February 25, 2013
Day 3: Chula Vista, CA to near Jamul, CA
I feel great by the morning. Great, and also ready to leave behind Chula Vista's office buildings, muffler shops, trailer parks, six-lane roads, giant high schools where students drive more expensive cars than their teachers, and the sprawl of suburbs with developments named Haven, Veranza, and Lomas Verdes. It's like riding through an Arcade Fire album.
Fuzzy black and amber caterpillars wiggle across the roads and sidewalks. I pass through neighborhoods where every house sits behind an ornate, wrought-iron gate for what seems like no reason beyond vanity. Then, all of a sudden, I hang a right, spot a Pavement Ends sign, and the well-kept medians of the suburbs are behind me. The washboard surface and soft shoulders make it hard to find a comfortable path through, but hey, I don't have to worry about being run down by a garbage truck out here. I'm alone — no cars, no people, just the calls of little birds, the buzzing of flies, and the gentle, cooling rush of the breeze as it plays on the bushes and sagebrush.
It's only 25 miles to the town of Jamul, but I'm dragging and feel weak before I get there. Not eating a proper meal for 48 hours will do that. Thankfully this isn't Kentucky; I don't have to try to refuel with fried chicken and gravy or that sandwich-type thing they called the Kentucky Hot Brown. Southern California means Mexican food, which means rice and beans and tortillas — the kind of stick-to-your ribs food I need to slog up and over the foothills and mountains that lie in wait.
Except the food doesn't solve the problem; it makes the problem worse. I end up trying to attack the last four-mile uphill grind with a full belly mixed with the last remains of foul water from the motel. It's a churning, light-head-inducing mess. I feel like I'm on the edge of puking the entire way. I stop every quarter-mile, sometimes less, both to give my stomach a rest and to try and keep myself composed. It's agony. During one of these stops I think how, if teleportation existed, I wouldn't hesitate to flip a switch and jump home to the loving arms of my wife and the furious tail wagging of my dog.
But it doesn't, and it'd be a great pain in the ass to trudge back home from here, and anyway, I can't quit. I just can't.
Following the last painful series of switchbacks, a long downhill gives me back a good chunk of the elevation I just about passed out to earn. It drops me at the entrance to an RV park — with the emphasis on the word park. I see a couple of motorhomes used by retired travelers, but they're surrounded by two dozen RVs and trailers parked in storage. Farther back, where I set up the tent, are another 15 or 20 trailers and motorhomes where people live more or less permanently.
The place comes with everything that description implies: broken-down cars, tinny speakers pumping out classic rock hits of the 70s, screeching fights between semi-feral cats, a husband and wife yelling awful and profanity filled insults at each other every half hour ("Why don't you try to kick my fuckin' ass then?!") from their own dilapidated corner of hell. In the distance, a bulldozer slams around piles of rocks. Four or five dogs in the area keep a constant call-and-response thing going on. Soon I realize that I'm also under the approach path to the San Diego airport. For all of this I paid too much, but my worries about being crushed by a drunk driver or shot by an errant bullet during a domestic incident come at no charge.
I crawl inside the tent, huddle into the sleeping bag for the first time in more than a year, and try to stay warm as the heat of the day trades places with the cold of the foothills night. Today I traveled 30 of the toughest miles I've ever pedaled to gain 2,800 feet. The first 30 miles tomorrow have another 3,900 feet lying in wait. I have no idea how I'm going to do it. I need a healthy stomach, and fast.
Today's ride: 30 miles (48 km)
Total: 66 miles (106 km)
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