Revenge of the 29'er Day 14

 

Day 14: 35 miles/2.7k climb

The Choss Wall of Stupid

Damp mist hung over the river as I stumbled about in the frozen morning shadows. Cold, damp AM 29 deg. F., frost on everything. My salvation: Coffee.

As I packed Ivan, nearly ready to go, my camp still in shadow due to a strategically placed hill to the east—gah!—I heard the rumble of ATV’s. In a moment, a couple of rigs broke through the gap in the willows and pulled to a stop in front of me. Two younger men and a grey-haired fellow climbed out and we exchanged greetings—flannel and fleece and big smiles. “We’re here to check our traps!” said the youngest man, perhaps in his early 20’s. “Look, Grandpa, looks like we got one! You can see him right there.”

“Yeah, I see it,” replied Grandpa.

The youngest slipped into waders and sloshed out through the shallow water and came back with a huge beaver clamped in a trap, quite dead. I was heartbroken. While I have nothing against hunters, especially if they take the craft seriously, trapping always seemed, in this modern age, needless and needlessly cruel. I realized as the young man hoisted the creature, slick and dripping, easily thirty pounds, its huge teeth protruding, that the splashing I’d heard the night before wasn’t the burros that were about but the final throws of the beaver. Although the river was named after a famous trapper, the market for beaver hats and pelts has long been replaced by other products. The death seemed gratuitous. To their credit, the trappers said they were going to eat the large rodent, and I couldn’t really be angry with them. They even invited me to their camp for a meal. I was bound to the road, however, with miles to make. I said goodbye and pushed off through the sand, a day of suffering ahead. I’d have little time or frame of mind to reflect on the incident at the river.

Less than a mile of sandy surfing from camp, the ATV track hooked out of the wash and up a very steep grade to the east, totally un-rideable. Crap. The first push of the day and I’d hardly gotten started. Dismount, shoulder to the bars, and push.

Or not.

A tale of weakness, temptation and stupid.

Right away my feet were skidding, Ivan pushing back with a vengeance. I suddenly lost heart. Really? This? Again? I looked about. Ah, maybe…. I looked back at the wash and realized that maybe I could continue along it and intersect the route up ahead. Sure. That’s the ticket.

I lowered Fat Ivan back to the wash and rode for a little then pushed along the sandy bottom through a magical slot of deep red stone, the sun glowing warm in the morning light. Fantastic. But as I pushed I realized what was likely to happen. Sure, I’d intersect the road, that much I knew from looking at maps and satellite photos. But that could easily mean a cul-de-sac of a berm rather than a sandy wash—both were possibilities. As the walls of the canyon climbed, the odds of a simple intersection faded. And died. I lifted Ivan through a couple of rocks and encountered the end, a steep wall leading up to the road, easily visible less than a hundred feet above.

My problem as a mountain climber is that I could see how it might go. Sure, it was steep and obviously loose, but if I could push Ivan diagonally across the slope, I could eventually make it up to a low break where the angle eased. Of course, I could back track, but that meant pushing, too. Why go back when you can move forward? Any steeper, and I would have done the smart thing. Instead, I assaulted the “Choss Wall of Death,” as I called it then, “choss” being an English term climbers use to describe rotten rock.

What ensued was the hardest push of the tour—totally desperate, feet skidding, more than once Ivan pushing me back, threatening to cartwheel both of us down the slope. Yelling, fighting, sweating, animal grunting and power screams. I’d been a complete fool. Jodi was right, of course, when I told her about it later. It wasn’t the “Choss Wall of Death.” It was the “Choss Wall of Stupid.” An old saying came flooding in with painful truth: If you’re going to be stupid, you’d better be tough.

I guess I was tough enough. I successfully jujitsued Ivan to the top and began the long day of my continued punishment underneath a perfect Arizona sky. Roller after roller after roller ground on into the afternoon, my brakes suddenly fading in the front from the hard grabbing I was forced into by the steep broken slopes. Without a good front brake, I had to walk down a few of the slopes. A slow descent was preferable to broken bones at the bottom.

About midday, a white Chevy Suburban rumbled up behind me as I topped another hard slog. Two smiling gents looked over and asked if I needed help—“You okay for water?” I said I thought I was okay, but I didn’t know if I’d make my destination for the day. I complained about the obvious challenges of the route. The younger one quipped: “The purgatory of Pipeline Rd!” I was thinking more like Inferno, but I loved the line. The two men were geologists from the USGS out do field work. Eventually the driver said, “Hey, we’re parking just up the road, and we’ll leave the water jug behind the rig. You’ll be riding right past us.”

“Okay,” I replied. “Maybe I will top off my bottles.”

