Hoping for a Tail Wind

Since Calexico we’ve been detouring off the ACA route, staying on or along 8 (or 80) the entire way. As of pass-out-time last night in the Gila Bend AZ incarnation of Patel Hotel, we were leaving 8 and heading northeast into Phoenix to rejoin the ACA route. As of this-morning-before-caffeinating-or-pooping-time, we’re now continuing with the detour and headed through more nothingness – toward Tucson. The overnight lows further north the next few days are too cold to camp in. The winner – and still undefeated champion of the world – is Mother fuckin’ Nature.

This nothingness is true nothingness. Existential nothingness. Like that scene in Waking Life. Any of them. There are no services. We pack extra water because there is none. There’s no electric lines or trains. We are the electric lines and the train is a pain train. My neck. Shoulders. Sit bones. Saddle sore city. I’m eating more ibuprofen than Bangkok eats grown men in one night. I didn’t enjoy Bangkok. Also, I’m not a doctor, but I’m fairly certain that I need a backiotomy.

Damon and I are miles apart for the entire day. Geographically speaking. Our mutually agreed up next stop is the next actual establishment with services – a travel center 62 miles up. With time to reflect, I reminisce of my time riding the Natchez Trace in 2019. Like the Trace, this stretch of Highway 8 has no services and no turns. No restaurants and no stores. The Trace is known to test everyone’s strength and patience. Day 6 in conjunction with Interstate 8 is doing that right now. I drag ass up the long slow incline. I drink too much coffee and pee on too many cacti and quartz rock. My saddle sore feels like it’s on fiyah! I push through it, mile by mile.

I get to what is called a Rest Stop. There’s no services so basically this is just a pull off of the highway with a picnic table. Since I know how to read good, I figure I’ll honor the name by stopping and resting. It doesn’t disappoint. The wind has picked up to a steady 15 mph, but everything around me is still and silent. I feel the spirit of Edward Abbey whipping with the winds across the desert. The vibration only gained from these long rides manifests ever so slightly at this stop for rest — just long enough to make the needed impact.

One more cup of coffee before I go. To the valley below. I finish what’s left of the free motel joe in my thermos. My saddle sore ass hits the saddle. The steady wind turns and hits my tail. All of us at once hit the downhill stretch toward civilization. I am moving. This is not dragging ass. Those little shoulder ripple speed bumps return and I must honor the spoke gods. Only the shoulder is jacked up though – only the two lanes to to left are perfectly smooth. I don’t wanna pop a spoke. And I really don’t wanna slow from my current speed 35 down to 5 mph. So I do what any insane cycling tourist would do: I take the lane of a US Interstate Highway. Duh. I jump over the rumble strips and make those semis move over to the left lane. They’re in a 75 mph lane, I’m in a 35 mph lane. Yelling stay in your lane. Fuck you pay me. Something cool and snarky. Obv. Whatevs. Surviving multiple deaths by vehicular manslaughter is exhilarating. Like I’m alive or something.

Miles down the road, Damon and I have regrouped, re-entered the normal world, and are winding down for the evening. I’m standing in a Carl’s Jr. And really it’s a combination Carl’s Jr. and Green Burrito. I’ve never heard of Green Burrito but I’m there for that. I wonder how much Carl’s Jr. paid for the “Carl’s Jr: Fuck you, I’m eating” in Idiocracy. The video for MC Hammer “U Can’t Touch This” is on loop on the TV. Over and over and over again. Why?! Gratefully, it’s on mute, so I don’t have to listen to its blasphemously crappy sampling of Super Freak. The bathrooms are blocked off and the hand sanitizer machine is empty. Im perceiving all of this as much more surreal than it is or should be. I resign myself to the make fact that after 120 miles through through the desert, “normal” civilization and services are quite uncivilized and more of a disservice. And there’s so much more of that to come.

Wake up to me waking up inside the tent. I had to chase some kids away at like 11pm. Now it’s 430am? No wait it’s 530am. Damn. The sun and the clock are not in harmony here folks. My body isn’t either. It’s is sore, like I went through a wormhole, whatever that might feel like. Having crossed into the Mountain Time Zone located state of Arizona without a welcome single sign – I am realizing I used my bicycle as a time machine to travel one hour into the future. And the future is pretty fucking awesome. It’s a lot like Japan. But better because I didn’t need a car, a telephone booth, or a hot tub. And there’s no Morlocks.

Whatever year it is, it’s pretty cold out and I don’t wanna leave the penthouse suite. In true Ren & Stimpy fashion, I pull myself together man. I brew up some much needed coffee. Damon and I break out with only a banana for breakfast. We’re too lazy to make oatmeal but not too lazy to ride 85+ miles to Gila Bend.

