25: Walmart

Walmart – savior of the masses.

There, I said it. I don’t care what you think, I like Walmart and K-Mart and any other mart that rescues me from wasting my weekend. Do you think it’s fun, trudging around ten different shops to get a few basic things on a Saturday, then panicking at the end of the afternoon because the approaching 5.00pm curfew spells disaster if something gets missed?

I have other things to do with my life besides shopping and anything that will get it done fast and with the minimum of fuss, gets my vote. If I lived in an old people’s home and had nothing else to do all day except moan about the state of the country, then maybe traipsing up and down the street until the shops closed might be a way to a social life of sorts, but that’s not the case.

I work and I’m single. I haven’t got a stay-at-home wife or girlfriend or mistress to shop for me. How sexist would that be anyway? Are you married? Does your wife do the shopping? If the answer to the second one is yes, then hold your opinion until I’ve finished.

It’s not that long ago that all the shops in England used to close at five o’clock every day and stay shut all Sunday – how bloody useful was that? Super late night closing would be to stay open an extra couple of hours on a Friday. It took large stores like Tesco and B&Q to break the status quo and show people there’s another way; a way that suits the modern world better.

The world’s expanded and moved on and we can’t turn the clock back even if we wanted to. Who in their right mind would? A few old fogies might, of course, but they’re the type of folks who hum along to scratchy Glen Miller 78’s and who’d like to see explosive charges in the Channel Tunnel so it could be blown to bits when the Germans invade. Because they will, those old farts will have you believe, as they stare mistily at the sky and murmur a tuneless rendition of Moonlight Serenade.

Yeah, I sympathize with the high street butcher and the baker and the candlestick maker who all suffer and who’ll maybe even go out of business and I understand claims that the big stores don’t give the same quality of service, but WAKE UP people. We live in a country with a BIG population and they don’t have the time to wander up and down quaint old village streets every day.

Besides, where would those millions of people that need to buy stuff park the 10 mpg Hummer (doesn’t everyone need a weapon-less tank for shopping) or the SUV or the mega-fucking-minivan, that seems to be the vehicle of choice for Suzie Homemaker these days?

It’s personal for me. I couldn’t go into a butcher and ask for a pound of beef because I don’t have a fig’s clue about how big it is. Is it enough? Maybe it’s too big. I know when I see it in its plastic pack on the supermarket shelf where I don’t have to suffer stares of scorn from know-it-all housewives.

Same with potatoes – I want three. Not three pounds or three kilos - three potatoes and I want to choose them myself and put them in a bag without being judged, but the high street grocer is not the place for that. As I said, I’m single. A spud for today, one for tomorrow and another for spare is as much future planning as I need.

Obviously I could learn, but where’s the convenience in having to go from the butcher to the grocer then the baker for bread, the wine shop for a bottle and the newsagent for a newspaper? Could be fun if you’re on holiday somewhere foreign and you’re a sorry enough case to need a story to tell the neighbors when you get back (ooh, Betty, I asked for two pounds and they gave me two kilos and then they wanted Euros), but it’s hardly the way to spend every day of normal life.

I want to browse racks of clothes or shoes and try on what takes my fancy, without having to wait to ask an assistant to go and get a size eight – and now a size eight and a half because I got it wrong or because this particular shoe manufacture’s a bit screwed. Same with trousers or undies or shirts or anything else you can think of.

It’s a matter of control.

Who cares if Walmart employees can’t be found, or know nothing? Wandering the aisles, exploring and choosing, allows complete control. Unlike waiting and waiting and waiting in a small shop and then relying on a teenage girl who knows as much about shoes as I do about meat and who’d rather be somewhere else.

You disagree? Vehemently? You think I’m a rebel for supporting Walmart and ought to be shown a thing or two? Well consider it awhile and if you still want to duff me up, then come ‘round to my house. At least you’ll find me in, ‘coz I won’t be spending all my time shopping.

24: Non-Quality Inn

We are now almost half way across the United States. Each day blends into the previous and most are little more than a pedal slog to reach the next town.

Yes, there are odd restaurants that stand out, nights to be remembered and tourist sights to gawp at, but go buy a Bill Bryson book if you want a travelogue – I just squirt out lines of prose when I feel inspired.

I have now stayed in around 25 hotels during the last month. That’s quite enough to feel a sense of irritating repetition over unpacking, packing, unwrapping soaps, the general laundry routine and setting up the laptop. I dream of the day when I can spend more than 2 consecutive nights in the same place. Forget the Nirvana of reaching a hotel without using a van – to not go through that routine and to come in to an already-prepared computer station now seems like heaven.

Twenty-five hotels in that short period is not just a lot, it’s enough to rant about spectacularly bad places and notice trends in the others.

You’d think that cleaners would notice blocked sinks, missing plugs, telephones without cables to connect them to the wall, non-working lights or toilets that don’t flush and report them to maintenance, but evidently not. Perhaps they’re too busy making beds for midgets – with the covers turned over at what would be waist height for a normal human.

My room at the Indio Super 8 suffered all of the above. Outside, the hotel appeared to be in the process of either construction or destruction and all sunshades in the courtyard except one were broken and rotted. We – the guests – had to construct a solar barrier by mounting the dead shades on top of the single healthy one to behind which to shelter and enjoy the free burgers thoughtfully provided by the management, presumably as an unspoken apology for the sad state of their premises.

I’m always curious about the plethora of minor curiosities and things that don’t work when I check into a new hotel. Will the wi-fi internet appear on demand? If it needs a pass code, why didn’t the front desk supply it automatically, without me having to find that it doesn’t work on demand and then call them?

Why is there no guard on the A/C to prevent the air shooting up inside billowing curtains? Why is there a plaque in the bathroom asking me to conserve water by re-using towels, but no offer of a discount for doing so - thereby saving the hotel money and work?

Why does the in-room coffee taste like old carpet, no matter how strong I make it? Why, in a room set up for two people, is there usually only one regular coffee sachet and one decaf? Does a couple have to share – or fight over who gets the buzz?

I can understand the wish to reduce costs, but if the management is prepared to charge a standard price, then they should also provide the quality given elsewhere – and not cut corners to make a buck.

It’s generally the foreign run hotels that are the worst – this is an observation, not an unfair bias. They’re the ones whose rooms shout at you, “My new owner has spent absolutely nothing on me and has every intention of maintaining that level of expenditure.”

They usually sport tatty curtains, broken fixtures, a TV the size of a small car that screams ‘1975”, a shower curtain without enough hooks, tiny soaps that shatter when you pry off the wrapper, an empty tissue dispenser so you have to use toilet paper to blow your nose and shampoo that makes your hair smell like the floor.

I once stayed in a hotel in Palm Springs – long gone – where the curtains hung irregularly by odd pieces of wire and the beige carpet had so many cigarette burns it looked like a Dalmatian. I had to ask for toilet paper, since none was provided when I arrived, only to be greeted with a 15 second stare of wonder at the front desk, before a half-used roll was handed over. Mind you, having spent time in India, that shouldn’t come as a surprise.

At least I could blow my nose.

23: Door Dilemma

It’s only been 2 weeks but every hotel blurs into one.

The town is of no importance. The day is irrelevant. Doesn’t matter whether it’s a Super 8, a Comfort Inn or a Holiday Inn - they’re all clones.

The brain works on blood. After riding all day, it’s all in my legs. Just as well there’s no sex life on tour.

Remembering a new room number is about as easy as walking a straight line and reciting the alphabet backwards after a couple of six-packs. The clerk could tell me a dozen times and I will forget it a dozen times before I walk away from the desk.

With eyesight like mine, I can’t see what’s been written on the key envelope – so now I’ve taken to writing it myself in BIG numbers. Glasses would help, but not a lot. Even when I can read it, I still forget in the second it takes to look up from the envelope.

I have pushed my bike to each end of a corridor and back before repetitively sliding the cardkey in the door with the number from last night’s room – because, after using it several times last night, it’s familiar - then returned to the desk to report today’s key faulty, got a new one and repeated the sad process.

