Kicking California Route 66 Day 4 March 14 2013 Victorville to Barstow

Kicking California Route 66 Day 4 March 14 2013 Victorville to Barstow

Our Trip: Starts in Santa Monica (Los Angeles) on the left.
The purple "pin" is NOT our first night in Rancho Cucamonga. The pin should be closer to Fontana.
Yellow pin is second night in San Bernardino.
Turquoise pin is third night in Victorville.
Green pin is fourth night in Barstow.

We get up and prepare for departure from our Victorville motel to begin our final day east across California on Historic Route 66. If successful today (And why shouldn't we be?), we will have pedaled half way across the Golden State on this Historic Road.

Packing our gear for the day and about to say "Adios" to our motel

We check-out of our beautiful little Hacienda-like room and pedal just a few minutes down the early morning quiet road.

The evening previous we spied in the distance a very alluring doughnut shop. We hear it calling us this morning.

Usually these tasty establishments poise a frustrating dilemma -- I just want to order everything. But today ordering is easy. A huge cinnamon roll the size of a dinner plate immediately wins my heart. Death by refined sugar. So be it. I also order a large milk for nutritional and guilt-reducing purposes.

We eat.

We pedal on.

Within moments we are on the outskirts of the city.

We pass the Amtrak Train Station. A unique blend of renovated old and artistic new.

Nearby we pedal past the popular “Route 66 Museum.” Unfortunately, it is not open at this hour. I must settle for a photo of the building and a promise to come back some day.

As it appears on the map, Route 66 from Victorville to Barstow looks long and irrelevant and one would suspect redundant.

Redundant because Interstate 15 is only a short distance to the east and providing a paralleling super efficient travel opportunity for all motorists.

Irrelevant because there is no “commercially noteworthy” town, city, or community identified on the map for this stretch of the Old Highway. All this begs the question, “So why would anyone travel of this road?”

I had asked this question months ago when doing my “research” for this ride. I concluded back then that this stretch of highway would be deserted and Bro Mark and I would own the road and spend hours relishing Zen like moments soaking up the historical vibes of the ghost towns like Oro Grande, Helendale, and Hodge that dot only the oldest maps for this old segment of pavement.

I was partially wrong.

We immediately discover a significant portion of the local population enjoys using this two lane section of old Route 66 as a scenic and admittedly efficient alternative to Interstate 15. We also get the impression whatever the reasonable posted speed limit might be, it isn't taken seriously or forced. We also discover the absence of a ride-able shoulder on this highway.

All this to say we experiencing a busy, noisy, and slightly nerve-wracking morning rush hour on Route 66. As the cars squeeze by each other and our bikes, I decide to retreat to a happy place in my mind and change the famous lyrics of The Route's famous song. I start singing, “Get your squish on Route 66.”

But I am not all wrong about this segment of The Road. She offers quality glimpses into the historic life along these parts.

Oro Grande once was alive. Most of these vital towns along Route 66 are now modern ghost towns.

The immediate history of this Road is prolific concrete production. Huge quarries hug the east edge of the road. Lots of truck traffic. I suspect as long as California keeps growing, the local workforce here has reasonable job security.

But mixed (Not much of a pun intended) along the highway among these huge processing operations are old homes and businesses and towns. Some of them deserted. Most of them struggling.

As the morning rush fades, the 66 Time Warp Factor kicks in. A thick layer of poverty enshrines motels and restaurants and gas stations which once prospered in this lunar-like desert. I can imagine the 24/7 activity bustling all around us when this very road carried over 40%, almost half, of all of America's East-West traffic.

 

But this morning all remains quiet. No one in sight. Not even a dog to chase us.

In late morning we stop at a convenience store near Helendale. We can see Helendale just to the west. I suspect an earlier alignment of Route 66 might have run right through the town. We feast on ice cream sandwiches and soda pop. I'm feeling the heat. Temperature pushes just past 90 F (30 C).

Bro Mark is gazes at one of the few elevated bumps in the land.

Gazing off into the Mohave Desert as we pedal along, I am again taken by the unique barrenness of this desert.

