Hoping for a Tail Wind

Proper rest, indeed.

Feeling energized, we’re loading up on extra water and moving out by about 40° in the morning. I usually tell time with a watch. Except on bike tours when I rely on the sun. Except on this bike tour when I use temperature. We’re headed up into Gila National Forest and over the next two days we’ll climb through the mountains via the 8,228 foot high Emery Pass. Basically we’re getting high as fuck for the next two days straight. I believe it’s called AF.

We gain 2,000 feet in the first 20 miles. Slow and steady at seven miles per hour, Damon and I do our debate thing. Where we agree to agree and then disagree on how to get to the agreement. Basically more discussion about society, innovation and the future of the world. I enjoy our conversations and I feel great about the road conditions, the scenery, and the lack of traffic. I like that. Whereas yesterday would have delivered a death rate of 20 vehicles every 2 minutes; I now get 2 every 20 minutes. It’s probably how Danny Aiello would have felt in Do The Right Thing if that film didn’t have a climax and Radio Raheem wasn’t killed by the cops. For the Spike Lee-uninitiated among us… I can hear myself think. As usual, Damon crushes the uphills and is miles ahead after an hour. The solo tranquility has my brain sifting through the mucous membranes that are the idiosyncratic differences between summer and winter bicycle adventures. Like how I have to tell time in temperature. Or how I rely more on indoor remote sleeping and how this limits my long days. Not to mention the obvious shorter daylight hours. Red pill or blue, there is still no spoon. Comparisons are futile; I’m assigning no value, just identifying the variances in my mind.

Eventually I choose a more aesthetic way to occupy the miles and fire up an all A Tribe Called Quest playlist — perfect for this cool, crisp and sunny ride into the mountains. And instinctive path. A dozen cuts in and a low end theory of thunder rumbling come across the mountains and canyons. I wanna be pissed at my weather app until that rumble reaches divine levels and an unmarked fighter jet screeches low across my world, dipping his wing, zooming off with the same thunderous rumble. What a sight! I get my own fucking flyover and I bet Tom Cruise is in the cockpit. The password is Fidelio.

Pushing it along, the continuous incline spills into the Continental Divide, so I stop to take a pic and drink an afternoon cup of black gold.

6,355 feet definitely feels that way as the air gets thinner and the cycling gets harder. My quads know this, maaaan. Eventually the scenario becomes a series of rolling climbs and descents. Whereas Damon owns the uphills, I crush when I can get into gear on the downhills and use that momentum on the incline. I go from 36 mph in 27th gear to 6 mph in 1st gear in 30 seconds. Over and over again. I find a way. I pass him after a couple miles, get to the top of one particular steep uphills and get this text from Damon:

Well fuck, that’s no bueno at all. This isn’t what they told me enchantment would be like. I push it along and get it into town, not knowing how bad of a problem Damon has on his hands; wondering the whole time that after one derailleur issue after another, this might be it for him. I make it into Silver City. It’s a cute funky little mountain town that see a lot of hikers and bikers in non-pandemic times. There’s two bike shops in town. I head to the first and the guy there is hella cool. His name is AJ. I let him know my friend is having issues and will be here ASAP, not even knowing how true that is. I buy a new cable lock, a set of used toe cages, and some new handlebar tape. AJ looks out the window, looks back at me and asks “your friend got a red bike?” “Yeah.” “He just rode by and was texting.” Turns out Damon basically jogged his bike most of the way into town and went to the other bike shop. What I thought might be hours before he arrived was maybe an hour. The other shop hooked him and we’re hoping that’s it for issues.

I push two burritos down along my quest for caloric replacement. We’re chilling in the hotel room and Damon gets the mysterious self popping flat tire while we’re planning for the serious challenge of switchbacks through Emory Pass. It’s a good chance for him to practice fixing flats as I wrap my bars and install a new toe cage. He’s feeling down but I’m feeling up. I try to keep him optimistic, knowing I’ll need him to do the same for me some time. And I’m damn sure glad it’s not down to a one man ride. Tomorrow is a big one.

