Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Penultimate
From Genoa, NV, a quaint little tourist-trap of a town, Mike and I rode off into the inky pre-dawn chill of Tuesday, August 28th. Evidently, there was a beautiful lunar eclipse exploding somewhere in the sky, but it escaped our view behind the Sierra Nevadas.
This particular Tuesday had a very ominous, final air about it, its significance palpable, charging the air around our headlamp-glowing bicycles: it was the day of the final mountain pass, Kit Carson Pass. We cycled 17 miles to where the climb really began - and the remaining 16 to the top. For one thing, we had a great deal of excitement about tackling the final mountain, in essence, breaking the back of the ride. We crossed into California first thing in the morning, to boot.
I nailed the climb. Mike and I agreed to summit the pass separately in the interest of reflection. And I nailed it. There was a gently sloping flat section in the middle of the up-hills where I found myself thrumming along at 19 miles per hour, which is quite good on any terrain, much less in the midst of tackling a pass. Between feeling so alive on the bicycle and the beautiful views of piney California high country, I was quite elated, but the day was not over yet.
As we began our descent, a storm of Coloradan proportions kicked itself into a fury out of nowhere, so we again had the weather element to deal with. Unfortunately, the downhill was not all down-hill. It was a jagged slope, book-ended by two five-mile climbs. Each time we thought we had the storm beat, another hill presented itself, saying "Oh, no you don't. Not yet. Not on my watch."
After going along for miles on empty stomachs, we stopped for a quick break at a diner, thunder rumbling in the distance. Mike decided to eat a cheeseburger and have a rest. I was growing tired of the rumbling in the sky and decided to press on. I was greeted with a killer five mile descent and no sooner had I reached the bottom than I realized I had missed my turn, five miles up the mountainside.
It would take an hour to climb back up into the storm and my chances of reuniting with Mike had essentially evaporated. A woman at a gas station insisted on giving me useless directions to try to regain the route, but she didn't actually know the road names and so I was about to climb back up; but then, she flagged down some contractors who offered to give me a lift back up. I gladly accepted.
Just as we were about mid-way, Mike came roaring down the mountain past us. We turned around, caught him, and loaded his gear in the truck. What a happy accident. They deposited us at our turn-off and we thanked them profusely. We cycled the remaining foothilly mileage to Placerville, CA, making it one of the longest days and certainly the most physically challenging day of the entire ride. 110-odd miles in all, including a formidable mountain pass and plenty of difficult-to-negotiate foothills on either side.
Today we had record heat riding into the Sacramento Valley, 104 degrees, but all in all, it was a peaceful, bike-path-y sort of ride. The sense of inevitability of the end of the ride is finally starting to catch up with me, bringing with it a mixed bag of emotions: excitement at completing something so grand and at the prospect of wearing something other than lycra; sadness at the demise of a long-time dream and a life-changing adventure; hope, emanating from the changes this will precipitate in my life; fear, fear of the potential difficulties I will face re-assimilating into some semblance of a normal life.
I am in Davis, California now, staying at the home of some bicycle tourists I met in Missouri. I am excited about what tomorrow will bring, but afraid as well. I have lots of dramatic thoughts about this moment and the impending moment of completion, when I dip my tire in the Pacific Ocean - which I have intentionally omitted. These thoughts are too young to share, unrefined by time and reflection. Suffice it to say: I do not want tomorrow to end.
Davis, CA -> San Francisco, CA. Press on.
This particular Tuesday had a very ominous, final air about it, its significance palpable, charging the air around our headlamp-glowing bicycles: it was the day of the final mountain pass, Kit Carson Pass. We cycled 17 miles to where the climb really began - and the remaining 16 to the top. For one thing, we had a great deal of excitement about tackling the final mountain, in essence, breaking the back of the ride. We crossed into California first thing in the morning, to boot.
I nailed the climb. Mike and I agreed to summit the pass separately in the interest of reflection. And I nailed it. There was a gently sloping flat section in the middle of the up-hills where I found myself thrumming along at 19 miles per hour, which is quite good on any terrain, much less in the midst of tackling a pass. Between feeling so alive on the bicycle and the beautiful views of piney California high country, I was quite elated, but the day was not over yet.
As we began our descent, a storm of Coloradan proportions kicked itself into a fury out of nowhere, so we again had the weather element to deal with. Unfortunately, the downhill was not all down-hill. It was a jagged slope, book-ended by two five-mile climbs. Each time we thought we had the storm beat, another hill presented itself, saying "Oh, no you don't. Not yet. Not on my watch."
After going along for miles on empty stomachs, we stopped for a quick break at a diner, thunder rumbling in the distance. Mike decided to eat a cheeseburger and have a rest. I was growing tired of the rumbling in the sky and decided to press on. I was greeted with a killer five mile descent and no sooner had I reached the bottom than I realized I had missed my turn, five miles up the mountainside.
It would take an hour to climb back up into the storm and my chances of reuniting with Mike had essentially evaporated. A woman at a gas station insisted on giving me useless directions to try to regain the route, but she didn't actually know the road names and so I was about to climb back up; but then, she flagged down some contractors who offered to give me a lift back up. I gladly accepted.
Just as we were about mid-way, Mike came roaring down the mountain past us. We turned around, caught him, and loaded his gear in the truck. What a happy accident. They deposited us at our turn-off and we thanked them profusely. We cycled the remaining foothilly mileage to Placerville, CA, making it one of the longest days and certainly the most physically challenging day of the entire ride. 110-odd miles in all, including a formidable mountain pass and plenty of difficult-to-negotiate foothills on either side.
Today we had record heat riding into the Sacramento Valley, 104 degrees, but all in all, it was a peaceful, bike-path-y sort of ride. The sense of inevitability of the end of the ride is finally starting to catch up with me, bringing with it a mixed bag of emotions: excitement at completing something so grand and at the prospect of wearing something other than lycra; sadness at the demise of a long-time dream and a life-changing adventure; hope, emanating from the changes this will precipitate in my life; fear, fear of the potential difficulties I will face re-assimilating into some semblance of a normal life.
