September 23, 2008
salsa, quick calculations, plastered city, safety first!!!
Day Two
"Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head."
- Carl Sandburg -
"The only mystery in life is why kamikaze pilots wore helmets."
- Al McGuire -
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I woke up early (for me) and, after a breakfast of coffee cake and chocolate milk, left the campsite at 8:00.
This sign was on the door of the campground's grocery store.
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"Capture or kill it????" You would have to be really young, or dumb, or both, to attempt something like that.
For those of you who have never come across a rattlesnake in the wild, you might find the natural reaction to one interesting. I believe it's a universal response, and will look for comments otherwise.
Upon hearing the sound of a rattle you instantly freeze, like a statue in the park, regardless of what awkward position you happen to be in. It's a jolting, instantaneous response, triggered by your autonomic nervous system without your permission, and accompanied by every hair on your body standing at attention. Somehow, viscerally, your body knows it's a warning, and not one to be taken lightly. Once you locate the source, you very slowly move in the opposite direction until you're out of striking distance. In fact, not just out of striking distance but out of the striking distance your imagination has conjured up, usually about three miles, and frequently in the direction of the nearest restroom so you can change your underwear.
I think the reaction can be overcome by desensitization (another way of saying you're living in the wrong place, a place with too many snakes), because it brings to mind my first experience of seeing a rattlesnake.
I was 8 or 9 years old, out walking with my dad and grandfather near Bingham, New Mexico. [2023 edit: Bingham was started by my grandfather and at that time consisted of exactly two buildings: the gas station/post office/general store combination, and their small adobe house. Its "claim to fame" is that it's the town closest to the site of the first nuclear explosion]. We were hiking through some of his arid ranch land (read: dry, cracked earth which can only sustain the lives of deadly and/or poisonous creatures) when I heard my first live rattle and instantly experienced the sensations described above. My grandfather, who was in his mid-70s at the time, also stopped abruptly, but not in the same human-become-granite manner as me.... this wasn't his first rattlesnake. Or fiftieth.
He stood stock-still for about five seconds, his head slowly swiveling as he scanned the ground. After fixing upon the snake's location, he took two quick steps in that direction.... WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! I watched in horror as he beat it to death with his cane.
He stepped back, his small, wiry frame showing none of the arthritis that would later slow him down (but which wouldn't slow him down enough to keep him from killing one final person ten years later, in self defense, making a total of three). He adjusted his rimless glasses upon his hawk-like nose and said in his typically understated tone,
"He won't be botherin' us no more."
I didn't know him well, but made a mental note to find out what bothered him, and to never do that.
He and my dad continued walking while I stared wide-eyed at the bloody pulp for a minute, then ran to catch up.
I climbed all morning, a steady and not necessarily unpleasant grinding up the mountain, passing through Pine Valley, over the Tecate Divide, and through Live Oak Springs. I had a headwind the whole way, although a headbreeze would be a more accurate description. Even though the temperature this morning was only in the low- to mid-80's I still emptied and refilled three water bottles.
In Boulevard (pop. 415) I stopped at the Salsa Lynda Cafe and ordered huevos rancheros. At the opposite end of the spectrum from Ramona's, I would rate these huevos rancheros as the second best I'd ever eaten, and possibly the best.
The owner/cook, Armando, noticed the empty water bottles on my table and offered to fill them for me with "the best well water in the area.”
“It's still got ALL the minerals in it," he proudly announced. "Very sweet."
I had just returned from the restroom, where there was a sign which read:
It was a single-story building, so while I didn't think there was a septic system on the floor above us, I couldn't be sure, and it made me wonder about the "minerals" in the well water.
Armando and I chatted a while longer and I learned that he makes eighteen different kinds of salsa. The salsa for the huevos rancheros, for example, is different from the salsa for the dip.
“Not bad for a guy who used to be a construction worker, a cement worker, a roofer, and a few other things before opening my cafe.”
The water WAS sweet, and the salsa had a balanced combination of flavors, smoky and delicious.
Leaving Boulevard I had a brief climb, then coasted into Jacumba (pop. 400). I was now less than half a mile from the Mexican border. Out of the first ten vehicles that passed, only a single one didn't have the familiar Border Patrol insignia on the door.
Off to my right there was a huge fence going up. Even without the enormous barricade being erected I couldn't see how something even as small as a chihuahua could get past.
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Periodically I heard popping noises in the distance. They sounded like gunshots, but I decided that it was probably just the combination of noise from the nearby construction and my overactive imagination.
Probably.
From Jacumba I had another brief climb, then plummeted almost 3000 feet into the valley below. For this section, because there IS no other way, bicyclists are allowed (if “allowed” is the right word) to travel on Interstate-8, along with 18-wheelers and RVs. The shoulder was very wide, which was fortunate considering all of the debris I had to dance around. As long as I didn't see any debris that looked like bicycle parts, or worse, bicyclist’s parts, then I wouldn't get too worried.