Someone lives here.

Last September we rode Route 66 from Ash Fork (not too far from Flagstaff) to Pirate Cove (just across the Colorado River on the California side). That desert, particularly before you climb over the mountain into Oatman, Arizona, actually has life in it, even if it is struggling, straining-for-life desert plant life.

After lunch I was desperate for some shade. I thought this building was empty. But I was wrong.
Note the door on the far left. It is a brand new door.
I noticed as a quietly crept away that the back of the house is much more loved and lived in.

But not the California Mohave Desert. To call it a Lunar-like Landscape is not an exaggeration. Very little vegetation. Lots and lots of dirt and sand. These miles and kilometers without a doubt present some of the harshest environment I've every witnessed.

From a biking point of view, this rates as challenging country. Not because of steep hills or mountains. There aren't any here. (Which simply means I haven't discovered them yet.)

But what appears very lacking around here with every kilometer and mile we go are “services.” Not as in church “services,” but specifically, readily available sources of food, lodging, and shelter.

Bro Mark and I are both grateful for seeing and riding a portion of this Desert firsthand. We make many mental notes regarding what we will do different and new when we return next March to traverse the beautiful but demanding region ride from Barstow all the way across the Mohave Desert to the Colorado River and city of Needles.

This is not on the city limits of Barstow.
Someone "borrowed" this sign.
Notice all the bottles on the posts.
This is the Bottle Tree Farm.
I suspect bottles are one of the few things that grow well in this climate.

As lunch time comes and go and we are getting hungry because there is no place to eat on this now depopulated stretch of asphalt, more houses begin to appear. Pedaling on they begin to appear closer and closer together. These homes are not vintage Route 66. Much newer. We clue in that these are “commuter homes” on the outskirts of Barstow.

A little further along the road failed and shuttered businesses line the street. These once functional businesses unfortunately found themselves on the “desert side” of Barstow. A law of business seems to function in Barstow: The closer thy business standeth in proximity to Interstate 15, the more prosperous thou shalt be.

Soon the Denny's and Burger King and Travelodge and other comforting and familiar cookie cutter franchise establishments appear. We feel safe again in the warmth and reassuring glow of middle class American consumerism.

After passing lots and lots of motels of all different shapes and sizes, but all “decent” (Not like those in northern San Bernardino), we reach our Mom and Pop Budget Motel (That is the real name! Not the “Mom and Pop,” but the “Budget” part ). Our hosts hand us the key to our air conditioned and comfortable room.

I lean my bike again the wall by the door. Bro Mark leans his bike again the wall by his bed.

We did it. We pedaled half of the state of California on Route 66.

We pedaled from the Purple Pin to the Green Pin in four days.

This second major bike trek, in our long range goal of covering all of Route 66 by bike, completed.

A distance of 290 km (183 mi).

Adding our bike trek of last September on Route 66 from Ashfork, Arizona to Needles (Pirate Cove), California, we have pedaled approximately 442 miles (710 km) of Route 66.

That's a long way, but only about 18%, or about one fifth, of the entire Route.

But as mushy and nostalgic and sentimental we want to get at this moment, we have more important things to do – like shower and eat!

We take turns showering.

Putting on our non-spandex apparel (so as to maintain our true Super Hero Identities) we take a short walk up the street to a very nice looking restaurant that suggests it could serve a really nice Mexican meal. I'm already starting my “Mexican Food Loading” so I can sustain myself until my next visit to the Southwest, which, as far as I'm concerned, will not be soon enough!

Epilogue

We finish the bike trek in Barstow. But we aren't “home” yet. In fact, we don't even have a car. So we must find one. I'm certain we could “lift” a vehicle somewhere around Barstow. But a more legal alternative would be to get back to Los Angeles and retrieve Bro Mark's pick up truck. Friend Chuck is babysitting it for us there. (Unless he has discovered the rapid transactional power of E-Bay.)

Fortunately for Bro Mark and I, the Amtrak Passenger Train (which pretty much parallels Route 66 all the way from Chicago to LA) stops here in Barstow. And not only does it stop, but it stops at a beautifully restored Station. More on that in a moment.