I am in Davis, California now, staying at the home of some bicycle tourists I met in Missouri. I am excited about what tomorrow will bring, but afraid as well. I have lots of dramatic thoughts about this moment and the impending moment of completion, when I dip my tire in the Pacific Ocean - which I have intentionally omitted. These thoughts are too young to share, unrefined by time and reflection. Suffice it to say: I do not want tomorrow to end.
Davis, CA -> San Francisco, CA. Press on.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Gunning for the usual 5:00 a.m. departure, Mike and I cycled out of Fallon, NV this morning, our brains completely shaken and rattled at the urban sprawl. We're not even in the Sacramento Valley yet. Apart from today being the first day of school in the area and accordingly frenetic, the traffic was generally maddening and unrelenting.
We had a grand time in Fallon on our rest day, eating at the same restaurant for every meal, watching people pump quarters into slot machines, going to see action movies at the theater and obsessing over the 61-mile pull to Carson City on my dangerous tires.
Well, the tires made it. Not exactly with style, grace or aplomb, but the tires made it. We got squared away at the bike shop and lit out for our intended destination, Genoa, NV. It turned out to be a cute little tourist town, allegedly the site of the very first settlement in Nevada, although I'm not sure why it's on this side of the state, apart from the obvious reasons: there's nothing else anywhere in the whole state, no desert oasis to run to. And Genoa is really a genuinely nice place; nestled at the base of the Sierra Nevada, there are beautiful wildflowers, sunflowers, frolicking deer (one of which we observed crapping on someone's lawn this afternoon) and friendly bears that wander down to see what's for supper.
If I ever write a full-length account of my travels across this land by bicycle, I'll fill you in on the details of my accommodations; for now, I'll spare you. Either way, tomorrow morning we will cross into the last state, California, and begin our climb of the last mountain pass on the entire journey, Carson's Pass. It, however, is a real bruiser, so no time to celebrate now. I'll write you from Fair Play, Placerville or Sacramento. Wherever.
Regards,
John
We had a grand time in Fallon on our rest day, eating at the same restaurant for every meal, watching people pump quarters into slot machines, going to see action movies at the theater and obsessing over the 61-mile pull to Carson City on my dangerous tires.
Well, the tires made it. Not exactly with style, grace or aplomb, but the tires made it. We got squared away at the bike shop and lit out for our intended destination, Genoa, NV. It turned out to be a cute little tourist town, allegedly the site of the very first settlement in Nevada, although I'm not sure why it's on this side of the state, apart from the obvious reasons: there's nothing else anywhere in the whole state, no desert oasis to run to. And Genoa is really a genuinely nice place; nestled at the base of the Sierra Nevada, there are beautiful wildflowers, sunflowers, frolicking deer (one of which we observed crapping on someone's lawn this afternoon) and friendly bears that wander down to see what's for supper.
If I ever write a full-length account of my travels across this land by bicycle, I'll fill you in on the details of my accommodations; for now, I'll spare you. Either way, tomorrow morning we will cross into the last state, California, and begin our climb of the last mountain pass on the entire journey, Carson's Pass. It, however, is a real bruiser, so no time to celebrate now. I'll write you from Fair Play, Placerville or Sacramento. Wherever.
Regards,
John
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Shock and Awe
Mike and I cycled the 70-odd miles from Eureka, NV to Austin, NV another stretch of desert unfurled behind us, notched into the belt, crossed off the to-do list for good. It was a fine little town where I spent a few hours trying to find a computer from which to update the blog to no avail. During my sleuthing, I talked to the local townspeople so much, I got the story, from their peers, of how nearly each and everyone of them wound up in Eureka and what their deal was. Fascinating.
The next morning, we slept in until 4:00, shoved off at 5:00 and had an ordinary ride other than three ominous events: Mike got a flat tire; I noticed that the tread was gradually falling off of my tires, exposing the kevlar protective layer (I'm getting very nervous - they should have lasted much longer than this). Our only service stop, a gas station 50 miles outside of town, had burned to the ground two weeks before. Oh, well.
As we changed Mike's flat, we heard a rumble beneath our feet. It sounded like a distant explosion. "Perhaps a mine. Or the military," we agreed.
We pressed on toward Middlegate, but when we arrived it was only two buildings, a hotel and a bar. Mike didn't want to ride another mile. I was reluctant to stop so soon, as it was only 1:00 pm. After we had gone inside and cooled off it didn't take much to convince me to stop, what with record temperatures and all. It wound up being one of the best stops on the whole tour. For one thing, the folks at the bar were extremely friendly. For another, we enjoyed a cold drink than baking for another 50 miles out in the 100-F-plus heat.
The bartender cooked us delicious steak sandwiches, which we heartily tucked into, but then she disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a sly grin. "Want to see something cool?" she asked.
We couldn't refuse. "C'mon," she said and took us outside to the back. About 15 feet up in the air, perched on a branch, was an immense owl, I think a Great Horned Owl. I have never seen such a regal bird up close. His immense, piercing eyes seemed to have a look about them, saying "I know something you don't know. I know the desert, every rock and sage and where every rodent-hole lies and where every coyote keeps his den. You'll never know the desert like I do." Awesome.
The bar was full of military guys, as we were right near the Naval Air Station (something like 90% of Nevada is federally-owned land). We asked them about the explosions we had heard earlier in the day and they said they had been testing weapons. "We'll be going out again this evening," one of them said. "You can watch from US 50, probably 5-7 miles west of here. The first bombs will fall at 5:55."
Well, the bartender decided to loan us her car, which was very kind of her, so we went out to watch the show. And it was absolutely arresting. Right as we pulled off the road near the spot that the pilot had described, we heard the roar of a fighter jet, an F/A 18 Hornet, and saw a fiery streak in the distance with a small mushroom-shaped dustcloud emanating from the crater. The report was awesome. I glanced at my watch - 5:55.
