Beating the Mojave's Cycling Demons

PHOENIX:  Shortly after Pearl Harbor, General George S. Patton took charge of a swath of sand that stretched from Palm Springs almost to Phoenix.  Centered on the Mojave Desert and encompassing 18,000 square miles, it was here that Patton simulated tank warfare and toughened up recruits for Operation Torch, the November 1942 invasion of North Africa.

Eventually one million GIs passed through the Desert Training Center, for a time the world’s biggest military facility.  In temperatures that reached 100 degrees, soldiers with a rifle and full pack were required to run a mile in under ten-minutes.

 Patton’s headquarters, Camp Young, has long since been reclaimed by the desert. Today it is Chiriaco Summit, a pit stop breaking the monotonous drive on Interstate 10 between LA and Phoenix.  After filling up motorists can pay $5 and view memorabilia and old tanks at the General Patton Museum.  Eastbound travelers are cautioned that this is last gas for 67-miles.

Dust storm gathers behind General Patton statue

For an eastbound cyclist who had yet to begin the nine-mile, 7% climb to the approaches to Chiriaco Summit, the 90-miles of desert separating Indio and Blythe is a formidable challenge. This empty expanse has no place to stay and I am traveling without a tent or sleeping bag.  I average 45-miles a day and 90 miles in desert conditions is too much. I can’t leap this chasm in a single day and am stymied as what to do.

Until recently there had been one other possibility, but this too has vanished. There was a gas station and restaurant at Desert Center, an oasis 23-miles beyond Chiriaco. Long-distance cyclists used to appeal to their comrades to say hello to Doris, the friendly waitress at the café that boasted it hadn’t closed in 60-years. Unable to cover costs, it and everything else at Desert Center closed in July 2012, leaving behind a ghost town, or more accurately a derelict, empty rest stop.  The only activity at Desert Center now is the exchanging of east and westbound loads for Fedex and UPS and the occasional driver who pulls off the interstate to sleep.

Abandoned buildings at Desert Center

A  solution to my conundrum came in a dream while overnighting with friends in Palm Springs.  Could I rent a car and carry my bike to Blythe, leave it, drive back to Palm Springs, and then take a bus back to Blythe?  

In fact, this is what happened and the photos of the outpost at Desert Center were taken during a break as I drove back to Palm Springs.

Bus from Indio, near Palm Springs, to Blythe

Cycling in the Mojave is not for the feint-hearted. And it’s not just the heat and boredom.  As I pedaled into Palm Springs two days earlier the challenge was wind, and for several hours it was a dangerous menace.

Riding the 43-miles from Beaumont the wind became so strong that I stopped several times to avoid being blown over. There is a reason hundreds of giant windmills populate the desert floor west of Palm Springs.

Wind farm on highway 111 west of Palm Springs

Setting out from Blythe on the Colorado River at the California Arizona border I wasn't sure how far I would get. My first target was Quartzsite, a town on Interstate 10 20-miles past Blythe. Riding along the shoulder of the interstate I took the exit for Quartzsite to get information for what kind of accommodation was available farther on.  Stepping into the lobby of a Super 8 motel, I was surprised by this sign taped to the door.

"If you're walking outside the motel be aware that this is the season that snakes wake up and are coming out. If you see one on the motel property, DO NOT BOTHER IT, but report its whereabouts to management."

Riding on, the wind had dissipated and the threat of rain was gone.  I continued on the interstate and took the Adventure Cycling Association route that turned off at exit 31. From there it was five-miles northeast to Brenda, AZ where I spent the night. The day ended with six-hours of riding covering 45-miles. 

 On a map that reaches from Palm Springs to Phoenix, Brenda isn't shown but is a village 17-miles west of Hope.

It was a 55-mile ride from Brenda, Arizona to Aguila, my target for the next day. Stopping for lunch in Hope, I phoned ahead to the only motel in Aguila.  To my chagrin the owner reported he had no vacancy, every room was occupied by farm laborers. He suggested that I enquire at the RV village at the edge of town as they might have a camper that could be rented for the night.

 As the lonely ride dragged on, I realized my options were limited.  There was no way that I wished to continue to Wickenburg, 24-miles past Aguila.  Pulling into the lot of the RV village, a loud chorus from grackles in a lone tall tree may have been a warning.

