Day one: Along the Ramparts

Day one:  Along the Ramparts

Miles: 62

Climb: 625 ft.

Ave. spd: 11.7 mph

At 6:30PM the sun is long gone, and ice fingers creep down the canyons from Mt. Whitney clad in snow and ice above.  Numbing hands clack on this tiny keyboard. Across an arterial creek, lights from an electric transformer facility glare against the darkness.  A great day of riding is in the bag.

Later than I’d hoped, after a quick photo by my brother-in-law, Gary, I finally hit the road as 9AM was closing in.  Bright sun, clouds clinging to the Sierra crest, light traffic and wide, smooth shoulder cried out for a cyclist. I turned up the RPM’s and quickly left Bishop behind.  It was a dreamy day for riding, even if I did encounter light headwinds when the forecast was for strictly tail. But I wasn’t complaining. These were good conditions, and I was going to drink them in.  

I thought of Jodi, off with Patchy on a hike, and knew I’d be missing her, but it’s good to get off by myself sometimes, shake loose the dusty rooms in my head and stew and strain and think and not think and just be.  I always come back better for it. There is value in beating your head against a long, empty stretch of road, letting the hours and miles strip away the obscuring crap until there’s nothing left but wind, sky, and moving muscle, perhaps a silly song in your head about Portegee Joe, the long lost fellow who had a campground named after him, my destination for the night.  Whaddya know, Portegee Joe? Whaddya know?

The miles melt away, the gentle grades up and down left me swinging down the road in fine form, scurrying under the Palisades, jagged and severe Mt. Williamson, Lone Pine and Whitney at last on the horizon.  By mid-afternoon, I was rolling into Lone Pine, a “small town with lots of charm,” sayeth the sign. Fair enough.

I was able to score toe warmers for the coming cold mornings, pick a brew and some groceries, and find my way to Joe, he the Portegee.  One other camper with no signs of movement. A couple of dozens sites, so I took a distant slot and got to work, the sun already below the jagged crest.  Strangely, an older fellow with scraggly white hair and beard decided to come into the campground and pull in right next to my site. He parked, turned up his radio, and proceeded to smoke, the choking cigarette toxins wafting gently right across my table as I prepared dinner.  What the hell? Really dude? Two dozen other sites and you gotta park HERE and dump smoke on me? Eventually, I had to ask him to park down wind because of the smoke. He said “ok,” and did nothing. He was starting to creep me out. Eventually he starting up his small pick-up and moved on.  Phew. One creep gone.

The darkness settled in hard, and it was time to eat, clean up, brush fangs, and knock out this journal.  The trike seat works well for writing, but my butt needs a break and the cold is increasing. Funny, but my fingers have warmed up eventhough the air temperature is 45 F. and dropping.  

Off to bed.  7PM and it’s into the nylon crypt for too many hours--the bane of winter touring.  Tomorrow it’s the big climb over the Coso mountains and the monumental drop down to Panamint Springs.  I’ll think of Jodi and Django on our last tour and how the summit was cloaked in cold, damp fog, the road slick, the views non-existent.  Tomorrow, it will be clear, and I get the full experience of the huge twisting drop. Woot!