Day 2: Fontana to Victorville

April 2

"This just might be the worst day I have had on a bicycle."

Over and over that thought went through my head. It was a grueling ride. I had to dig deep and play tricks with my mind to keep going. And I learned an important lesson: NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE CAJON PASS!

When I was doing my trip planning, I didn't realize how difficult cycling the Cajon Pass would be. I read several blogs and articles by people who rode Bicycle Route 66, and none of them mentioned what this stretch demands. Were they afraid to admit that it tested them like no other ride they'd been on? Well, this nearly 62-year-old guy with MS, riding a loaded touring bike, won't hold back. It kicked my ass!

I left the Wigwam Motel in Fontana at 9:35 a.m. (late again) with visions of cranking off an 80-mile ride to Barstow. It was a gray day and cool — fortunately.  (This was going to be a great day!) I now remember seeing that the route featured more than 20 miles of climbing, but I've done long climbs before so I didn't think much of it.  I was a little surprised when the grade started pitching up just after a couple miles. And it never relented. According to my on-bike computer, I was always riding grades of at least 2-3%. I gradually left suburbia and got into an area of warehouses and distribution centers. The landscape turned more barren with each pedal stroke. 

The route loosely followed Interstate 15, using streets and frontage roads. At one stretch, the old and abandoned Route 66 was right alongside the current road, Cajon Boulevard. Concrete barricades were placed on the old road every quarter-mile or so, with Road Closed signs. The current road had no shoulder, so I took to the old road. The pavement was often rough and dotted with detritus from passing motorists, and I had to maneuver around the barriers as I climbed and climbed and climbed. 

And then the fun began.

At Cajon, the route turned off Cajon Boulevard and onto the shoulder of I-15. The grade was now about 3-4% and all I could do was ignore the cars and trucks flying by me and keep turning the pedals. After about two miles, I approached an exit ramp. A lot of cars were using the same exit, and they were backing up almost onto the freeway. What loomed ahead was an exit ramp that took a very steep pitch up to the local road.  For about an eighth of a mile I was in my lowest "granny" gear,  barely moving faster than walking speed. One motorist felt sorry for me and yelled from his car, "You all right there, brother?"  Keeping my head down, I yelled, "I'll get there! But whoever designed this route needs their head examined!" 

I got to the top of that challenge, legs burning, and pulled into a Chevron gas station-convenience store. I put down a large Red Bull, a Hershey bar and some cookies and felt good to go again. The lady in the store confirmed that my route now continued through the nearby residential neighborhood but would then return to the freeway where I would have to ride a long stretch on the shoulder. The climbing continued.

I'd only gone about 15 miles.

About 20 minutes later, as predicted, I was back on the shoulder of I-15 — where I would stay for the next 11 miles or so. The grade got steeper. I don't even know how steep. The traffic lane next to me was a mix of cars racing by and trucks grinding up the grade with their hazard lights flashing. It was during this stretch that I made the proclamation of this being the worst day on the bike ever. I also thought of a few things I'd tell those people at the Adventure Cycling Association about what I thought of their route!! (To be fair, there is absolutely no alternate, paved road through the pass. The ACA folks are good people. I should have paid more attention to their guides.) In a few places, overheated trucks and cars pulled onto the shoulder. One car parked in such a way that I was forced to ride into the traffic lane for a few harrowing seconds.  Amid the noise and smells of overheated engines,  I was going only about 5 mph, using my lowest gears.  At one point I could see two levels of the road ahead of me, switching back and forth, going higher. My legs, lungs and butt were already burning and crying for mercy. How was I going to make it to the top? In this situation, however, you really have no choice. If you stop, you have to start a heavy touring bike on a steep grade, which is really scary anytime, not to mention here, alongside this crazy traffic.

Somehow, I made it to the summit, where a freezing cold wind was blasting. When I spotted the summit sign, all thoughts of the pain I'd just suffered went away. I gotta get a picture! I pulled up to the sign, positioned my bike against the posts and dug into one of my bags for the little tripod I was carrying for my iPhone. I figured I would use the timer on the camera to get a shot of me with my arms raised in celebration. But, as I turned around to walk to the place to position the camera, I saw a driver had pulled his Hertz rental truck off the road and had already put up the hood. I was so determined to get a picture, and the conditions were so brutal, I couldn't help myself. I approached him. "Excuse me. Hi. I'm really sorry about your truck. Hope everything will be OK. I was wondering. Could you take my picture by that sign? For me, this is a moment of celebration. I rode that heavy bike all the way up to the Cajon Summit!" He kept looking at his steaming engine, then turned back to look at me and said, "My truck's broke down! I gotta wait for a tow! I don't have time!" A few seconds went by with us both silent. "Oh, well," he said. "OK."

He took my picture.  (I realized sometime later that when I handed my phone to him and walked away, he very well could have thrown it into the freeway. Right after taking the picture, he got back in the truck and drove off.)

And it was all downhill from there. Woo hoo!

The exit to Oak Hills, with another Chevron convenience store, was a mile down the road, so I pulled in. As I sat outside, sheltered from the wind, another touring cyclist rode up. We got to talking. His name was Hank. He said he was a retired school teacher from Arizona. Believe it or not, he's doing almost the same route across the country as I am. His destination is Boston, just north of my goal of New Bedford, Massachusetts.  He started a day before me from Santa Monica, took a more leisurely pace, and was on his third day.  (Maybe I should have done the same!)

We took each other's pictures but I only got his first name before he left. I'm hoping to track him down through Facebook. Maybe we'll meet again and ride together.  [NOTE 3/27/2023: I found Hank (and the picture he took of me, on Facebook — Hank Rowe from Tuscson, AZ.  ]

By now, I had decided that it wouldn't be possible to make it to Barstow. (It had taken me 6-1/2 hours to ride just 25 miles!) I canceled my hotel reservation in Barstow and made one in Victorville, 15 miles down the road. Indeed, it was gradually downhill or flat the rest of the way — I had climbed to the high desert — and that wind was still howling at more than 30 mph on my back. A glorious tailwind!! I am not exaggerating when I say I didn't need to turn a pedal until I reached my hotel. My speedometer said I was going 25-28 mph the whole way, just from the push of the wind. It was like being on a powered bike.

Funny how when you're going the same speed as the wind it isn't windy. It's surprisingly quiet. As I raced along, I could hear my bike tires humming. I'll never forget that experience. All the pain and frustration of the day's climbing washed away in minutes.

I got to a nice hotel, which had a good restaurant for dinner and a guest laundry to wash my bike clothes. Tomorrow will be a short day, riding just 40 miles to Barstow on much-less-demanding terrain. I hope to get to my hotel early so I can load up on food and water to take on my bike the next day, when I have an 80-mile ride in the Mojave Desert.

I hope I don't underestimate it.

Contact me: Thoughts or comments? Email me at richardridesusa@gmail.com.

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