Sometimes the door does open – not because of my key, but because the stranger in the room comes to see what’s going on.

In the movies, that stranger would be a seductress like a young Lauren Bacall with a smoldering cigarette in a holder between red lips, dressed in a translucent nightdress with a hint of dark lingerie. She’d be holding a glass of chilled champagne and I, naturally, would be a smartly dressed black and white Humphrey Bogart; but taller.

In real life, I am encased in black shorts and yellow shirt, my hair is molded into helmet vent lines and I am wearing sweaty gloves. I smell the way I look, I probably still have sunglasses on and am holding a bike. The door is opened by a fat businessman or a scrawny redneck, either of whom who stare as if I am from Mars. If he’s unlucky enough, we’ll meet again later.

Forgetting the room number is as easy as forgetting what town you’re in. That happens too. As I said - it’s a blood thing.

There is a large degree of torment in every day and perhaps blotting out the small things is the brain’s way of softening the pain.

Or maybe it’s Alzheimer’s.

22: Flat Tires

Tracy proclaimed that four minutes is all it takes to deal with a flat tire.

That minimalist period probably assumes all tools are ready to hand, that the unfortunate flatee replaces the tube instead of patching it and uses a CO2 injector for inflation.

I can do it in eight to ten, hiding from assistance – even well-meaning help will take longer. That includes locating the puncture, gluing, patching, pressing, cleaning the tire and manually inflating with a frame pump. It’s not hard to judge the pressure with a thumb and be less than 15 PSI out.

CO2 injectors? Don’t make me sneer. If this were Star Trek and the CO2 injector was the transporter, I would be Doctor McCoy.

Injectors are despicable inventions and reduce the ability of the user, much like continually driving an automatic car destroys your ability to drive. True, you can inflate the tire in a nanosecond and be on your way. You can also, if the tube is pinched, burst it and be back to square one.

Every flat requires a full cartridge – how many can you carry? What about when you run out? Can you actually get more? Is there a shop within walking distance? In the desert? They’re not free, so every flat costs money. If you’re a tube replacer rather than a patcher, that can make your desert crossing expensive.

I always patch a tube unless it’s too damaged. If it’s raining then I’ll replace it and mend it later in the dry. The additional time it takes to find a puncture and mend it, even on the side of the road, is negligible.

I don’t like to generalize, but it’s a fact that Americans will simply discard a perfectly good inner tube that has been punctured and insert a new one. It’s just another facet of the built-in-obsolescence economy that appeared after the 1970’s.

I find myself in company with a number of riders incapable of dealing with a flat, regardless of the operation’s extent. When one occurs, often several people cluster around the unfortunate flatee like a pit crew to all assist in some way. Help is nice, but survival skills must be individual.

How someone can proclaim themselves worthy to ride more than three thousand miles across a continent but be unable to perform the most basic of bicycle repairs? Of all the things that can occur on a bike ride, especially a long one, punctures are the most likely – and the most frequent.

It is often the women who deserve this criticism the most as they’ve allowed themselves to become accustomed to a male doing it for them. What happens when they’re alone? What happened to female liberation? Does that disappear when dirty work is involved? A cross country ride is not a gentle Sunday afternoon’s ride along the cycle path.

So – now you have my opinion on flats – and the people who can’t fix them…

21: Taking It Easy

Today, we crossed the Rio Grande.

Not with John Wayne and the Tenth Cavalry, not as cause-bound freedom fighters and without wagons, guns or canon. We had bicycles in place of horses and we crossed the big river to reach the town of Albuquerque.

It is now 4 riding days and 329 miles since the euphoria of reaching my personal Nirvana at Flagstaff. I have thighs Superman would envy and an ego to match. The belt that wouldn’t fit three weeks ago is now on its third hole and my trousers fall down without it.

After a self-indulgent rest day in Flagstaff (beer, movie and oh, oh, oh, Starbucks, how I missed thee) we continued with overnight stops at Holbrook, Gallup and Grants – which deserves a tribulation all of its own.

Riding again after the day off felt like going back to school, until I realized that this is meant to be fun and changed my mindset accordingly. Riding is fun. Fixing flats is fun. Constantly adjusting bike computers to match cue sheets is fun. Hills are fun. Melted sunscreen running into your eye is fun. Quads screaming in exhausted agony is fun. It’s all good.

Popular music here has always been influenced by Americana; New Jersey Turnpike in the wee wee hours (Chuck Berry’s ‘Mabelline’), an uncountable number of songs about cities, Get Your Kicks on Route 66 (everyone). It’s curious to find one example of exactly the opposite in Winslow, Arizona, where a giant wall mural on a corner of Route 66 depicts a girl (my Lord) in a flat bed Ford (slowing down to take a look at me). Thank you, Eagles.

What’s left of Route 66 falls into two categories – stretches designated as historic, upon which restoration money has been spent to create a linear tourist attraction and other lengths that remain there simply because the people who live on it won’t move. The Jackrabbit Trading Post, once famous all the way from Canada to California, now exists on its own remnant of Route 66, which ends in dirt less than a mile past it in one direction and several hundred yards in the other.

The rest, for the most part, has disintegrated into a dirt track. Anyone traveling the route it once served will now join speeding trucks and cars on the anonymous I40, never knowing they are so close to a piece of history that has been allowed to decay and vanish.

I learned on Tuesday, courtesy of a fellow rider, that the Continental Divide – that we pedaled across – is not the part of America that would form prime beach front property should Lex Luthor get his wish and cause an earthquake. It has something to do with watersheds but, before your eyes glaze over and you start to recall the word trainspotter, I do not know and do not care what that is.

Perhaps if I stand on one side and take a piss I would get wet legs but, if I did the same on the other side, a jet of wee would shoot a hundred yards. That would be the non-scientific explanation. Women shouldn’t try this experiment.

Now we’re in Albuquerque and what’s here? Nothing, as far as I can tell. It’s the wrong spot on the Rio Grande to watch Mexicans floating downstream to get into the US illegally and too far from the old town area to visit without a lot of hassle. The only entertainment close to this outpost of humanity where we stay seems to be the bar of the Hilton hotel next door.

After a week of fighting crosswinds, headwinds, exhaustion and swearing at some of my compatriot riders, who appear to believe that riding on the left and entirely blocking the shoulder when they stop is the right way to behave, I have only a sad hotel bar for salvation. It probably even has a piano player.

What is my life coming to?

20: Grants

Don’t come to Grants unless your evening plans comprise wandering Walmart, or ritual suicide.

For all I know, there could be a vibrant eclectic scene downtown but, on the outskirts, this town lacks a certain joie de vivre. I can’t believe the entire town can be so mind numbingly boring and dysfunctional, so maybe the townsfolk are trying to dissuade outside visitors, to keep a nefarious secret – trafficking human parts, for instance.

It starts at the hotel...

The clock/radio plays only commercials with whining children or females singing about Jesus. Other radio transmissions – anything with any musical or interest content – are non-existent.

Internet access, misleadingly represented by glossy pictures of hard-wired ethernet connections requiring a pass code at check-in, is actually wi-fi with no pass code requirement but, as it turns out, no-fi. The signal disappears after 3 minutes online, never to return.

The front desk clerk, who smiles inanely and points a thumb towards the ceiling, tells me to call the internet help desk who would ‘sort me out.’ I bet they would. Any communication with help desks will take years off your life – that’s what they’re for. It’s a sneaky method of population control.

There is no food. Despite a continuous illuminated display outside advertising dinner specials, the kitchen is closed due to mechanical difficulties. Meaning what, exactly? Has somebody’s cat fallen into the food processor? Is the cleaning lady missing a finger? Have recent guests turned green and died?

So – on to the bar for popcorn and beer where, despite being empty, it takes a while to get served. The pleasant atmosphere of background John Lennon music soon disappears, to be replaced by the raucous laughter track of a comedy show from a 14 inch television above the bar, turned up to full volume.

