Triplogue - California to Arizona

Here it is, our trip was upon us. Craziness pervaded the last days in Santa Cruz. From closing our house, moving everything into storage, working out the details of our new web host, saying our good byes to finally getting into the car and driving off, we barely maintained sanity, most of the time…. 

The most trying moment, for Andy mostly, was the dreadful parking lot incident on our way south to Los Angeles and San Diego. As we pulled out of the burger joint in Salinas a pole leapt into the path of the truck as Andy backed out of the parking space. As fate would have it the bikes were between the truck and the pole. Overcome by the initial shock of seeing my new bike with only 500 miles on it looking more kin to a pretzel than a touring bike we nearly cried in desperation. It took a few moments to convince Andy that jumping into traffic on the freeway was not a good solution to the problem.

 At first we thought both bikes were destroyed, but closer inspection made us confident that we could build one bike from the two damaged ones. On our way to LA we ordered a new one to be delivered the next day and once in LA enlisted the help of an off-duty bike repairman to help us build Frankenbike from the two damaged ones. On the positive side, we would have lots of spare parts after all of this. A few days’ R&R in LA hanging with friends and family put us back into the spirit, and we made our way to San Diego with my mom to meet Andy’s.

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Fred and bike not enjoying the post-pole experience

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Andy, Fred, Dirk, and Chris squared sip a cold one and contemplate a night in a graveyard

Call it mythic; call it oedipal. Whatever the case, it felt significant that our big send off consisted of us, our two mothers, and our shiny new bikes with their rear wheels immersed in the murky waters of San Diego harbor. The ceremony was brief and unceremonious, but it somehow seemed an appropriate way to mark the beginning of our new lives as nomads. Also fitting was the weather provided by Santa Ana –another famous mom. It was over eighty degrees as we set off before nine thirty, and within a couple of hours my thermometer was reading over ninety in the shade and the wind was coming right at us out of the southeast.

 As we biked along the harbor and its mammoth naval installation, we met briefly with our first fellow transcontinental cyclist, a rather phlegmatic guy called Mike whom I’m sure we’ll run into more than once over the next two months. From the harbor we turned inland and began our long ascent through suburbia into the mountains. We hooked up with highway 94 near Jamul, had a tailgate lunch of sandwiches procured by Joyce, and continued upwards along rushing streams and gloriously green pastures filled with happy-looking cows. Halfway up a nasty seven-mile hill before Potrero, we met up with three incongruous looking cyclists, whom both Fred and I first supposed to be illegal immigrants freshly over the nearby border. They turned out to be gringos, however, and are without a doubt the oddest trio of bikers I’ve ever met.

 Papa Chris is sixty-eight years old, riding with his two sons, Chris IV and Dirk. All three of them were astride old ten-speeds purchased at K-mart, each of which was equipped with an enormous basket in front, loaded up with sleeping bags, bedrolls and various unknown objects wrapped in garbage bags. None of them was wearing anything that could be considered cycling gear: no helmets, no gloves, no jerseys, no spandex, not even toe clips. All of their handlebars were of the kind I can remember having on the Schwinn Stingray I had as a kid. Dirk explained that this helped eliminate back problems, thereby allowing them to ride upwards of a hundred twenty miles daily. "But how do you manage that?" I asked incredulously. "We ride from dawn to dusk, and sleep in churchyards and graveyards." He went on to describe some of the ambitious itineraries they had tackled in the past, most of them originating in Springfield, Illinois (which of course elicited thoughts of the Simpsons on my part, though I kept my mouth shut). Joyce was waiting for us in beautiful downtown Potrero (pop. 140) and the six of us polished off the brownies Doris had made us and continued to marvel at our antithetical approaches to riding.

From Potrero, the road continued to climb upward, and the scenery got increasingly gorgeous. We crossed over the 3000 foot line in a boulder-strewn pass, and my altimeter was showing nearly 4000 feet just before a hamlet called Boulevard. By this time the sun was setting and we were pretty much wasted. The only thing that kept me going the final eight miles to Jacumba was knowing that there were hot springs at road’s end. It also helped that it was mostly downhill.

