Day 4: Near Jamul, CA to Pine Valley, CA

February 26, 2013

Morning brings me a two-mile downhill to get things started.

"I feel good," I tell myself. "I can do this."

Then the downhill ends, I round a bend in the road, and my eyes lock on to a narrow ribbon of pavement that more or less shoots straight up toward the cloudless blue sky.

I met a local rider named Jason during the awful stretch at the end of yesterday's ride. He told me I'd have a "good little climb" to start today. When a guy with calves the size of a roast riding a 15-pound bike says that, I know it's going to fall just short of soul-crushing for me. So I'm not shocked. Appalled, frustrated, inimidated, worried about tearing something in my knee, sure — but not shocked.

I go back and forth between self-defeat and acceptance. Hares with tall ears and short white tails chase each other across the road and up into the hills. Tan boulders the size of a car sit close enough to the road that I can fist bump them on my way past. The top seems like it will never come, but of course it always does.

Near the top of the killer climb on Lyons Valley Road.

The road switches between up and down — but always more up than down — and I push first to the east and then to the north. Along the side of the road I see backpacks, clothes, empty jugs of water, and other items that look like they were left behind by immigrants coming up from the border. The farther I go, the less sick I seem to feel. Horribly out of shape, yes. Dehydrated, yes, and it's almost dangerous. But less sick. Still, I get no breaks from a route that throws me serious uphills — uphills far steeper than any U.S. highway or interstate could get away with. And then, as if the riding isn't tough enough, headwinds blast down from the north, right on the nose.

Not long after, my body starts to shut down: headache, dry mouth, shivering from the wind while standing in the sun, groans from my stomach, zaps at my side. I knew the first few days of this trip would challenge me. I never thought all of the elements would come together and knock me down like this.

But one way to describe America is as a long series of reality checks. During one of my 83 stops this morning, I saw off to my right a young woman with light brown skin and dark hair, not older than 25. After an intense screaming match with what could have been her boyfriend or husband or father, she set off walking across the farm where she lives, reached the road, and started north. As I sit down to eat lunch and keep from dying at the restaurant at Descanso Junction, I see her stop across the street and sit on a dirt ledge just above a storm drain. She drinks from a tall brown paper bag, rocks back and forth, talks to herself, chews her fingernails, and cries. I'm tired and sore and doing the best I can to keep pushing, but I've got nothing on her. I can never lose sight of the fact that I enjoy the kind of safe, comfortable, loving, fulfilled life that better than 100 million people in this country never will.

After lunch I'm less thirsty, less hungry, less in danger of passing out. But the wind blows colder and stronger and I'm still so out of sorts that the miles don't come any easier. I think about trying to get in touch with Lance Armstrong or one of his cycling buddies and start a blood doping regimen, just for the next week or two.

But it turns out my stomach isn't better. The long and steep hill that comes after the Junction confirms it. It's the same weak, sluggish, drag-ass feeling all over again. And it colors every part of the ride. I don't look around. I don't stop to take pictures. I just stare down at the road in front of me, only looking up to check my mirror for traffic coming up behind. I've never felt so down at any point, on any trip, ever. It takes everything I have to keep from breaking down at the side of Old Highway 80.

I pull off as quick as I can when I spot a motel while riding through Pine Valley. I don't like staying in motels. Most of the time it feels like giving up, like admitting failure, because I love camping and because I'm dragging a load of camping gear over every rise, hill, and mountain between the world's two largest oceans. But tonight I don't hesitate. I'm on the verge of saying fuck it to this trip and I have to try to check that feeling.

Once inside I do what I can to straighten my head: shower, shave, talk to Desiree, watch hockey, try to figure out why most of my room's electrical outlets are up near the ceiling, drink about a gallon of Gatorade and water, and eat these strange and healthy types of food called fruits and vegetables. As much as it goes against my better judgment, the honey buns and Milky Way bars and cheap beer will have to wait.

Today's ride: 26 miles (42 km)
Total: 92 miles (148 km)

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