April 8 & 9

When I was planning this trip, I had to take two things into primary consideration: my age (nearly 62) and my multiple sclerosis.  Due to both, I couldn't camp a lot along the route. I'd be able to sleep in my tent at Roy's in Amboy, but I couldn't do that every night. I needed to stay at hotels and motels. I wanted to avoid dumpy places, and I needed to stay where I could get food and supplies each night.

As a result, in most cases I picked larger towns for my overnight stays, since they tended to have a little bit nicer lodging and food options. I now realize that strategy led to my being too ambitious in my planning. I strung together too many days of long miles, with little appreciation for the terrain. I remember swallowing hard as I entered into my spreadsheet several days of 80-90 miles. I've done such distances before on organized rides (on a racing bike, not a loaded touring bike) so my ego overruled my reasoning and assured me I could do the same now.

I'm kicking myself a bit for not paying more attention to my guides and materials in my planning. Friday was another day that went way beyond the difficulty I expected. (I'm actually writing this on Saturday, April 9, because I got in late and then kept dozing off at my laptop last night.) Over the last several months I spent hours studying the route and putting together my plans. For some reason, I didn't recognize how challenging the terrain would be, especially with the winds. I may have been so driven to do this ride that I overlooked its difficulty. 

I also apparently chose to block out the reactions I had when I drove portions of the route in the past couple of years. I remember driving to Nashville and back (when Rachel was in graduate school there) and getting knots in my gut as we drove through the deserts of California, Arizona and New Mexico, and the wide-open plains of West Texas. I just told myself that those sections of the route might not be pleasant but I would figure them out. I mean, other people had done it, so I could too.

After my struggle over the Cajon Summit, I've flashed back to one of the times I drove up the Cajon Pass, saw struggling cyclists, and said — somewhat jokingly — "Whoa, maybe I should rethink this." I guess I didn't want to think about things that might sabotage my dream, so I blocked them out.

So now the master plan is out the window. The spreadsheet is basically defunct. I'm taking things day by day.

The importance of this approach was driven home again on Friday. After spending the previous two days outside of Needles, California, waiting out a windstorm, I was eager to get back on the road. The plan called for riding 60 miles to Kingman, via the little town of Oatman. I was well aware that a big challenge awaited just outside of Oatman — the Sitgreaves Pass. It would be tough. But it was just 25 miles to Oatman. So, according to the plan, I'd get an early start, do those 25 miles in a couple of hours, have a leisurely lunch and rest up a bit  before tackling Sitgreaves.

There was a big error in that plan, however. I didn't pay heed to the printed map I have from the Adventure Cycling Association, which showed I'd be going almost entirely uphill to Oatman. Instead, I had focused on  Google Maps' description of the route: "Mostly flat."

According to my weather app's forecast, while I would be riding northeast to Oatman in the late morning, the winds would be quietest — 8-10 mph — and once I got over the Sitgreaves Pass and headed in a more easterly direction toward my destination of Kingman, the winds would shift, from the west, giving me a tailwind. Even though I was ready to go at 6 a.m., I decided to wait until 8 a.m. so I could hit that window of favorable winds.

I left at 8 sharp. The morning was beautiful as I rolled away from the Pirate Cove Resort, where I'd spent the past two days waiting out that windstorm. I picked up the established route where I had left it, an interchange with Interstate 40. As directed, I rode the shoulder of I-40 across the Colorado River into Arizona. I  took the first exit — Exit 1 — and turned left onto Oatman Highway — which the local Mohave County has designated a "scenic byway." Right after I made the turn was a sign warning motorists to watch for burros. Hmm, this could be fun!

As it turned out, the scenic byway was narrow but the cars, motorhomes and motorcycles were being driven at a leisurely pace. They always gave me plenty of room as they passed.

Then, heading out of the little town of Golden Shores, I stopped to talk to an older couple walking along the road. The husband, Steve, said he liked to ride bikes and asked where I was headed. "First Oatman, and then on to Kingman for the night," I replied. "Well," he responded, "it's all uphill for 20 miles from here to Oatman. The hardest part is you've got a long, hard climb over there." He pointed off into the distance.