We already had reservations for this train from our original destination of Needles. The plan was to pick it up at the end of our original trip plan and ride it back to LA where we would meet Chuck and the truck. (Chuck and Truck. Cool rhyme.)

But since we are in Barstow, the powers that be at Amtrak are ok with us hopping aboard here. Great plan. Only one inconvenient side effect: The train stops at the station around 5:00 AM (0500). I'm an early riser, but even that's pushing it for me. But, oh well. Ya do what ya gotta do.

So we finish our Mexican lunch. We eat enough for the next two meals. We head back to the motel. We repack our equipment. This means taking stuff off the bikes. We set aside whatever we can carry in our pockets for the train ride to Los Angeles. But we are not actually going to Los Angeles as in downtown Los Angeles. We are Amtrak-ing to the Station in the city of Fullerton. (Just a few minutes drive from where I grew up, or at least tried to grow up, as a kid!

So as the sun sets on the Desert Oasis of Barstow, I am tired and I head to bed. Bro Mark, on the other hand, is more robust and energized. He goes somewhere for a few hours. I think he went somewhere where he could eat and do computery type things. He has this new Google Pad he is determined to master before he dies.

We get up early in the morning, at a time normal people call the middle of the night.

We eat a classic American breakfast at Denny's while the waitress vacuums the floor.

We stroll down the Main Street (Route 66) toward the amazing large train station which is now in a remote and older section of town.

I praise the citizens of Barstow and others for their amazing diligence in restoring and preserving this historical structure. This station used to be a Harvey House – a major classy hotel graced by both commoners and movie stars. Remember, once upon a time, Trains ruled the Land, especially in the demanding and harsh environment of the American Southwest. Horses and autos were not reliable in this unforgiving desert.

The restored Station, now a first class museum, wasn't open at 4 am. But just standing on the platform, I could sense the powerful presence it manifested in her Glory Days.

Shock of shock. The train is on time. And it stops just for us. We climb aboard. Walking carefully through the darkened passenger cars past the snoring travelers, we find out seats. I enjoy several hours peering out the window and watching the sunrise.

At the Fullerton Station, we easily find Chuck and Bro Mark's truck. We say our goodbyes and head right back the direction we just came.

Our first stop is our motel in San Bernardino. Our stored camping gear has not disappeared on E-Bay. We express our appreciation to the management, load our equipment in the truck bed, and hop back in the truck.

In less than an hour we are back in Barstow at our motel. We load our bikes and equipment in the truck for our ride back to Prescott.

We decide to take Route 66, rather than Interstate 40, across the Mohave Desert. This will be the road we pedal next March. Bro Mark has seen it before. I did when I was a small child, but remember it not.

We make note of the possible places to get water, food, and lodging, or pitch our tents.

Traveling through Needles, and Pirate Cove, and across the mighty Colorado River, and through spooky Oatman, Arizona, we eventually reach Kingman, where we hop on Interstate 40 towards Ash Fork, and then south to Prescott.

We spend most of the ride planning our next adventure.

“After all, if life isn't a grand adventure, then what is it?” (Amelia Earhart)

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Biker Bars" seem to be the Franchise of Choice along Route 66.
But even they seem to be struggling.

 

 

 

The Bottle Tree Farm.
It was "closed." So we aren't really sure what it is supposed to be.

 

Stage Brush Annie's is written up in the Route 66 literature. But looked out of business today.

A smartly designed home that works with the environment instead of against it.

I had to laugh. Why not a more discrete name, like, "Get Out of Here While You Still Can Realty"? 

 

This sign appears to be Hodge.
I saw no one no where in any direction.
Obviously an invisible population of 431.

 

 

 

 

One of several buildings part of what was once a bold attempt to create a huge desert retreat and "spa."
Now empty and providing a home for local wildlife.