We watched the bombing for nearly an hour, the jets deadly-accurate with each pass, pummeling the target, maneuvering outward, making low passes, high dives, hot-dog flying. If there is a mighty force in the desert, other than the desert itself, it is the United States military. Shock and awe. "Between the owl and the bombs, this has been one of the best stops," Mike and I agreed.
This morning, we ambled into Fallon, NV, where we breakfasted and geared up for errands. (Still haven't been able to locate the bike shop for new tires). We will either rest here or ride on to Genoa in the morning to prepare for the last climb of the entire journey, Carson's Pass, our route over the Sierra Nevada. 316.5 miles remaining. Four days.
The next morning, we slept in until 4:00, shoved off at 5:00 and had an ordinary ride other than three ominous events: Mike got a flat tire; I noticed that the tread was gradually falling off of my tires, exposing the kevlar protective layer (I'm getting very nervous - they should have lasted much longer than this). Our only service stop, a gas station 50 miles outside of town, had burned to the ground two weeks before. Oh, well.
As we changed Mike's flat, we heard a rumble beneath our feet. It sounded like a distant explosion. "Perhaps a mine. Or the military," we agreed.
We pressed on toward Middlegate, but when we arrived it was only two buildings, a hotel and a bar. Mike didn't want to ride another mile. I was reluctant to stop so soon, as it was only 1:00 pm. After we had gone inside and cooled off it didn't take much to convince me to stop, what with record temperatures and all. It wound up being one of the best stops on the whole tour. For one thing, the folks at the bar were extremely friendly. For another, we enjoyed a cold drink than baking for another 50 miles out in the 100-F-plus heat.
The bartender cooked us delicious steak sandwiches, which we heartily tucked into, but then she disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a sly grin. "Want to see something cool?" she asked.
We couldn't refuse. "C'mon," she said and took us outside to the back. About 15 feet up in the air, perched on a branch, was an immense owl, I think a Great Horned Owl. I have never seen such a regal bird up close. His immense, piercing eyes seemed to have a look about them, saying "I know something you don't know. I know the desert, every rock and sage and where every rodent-hole lies and where every coyote keeps his den. You'll never know the desert like I do." Awesome.
The bar was full of military guys, as we were right near the Naval Air Station (something like 90% of Nevada is federally-owned land). We asked them about the explosions we had heard earlier in the day and they said they had been testing weapons. "We'll be going out again this evening," one of them said. "You can watch from US 50, probably 5-7 miles west of here. The first bombs will fall at 5:55."
Well, the bartender decided to loan us her car, which was very kind of her, so we went out to watch the show. And it was absolutely arresting. Right as we pulled off the road near the spot that the pilot had described, we heard the roar of a fighter jet, an F/A 18 Hornet, and saw a fiery streak in the distance with a small mushroom-shaped dustcloud emanating from the crater. The report was awesome. I glanced at my watch - 5:55.
We watched the bombing for nearly an hour, the jets deadly-accurate with each pass, pummeling the target, maneuvering outward, making low passes, high dives, hot-dog flying. If there is a mighty force in the desert, other than the desert itself, it is the United States military. Shock and awe. "Between the owl and the bombs, this has been one of the best stops," Mike and I agreed.
This morning, we ambled into Fallon, NV, where we breakfasted and geared up for errands. (Still haven't been able to locate the bike shop for new tires). We will either rest here or ride on to Genoa in the morning to prepare for the last climb of the entire journey, Carson's Pass, our route over the Sierra Nevada. 316.5 miles remaining. Four days.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
A Wild Nevada Night
After carousing around the town of Ely, NV, Mike and I grabbed dinner and were bedded down by 7:30. We awoke at 3:00 am in order to be out the door by 4:00. If I can somehow manage keep this frenetic schedule, I'll have no trouble adjusting back to life on the East Coast, in fact, I'll be an early-rising dynamo.
The problem with riding through the desert is that it's a land of extremes. At one moment, we freeze our derrieres off, the next our brains are frying like eggs inside our skulls, the occasional wasteful splash from a water bottle the only solace we know.
This morning, I wore several layers, but had no possible way of staying warm. Between the mile-high elevation and the complete lack of any heat-insulating cloud-cover, it was absolutely frigid. Tomorrow, we are gunning for a 3:30 wakeup, but I'm bringing out the big guns. I'm going to wear every layer of clothing I have.
Our 78-mile waterless ride today featured four significant climbs and, at times, fierce headwinds. What might have been two of the most glorious descents were completely and famously ruined by wind. I must admit that I feel slightly entitled after climbing a mountain pass to a few miles on the other side without so much as a pedal stroke, but you can't always get what you want. And US 50 isn't Santa Claus. That was a terrible line. Sorry.
Frankly, the past three days have been some of my favorite riding days in the entire tour, but the beauty and the tragedy of the desert is that it can turn its back on you in an instant. One small problem can be compounded by the heat, wind, exposure, cold, emptiness, et al. The absolute bare-bones truth of it is that you can't possibly be too careful. The temptation is to get cocky, enjoying these rides so much. But there's the rub: we must never forget the harshness and the inhospitality of the land.
Today, Ely to Eureka, 78-miles. Tomorrow, the world (or, more appropriately, Austin, NV).
The problem with riding through the desert is that it's a land of extremes. At one moment, we freeze our derrieres off, the next our brains are frying like eggs inside our skulls, the occasional wasteful splash from a water bottle the only solace we know.
This morning, I wore several layers, but had no possible way of staying warm. Between the mile-high elevation and the complete lack of any heat-insulating cloud-cover, it was absolutely frigid. Tomorrow, we are gunning for a 3:30 wakeup, but I'm bringing out the big guns. I'm going to wear every layer of clothing I have.
Our 78-mile waterless ride today featured four significant climbs and, at times, fierce headwinds. What might have been two of the most glorious descents were completely and famously ruined by wind. I must admit that I feel slightly entitled after climbing a mountain pass to a few miles on the other side without so much as a pedal stroke, but you can't always get what you want. And US 50 isn't Santa Claus. That was a terrible line. Sorry.