The Jacumba Hot Springs Spa is a funky little place with a sulfur-smelling jacuzzi, a very lively bar which only serves beer, and a restaurant. At dinner we met a venerable intellectual type called Richard who was dining alone while reading a massive biography on Truman. We invited him over to our table and quickly learned that he is a writer living in the area, and attended the same college at Yale that I did. He was very enthusiastic about our trip and encouraged us to seek more sponsorship, which seemed sound advice.

Right now it’s only quarter to ten and Fred and Joyce are already sawing logs in their respective beds. I have just returned from the spa, which was both relaxing and anth

ropologically stimulating. My fellow health-seekers were all drunk from too many beers at the bar. One guy with a big beer gut said he worked for the carnival that was nearby and told us we were nuts to want to ride across the country on bikes; a Sioux Indian called Daniel philosophized on politics in the sauna, while his zaftig blond girlfriend (who preferred the jacuzzi) said she was celebrating her birthday and kept wondering out loud where her next beer was going to come from.

Tomorrow we’ll plunge down below sea level into the desert, where I doubt we’ll encounter such amazing scenery or characters.

Joyce asked us at dinner tonight what the high point of our ride was today, and neither Andrew nor I could say that it was the meal we were eating. We did manage to find a number of other great moments. Today we started slowly trying to accommodate Andy’s aching knee. Leaving our simple hotel we pedaled gradually up some 300’ and looked down upon the valley on the other side of the pass past our decent. "Gradual" evolved into a shriekingly fabulous downhill that was the deferred reward for our ascents the previous day. For over ten miles we exceeded the truck speed limit without so much as pedaling.

We employed Joyce to check out the road conditions ahead in order to confirm the rumor that the road recommended by our maps was not very sound. A women’s group (code for lesbians) had done the ride a few days before and left us an e-mail warning us that we might not be able to sit again if we took S-80. Once we arrived at the meeting place Joyce she was no where to be seen. We paused under the freeway to spiff-up (apply sunscreen), and noticed a trio of cyclists a mile away starting up a hill. Their profiles were unmistakable: it was Chris² and Dirk, who had somehow caught up with us. Seems that they rode until eight in the evening and got up at five in the morning. They had passed our hotel at eight and seen the SAG Wagon in the parking lot as they passed.

(Oh, there is a important definition of a term to be made here – normally text like this should be included in a footnote or glossary, but I am not sure I am ready to figure out how to handle it in this format. Joyce was contemplating supporting us on the first leg of the journey. It sounded great to us, because we needed someone to drive the truck back to Phoenix and we wanted to ease into our new lifestyle as well as have an opportunity to hang with Andy’s mom. She "bounced the idea off " Marty, Andy’s brother who immediately dubbed her the SAG Wag Fag Hag. SAG = Support and Gear, Wag = Wagon, Fag Hag (does this require explanation?) = derogatory term for women who hang with homos.)

Dirk, brother and father (both named Chris, but I have no idea how to make Chris plural) were headed down south to Calexico to stop for the night. They intended to get down there, cross the border and have a real Mexican meal, including a few "Margaritis" said Chris senior. We parted company after making plans to have a drink together in Phoenix, Andrew and I wondering aloud how they would make it there in the three days as they planned.

We found Joyce, and mission was accomplished. S-80 was not suited for riding so we opted to stay on the interstate for 25 more miles despite signs stating that this was not legal. We spent the first few minutes figuring what we should say to the Highway Patrol if stopped, but didn’t have the opportunity to use it. The terrain morphed into desert, trees giving way to scrub and temperatures escalating to near 100. The interstate was tranquil and the shoulder generous, so the next twenty-five miles were bearable despite the moderate head wind. When we arrived in El Centro we exited the freeway and looked for the first Foster’s Freeze, hankering for a root beer float and a greasy burger. We collided with a Taqueria first and decided to opt for a Mexican meal, our appetite whetted by our talk with Dirk and crew. What a mistake. It took nearly an hour to bring us our meal and when it arrived the dizzy waitress brought twice as much food as we had intended to order.