They motored ahead, effortlessly climbing the slopes in 4x4 low. I soldiered on, one wave at a time, but before long, I descended to their rig. As promised, the water jug was out. And a breakfast bar. And an apple. And an ice cold fucking beautiful beer. Oh, the humanity. I topped off my water bottles, munched down the bar, and slammed that beer with gusto. The apple I would save for later. I etched a strong note of thanks in the dust on their back window. Pushed hard emotionally and physically, this act of kindness left me with a few tears as I pushed up the next grade. Road angels of the first order. All hail back country geologists!

Periodically, like an old soothsayer gazing into chicken entrails, I’d study the elevation profile on my GPS map. Surely that next summit—that one!—has got to be the last. And so it was. I grunted a final slog to find the way ahead virtually clear of the death rollers. A bump or two on the way down bled out to a broad, smooth basin, sand visible from even my high vantage point. Front brake be damned, I saddled up and rocketed down the crazy slopes until gravity was overcome by sand and I pedaled once again in the Land of Flat. Soon I came across The Four ATV’ers of the Resurrection who offered me beer and intel on the route ahead. While I didn’t have time for more of the ice cold ambrosia, the knowledge that the climbing road miles across the basin was, in fact, paved gave wings to my knobby tires as I slipped and pumped, pushed a little, but quickly headed south. I would make Wenden on Rt. 60. Just keep the pedals moving, chump.

Pavement, another climb of a few miles, a final summit, and long, low angle descent took me to Wenden and the day’s last sunlight. I camped at the back of a ratty town park where no one bothered me.

I had survived the trials of Pipeline Rd. And I never had to ride it again. Ever.

Revenge of the 29'er Day Day 13

 

Day 13: 35 miles/2010 ft. climb

The Sands of Despair lead to the Rollercoaster of Doom.

I could not believe that this ride would make me wish for sand riding, but when I hit the mountains, I discovered how easy the sandy riding had been.

A cloudless gem of day, little wind and cool enough to make the desperate work ahead manageable–though still plenty desperate. The "road" I followed was for installing and servicing the gas pipeline it was named after–not for general travel, and I soon discovered what that implied: horrendous relentless rollers of nauseating steepness, frequently loose, unstable and un-rideable.

Wave after wave, like the famed Banzai Pipeline in high season, the crumbling walls kept coming, pounding down upon my sweating head, threatening to break my spirit and crack my skull. A soft, sandy arroyo would lead to a leg and shoulder busting push, eliciting F bombs, C bombs, MF bombs, grunts, groans, feet slipping, bike slipping, a breather at each summit where I would look on with dread at the sea of loose gravel waves leering at me in the distance. I'd saddle up and ride the other side, sliding, jouncing, fighting for control – You got this. You got this. No mistakes. Bottom out at speed, slam into the sand or hard-edged crease and begin again. Over and over. Force prisoners to do this and they'd have your head at The Hague. But I fucking volunteered for this abuse. Be careful when you go to follow a line on a map. It may take you places beyond your imagination.

And so the afternoon and my Theater of the Absurd wore on. I wondered for a time if I would make it to the river, but one nasty little wave put me on top, the golden willows lining the river below. At last.

A quick and sketchy drop brought me down to the river level, but ANOTHER monster wave led back up to where the pipeline stretches high across the water and willows. No. Fucking. Way.

I switched my GPS map to satellite view I and discovered an alternate track down through the mesquite and iron wood. Yes. Ducking branches, lifting Ivan gingerly over some fallen barbwire, I slipped down to the waterline and regained the route. Hah! My mapped route, however, was a dead end, as I had suspected from close inspection on Google Earth. I quickly ran into an impenetrable swamp and deep thickets of brush–uh, no.

Minutes were critical now as the sun was setting. I frantically studied the satellite view and found the alternate track I needed. I back tracked a few yards, took my turn, and gunned for glory. Heavily over grown, slapping branches, pumping hard through the sand, this path was not going to make it easy on me. But the path widened, tire tracks appeared–this HAD to be it. A turn, a turn, a sandy fish-tailing turn…and the river, an obvious, short, easy crossing. Hallelujah and pass the brewskis, this day was almost over. No brewskis, though.

The water looked quite shallow. There were few rocks to be found here in the shallows, so barefoot it would be. I'd brought neoprene booties for this job, but they were buried, and I could see a campsite just there a few yards away. Off with the shoes and socks, grab Ivan, in a moment we were on the other side.

The hard slant of late autumn light glowed on the volcanic ridge to the east, Saguaro, mesquite, palo verde across the slope. A quiet ripple like a Zen fountain drifted through the canyon. Tall willow glowed in bright yellow hung overhead, the evening sun showering through for the final moments of the day. I took a brief bandana bath and dressed in full long underwear and fleece, reclining in my camp chair as the moon rose through the trees, the cold settling around me. I so desperately wanted a rest day here, a time to think, reflect, soak in the light and sounds, but the storm was coming, the snow to impede my progress. It was work hard every day and get it done. These moments of rest and reflection were welcome indeed.

Mountain lion tracks following cattle tracks--yoiks!

Revenege of the 29'er Day 12

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.

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.