An American Explorer: Day Thirteen: Outlaw Triker--Too Fast, Too Furious

Day Thirteen: Outlaw Triker--Too Fast, Too Furious

Miles: 66

Climb: 1748

Ave.spd.: 11.9 mph--Booyah

Where to begin? Somewhen in the middle of zombie-dark-thirty, I awoke to the sound of piss--someone, something pissing. What the what?! This ain’t right. I struggle to get out of the tent, into my shoes, headlamp crooked on my noggin...only to find my hydration tube doing the pissing. A rodent has bitten through the bite valve, and now my hydration is watering the sand. Dang. I close the valve, knowing I can work it that way for the remainder of the tour. Back to bed, riled up, had to get to sleep. I read more of Tara Westover’s horrendous upbringing, and finally drift off, only to awake at 4:45AM, fifteen minutes before the alarm. Big day, so let’s get after it.

In the shadowy comfort of my little arroyo, I stuff my bag, get coffee going and all the rest of the chores. It’s so warm compared to earlier in the tour. I enjoy the soft darkness, the known contours of my camp, and realize I will miss it. It’s been a safe refuge from the crazy road out there, but now I have to re-enter that chaos and do battle with the forces of internal combustion and long haul trucking and boomers in mega rigs and, and, and….

I was rolling in earnest before 7AM, a wide, moderate cloud cover keeping the sun dim, the land under broad shadow. This worked to my advantage as I could use my flashers to warn approaching vehicles of my delicate presence on the roadway. While the scenery was often spectacular, I had little time to appreciate it. Route 95 had a straight flush hand and was determined to knock me out of the game.

The shoulder, what there was of it, was far worse than I recalled from my previous tour. But it was the traffic load that had truly shifted, a manifold increase in every kind of vehicle. The explosive growth of the state and massive boomer retirees in RV’s, not to mention the locals and commercial trucking to keep it all working, meant a sometimes fearsome stream of vehicles roaring in both directions. I had to be fully on my game. And then the riding got extra special interesting.

Smokey and The Bandit (Triker)...

Pushing hard, gunning for Parker, I see a roadwork ahead sign. No biggie--just hope it isn’t a pavement. Soon, I encounter cones. As usual, I slip inside, riding free of the now one-lane stream of traffic, a happy rider. After half a mile or so, I see the crew replacing railing--perfect. I work around the trucks, keeping a sharp eye for any movement, lights, the usual. At one point, I have to lift a cone to give me room. The dude working the forklift and his co-workers see me, give me a friendly attaboy! wave, and I move around them. Then I see the cop on the other side of the road, and he goes a little ballistic--”Really?!” he yells. “REALLY?!” Well, yeah. What the hell else am I supposed to do? Slip into the lane of traffic with monster rigs and annoyed drivers? I raise my hands to show that, yeah, this is it. I’m moving fast, but in an instant I hear the pop-whine of a siren, and his squad car moving fast. I am so busted. I’m rolling and hear something garbled from his loudspeaker, lights a-flashing. We both brake at the same time and he skids to a stop behind me, bursting out of his rig like a angry hornet.

I put on the parking brake and stand up.

In an edgy voice, he says, “You just rode right past me.” I did not get what the deal was, but, he says, because I’m not in a car, he can’t ask me for ANY ID of any kind, but he does anyway. I play a little mum. I mean, what the hell is he going to to? He then gets into a track of asking me where I’m from, if I came to Arizona voluntarily, eventually, if not artfully, implying that if I came of my own free will, I should follow the laws of the state. It is rare when I haven’t been inside the cones in similar situations, and I’ve never gotten such a response--or any at all, for that matter. I explain the obvious:

“It was much safer than trying to blend in with all that traffic and no access to a shoulder.” He tries to make the point that the crew was using a forklift, moving 20ft. pieces of corrugated metal, and that they could take me out, although when I pedaled by, they were putting in posts, and the crew saw me, but I quickly assess that logic and my experience are not going to work here. But I do ask him, “Man to man, if you were riding like I am, would you want to be inside or outside the cones?” This stops him for a moment, and he never does answer the question. I eventually give him some ID. Hell, I don’t have so much as a parking ticket on my record. He takes it back to his car and does a search for a couple of minutes and comes back, and right away, I can see his mood has softened. He’s basically a good guy and looking out for my safety, which I appreciate, even if I know, with north of 10,000 miles of touring experience, I did the right thing. Then, there is a shift.