The sign on the office door said 'Closed' and the rotund man who pulled out from the camp in a pickup truck said the owners were away and wouldn't return for several days.  The man in the Dodge Ram introduced himself as Willy. He asked what I was going to do and I replied I wasn't sure. Perhaps, I said, the motel would give me a blanket and allow a visitor to stretch out in the office overnight.  At that Willy said he would take me to Wickenburg for $100. He agreed to take $20. Minutes later the bike was in the back of Willy's truck and we trundled off to Wickenburg.

 Willy is a team roper, a cowboy who competes in a two-man team to determine who is most skilled in roping steers. Wickenburg, he assured me, is a center for the sport and Willy comes down for the season from his home in Elko, Nevada.  Willy, a Shoshone Indian, is 78 and says he is not the oldest of the several hundred ropers in the region.

Team roper Willy from Nevada

Wickenburg is a pleasant town 66-miles northwest of Phoenix. At this point I knew the biggest challenges were behind me.  It shouldn’t be hard work to reach the Arizona capital and the end point of my journey.

Phoenix exists because of irrigation and air-conditioning. It has grown to be 50-miles wide and cycling paths have been created adjacent to its several canals. It is jarring to have departed the desert sand and arrive in fashionable neighborhoods with watered lawns.

 Meeting in Scottsdale four heavily laden riders going in the opposite direction, I called out, "where are you headed?" The answer came from a petite woman in green, "San Diego," to which I replied, "I've come from L.A."  Riding on, I realized that five-second exchange would have meaning only to cyclists crossing a desert for adventure and, dare I say, enjoyment.

My ride ended in the university town of Tempe, close to the Phoenix airport. It had been a satisfying adventure in which I rode 347-miles, including 39-miles the final day. The journey was without incident, not even a flat tire. Physically things were equally good. No aches or infirmities.  

However, I know the result would have been different had I continued into the forbidding 90-mile stretch where General Patton’s tanks once roared across through the sand 70-years earlier.

 

My 347-mile ride from Long Beach to Riverside and the desert to Phoenix

Peoria to Tempe--Mission Accomplished

Tempe, AZ. It is a circuitous, enjoyable ride along the Arizona Canal Bike Path across the 50-mile wide expanse of metropolitan Phoenix.  To reach the canal from highway 60 a rider sees the dramatic transition from scrub desert sand to fashionable neighborhoods with irrigated lawns.

The trail is often hard to follow as signs and arrows are in short supply. It winds north past a new sports complex shared during spring training by the San Diego Padres and Seattle Mariners.

Eventually the trail passes the Wrigley Mansion and the Arizona Biltmore resort, both of which were constructed in 1929. Near the path is Camelback Mountain and beyond it Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin West.

My nine-day journey began and ended with rides on canals. While those in Long Beach, Santa Ana and Phoenix can't compare in beauty and efficiency with Washington's Capital Crescent Trail along the Potomac, they are wonderful for riders. 

In Scottsdale, meeting four riders who were clearly traveling for distance, I called out, "where are you headed?" An answer came from a petite woman in green, "San Diego." My reply: "I've come from L.A."  As I rode on, I thought often about this gratifying exchange between east and westbound riders that lasted all of five seconds. 

My ride ended in the university town of Tempe that is close to the Phoenix airport. It had been a satisfying adventure in which I rode 347-miles, including 39-miles the final day. The journey was without incident, not even a flat tire. Physically things were equally good. No aches or infirmities.  However, I'm certain the result would have been different had I continued into the wind that buffetted my approach to Palm Springs.  Similarly, the journey would have ended in failure and perhaps disaster had I attempted to cross the 90-mile stretch of desert from Indio to Blythe where there are no facilities.

What have I learned? I'm not sure beyond the obvious that ours is a big and diverse country inhabited by people who basically are friendly and seek to be helpful. Personally, I think I've added balance to my life and gained the confidence that comes from achieving at 71 something that is physically strenuous and challenging. 

I thank my readers for their interest and concern.

Choices in Cycling

Peoria, AZ.  Brian Lamb, the founder of C-SPAN, says he has learned in his long career that people want choices.  Certainly that is evident in cycling.

Among the delights of Wickenburg, 66 miles nort of Phoenix, was connecting with a dozen or so touring cyclists who had come up from Tucson in the southern part of the state. They had ended their ride for the day and some were gathered in a motel parking lot around the trailers that carried their baggage and equipment.

