March 22, 2013
Day 28: Near Carrizozo, NM to Capitan, NM
Twelve hours of sleep bring me back from the brink of exhaustion. Five miles of riding bring me into the town of Carrizozo.
It's a highway crossroads of semi-trucks, fifth wheels, tour buses, garbage haulers, and horse trailers. Three of the four corners have gas stations and the area radiating away from the center is filled out with mini-marts, restaurants, old motels ("AARP, Govt. Rates, All Credit Cards"), gift shops, antique stores, and tourists asking about the chimi-chang-gas. The waitress at the cafe is the lone ray of sunshine — "Hey, it's Fridaaaay! Here ya go, and I'll be right back with yer water, love!" — and compared to the towns around it, Carrizozo isn't the kind of place to hang out for the day. I'm on the lookout for somewhere to stop for awhile, because I haven't taken a full day off since the Phoenix area two weeks ago. There's been a lot of tough riding since then.
But today isn't tough at all. The wind blows at my back, and even though I gain about 1,600 feet between Carrizozo and Capitan, most of the way it's the kind of subtle climbing that I almost don't notice. The grade steepens farther on, and I crank like mad when I notice the angry gray thunderstorm clouds not far to the north, but I hit the top with about ten minutes to spare and continue my no-rain streak. Along the way I pass one small ranch after the next and stay wrapped in an ocean of yellow and brown and green.
Capitan is the end of the road, without question. With Roswell 70 miles to the east and nothing but highway and tumbleweeds in between, I'm not going any farther today. That leaves two questions: where to stay and for how long.
I'm all about tent camping. I sleep great outside, especially in the cool New Mexico nights. Camping also gives me a better sense of the sights and sounds and smells of wherever I happen to be staying. But hanging out in a tent in a thunderstorm and trying to sleep through 25 or 35 mile per hour winds changes things. And if I take the day off and stay in town tomorrow I'll have to deal with stronger sustained winds and gusts up to 65. 65! Hurricane-force winds start at 74! I'd rather crash face first into a parked car than deal with that. Inside it is.
Standing outside the town's only motel I look down at the bike and see chunks of mud on the front hub that have been there since the suburbs west of Phoenix. The top tube is dotted with sweat stains. The brake hardware, front and back, is coated in dust from nights spent camped in the desert. The chain's a filthy mess. The front tire is going flat. All of the packed away camping gear is covered in a sheen of dirt. Then I move on to the rider. I think about my sore legs and that tweak in my hip. Then there are the chapped lips, unshaven face, the hair fins caused by my helmet, the spots of something unknown but dark on my face, grease marks on both legs, and the general level of gross that comes with not showering in three days while also spending a night wrapped in a cocoon of dirt. I haven't taken a day off in two weeks and the effects are starting to add up. I need some time to rest up, clean up, and eat up to keep this cavalcade of semi-interesting observations, swearing, and fart jokes going.
Ten minutes later I wedge the bike into the small motel room I've reserved for two nights and fall back into the not-that-soft-bed. In an instant I know I've made the right choice.
Bike touring, especially over tough terrain and long distances, forces the rider to eat lots of food, more or less all the time. On the way in it's a great thing; one of the best parts of long distance riding, in fact. But there's a cost to be paid on the other end, and I confront that cost this afternoon. Long story short: I drop a massive deuce into a motel toilet connected to half-century-old rural plumbing that's not even close to equipped for dealing with it. And so starts another round of one of the most nerve-racking aspects of touring. I stand next to the bowl, draw in a deep breath, push down the lever to flush, and then pray. The breath stays held for five seconds that feel ten times longer as the water slowly — so very slowly — swirls around and keeps the outcome in doubt. I know this could go either way and I'm not optimistic.
When at last the water empties all the way out of the bowl, I give a fist pump, blurt out a loud Yes!, and a do a short but heartfelt dance of joy. I won't have to leave this motel room behind with a deep sense of shame.
It's a vicious cycle, this digestive dance. I fill right back up an hour later at the restaurant next door. I walk in, sit down, look around, and see a dozen other men in the place. I'm once again the only one without a hat. The stereotypes come easy out here.
The six foot tall propane heater hisses and hums and pops all night to keep the cold and bluster of the world outside at arm's length. With no mechanical disasters to deal with on my upcoming day off, I spend an easy night chatting with Desiree and dreaming about a breakfast that's still 12 hours away. I don't even know if there's a good breakfast to be had in this town, but my raging, screaming hunger could care less.
Today's ride: 25 miles (40 km)
Total: 1,298 miles (2,089 km)
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