Similar confusion ensued when I asked her to fill my water bottles with ice and then to top them with water. This time she came back with one bottle full of ice and the other with water. She made a second effort, but later I discovered that she added something like bleach to the water. Still not sated, we went in search of something cold and happened upon a Foster’s Freeze and quenched our thirst with a frosty float. While we drained our cups some scumbag sat at our table despite the availability of other tables wearing a "Promise Keepers" T-shirt. Andy assaulted him verbally immediately, saying "Nothing you say to me could convince me that there is a God". He was taken-aback because he had borrowed the shirt from a friend and was just sitting down with us to try to sell us his "art", a little oil painting of an Indian warrior.

After lunch we hit the "agouti trail" (see Belize, Mexico and Cuba Triplogues) with the temperature topping out just above 100 as we passed the 50 mile mark. The flat terrain, the head wind and the sun were working me and I was nearly ready to pack it in for the day. A stop in Brawley and a rendez-vous with Joyce were no help. But we were dedicated to the idea of POT (Peddling on Though) in order to make our goal of 100 miles this day. At one of the lowest points of the day we were menaced by nasty unleashed dogs who ran after us barking, baring their teeth and snarling at us. As they approached we got out our trusty pepper spray, pointed it in their direction, and just as we were about to let them have it they turned tail. Seems they recognized our armaments.

Just as I was ready to give in. the landscape changed, we lost a few degrees (well below 100) and the wind pushed us just a little from behind. Flat and boring agricultural land gave way to rolling sand dunes. The sun started to dip towards the horizon and we were re-energized. We screamed through the next miles finishing our ride just as the sun fell behind the Chocolate mountains. 

The last bites of my chicken-fried steak passed my lips as we finished recounting the day for Joyce. We retired after celebrating the day by washing our rank and crusty cycling outfits, readying ourselves for another day on the road.

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Andy fights the heat with a sip of water

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Requisite "welcome to shot"

Today’s 111 miles mark the most I’ve ever ridden in a day; and it’s definitely the first time either of us has completed two consecutive days of over a hundred miles. Does this count as an accomplishment yet? 

Just past dawn, Joyce schlepped us and our bikes back to where we had stopped riding yesterday, thereby preserving the integrity of our coast-to-coast goal. The twenty-eight miles back to Palo Verde and breakfast were fun and fast, on a roller-coastery road through the desert. We ate in the bar that was part of our motel’s complex (rooms-gas-bar-card room), chatting with local alkies and marveling at the place’s decor and general ambiance. From Palo Verde it was a boring and hot 20-mile pedal to Blythe, just beyond which we crossed the Colorado River and the Arizona border.

Once we had entered the Grand Canyon State, the landscape immediately changed to roadrunneresque, with saguaros and lots of reddish rocks balanced on top of each other. The road was a bit frustrating though. We were on the Interstate again, and this time the shoulders were punctuated with little canals designed to alert weary drivers about to have a close encounter with a cactus (we later learned from highway workers in a Salome bar that this plague to cyclists is commonly known as "rumble strips"). Only a few miles into rumble strip hell, we pulled off into a highway rest stop where Joyce was waiting for us with lunch. Our goal was to make it to Salome, sixty miles further, but the pain in my knee and the heat made me want to set up camp right there.

We made it all the way, though, pulling into Salome just as dusk settled over the desert. Joyce had scored us another motel "suite" and we exchanged horror stories concerning Quartzsite, AZ, a town we had passed through some forty miles back, and the self-described RV capital of the known universe. It’s full of aged Midwesterners of modest means wintering in their trailers and supplementing their Social Security incomes by selling rocks they find in the desert --a place that could only exist in this great land of ours. Joyce had saved the brochure from the only hotel she could find in Quartzite, which consisted entirely of trailers, and we were happy to be staying in the route 66ish funk-o-rama that was Salome.