Neither the program, nor the frequent commercial breaks is hardly welcoming entertainment – and this seems to be overwhelmingly sponsored by a new birth control pill called Yaz. The chubby barmaid, whose eyes remain affixed to the picture, will not do anything about it. “Everyone wants the game on,” she says, vaguely, waving around at the entirely vacant room.

There is no game. There is no everyone, so I spend the next ten minutes hurriedly finishing my beer whilst hearing, multiple times, that Yaz does not prevent HIV, STD or other three-letter acronyms connected with unprotected sex.

The desk clerk says there’s one other bar in town but I find it fenced off in a construction site and looking like it’s been that way for a very long time. Perhaps it served food and had good music so the locals closed it to avoid attracting attention.

The Asian super buffet across from the hotel turns out to be a steam table holding a collection congealed masses of what might once have passed for food, but their time of holding that status has long passed. Now, they look more like something that would be offered on the salad bar in an English Pizza Hut.

Table for one, I am asked, by a smiling oriental lady who either thinks I am starving, or mad. She’s right about one of those. She would have a point with the other if I were actually to sit down.

A shudder runs down my spine as I realize the truth; without resorting to Taco Bel or Subway, there remains only Denny’s. As a restaurant, Denny’s falls a couple of notches short but, as a last resort in the town that feels like it died ten years ago, it suddenly gains status. I could go there, have a mediocre steak and a glass of bad wine and pretend to be in the land of living for the evening.

No.

It takes several attempts to find Denny’s, hidden between Super 8, the car wash and Walmart. Fifty-year old music reaches me before I even get to the door and continues, unabated, as I ask for a table, sit, order and eventually eat. Not that I mind– I quite like that era of oldies – but it says something about the population.

Denny’s is evidently the place of choice for anyone whose hair has turned gray, white or disappeared altogether and lives in a 1950’s time warp. No one seems to be eating much or talking – just sitting, staring.

Never mind, I’m not here to make friends, I just want a steak and a couple of drinks but once more I am thwarted.

“We don’t serve alcohol,” the teenage waitress says slowly, wide-eyed at the suggestion. “We just don’t see the need.”

Where else can I go? In the land of the blind, the one-armed man is king. Or something like that. It applies to restaurants too.

It’s whilst I’m eating, that another reason for the town’s state dawns on me; Los Alamos is very close. Could fifty years of radiation exposure from those early A-bomb tests have caused generations to lose increasing degrees of IQ, so that even the brightest would be considered a moron by standards in the outside world? Does the waitress have a seven-toed cousin at home? Do they burn the two-headed ones?

I chew in uneasy silence for a while as Pat Boone, Elvis and then Little Richard serenade the restaurant. Is fifty years enough? Will I be safe for one night?

Worry begins with a niggling feeling in your stomach and grows, like wanting to go to the toilet. Is there something else? The true reason begins to form in my mind, like a jigsaw taking shape. Forget trafficking body parts. Forget radiation and mutants.

Area 51 isn’t far; not next door, but close enough. I know how these things work – I saw that movie. First, there are lights in the sky, dogs disappear and cows get turned inside out. Then pods appear in basements. One by one the townsfolk vanish for a day or two and, when they come back, they’re different; quiet, subdued and they walk around staring.

Women forget how to cook and men stop drinking. They have no need for food or alcohol. They hang together, shunning others until, one by one, everyone becomes the same.

It all fits.

First, it was Roswell. Now they’re on the move.

We’re all doomed.

19: Daily Routine

Touring is tough. It’s only fun if you’re Tracy and you get to drive the luggage truck. For us, it’s a slog and any light-hearted parts have to be underlined and highlighted in bold.

Routine; that’s what makes everything work. Every action has its place and nothing is superfluous. It’s like being in the military, but without killing people.

Morning: wake up at 5.30am, brush teeth, shower, dress in cycle clothes, breakfast, luggage, top up tires, sign out, GO!

The only variance is whether to stretch before or after the shower. If you get to sleep with me, you’d find I do it before. If that happens, you’d see a lot of other things too and we’d be late for breakfast, but that’s another story and we needn’t discuss that kind of stuff here.

Unless it happens.

Just saying.

Daytime: ride, wave and yell meaninglessly at flat tire party, drink, get own flat, swear, drink, fix flat, drink, SAG stop, drink, get tired, drink, get more tired, drink, drink, get fucking tired, drink, drink, drink, run out of water, find religion, pray, apologize to God for bad life, see hotel in distance, thank Lord, reach hotel, drink, drink, drink, drink, drink, drink, lose religion, become atheist.

Evening: prepare bike, stretch, undress, laundry, shower, dress in evening clothes, route rap, dinner, walk around Walmart, retrieve laundry, bed.

After 100 miles of roadway torture, shouldn’t a shower come first?

No.

What’s the point getting clean and then doing stuff that will deposit oil and slime and rubber glue all over your pristine hands and arms? Always gets on your head too. Don’t know how, it just does.

Showering is the last thing to do before walking out the door (after dressing, fool) otherwise the temptation is to lie down on the bed and then you’d pass out and miss route rap. Tracy would be pissed and that would be bad.

No. Supper. For. You.

Think it would be best to leave the laundry out all night? Yeah, it might dry faster, but what about the morning when you get out of the shower and find there’s nothing to wear?

If you don’t want to put on evening clothes for breakfast (and who does?) you have to do the hold-door-open-and-stretch-to-balcony thing - and how risky is that? What are the odds of losing your grip on the door so it slams shut, locked, with the key on the dresser inside?

That would also be the time you realize – because the woman next door comes out to get them – that the cycling shorts and shirt for which you were reaching, belong to her.

Yours are hanging downstairs at the back of the motel over a tree.

And you’re naked.

18: Climbing to Nirvana

From Wickinburg to Flagstaff, the scrub desert changed into an endless 3-day climb through lush vegetation and sheer rock faces, standing on the pedals and wishing for a smaller granny gear.

It is impossible to judge the amount of climbing simply from the elevation figures, which ranged from 5,000 to over 7,000 and varied up and down – only a day or two earlier, we’d been at sea level. Let’s just call it leg worthy.

True, there were the odd respites – like a 20-mile winding rise and falls on the way to Prescott that reminded me what cycling was all about – but mostly it was up. Up was the word of the day; the word of three days.

What goes up must come down – don’t tell NASA that – and the long steep descent from the summit of Mingus Mountain was our reward for the torture of climbing it. Not everyone felt that way. Nancy and Hank admitted fear of uncontrollably accelerating to warp speed, so rode in the van.

44 mph is the fastest I have ever traveled on a bike and that happened yesterday on the penultimate descent into Cottonwood. Bicycles may well be built to go at 44 mph as the lone cyclist who sped past me so fast he caused a Doppler color shift would agree, but I personally am not made to go 44 mph on a bike.

It’s shitingly terrifying to know that any road aberration – and there were plenty of rough spots – can send you somersaulting, end over bone-crunching end, until coming to a halt in a mass of shattered helmet, blood and internal organs. Your remains will then be crushed by a mobile home the size of the Staten Island ferry, driven by a hat-wearing fat tourist from Iowa.

At least an extra reward lay in store three-quarters of the way down in the form of the town of Jerome. Jerome was once famous as a gold mining community, but that was a long time ago and now it’s only famous for being famous – and has tee-shirts to prove it.

Reaching our first rest day in Flagstaff required the longest and most hellish climb of the entire week, composed – in latter stages – of a series of switchbacks from which it was possible to see how much torment lay ahead. It’s hard to appreciate the landscape or the beauty of the red rocks of Sedona when it’s all you can do to stay upright as you wheeze and stare at the asphalt directly in front of the wheel.

I would not be able to adequately describe the anguish I suffered on those switchbacks without making you cry. Try to imagine how you would feel if someone took a cricket bat to your thighs repeatedly until you could no longer walk and then set you on fire.

