| Cross-Country Ramble 10:
People Never Cease to Amaze Sent: 04/15/96
The tire gods are with us this morning; we make it past the point
where I'd had the flat the previous day. We've started again on what
I now realize is a trip segment that I've been worried about for
months. By the map, we've got 66 miles of desert between Brawley and
the next designated place to stay in Palo Verde, with one grocery
out there in the middle somewhere.
I lied about the high desert being flat, flat, flat. The part of
the Mojave south of the Salton Sea that we're biking through this
morning makes the high desert look hilly. The already-flat land has
been made even flatter by the farmers to make irrigation easier. The
sun is bright, the road is flat and the shoulders are wide. We have
plenty of time to try to figure out what's being grown in the green
fields that line the road and extend to the far-away mountains that
surround this plain. We recognize sugar beets, hay and wheat.
Yesterday, we saw lots of trucks loaded with sugar beets, carrots
and hay. Today is Saturday. Those trucks are gone, but we see lots
of RV's and ATV-laden trailers going somewhere for some weekend fun.
An hour or two into our day, the landscape changes suddenly, from
green and agricultural back to desert. Our map says we're in sand
dunes and we soon see what this means. The road is now hilly. The
creosote bushes get fewer and farther between as the bare sandy
places get bigger and bigger. We crest a hill and discover where all
those RV's and ATV's were going. The RV's are parked along the road
and the expanse of sand dunes we now see is peppered with ATV's and
dune buggies snarling up, down and around, all over the place. What
fun!
Over a few more hills and none too soon, we come upon the Glamis
Beach Grocery and Restaurant--the self-proclaimed "Sand Toy Capital
of the World." There is no beach, but there are plenty of sand
toys--and their owners. We grab 44-ounce Cokes from the restaurant
and settle down to watch the parade. I've never seen anything like
this. I'm searching for something I can relate it to. I decide that
this is a lot like skiing: expensive, recreational and requiring
special clothes to be stylish. The stylish folks look to my eyes a
lot like the tall skinny robot in Star Wars, but more colorful.
Their outfits feature brightly colored plastic high-top boots,
breast, back and arm plates, shoulder pads and goggles. Awesome!
We scarf our burgers and fries, refill our water bottles and set
out again. We've still got 40 miles to go and only five hours to do
it in. Our map tells us we'll climb 1000 feet today and our legs
know it. But our destination is back down where we started,
elevation-wise, so we know that a nice downhill descent is just over
the next hill. Here's where we learn that short-term variations can
obscure long-term trends. When we get to the part of today's route
that is downhill on the map, we find it laced with "dips." These are
a series of dry washes cutting across the road, making for
exhilarating downhill rides, followed by sweaty uphill off-the-bike
pushes. It may be downhill, but you couldn't tell it by us.
Finally, as our shadows are lengthening, we arrive at that last
downward descent into the Colorado River flood plain.
Dropping downward, I enter an area of shadow and am struck by a
cool, almost-clammy breeze. Suddenly, I'm transported back 40 years.
I experience myself as a teen-ager riding my motor scooter along a
country road in the early evening near my home in Standish,
Michigan. "Where did that come from?" I wonder. I become aware of
the smell: newly cut hay. We're surrounded by fields of new-mown
hay. The combination sensations of smell and the cool, more humid
air, had taken me back to my boyhood home. For a moment there, the
fact that my eyes could see mountains and desert sky didn't seem to
matter. Strange things, our olfactory nerves. I understand that
they're wired to the same part of our brains as where our feelings
are stored. I believe it.
We arrive at our destination in a place called Palo Verde. It
turns out to be a combination bar/deli/motel. There's a hole
in the office wall so people can order things from the bar to eat at
the concrete picnic table outside. I poke my head in and ask if this
is the place where I inquire about a room. "Yes," says the lady,
"but all eight units are full. Sorry."
Carol and I sit on the concrete bench at the concrete table. We
look at each other. I try to speak, but Carol says, "Let's just sit
a moment." I try to figure out if I want to eat first, or find a
place to pitch the tent. I find the decision-making process very
difficult. I accept the woman's offer of a glass of ice water. Carol
doesn't.
There's a bearded, pony-tailed fellow in a sleeveless undershirt,
shorts and sandals approaching from across the street. He
comes up and asks the usual: where did we come from, where are we
going, how far have we come today. We answer his questions without
much energy, but a little grateful for the diversion from our
immediate problem.
"Are you looking for a placed to stay?" he asks. "Yes," we admit.
"How about staying with me and my wife at our place across the
street?" he asks. Carol, the usually more cautious one of us, says,
"Great!" before I can interpret what he's said. So we meet Lee and
Sally, who are also bicyclers. They had seen us pedal into town and
knew exactly our situation from our posture at the concrete table
across the street. They provide us a shower, bed, washer and dryer
for our clothes and breakfast in the morning. We stay up as late as
our eyes will stay open trading biking stories with them.
Before we go to sleep, Carol and I review our day. We've biked
further than we've ever gone before--70 miles--over hilly desert.
We've seen things we've never seen before. We've met some great
people. We've experienced our biggest low and our biggest high of
the trip. We agree that this is the best day of our trip so far.
Ken
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