Day Two: Karma’s a Bitch

Day Two: Karma’s a Bitch

Miles: 58.44

Climb: 2111 ft.

Ave. spd.:  10.4 mph

A day of great contrasts, of joy, effort, outrage, instant karma, friendly greetings from kindred spirits.  It began in the dark.

I knew from yesterday’s effort that needed to get an earlier start, so I set the alarm for 6AM and didn’t need it.  I tossed and turned a bit through the night, but slept well enough, and found myself checking the time at 5:45AM. Time to rise if not shine.  Damp, damp, frosty, damp 33 deg. F. and not fun. The toe warmers did their trick, however, so the lil’ piggies are happy in my chores. There is so much to do when traveling this way, especially when my beloved isn’t here to share the effort.  We had it down--a slick team effort.  I’d jump out and get coffee brewing; Jo would start packing bags and rolling pads.  Flying solo, it’s all on me, so I get busy.

The black before dawn yields to a flare of color then a sick grey, rancid meat sky the inspires minimal enthusiasm.  To the north, it’s dark and foreboding. Above, it’s a sickly smoky gin without the buzz. Slowly I pack, heat water for coffee on my ultra-nifty Pepsi can alcohol stove, the silent cooker.  The sun doesn’t rise but ooze into being above the Inyo’s. Finally, I saddle up and put foot to pedal and head out. A pass and many desert miles have my name on them.

Before long, I’m out of town and swinging around the N.E. side of Owen’s Lake, a soggy alkali patch that before the era of Los Angeles supported countless birds and a paddle wheel ferry to Keeler, a mining berg, on the far side.  The Sierras fall into a more distant perspective behind, and I stop at 11AM to stretch and snack where the southern road that comes in from Olancha joined my track. As I eat, the gods of the road deliver a gem, a jewel of unusual delights.

In the distance I can hear the high pitched, shifting whine of a car moving fast--very fast. After a moment, the German engineered bullet comes into view, a silver late model Porsche burning the desert highway, well over 100 mp kih, I reckon.  I watch as it closes down on the T-bone intersection. Conjure the voice of Homer Simpson: “I am rich! I have a badass sports car! I am invincible!” The driver finds horse power and Teutonic engineering and testosterone were not enough: Screeeech!  Slide! He blasts through the intersection, slowing, but not enough--BLAM! An $80,000 dollar sports car plows into a gnarly hunk of indifferent black besalt. Porsche comes to a halt in a drift of dust and tire smoke. In a frenzy, the driver throws it into reverse, loose soil flying, and back off the shoulder, a huge dangling chunk of spoiler catching on the boulder and swinging free from the front end, limp and fractured like a useless limb.  The driver turns towards me, the plastic chunk dragging noisily, and for a moment I think he’ll take me down, but he corrects, and drags his wounded rig a hundred yards up the road towards Death Valley. What’s up with this guy? Can’t he hear the dragging wreckage? At last he pulls over.

And then the others come--one, two, five, ten?  Hot Porsches, a Lamborgini? A gull-wing Mercedes.  A friggin’ parade of extraordinarily expensive rolling iron pulls in behind the lame leader.  Each driver sports a razor clean beard, dark classes, driving gloves. They and a few girl friends hop out of their sports cars and gawk at the damage.  Of course, someone pops a drone into the air for some sweet footage, man.  It’s just too much. I see the driver of the crashed car rip the thinly connected toenail free.  A cop shows up and tells the gang they need to move along. The driver of the gull wing says, “Everything’s great.  Everything’s fine. Woohoo! Let’s go!” I don’t suppose anyone mentioned the 100+ mph lead up to the crash. Indeed, I don’t think the cop knew anything about it. At last, the caravan of mighty horse power guns its engines and rumbles off into the distance.  I’m grateful I wasn’t further along, droppng down the twisties into the Panamint Valley. Who knows what these chumps would have done with me if I got in their way. I saddle up and crank into the low southern sun, lots of climbing still to go.

