction, but I could barely make out more than a faint outline; I decided to stop rather than disappear into the sand mist. A positive weather note (I think?): it's thirty degrees cooler at 8:00 p.m. than it was at 4:00 p.m., when it was 99 degrees. The forecast high for tomorrow is 85 degrees, practically an ice age in Arizona. I can't wait.
So I'm three weeks and a day into my trip, and I've ridden 1,031 miles from San Francisco to Apache Junction (with a shuttle ride from Wickenberg to Phoenix thrown in, it's fun to mix things up, hey?) If all goes well, I should only have about 3 or 4 more days to go before I hit New Mexico. In spite of the flats, and the heat I'm still having fun, meeting great people, learning about the land and myself. I'm ready for what tomorrow may bring.
Still no camping, the winds were really kicking up hard about ten miles from AJ. The weather forecasters had been predicting the local version of a whiteout: the wind was whipping across the desert floor so hard that it was lifting the sand into the atmosphere. The sky for miles around was a dense white; it was like driving through a fog bank with the exception that this fog was hard, gritty and dry. The Superstition mountains are just outside of Apache Junction, but I could barely make out more than a faint outline; I decided to stop rather than disappear into the sand mist. A positive weather note (I think?): it's thirty degrees cooler at 8:00 p.m. than it was at 4:00 p.m., when it was 99 degrees. The forecast high for tomorrow is 85 degrees, practically an ice age in Arizona. I can't wait.
So I'm three weeks and a day into my trip, and I've ridden 1,031 miles from San Francisco to Apache Junction (with a shuttle ride from Wickenberg to Phoenix thrown in, it's fun to mix things up, hey?) If all goes well, I should only have about 3 or 4 more days to go before I hit New Mexico. In spite of the flats, and the heat I'm still having fun, meeting great people, learning about the land and myself. I'm ready for what tomorrow may bring.
Monday, June 2, 2008
I Must Get Out of Phoenix!
My shuttle driver from Wickenberg to Phoenix was a kick, a Vietnam veteran named Bill. He was a Native American whose mother was a full blooded Cherokee (I'm pretty sure that's true, though he was telling some tales, like he killed 50 rattlesnakes a year in his backyard, he had owned 32 businesses in his lifetime, etc. I kept thinking of him as Pecos.) He had some other interesting things to say that also seemed true enough: over half the state's population lives in the greater Phoenix area; the deserts on the edges house the largest crystal meth production in the country (lots of shifty looking characters standing on street corners casting sidelong glances at everyone and anything that moved); Phoenix has been hurt by the fall of the housing market, as housing construction accounts for 25% of the local economy. Interestingly, Bill is a motel contractor/caretaker when he's not driving his shuttle, and in the fall he's going to be working in San Francisco at the Great Highway Inn (I think that's the name), just a few blocks from where I used to live. The world is a small place. Bill and I made it to Phoenix without incident. It was a great ride, watching the desert fly by in air conditioned comfort, and what with all of Bill's tales it went by quickly. I thanked Bill and told him if I was ever in Wickenberg or Phoenix (or San Francisco, come to think of it) again I'd give him a call.
I didn't like the looks of Phoenix; dirty, smoggy, hot, concrete check cashing pay day loans get money fast! I just wanted to get my bike taken care of and then get out of dodge fast. The counter people at Best Western found me a bike shop and a cab to take me there, as it was 100 degrees at 11:00 a.m. and I was walking nowhere. The bike shop was being staffed by a great young guy, a nineteen year old Mexican immigrant who was quick to say "no, but I'm a citizen!" when I asked him if he was born here. I was just curious, but I understood why he got a little defensive. Immigration and illegals, as the locals seem to call them, are blamed by some for the loss of local jobs, crime, drugs, etc.
He was very interested in my trip and my bike (he'd never seen a 27 speed before), and I'm happy to report he struggled to get my tire off the rim too (it's not just me, really.) He got it eventually though, and replaced the regular tube I had in the front tire with a "slime" tube (if the tube gets punctured it slimes itself, basically an automatic patch - nice!) He gave me a tune-up too, since I've ridden a thousand miles I thought it was time - brake check, spoke alignment, lube job. I gave him my blog address and thanked him, then went back to the motel. Went out for dinner at a buffet place (food isn't great but it's cheap and all you can eat; I loaded up on spaghetti and veggies and bread) and then I went to a bookstore and bought 'The Yiddish Policeman's Union" by Michael Chabon. 411 pages and an interesting premise - Israel collapses in 1948 and the Jews take up residence in their own special district in Alaska. Should make an interesting road companion for awhile.
I didn't like the looks of Phoenix; dirty, smoggy, hot, concrete check cashing pay day loans get money fast! I just wanted to get my bike taken care of and then get out of dodge fast. The counter people at Best Western found me a bike shop and a cab to take me there, as it was 100 degrees at 11:00 a.m. and I was walking nowhere. The bike shop was being staffed by a great young guy, a nineteen year old Mexican immigrant who was quick to say "no, but I'm a citizen!" when I asked him if he was born here. I was just curious, but I understood why he got a little defensive. Immigration and illegals, as the locals seem to call them, are blamed by some for the loss of local jobs, crime, drugs, etc.