Today is that day. Every long bike tour has one. The first day out that I really realize just how deep in I am. Shit is broken, lost, or left behind. The day when multiple things go sideways and all I can do is manifest the miles. There will be no time traveling. No movie references. Just miles.

Temperatures reach below freezing overnight. Plus a desert wind chill. Up all night fighting the wind as it whips through our baseball-dugout-campsite, we drag our asses out into the frigid morning at the crack of dawn. I rip my tent bag while stuffing it back in. Our cable and lock jumped ship yesterday somewhere on 10. Whoever cleaned up our room in Tucson came up on my butt butter (which is not to be confused with anal lube). My face and nose are shedding leathery skin like an iguana. The sun has only been up an hour and the day has already kicked me so hard in the face that for the first time in 20 years I eat at McDonalds. Number 3. Sausage egg and biscuit. Yes the meal. (If you’re keeping score at home, I’m not counting the one time at a New Zealand McDonald’s. If you’ve been to New Zealand, you know why. If you haven’t been to New Zealand, go to New Zealand or zip it).

Nothing but Interstate 10 for the entire day. It’s worse than the day before. More debris. More bumps. More uphills. More headwinds. I stop counting nails that I see, because it’s in the hundreds. Less traffic, though. But they’re still going 87 mph and I’m now only going 7 mph. A few miles in and Damon is well ahead. I’m blasting music as loud as I can to drown out the sound (and thought) of imminent death by splatterdom just 5 feet away from me. Turning back to look when I come to an exit ramp produces a life-flashing-before-my-eyes moment every hour or so. The way this day has started, I’ll be surprised if one of us doesn’t get a flat or something beyond.

Somewhere around mile 25, my right pedal cage snaps off. Fuck. Not today. Not any day really. But not on top of all this. My first solution fails, and the pedaling is fucked because my right foot keeps sliding off the pedal. About mile 55 an unexpected real rest stop appears. When I say “real”, I don’t mean that there’s a Starbucks and a Burger King. Because there isn’t. There’s parking spots, bathrooms and warm water out of the sink to refill the bottles. That’s the rest stop. I eat some trail mix and engineer a proper solution to my pedal problem.

A few minutes later and it’s the same dude with the three dogs at the last rest stop – walking into the bathroom. He recognizes me and we chat a bit more. Now he tells me has six dogs. Australian Herding dogs or something. He travels around and sells them; he is American, he loves American people but not American politics – can’t stand Trump or Biden, so he’s doing this to avoid the noise. I normally would wade right into a conversation like that, but he busts out the 8 week puppy he’s calling Mister and it takes all my energy to not give him $50 and put this dirty little pup on the back of my bike for the next 2500 miles.

Needless to say, Mister brightens the dreariest of days. Thanks for that, little guy… whatever your name ends up being.

Next thing you know I’m in the Land of Enchantment and things are looking up. Enchant away por favor. New state; New Mexico state of mind. The Interstate of mind still sucks gorilla balls but my pedal solution holds up. Damon and I regroup and hammer out these last 20 miles together, music still blasting, we’re powering our way through New Mexico. We hit our exit ramp off Interstate 10 into Lordsburg; I breath a huge sigh of relief that we’ve survived the grueling adventure without dying or busting a wheel. Glad to be alive and looking forward to our climb to 8,228 foot Emery Pass, am I. For now though… proper rest.

