An American Explorer: Revenge of the 29'er Day 7

Day 7: 34 miles/4060 ft. climb

One small number, one big–at least for me, anyway, with a fully stuffed Ivan to contend with. Those two always work with an inversion. More climbing equals fewer miles. Not being much of an Olympian, for me and this sixty year old carcass, this was a good, hard, hard day. I could have added a lot of miles, but short, short days and the appearance of a perfect camp cut my effort to the quick. But first I had to start.

I had been right to worry about this day, so I was up at 5 and rolling by 7AM, a new course record. The wind was light to nothing, and flying through the pale alkali flats and folds, the dark and light chocolate slopes and gnarled teeth on the skyline was a chilly joy. I worried a little about the rear wheel, and I had backed off the tension on the rest of the spokes, which popped and pinged a couple of times as everything settled in. I cringed a little even as I had anticipated just this occurrence. But the wheel didn’t explode as I climbed a few gentle rollers through Tecopa, famous for its healing waters, the spiritual center of this Land of the Lotus Eaters, a place outside the mainstream hustle.

Along the Old Spanish Trail, ratty trailers adorned the ridge above a solitary bearded old man, sitting in his car, a smoldering cigarette hanging from his whiskered lips as he looked out at the sunrise on the serrated range above Shoshone and route 127, all of it behind me now as I climbed out of the valley, astonished again and again by the views opening out to the north. The back of the old smoker’s car had a bumper sticker: I Love Tecopa. So, he was in the right place then.

A couple of miles further on, I stopped to change and listen to the silence, the easing of the wind feeling like a commuted prison sentence. I could hear! And just then a chorus of coyotes broke into song. Now that’s what I’m talking about.

Sand, loose gravel, long avenues of firm and smooth runs that gave me hope, for most of the day I did not have to battle lumpy washboard and rocks. I was grateful, but the soft crap wore me down, every stroke requiring extra effort, pedals in pudding. Except for a couple of sweet little drops, all of the day’s riding speed was in the low middle digits, just grinding and grinding. I needed a boost and pulled out the IPod and set some music, a tonic to my legs and soul. On the sad news of losing Christie McVie from Fleetwood Mac, I put on Rumors and contemplated the nearly 50 years since I first heard that album. Thoughts of my long gone parents and childhood filled my mind as my body worked to the compelling rhythm of the music, a sound track to my youth. So much gone. But here I was, a sixty year old man pedaling a grotesquely heavy pudgy bike up a huge mountain pass. What the actual hell? Madness. But it’s my madness, and I’ll take it with me to the grave.

Deep into the mountains, I climbed, the effort and steepening slope wearing me down. A big mining operation appeared, some heavy machinery out of sight pushing more slag down the incline, a giant boulder bouncing and sending up dust. The angle of the road became too much, so hike-a-bike it was. I re-saddled a bit later, but as the huge peaks closed in, jagged limestone on one side, steeper and more dramatic granite on the other, I gave up and just pushed, the last quarter mile all about brute animal effort. No music now, just my breath, sweat and pumping legs, shoulders aching as I muscled the big bike to over 5,000 ft. and the summit of the pass. Victory! Fantastic mountains and dry folded plains reached out, beaconing. And so I went.

I resolved to get down under 4k, but a campground appeared and that was that. A view of the craggy peaks, a stand of yucca or two–and a restroom. No changing out in the cold. I could use the loo. Brilliant. I worked fast as the sun did its end-of-the-day kamikaze dive for the horizon. Four pm in the afternoon. Seriously? Gah. Good night.