Blue Skies, Grey Highways
February 11
There are at least fifty shades of grey asphalt and its cousins, all once proud blacktop, but aged and beaten down by the years and tire wear into grey middle age. At our leisurely pace, I have become a particular student of the shoulder lane, to which sensible bicyclists must hew. Whether riding the wide sort found on the interstate, or the narrower variations on the secondary highways (our principal routes), I've been interested to see every few miles or so burnt asphalt outlines on the shoulder. These rectangular effigies are likely cars abandoned and left to burn. Why so many in the Southwest? Insurance? A settling of accounts? An alternative theory is that hill-weary bike tourists have self-immolated (Buddhist monk-style), unable to face one more long climb.
The ride out of Quartzite took us past the many gem vendors peddling crystal rocks to the apparently robust market of new age adherents and lazy souvenir seekers, then up another long but gradual climb up the I-10 until we could get back on Rte. 60 and into the desert. What struck me was the straightness of the road: at least twenty miles dead ahead with no bends, but very gradual ups and downs. Two surprises in Brenda (pop. 676): a salad bar for only $4.99, and it was good. I channeled my inner Greg Scruton and loaded that one plate heaping full! This day featured a headwind and record high temp for this date (87F), so the road ahead to Hope (pop. 0) was longish. Once there, the question for our plucky team was whether to camp out and save a long climb for the next morning, or get it out of the way before dusk. We thus chose the road beyond Hope--sorry--and got as far as Salome (in AZ the biblical reference is lost on most and the town name rhymes with comb, a tool I may need to obtain should I not get a haircut soon). Don's Cactus Bar provided us a campsite out behind the trailer, excellent burgers, cool Bud Lights served by the affable Jeff, and a perch for us to watch Duke upset the Tarheels. A good day and a free campsite, although one scented with creosote. As grandson Jonathan and I both like trains, he would have been as excited as I to sleep just 30 feet from the train line, which allowed me twice that night to awake screaming, just like J, as the freight trains roared past. Or was that Barc screaming?
After a fine breakfast at Don's, Barc found his rear tire flat as we prepared to leave. In his previous two cross-country trips, he had a total of one flat, but today was to be a special payback for his atheism. In changing tubes, his zealous efforts punctured the replacement tube #1, so #2 was installed successfully while I reminded myself how to--and not to--patch spares. Barc will no doubt recount in his blog the subsequent flats, caused (in part) by a ghost wire that had penetrated his Kevlar tire. It turns out the subsequent flats (day's total: 5) were caused by another agent (the goathead thorn), and he stopped every two miles to pump up his tire, a slow leak on the remaining 20 miles to Wickenburg AZ. Poor Barc feigned good spirits as he sought to catch up to Grant from Ottawa, a fellow biker and true mechanic going our way whose company Barc now regretted eschewing earlier (author's note: Barc is selectively anti-social). After a grinding climb, we were able to cruise mostly downhill into Wickenburg to avenge our father's death (no, that was Wittenburg), blew through this Sodom celebrating its annual "gold rush days" with rodeos, brightly-lit rides, and Trump voters, and coasted a couple of miles past town to a truly friendly welcome at the "Horspitality RV Park" (yes, horses are welcome) as the daylight was waning. Key score: $5 off our campsite fee with my military veteran discount (the hospitable Sue did nor probe the exact nature of my actual service record, a scant few months in the militia in the summer of '72). Thus, a warm shower, PB&J sandwich (Barc's specialty), cheese, sausage...a good toothbrushing is always the right dessert following this menu...and reading before a good sleep.
This morning began with a slow descent into a mild headwind all the way to Phoenix (85 km) where Barc and I are now sharing a table at his favourite Starbucks. We had a coffee and donut holes with Sue at her office to begin the day, where we were relieved to discover that the Trump bobblehead and life-size cutout (except for the hands) in the office were not her idea. Originally from Vermont, she lives now as a political minority in RV land, where groping women is presumably standard practice. I will treasure the picture Barc took of me and the current Prez's effigy, the cardboard about as deep as Mr. T. Himself. Pity the fool.
Lunch today was an homage to our parents, Betty and Ainslie, who were known to take advantage of the Golden Corral's tasty buffet offerings, just as we did today. As Barc passes for a senior and I actually qualify, we saved $1.80 US on our bill, of which mom would approve. The food was actually pretty good and varied (both healthy and deep-fried), if unsurprising. The only disgusting part was how much food was being put away by the numerous walking dead working on their Type-2 diabetic preparedness. The small plates are a hurdle, of course, but not a discouragement. But never mind: I finished off with mint chip ice cream, a final nod to our late mama. The final 35 km (of the day's 90) will work off at least the ice cream, and two of the onion rings. Tonight we'll be guests at a warm showers host Barc knows well...nice to have a friendly place to land that we know in advance. Did I mention the desert and cacti are beautiful? They are. Adios.
Flat Tired, A Poem of Sorts by Barc
A tent behind Don’s Cactus Bar
Smelled like sweaty tube socks trapped in a jar
Old men made unpleasant noises inside
Suggesting all filters had shriveled and died
Finally one old man emerged through the flap
The younger old man, the one without clap
A glance at his bike showed the rear tire flat
He muttered a word, it might have been “drat”
The tube was replaced, air pumping began
He pumped very hard, as only he can
In hour or so on, he finally twigged
That the new inner tube, was also frigged
The tire levers had pinched, a jagged hole
Like greed and avarice pinched Trump’s soul
A second tube was installed with care
Unlike Trump’s soul, we carried a spare
That tube lasted, thirty-two K
Just long enough for hope to say
“Thanks for setting me up you prick
I thought tube two had done the trick”
The tire was re-examined, now that it mattered
Now that sanity was frayed, and scorched, and tattered
The young old man found a wire
Hiding like cancer, deep in the tire
The surgeon’s knife, dealt with the scourge
Redemption music began to surge
Flat number three would be the end
The fabric of happiness, would begin to mend
Flat number four, came one hour later
The young old man became a hater
A darkness descended on the Arizona plain
A darkness unrelated, to a chance of rain
The last new tube was, duly inserted
All hope of success, duly perverted
That tube went, on the thirtieth mile
Five flats, one day, taste the bile
The old men still had, twenty miles to go
It was desert, no services, only ravens and crow
The young old man hatched a plan that was sad
He pumped up the tire and pedaled like mad
Every two miles, he pumped again
A kind of fever seized his brain
Interval training, how hard can it be?
Ten reps of two miles, no stops for pee
And that’s what he did, the pathetic freak
All the way to the campground, seemed like a week
The young old man, when he finally stopped
Had eyes like a tweeker, frantically hopped
The old old man, talked him down
“It’s cool, man.” he said “We made the town.”
“We’ll fix the tire tomorrow” he said
The young old man nodded, and went to bed
The next day they found, a goat head thorn
Diabolically embedded, its top half shorn
New tubes were procured, new hope oozed out
And all that day, troubles were nowt
But the young old man, was a bit of a wreck
Karma had stomped on his head and his neck
Like a swarm of evil, memory gnats
He’ll never forget the day of five flats