Day 11: The Mojave Desert to Bouse, AZ

March 5, 2013

"Hey, fuck off!" I yell out at the buzzard who croaks and swoops above my tent and at his buddy who lopes about on the ground, staring at me, about 20 feet away. "I'm not dead yet!"

The blue skies of yesterday have been replaced to the east by reddish-gray overcast. The area around me changes too. First I see a house, then train tracks, then the smashed and graffiti'd remains of a gas station. The extreme desolation of yesterday has gone with the night.

Names and initials spelled out in rocks on the berm of the train tracks. This goes on for five miles.

I end the 100-mile service-free stretch at Vidal Junction, where truck drivers and Harley riders and old men who pair black socks and loafers with tan shorts fill up on gas for about $5 per gallon at the mini-mart. Every vehicle coming west from Arizona stops at the agricultural inspection station. That's the long description of life at Vidal Junction.

The last 17 miles to Parker make anal polyps sound good. Frost heaves leave three-inch-wide cracks in the pavement, and the bike crashes and rattles with a violent whump-whump every eight feet. When they go away, they're replaced by a shoulder of fresh blacktop covered from one edge to the other with rumble strips half an inch deep. Mixed in with all of this are a long series of rolling hills, where I fly down one, coast halfway up the next, and then crank like a maniac to reach the top. This goes on for miles and miles, all while dodging semis and RVs and trucks towing boats on trailers. It's an aggravating sendoff. I would have been ok with a simple sign that reads, "Thanks for visiting California, now go fuck yourself."

As the awful riding ends, I round a corner and find myself pedaling across a bridge above the murky waters of the Colorado River. The first two trucks that pass me after I hit the state line are both semis with double-decker trailers hauling two dozen golf carts each. Yep, I'm in Arizona.

Come on Arizona, you can do so much better.

The town of Parker seems to exist only to serve RVers and truck drivers and boat owners. Every business of any size has a parking lot about the size of a football field or two out back. But they also have a legitimate small-town pizza place. I've been dreaming about downing an entire pizza since the eastern part of San Diego County and now, almost a week later, I finally have that chance. As it turns out, the pizza is just good — no better. But here's the thing: pizza is like sex, in that there's no such thing as bad pizza; the scale only goes from good to great. I just about melt into the red vinyl of the uncomfortable booth as I power through the sweet spot of the pizza that's five percent sauce, 20 percent crust, and 75 percent cheese. I need certain things to keep me going on the road, and food like this is one of those things.

Two highways funnel into Parker from the north. Only one runs out to the south. As a result, I face ten awful miles of heavy traffic in both directions and a shoulder to escape on only part of the time. It's not like feeling the constant need to puke, but I wouldn't call it comfortable and relaxing either. Farther on the traffic thins out, but the harsh, never flush, chip-sealed surface pounds my arms and my balls and my soul for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. The skinny and scrubby bushes, the barbed wire fencing, and the thick metal power poles that line the highway don't do much to brighten the mood.

I'm drained by the time I wobble into Bouse. But as quick as bike touring can break me down, the smallest comforts help build me right back up. I clean the layers of dirt and sweat and sunscreen from my face. I eat dinner (a honey bun, baby carrots, water, a tallboy of Bud Light). I check the weather and it comes up in my favor.

As the blue skies turn to orange and then purple and finally to black, the red windsock and blue perimeter lights of the town's emergency helicopter landing pad start to glow across the road from the park where I'm camped. From the community center down the street I hear an old man with guitar in hand singing country-western standards just off key. And from a mobile home just beyond the park's back fence, I hear the unmistakable squeak-squeak-squeak of a metal bed frame that rocks and shakes from a round of vigorous bonking.

Today's ride: 72 miles (116 km)
Total: 482 miles (776 km)

Rate this entry's writing	Heart	1
Comment on this entry	Comment	0