This is the oldest segment of Route 66 we have seen to date.
We discovered this driving towards the Colorado River.
This road is not even on any maps any more.
It is the remains of an old alignment of Route 66.
I suspect it was deserted even before the Interstate was built.
We followed it in the truck until it ended at a cliff on a canyon/river bed.
Can you imagine traveling this road and terrain for days in the 1930's
 in an old automobile with all your belongings tied on the top?

 

 

Kicking California Route 66 Day 3 March 13 2013 San Bernardino Over Cajon Pass to Victorville & Mohave Desert

Morning shadows in San Bernardino, California

  Heavy curtains in the Day's Inn Motel would have made it easy to sleep away into the day. But it is hard to keep the zany and insanely Shelley Brother's of Cycling Adventures fame down. When on the road and in adventure mode we are like two seven year old school boys in math class with ADHD. Watch out!

Look into the distance and to the right. That's where we've come from over the past two days.

I take a shower because I can. I figured in few hours I'd be wanting one anyway.

We throw our few untethered-to-our-bikes possessions into their proper compartments on our newly scaled down and lightened loads (so as to delude ourselves that we can climb the mountain before us with ease).

With bikes loaded and spandex super-cycler suits (shorts and jerseys) on, we head down stairs to the lure of a free continental breakfast. We carry our to-be-left-behind camping gear with us. The nice lady at the desk shows us where to place it in the back of her office area. We deposit it there, hoping we will see it again in a few days.

We eat a hardy breakfast at the free buffet. One of my favorite experiences on our bike adventures is how I do not have to worry about calories.

On an average day of long distance pedaling I burn between 3,000 to 4,000 calories. And miracles of miracles, despite that I stuff my face with a 710 ml bottle of carbohydrate-saturated Power Aid and a fructose-protein (and who knows what else) infused power bar per hour (for a total calorie replacement of about 500 calories per hour), and I eat a substantial amount of “fast food” (which, I must say with disappointment, doesn't seem to make me go any faster), I do not gain any weight. In fact, I lose it. I also gain it back in about 3 days after the trip ends, but who's counting? Obviously not me. Then again, math has never been my strongest suite.

So after fueling up at the breakfast bar, we retrieve our bikes from our room and walk them to the parking lot for final departure preparations. Due to our very short riding day yesterday, we have lots of unused power drink and power bars. We strap and clamp and secure all items to our mechanical horses.

Time to roll.

From the motel parking lot we can look south-west and see the expanse of the California coastal valley we have rolled over for the past two days.

Looking north-east we can't help but see the mountain range reaching up and penetrating the atmosphere. The coastal range in region of southern California is not the largest mountain range in the world. But when you are on a bike with skinny little tires, the mountain looks gigantic. Yet nothing but humorless income tax agents and aggressive telemarketers can frighten the Shelley Brothers.

Way in the distance see the mountain pass we shall climb.
Take a real close look at the tall tree on the left.

Here's the same tall tree. Clever, eh? Not a tree at all.
But an aesthetically disguised communication tower.
Saw several of these in this area.
Kudos to you California.

Off we pedal toward the beckoning adventures of the hills.

Somewhere over these ancient outcroppings of several thousand feet of granite with a thin layer of something that is supposed to pass for top soil that keeps some very tenacious trees and bushes alive, is the city of Victorville, and a motel for us.

As soon as we leave the motel parking lot and roll onto the pavement of Historic 66, we are inspired.

Heading over these mountains today.

Now that we have left the modernity of metro Los Angeles and its outlaying suburbs behind, we can see and feel the spirit of the original highway:

Two lane road.

Train tracks on our left running parallel with telephone poles and wires on one side.

On our right, something that passes for a river in this part of California trickles along.

 And just to make sure, in case our Spidey Senses missed the Zen moment, there is a huge “Route 66” emblem painted on the highway.

At this moment, I feel like the trip is just really just beginning for me. The 140 km (80 miles) we have pedaled since Santa Monica Beach have certainly been part of the trip. But now we are pedaling the real deal. This looks and feels like historic Route 66.

Our road eventually snakes back to slip under Interstate 15 where we enter the small, quaint community of Devore. We have climbed high enough to notice pine trees are very much at home in this “village.” We stop at the Convenience Store and I have a power snack of chocolate milk.