Frankly, the past three days have been some of my favorite riding days in the entire tour, but the beauty and the tragedy of the desert is that it can turn its back on you in an instant. One small problem can be compounded by the heat, wind, exposure, cold, emptiness, et al. The absolute bare-bones truth of it is that you can't possibly be too careful. The temptation is to get cocky, enjoying these rides so much. But there's the rub: we must never forget the harshness and the inhospitality of the land.
Today, Ely to Eureka, 78-miles. Tomorrow, the world (or, more appropriately, Austin, NV).
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
We Are Not Alone
The cause for a dearth of updates from me is a solitary one: I haven't been near a computer in three days. In fact I haven't really been near anything in three days.
I had a great time couch-surfing (crashing at a stranger's place; you get connected with said stranger via couch-surfing.com) in Cedar City, UT with a guy named Devon and his girlfriend, indicentally also called Devin. I was rather held up waiting for Mike from Manchester to arrive in Cedar City from Panguitch so we could depart on Monday morning. Well, I got a call from Mike on Sunday morning saying he wasn't going to go out of his way to Cedar City and that he was popping on over to Milford. If I could make it Sunday, that'd be great; if not, he'd wait for me in Milford.
I grabbed the laundry out of the dryer and raced out the door round noon. It was only 60 miles to Milford. Thanks to a brilliant tailwind, my speed didn't drop below 30 mph during the first half-hour. I absolutely flew. The wind was so utterly fierce and my legs felt so strong, I was really getting pumped. Best time I've made the entire ride. I rode the 60 miles, plus five detour miles to see some petroglyphs, in under three and a half hours. I absolutely nailed it.
And what a relief it was to meet up with Mike in Milford. Both of us were so jazzed to finally get some company through the emptiest stretches of road - we were really ecstatic. And for good reason. We had an 86-mile ride ahead of us on Monday with nary a drop of water the entire way. We had three mountain passes to climb, burning sun to deal with (it's been over 100 degrees F) and had to carry nearly 30 lbs. of water (2.2 lbs/liter/hour).
We awoke at 4:00 am to depart by five. It was, hands-down, one of my top-five favorite rides of the journey so far. I can't express to you what it feels like to summit one of these mountain passes, able to see a vast basin of oceanic proportions, flanked by another range of mountains, 20 miles away. No photograph (see below) can provide perspective on the size and distance we traversed. You might ride for 45 minutes and a notable point ahead scarcely moves.
We passed numerous cattle grates and signs for open range cattle country. The only cattle I saw were dead. And so, very nearly, was I when I said to Mike as we descended a mountain pass "I'm going to try to break my speed record." I tucked into the cyclist's aero-dynamic position, arms curled downward onto the drop-handlebars, rear-end sticking up in the air above my head. I wound up to nearly 45 mph, 44.2, in fact, when I ran over a cattle grate. My excessive speed had obscured it form my view. I flipped end over end and skidded along the pavement for about 15 yards, earning a heck of a strawberry. Ok, just checking to see if you were reading. I kept the bike upright, but it was a scary moment.
Absolutely brilliant day - beautiful views, joyful conversation, a killer ride. There's just no beating a day like that and we gained a new state and time zone to boot. Today we rode a similar, very hot, dusty, but fun, ride into Ely, Nevada. Tomorrow is the real crux of the desert, supposedly. A 78-mile, waterless ride to Eureka, NV, puncutated by several significant passes.
We will wake up at 3:00 am to ride by 4:00. It is, beyond questioning, the best time of day to travel: no traffic, cool air, beautiful sunrises, the quiet rustling of wildlife in the sagebrush beside us. The land here, as I said of canyon country in Utah, feels haunted, in habited. Though it is sparse, barren, whatever you want to say, there is life: antelope, elk, snakes, spiders, deer, coyotes, hares, mountain lions, god-knows-what-else. We are not alone.
By our estimation, Mike and I will cruise into the San Francisco Bay on August 29. Eight more days. But I will start celebrating after we climb the last pass.
I had a great time couch-surfing (crashing at a stranger's place; you get connected with said stranger via couch-surfing.com) in Cedar City, UT with a guy named Devon and his girlfriend, indicentally also called Devin. I was rather held up waiting for Mike from Manchester to arrive in Cedar City from Panguitch so we could depart on Monday morning. Well, I got a call from Mike on Sunday morning saying he wasn't going to go out of his way to Cedar City and that he was popping on over to Milford. If I could make it Sunday, that'd be great; if not, he'd wait for me in Milford.
I grabbed the laundry out of the dryer and raced out the door round noon. It was only 60 miles to Milford. Thanks to a brilliant tailwind, my speed didn't drop below 30 mph during the first half-hour. I absolutely flew. The wind was so utterly fierce and my legs felt so strong, I was really getting pumped. Best time I've made the entire ride. I rode the 60 miles, plus five detour miles to see some petroglyphs, in under three and a half hours. I absolutely nailed it.
And what a relief it was to meet up with Mike in Milford. Both of us were so jazzed to finally get some company through the emptiest stretches of road - we were really ecstatic. And for good reason. We had an 86-mile ride ahead of us on Monday with nary a drop of water the entire way. We had three mountain passes to climb, burning sun to deal with (it's been over 100 degrees F) and had to carry nearly 30 lbs. of water (2.2 lbs/liter/hour).
We awoke at 4:00 am to depart by five. It was, hands-down, one of my top-five favorite rides of the journey so far. I can't express to you what it feels like to summit one of these mountain passes, able to see a vast basin of oceanic proportions, flanked by another range of mountains, 20 miles away. No photograph (see below) can provide perspective on the size and distance we traversed. You might ride for 45 minutes and a notable point ahead scarcely moves.
