Robin Hood and Santa Claus are Good Ideas for Future Employment

A familiar scene: two unemployed bums in a '97 Saturn adorned with Boston Celtics propaganda cruising through Southern California, 90's hip-hop playing through the tinny speakers and a longing for adventure in their hearts. ML had spent three months living the dream, cycling through Eastern Europe but now finds himself damn lucky to have a job going door-to-door harassing innocent citizens to fill out and turn in their goddamn census forms. CRS had spent a year wandering around all over hell and part of Arizona looking for a bright, cheery future without fluorescent lights and cubicles and failing. Dissillusioned, bored, and restless, our duo decides to delay the inevitable return to dreaded "normalcy" by doing what they know best: riding their beat up bikes through desert wastelands for days on end.

"You know, it would really bring magic back into the season...a definite step up from all the goddamn commercial bullshit. Ask anybody: one of the greatest tragedies of anyone's life is the discovery that Santa Claus is just a crock of shit." ML, always daydreaming of the perfect job that will never exist, is in the midst of a reverie about dream jobs. Going around the world, delivering toys to deserving children, may be rewarding. The logistics would be a nightmare, but with enough manpower, it just could work.

I chimed in with my dream job: Indonesian Pirate. An Outside Magazine interview with a self-proclaimed "Gentleman of Opportunity" and proud warrior of the seas piqued my curiosity. It has everything I'm looking for: flexibility, a high hourly wage, adventure travel, and plenty of time off. The parties in Dubai sounded like a swell time too. ML agreed, saying "yeah, and if you got all high-minded about it, you can almost justify it as a Robin-Hood type enterprise". "I guess that means I'll have to lay off the coke and hookers."

Yes, That Really Is the Road, or Maybe I Should've Trained for This

"There's no way that can be the highway...it's gotta be something else." Wishful thinking, but that seemingly endless vertical wall of asphalt is our highway, which will take us to Joshua Tree and points beyond. I was already knackered thanks to a strict physical fitness regiment of sitting on my ass and drinking beer for months on end. We are about 10 miles into our second day after a relaxing night camping out in a ditch next to a highway snaking its way through a canyon. My ass is already tired and my legs are howling for me to reconsider this nonsense, but the mission must continue, and the only way to go is up.

Strapping on our MP3 players for motivation, we trudged on up the monstrosity. The Pantera live album blowing my eardrums out had no effect; my quads simply gave up and I had no recourse but to push my loaded Trek up the hill, embarrassed as the cars whizzed past. ML, who spent a large chunk of his unenjoyment mountain biking the foothills of Santa Barbara, fared much better than I.

A breezy descent found us in Yucca Valley and a cheap Chinese joint where we refueled with enough MSG-laden greasy slop to choke a horse, all washed down with completely gratuitous Bubble Tea. We rolled out of the place, haggard and exhausted and just a little ill, looking for a world-renowned bike touring oasis: Wal-Mart.

Fake Mustaches Cost 25 Cents for a Reason, or God is On Our Side

I stood guard in the Wal-Mart parking lot while ML went in search of small container of mustard, which he had been tracking down like a sleuth. We had just purchased fake mustaches from a vending machine for a quarter each, but found them to be completely inadequate to our cause (they really go lean with the adhesive). We were very excited about rolling up to the Joshua Tree ranger station and making complete fools of ourselves, but we would have to make do with our natural selves (given our salt-stained, dust and sunscreen caked faces, it wouldn't be that difficult). A remarkably leathery gent sitting next to the bikes looked ready to give out a little spiel, and I played the role of captive audience, as usual.

"I used to play in clubs all over the place: Vegas, LA, San Francisco, you name it, I was there! But then a few Jesus freaks started talking to me. At first I totally blew them off, but then I started listening, and what they said about finding salvation through faith really struck a chord with me. Before you know it I became one of those weirdos myself! Now I use my talents for God's work, singing songs about the Lord to good folks on beautiful days like this. Say, have you developed a relationship with God?"