The temperature began to rise dramatically during the descent.
Ocotillo (pop 266), which I learned is a spiny scarlet-flowered desert shrub, is my "point of no return." If I keep going, I need to make it all the way to El Centro - there's nothing in between but twenty miles of heat. When I arrived in Ocotillo it was a few minutes before 5:00.
I did some quick calculations... 20 miles to El Centro at a pace of 10 mph (slow enough to ensure I don't overheat)... would put me there right around 7:00, twenty minutes after sunset. There should still be enough ambient light to ride. That's doable.
I stopped at the bar/grocery store in Ocotillo just long enough to refill my water bottles and answer a few Frequently Asked Questions. On my way out I asked the cashier how far it was to El Centro.
The problem with quick calculations is that you sometimes leave out an important element - like accuracy. Three minutes later it registered, "Wait… Did he say THIRTY miles? I think he did."
Okay, so I'm a little slow. According to my quick calculations, now I actually have to ride fifteen mph. On a loaded touring bike.
My ACA map said this section of the road is rough. When it's bad enough for them to warn you, it's going to be REALLY bad.
Which means... I have to ride fifteen mph. On a loaded touring bike. Over a road that makes my handlebars feel like a jackhammer.
The heat was oppressive. That sounds so trite, but it was horrifically hot and I could feel my core temperature rising.
Which means... I have to ride fifteen mph. On a loaded touring bike. Over a road that makes my handlebars feel like a jackhammer. As I try not to get overheated.
And a factual tidbit from the slow flatlander who was raised on the plains almost 800 miles from the nearest mountains: as the light around me dimmed, I realized that being on the EAST side of a mountain range causes it to get darker earlier.
Which means... I have to ride fifteen mph. On a loaded touring bike. Over a road that makes my handlebars feel like a jackhammer. As I try not to get overheated. In the dark.
I pedaled on.
Arriving in Plaster City meant I only had 18 more miles to go. The place isn't really a city, just a giant manufacturing plant, and I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that they make… plaster??
If it was the name of a city, I surmised that it was a commentary on the sobriety of its residents, because considering the temperature and the hard, baked sand surrounding this place for miles and miles, then maintaining a certain level of inebriation seemed a prerequisite to living there.
About a third of the way between Ocotillo and El Centro, tooling along at a pace which would hopefully balance my time constraints and my rising core temperature, I realized that the scale was tipping.... I was overheating. Even at a pace well below 15 mph I was still getting too hot.
After thinking about it for a minute, I considered taking off my helmet. I read that a person loses 40% of their body heat from the head and neck region so I wondered whether, in spite of my helmet's advertising claim of having "SIXTEEN MASSIVE AIR SUCKING VENTS," I might be cooler if I rode without it. What would be safer? Riding with it or riding without it?
Okay kids, remember: SAFETY FIRST! Don't wear your helmet!
Unless, wait... maybe it was "groin and butt" instead of "head and neck." No, definitely "head and neck." I think.
Just beyond Plaster City the elevation dropped to below sea level. I'm now in the Mojave Desert, and it's over a hundred degrees even at dusk. I drank three liters of water before lunch and four liters of water after lunch, plus one liter of Gatorade. Even so, I didn't urinate a single time all day. Not that you want to hear about my urinary habits - it's just to say I was pretty dehydrated.
As dusk descended, I clipped a small battery-powered red flashing light onto the back of my bike.
When I arrived in El Centro it was after dark and still well over a hundred degrees, much too hot to camp, so I immediately checked into a motel. Even if I'd been delirious from the heat and wanted to throw a tent onto the scorched earth and place my body onto it like a slice of bacon on a skillet, the nearest campground was five miles off my route.
By the time I made it to my motel room I was literally EXUDING heat, and even a cold shower only helped a little.
Too tired to go out for supper, I ordered a pizza delivered to my room. They didn't accept traveler's checks so I used up most of my cash. I'll need to get some more tomorrow.
After getting ready for bed I looked at the map and my heart sank. Brawley is 14 miles down the road. There's a small note on the ACA map, yelling at me in all caps, which I should've seen:
"SERVICES ARE EXTREMELY LIMITED BETWEEN BRAWLEY AND PALO VERDE. PLAN ACCORDINGLY AND CARRY FOOD AND WATER."
Palo Verde is 84 miles from here. That means, unless I camp on the side of the road in the heat, I'll need to ride either 14 or 84 miles. Today's ride, half of which was through temperatures below 90 degrees, just about wiped me out. I really don't know if I can make it.
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distance: 88.2 miles
maximum speed: 34 mph
average speed: 11.4 mph
time: 7:43:00
cumulative: 120.68 miles
Today's ride: 88 miles (142 km)
Total: 120 miles (193 km)
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