Revenge of the 29'er Day 11

Do you feel lucky, punk?

Day 11: 36 miles/1380 ft. climb

A shocker. I actually slept a chunk of the night. The traffic slowed considerably, and silicone earplugs are worth their weight in gold. Jam those suckers in deep, pull the hat down over your eyes, and you can sleep through a lot, mister, I tell you what. Still, I was up and out before 6AM, puttering about in the 36 deg. F. chill. The interstate was rumbling, the train a-grumbling, the day coming to life through the throbbing arteries of transport. Anyone who thinks electrics are going to replace diesel any time soon is delusional. The world economy runs on the stuff. It’s staggering. Me? In the morning I run on coffee, and soon the little stove was purring and coffee was on. Life would continue.

I rolled a little before 8AM, slipped onto the wide, smooth shoulder, and started the miles as the big rigs and plebes raced by. To be honest–and, why not?--I kind of enjoyed the riding. It was so fast and easy, the shoulder comfortably wide, and the very smooth pavement kept the tire noise down. The rigs were not so obnoxious, and though it wasn’t necessary, many swung into the other lane to give me even more room. Yay truckers.

I worried for a time about being stopped by CHP, but the on-ramp held no sign prohibiting bicycle traffic–that would come later–and I even rolled by a Chippy standing watch over road construction in the median. All was good. The high heaving desert spread out around me under a cool, grey sky, the temperatures perfect for working hard, but the climbs were so low angle that I could blitz them at 9 mph with ease. To those used to traveling and Maserati speeds, that may sound like a joke, but on a phat knobby tired loaded bike, that’s warp speed going uphill.

On the first summit about seven miles out, the off-ramp was clear about cyclists getting off the highway. So that previous section WAS legal? Interesting. On the other side of the overpass, the down ramp said no go for bikes. Hmmm, okay. I remembered this from before. To “follow the rules,” you would have to ride north some miles, pick up Route 66 and take it east to Hwy 95–a death trap two-lane, no shoulder, high speed connector to Vegas that I’d ridden almost 20 years before. I would NOT ever ride it again. So off down past the sign, back on to the beautiful shoulder of Hwy 40. No LEO’s ruffled my feathers or even appeared on the road as far as I could tell.

The last gentle climb ended in a summit festooned with garbage alongside signs proclaiming $1,000 fines for littering. Yeah, right. Looked like an untapped revenue stream to me. I took a photo for posterity and pushed off, down the 15 + mile descent into the Colorado River zone, leaving behind the Mojave and entering the Colorado Desert, my third of this tour. The Sonoran desert was just over the river a bit, and I’d be there tomorrow. A wide-open vista for dozens of miles in every direction opened up, the sharp rocky needles of Needles rising above the river, settlements filling the low country along the water, a slate of grey overhead with more interesting clouds due east, many, many miles away.

A developing ache in my left hip that would nag me for the remainder of the tour caused me to pause during the long descent. I definitely needed to adapt better to this style of riding, but I eventually dropped into Needles, a scruffy, blistered little highway installation catering almost exclusively to people passing through. Although almost five thousand people call it home, it doesn’t feel like a place to linger, especially in summer when temperatures are well over 100 deg. F. On this cool December day, I pulled up to a Subway/Gas Station to rest and get my bearings.

I leaned Ivan up against a post and sat down to search the area for supplies. I really wanted a grocery store to set up for the next section. As I searched using my phone, a large Hispanic fellow with a Subway uniform shirt on, stepped out of the building and sat next to me, a big soft drink in his hand. Close shaved head, a broad, welcoming smile, and a couple of neck tattoos greeted me warmly. He was fascinated by my bike and journey. He made a point of mentioning his previous addiction a couple of times and how bikes were his main source of transportation. I have a big soft spot for addicts. They’ve been through the wars, and when they get out the other side they have a level of self-knowledge and a deep, personal feel for the struggle of life that is profound. He was sweet and supportive, giving me multiple fist bumps, especially when he asked what happens if I bust my phone. Satellite connector! “Wow, you’ve thought of everything!” Fist bump.

I went in search of food—Subway guy recommending the mini-mart associated with the next gas station down the road. They had a few things but meager were the pickings. I discovered that Needles is something of a food desert, not a single normal grocery store for a community of nearly 5,000 souls. The best I could discover was an anemic Dollar General. At least I could score some tortillas a peanut butter thick with hydrogenated oils--the travails of the long distance bike packer.



At last I landed at the Motel 6, the manager somehow remembering me from three years before. Hah! I was “home” again. Long hot shower, laundry, a bit of delivered pizza and a salad covered the rest. Dominoes really has improved its game, in case you were wondering.