Maybe the "finest" in California.
But I think Bruce & Grey Counties in Southern Ontario "finest" overall :-)

Bro Mark leading the way through Devore, California

Our Route 66 now takes on the local identification of Cajon Blvd as we begin a much more deliberate ascent up the mountain. Trains on very busy train tracks paralleling our winding road carry truck trailers and ocean freighter containers to eager consumers somewhere to the east.

Long, gradual ascent towards Cajon Pass

While passenger rail travel is only a fraction of a fraction of a percent of railway activity in the USA, freight haulage is very much alive and well. What we've seen along the almost always present tracks along Route 66 in both Arizona and California prove so.

A long time ago collision of tectonic plates created these unique mountains.
Note the snow at higher elevation.

Despite the ample evidence of civilization around us – sights and sounds of trains rattling along the tracks and trucks and cars rumbling on the Interstate, which is usually within eyesight, though often a distance away – I can imagine the reality that this corridor of travel we all share today starting off as a footpath marked created by hunters and utilized for generations of Native American Indians.

And then came the slightly larger path for horses and wagons.

And then came the railroad.

And then came the telephone polls.

And then came the very rough dirt road utilized by a few brave horseless carriage owners willing to challenge the rocks and mud.

And around 1926 came the pavement. In fact, this now humble looking road we pedal once called Route 66 had the historical distinction of being the first trans-nationally paved highway in America. Route 66 was also classified as the first “year round” highway connecting the East and West of the USA.

As in other older sections of the Route we've traveled in Arizona, the time warp factor kicks in on these blessedly less developed segments of 66. There has been so little development along this stretch of road slowly snaking up a natural canyon towards the Cajon mountain pass, that I can easily imagine I am looking at a landscape almost identical to what the emigrants of the 1930's saw as they lumbered along in their old pick-up trucks and jalopies.

We cross a bridge identified as being built, probably as a government work project, in 1930.

We see a roadside park-like spot identified by a small white pillar, showing the wear of time and weather. This was and is a designated roadside “rest area/camping area” welcoming Depression Era travelers to pull off the road in the shade of the trees by the banks of the stream so as to cool their engines and their nerves and possibly their feet. Likely gave travel-fatigued children a most welcome place to run and play.

This simple picture is one of my most favorite.
This is an actual designated "rest area" for "Grapes of Wrath" emigrants.
After a very very long trek across the Mohave Desert and through the Cajon Pass,
they descended the western slopes of this coastal mountain range.
At this spot they would see for the first time in days real vegetation and shade and flowing water.
Taking this photo I felt incredibly connected to the challenges and courage
of the hundreds of thousands of Dust Bowl victims seeking survival and hope in a new land.  

The Simple White Marker Designating An Official Route 66 Rest Area

As a real plus to us cyclists, large portions of the original highway have been designated just for our use! – Bikers and hikers and horses only. A newer version of the road parallels every twist and turn of our historic highway.

A segment of the original Route 66 pavement now reserved for non-motorized travel.
The "new" highway is just on the other side of the median.

This designated lane of operation makes our trek up this winding canyon road a little less stressful, not having to worry about vehicles speeding around the corners and coming up behind us only to be surprised by our behinds.

We can definitely feel the slight but very long incline towards the summit. But we are not feeling or looking like we are pumping our pedals up a mountain. But I can definitely feel the exercise. And I am profoundly grateful I feel 100% better today than I did yesterday.

Just about the time we can clearly see the wide and almost imperceptible “V” along the mountain ridge identifying our summit pass, we are required to get on and travel the shoulder of Interstate 15 for a about 3 km (2 mi). Apparently there isn't enough room at the top of the canyon neck for a train track, an Interstate Highway, and old Route 66. So for awhile Route 66 blends into the modernity of Interstate 15.