What I will say – boast, even – is that after the SAG stop at the summit, I pedaled the remaining 12 miles into Flagstaff under my own steam. No van had felt my bottom all day.

I have reached Nirvana.

17: Mojave Desert

The Mojave, when it came, wasn’t the promised horror.

Hot it was, but the temperature didn’t exceed a moderate 105 Fahrenheit and only two people needed hospital IV re-hydration. Overall, a fairly innocuous day of cycling in the sunshine.

My day began with unrealistic hopes that it might be my personal Nirvana – the first day of cycling all the way from start to finish without van assistance. I imagined pedaling into Blythe on a wave of success but, as it turned out, I rode as a vehicle passenger with Melissa – wife of rider Mark, who’s leaving us at Albuquerque.

The day went thus….

Riders waiting to sign out in the morning talked in a state of gentle anxiety. Karen looked like an arctic explorer and most of the others sported white sleeves and white leggings. It seems that K-Mart’s whites-for-desert-cyclists-section made quite a profit on our group last night. Having made absolutely no change to my usual preparations, I looked exactly the same.

Naturally, I was the last to leave. I don’t know how or why, it just happens that way. I could be ready and willing to go half an hour before everyone else, but I’ll still be last out of the hotel. It’s not a big deal – I just ride alone at my own pace and stop to smell the roses. It’s not a race, as people keep telling me. I don’t know why they say that, since it’s not them that are at the back, but I always agree and they go away smiling.

The rest of the group took a wrong detour (ha, ha, ha, should have slowed down and considered the obvious new road construction) and then several riders suffered flats. Thanks to that divine intervention, I caught up with most of them before they finally left me in the dust. So much for ‘never ride alone in the desert’.

You can’t smell much out there except diesel and sunscreen and not even that much in the afternoon, when the air’s too hot for smells to linger. Whenever the light breeze came my way, a particular odor wafted from the scrub vegetation – maybe what cow dung might smell like if it sprouted flowers.

Contrary to most people’s belief, bicycles CAN use the shoulder of an interstate highway and the first climb came a few miles after joining I10; eleven miles of slog. Eleven miles of torture that never let up. Eleven stinking miles of standing on pedals to change muscles and use gravity assist, then stopping for a sip from the camelback and to drag some oxygen into my starved lungs.

The saddle squeaked with every down-thrust of my right leg. “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” it said and my aching backside understood every utterance. At the 4 mile mark, I almost vomited.

Like a vision, the Crossroads luggage truck appeared ahead, parked on a lay by. An apparition? A hallucination? A mirage? No – Tracy had come to save me. Would I like a ride? Gasping, sweating, red-faced and unable to speak for half minute - saying yes was a no-brainer.

Cresting the summit in air-conditioned comfort was a lot easier than pushing pedals for the remaining 7 miles and then, like a mended animal, I was released back into the wilderness of the Mojave and pedaled to its very heart – Desert Center.

Imagine standing on white sand and bathed in the light from 1,000 floodlights so that, everywhere you look, at least one of them points directly in your eyes. Now imagine trying to take a picture of something by removing your sunglasses and trying to see the LCD screen of a compact digital camera held two feet away, whilst someone pokes a knitting needle in your eye. Now you know why I have no photos.

For the next 30 miles, my aches and pains increased with the mileage. Every part of my body hurt. The sit bones in my bottom felt like they’d been hammered into position and I rode one-handed for most of the afternoon, alternating sides to relieve the pressure on each wrist. The pedals bit the soles of my feet through the solid shoes until they went numb, the sunglasses drove into my nose and the helmet weighed a ton on my head.

Getting a flat takes on a whole new meaning under these conditions. It’s hard to find a puncture with the scream of traffic only a few feet away and even I, who always mend on the fly, understand the need to minimize the interlude. So it was fortunate that I didn’t get any – thank you Specialized, for your Armadillo tires.

By the third SAG, it was all over. After two 3 litre camelbacks of water and two 20 oz Gatorades, de-hydration was not an issue, nor was the sun, nor the heat; my legs had nothing left to give.

All I could think about was a cheeseburger with bacon - American crispy bacon with all the fat and flavor and salt. The kind you can smell a mile away on a cool misty morning at a campsite; and very strong coffee; and smoke from the fire.

Melissa offered a ride directly to the hotel. No waiting around for SAG vans, no stopping every time a rider wants assistance, just a simple, direct ride – in the Hummer.

A vehicle the size of a house that gets 12 miles per gallon and takes an entire lane with no margin for error is a prince in shining armor when you’re exhausted and its owner is helping you out.

I just hope that when the last drop of oil runs out and planet Earth is dry and the souls of all those accountable are taken to task, that there’s a mercy account from which tired cyclists can draw.

It wasn’t until several hours later – after several cold beers with Harry in a Mexican bar that had all the atmosphere of a butcher’s shop – that I noticed a Starbucks on the cue sheet.

The sense of loss was acute.

Note to self: Must stop squirting sunscreen in my eye.

16: Desert Rap

The day’s de-briefing and anticipation of next day’s ride is known as Route Rap. For around ten minutes or so, we get to hear how many flats there were, what happened to whom and, most importantly, where we go for dinner.

The session in Indio will be different – we have had free hamburgers (perhaps because the Super 8 management is ashamed of the decayed state of their hotel) and tomorrow is the first day of the Mojave Desert.

Temperatures are generally 110 to 115 Fahrenheit in the shade – but we ride in direct sun. I’ve often wondered why temperatures are quoted that way, since most people outside don’t spend their time in shade.

It is necessary to persuade riders that there are real dangers present that expenditure of their tour fee will not eliminate. There is a real possibility of heatstroke and death, but I find the general low level of acceptance of responsibility these days strange and disappointing.

I am intending to avoid tonight’s route rap. I do not need to know what happened during the day and I already know plenty about the desert. Having been through the Mojave route rap twice and having spent plenty of time in that and other deserts, apart from than riding through on a bicycle, I am aware of the many ways in which it could kill me and what must be done for self-preservation.

Entertainment opportunities locally comprise a film at the 4-screen Metro Theater. That’s it; unless you count wandering the aisles of K-Mart or sitting in Del Taco watching fat people, forms of entertainment.

After wading through the super-heated air and traversing the wasteland to see what’s on (the town stops here and no one ever bothered to build anything reminiscence of a walkway), I am frustrated to find that their offerings comprise Star Trek, which is still too fresh in my mind to see again just yet, Obsession, and a subtitled Mexican movie that has already started. None of these fills me with enthusiasm.

With nothing else to do except walk around alone in the blast furnace that is Indio, even Tracy’s warning lecture seems acceptable. Perhaps she’s added new material – some form of preparatory warm-up show to enliven the audience, helped by the rest of the staff.

Margaret might do a couple of impressions and some slight of hand with a deck of cards, or Rick could tell some pharmacy jokes (ya know the one where we sold the wrong drugs and the patient turned green and died…) Maybe Mack will perform a set of one-liners like a British Seinfeld or Tracy could juggle some flaming torches.

But, no.

Sadly, there’s no new material. It’s still the same old routine about heatstroke, de-hydration and death – and who wants to hear that? Not Peter, obviously, who makes his customary criticism about lack of gradient information on the cue sheets and then wanders off for a drink.

The talk begins and Tracy tells us to cover up all exposed skin, use camelbacks, suck down Gatorade and DON’T WASTE WATER. We also learn the early warning signs of de-hydration: irritability, poor decisions, clammy skin and dizziness – and we’re told about Enduralytes, which supposedly supply electrolytes lost by heat and exertion.

We hear about how to find shade in drains under the highway and what to do if we suspect ourselves or others of de-hydration. We are told to wear a head sweat and pour water over it – what was that about NOT WASTING WATER? We are told not to ride alone but how to manage that in a group of alpha personalities who always ride at their own pace is not explained.

