Day ten: In Need of Needles

Day 10: In Need of Needles

Miles: 38.6

Climb: 1375 ft.

Ave. spd.: 11.1

Although all the riding was going to be on Hwy 40, I was not dreading it based on my experience the day before.  A combination of fresh, deep ear plugs, my cap pulled over my eyes, and a layer of hard-worked muscles gave me enough to catch some sleep.  I’ve spent worse nights out.

In the morning, I wandered over to the store to get some sugar for my coffee.  A young woman behind the counter greeted my gaze. I struck up a conversation. “So, when did your shift start?”

“Eight last night.”  Her eyes revealed some of those long hours.  “I get off at eight, two more hours to go.”

I shuddered at the thought. Twelve hour shifts at the Fenner gas station mini-mart.  Good God! I had to ask, “So, how many twelves do you do?”

“Three, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  I’ve got kids, and I’m going to college to become an RN.”

“Fantastic,” I replied, so encouraged to hear that she wasn’t simply grinding it out in this edge-of-nowhere outpost.  She talked about getting A’s and B’s, and I gave her a little raised victory fist. Instantly I was back in school, mentoring so many young mothers just like her, diligent, determined, hard-working students.  The nursing students were always my best, and I told her so. It was a sweet if melancholy moment for me, an echo of my former life.

The riding was moderate, journeyman cycle-touring, grades cut for interstate work not climbing the Panamints into Death Valley.  I rocked along at 7 to 8 mph up the steady inclines. At one point, I passed a sign that demanded that I, a pedal powered person, must leave the highway.  Uh, I don’t think so. Sorry State of Kalifornia, but I’m taking the direct route to Needles. The required route meant that I would have to descent Rt. 95, one I had ridden before--narrow, tight, two lanes, no shoulder, with trucks.  I’ll take the 40, sir, and damn the torpedoes. In a couple of hours, I’d cracked the second pass and paused to suit up for a 20 mile descent. And I rolled and rolled and rolled down so far into the great basin of the Colorado, a shimmering ribbon thousands of feet below.  A CHP officer passed me on the way down and cared not one jot that I occupied my little patch of blacktop. He saw what I’d done to that RV’er, no doubt, so he knew to keep his distance.

Finally, in the strange warmth of a desert January day, I left the highway and looked for the old motel I’d stayed at years ago when I traversed this country.  It had changed names, but it I recognized the layout. It didn’t look good. A couple of crusty sorts loitered on a stairway, sucking down coffin nails. I walked into the office and met the clerk, and older man, stringy grey hair dangling to his shoulders, a full brace of teeth missing in front.  It’s fair to say that you’ve arrived at a certain place in life if you’ve lost several front teeth and found yourself unable to replace them. A nice enough fellow, but the aesthetic was pure hillbilly. He showed me the room, $50 “cuz it has a spa.” Hoo. Man. I’d scraped the bottom before on this tour when I tasted the utter degradation, the abject culinary humiliation of SPAM, yes, that stuff, and a can of BBQ Vienna Sausages.

But this motel was too much.  I thanked the man and said I had some shopping to do--which was true--and that if I wanted the room, I’d be back.  I didn’t and wouldn’t.. As I rolled away, in a dim voice, the bloke with the cancer stick asked something about how fast I could go--but I was already too far away.  A night at “The Best Motel” was not in my future.

A quick Google search revealed a Napa auto parts store.  In a thrice, I had my fuel! I would be able to cook for the rest of the tour.  Now where to stay? More Googleplexing. The ol’ standby of Motel 6 was a few minutes away.  Same price as the dive and much, much cleaner. Done. Roll the trike with millimeters to spare through the front door and begin off-loading gear.  Catch up on some emails. Done. Shower time. No. Effin’. Water. Desk said there was a leak and didn’t know when the flow would be forthcoming. GAH!  I needed this shower like life itself. I stewed in my own slime, worked on the blog, leaving the bathroom faucet on as an indicator of when the pipes had pressure again.  An hour later and they were sputtering with life. Sacred ablutions devine. Laundry? Check. Order out pizza? Check. I’m so done. Lake Havasu, Arizona, tomorrow. I’m blowin’ this popsicle stand, yo.