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).
No comments:
Post a Comment