Looking around and, from overheard comments and questions asked, it seems that this audience contains disbelievers. Some do not possess camelbacks and are told to go to K-Mart to purchase one. Nancy is verbal in her reluctance to use one, desert or not. Perhaps her ear rings will guide her through the heat.

Most seem to accept the lesson, but come away thinking that they have been told off in some way. Maybe the flaming torches would be a good idea?

Briefly, it occurs to me to mention what has so far gone unsaid – that the human body needs a minimum of one litre per hour of water in the desert and can only last a small number of hours without any (72 - 96). For the last half of that, you’d be pretty much useless without help, so consider yourself dead.

But that might put me in the know-it-all class.

That would be bad.

15: First Day

I would not like Tracy’s job today.

I wouldn’t like it on any day but, on a day where anything and everything can happen, I would not want to be the person in charge. I am not overly patient and freely admit that I would be more irritated at disruptions to my arrangements, than concerned about lost riders, injuries and the possibility of death.

25 of us started together at Manhattan Beach and, by the end of the day, 2 were involved in accidents that could have been serious but fortunately were not. 3, if you view one rider crashing into another as a double hit.

Rich fell onto Willie’s bike at the pier and damaged it and a driver turning right struck Barbie. I learned of both incidents by gossip during the day and had no idea of the circumstances, so can make no judgments.

Anyway, I was not involved in accidents, I got no flats, and I did not get de-hydrated. I also did not pedal the entire distance, as my under-trained legs gave up at the 55 mile mark.

After leaving the beach, my day goes thus….

The hill from the pier becomes an immediate struggle. Perhaps those 10 up-and-overs on Blanton hill in Florida (elevation gain 324 feet) did not constitute proper training.

Once the grade lessens, plenty of riders pass and their fluttering orange safety flags provide an easy clue about direction. Looking down at the cue sheet when you’re standing on the pedals and expending 100% of your energy just to move forward is a good way to fall off.

What can you say about suburban roads passing through suburban parts of suburbia? I pass gas stations, odd stores, people pushing stolen shopping carts on sidewalks and poorly behaved traffic. It really doesn’t matter where I am – the ride has begun and, for the foreseeable future, I am free.

I frequently find myself adopted by passing groups and become part of the “Hole” verbal warning chain which, with the relayed arm thrustings, becomes strangely hypnotic. It’s like becoming attracted to the rhythmic slapping of windshield wipers on a rainy night on a long drive when you’re tired. After a while, I have to choose between watching the arms and not falling off my bike, so I drop back to be able to inspect the road myself.

Riding in isolation lets my mind wander and allows the freedom to change pace or stop at will. In a group, you have to keep up with them, stop when they stop, go when they go, turn when they turn – all dictated by the guy at the front. I feel obliged to not stop for a scenery photo or adjust my gears or go for a wee or do any of the myriad things that need attention without warning.

Orientation with cue sheets isn’t exactly rocket science, but does require having the right page upwards. In a group, there’s often no time to turn it and I worry about riding blind and trusting people who are all following someone who doesn't actually know where they’re going.

I’m riding alone and putting the world to rights in my head, when a shout of ‘Hi Mike,” stops my heart and almost throws me off my bike. Coming back to reality, I discover that I have become cocooned and am now part of yet another group. How many of these people are there? How much effort does it take to be last?

As to how long I have had company, I cannot tell, so I do not know if they witnessed me riding along on mental auto pilot. They can see as much of my head under my helmet as I can of theirs so, if my zombie state is mentioned later at dinner, I can simply pretend to be someone else.

From the names on their flags, I can see that I am now riding with George, who shares the back with me and reminds me of Robocop, Karen and Charlie, who take up the middle and Harry, the Brit with the Liverpool accent, who is leading us on at a pace more suited to the Indy Five Hundred.

Charlie’s chain remains, for most of the time, diagonally stretched across the smallest chain wheel to the smallest rear cog. The constant grating from this mechanical nightmare threatens to loosen the nuts in my brain and I feel obliged to mention it in case he doesn’t know. It’s like pointing out the spinach in a stranger’s teeth. Do you – or don’t you?

Harry keeps asking if I am alright. Is the pace OK? Do I have enough water? Am I drinking enough fluids? Maybe it’s a Liverpudlian trait, caring for the sick. I didn’t think I looked ill, but perhaps he is a doctor. Despite being in the lead, he has no usable cue sheet and needs to be told where and when to turn. This creates an obvious possibility of getting lost and further strengthens my desire to break away.

I’m mentally ready for a break and dying for a piss when the first SAG stop comes up at 28 miles, with both Tracy and Margaret present. Unfortunately, there is nowhere to do that besides behind Tracy’s luggage truck or against a tree. It’s a public park, so I am dissuaded and have to go another mile for a ‘bathroom break’, as American coyly call it.

Shortly afterwards, my group realize that I am hardly Lance Armstrong and I regain the freedom to ride along in my own universe again. It’s at around the 50-mile mark, when suburbia has given way to countryside, that I discover, on a quite modest incline, that my legs are expired. There remains less than 30 miles to go, it’s a nice day, I have plenty of water and my bike is functioning perfectly – but I am not going to make it.

The second SAG, run by Mack, is 5 miles away. The spectre of giving up and riding in the van is like the anticipation of taking green medicine when you’re a child. All you can do is put the moment off a little – but it’s coming.

At more or less the same moment that I realize I am through, Rick arrives on his bike. I did not know he was riding sweep and I am quite pleased to see him. As we pull off together and he sees that I have no more energy, it will be his decision that puts me in the van. Perfect.

We pass through a splendid park that really should be the subject of a many photos, but I have lost the desire to do anything except get into air conditioning and sit on something not triangular. With frequent stopping to regain a modicum of strength, It takes several attempts to climb even the shortest hill into the SAG, which seems to prove the point that I’m done.

Fuck today, fuck tomorrow and fuck the Mojave Desert.

I’m ready for a beer.

14: Wheel Dipping

30 people dressed in black shorts and multi-colored cycling shirts, running down the sand, some with bikes held above their heads, is not something you usually see at 7.30 am on a Sunday – even in Los Angeles.

The few onlookers gawk. I’d gawk too, but I’m part of the madness; not close enough to be drawn in, but safe, on the pier. Still, I’m dressed the same way and I have a bike. As they say - what looks like a duck, smells like a duck, quacks like a duck…

Some riders have shown great wisdom and removed their wheel for its baptism in the Pacific. No doubt they’ll show the same wisdom in Boston and remove the other one. Others struggle with the entire bike, sinking into the sand as they try vainly to keep it aloft.

Several foot washings, goodbye hugs and group photos later, with everyone set in granny gears, we cross the bike path in groups, then grind up the hill to the red light at the intersection. Ahead, lies the remaining 3,410 miles to Boston.

Without Crossroads staff so close, I’d not be surprised to see them all run the red light. But they don’t.

We’re off!

13: And So It Begins

This is it.

The Big One

Forget about whether it’s Day 1 or Day 2 or Day whatever – this is the morning when the pedals go down for the first time and the wheels on the bike go ‘round and ‘round.

It is whilst I am dressing that I become aware of an apparel emergency. Either my cycling shorts have shrunk considerably or my body has expanded and I feel like a large potato in a small sack.

The mirror on the door clearly shows which has occurred and I am perturbed to notice parts of my anatomy that I do not wish others to see. Well, not under these circumstances. There’s a time and a place…

No amount of bodily re-arranging cures the problem or even offers a temporary solution, so I have to wear the hiking shorts. Everyone else will be wearing uniform black spandex cycling shorts and I will be dressed in gray hiking wear. Wonderful.

Breakfast is reasonably minimalist and coffee is absent but, after a particularly aggressive expedition, I find it lurking in the corner, guarded by two brown short men who apparently think of it as a personal possession.

Looking around, I still find it difficult to recognize faces, but I wave at some and say hello to Tracy’s parents then sit with Harry the Liverpudlian until it’s time to get under way to the beach.

