Day 5: Amboy to Needles
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April 5
At Roy's Motel & Cafe in Amboy, visiting cyclists can either pitch their tents outdoors or inside the old, empty cabins. I was glad I chose the latter. During the night the wind howled, but my little cabin was solid. It didn't groan, shudder or rattle.
I also had taken care of the front door that didn't close. In a corner of the cabin was a board painted with, "Welcome to the Future. Drylab 2023." (I've since done a web search. Drylab is an event calling attention to water scarcity. The organizers probably had an event at waterless Roy's.) I had leaned the board against the door before getting into my tent. After Miss Nicole closes Roy's around 8:30 p.m., she goes home. No one stays for security. If you're a cyclist sleeping on the property, you're on your own. That's why I put the board against the door. I'm a sound sleeper. I didn't want to risk having someone come in and steal something or whatever. If anybody tried to open the door, the board would topple and wake me up. And now it was keeping the door from blowing open.
Despite my sound sleep, I was periodically awakened during the night by the numerous freight trains passing a short distance away. In the Mojave, it seems there is always a train going by, or there will be one coming shortly. The train tracks cross the road near Roy's, which means the train engineers are required to sound the horn. (Which makes me wonder about Roy's ever becoming a place where people might come to stay in the renovated cabins — unless they can attract customers who can accept the repeated rumble and horn blasts at all hours.)
Despite lying on an inch-thick pad on a concrete floor, I slept very well and awoke at about 5:30 a.m. I'd slept for about 10 hours. I was groggy, but I could tell my body had gotten some much-needed recuperation. I felt rested. My brain, however, was having trouble getting organized. I'm still learning how to be efficient with unpacking and packing the four bags on the front and rear of my bike. This morning I kept putting things away before I needed them, misplaced things I'd just used and needed again, and — just when I thought I was all packed up and ready to roll — realized I needed something and had no idea which bag it was in. By the time I got my act together and pulled away from Roy's, it was nearing 8:30 a.m. (late again).
Not too far down the road were the remnants of another Route 66 fatality, the Road Runner Retreat. Its large sign was a little hard to read, the desert sun having faded the lettering. But on the side of a small structure, in big letters, was the word RETREAT. I decided to ignore this sighting as a sign, so to speak. I kept moving forward, pedaling toward Needles.
Although I was coming out of my fog, I was concerned I hadn't had the opportunity to prepare for what was going to be a challenging day in the sun. Temperatures were expected to get into the low 90s. The air would be very dry. I'd have a crosswind for most of the day. I'd have some long climbs to get over. And, worst of all, I would have to ride 40 miles — to a gas station-convenience store at Fenner on I-40 — before I could get more food and drink. Roy's was still closed when I left, and I hadn't put down enough food and water when I was there. For breakfast, I ate my last two Clif energy bars.
About an hour down the road, two employees of BNSF railroad pulled up alongside me in a company pickup and asked if I had enough water. The three 24-ounce bottles I always carry were full — I'd brought a large bottle of water from Barstow to fill them for this day — and I almost said, "I'm fine." But then I admitted, "Probably not!" They pulled over and the driver got out, went to the back of the truck and grabbed four 8-ounce bottles out of an ice-filled cooler near the truck's back gate. "You're sure you can make it?" he asked. I assured him I could. He handed me four more bottles.
I was about to start down a stretch of the National Trails Highway that has been closed to cars for several years. Bicyclists on Bicycle Route 66, however, are allowed access. I thought I had read that a couple of little bridges that cross mostly dry gulches had washed out and not been repaired. Dirt paths were made to go around them. I asked the gentleman what he knew. He told me there were actually seven washed-out bridges. The mini-detours that had been constructed were soft — bike tires might sink in — so it would probably be better to just walk your bike through them, he said.
Suddenly, another element of concern was added to this worrisome day. I'd have to get off my bike seven times to walk it through sand? That did not sound like fun.