It’s late in the day, again. I’m flying down Interstate 10 — and despite the downhill and downwind nature of this here flying — it fucking sucks something massive. To be more specific about what I mean by flying: I mean 32 mph without pedaling. By sucking something massive I specifically mean: the most 18-wheeler traffic I’ve ever seen, plus a weekend-induced army of RVs, trailers, trucks towing RVs and trailer and whatever other large vehicles you can imagine. Most everyone else egregiously has six wheels or more. I have two. One, two. This is indeed the only road through this part of the world and everyone else brought their extra wheels for it. I don’t have extra wheels; the state of 10’s shoulder is concerning, maybe alarming for most. I’m slaloming shredded tires, nails, wires and other debris while preventing a damaged wheel by the familiar every-ten-foot pavement ripple/bump on this shoulder. Signs tell me to stay in the shoulder and I wouldn’t dare take the Interstate lane with this volume of traffic anyway. Taking as much weight off my back wheel as I can, I’m standing up, but also tucked down to not get blown over by the wind and the traffic. This is not the 8. Looking for shelter from wind and sun and traffic, I finally find it at an underpass. It’s not as zen as I’d like but my water bottle is the only causality.

Ok let’s board Space Ball One and go to back before now. Back to before then. Back to when I get the best sleep I’ve gotten since night one. What’s that you say, Space Ball One is a spaceship known to transform into Mega Maid. Negative. Its a time machine via the miracle of “Instant Cassettes”. And and it has a Mr Coffee. If only Rick Moranis would un-retire and do the sequel. When will then be now?!?

Now that we’ve cleared that up. We’re in now, now. Right now. After some hotel Starbucks we methodically mosey on out of Tucson, enjoying both a shower and the last dozen or so miles of bike trail before adventuring up a level to ride the now infamous Interstate 10. We have no daily destination, just distance and daylight – with an ultimate aim to reconnect with the ACA route in Lordsburg New Mexico two or three days from now. But there’s a lot of Nothing Arizona between here and there.

By mid morning it’s hot. And I’m finding out how much 10 is not 8. It’s the first day of this tour that my water bottle water is hot when it hits my mouth. Climbing most of 40 miles straight with very little shade and services, I’ve got a bit of a headache and these gigantic vehicles passing me non-stop don’t help that. I’m not sure if the posted speed limit is 75 or 85, but clearly some of these death machines are moving 100 mph. Ludicrous speed. I push on up the hill. Damon is about 10 miles back.

I grueling arrive at an actual rest stop, the first anything in hours – about 20 miles southwest of Willcox. It’s not a rest stop, it’s THE rest stop. I think this is the peak of today’s climbing. I hope. After 50 miles of some of the hardest riding yet, I’m absolutely drained. My water bottles are on empty but I can’t even do that. I’m taking a picnic table nap. Lay down. Eyes closed. Trying. Nope. This place is jumping. Seriously. It’s busy. So busy there’s a barking dog locked inside a nearby caretaker’s house. There’s like 60 people using two bathrooms. Some people even wanna talk to me. Cuomo would have a conniption fit. Keep firing assholes!

Damon rolls up and is well into utter exhaustion status as well. He’s glad it’s not just him… and I agree. We eat peanut butter banana trail mix burritos, pound water and weigh the options. We have a big decision about staying on the 10 or not. We can rejoin the actual Southern Tour Route, heading up into the mountains of Gila to climb Emery Pass at 8,000 feet. Or we can stay on 10, deal with this nonsense and make El Paso two days earlier. We decide to decide tomorrow and are suddenly accosted by a frantic and grizzly twenty-something asking if we “know the area”. He says he’s “almost out of gas and got three dogs in the car.” We help him out, realizing that although we aren’t from around here, we do know the area. I wonder if “three dogs” is slang or something. But then I see him roll off with all four windows down, three of which are occupied by a shaggy dog, each enjoying its head out the window. I hope they made it.

We put those last twenty miles in our pocket. They aren’t easy. Remember that stretch of I-10? Back then before we got to now. Cruise into the next tiny town and stake out the local park. Water and wind coverage? Check. Calorie consumption? Check. Gorgeous sunset and 30° temperature drop? Check. Pop up the tents in the dark next to the baseball dugout? Check.