I asked him what he thought of the Sitgreaves Pass. "Well, yeah ... " was all he said. 

Steve was right. The 20 miles I thought I could do in a couple of hours turned out to be much more difficult. The scenery was beautiful, however. This desert had a friendlier feel to it than the Mojave Desert in California.  And just as that earlier sign had warned, I spotted a little burro by the side of the road.

The constant winds weren't too bad, but they seldom helped. The ride to Oatman was a long, slow grind. I arrived at about 12:30 p.m. — 2-1/2 hours later than expected — just as two guys got gunned down in the street. I grabbed for my camera, but by the time I got it out of my bag they'd gotten up and dusted themselves off.

Oatman has maintained a look of an old western town. It allows burros to roam its streets. It also puts on a gunfight show in the street just outside the Oatman Hotel & Restaurant.  (I got the photo below from TripAdvisor.)

I was wiped out. I parked my bike behind the hotel, where no one would spot it. I went into the restaurant, which has dollar bills covering the walls,  and finished off a burger and fries.

Back at my bike, I needed water. Fortunately, one of the restaurant's cooks was sitting at a picnic table, finishing off his lunch. I asked if he could fill up my water bottles. He obliged.

The ride out of town immediately started uphill. 

I rounded a turn and there was a burro in the road, about 50 feet ahead. Unlike the little cute one I'd seen before, this guy had some heft to him and he looked skittish. "It's OK!," I said, as I slowed my pedaling. "Go on! Move along!" He spun around and did a little hop (uh-oh!) and then moved across the road and watched me go by (whew!).

The gradual ascent continued for about a mile or so, until I came upon a sign with a squiggle arrow and a warning: "Mountain grades / Sharp turns."

The Sitgreaves Pass. Here we go.

The next five miles alternated between steep and very steep. Fortunately, only an occasional car would pass, and again, these folks were out for a relaxing day, so they waited for me when necessary and passed carefully.

I could go on about how difficult the climb was. It was dig-down-deep excruciating. I stopped once at a small turnout to take a quick break and drink some water. And I was forced to stop once when I shifted incorrectly and had to regroup. That meant starting on an upgrade which, as I've mentioned in a previous post, is tricky/scary.

But I did make it to the top. The summit sign isn't located in a great spot for a picture, but I did the best I could:

Soon after crossing the summit, I came upon the Cool Springs store. A couple ladies were sitting outside as I rolled in. "Get in the shade and cool down," one of them called out. I first went inside and bought a can of Mountain Dew and four, 12-ounce bottles of water to refill the almost-empty bottles on my bike.

I came back out and sat in the shade. I bitched a bit about how hard the route was and the same woman responded, "A lot of people seem to be able to do it. We have cyclists coming by here all the time. We just had a group of five this morning."

Well, that was good to know. Ugh.

Here's a video of the route I took, shot by a motorist (I was going A LOT slower):

I had about 20 miles to go to Kingman. The first half was downhill. First, the switchbacks coming down from the summit and then a straighter run into a wide-open plain called Golden Valley. I got a bit of a respite from the downhill miles, and then had nothing but climbing to Kingman.

I stepped into the lobby of the Best Western Wayfarer Inn at about 6:30, my face and cycling jersey covered with salt. I was beat. I got cleaned up and ordered a Domino's delivery to my room — a 14-inch vegetarian pizza, a box of six chicken wings and three little chocolate lava cakes. I ate it all. I went to bed.

I slept very well and woke up to my alarm at 5 a.m. I felt good. Ready to ride. I checked the weather report and, damn, another high-wind warning. This morning is beautiful but winds of 20-25 mph, with higher gusts, are forecast to come in around noon from here to my next destination. Originally, the next segment was supposed to be a nearly 90-mile ride to Seligman, but I'm trying to apply some lessons learned. I found the Grand Canyon Caverns Motel at 60 miles, and I'll stop there. 

— — —

Just got back from a bike shop here In Kingman. The rear derailleur on my bike was making a little noise, so I asked the mechanic to take a look at it. He made some minor adjustments and said everything looked fine.  It's good peace of mind to know all is OK after some rough roads.

Tomorrow I'm on to Grand Canyon Caverns.

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

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