Sunday, March 1, 2009
A Bicycle and a Bird
Many birds migrate thousands of miles under their own power. How many of us can say that? Is there some value in mimicing that experience? Flying all day in the heat, in need of food and water, across homelands displaced. Looking for a camp, night after night, away from whatever is out there to get them. Somewhere safe and dry and warm. We're not so different, cyclists.
To Climb a Mountain
Cycling can be an emotional experience. Here's what I mean: fatigue; you've gotten up early far too many days in a row, slept in a bed twice in the last 8 weeks, your knees hurt and you're just plain tired. Mind you, this is before the day's riding has even begun. Soreness; knees and legs screaming in unison, brain trying to ignore the fact that you're still on the flats and haven't started climbing the mountain yet. Frustration; to get up the mountain you need to granny gear it, and to do that you need to take all the bags off the bike and manually change the gear. Probably should have had that fixed a while ago. Anger; some at the bike, some at your weak legs, but mainly just to get the job done; like in Dodgeball, "You gotta get angry. You gotta get mean!" Elation; short lived, but hey-- anger is working! Fear; elbows grazing the semis hauling hay up the mountain. That sweet sour smell... what is that? Look down and see a broken animal carcass. That's what happens if your legs give out here; no shoulder and no mercy. Indecision; you've made it up the first grueling six miles, now: take the shorter steeper route? Or the longer, more level route? Follow the wide shoulder up the long and level. Regret; elevation isn't everything. Constant, brutal headwinds try and force you off the road and off the bike. Maybe the other way had no wind? Too late! Resignation; you're going up and over this mountain whether it takes a day or a year. Walk, if you have to, grimace if you must. Fix that flat and move on. Remember the Mountain Goats: "I'm gonna make it/ across this mountain/ if it kills me..." or something to that effect. Besides-- you'll be too busy laughing all the way down the other side to remember any of this.
Slab City
Let's start with Salvation Mountain. The story, or at least how it's told out at the slabs, is that a man in a hot air balloon landed at Salvation Mountain-- at this point a piece of nondescript and hostile looking desert-- and built a painted spectacle with straw bales and lots of free time. Fast forward and Salvation Mountain is designated a National Monument. Fast forward a little more and you have a thousand people wintering at Slab City, what used to be part of an airforce base and now neatly protected by the Mountain's monument status.
Full of hippes (the original, about the expire type) and dropouts, the Slab is "the last free place". Free to camp or park your RV year round, free to be away from cops and society and do whatever freedom means to you. I was lucky enough to be brought into a circle of people known as the Oasis Club; membership lets you use the library and check out videos. Nonmembers can still get the $3 all-you-can-eat Sunday breakfast, something to look forward to after a night at the Range-- an open air talent show that may have been in "Into the Wild." It's an amazing place, but also a sad place. Full of faux intelligence and set-in-their-ways freedomists. Full of people who wouldn't belong anywhere else, and have found a community of each other. A place of quiet desperation-- old men offering you a hit, just to have someone to talk to-- and a place of great inspiration-- sitting around a campfire singing Beatles songs to an acoustic guitar.
A place both obvious and replete with mystery; after breakfast a woman arrived with a skinny well dressed 14 year old-- not her son, but whom she was in the process of adopting-- who could recite the periodic tables and totally upturn the social hierarchy. Mike Bright, the smart guy who rides an electric beer cooler around the Slab, was left dumbfounded and defeated. Who was this kid? Was he kidnapped? His guardian said "We'll just call him Kailin for now"-- an usual name, and also a street across from Slab City-- but in the end it didn't matter. "We don't have to compete," he tells Mike Bright, "we can work cooperatively." Wherever he's from, he's now where he belongs.
