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.