We passed numerous cattle grates and signs for open range cattle country. The only cattle I saw were dead. And so, very nearly, was I when I said to Mike as we descended a mountain pass "I'm going to try to break my speed record." I tucked into the cyclist's aero-dynamic position, arms curled downward onto the drop-handlebars, rear-end sticking up in the air above my head. I wound up to nearly 45 mph, 44.2, in fact, when I ran over a cattle grate. My excessive speed had obscured it form my view. I flipped end over end and skidded along the pavement for about 15 yards, earning a heck of a strawberry. Ok, just checking to see if you were reading. I kept the bike upright, but it was a scary moment.
Absolutely brilliant day - beautiful views, joyful conversation, a killer ride. There's just no beating a day like that and we gained a new state and time zone to boot. Today we rode a similar, very hot, dusty, but fun, ride into Ely, Nevada. Tomorrow is the real crux of the desert, supposedly. A 78-mile, waterless ride to Eureka, NV, puncutated by several significant passes.
We will wake up at 3:00 am to ride by 4:00. It is, beyond questioning, the best time of day to travel: no traffic, cool air, beautiful sunrises, the quiet rustling of wildlife in the sagebrush beside us. The land here, as I said of canyon country in Utah, feels haunted, in habited. Though it is sparse, barren, whatever you want to say, there is life: antelope, elk, snakes, spiders, deer, coyotes, hares, mountain lions, god-knows-what-else. We are not alone.
By our estimation, Mike and I will cruise into the San Francisco Bay on August 29. Eight more days. But I will start celebrating after we climb the last pass.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Cedar City
After my fall from grace, I rode from Escalante, UT to Panguitch, UT, through Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, Bryce Canyon and Red canyon. The thing that you must understand about Utah is that it is one of my favorite places on earth. They say that if God created the universe in six days, he probably spent three or four of them on Utah . Not only is it absolutely beautiful and a landscape unlike any other in the world, it is one of the wildest places in America. The southern part of the state was one of the last places in the lower 48 states to be settled. In fact, Boulder, UT was the last town in America to have its mail delivered by automobile.
It was here that Butch Cassidy hid from the law. It was here that writer/artist Everett Ruess, a contemporary of Ansel Adams, disappeared near Hole-in-the-Rock in 1933, never to be seen again. It was here that the Fremont painted rock walls with their arresting and in-decipherable petroglyphs 750 years ago. If there is a place I will always be drawn back to, it is here.
Across this place, it is easy to see the hand of God and of geologic time, wearing away at the rock, leaving behind arches, canyons, caves, hoodoos, mesas and a few lucky people, mouths agape, eyes as big as saucers. It is absolutely magical. And haunted by the memories of the ancients.
All my waxing poetic aside, I was to ride up over an immense mountain, a truly magnificent 30-mile climb, today. Thirty-mile climbs are all fine and dandy, but you know the drill. I did a little reconaissance at the Panguitch library and found an alternative route that featured a mere 12-mile climb, but overall, the ride was 10 miles longer. The real catch was that it involved a considerable bit of travel on I-15.
I called the Iron County Sheriff's Office to get the scoop on the legality of my new designs. When the deputy heard my plans to go over the mountain, he informed me that my original route was going to be intensely trafficked due to the opening of bow-hunting season and that my long way was adviseable. It was very nice. The wide shoulder of the interstate felt like my own personal bike lane. And, though part of my ride was slightly illegal, the black-and-whites gave me no trouble.
So, here I am, in Cedar City, waiting to meet up with Mike Allen and do some sight-seeing.
Best regards,
John
It was here that Butch Cassidy hid from the law. It was here that writer/artist Everett Ruess, a contemporary of Ansel Adams, disappeared near Hole-in-the-Rock in 1933, never to be seen again. It was here that the Fremont painted rock walls with their arresting and in-decipherable petroglyphs 750 years ago. If there is a place I will always be drawn back to, it is here.
Across this place, it is easy to see the hand of God and of geologic time, wearing away at the rock, leaving behind arches, canyons, caves, hoodoos, mesas and a few lucky people, mouths agape, eyes as big as saucers. It is absolutely magical. And haunted by the memories of the ancients.
All my waxing poetic aside, I was to ride up over an immense mountain, a truly magnificent 30-mile climb, today. Thirty-mile climbs are all fine and dandy, but you know the drill. I did a little reconaissance at the Panguitch library and found an alternative route that featured a mere 12-mile climb, but overall, the ride was 10 miles longer. The real catch was that it involved a considerable bit of travel on I-15.
I called the Iron County Sheriff's Office to get the scoop on the legality of my new designs. When the deputy heard my plans to go over the mountain, he informed me that my original route was going to be intensely trafficked due to the opening of bow-hunting season and that my long way was adviseable. It was very nice. The wide shoulder of the interstate felt like my own personal bike lane. And, though part of my ride was slightly illegal, the black-and-whites gave me no trouble.
So, here I am, in Cedar City, waiting to meet up with Mike Allen and do some sight-seeing.
Best regards,
John
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
A Hole in the Fabric of the Space/Time Continuum
First of all, I would like to express my gratitude for all the support from my friends, family and readership: thank you so much. You have no idea what your encouragement means to me.
Second of all, I would like to share with you some of the emotions I experienced whilst reading your comments on my last posting. The climax of the movie "Dodgeball" essentially sums up what I was going through when I read your words of wisdom and hope.
If you've never seen the movie, it plays out like this: Vince Vaughn has just quit the team before the championship round; he is sitting at the airport bar, crying in his beer, when Lance Armstrong walks up and asks why he's so glum. After getting the lowdown, Lance looks at Vince Vaughn and says: "You know, there were times when I thought about quitting. Like the time I was diagnosed with brain, lung and testicular cancer. But I made it through and won the Tour de France five times. You must have it bad." Accordingly, Vaughn is ashamed.
Here's why I felt this way: I cheated. That's right. There's no two ways around it. I cheated. Due to an alarm clock error, I slept in and lost my early start by nearly two and a half hours, which was quite discouraging. Fifteen miles down the track, a bizarre sensation came over me. As dawn's first rays began to paint the cliffs and mesas around me, I heard a humming, throbbing sound behind me, followed by a rush of air. Suddenly, before me, a great portal opened up.
