Day 12: 43 miles/1870 ft. climb
The Roaring 40 and the Sands of Despair--that would be an appropriate title for today’s grunting. I exited Motel 6 before 8AM and pedaled the rest of the way across town to pick up my super-secret, Lord Google inspired route to Hwy 40, a path to bypass crossing the river and dealing with traffic on the other side–and skip more Hwy 40 riding. Lots of sand and steep, short grinders took me along the rail tracks. I passed idling trains in town and was braced for the sonic storm should one come along. Ear plugs, eh? But it never came. Instead I battled sand, a very brief hike-a-bike or two, and eventually lugged the bike over the tracks where my preloaded route description said I should–anything to avoid some of this sand and deep, soft gravel. Low and behold, on the other side I picked up a good road and made excellent time to Pirate Cove, an RV/boating resort on the Colorado river, which I’d been paralleling for some miles along its slow, meandering course. I left the train behind, landed on pavement and pumped at last up to Hwy 40, much busier here than back in CA.
That’s right, I’d crossed into Arizona at last. To the south, the wild and rugged Needles bristled in morning light, difficult to access, a boat, really, the only reasonable way to get back in there. Maybe one day. For me it was the industrial overload of the freeway shoulder. It was very broken and rough to start, simple enough on Ivan, but I’d pedaled it on a low-slung trike last time, and it was a horror show, the rampant bits of retread wire–”road snakes” Jodi called them–finally puncturing one of my tires. On Ivan? Not much. It was like a moderately rough but serviceable dirt track but in blacktop. Ivan’s plump tires made short work of the fractured surface and smoothed out the countless cracks. I knocked out the mile or two of crap easily and slipped onto the smooth shoulder that would take me all the way to the Rt. 95 turnoff, now less than 8 miles away.
Truck after truck after truck after truck roared by. The vast commercial vacuum of the greater Phoenix/ Tucson region was pulling in vast amounts of economic activity. I was a mere speck, a pedal-addled spin doctor laboring away a few feet from thousands of tons of Mack and Peterbuilt and Volvo and their precious cargo. It didn’t bother me that much as I knew it was temporary. Just bang out the miles, Scotty, and you’ll leave all this behind. The sun rose and warmed and I labored beside the interstate.
At the Love’s Travel station, a lovely woman stood next to me as I was filling my large (labeled “medium”) coffee. She looked at me and my big drink and said, “They better watch out for you today!” Indeed, I said I was a cyclist from California–as if the garish jersey wasn’t enough–and that this would help me down the road. “Are you going to do that French thing?” she asked.
“The Tour de France?”
“Yeah, that one.”
I laughed and assured her I wasn’t nearly strong enough–and being 60 would limit my chances, too. She would hear nothing of it. “You came all the way from California, I’m sure you could do it.”
“Well, thank you,” I said. “It’s nice to know someone believes in me.”
I smiled, and went to get my water containers. It was a long fifty or more miles until my next water source. I strapped the big red bag to my trusty Jones bars and hit the road, navigating by phone until it was clear where I was headed, although I would check in periodically to confirm my route or work out an alternative. I found it exciting to be following at last the lines I’d imagined months ago, routes that I thought would go but I’d never ridden. The map, however, sure as hell is not the territory. Believe me.
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to ride those roller coaster service roads that parallel major highways? Well, now I know. It’s a difficult pain in the ass and a regular stab to the legs as steep rollers and soft, sandy washes alternated like fixed, decaying waves in a concretized sea in storm swell. As a cyclist, the waves don’t come at you, you attack them, again and again, quick bouncy drop, power through the sand, hit the wall beyond, pedal–or not. One particular wave was ridiculously steep and I barely managed to push Ivan up its crumbling face, my feet fighting for purchase. Thankfully, this only happened a couple of times, but the way was always challenging. And little did I know what the swells foretold.
I made steady progress until a long line of barbed wire, a locked gate and a “No Trespassing” sign glared at me in the midday Arizona sun. What? The terrain to either side was not workable, steep, loose, no road. I was NOT going to back track. There had to be away. The owner’s house was up the hill. If they were in and looking, they could see me. Perhaps my sweaty lanky self was on camera as the sign proclaimed. I didn’t care. I was going. This would not stop me. I noticed that the posts holding the gate had a gap low on one side, barred across the top, but the opening was large, easy for me, and, I quickly decided, big enough for Ivan. On yer side mate, in the dirt! Easy boy, easy. I lowered the portly Ivan on his side, and worked the big front wheel and bars through without too much trouble, slid through his shorter back quarters, and we were done! I crawled through quickly, mounted up, and rode like the wind. In a couple of hundred yards, I came to the other side of the property. This time, I could see, my presence was blocked from view of the Master’s house. This gate had a similar opening–as I’d hoped, or maybe I wasn’t even thinking that far ahead. Just keep moving. But it did have the gap with the bar–only it was a little tighter, and one side had barbed wired wrapping the post. That inch or two made a difference, so I struggled to tilt, lift, lay, twist and pray Ivan’s fat fore quarters through–WITHOUT puncturing the water bag strapped to the bars. Ivan complained–a lot–but he finally got through with me hot on his tail. C”mon, boy, let’s ride! Down a quick drop, further out of sight. Free. No shotgun blast or ranting rancher followed our dust plume. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance 29’er do it again.
And then another fence, locked gate “No Trespassing.” Shit. I scanned the scene, not wanting to risk a blatant run like the last. Hey, an arroyo, a track or two down there. Maybe I can do an end run? I swung Ivan to the south and dropped into a classic Arizona wash, arroyo muy seco, flanked by Mesquite, creosote, an Ocotillo or two, and the bottom was firm hard pan–great riding. At speed, I rolled with joy down the green wash until it was cut by another dirt road that took me back to the main line and, at last, free from any other private blockades. I motored east, my sights set on Pipeline Rd. and my eventual, fateful swing to the south.
It came at last, as they always do if you keep the wheels turning. Funny how that works. I had hopes but no great expectations for the surface quality. My hopes were dashed and my worst expectations realized–mile after mile of fine, loose sand and washboard, leading to a point beyond imagining over the horizon. Occasionally, I’d hit a firm patch and my speed would shoot up to 9 or 10 mph, but more commonly I was mired in soft, sandy fingers grabbing at my rims, adding effort to each pedal stroke, sometimes stopping me altogether. I was often forced to ride the washboard as it was the only track firm enough to allow progress, so jouncing and bouncing, fish tailing and sliding, I forged on as the sun sagged under the lateness of the day.
At three I was at my usual find-camp-time, but I resolved to get to mile 43, and make it I did, less than an hour before sunset. I called Jodi and we laughed about our days, but I had to get to it, pitching tent, cleaning up. At last, with a full moon rising, I sat down to eat.
And my dinner guest arrived.
A small, pale, adorable kit fox decided I was the evening’s entertainment. “Dances with Kit Fox” will be my new name as we ran about camp, chasing from one side of a spindly creosote to the other. The fabulous beast would run a few yards away, and always circle back, once almost sniffing my shoe! Oh, how I wanted to take it home as a beloved friend. I suppose, at some time lost in history, a wolf-like creature came into a camp much like this fox–and stayed. Dogs and humans have been together ever since.
The nearly full moon rose bright and imposing above the distant desert peaks, and I was more than ready for bed. A big day tomorrow–more sand, more washboard, and camp at the Bill Williams river.
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