The smell of sunscreen and metallic clacking from cleats on concrete fills the air outside. Riders hurry their bags to the luggage truck, rush to top up their tires from wheezy air pumps and chatter nervously. They talk about resetting cycle computers, quantities of water, cue-sheets and worry about the route. I worry about my shorts.

Today’s route is fairly innocuous. A few hills comprising a frightening 3,100 feet of climbing and 79 miles of road in total, of hich we’ve already done around 5 - so I’ll make it all the way. Tomorrow will not be so good and I may see Indio through the windows of the van.

There’s a sense of anticipation as we line up in pairs and then leave. Slowly, we ride 2 miles through back streets, stopping at all red lights and stop signs until turning onto the ocean path and finally arriving at Manhattan Beach Pier.

It’s wheel-dipping time.

12: Welcome Meeting

The official welcome meeting’s at 2.00pm. It’s a smaller group than previous years, but still a crowd. Some people stare straight ahead as if there’s something of great interest on the end wall, but others are leaning over seat backs like kids at school when the teacher walks out.

I am the stranger. Whilst they were socializing all morning, I was getting high in Starbucks (they should stop pouring water on that stuff and just roll it into joints).

I watch body language, listen and talk, assessing the personalities. Most are my senior, which is strangely comforting. I learn a few names and faces to put with emails, but forget most immediately – such is the problem with ultra-short memory. All I can recall ten minutes later is that Harry has the Liverpool accent and Nancy is the Floridian worried about hills.

Three of the staff are old friends, but now is not the time for idle chat. The Crossroads ritual is imminent. All four – Mack, Rick, Tracy and Margaret – turn to pound a familiar rhythm on the wall.

I’m glad I don’t have the room next door for a meeting of my own – because I wouldn’t appreciate “We Will Rock You” being beaten out if I was, say, giving a presentation, or entertaining foreign executives. But I’m not and no one bangs back, so I suppose it’s alright.

The pounding is telling us – the audience, the riders, those who have spent a lot of money to be here – that it is WE who rock. WE can do anything. WE are the Top Gun of cross-country cycling. Wonderful. Where are the girls doing somersaults in short skirts?

Once the cheer-leading ritual is over, Tracy introduces staff and her parents - who will be present for a short time - then goes into an ego-stroking spiel and we are told how good we are. We already know we ROCK, but now we hear why. I’d waft into a parallel universe if I could but, alas, that’s a talent I sadly lack

One by one, riders stand to tell their own story; where they’re from, why they’re here, what they expect to achieve from the tour. Fortunately, this group is not as self-indulgent as those from previous years and no one gets carried away relating life histories. (I did not know there were so many people whose lifelong dream is to go on a bike ride).

Far too quickly, it becomes my turn. I was intending to throw in a couple of clever tidbits about previous treks or even some words of wisdom about bike maintenance but public speaking is out of my comfort zone so I lose my drift and quickly redden.

The route is described, daily hotel procedure is explained, there is a further dose of ego building (yeah, we really ROCK!) and we are taught some safety tips when riding as a group - verbal commands to warn following riders - Car-up, Hole, On your left, Stopping.

Then we are introduced to some basic concepts of cycling that should be obvious to anyone with an age in double digits or an IQ above 4. Sadly, as I learn from the whispered comments, it is not.

We hear that road signs and rules are meant for cyclists as well as motorized traffic, we learn that we are considered vehicles and are not to ride on the sidewalk or through stop signs and red lights and we are shown correct lane control and use of hand signals for turning.

All through the lecture, questions are asked; the kind of questions no one with an adult mind should be posing. Why don’t you give us the weather forecast? Do I set my trip computer to zero at the hotel door or when I reach the road? Why can’t I start at 5.00am if I want to?

Curiously, for once, Tracy does not reveal the somber fact that the majority of cycling deaths in America involve riders on the wrong side of the road. Personally, I find it sad that so many people of otherwise good sense actually believe that this is the correct thing to do and blindly follow what they are told. I suppose lemmings have their reasons too.

Eventually, it is time for cocktails at the lobby bar, followed by dinner. You will surprised to hear that I waste some of this valuable drinking time by taking a shower. Even I, lush that I can be, realize that smelling like someone who’s slept in the jungle for a week, is not a good way to make new friends and influence people.

All I really want to do afterwards is break the ice in the sports pub across the street, but there are things to do with the bike, otherwise I will be going nowhere in the morning except by van.

By the time the bike is prepared, it is after 10.00pm. That’s when I discover that my neighbor in the next room is the kind of snorer that you can hear through a hotel wall. Trying to ignore it is like trying to get to sleep at Christmas before Santa comes.

Maybe I should bang on the wall to wake him up? But then he’d know it was me. I could call his room and then hang up – several times – but that would be cruel. Besides, there might not be enough time to fall asleep before he starts again.

But hey – who really cares?

Tomorrow, we’re crossing America by bike.

We rock, baby!

Read more at: www.mikeonwheels.com OR
www.wheelsonthebikegoroundandround.blogspot.com/

11: Admin Day

This is it; Day1.

That’s Day 1 on the Crossroads calendar. To my way of thinking, it should be Day 0, so here is our first terminological conflict.

In my mind, the experience begins with the first downward thrust of the pedals and that won’t happen until tomorrow but the first day of actually getting together is today. It’s like that endless religious debate over whether Sunday or Monday is the first day of the week – but we don’t want to tread that path today.

It’s a fresh and early Saturday morning when I leave Burbank, after a pleasant evening spent with friends Mitch, Claudia and daughter Ella - who will no doubt, become a film star in the near future. The cool moistness of the air is refreshing after the burning desert of just two days ago.

There’s a Starbucks within half a mile and I can feel the attraction. It’s like a magnet, pulling me against my will. I have to go there. It’s not my fault. It does not make me a bad person. Whoever invented these places sprinkled a dose of black magic over every one and I can’t pass by.

Is it the coffee? Is it the food? Is it the music – and I do like a touch of Frankie or Deano, I have to admit – or is it my small successes in the constant battle to get the servers to accept ‘medium’ I place of ‘grande’ and thereby placate my sense of linguistic failure? Don’t know, don’t care. Let’s just say I like the roast.

Los Angeles being the intense, endless freeway that it is, causes my hair to go white and takes three weeks off my life by the time I reach El Segundo. People in every state in America think that people in every other state can’t drive, but this is one place where they have at least some excuse.

Indians and Italians are perhaps the worst drivers in the world – or maybe Arabs, since they have everything to gain by dying and don’t seem to worry if they do – but Americans don’t win any medals for it. Traveling at the speed limit in the left-most lane and then swerving suddenly across all five to reach an exit 100 yards ahead is no way to drive. I, of course, am the greatest driver in the known universe and there ends the discussion.

It’s 9.30am by the time I reach the Courtyard Marriott and find Tracy outfitting the Ryder luggage truck. Tracy hasn’t chaged at all – still brunette, still short haired and still just as huggable. Rick appears immediately, but is less huggable. Both make hints, as subtle as a flying mallet about my ideas on carb loading (carbonated, not carbohydrates) and I have decided to get them both wasted in a scummy bar at some point.

My bike’s assembled and waiting but there’s no point collecting it until after check-in, but there’s the first obstacle. It’s early and the only room available thus far is one dedicated to handicapped and a burst of altruism for my wheelchair-bound white-on-blue fellow man makes me reluctant to take it. Besides - a shower fixed at four feet above bath level is about as inviting as taking a dump between guide rails.

Nothing’s happening and I want something, anything, to occur. Nothing is acceptable only if it’ll be that way all day or at least for a specific period because then I can substitute something of my choice. Nothingness for an indeterminate length of time reminds me of being a kid on a day when we’re going to the seaside and having to get up much too early and wait and wait and wait until the grown-ups get themselves organized. Really, at fifty-two, I’m done with waiting for grown-ups.