Though I was only a few miles from where I started, with miles of desert unfurling before me, I could see many days ahead. I knew that if I entered the portal, I might regret it, but I could also see the future and I felt a cool breeze emanating from within it. I could see a man and a woman, smiling, inside; they offered me food and drink. I accepted and rolled my bike inside the portal: a white Chevy Equinox with Alabama tags.
I rode my bike 15 miles today. I rode in a car quite a few more than that. I'm ashamed. But it felt good. I should meet up with Mike Allen (remember him?) tomorrow at some point and have some company. And someone to discourage me from cheating again. Oh, well. I'm in Escalante, Utah. Que sera, sera.
Second of all, I would like to share with you some of the emotions I experienced whilst reading your comments on my last posting. The climax of the movie "Dodgeball" essentially sums up what I was going through when I read your words of wisdom and hope.
If you've never seen the movie, it plays out like this: Vince Vaughn has just quit the team before the championship round; he is sitting at the airport bar, crying in his beer, when Lance Armstrong walks up and asks why he's so glum. After getting the lowdown, Lance looks at Vince Vaughn and says: "You know, there were times when I thought about quitting. Like the time I was diagnosed with brain, lung and testicular cancer. But I made it through and won the Tour de France five times. You must have it bad." Accordingly, Vaughn is ashamed.
Here's why I felt this way: I cheated. That's right. There's no two ways around it. I cheated. Due to an alarm clock error, I slept in and lost my early start by nearly two and a half hours, which was quite discouraging. Fifteen miles down the track, a bizarre sensation came over me. As dawn's first rays began to paint the cliffs and mesas around me, I heard a humming, throbbing sound behind me, followed by a rush of air. Suddenly, before me, a great portal opened up.
Though I was only a few miles from where I started, with miles of desert unfurling before me, I could see many days ahead. I knew that if I entered the portal, I might regret it, but I could also see the future and I felt a cool breeze emanating from within it. I could see a man and a woman, smiling, inside; they offered me food and drink. I accepted and rolled my bike inside the portal: a white Chevy Equinox with Alabama tags.
I rode my bike 15 miles today. I rode in a car quite a few more than that. I'm ashamed. But it felt good. I should meet up with Mike Allen (remember him?) tomorrow at some point and have some company. And someone to discourage me from cheating again. Oh, well. I'm in Escalante, Utah. Que sera, sera.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Solo
Yesterday morning in Telluride, Cody announced his plans to quit the tour for a number of different personal reasons. In actuality, he said that he was thinking about quitting and that I should go on ahead of him and he would make up his mind after a few hours rest and either see me on down the track or make his way home.
I took this to mean that he was indeed quitting because we were to summit Lizard Head Pass (10,222 feet) and an early start is critical for avoiding thunderstorms at higher elevations. It was either now or never. So I decided to press on by myself. I planned to reach the top around 11:00 am, so as to be descending before noon. A few miles from the top, even at 10:00 in the morning, things started getting dicey.
A mile from the top, lightning struck very nearby and so I turned around and waited for an hour on someone's porch. Things didn't really clear, but most of the rumbling had subsided, so I got back on the bike and, after summiting, coasted to a nice little town called Rico, thunder rumbling all around once again. I lunched and had a delightful conversation with a man, Felix Snow, who is a motivational speaker. Felix was in a car accident in 1995 and is now in a wheelchair. Chew on this: he skiied Telluride something like 37 days this year.
I rolled on to Dolores to wait for a riding partner I knew wouldn't materialize. When a phonecall confirmed my solitude, I ate dinner, slept at a B&B and awoke at 4:45 this morning to get an early start. I am slightly disheartened to go it alone, especially through the most barren country, but I must press on. I am ready to be done. I feel like everyday is a fight for my life to avoid lightning, to beat heat, just to make it to the next town. I am ready to get my old life back. I am tired of racing around on this bicycle. All bicycling is a race: a race to get out the door in the morning; a race to find food; a race to find the restroom; a race to find shelter from sinister black stormclouds; a race to find a place to sleep by dark; a race to get home. Sigh.
I'm 8 miles from the Utah border and from completing my sixth state and nearly 2700 miles. Bring on the desert.
I took this to mean that he was indeed quitting because we were to summit Lizard Head Pass (10,222 feet) and an early start is critical for avoiding thunderstorms at higher elevations. It was either now or never. So I decided to press on by myself. I planned to reach the top around 11:00 am, so as to be descending before noon. A few miles from the top, even at 10:00 in the morning, things started getting dicey.
A mile from the top, lightning struck very nearby and so I turned around and waited for an hour on someone's porch. Things didn't really clear, but most of the rumbling had subsided, so I got back on the bike and, after summiting, coasted to a nice little town called Rico, thunder rumbling all around once again. I lunched and had a delightful conversation with a man, Felix Snow, who is a motivational speaker. Felix was in a car accident in 1995 and is now in a wheelchair. Chew on this: he skiied Telluride something like 37 days this year.
I rolled on to Dolores to wait for a riding partner I knew wouldn't materialize. When a phonecall confirmed my solitude, I ate dinner, slept at a B&B and awoke at 4:45 this morning to get an early start. I am slightly disheartened to go it alone, especially through the most barren country, but I must press on. I am ready to be done. I feel like everyday is a fight for my life to avoid lightning, to beat heat, just to make it to the next town. I am ready to get my old life back. I am tired of racing around on this bicycle. All bicycling is a race: a race to get out the door in the morning; a race to find food; a race to find the restroom; a race to find shelter from sinister black stormclouds; a race to find a place to sleep by dark; a race to get home. Sigh.
I'm 8 miles from the Utah border and from completing my sixth state and nearly 2700 miles. Bring on the desert.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
New to John's Bicycle Tour: Bonus Miles!
