"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.
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