Strangest encounter:  Up ahead, looks like a cyclist.  Close in. Nope. A walkin’ dude.  American flag ball cap, dirty baggy khakis, flannel shirt, scruffy beard..  What I take to be a backpack is in fact a large duffle, no belt, just narrow straps digging into his shoulders.  I’m excited to see an extremist plying his trade, but as I wave, his eyes are locked dead on the road ahead, affording not even the slightest recognition of my presence.  I suspect a wounded warrior and ride on, wondering about his solitary walk.

Startling encounter:  From behind I hear the climbing whine an engine gaining on me.  I expect a car and keep glancing in the mirror, waiting for it to overtake me.  Louder, louder, LOUDER. In an instant I realize it’s a jet, raging in low and hot.  My eardrums are split by the thunderous roar as the plane rips overhead, some sort of trainer, I suspect--V-tail, straight wings with small pontoons at the tips.  The daring pilot banks right then hard left, vanishing over the pass, out of sight. Wow.

Greatest atrocity:  Starting a mile or so into the climb, I begin to encounter papers on the side of the road, then more and more. Auto Traders, hundreds of them, scattered along the side of the road,  GAH! Some garbage rig with an uncovered load? Who knows. For miles, off and on, I encounter drifts of the junk.  I make a mental note to look into gathering a workforce to clean it up. Friends of the Inyo?

Much higher I’m overtaken by a pair of super fit, crazy happy Filipino cycling  guys who grin and yell at me as they close in. One asks, “You ride double?” No doubt referring to a tandem trike.  “I see you ride double!” Since tandem trikes are extraordinarily rare, he must have encountered us before. They cheer me on, and pull steadily away.  I am left to my slow but steady progress. The only annoyances are the surprising amount of traffic--not enough to make the cycling dangerous--but every one to five minutes, I encounter another car or cluster of them.  This was to be the standard for the rest of the day and into the night. I guess this weekend everyone one said, “Y’know, honey, let’s take that driving trip to Death Valley we’ve been dreaming about. The weather’s going to be great!”  Occasionally I pass a squad of six or eight dusty, muddy Jeeps and rad 4X4’s flying in tight formation, heading who-knows-where. It all feels rather zooy, the apocalyptic realization of Ed Abbey’s worst nightmare. To each his own. Still, the cycling is good.

At last I cross the 5,000 ft. barrier and crack the pass, my 2,000 ft. of climbing in the bag.  What follows is perhaps one of the greatest descents any cyclist can ever do--a dozen miles of twisting, perfect blacktop.  Huge curves, tight curves, narrow slots, massive drop-offs into grim dark canyons. Across the dry valley, snow capped Telescope Peak dominates the skyline at over 11,000 ft.  I find myself bursting out in uncontrollable laughter. It is all so insanely wonderful.

Too soon I drop into the store and campground at Panamint Springs--lots of amenities, although only two were of concern to me:  beer and water. I quickly secure both and find the restaurant has wifi. Since phone service is absolutely not available, I take the opportunity to send a message to Jodi about my progress, and to tell her I was doing well.  I quickly post a couple of photos (which ultimately fail) and light out for the valley floor, several miles beyond. Rolling heavy with a big bag of water, I am thankful NOT to be tackling the monster that leers and looms across the way--Towne Pass, one of the toughest climbs in the US.

I find our old camping road soon enough and bounce down the dirt until a suitable spot appears--camp! Warm, if filtered, sun, and a cold beer make the late afternoon sun a true pleasure.  I get about unloading, pitching camp, thinking with some sadness that my last time here we had Django with us. It would be his last tour. I am missing Jodi and feeling a bit too nostalgic.  At last I shake it off with too many chores to do. Darkness closes over the valley as aromatic steam floats from the pot, the brutality of tomorrow’s ascent lost in blackness above. The pain will come, Scotty, and you will rise to meet it.