It has been a while since my last post and, be that as it may, I will fast forward a few days from my reunion with Nathan, Matthew and John in Colorado Springs to our wild night in Salida, Colorado.
We climbed for miles up the Arkansas river bed to Salida a quaint, charming and highly outdoorsy town. I grew tired of my beard and got a shave at a barber shop (before and after pics below). After restocking on some supplies at the bike shop, the proprietor offered to let us camp behind the shop along the Arkansas, which was a chilly 55 degrees, thanks for asking. The next morning, we began our assault on Monarch Pass (read: a 22-mile climb over the Continental Divide, gaining thousands of feet of elevation along the way).
It was punishing. But it was awesome. I began breathing faster and faster with every pedal stroke, trying to fill my lungs with the ever-diminishing amount of oxygen. I'm not one to get altitude sickness; in fact, I usually do quite well at higher elevation. Nevertheless, I could definitely sense a decrease in performance. From a purely visual perspective, the entire trip is downhill from there, seeing that Monarch Pass, at 11,312 feet, is the highest point on our route. Sadly, that is not geographically accurate, with two more passes in Colorado to go, some 14% grades in Utah to get to the top of some mesas, 14 mountain passes in Nevada and Carson pass in California!
We have had several more significant climbs since, although none as dramatic as Monarch. Thankfully, for every 1,000 feet of elevation gained, it is akin to travelling 170 miles to the north, so it is usually quite cool riding for us. Additionally, with each pass, we earn bonus miles: sometimes dozens of miles at a time we can coast downhill without so much as a pedal stroke. Today, for instance, we got 5 free bonus miles on the other side of a small pass and 12 free miles from Cerro Summit to Montrose. Yesterday we got 10 free bonus miles after Monarch Pass.
Enough dilly-dallying for me, though: I must rest in preparation for the Dallas Divide and Lizard Head Pass in the beautiful Alp-esque or Dolomite-esque San Juan Mountains. Utah, here I come!
We climbed for miles up the Arkansas river bed to Salida a quaint, charming and highly outdoorsy town. I grew tired of my beard and got a shave at a barber shop (before and after pics below). After restocking on some supplies at the bike shop, the proprietor offered to let us camp behind the shop along the Arkansas, which was a chilly 55 degrees, thanks for asking. The next morning, we began our assault on Monarch Pass (read: a 22-mile climb over the Continental Divide, gaining thousands of feet of elevation along the way).
It was punishing. But it was awesome. I began breathing faster and faster with every pedal stroke, trying to fill my lungs with the ever-diminishing amount of oxygen. I'm not one to get altitude sickness; in fact, I usually do quite well at higher elevation. Nevertheless, I could definitely sense a decrease in performance. From a purely visual perspective, the entire trip is downhill from there, seeing that Monarch Pass, at 11,312 feet, is the highest point on our route. Sadly, that is not geographically accurate, with two more passes in Colorado to go, some 14% grades in Utah to get to the top of some mesas, 14 mountain passes in Nevada and Carson pass in California!
We have had several more significant climbs since, although none as dramatic as Monarch. Thankfully, for every 1,000 feet of elevation gained, it is akin to travelling 170 miles to the north, so it is usually quite cool riding for us. Additionally, with each pass, we earn bonus miles: sometimes dozens of miles at a time we can coast downhill without so much as a pedal stroke. Today, for instance, we got 5 free bonus miles on the other side of a small pass and 12 free miles from Cerro Summit to Montrose. Yesterday we got 10 free bonus miles after Monarch Pass.
Enough dilly-dallying for me, though: I must rest in preparation for the Dallas Divide and Lizard Head Pass in the beautiful Alp-esque or Dolomite-esque San Juan Mountains. Utah, here I come!
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Respite
Picking up where I left in Leoti, KS after spoiling Ethel's sidewalk:
I limped the rest of the way to Tribune, KS, feeling absolutely weak, having eaten only two pieces of dry toast since breakfast. We arrived around dinner time and after an awful night's sleep the night before and after being sick during the day, a hotel seemed like the only way to fly.
We rolled up to the first place in town and I went inside to check for vacancies and haggle with the owner over the rate. It was an awful fleabaggy place and the innkeeper had a nasty little dog with immense ears and a cataract-clouded left eye. Just as I handed him my credit card, I said "I'm sorry, but I'll have to step outside. My friend will finish the transaction."
I burst out the door and didn't make it but five feet before defacing another sidewalk. Either way, I felt much better and we snagged 80 miles the next day to Kit Carson, Colorado. We got another motel room in preparation for a landmark day.
We woke up around 4:45 am on Sunday and rode all the way to Colorado Springs, Colorado, 113 miles from Kit Carson. And what a joy those 113 miles were! The looming front range of the Rocky Mountains gradually filled the horizon, 14,110-foot Pike's Peak dominating the landscape. I found it easy to fantasize about all the peaks and passes we had ahead of us. And once you get mountains on the brain, you just can't get enough of that Rocky Mountain air!
We rolled in to the Springs for dinner and stayed with one of my climbing buddies, John Doryk and his family. We were so thankful for their generosity and company; next up, my friend Mathew Thomas, a USAFA cadet, picked us up and we spent the afternoon getting our bikes in ship shape and having a grand time. I hadn't seen him face to face in year, so our reunion was joyous, as was my reunion with Nathan Hoobler last evening. We showed each other photos, caught up on expedition stories, the whole nine yards. So great to be back with these guys!
Cody and I are taking one more day in the Springs before our mad dash to Monarch Pass - 11,355 feet!
All the best,
John
I limped the rest of the way to Tribune, KS, feeling absolutely weak, having eaten only two pieces of dry toast since breakfast. We arrived around dinner time and after an awful night's sleep the night before and after being sick during the day, a hotel seemed like the only way to fly.
We rolled up to the first place in town and I went inside to check for vacancies and haggle with the owner over the rate. It was an awful fleabaggy place and the innkeeper had a nasty little dog with immense ears and a cataract-clouded left eye. Just as I handed him my credit card, I said "I'm sorry, but I'll have to step outside. My friend will finish the transaction."