The group was in the midst of a week-long ride organized by Pacific Atlantic Cycling (PAC Tour) in Tucson. They were serious cyclists who were expected to ride 60 to 90 miles per day and maintain a speed of 16 to 20 mph. This particular ride, the Cactus Classic, begins and ends in Tucson and includes a long journey in the low desert north as far as Wickenburg.  The cost of the ride was $1145, including double occupancy accommodation, two meals a day, and support. http://www.pactour.com

Lon Haldeman, PAC Tours founder, is a champion rider who has crossed the country by bike many times. He sees bicycle touring as steadily but slowly gaining popularity.

The Cactus Tour is quite a different undertaking from mine and reflects the choices available. In Wickenburg, which is on the Adventure Cycling southern tier US route, I saw smaller groups of two to four cyclists plus two travelers on recumbents. On my ride from Long Beach I did not encounter other individual cyclists, but I know they're out there.

The ride south on route 60 towards Phoenix was straight forward and enjoyable. The shoulder was wide and the weather sunny without wind.  The temperature did not rise above the high 50s.

With luck, I'll reach my destination of Tempe on Thursday. Wednesday's ride was a manageable 36-miles.

Wickenburg, Arizona and Steer Roping

Wickenburg, AZ.  It was a 55-mile ride from Brenda, Arizona to Aguila, my target for the day.

On the map that stretches from Palm Springs to Phoenix,  Brenda isn't shown but is a tiny village 17-miles west of Hope. Aside from desert and collections of RV campers there is very little along this route.

Stopping for lunch after two hours riding, I phoned ahead to the motel in Aguila.  To my chagrin the manager reported that all his rooms were occupied by farm laborers. He suggested that I enquire at the RV village at the edge of town as they might have a camper that could be rented for the night.

As the lonely ride dragged on, I realized my options were limited.  There was no way that I wanted to go on to Wickenburg, 24-miles past Aguila.  Pulling into the lot of the RV village, the noise from  flock of grackles in the lone tall tree may have been sending a message.

The sign on the office door said 'Closed' and the man who pulled out from the camp in his pickup truck said the  owners were in Phoenix and wouldn't be back for some days.  The man in the truck was a large man called Willy. He asked what I was going to do and I replied I wasn't sure. Perhaps, I said, the motel would give me a blanket and allow me stretch out in the office overnight.  At that Willy said he would take me to Wickenburg for $100. We agreed on $20. Minutes later the bike was in the back and I was in Willy's Dodge Ram on the road to Wickenburg.

Willy is a team roper, a cowboy who competes in a two-man team to determine who is most skilled in roping steers. Wickenburg, he assured me, is a center for the sport and Willy comes down for the season from his home in Elko, Nevada.  Willy, a Shoshone Indian, is 78 and says he is not the oldest of the several hundred ropers in the region.

Wickenburg's weekly newspaper announces that the $100,000 National Team Roping Finals are this weekend.  Willy didn't say whether he is competing.

For the day I rode 58-miles, bringing the total since Long Beach to 272-miles.

Blythe, CA to Brenda, AZ

Brenda, AZ.  There's an I Love Lucy episode from the 1950s in which Lucy and Desi stop at a motel that is so close to the highway that the lamp on the table rattles so loudly when traffic goes by that they can't sleep. My motel in the village of Brenda wasn't that bad, mainly because there were not that many vehicles going by at night.

When the rain came in at 6 p.m, luckily  I was inside the Buckaroo Restaurant, a half-mile down the road from the motel. I had hurried back to get inside before the Buckaroo closed at 7. There was neither a restaurant nor a store for ten miles.

It had been a longish day but a satisfying one. I was back on the road after a two-day hiatus and things went well. The day began in Blythe and continued the short distance east to the Colorado River that forms the border with Arizona. Given recent rains there was a considerable flow in the south-flowing river.

I wasn't sure how far I would get. My first target was Quartzsite, a small town on interstate 10 20 miles from Blythe. Riding along the shoulder of the interstate I took the exit for Quartzsite to get information for what kind of accommodation I might find farther on.  As I entered the lobby of the Super 8 motel I was surprised by the sign on its door.  It read, "If you're walking outside the motel be aware that this is the season that snakes wake up and are coming out. If you see one on the motel property, DO NOT BOTHER IT, but report its whereabouts to management."

