Day Nine: Necrosis Rising, Realm of the Road Snake

Day Nine: Necrosis Rising, Realm of the Road Snake

Miles: 51

Climb:2242

Ave. spd.:9.2 mph

Let me explain.  To a road touring cyclist, pavement quality is a constant issue.  It provides moment-to-moment feedback, blessing or cursing your progress, tainting or lifting your mood--at least mine, anyway.  As I mentioned, the old Kelbaker road had signed a pact with Satan to achieve world class status as crappy road surface.  The cheesy chip seal job helped a lot, but it was far from a perfectly smooth, durable surface. As I climbed the big grade to Granite Pass, I could see the old beast lurking beneath the chip, poking through, veiled but hinting at its former decrepitude. As I descended from the spectacular pass, big stone that was off limits to climbers, fell away to the west, and I hit chunks and bumps that told me this road was not long for this world.  The monster was there, waiting.

Part of highway riding, which I was quickly approaching, is dealing with the inevitable “road snakes,” a term I first heard from Jodi during our Rocky Mountain tour.  These are strips and chunks of big rig re-treads that lie in wait along the side of the road, from sweet little garter snakes to humongous anacondas, they lurk and provide obstacles to safe riding--not to mention flats. Somehow, I dodged the worst and made great progress, although most of the shoulder was clear of debris.

Here is a fierce example, the notorious Mojave Black. You can see it curled, ready to strike!

Now, if you want to grab one, do it quick as a snake!  Note my elite reflexes have allowed me to pinch it firmly behind the head so it cannot reach around and bite me.  This one was not going to be messing with me, no sir.

Under a warm sun, I de-layered for a short climb up to the massive, double barreled Hwy 40.  Although noisy because of the trucks, I was immediately gifted with a HUGE smooth shoulder, a rumble strip between lil’ ol’ triking me and the trucks.  It was great riding. I would never want to do a long stretch of such riding--the noise and movement of the trucks is a downer--but for a few hours today and tomorrow?  Bring it on. There was little doubt it was safer than many so-called “quiet” roads where sight lines are poor and shoulders nonexistent. I jammed ear plugs in and spun for glory and Fenner, about 30 miles away.  My secret weapon? Most of it was gently downhill. At times up to 30 mph and rarely less than 10 mph, I chewed up those miles. Booyah.

Still, it WAS a lot of pedalling, and the miles wore me down.  Many, many times the trucks would swing to the far lane to pass.  I was grateful and waved. I even saw several “Share the Road” signs for us cycling folk.  Schweet.

After 3PM, which is becoming my default stopping time, after fighting serious side winds, I climbed into the gusts to land in Fenner, a large gas station complex.  As I pulled close to the entrance, I saw a sign that said “Bike Parking Only.” Now THAT is a sign you don’t often see. But it was true. I could camp for free, out of the wind, water a restroom nearby.  Traffic, a billion watts of fluorescent light, and the occasional rumbling train as well, but, hey, you can’t have everything. I had to laugh. It was one of those classic funky lousy bike touring camps that happen sometimes.  You just gotta roll with it. At least I had some artsy ponds with statues of pink flamingos and naked ladies holding up conch shells. WTF? There was, however, the compensation of beer at astronomical prices. Fine with me. There are so few options out here. My other choice was to backtrack to the closed section of Route 66 and camp out in the open right next to the moderately active train tracks. Ugh. No good choices. Tomorrow it’s a cheap motel in Needles--classic. That’ll do me right. At least I got to talk to Jodi and throw a few barbs on Facebook.  Time now for deep earplugs and an eye cover. Gonna be a long, long night. Sigh….