The pool’s blue and inviting but it’s too chilly to undress and, anyway, I can’t swim. Don’t ask why, without expecting a long and sadly involved story of school bullies and dunkings, just accept it and realize that there’s little I can do about it before breakfast. Oh sure, I could splash around at the shallow end but then some young girl with blond hair, blue eyes and perfect California teeth would dive in over my head and do 30 lengths at the speed of sound and I’d feel inadequate.

Breakfast seems like a good idea but I can’t face the chain restaurants around the hotel. There’ll be enough of them in the coming months and today demands something better. It’s like a man’s last drink before the gallows – the ‘One For The Road’, of which no one except me knows the origin. (Think – Tower of London, prisoner of the crown, execution and the subsequent road to Heaven).

Despite driving a couple of miles in either direction, the best place I can find is an IHOP near another Starbucks. Yes, it’s a chain, but I’m hungry so I give up thoughts of a local diner with Greek-daughter waitresses in white skirts and starched hats and give my name to the girl at the desk.

The food passing by astounds me. Even after all this time, I can’t understand how Americans can eat so much and think it all normal. It’s entirely the opposite extreme to England, where it would be seen as extravagant to ask for a second egg and sheer gluttony to suggest a third. Don’t even think about adding hashed browns, a fried steak the size of a frisbee and a stack of three pancakes.

Oh well, it’s horses for courses as they say - which probably has some relevance to acceptance of different cultures. So, with a mental sigh, I browse the menu, order a meal the size of a banquet and then go to Starbucks and consume enough caffeine to kill a horse.

10: Frame Pump

I’m in Palm Springs. The ride begins in a few days and I still need a frame pump.

I really only want the small rubber insert that fits in the end of my existing Blackburn pump but seven bike shops in a row haven't sold them, so the only option is to replace the pump. If there’s one indication that society is going down the toilet, this is it; for want of a fifty-cent part, I have to discard a thirty-dollar item.

The Palm Springs Cyclery is a good bike shop. I’ve been to it many times in the past and my last frame pump came from here. What could be easier than returning to the scene of the crime, as they say?

I enter the shop and a bright individual – let’s call him Eric – calls out, “What’s up dude?”

I’m in the right place. This isn’t the Trek shop in South Tampa, after all. Here follows a summary of the conversation...

“I need the valve insert for a frame pump for a road bike. Any chance?"

He shakes his head, grinning. "New pump is the way to go man."

No surprise. I follow Eric to an accessory stand, loaded with what I’ve come to despise; CO2 injector systems.

“No, no – a frame pump.”
“This is it. Fits right on the frame. Pumps your tires.”
“These are CO2 injectors.”
“Right.” He smiles brightly. “Gets you 100 -110 PSI. Just what you need for a road bike.”
“But each use needs a new cartridge.”
“One per flat, is all. You need to carry a few, just in case.”
“I’m riding 6,000 miles.”
“Dude…” It’s the wow factor.
“Any suggestions?”
“Try getting less flats.”

I want to correct him and say, “Fewer flats,” but now is not the time to be pedantic. I also want to point out that my control over flat-getting is minimal at best.

There’s a pause whilst I pretend to look at the injectors, wondering whether to actually buy one, but that would be like hedging my bets on the whole atheism thing and going to church.

"What about when I run out?”
“You can get ‘em anywhere. Any gas station.”
“And when I’m in the desert, 10 miles from a gas station and it’s 120 degrees?”
“Most of these are manual too.” He sounds defensive.
“They're tiny. What kind of pressure could I get from something this size?”
“About 60 PSI.”
“But didn’t we just agree that I need 100.”
“Well, 60 would get you home.”
“All 6,000 miles?”
“Right, right…” Eric nods, holding his chin, thoughtfully. “I guess you need a frame pump.”
“That’s why I’m here...”
“We don’t carry ‘em.”
“Why not?”
“No demand.”

09: Hiking

Palm Springs: Went there. Hiked. Left.

Ditto Joshua Tree:

Hiking is like smoking; no good, secondhand.

You have to be the one doing it to give a damn about how hard the day is, or how spectacular the view looks. Accounts of endlessly trudging sandy washes or fighting near-vertical climbs to distant clumps of palm trees belong in the watching-paint-dry category.

Maybe if you were mauled by a mountain lion or lost your honor to a particularly insistent sheep, then you’d have something to brag about in the pub. Otherwise, it’s just another got-the-tee-shirt story about sun and rocks and blisters - and who really cares about that?

A trainspotter, in England, is someone who’ll get up in all weathers and several hours before dawn and travel a very long way to stand on a railway bridge or a station platform. He’ll do all this to wait for the passing of a particular engine, and then note its number down in a little book.

It has become used as a derogatory term.

For example, I might start a conversation about hiking and think I am enthralling you with vivid descriptions of the intense brightness, the waves of heat from ashen rocks and the pain in my feet when I stand still to take a piss, because my socks have dug into my heel and begun to feel like sandpaper.

You’d be polite and listen as I continued about the constant fear of losing my footing on the downhill trek, about dizziness and running out of water and about there being no shade whatever to hide in an area where it regularly reaches 120 Fahrenheit.

You’d be bored, but still say nothing, when I tell you of the intense pleasure from reaching the summit at the end of a long climb or finding an unexpected picnic table in the depths of nowhere. You may be even laugh at the imagined sight of my constantly-in-motion cap, with the peek always turned towards the sun to get whatever shade it can.

But eventually you would have had enough.

Waiting for a small pause, you’d comment, with a degree of sarcasm that could be scraped off the wall, “Trainspotter.”

Even other hikers get bored. You might think they’re listening, but they’re not. At best, they’re wondering when your diatribe will cease so they can top your stories of misadventure with better ones of their own.

It’s not the hiking that’s interesting about hiking, it’s the other stuff; the attempted mugging, the food poisoning incident, the one night stand from the sleazy bar down the street – that sort of thing.

Palm Springs had Lyon’s hangout for old timers and Joshua Tree had its Saloon, a put-together-by-accident western bar, where they played karaoke to bikers and bulbous chicks on Wednesday nights. In neither place did I get robbed or poisoned and I didn’t even want to get laid, so nothing worthy of note occurred on this hiking trip.

The Crossroads Café could get a small mention, but drinking wine with outdoorsy folk and trying to look unlike someone who’s spent the last two years finding excuses to avoid the gym, doesn’t rate many points on the scorecard of life.

Oh, err - if you are in England and like collecting train numbers from, ahem, special engines, at early hours of the morning, please don’t think I attribute anything negative to the activity. Hah hah hah.

I told you this wouldn’t be a travelogue…

08: English Grille

Obviously, my mind is not what it was, for I must have forgotten pertinent facts about the décor of drinking establishments in my homeland. Lyon’s English Grille, however, reminded me of all of them.

Stained glass windows lined the hallway, polished suits of armor stood in corners, portraits of the royal family and Winston Churchill adorned every wall and Toby jugs sat behind the bar. The sight of so many familiar items almost brought a lump to my throat but, to see them all in one place felt unreal.

You’re also unlikely to find a singing pianist in an English restaurant, belting out Broadway musical favorites to a backing tape and occasionally accompanied by a weight-challenged female vocalist.

The best you might do for musical entertainment might be Radio Two from a trannie behind the counter of a local greasy café, or a pub rock band on a Saturday night.

American restaurants leave English service in the dust, always, although the English Grille strives to confuse. Perhaps it’s all in the name of authenticity.

Imagine the following scenario…

With the help of reading glasses and a borrowed magnifying glass, you finally make a choice from the ornate Gothic script and tell the bartender what you’d like. Thinking that you have ordered a meal and drinks, you sit back and wait.

Your drink will arrive.

Food orders have to be made to a waitress. All the bartender has done is to call one. Your meal has not been ordered. It would be useful if this was communicated, but…

Unaware of the situation, you will wait for perhaps a half an hour and at least another drink before inquiring, from the bartender, where your food is. She will go in search of the waitress, who will shake her head, and that’s when the whole tale of confused disorder will come to light.