Riding on, the wind had dissipated and there was no immediate threat of rain.  I continued on on the interstate and took the Adventure Cycling Association route that departed the freeway at exit 31. From there it was only five-miles northeast to Brenda where I spent the night. I was tempted to go on but gave up the idea when I learned there wouldn't be another motel for 30 miles.

The day ended with six-hours of riding that covered 45-miles. 

Blythe in Rain

Blythe, CA.  It was solid rain on Sunday, a day in which I was executing Plan B and not intending to ride.

The drive from Cathedral City across to the bus station in Indio is a 20-minute journey from great wealth to folks just getting by. We passed the grand tennis stadium at Indian Wells and then arrived at the makeshift Greyhound station next to the Union Pacific tracks.

Soon the eastbound bus arrived and three of us joined the two-dozen travelers already aboard. Indio and Blythe, an hour and a half farther on, are the only stops between Los Angeles and Phoenix.

As the bus made the long climb east out of Indio, I contemplated the story told to me by Hazel Shore, who had driven me to the station. Hazel, George Palmer's wife of 30-years, is 70. She was born in Cape Town to a Jewish family of means. Her mother was German and had been a top athlete in Berlin until forced into exile, first to England and then to South Africa. Hazel grew up speaking German as well as English. 

Like her mother Hazel was a star tennis player and after coming to the States in the late 60's coached tennis in L.A.  Sometime in the 1980s Hazel made it her project to have the Charlottenburg Sports Club in Berlin come to terms with its Nazi past and admit that it had expelled four top Jewish athletes only weeks after Hitler came to power in 1933. Hazel is satisfied with the result.

Hazel Shore

On the bus the woman in the next seat told me her story. En route to visit her sick mother in Phoenix, the woman's son had been a pitcher with the Houston Astros when that team played in the World Series.  Understandably proud of her son's achievement, she carefully removed from a plastic folder in her purse four baseball cards that bore his likeness. 

At 1 p.m. the bus arrived in Blythe where the rain continued and the wind blew.  I took refuge in the adjacent Comfort Inn, prepared for my Hong Kong broadcasts and began the process of waiting out the wind and rain.

Saved by the Wind, Plan B

Palm Springs, CA. The wind that was so strong Friday was unchanged Saturday. I resolved not to continue in such adverse conditions.

 With the perilous ride of the previous day in mind, I needed a plan B and it emerged overnight.  Could I rent a car in Palm Springs and transport the bike the 90-plus-miles to Blythe on the Arizona border, return the car to Palm Springs, and then take a bus back to Blythe?

At 9:00 Saturday morning I bid farewell to my wonderful hosts, George and Hazel Palmer, and rode from Cathedral City to the Palm Springs airport. I rented a van, loaded the bike, and departed for Blythe.

It was a curious feeling driving a route that I intended to cycle. The nine-mile climb east from Indio looked much tougher than I remembered and I wondered if I would have made it with an 8 to 10-mile per hour wind blowing. But the more serious problem would have been the absence of motels for 80-miles.

Arriving at the Chiriaco Summit 30-miles from Indio, the surroundings were bleak. There was a gas station, store and the General Patton Museum that attracted a few visitors.  It was here in the low desert in 1942 that Patton trained thousands of soldiers for the invasion of North Africa. Strolling towards the Patton statue a heavy gust came up, leaving no doubt that this was not a day to be on a bicycle.

At Chiriaco a cyclist would find food, drink and a 'dry' campsite but no motel. Worse, there is nothing beyond Chiriaco until Blythe 70-miles away.  I stopped at Desert Center 20-miles farther on, which is a ghost town, its gas station and cafe boarded up. There was a picnic table where a cyclist might sleep, provided he had warm clothing and a sleeping bag.

By now I was certain that my journey would have ended ignominously had I cycled out from Indio. Quite literally I had been saved by the wind.

Arriving in Blythe I located the the gas station where the Greyhounds come in, booked a room for Sunday night, and put the Cannondale in the motel store room.  I accepted the Palmers' gracious invitation to spend a second night with them after returning the car to the Palm Springs airport.  George Palmer, a navigator on RAF bombers in World War II, recently celebrated his 90th birthday. In the 1970s he was the editor of the Financial Mail in Johannesburg and hired me for my first job in journalism.  I owe much to Hazel and George.