Day 3. 189 Miles. Enter Sand, Man.

If you’re just coming in and were not yet aware, three is the magic number. I promised wild UFO shit and stopped at three of the five stations and donated a quarter. Pretty weird stuff here gang.

No poop. No coffee. Out the RV door and rolling. Somewhat windy, but 15 miles back on Interstate 8 to a store in Ocotillo and we descend something like 3000 feet. I’m not even pedaling as I violate the posted 35 mph speed limit. I can feel my right foot start to twitch as I hit 40+ mph – so I tap the break just a tad and in just time for a swirling mountain wind to come around the corner and try to push me over from the left. The winds are formidably unpredictable; we cover that 15 miles in 40 minutes and tuck into the Red Feather Cafe for coffee and breakfast.

We’ve now got nothing but low desert from here to Phoenix. With a flat earth scenario in front of us, we put the 33 miles to Calexico in our pocket. We fill up water and crush some lunch. I’ve totally got a crush on these Mexicano pedialyte electrolyte drinks I’ve been, they help me against cramping and taste way better than the USA versions. I really really wanna start calling them Mexicolectrolytes. It’s hard to say, so I keep practicing.

Both Damon and I have our passports on us, ready to cross the border into Mexicali. Mainly because I’ve never been there but also just cause I’m honestly tired of all these worldwide travel restrictions. Anyway. If you’re keeping score on the interwebs, the We-Didn’t-Go-To-Mexicos are winning 1-0. Though one might argue that I’m already in 🇲🇽. But that’s a subject for another blog. Miles and miles of wall is the subject Damon and I tackle in our typically point for point fashion. We’re debate fashionistos bitches. I’m astounded at the cost of a wall up and over mountains for what purpose? The desert and the mountains are very effective natural walls. Out here riding on this very quiet road with absolutely nothing else around drives home how remote a place we are in. I say to Damon “Should someone actually make it through alive on foot, I’d have to offer them some water and find out why they’d go through all that”. Damon remarks at the human capital expensed on building, maintaining, and arguing about this wall. He’s right too. He expands. Some are against immigration because of ignorance. Some because of economics. I tell him I’m all in on America leading when it comes to immigration policy. Maybe study models that other nations are using and creatively adapt them to our own needs and circumstances. Instead we don’t lead in shit. Wait. Actually we do lead in shit. America puts out more shit than anywhere else, at least figuratively. US and A!

We’re pushing another 30 miles out side by side without saying anything to each other. Soaking up the vastness of the space. Coming up toward Yuma, we have to get back on Interstate 8 and it’s just no bueno amigo. Four miles of that crap and we call it quits for the day alongside the Imperial Sand Dunes. That 85 miles feels like 85 miles right now. I pop up the castle for the first time this trip and suddenly I’ve got the entire kingdom around me, my reign set against the backdrop of a magnificent sunset synchronized below a perfect crescent moon. Head. Pillow. Snore.

About tonycaferro

Entrepreneur, Citizen, Marketeer, Fire Fighter / EMT, Bicycle-Tourist, Booking Agent, Youth Mentor, Activist, Agitator, Coffee Addict, Foodie, Social Media Nerd, Amateur Film Critic, Son, Brother, Uncle & Rust Belt Representative. Follow me on Twitter @dtr45
This entry was posted in bicycle touring, on the road and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Day 3. 189 Miles. Enter Sand, Man.

  1. George H says:

    Tony … great following along from frozen Wisconsin. I’ll be a few weeks behind you. Keep on trucking.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s