Day 20: Near Winkelman, AZ to Globe, AZ

March 14, 2013

It's warm and snug and wonderful inside the sleeping bag. Outside it's cold and kind of damp and the minute I go out there I'll start to shiver. But I've got a huge climb up to a mountain pass that starts ten miles to the north. Unless I want to beat myself up and finish it during the hottest part of the day, I have to move. And so I do my get-up-and-get-going-right-now trick: open the valve of the sleeping pad and feel all of the air inside rush out in about ten seconds. A few minutes on solid ground is all it takes to get me vertical.

It's pleasant riding for ten miles as the road trends upward along the hooks and bends of the Gila River. But then the river breaks right, the highway breaks left, and shit gets real. After a few more miles of gentle ups, the pavement laid out in front of me starts to round a corner and then shoots up toward the sky. When I see a runaway truck ramp off to my left, I know what my life's going to look like for the next few hours. Semi-trucks crawl up the grade and the churning engines of cars and SUVs leave behind them a sulphury, fart-like smell. The transmissions of downshifted cars whine as they pass in the opposite direction. The metal barrier at the road's edge creaks and pops every few seconds as it expands in the heat of the morning sun.

The climb is long and the climb is tough. It runs at seven to nine percent for all but a handful of the nine miles it takes to reach the top. When the road passes through the shade it's not so bad, but mostly I grunt and strain in the sun, so the sweat pours in waves and runs down into my eyes and off the point of my chin. I know it's a long and steady push to the top, so I leave the bike in the granny gear, disengage the part of the brain that worries about speed and distance, and spin spin spin my way to a summit I won't see for hours. The headwind that picks up during the last half of the grind doesn't make things easier, but I manage to keep my act together and save the cursing for another day. I'm distracted in part by watching cars approach and then pass me on the narrow, winding, shoulderless road.

I climb high enough that the landscape around me changes a lot. The cacti and red hills and little green bushes that have dominated my world for so long slowly give way to bigger shrubs that look like trees. And then, for the first time in weeks, I see actual trees with branches full of leaves. The road winds through broad expanses of green in between long stretches where it hugs the near-vertical rock faces that came about when the highway was blasted into being. All along the way I look out on thousands of acres of America that no human foot has ever touched. It's remote and beautiful and, whenever the headwind dies down, not bad riding at all.

Up at 5,000 feet the top is spectacular. The mountains of the Southwest tend not to match the dramatic, jagged peaks of places like Colorado and Wyoming, but whatever unnamed pass I just rode three hours to reach throws me an unexpected and amazing view. The mountains off to the right look rippled as their canyons drop down to the valley floor. To the north, the peaks wrapped in haze fall more smoothly as they angle down to a basin dozens of miles wide. I hang out for half an hour to soak in what's laid out in front of me and to remind myself what I just accomplished. The old people from Missouri behind me aren't so impressed. They spend most of their three-minute fart break complaining about the fact that there aren't any garbage cans or bathrooms at this pullout and how the DOT really needs to do something about it — and fix those damned benches while they're at it.

An easy 35 miles per hour comes on the five-mile drop from the pass. The cool of the breeze is offset every ten seconds or so by waves of heat that pulse up from the desert below.

Half an hour later, with the mid-day heat pounding, I roll into Globe. Earlier I'd thought about pushing east out into the San Carlos Apache reservation and spending another night alone in the desert, but Globe has too much appeal. And by appeal I mean a Mexican restaurant and free city park camping.

In the late afternoon I join about 50 parents and siblings and friends and watch a close high school softball game between the Globe Tigers and the Superior Panthers. As the setting sun creates shadows on the hills west of town, the field comes alive with crackling energy and high-pitched chants, one right after the next. When Lisa's at bat: "Lisa, Lisa, hit it for me! Lisa, Lisa right over that tree! Smack it ba-by! Smack it ba-by!" When she's in the hole 1-2: "B-a-t-t-l-e! B-a-t-t-l-e! Battle, battle!" When Elaine makes a bad swing and miss: "That's my girl Elaine and she can really rip! Rip na na na na! Rip na na na na!" The coaches get into it too: "Force at three! Force at three!"; "Wake up ladies!"; "Let's get some hits on three. One, two, three, hits!" It's all good jobs and atta ways and here we gos.

The middle school boys practice on the adjacent diamond. There it's less cheers and smiles and high fives, more ball-busting and fuck yous.

The wind kicks up as soon as the sun sets, turning what was a blazing hot day into a chilled night. In a bright-lit corner of the park, behind the swimming pool, I set up the tent. Inside, with legs that groan with soreness every time I stretch them out, I look forward to a day of mountain-free riding.

Or at least I try to.

Ten minutes later I hear, "Whoa, dude, it's a bike. Let's steal it." And a beat later: "Dude, it's a fuckin' tent!" So begins a few minutes of 16-year-olds with bad parents yelling and screaming and saying horrible things about the biker in the tent. This sort of thing doesn't happen a lot, but anyone who's toured more than a little and who camps often has experienced it. It's like, annoying and stuff, dude, but then the kids get bored and go home, because what else are they going to do? It's a small town and everyone knows who they are.

But Globe isn't a small town — at more than 7,000 people it's a half-assed city — and so things don't go down the same way. Ten minutes later the kids are back, and this time they're throwing rocks. Not pebbles from over by the swing sets, but big rocks that thump and bam and pop off the tent's rain fly half a dozen times. Nice. So I unzip the tent door. The sound sends them running. By the time I step outside they're gone and hauling ass across the field.

I hope that's the last of it, but of course it's not. Half an hour later the rocks and sharp wit are back. I'm not worried about my safety, and I don't care what the future drunks and domestic abusers outside have to say, but I need to protect my gear. A busted tent pole is inconvenient. A dented frame will bother me for a long time. But a bent derailleur or another cracked hub, out here in this turd of a desert town, will leave me stuck for days or maybe even a week. And so, for the second time in my life, I call the police. I know they don't at all care about a bunch of assholes damaging my stuff, but the assholes care a whole lot about not getting caught by the cops, so as soon as they figure out what's up they're off and running.

I hang out in the tent awhile longer, but I know I won't sleep well. And there's still the chance rocks could be flying at my bike later, after the kids grow tired of peeing on cars and lighting things on fire. So an hour later I pack everything up, crank over some huge hills, and end up back at the highway. For ten seconds I think about a night ride out into the desert, but thoughts of all the roadside crosses I've seen on this trip lead me to make the smart choice.

Lying in the motel bed I think about the two lessons to take away from today. One, when my intuition says don't stay here, this place doesn't seem right for spending the night, then hey, dumbass, listen up and move on. That feeling had been kicking around my head all afternoon and evening — large park, bigger town, no formal camping area, not used a lot by other bike tourists, a lot of people around, it's spring break at the schools — but I ignored it because, man, free camping! And two, the next time you find yourself in Globe, Arizona, keep going.

Today's ride: 34 miles (55 km)
Total: 828 miles (1,333 km)

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