Day Five
Today has been my longest ride so far, nearly 84 miles from my bivouac in the Mojave Desert to east of the Colorado River in Arizona.
Yesterday, I pulled out of Twentynine Palms late in the afternoon, soon passing the "No Services for 100 Miles" sign, with 6 liters of water and enough food for a couple of days.
I pulled off the road well past sunset, within earshot of the highway but out of headlight sight lines, making camp by headlamp, turning it off whenever I heard a car or truck approaching. As a driver, once it's dark enough to need my headlights to see the road ahead, I don't see anything beyond the beam that's not a light itself. Who knows or cares what's out there? As a cycling camper, I can count on not being seen unless I'm literally stumbled upon. A dog in the neighborhood may sense me and sometimes keep barking until brought in, but people lack that awareness. No pets in the Mojave, though, 25 miles past that No Services sign.
I was awake at 5:55 AM, up at 6, sunrise at 6:30. Cold out. My temperature/wind gauge read 35 at ground level and 40 at shoulder level. With everything packed I was ready to carry the bike to the highway by 8.
My front tire went flat in the night. Out with the tools and off with the wheel. When the leak is not obvious, I wet my lips and pull the tube through my hands, lips a quarter inch from the tube, inching around to feel for the tiny stream of air. Around from the stem on one edge of the road side of the tube, then flip it and go around again on the other side. I could not find the leak. Too small. I grabbed a spare a spare, installed it and pumped 700-ish times to get it to pressure. With the wheel reinstalled, I walked the bike to the road. And this tube was now flat too. Apparently, the last time I patched it, there were two punctures, not just one, and I didn't find the second one.
Patience is a practice that takes practice. I had, shall I say, a moment. It passed and I fixed this tube, pumped to pressure and was on the road by 9:00, having lost an hour. I've had a rash of flats that cannot continue. They are all on the front tire, I'm running very light tires. But if the flats were random, I'd have rear flats too. What's different about the front wheel? My hypothesis is that while the rear wheel rolls only straight, the front, while being steered, gets stressed and stretched. If I hit a sharp thing when the tire is being turned, even just a little…pop! In towns, I'm turning a lot, so that tire is getting stressed a lot. If this is true, fewer maneuvers, fewer flats. We'll see.
Sure enough, once on the highway with no stops and nothing to swerve around, not a flat all day. Still, I'll switch to more robust tires, or maybe a tubeless tire/wheel setup, in Tempe. The new tubeless tire setup includes a latex goo that stays liquid inside the rolling tire. There is no tube to puncture, and the goo instantly seals any small punctures in the tire. All of my punctures have been small, so tubeless tires might have saved me, so far on this ride, 8 patches, nearly 5 hours and about 5000 compressions on my tire pump.
The Mojave Desert is big, and while crossing it, the mountain ranges just keep coming and going. The 2-lane road is in good shape, with mostly narrow shoulders, but drivers are thoughtful. There's more traffic than I expected. It's a Friday, so I think a lot of people are heading from the city to recreate in the desert. Lots of ski boats in tow. Fewer work trucks and more attention grabbing suburban 4x4 pickups. Their big, impressive tires make more noise so I hear them coming from further back. The professional drivers in the really big rigs are the most considerate of all. I'll probably keep saying this all across the country. It’s the weekend warriors driving rigs bigger than they are used to that I have to be concerned with.
The desert is in bloom, with lots of green. I have a favorable wind most of the day. Up north, a huge weather system is dumping snow in the Sierras. I'm at the southern edge of this system, and as the day unfolds, the skies slowly cloud up. I'm being chased by virga—rain that falls from clouds but evaporates before it hits ground. I stayed dry all day and caught just a few big drops as I approached the Colorado River.
Today's long ride exceeded my training. My right leg started complaining at about mile 60. My right leg is noticeable thinner than my left, a result of nerve damage from a bout of sciatica a couple of years ago. Today, it couldn't keep up with the left leg, and soon, I was intentionally pushing harder on the left pedal to gain some relief. It's okay to work through pain, but not an injury. Injuries need attention and rest. Still, I'm 20+ miles from camp near Parker. I cannot stop until I'm in a safe place, so I have to push it, and risk making it worse. Which means getting to Parker and committing to recovery before continuing on. So I'll motel it tonight.
The run-down Stardust Motel in Parker is a newly minted Travel Lodge. Or will be soon. It's being remodeled and workers are everywhere. The new sign is still crated on the parking lot. The place is a wreck, but the desk staff was obviously filled with the promise of what the motel would soon be. I had a sense of the “Best Exotic Marigold Hotel”. Mostly in shambles but becoming something, cheerfully. The shower worked and the bed was new.
Parker, AZ seemed to be populated only by people going someplace else, until I walked into the Crossroads Cafe and found the party. Everyone in town seemed to be in here for Friday dinner. A happy riot. After 3 days of almost no human contact, this was fun.
I sat next to Harold at the bar and enjoyed my burger as he told me about his life in Clear Lake and Stockton, California. Harold was off to visit his mom, who retired to Arizona, like hundreds of thousands of others. After we talked, he said he'll pull his bike out of the garage and ride it a few miles. Okay, I've made an impact.
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.