But we have no intention of sharing the noise and fumes of the Interstate all the way to Victorville. So we pedal off the Interstate at the “Summit Pass” (That's the name of the local community near the top of the mountain pass) and (I don't say this often) we are excited to see a very prominent McDonald's Restaurant, which, despite any other shortcomings discerning diners might cite, is air conditioned. And that's important to us because it is about 32 C (90 F) and we have been climbing a mountain all morning and we are very warm and very hungry.

Bro Mark climbing his way up the off ramp of Interstate Highway 15 to the community of Summit Pass.

Brother Mark eats a significant amount of food, but hopefully stays below the toxicity level for food at McD's. I eat a large chicken salad and down two huge drinks of my beloved southwest brewed iced tea. (I even get a third large glass and use it to fill my water bottles for cool refreshing further down the road.)

No "Bicycle" Sign?

After eating and cooling off, we wash up and re-apply sunscreen and soothing butt butter (Please don't try to visualize that! And don't try to put this kind of butter on your toast) in the Washroom. (In Canada we call them Washrooms, not Rest Rooms. Would you really want to take a nap in there?)

We return to our bikes and prepare to depart. It is very hot. So hot, in fact, the digital face of my odometer has gone. Where? I don't know. It's just gone. It has, in fact, completely disappeared. I hope it will come back. Probably just left to look for some shade.

In the meantime, we head out of the McD parking lot and back to our non-Interstate route to Victorville, which is State Route 138, poetically identified as “The Rim of the World Highway.” Sounds ominous. Like, “Edge of the World Highway.” Interesting. I don't like “edges” in the same phrase as “highway.” We'll see.

This supposedly scenic-to-be route turns away from the Interstate and climbs into the mountains. Climbs. That should have been my first clue. I'm a bit disappointed. I figured once we reached something called “Summit Pass,” we would start going downhill. Not so. False publicity. Or bad assumption.

We now pedal on a road that twists and turns and climbs and dips with – and this is no exaggeration – the dynamics of a roller-coaster. No joke. If you borrowed a track and roller-coaster from Knott's Berry Farm (a popular theme park in Southern California) put it on this road and sent the coaster speeding down this road, you'd have a decent ride. Enough to satisfy thrill seekers and enough to make us normal people puke.

Pedaling uphill on our bikes, however, we do not experience the exhilarating sensation of death-defying speed. We are going about as fast a turtles stampeding through peanut butter. Kind of diminishes something of the thrill element. We must content ourselves with the overwhelming thrill of seeing a huge mountain ridge looming above us.

Bro Mark, being forever the better climber than I (After all, he trains in the Prescott National Forest!), seems undaunted by this road which has more curves than a plate full of spaghetti. And I must confess, though it really dampens my image as a hard core road cyclist, I get off my bike and push it up a few, well maybe more a few, of these uphill twists.

I really believe this road was once a cattle path. And one day a civil engineer was told, “Build a road here and keep it cheap.” So He decided just to pave over the the hoof marks in the dirt. Let's face it, nobody builds a road like this unless they experimented with drugs in the 1960's or or bought their college engineering degree on the black market or, even worse, the Internet. But what do I know? (Don't answer that.)

But we must always remember: No matter how crazy life seems, the laws of physics always apply (unless you are in a Star Trek movie). And this is one of my favorite laws: What goes up, must come down. And that applies to cyclists as well as rocks.

This planetary law kicked in as we crested the highest mountain ridge. Like someone flipping a switch, we plummeted down the road towards the valley below.

I'm watching my continuously running stopwatch on my handlebar and I note that we have been speeding downhill for over 12 consecutive minutes. A wonderful experience. Hot air blowing in my face. Wind on my body evaporating the sweat of a rough hour of climbing over “the rim of the world” feels so good. (Notable our cycling adventures have, over the past couple of years, taken us to both "The Middle of Nowhere," in the Arizona Sonora Desert, and "The Rim of the World," in California.) 

Please remember the passing detail “speeding downhill, ” as in “too fast to see anything, especially street signs,” as it becomes important in the not too distant future.