"How exactly do the locals pronounce the name of this place?" we asked a likely-looking candidate at the next table while enjoying awesome barbecued treats prepared by a friendly lesbonic cook. Her reply rhymed with "home" and was accompanied by a thinly-disguised admonishment to us heathens: "We call it Salohm, like in the Bihble." I was half-tempted to tell her I always thought it was pronounced "salomay," like in the Strauss opera with the Oscar Wilde libretto, but I was somehow able to control my sass instinct.

There were more lesbians at the bar. Fred extracted advice on Wickenburg from a butch woman called Kaye-bear, while I talked to the world’s friendliest construction crew, headed by an incongruously well-dressed and -coiffed woman from Scottsdale (who probably wasn’t lesbian) and learned about rumble strips.

Big mileage days and the hot sun had taken its toll upon us so it seemed logical to make our first semi-unsupported day a light one. We planned to cover only 55 miles and happy to have done so. Andy still was having knee problems and the day included an insidiously slow uphill accompanied by a steady head wind.  

After our country café breaky we slowly got on our bicycles and pedaled into the blowing wind. Within a few moments we looked at each other and said "IHNE", which stands for "I have no energy." We had arranged to meet Joyce 15 miles down the road at a rest area, but as we came upon it we discovered it closed. Joyce was nowhere to be seen so we began to search for the sister rest area on the other side of the road. Our quest for relaxation was quickly interrupted by the too-well-known hissing noise of the trip’s first flat --Andy’s rear tire punctured by a chunk of Bud bottle. Only a few miles later it was flat again, adding to the sinking feeling that we might never make it to Wickenburg. 

Once we repaired the second flat we were on our way down the deadly straight road towards Aguila. Joyce appeared miraculously as we came into Aguila and we sat down for our midday meal at a charming little Mexican diner. After a hearty and beany lunch we loaded the bikes with our packs for the first time and readied ourselves to hit the road. Joyce was on her way directly to Phoenix to meet her friend and we were to be on our own for the first time.

Before parting, Joyce told us of another cyclist she met. A crusty bearded dude, who was on his way to Arkansas from Canada to meet his family and be reunited with his Motorcycle. His doctor had recommended bicycling as therapy to recover from a motorcycle accident, a prescription he had apparently taken seriously. We didn’t anticipate catching up to him because when Joyce met him he was just outside of Wickenburg.

We’d almost forgotten about this mythological character, mesmerized by the dull landscape and tedium of the grade and wind, but he was to surprise us as we approached town. At the end of the steepest part of the day we crested and were treated to a sweeping view of the valley that housed our destination. As we whizzed down the 1000 foot descent we saw a goony looking dude using a metal detector to look for change in a turnout. 

Andy signaled me to stop and we chatted with Art for a while as he swept the gravel for change. He could live on a dollar a day and had already found sixty-six cents. Two thirds of the way towards his daily budget he felt comfortable stopping to exchange advice and pleasantries with us. Bearded with faded and blurry tattoos he recounted some of the stories Joyce had shared earlier. We wished each other luck and continued our plunge into the valley. Ye Olde Wickenburg unfolded before us and we arranged to stay in the Ye Olde Beste Westerne, the most elegant place in towne. We felt we deserved a little comfort.

A walk around town, scoping out dinner and entertainment opportunities yielded a number of options. We mulled them over in the Pony Espresso sipping an iced mocha. This was civilization. After a swim in the pool and a little yoga we hit the street. Anita’s Mexican Cuisine served up an awesome margarita and the best Carne Asada we had ever tasted. The portions were so large we had enough for the next day’s lunch. After dinner we saw arch-conservative Clint Eastwood’s, new movie "Absolute Power". It was not absolutely boring and predictable but close to it. Couldn’t find the energy to go to any of the downtown drinking establishments for a cold one afterwards as we had promised ourselves, but a big comfortable bed was a good consolation. The next day would be a big one, our arrival in Phoenix.