Should the kitchen still be open, this is the time for them to apologize, for you to have a good laugh and get a drink on the house to put things right. Or drive to McDonald’s for a Big Mac and a DWI on the way back.

Never have I seen so many walking sticks outside of a shop, nor so many gray and white-haired folks folded into armchairs. It was easy to believe, as several chunky glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon narrowed my consciousness, that I had stumbled into the dining room of the local old people’s home.

Are You Being Served came to mind often as the servers referred to the owner as old Mr. Lyons and the manager as young Mr. Lyons. I kept looking around worrying that either a blue-rinsed Molly Sugden would appear or perhaps a mincing waiter might approach and exclaim gleefully, “I’m free.”

I have often wondered what goes through the minds of old people when they exhibit signs of starting to leave this planet, but that’s probably like wondering what a baby is thinking at the age of one.

Twice, a gentleman sitting alone in the corner would meander across the red carpet with his stick, in a direction that might have been towards the toilets. He’d get half way then appear to forget his mission and stray tangentially to end up next to me, like a moth drawn to the light. Confused, he’d shuffle his feet, bump against the bar and tap my stool as if he really didn’t expect either to be there.

“Old Mr. Robbins is loose again,” I heard the crumpled bartender whisper to the manager the first time he did it, waving furiously across the room until a cute young thing of around sixty came to guide him back.

Despite customer-catching duties and confused service, food was fast and over-filling. Isn’t that the most important thing when you’re preparing for a six thousand mile bike ride?

A most interesting place. I went there three times.

07: Hotel California

Seven-Eleven convenience stores got their name from their once unique business hours, when they opened from 7.00am until 11.00pm in an era when business had not yet learned to cater to the convenience of the masses.

Motel 6 called themselves after their first nightly rate. Hasn’t anyone told them that’s just a tad out of date? Aren’t there any standards controlling that? I’m considering going there and demanding a room for six bucks just to see what they say.

Palm Springs hotels, if they followed the trend, should be called Hilton-two-fifty or Comfort-Inn-Varies-According-To-Who-Checks-You-In. I don’t go to those…

Motel-Fifty-Nine-Ninety-Five-But-It-Really-Depends stands at the end of town past the point where the street lights end. I found it by accident several years ago and I’ve been finding by non-accident ever since. Wish they could just remember me so we don’t have to go through the lets-negotiate-the-rate fiasco.

There’s HBO, a noisy air conditioner that sounds like an ice cream van and vaguely reminds me of my childhood in England every time the compressor starts up, and the lingering smell of cleaning fluid.

A room is a room is a room. I’ll be spending the next 4 months in places just like it, except that there’ll be a bike in the corner.

Now, my stomach is forcing me to investigate (again) that worryingly authentic English Grille down the block….

06: Flying

Flying is wonderful.

I have not changed my mind about flying but, occasionally, the odds favor the unlikely. Statistics is not an exact science.

Meda picked me up, which had the double bonus of a pre-airport beer in MacDinton’s and no worries about being left to rot by a non-arriving cab.

A friendly and helpful girl got me through the self-service check-in machine, there was no line at security, no waits and no delays. My hand luggage contained no shampoo, the plane was there, I boarded last and it took off on time.

The flight suffered little turbulence and no incidents that made me wish for a parachute.

Apart from wishing the plane had video screens to watch the movie without twisting into a position that made the cheap headphones fall out of one ear, I spent the time happily watching Ink Heart and dozing, or recalling the multiple farewell lunches from work.

I even got a smile at Starbucks during the one-hour layover at Houston.

05: Airports

Flying is evil.

I hate it.

Consider this: after the waiting-for-cab trauma, check-in lines, baggage restrictions, delays and paying through the nose for anything that might be classed as an extra, the only part of the experience in the least bit interesting are the two times when you might die in a giant fireball.

Is that good? Does that make you want to rush out and buy a ticket somewhere?

The worst part is the airport.

Tampa is OK, as airports go. That isn’t saying much, since all airports are vast anti-rooms to Purgatory, but Tampa makes up for its passable acceptability with access roads evidently designed by a highly-strung, drug-crazed teenager, prone to ADD.

It’s impossible to drive there without a substantial degree of luck. Terrified, because you think you’re about to miss the only entrance, you will take an inviting but wrongly signed road which requires veering left across 4 lanes of similarly panicked traffic. You will then find yourself on the endless causeway to St Petersburg, which is long enough to run out of gas.

Despite glossy ads and colorful TV commercials playing borrowed hospital music to persuade you how friendly they are, airlines generally display all the caring of abattoir owners. Just one small interaction with the check-in clerk when anything awry occurs is enough to show that their reason for existence is to provide as little as possible.

No, you can’t take that as hand luggage.

No, you won’t get a meal.

No, you won’t get a seat assignment because we oversold the flight and will shortly be bouncing people from it so you have until the end of time to see if we will let you on.

No, you cannot occupy an exit row because you’re too short, too wide, too old or too stupid to follow meaningless instructions and open the door when the plane goes down in the ocean.

If they could clip your ears and ship you off in a cardboard box, they would.

I have arrived to find that my seat assignment, made online weeks earlier, was no more than a request. The seat has always been unavailable and I should have called ahead to beg for something better. Since I did not, I must now stare at the bulkhead for seven hours, squeezed into the center row between two over-sized people whose middles meet in my lap.

Alternatively, I could voluntarily decline that privilege and wait until midnight to go standby on a succession of connecting flights that will get me to my destination in three days. My luggage is not expected to join me for the foreseeable future. Have a nice day.

Let’s not forget security. The TSA is the general name for otherwise unemployable down-and-outs of America, who are squeezed into dark blue trousers several times too small, given an inappropriate degree of authority and allowed to loiter by the metal detectors.

Shouting about last night’s game and grinning inanely into the air, their one skill is to detect the presence of hair shampoo or nail clippers in your carry-on bag. This is presumably via telepathy, since their eyes rarely focus on the garish pictures of your underwear sliding by, unnoticed by anyone except fellow passengers.

Either of these highly dangerous items might be used to take over the plane should you develop unexpectedly resourceful terrorist tendencies mid-flight. I have accidentally taken knives, scissors and the like, but Head and Shoulders gets me every time.

Like shit slithering downhill, this attitude of customer-is-there-to-be-taunted continues with the commercial operations.

A small coffee and sandwich in an airport Starbucks – served by a head-scarved Middle-Eastern girl who speaks no English – will cost the entire contents of your wallet. Forget about a meal in a restaurant with real plates and silverware, unless you’re prepared to accept a lien on your house.

At check-in, they impress upon you how important it is to be at the gate 30 minutes before take off, usually in a tone suggesting that any tardiness will see you tied to the undercarriage and dragged down the runway.

Mindful of the time, you decline the last drink, the last coffee or properly browsing magazines and go directly there, but then they keep you waiting and waiting and waiting. Just when you can feel your eyelids crumbling to dust, they reveal that there is no aircraft.

“It had technical problems in Philadelphia,” the PA admits in a whispered crackle. Perhaps if the announcer held the phone to her head instead of upside down at arm’s length like a Star Trek communicator, her voice might rise to the level of discernable. If you’re lucky, people close to the desk will relay the message.

Technical problems? What does that mean? The toilet won’t flush - or the engine might fall off? I want to know exactly what’s wrong with it, not a vagary, then I can decide how much I want to worry.

On a scale of one to ten, a non flushing toilet causes very little aggravation; about a three, I would say. Not so the other, which I’d be tempted to call a full ten, unless it occurred when stationary, on the ground and devoid of passengers and crew, in which case it gets downgraded to an eight.

If they actually give an anticipated time, measurable by standard clocks and you foolishly accept this and go in search of refreshment, the plane will arrive moments later and immediately take off again, without you.

Anyway, don’t think me negative. I just wanted to share my opinion of airports before tomorrow’s flight to Los Angeles just in case, on the oddest of odd chances, the occasion is better than a foretaste of hell.