As the workers drove away, I rode around the barriers with the Road Closed signs and . . . CRAP! Here we go again! A road that's used very seldom doesn't get maintained. The pavement was almost like cobblestones. This trip may very well turn me into a raving advocate for improving bicycling infrastructure. I picked my way through the cracks, patches and holes for the next 20 minutes or so before the pavement got smoother.
I recorded this video along the way:
The only vehicles I would see over the next three hours were driven either by employees of BNSF, a couple of whom slowed down to check on me; or by workers with the San Bernardino County Transportation Division. The county drivers tended to race by without slowing down for a wave, a nod or thumbs up. I've been watching motorists' behavior from my bike seat for many years, and what I saw from the county guys told me they hadn't been taught to realize how different riding a bike is from driving a car — especially in this environment.
This view was epitomized as I entered into one of those mini detours at a washed-out bridge. I had stayed on my bike because this path had been firmed up on one side where vehicles had driven repeatedly. As I was about halfway through, a driver of an unmarked, white pickup (whom I assume was with the county) drove in from the opposite side, using the very same path. And he just kept coming. I swerved to the right. He passed waving and smiling, and just then my bike's wheels bogged down in soft sand. Everything told me I was going down. I tried to clip out of my pedals but couldn't. Over the next few seconds I wrenched and yanked at the bike until I finally got my feet out of the pedals and on the ground. I then got off the bike and walked it up to the road. I fully expected something to be broken — a spoke, chain or pedal — but everything seemed OK.
The rest of the ride to Fenner was uneventful. I went through several sections of extremely rough pavement and could never catch a tailwind, but I made it. I pulled into Najah's Desert Oasis — the gas station-convenience store — at about 1:30 p.m. and bought a pasta salad, a sandwich, a small bottle of orange juice, a medium-size can of Red Bull and some potato chips. I had no appetite, but I forced down everything. I knew I would need the energy. I went back in the store later and got more water to fill my bottles. Oh, about those eight bottles of water from the BNSF guys? By the time I arrived at Fenner, I had finished all but one and drained the bottles I always carry. Were those guys railroad employees or heaven-sent angels?
I stayed a long time, by my standards, at the oasis. Motivation was hard to summon. And then an English couple exploring the United States took an interest, When I told them what I was doing they had more questions — not only about my trip but about multiple sclerosis. They took my picture a few times. The woman somehow found this journal — I've since Googled and come up empty — and swore she was going to follow me and donate to my fundraiser. I think I told them "I really have to go" three or four times.
I loved talking with them, but I had checked the remaining mileage on Google Maps, which said it would take me five hours to ride the nearly 40 miles to Needles. That was depressing. It was already 3 p.m., and if Google was accurate, I was facing coming into town — which included some more freeway-shoulder riding — in the dark around 8 p.m. I have lights on my bike, but I don't like riding at night, especially on an Interstate highway.
But once again I was saved by wind and terrain (and, in this case, Google's inaccuracy). After leaving Fenner, I rode uphill for almost an hour. Just before reaching a tiny community called Goffs, I turned the page on a printed map I was carrying. I spotted the elevation chart and was reminded that the remaining 25 miles into Needles were all downhill. That got my horse-to-barn juices going and I started ticking off the miles.
I stopped to record this video before pulling onto the last stretch on the I-40 shoulder.
As I rolled into the motel parking lot in Needles, I felt great. The food I had forced down at Fenner — and maybe the extra time I took to rest —had given me the energy I needed. Instead of collapsing as I'd done on a few previous days, I quickly got cleaned up. I went to a Chinese restaurant next to the motel and got two entrees for takeout — one for dinner, one for breakfast. I felt like my body was starting to find its rhythm with this ride.
After finishing off a rather huge serving of orange chicken, I was ready to start planning for tomorrow. I looked at my phone to start getting ready to ride the 60-plus miles to Kingman, Arizona. What I saw on my weather app looked bad:
HIGH WIND WARNING
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