“So, how do you like that thing? Is it easy on your back?”

And for a moment or two, we stand, two men, inside the cone line, and we talk bikes and touring. He hands me a piece of paper and my ID. “I’m not going to give you a ticket, only a warning. Please, please be careful,” he says, hands in supplication. I’m touched by the gesture. Then, he adds, “You can stay in the cones from here to the end, but next time, when you come to a work crew, get outside.” Fair enough. I thank him, and saddle up. He drives back to the work site. The Outlaw Triker rides again.

After taking a breather and inhaling a super venti avec mocha at the Safeway in Parker, ℅ Starbucks, I got down to business. The stretch between parker and Rt. 72 was going to push me to my limits, true elite, post-doc level intense trike touring--not fun, no sire. I had to up my game, run my guns. Ride fast, smart and tactically perfect. The shoulder would come and go, appear then vanish without rhyme or reason, throwing me back and forth into the traffic lane of a hyper-busy two lane highway. Rough pavement, soft or crumbly, littlered shoulder kept me dodging road snakes and diesel behemoths and gargantuan 5th wheels. I dug in and went for it, turned my adrenaline up to a solid 5, my legs to a 10 or 11, my attention to 15. I was Lance Fucking Armstrong slinging pedals on a gallon of EPO. Fuck yeah! Dodge, pedal, slide onto the shoulder to let the “scissor of death” traffic knot pass, then back on the pavement for more. Go, go, GO! I ate up the miles before they could eat me.

At last I Ieft Rt. 95, losing some traffic, as I took 72. I stopped for lunch only to see a right front flat. This is the one flattened twice before. Understandable. It eats the most shit, shoulder-wise. I was so relieved to be off 95, I wasn’t bothered. Most of the miles were done for the day and it was just noon. I got this. I peeled the skin, ripped out the entrails and eventually found the tiny wire--snake bite. I took my time and did a meticulous job and got more experience with my new tire changing tools--sweet. The raging trucks were wearing me down, however. I needed to get off the road.

Zen koan: Why must one get on the road to get off the road?

Because wishing miles done does not make them go away.

I got to work. This was Trump country, no doubt about it--a couple of big displays--”Military, Security, Economy” --”Thank you vets” “Trump” --then, “Trump and Pence, 8” After a moment, I get it--Trump and Pence for eight years.

Then some more road work. A Mexican guy holding the Stop/Slow sign said in heavily accented English, “Go, inside da cones.”

“Are there any cops up there? The last one I met said to follow the traffic.”

“No, traffic be coming toward you. Stay left.”

Of course. That was my assessment, too. I pedalled into the empty left lane as a line of cars vanished going in my direction. Another line of cars came towards me, opposite lane, then another line followed up behind going my way. As I got to the work crew laying down material on the shoulder, I paused to wait for the last car going my way, then I slipped in behind, passed the work crew, and re-took the empty lane for as far as I could. This all seemed to be in line what the officer wanted. The best thing about this second work crew was that it paused the traffic in each direction from time to time, so I was able to “milk the pulses” as I called it. I cruised along for a mile or so until I saw a line of cars coming--functional rearview mirrors are critical--I’d pull onto the shoulder, let the conga line pass, then bop on down the road, virtually car free. This worked well for a time, but eventually the effect faded. By then, however, Bouse was in view. I was going to live. The place had a great small market, with a flyer for an Elvis lookalike evangelist, and a neat, cheap, quiet and dark community park with camping, a mile off the main road. Home for the night. Even outlaws have to sleep.