Day Eleven
The morning of April 11 I was up, packed and on my way at a reasonable time.
Last night's sleep was restless and achy from my epic day on April 10. My legs were tired but they warmed up and settled in and provided uncomplaining power. The first stretch out of Globe was downhill, and soon gave way to steady ups and downs through rugged, undulating terrain. The road surface continued to be smooth and clean. A headwind built as the heat of the day did. It was actually kind of welcome: I sweltered in yesterday's heat and tailwind because as I rode at basically wind speed, I was in a pocket of still air in the hot Arizona sun. Today's breeze kept me much cooler in the same heat. I made good time and began to think I could stretch my goal for the day from the town of Pima at 68 miles to Safford at 76 miles.
For several days I have had a slow leak of the front tube. I was curious about how long it would last so I just pumped it up each morning and rode it. About 41 miles into today's ride, it quit on me, so I changed out the tube for a fresh one.
Then at about mile 45, the rear tire went flat for the first time on this trip. A rear flat, with my setup, is a time consuming production to deal with. The rear bags have to come off. The rear rack has to be disconnected, because its lower anchor partially covers the the rear wheel spindle, which must be removed to pull the tire. I immediately found the hole in the tube its cause: a tiny steel wire fragment had penetrated the tire casing. These little wires are the result of tire steel belts disintegrating when a tire on a vehicle comes apart.
I pumped up the patched tire and it went flat again. There was a second puncture on the other side of the tire. I inspected the tire more carefully, and after finding no more wires, I replaced the tube with a fresh one. After putting everything together, I pulled onto the road, and my rear derailleur refused to shift off the smallest cog. Shift the lever, nothing happens.
It's a serious issue to be stuck in high gear in hilly terrain. In fact, few things are worse. No gears, no progress. I'm greasy, sticky, dehydrating, in a no-name spot on the Apache Indian Reservation, with a busted bike. I try to figure out the problem but it's a total mystery to me.
I push in high gear to the Mt. Turnbull Apache Market in Bylas. Fortunately, they have exactly the thing to clear a muddled head: ice cream cones. The cone helps everything come into focus. Chocolate chip mint.
There is no way to fix this thing here. There's no bike shop closer than Tucson, 130 miles away. The Greyhound won't come through until tomorrow morning. Because I'm not a tribal member, I can't use tribal transit. I don't have a permit to camp on tribal land. The closest rental car is in Safford, 34 miles away. So is the closest motel. AAA rescues bikes as well as cars. Those are the facts. Check.
I call AAA. They send me to their website that only cues me for a car breakdown. I call back and talk to a real person, who enjoys the uniqueness of this situation and cheerfully walks me through the whole system ("Vehicle year, make, and model?" 2022 Cannondale CAADX. "Ooh! It's actually on the list!") The dispatched wrecker truck will be to the Mt. Turnbull Apache Market within an hour. Or so.
I unpack the bike to make it easier to load, then kill time shooting take after take of selfie video, trying to, as I'm asked to get my clips down to 15 seconds or less. I finally get one that's short enough with no stuttering, just as the truck rolls up.
Floyd is a burly and seasoned 63-year-old rescue man. his knees are bad so I hop up on the flatbed ramp and we work to tie the bike on. His plan is to keep the bike vertical with ratchet straps so it doesn't get scratched. Smart.
Floyd is everything you think of in a tow truck operator with decades of experience: wearing well-worn, greasy coveralls, and a 10-day beard. It turns out he's also an Eagle Scout and Mormon Elder who did his mission in Hong Kong and loves Chinese food. His kids are grown, highly educated and making grandkids. Floyd explained that this valley was settled and cultivated by LDS families in the late 1800s, and sure enough, as we drive to Safford, we pass several church wards and temple. As we bump along down the highway, I look back at the bike, wondering if it will come loose and fall off, but Floyd's tie downs don't fail. At the motel, he removes the straps while I check in, then I hop up onto the flatbed and hand the bike down to Floyd. Floyd said the last cyclists he picked up had thought they could just filter water from all of the Arizona streams that were on the map, but in reality, were dry. Their bikes worked, but they were dangerously dehydrated. My simple mechanical breakdown was much easier.
Tomorrow, I'll rent a car, drive nearly 300 hundred miles to a bike shop in Tucson, repair or replace this derailleur, and hopefully return to Safford in time to get in the 30+ miles I missed today, just seeing the area. That'll keep my mileage honest for needing a ride today.
Then comes evaluation time. I'm off my pace. Do I take my scenic detour into the mountains and 8,200-foot Emory Pass, just for fun? Or do I beeline it to Las Cruces on the direct, low road, and make up time? I don't know. Stay tuned.
My trip is now officially an adventure: reality interrupted the plan. I've now got to think, act, and do what conditions mandate, not what my precious planning has prescribed.
I’d love to hear from you. Donate to the ride and send along your words of encouragement and tell me why getting kids outside matters to you.