Interstate 8 – and the cute and correspondingly parallel Old Hwy 80 – between Yuma and Gila Bend is pretty much 120 miles of nothing. Specifically it’s appear we have 80-90 of those miles now in front of us. 30 miles. Then someplace with water. Then 60 miles and then more water. Definitely the longest service-less stretches thus far. We can’t find much to lean our bikes against. Guard rails have become outdoor seating and bathrooms on Old 80. There’s a surprise interstate rest stop and they have water. I’m filling up waters bottles on the sink and I look across the rest stop bathroom and what do I see? A toilet. Suddenly, I feel like pooping, and so I poop. Why this is significant? Mainly, because I know I’m alive. But also because there’s no toilet seat. And I sit down. And I bet that’s a no go for a lot of you out there. And I’m calling you out on that shit. When you gotta you gotta go.

A train passes us. We pass the same train now stopped. The same train passes us. We play the his game of leap frog with two different trains and are passed by a least a dozen trains.

Now at mile 70 for the say, we just merced 20 miles of interstate 8 through the desert without putting a foot down. These hay bail trucks whip the winds, I almost go down but instead get a boost of speed. I count 5 of them, finally reach an exit and we are now using this exit to nowhere and it’s underpass as a rest stop. There is literally nothing else here but this underpass. It’s a good rest though.

Fly into Gila Bend past this space ship of a Best Western. After 86 miles I feel like a zombie but I know I’m not because of that whole pooping thing I did earlier. Alive! I want to feel more human, so I war bucks up the $70 for a spot at the Gila Lodge. After passing 5 other lodging options, I’d say this one is just slightly over center on the non-seedy end of things, and maybe only used for sex work when the Payless Motel a half mile back is booked. Nonetheless, time travel has been depleting. we crush thousands of calories in under and hour and pass out hard.

• 

• 

• 

It’s a frosty morning in the desert. I find myself boiling coffee in a parking lot and shitting in vault toilets. It’s disgusting. The toilet, not the coffee. The coffee is obviously wonderful. I accept all small luxuries with open arms.

The various road conditions coming into Yuma create matrices in my mind. Like, you know, calculus and shit. I took CALC 2 three times as part of my 4 year degree that took five. In one matrix of sorts, my preferred road condition involves a smooth surface combined with little to no vehicular traffic. Thems is pretty much the unicorns.

Most miles on interstate 8 have mainly provided the smooth and very well maintained surfaces but with heavy traffic at damn-why-does-everyone-gotta-be-in-a-hurry-to-almost-kill-me kinda speed. So, yeah… fuck that quadrant.

A lot of today we’re on quiet roads that are all kinds of torn to shit. Whether desert-weathered aggregate that is probably older than me or farm equipment pounded ripples and bumps everywhere — it’s like riding an mediocrely maintained mountain bike trail. We deal with almost zero cars, but can’t move any faster than 6 or 7 mph. I stand for much of it. With a fully loaded bike the risk of blowing a spoke is through the roof in this corner. Ask the state of Mississippi.

Being kind and rewinding back to me leaving that stinky outhouse near Imperial San Dunes: Our first half of the morning jaunt into Yuma is a horribly ripply speed bumped section of Interstate 8. It’s kinda like a rail trail that has an annoying root bump every 5 feet, except add the good ol boy 84 mph club in for shits and giggles. This is the worst of all worsts. Neo dodges bullets, I dodge wheel damage and assault via deadly weapon at high velocity.

With all these surface conditions afflicting us, I dig deep into the fictitious bike scriptures and call on the awesome power of the spoke gods. It is a completely made up, yet highly controversial practice that is not without consequence. Part positive intentions, part trail hallucination, it is wholly necessary at this junction.

Praise be the spoke gods, may they keep our rides true and may they find it within them to have mercy on our wheels. Should they find us worthy, may they also provide us smooth surfaces. We roll over rough terrain at 6 mph for hours upon hours, singing the spoke gods praises. Calling our. In a humorously ironic amalgamation of church and state, we hit the US Army Yuma Proving Grounds and these military-owned roads are as soft and gentle as baby uncle Sam’s ass. Or was it baby Moses’s ass? Whatever. The spoke gods have spoken! The spoke gods have spoken.

Head winds roll. We push on. Beyond the Proving Ground the roads are smooth sailing. Grocery store burritos are crushed. Finally as the sun starts to set, we tuck into a public park for a little remote sleeping. I raise the travel condo and suddenly Butterfield park has a penthouse level and a perfect view of the sunset. Zzzzz.