Not wanting to prolong this any further than necessary (how long does it take to buy mustard, anyway?), I gave my stock answer: "Jesus and I are pretty tight these days, and I thank God every day for it". It must have worked because the subject changed to the coming apocalypse as predicted by some Nostradamus rip-off, predicting "The Big One" to hit California in 2010. For some reason I let slip that I used to be in the Air Force, and our cowboy/troubadour stated that he was "in the Army, Navy, AND Marines...but I liked the Air Force the best...we used to sneak over to their base in Okinawa because they had a movie theater".

It was at that point that ML returned, empty handed (they didn't have anything less than 16 oz., regrettably). We were mounting our bikes when Jesus Geezer asked us what our favorite energy drinks were. "Holy water, and lots of it". "Well, you boys take care and I'll be praying for you". "Thanks, we're gonna need it".

Campsites Are For Losers, or Maybe I Should've Replaced Those Tires With 2000 Miles on Them

"Alright, now we gotta avoid the rangers like Yogi Bear!" It's dusk in Joshua Tree National Park and we are nowhere near a campground that isn't full of RVs and the evil that goes with them. Being purists, we reject creature comforts in the quest for true adventure travel, which frequently requires camping in quasi-legal (or, more often, fully illegal) places. Commando camping requires a keen eye for places that are both secluded and spiritually harmonious, a place where one can debate the merits of health care reform without waking up to a shotgun in the face. ML, after avoiding Latvian rednecks and mad Russian dogs in his European tour, has developed tremendous commando camping instincts that served us well.

We found a nice little nook a few hundred feet from the main road in the park, nestled up against one of Joshua Tree's famous rock outcroppings that attract climbing dirtbags the world over. After a delicious meal of instant mashed potatoes, dried fruit, and protein bars, we became all high-minded under the influence of the crystal clear night skies that only a desert can provide. Conversation weaved between the futility of politics, ideal employment opportunities, the benefits and drawbacks of a straight-edge lifestyle, the silliness of the fixie scene, the occasional battle rap, and, of course, women. Living in a two-person tent with another guy for a week and a half requires a certain amount of intimacy, especially with a steady diet of cheap tortas.

We considered ourselves damn lucky with our ride thus far, and we even began to think the Wal-Mart muse really was throwing shout-outs to God when ML suffered the first of what turned out to be five flats. We were admiring the curious octillo (looks like a cactus, but is really deciduous) when we realized it was time to break out the tire levers, pumps, and our flat-fixing caps. In order to boost morale, ML pulled out his emergency radio and tuned it to one of the several Ranchero stations...if it worked for the guys in the orchards, it can work for a couple of stupid gringos like us.

A Properly Scaled Map Would be Nice, or Mexican Gatorade Ain't That Good

Our luck soon changed for the better. The challenges of Joshua Tree faded away on Box Canyon Road, which takes the intrepid traveler from National Park, Inc. to some amazing BLM wilderness where a man can be emancipated from rules, rangers, and entrance fees. The wind was at our backs, the gods were smiling, and the anti-everything redneck weirdos were undoubtedly watching our every move from their well-armed compounds. We prudently decided to camp far away from what appeared to be the Unabombers' driveway, lest we get a rude awakening.

The ride through the canyon to the below-sea-level industrial agriculture town of Mecca made all the struggles of the previous days well worth it: that is what bike touring is all about! While downing snack of slimy cheese and salami at the picaresque town square, we admired the modified camper van parked across the street, admirably strapped with Kayaks and Mountain Bikes. They seemed like Our Kind of Guys (likely climbing bums, but that's an acceptable transgression), but we had our mission to complete, so on to Palm Springs we rolled...