Full of hippes (the original, about the expire type) and dropouts, the Slab is "the last free place". Free to camp or park your RV year round, free to be away from cops and society and do whatever freedom means to you. I was lucky enough to be brought into a circle of people known as the Oasis Club; membership lets you use the library and check out videos. Nonmembers can still get the $3 all-you-can-eat Sunday breakfast, something to look forward to after a night at the Range-- an open air talent show that may have been in "Into the Wild." It's an amazing place, but also a sad place. Full of faux intelligence and set-in-their-ways freedomists. Full of people who wouldn't belong anywhere else, and have found a community of each other. A place of quiet desperation-- old men offering you a hit, just to have someone to talk to-- and a place of great inspiration-- sitting around a campfire singing Beatles songs to an acoustic guitar.
A place both obvious and replete with mystery; after breakfast a woman arrived with a skinny well dressed 14 year old-- not her son, but whom she was in the process of adopting-- who could recite the periodic tables and totally upturn the social hierarchy. Mike Bright, the smart guy who rides an electric beer cooler around the Slab, was left dumbfounded and defeated. Who was this kid? Was he kidnapped? His guardian said "We'll just call him Kailin for now"-- an usual name, and also a street across from Slab City-- but in the end it didn't matter. "We don't have to compete," he tells Mike Bright, "we can work cooperatively." Wherever he's from, he's now where he belongs.
Holtville: A parable?
After a long hot detour from the interstate I sat outside a food market an had lunch (tuna for protein, corn chips and soda for calories) and came to a kind of disturbing realization. Everyone driving by seemed normal enough. People driving to the store seemed normal enough. But everyone walking or cycling to, near or around the store seemed to be a cripple or mentally retarded. It was odd at first, though I didn't think too much about it. But as I left, my knees aching, I began to wonder what that said about me-- was I too a cripple? Was I a retard for biking somewhere instead of driving? Why was I doing this?
Almost out of town I passed a man slumped in a wheelchair, in the street, facing traffic. He looked defeated, resigned to his fate. And I thought I should do something, and I thought about all the times off the bike on a lonely roadside, people passing and not acknowledging me. Ceasing to exist. I didn't need help, but I wanted someone to offer. To reassure myself I'd make it through this desert, this oddysey in one piece. But everyone is too busy going somewhere to stop. Now I was the one too busy-- trying to get to a campsite before dark-- so I looked back and grimaced, but didn't stop pedalling. And I see I'm no different than the people in the cars after all.
Almost out of town I passed a man slumped in a wheelchair, in the street, facing traffic. He looked defeated, resigned to his fate. And I thought I should do something, and I thought about all the times off the bike on a lonely roadside, people passing and not acknowledging me. Ceasing to exist. I didn't need help, but I wanted someone to offer. To reassure myself I'd make it through this desert, this oddysey in one piece. But everyone is too busy going somewhere to stop. Now I was the one too busy-- trying to get to a campsite before dark-- so I looked back and grimaced, but didn't stop pedalling. And I see I'm no different than the people in the cars after all.
California Dreamin'
Cross the Colorado on I-8 from Arizona and suddenly you're in California. No visitor center, no free maps, but hey-- you made it. Things will be easy from here on out, right?
The shoulders are less well maintained in the California freeway, which is a moot point since it's illegal to ride them. After being pulled over, frisked, and interrogated about just why I wanted to ride a bicycle to San Diego ("you know how far that is?"), I was escorted back almost to the border and dumped onto a frontage road. These frontage roads look like they haven't been paved in a hundred years. If first impressions mean anything, California looks like a dud.
No, I take that back. California looks nice, with its cute little bomber plane on the "speed checked by radar" signs-- but it feels like flash with no substance. People in RV's everywhere, like Arizona, but camped out free on Reservation land. Rednecks riding dune buggies and drinking beer; more style than southern rednecks, with their clothes and cash-- but the same at heart. I didn't think California would be this way. I guess I expected it to be less like home.