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Art looking for 34 more cents

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Andy contemplates our return to civilization

Today’s ride took us through some beautiful "high desert" scenery before we hit Phoenix and all its nastiness. Highway 74 skirts the city to the North, and passes through some of the lushest desert I’ve seen, full of Palo Verde trees and saguari. We stopped at the first sign of civilization, some thirty-five miles out of Wickenburg, in the middle of nowhere, thirsty for something cold and needing a rest. The place was a bar-cum-grocery store, and the preferred hangout for local adolescents. There was a whole crowd of them congregated in the parking lot where we scarfed down the remains of last night’s dinner. They had all arrived on four-wheeled desert buggies that they told me were called "quads," and were all boys save one –a kind of biker chick in training. Fred and I were especially taken with Justin and Jeremy, who refused to believe we had ridden all the way from San Diego. "Nuh-uhhh!" was their favorite reaction to our statements, and apparently an important part of the local Desertbrat lexicon. Fred and I have since integrated it into our own vocabularies… Another discovery at this wide place in the road was a new version of the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup including a layer of cookie; we ate six of them on the spot to help energize us for the long ride through the gargantuan suburban sprawl that constitutes Phoenix.  

Traffic picked up before we saw any further signs of civilization, and then all of a sudden we were in the thick of it. In Sun City and Peoria we were disappointed not to see anyone cruising the city streets in their golf carts. Then we turned eastwards onto Union Hills Drive, along which we pedaled for nearly twenty miles. The Phoenix landscape is eerily homogenous, with arrow-straight streets clogged with trucks and vans of every conceivable ilk. Gas stations and convenience stores appeared at virtually every intersection, acting as punctuation in an endless parade of strip malls. The traffic got worse and worse, especially at the only hill we found on Union Hills Drive –which was surprisingly steep and lacking any kind of shoulder. Horns honked and drivers yelled obscenities out their windows. But this alien place is our official home now, so we tried to keep a positive attitude towards the place. 

But our suspicions that this megacity in the desert isn’t exactly a cycling Mecca were confirmed when we ran across Mike, who had just suffered a flat tire on his brand new bike due to a driver cutting him off. We sympathized with him and fixed his tire for him, giving him one of our spare tubes. He was so grateful that he offered to put us up at his place, and when we explained that we had that base covered, he told us he managed a bar where he’d supply us with free drinks. We warned him of the possibility of being accompanied by three other zany cyclists –Chris2 and Dirk—but Mike said they’d be welcome too.

Had Mike known, however, just how many "margaritis" five thirsty bikers could consume, he may have reconsidered his offer. The phone rang only minutes after our arrival at my dad’s place, and it was Dirk saying they’d be over at seven to pick us up and take us out drinking. Amazingly, they had covered the same amount of ground we had, on fully-loaded dinosaurbikes, in only four days. Over no fewer than three jumbo pitchers of ‘ritas, we exchanged tales of the road. Chris Senior wanted to check out a titty bar (which he demurely referred to as a "girlie bar") on his way back to Apache Junction –where they were staying with Gramps, but we took a pass on this. Neither of his sons seemed too keen either. After all, Dirk is a wholesome Christian type and his big brother Chris is also a big sister, or so Fred and I strongly suspect. By the time we made it back here (I was very relieved to see Dirk take the wheel), Dad and Leslie had gotten back from their trip, and I wanted Fred to meet Chris Senior and see how even a more mature gentleman is capable of cranking out upwards of 100 miles in a day on his bike.

Tomorrow morning Chris Jr. heads back to San Diego, with a solemn vow of never again accompanying his crazed family on a bike trip, while Chris Sr. and Dirk plan to drive all the way back to Springfield, where I am now convinced they are neighbors of Homer and Marge.