...until God took a nap and all hell broke loose with a demoralizing string of flats in Coachella. Thankfully we were right next to a gas station stuffed to the rafters with treats favored by migrant workers, so we indulged in some barely-legal candy and curious-looking electrolyte beverage which, upon closer inspection, was a sort of medicine for kids with diarrhea. It was predictably awful, but it hits the spot when the sun is beating down and you are slathered in grease, wrestling with cranky tubes next to a semi trailer on the side of the road in a run-down migrant town where English is as foreign as a decent crepe.

The flats put us a few hours behind schedule, so we decided to make up time by blasting up the empty Dillon Road as opposed to the traffic choked main highway. However, our maps consisted of a few scribbles on backs of envelopes, so we didn't appreciate that Dillon Road was about twice as long as the presumed "slow" road and with more ups and downs than a med-free bipolar convention. We certainly didn't appreciate that scorching sun that was quickly replaced by a searing and demoralizing you-have-to-pedal-to-move-downhill headwind (there is a reason why they put windmills out here, much to our chagrin), nor the dogs unhappy to see us.

"Come on you ugly bastard! Why don't you come over here and chew on my balls, you little shit!" ML had clearly crossed the threshold of exhaustion and was taking it out on the mongrels that guarded the ramshackle trailers the dotted the desolate hilly landscape. He put some NOFX on the headphones and trudged forward with a truly inspiring countenance of pure grim determination to see this section of the ride end. A joking reference to a hotel room made several miles ago suddenly didn't seem so funny as the headlights were turned on.

After what seemed like weeks on the godforsaken road we reached the most beautiful sight imaginable: a green '97 Saturn in a truck stop parking lot. Just in time: the wind had now become a ferocious gale and the temperature dropped as quickly as our morale once we realized that our only viable source of an evening meal was Wendys. Fortunately our sidekick/chauffeur/gainfully employed voice of reason, JPC, arrived just in time to take us to a night a luxury at the local Hotel 6: hot showers, real beds, and sturdy shelter to recharge us for a weekend of desert exploration without bikes (our battered crotches were quite thankful).

Oases Really Do Exist, or Mark Your Territory To Keep The Coyotes At Bay

Being a working stiff JPC could only contribute a weekend to the Siege, so we spent it in grand style wandering around the Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, a massive piece of public land off the SoCal tourist radar. A-B is a haven for dirtbikers, four-wheelers, off-roaders, and other such folks who like their wilderness adventures energized with a healthy dose of adrenaline, growling engines, and gawking spectators like us. It is easy for the Sierra Club crowd to become all high-minded in their quest to maintain the unspoilt purity of natural ecosystems from the ivory towers of self-righteous exclusivity, but I have a hunch a half hour on some gnarly desert track with a rumbling 250cc bike between their legs would have them singing a different tune.

We decided to tackle the park's most popular features: natural oases located in readily accessible canyon trails. The pleasantly long walks afforded us the chance to catch up on the happenings of our beloved former employer...JPC had us yearning for some solid benefits that only half-assed government work could provide. While descending the trail we came across a shockingly elderly couple dressed for a winter ascent of Mt Washington, not a stroll through the desert. I gave them words of encouragement when they asked if they were close to the oasis, but the fact of the matter is they were going to have a rough time at it...I began mentally reviewing my Wilderness First Responder course material on heat stroke.

We could not have picked a better time of year: the desert flowers were in full bloom, the temperatures were very reasonable, and the Winnebago crowd wasn't too obnoxious. Nevertheless, we picked a more obscure campsite with stone roofless shitters that looked positively medieval. It was the first night of the Siege that we heared the unmistakable whine of coyotes in the distance (although they always sound closer than they are). ML quickly went into action by pissing in a wide arc near the campsite and advised us to do the same. The Nirvana song "Territorial Pissings" came to mind, obviously. JPC regaled us with tales of his coworkers who had done tours in South Korea. Apparently they had decided to start a fight club, but soon discovered that, much to their surprise, getting punched in the face is not as fun as it looked in the movies. Their solution: "Auto Club", where each participant painted their POS car in some outrageously garish scheme and then were granted full license to ram into each other whenever they saw each other driving through town. I couldn't recall hearing a more brilliant thing in my life.