I burst out the door and didn't make it but five feet before defacing another sidewalk. Either way, I felt much better and we snagged 80 miles the next day to Kit Carson, Colorado. We got another motel room in preparation for a landmark day.
We woke up around 4:45 am on Sunday and rode all the way to Colorado Springs, Colorado, 113 miles from Kit Carson. And what a joy those 113 miles were! The looming front range of the Rocky Mountains gradually filled the horizon, 14,110-foot Pike's Peak dominating the landscape. I found it easy to fantasize about all the peaks and passes we had ahead of us. And once you get mountains on the brain, you just can't get enough of that Rocky Mountain air!
We rolled in to the Springs for dinner and stayed with one of my climbing buddies, John Doryk and his family. We were so thankful for their generosity and company; next up, my friend Mathew Thomas, a USAFA cadet, picked us up and we spent the afternoon getting our bikes in ship shape and having a grand time. I hadn't seen him face to face in year, so our reunion was joyous, as was my reunion with Nathan Hoobler last evening. We showed each other photos, caught up on expedition stories, the whole nine yards. So great to be back with these guys!
Cody and I are taking one more day in the Springs before our mad dash to Monarch Pass - 11,355 feet!
All the best,
John
Friday, August 3, 2007
Milk ... Milk Was a Bad Choice...
Cody and I had entertained some high hopes of going 103 miles all the way to Eads, Colorado.
This morning, I picked up some Blueberry Morning at the supermarket; unfortunately, they only had whole milk, so upon cereal and whole milk I breakfasted. A few miles into the ride, I could tell something wasn't quite right. When we arrived in Leoti, KS, we went in to Ethel's Diner for lunch.
By then, I could tell I was ill. Dry toast was all I felt I could stomach and I held my head in my hands for 15 minutes before even looking sideways at the toast. When things came to a head and I realized I was going to be sick, I went to the restroom. The restroom was occupied. I burst out the front door, took two steps and completely lost it all over the sidewalk in front of Ethel's. I felt much better, but our century hopes were dashed.
I went back inside to take some Pepto, but a few minutes later, I found myself outside yet again. Just as I was about to lose it again, two guys walked up and started asking about our bikes. Their conversation was enough of a distraction for me to keep things under control, but just as they left, another couple came up and started asking about our travels. Again, as soon as we had gotten rid of them, and I was free to honk in private, there on the public sidewalk, a farmer came out of the cafe to chat. I can't get no relief.
We'll struggle the remaining 22 miles to Tribune, KS (in mountain time!) and call it a day.
-John
This morning, I picked up some Blueberry Morning at the supermarket; unfortunately, they only had whole milk, so upon cereal and whole milk I breakfasted. A few miles into the ride, I could tell something wasn't quite right. When we arrived in Leoti, KS, we went in to Ethel's Diner for lunch.
By then, I could tell I was ill. Dry toast was all I felt I could stomach and I held my head in my hands for 15 minutes before even looking sideways at the toast. When things came to a head and I realized I was going to be sick, I went to the restroom. The restroom was occupied. I burst out the front door, took two steps and completely lost it all over the sidewalk in front of Ethel's. I felt much better, but our century hopes were dashed.
I went back inside to take some Pepto, but a few minutes later, I found myself outside yet again. Just as I was about to lose it again, two guys walked up and started asking about our bikes. Their conversation was enough of a distraction for me to keep things under control, but just as they left, another couple came up and started asking about our travels. Again, as soon as we had gotten rid of them, and I was free to honk in private, there on the public sidewalk, a farmer came out of the cafe to chat. I can't get no relief.
We'll struggle the remaining 22 miles to Tribune, KS (in mountain time!) and call it a day.
-John
Thursday, August 2, 2007
A Grain Elevator & a Post Office
Cody met up with me in Hutchinson three days ago and we beat it out of town about 70 miles to a place called Great Bend, KS. Took care of some errands in town the next morning and lit out for Ness City. The riding was uneventful, save a few extremely rude motorists who passed too close and honked or flipped us off.
We have been talking about devising a method of retaliation. Our brainstorming so far has led us to seek out some sort of paint grenade that would allow us to mark the culprits. We've heard of riders taking steel ball bearings, taping them to their handle bars and whipping them at offending motorists. Evidently, they sound like gunshots when they strike the windows. Perhaps that would be a little too forward.
Many of the little towns we ride through are nothing more than a grain elevator and, sometimes, a post office and a cluster of houses. Other than that, you might travel 50 or 60 miles with nothing but cows and an occasional barn to look at. There really seems to be nothing to do and nothing to talk about except whatever the current crop may be.
Going to diners and cafes is sometimes a troubling experience. I've found that people are very narrow-minded and seem to look at cyclists as if we are walking around in pink frilly dresses. A few times we've been stared down by locals. This morning I reminded Cody to cool off because we have the last laugh - we're not going to die in Kansas.
Either way, we are set up for the evening at a youth hostel and are enjoying some time to relax.
All the best,
John
We have been talking about devising a method of retaliation. Our brainstorming so far has led us to seek out some sort of paint grenade that would allow us to mark the culprits. We've heard of riders taking steel ball bearings, taping them to their handle bars and whipping them at offending motorists. Evidently, they sound like gunshots when they strike the windows. Perhaps that would be a little too forward.
Many of the little towns we ride through are nothing more than a grain elevator and, sometimes, a post office and a cluster of houses. Other than that, you might travel 50 or 60 miles with nothing but cows and an occasional barn to look at. There really seems to be nothing to do and nothing to talk about except whatever the current crop may be.
Going to diners and cafes is sometimes a troubling experience. I've found that people are very narrow-minded and seem to look at cyclists as if we are walking around in pink frilly dresses. A few times we've been stared down by locals. This morning I reminded Cody to cool off because we have the last laugh - we're not going to die in Kansas.
Either way, we are set up for the evening at a youth hostel and are enjoying some time to relax.
All the best,
John
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