{I've actually met quite a few good people since writing this, so don't think California is all bad.}
The shoulders are less well maintained in the California freeway, which is a moot point since it's illegal to ride them. After being pulled over, frisked, and interrogated about just why I wanted to ride a bicycle to San Diego ("you know how far that is?"), I was escorted back almost to the border and dumped onto a frontage road. These frontage roads look like they haven't been paved in a hundred years. If first impressions mean anything, California looks like a dud.
No, I take that back. California looks nice, with its cute little bomber plane on the "speed checked by radar" signs-- but it feels like flash with no substance. People in RV's everywhere, like Arizona, but camped out free on Reservation land. Rednecks riding dune buggies and drinking beer; more style than southern rednecks, with their clothes and cash-- but the same at heart. I didn't think California would be this way. I guess I expected it to be less like home.
{I've actually met quite a few good people since writing this, so don't think California is all bad.}
Day 4: highlights and thoughts
A security guard outside Gila Bend where the frontage road dead ends. At first she cops an attitude with me "Can I help you?" and "You're not planning on camping out here." But when I explain I'm riding just because, she asks me if I'm writing a "blog thing" and how she reads this one guy's blog who bikes around the country-- her friend recommended it to her because she's a "gypsy at heart". She ended by telling me to put Vaseline on my face, so I don't look weathered. Ha!
Seeing Misfits t-shirts on the Indian reservation. The cashier at Bashas thought he had heard of Manowar. Ads for Full Blood, a native american skateboard company. Realizing the reservation is like a third world country; signs at the gas station saying you can't buy energy drinks with food stamps. Perhaps it's like Africa-- give them everything to get by, but not a reason to make things better. Trailer with stove, fridge, and hot water heater for $500. Everyone under 65 looks attractive after being around so many RV's.
Seeing Misfits t-shirts on the Indian reservation. The cashier at Bashas thought he had heard of Manowar. Ads for Full Blood, a native american skateboard company. Realizing the reservation is like a third world country; signs at the gas station saying you can't buy energy drinks with food stamps. Perhaps it's like Africa-- give them everything to get by, but not a reason to make things better. Trailer with stove, fridge, and hot water heater for $500. Everyone under 65 looks attractive after being around so many RV's.
Day 1
Didn't expect much sleep on the Greyhound from Flagstaff to Tucson; wasn't disappointed. But all in all things wrapped up well. Aimed for 56 miles and quit at 76. Still daylight, but I want to rest. The highlight of the day was a German family that winters in Phoenix, who happened to be using a rest area at the same time as me. The husband asked me if I was riding to Ajo (126 miles from Tucson, which I thought I'd reach the first night so quickly was I gliding along the miles of flat blacktop leading away from Tucson) and responded with an exuberant "wuunderal!" When asked if I planned to camp in the desert (I was) it was "suuper!" When I told him I was en route to San Diego, it was "incrrredible!" Later they honked rowdily as they passed me in their RV.
Not everyone was so impressed; passing a farm I felt the horses looking at me curiously, while the cows seemed non-plussed. It actually seemed like they were looking down on me for riding a bicycle in the road. But later the bike stirred up a stampede of cattle, less running in fear than cheering me on, keeping pace on the opposite side of the ubiquitous barbed fence.
Hawks' cries cut the air above me. All around me, cactus; some regal , and others comically posed for my amusement. The high tension wire gurgling in some secret language, while the clouds stream by like subtitles. On my back, in the grass, it's all I can do to stay awake.
Not everyone was so impressed; passing a farm I felt the horses looking at me curiously, while the cows seemed non-plussed. It actually seemed like they were looking down on me for riding a bicycle in the road. But later the bike stirred up a stampede of cattle, less running in fear than cheering me on, keeping pace on the opposite side of the ubiquitous barbed fence.
Hawks' cries cut the air above me. All around me, cactus; some regal , and others comically posed for my amusement. The high tension wire gurgling in some secret language, while the clouds stream by like subtitles. On my back, in the grass, it's all I can do to stay awake.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