Alas, Sunday rolled around and with it the realization that it was high time to mount the saddles for the second half of the Siege. JPC was kind enough to drive us up and over a rather gruesome pass in his BMW so we could start off on a leisurely grade, showing a little respect to our almost-recovered quads. We passed fields full of large bronze statues of various creatures, real and imaginary (dinosaurs, griffins, stallions, etc.) that were magnificent in their gratuity. Eventually we reached a good point of debarkation, slowly repacked our gear and food (JPC came out several cans of soup ahead), said goodbyes, and pushed off into the long late afternoon shadows.

You Always Need More Water Than You Think, or Look Before You Run Over Piles of Barbed Wire

Now this is what bike touring is all about: a 35 mph tailwind, winding descents through gorgeous canyons, no traffic, smooth roads. The 30 mile cruise from JPC's BMW to our primitive oasis-surrounded campsite was as good as it gets. It was like riding a motorcycle; all we had to do is hang on and stop for the occasional piss break. All the punishment and masochism of the previous week was washed away in a sea of riding bliss, better than sex, drugs, rock and roll, and maybe even video games. Even the weirdos at the general store in Agua Caliente couldn't diminish our mood with their warnings of high winds and bad weather.

However, as the cheesy slasher flicks from the 80s taught us, you should always heed the advice of old weird dudes who run general stores in ghost towns. We set up camp amidst gathering black clouds and winds that turned the sandy arroyo into a veritable dust storm. It was a night to break out the guy lines, but it didn't stop us from waking up buried under a layer of sand.

One of the challenges of desert riding is the constant attention you must give to your water supply lest you be shit outta luck. Our supplies were rather depleted as we shook the sand out of our shorts and shoved off in the morning. Fortuantely, our pitifully crude maps showed a "developed" campsite just a mile or so down the road with fresh water available. What the map didn't show was the fact that this water supply was a good four miles from the highway through touring-bike-unfreindly ankle-deep sand. Needless to say there was much swearing and gnashing of teeth as we pushed our now-useless loaded bikes up the road in search of this mythical water source, which turned out to be a forlorn tap with "Unpotable-Boil Before Drinking" in a dangerous looking font written above it. At least it was raining.

The glorious tailwind from the day before had also disappeared. We rolled into the town of Octillo pretty dejected and hungry, only to find out that there were no restaurants in town, just a Texaco station and the Laughing Lizard Lounge, which looked like you'd be a fool to walk in unarmed. We sat on the parking lot curb choking down peanut butter and tortillas, keeping our spirits up through tall tales of the legendary Tahoe ski bum known only as Devo.

The road may have been flat, but the day continued to go downhill. We soon found ourselves smack in the middle of Industrial Agriculture America in the hideous town of El Centro. It was impossible to have a conversation as massive straw or cattle laden trucks hurled past us at unreasonable speeds just inches from our bikes, sending us teetering towards the ditch. ML was visibly (and audibly) sketched out by the scenario, but we were afforded a well-needed break when it became my turn to have a flat on the side of a highway.

The sunset was beautiful, but we didn't have much time for admiration for we were trying to find a campsite that wouldn't attract rabid homicidal bike tourist rapists, but that's all we found. One particular patch of earth was so forbidding you instantly became nauseated, but I'm sure the decaying corpses and torn up childrens' clothes had something to do with it. We eventually settled on the most decrepit "hunting preserve" in the US (actually, we were much closer to Mexico than the US) for a crash site. After 80 miserable miles, we were thoroughly knackered, but the final act of the evening was running over a pile of barbed wire that blended in quite well with its surroundings in the twilight. Anybody within earshot would have thought that I was suffering from a severe case of Tourette's.