He was very interested in my trip and my bike (he'd never seen a 27 speed before), and I'm happy to report he struggled to get my tire off the rim too (it's not just me, really.) He got it eventually though, and replaced the regular tube I had in the front tire with a "slime" tube (if the tube gets punctured it slimes itself, basically an automatic patch - nice!) He gave me a tune-up too, since I've ridden a thousand miles I thought it was time - brake check, spoke alignment, lube job. I gave him my blog address and thanked him, then went back to the motel. Went out for dinner at a buffet place (food isn't great but it's cheap and all you can eat; I loaded up on spaghetti and veggies and bread) and then I went to a bookstore and bought 'The Yiddish Policeman's Union" by Michael Chabon. 411 pages and an interesting premise - Israel collapses in 1948 and the Jews take up residence in their own special district in Alaska. Should make an interesting road companion for awhile.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
I Must Get to Phoenix!
I was glad to be in Wickenberg, it's a small town, 6600 people, has a grocery store and a hardware store and restaurants and shops and cafes but no bike shop, which I needed: I snapped one of my plastic tire levers (which you use to get a tire and tube off the rim) while trying to change my tube, and since I'd only had two (you need at least two to get the tire off), I needed another one. I spent an hour or two trying to figure out where I might get one, and then someone suggested the Ace hardware in town. I oozed over to the store in the 110 degree heat and found that they are indeed the place with the helpful hardware staff. I was able to buy a bike tire repair kit that included four steel tire levers, and while I was telling my sad story of flat tires and broken levers to the counter person, she said "You should get _ to take care of it, he can change any tire." My bikes tires and tubes are wedged very tightly onto a very narrow rim, so trying to pry the edge of a flat tire over the rim is difficult, especially for yours truly with my limited (read almost no) experience. So when Ace man said "sure, bring it in, it's easy", I thought great. I went back to the motel of the day, grabbed the tire and some more water and headed back to easy street.
Boy was Ace man in for a surprise. He'd never changed a road bike tire before, and he struggled mightily. At first, he was afraid he was going to puncture the tire, but he really wanted to learn how change a road bike tube just in case he came across another one, so I told him what to do (slip a lever under the tire edge and slip it over the rim, then move down two spokes and repeat with another lever, and then either slip one side of the tire off or repeat the lever process once more and then slip off a side. Do not attempt while taking certain prescription medication or under the influence of alcohol.) I was too tired to try it myself anymore (always flats at the end of the biking day when I'm most tired; some sort of starnge Murphy's law in effect?) and glad someone else had the energy to deal with it. He got the tire off, replaced the tube and refitted the tire; he didn't have the right air nozzle fitting for my tube, so I thanked him and went back to my room to pump the tube up by hand.
But no, my pump wasn't working, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't operator error. I fit the pump to the nozzle, flipped up the release and pumped away for an hour to no avail. No air. @!*&* And then I cursed some more. I was sweating and cursing and gnashing my teeth but air would not take up residence in my sadly deflated strip of rubber.
There is a bus service that runs from Wickenberg to Phoenix, but it's not made for cargo, just people. I thought, "I could walk to Phoenix, um, no I couldn't." I called a shuttle service that makes the Phoenix run and asked them to pick me up at 9:30 the next morning in my disgrace, broken chariot and all. I love the desert I chanted as I walked to the local ice cream shop for a double scoop of cherry vanilla, thinking I'd better eat it inside or it would melt quicker than I can pop a tire tube.
Boy was Ace man in for a surprise. He'd never changed a road bike tire before, and he struggled mightily. At first, he was afraid he was going to puncture the tire, but he really wanted to learn how change a road bike tube just in case he came across another one, so I told him what to do (slip a lever under the tire edge and slip it over the rim, then move down two spokes and repeat with another lever, and then either slip one side of the tire off or repeat the lever process once more and then slip off a side. Do not attempt while taking certain prescription medication or under the influence of alcohol.) I was too tired to try it myself anymore (always flats at the end of the biking day when I'm most tired; some sort of starnge Murphy's law in effect?) and glad someone else had the energy to deal with it. He got the tire off, replaced the tube and refitted the tire; he didn't have the right air nozzle fitting for my tube, so I thanked him and went back to my room to pump the tube up by hand.
But no, my pump wasn't working, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't operator error. I fit the pump to the nozzle, flipped up the release and pumped away for an hour to no avail. No air. @!*&* And then I cursed some more. I was sweating and cursing and gnashing my teeth but air would not take up residence in my sadly deflated strip of rubber.
There is a bus service that runs from Wickenberg to Phoenix, but it's not made for cargo, just people. I thought, "I could walk to Phoenix, um, no I couldn't." I called a shuttle service that makes the Phoenix run and asked them to pick me up at 9:30 the next morning in my disgrace, broken chariot and all. I love the desert I chanted as I walked to the local ice cream shop for a double scoop of cherry vanilla, thinking I'd better eat it inside or it would melt quicker than I can pop a tire tube.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