State Park Camprgrounds are OK in Moderation, or The Desert Does Not Lack for Weirdos

It wasn't before long when we spotted our reason for coming to this God-foresaken part of the world: the mysterious and majestic Salton Sea. A natural below-sea-level basin that filled with water after some flooding and agricultural runoff got out of hand, the Sea is a bizarre body of water that attracts a variety of migratory waterfowl and anti-establishment freaks. But it wasn't always thus: back in the 1920s, the Sea was a happening holiday destination, a watersport haven where younguns in provacative bathing attire could run footloose and fancy free far from the "man". Unfortunately, nature happened and the banks flooded, burying the surrounding settlements in mud while the salinity in the water reached alarming levels.

We rolled into the once rollicking town of Bombay Beach, now a disheveled settlement with boarded up businesses and inhabitants looking to get away from it all. It's the sort of place where you expect to see obese elderly man cruise around on golf carts with American Flag suspenders, weaving around the unmaintained roads because they just spent the morning at the Legion (the lone business that does any business). We enjoyed a disgracefully unhealthy lunch on the banks of the sea in a recreation area that had been closed for quite some time, wondering why in hell anybody would choose to live out here.

As weird as Bombay Beach was, it paled in comparison to our next surreal settlement. On what appeared to be an abandoned ranch, some very creative people with a whole lot of time on their hands had created several UFO-related sculptures out of scrap metal. There were several bombed-out buildings on site, all showing signs of recent habitation. Graffiti ranged from adolescent Jim Morrison-worshiping banalities to obscure hieroglyphics. It was something straight out of a Mad Max film; I was half expecting to find some dudes with spikes shoulder pads lurking about.

Our explorations of the bizarre made a final push to our car an impossibility (not really, but our predilection towards masochism died about a hundred miles ago). We decided to set up camp at an actual state park campsite, with showers and picnic tables. Fortunately it was more or less deserted with the exception of a few RVers who shared our fascination with this gloriously insane body of water. $5 well spent, even for shamelessly cheap bastards like us.

Game Over: Make a Lessons Learned List So You Don't Make The Same Mistakes The Next Time

The final day of the Siege was quite pleasant: a mellow ride back to civilization taking the highway vs. the godawful Dillon Road (it was shockingly quicker). We rode past the grounds at Indio that hosts the annual Coachella Music Festival, set to commence in just a few days. Crews were setting up the stage where Jay-Z will play to hordes of the unwashed who, somehow, managed to come up with $200 to spend the weekend acquiring heatstroke and interesting diseases.

Shimmering in the distance was our destination, the glorious monument to Americana, the beacon of hope, the great symbol of the power of Western Civilization: Wal-Mart. Specifically the Wal-Mart whose parking lot rested the '97 Saturn that may lose a quart of oil a week, but at least it was cheap. Our mission complete, we celebrated by partaking in another peculiar American institution: the All-You-Can-Eat Buffet, where we made damn sure we had our $9.36 worth of heavily processed, chemically-enhanced industrial agricultural products that can make towns like Mecca and El Centro viable in the 21st century.

...It was a long, straight, runway-esque road that will make any man, even milquetoast Sierra Clubbers, wish they had a Lamborghini, if only for just 5 minutes. Pitch black with the Kinks' Greatest Hits on the tape deck, we reviewed the Siege's highlights and lowlights, a procedure ML adopted in Europe. Logic would dictate it was high time to put the panniers away and get back to the 40/50 grind, but we are not logical people. The ink was still wet on this chapter when ML asked the obvious question: "What's next? I'm thinking South America". "Too mountainous...perhaps SE Asia, but the humidity would be draining. How about North Africa?" "Yeah, Morocco, Tunisia, maybe Egypt...hopefully we'll both be unemployed this fall and can make it happen..."

Suddenly I had less incentive to polish the old resume. But first I have to give my aching quads a bit of a rest...