Bro Mark reaches the valley floor at the bottom of the decline first. (I think that is another law of physics. Something about weight and mass and momentum and the pull of gravity resulting in specific speeds and velocities. But it can't be much of a problem. Bro Mark still goes uphill twice as fast as I do. Maybe this law of physics is a bit bi-polar? And besides, did you ever see mass and weight slow down Captain Kirk in those last few Star Trek movies where he appeared to be very well fed? :-)

We happily pedal along the length of this wide and pleasant valley nestled between two lines of semi-arid mini-mountain ranges.

We pedal along for a substantial distance.

Bro Mark, who, as usual, is forever in the lead, pulls to the side. I pull up along side. The following dramatic dialogue transpires --

Bro Mark: Did you see a road heading off to the left called “Summit Lane,” or something like that?

Bro Kent: I did not.

Bro Mark: Oh.

Bro Kent: Oh what?

Bro Mark: Oh poop.

Bro Kent: What's poopy? (I had on a fresh and still clean Depend today, so I knew it wasn't me.)

Bro Mark: I think we passed that road speeding blindly down the mountain. We were supposed to turn onto that road.

Bro Kent: Really?

Bro Mark: Yes. It would take us to Victorville and our nice cool motel.

Bro Kent: Poopy indeed.

Now Bro Mark kicks into his innovative-and-creative-problem-solving Life Coach mode: We pedal on blindly.

At the next reasonably healthy looking paved road on our left, we turn onto it. At least now, if one thinks in terms of very generalized compass points of north, east, south, or west, we are at least heading the generalized direction of northern-ish which will either take us into Victorville or the desolate and deserted Mohave Desert where we might dehydrate and our dehydrated remains will be blow away forever lost in the sands of time.

But dumb luck was on our side. We live. The story continues. Please keep reading on.

As we trek along No Name Road pedaling up small rises and then coasting down gentle dips we pass ranches and ranch houses.

Passing by a rather deserted and “closed for the season” campground, Bro Mark points out that would have been our destination if we stuck to our original plan which included courageous camping. As I gaze upon the locked up Washrooms (Rest Rooms) and probably turned off water sprockets, I am feeling rather glad we decided not to be courageous and attempt to complete this ride last night in the dark.

Another interesting detail about this almost campground was that we are approaching it from the opposite direction that we should have been. Hum. This is backhanded encouragement that we are probably entering Victorville through the back door, so to speak.

Just past the campground I have to press on my pedals substantially harder. We are pumping up a steep hill. I do believe, by the rather man-made look of the hillside, we are looking at the dry side of a very large man-made dam. On the other side I suspect a water reservoir for the thirsty folks and toilets of Victorville.

When we crest the hill we are rewarded with the sight of pleasant suburban population. From the top of our ridge we gaze across what must be metro-Victorville. These people have a lot of room out here and they don't seem to be afraid to use it.

At the top of the hill we also meet Louie. Louie rides a bike similar to ours minus all the equipment attached. Louie has just ridden up the very steep hill we are about to ride down. We all pause on the ridge and shake hands, swap names, and get to know each other. Long live the Brotherhood of Fanatical Bikers.

Louie, the Victor of Victorville

Louie has quite the story. Picture this guy. Huge. As in big bones, substantial muscle. If I were choosing a football team at a church picnic, I'd choose Louie. And I'd only need one player. He is a team.

But his sturdy presence today has not always been his presentation. This guy has had four heart attacks. He's not that old. Probably in his 40-something year. His doctor said something like, “You are going to die if you don't get in shape.” I guess after four heart attacks, Louie took this idea to heart. Literally.

Almost every day now Louie jumps on his bike and rides up this challenging mountainside from his home in the valley below. A very good and basic fitness plan. It seems to be working. He says he has lost a lot of weight. (But he still isn't about to blow away with a gentle breeze.) He certainly exudes the healthy eyes, healthy skin, and radiate energy associated with the rewards of consistent exercise. (I wonder if anyone would ever describe me that way?)

Louie inspires. One of those powerful examples of how a person can turn their life around (or in this case, save it) by choosing to respect himself and his body.

Louie offers to escort us down the mountain and into Victorville, at least as far as the street his home is on. So we all fly down the mountainside.

One small incident occurs. A valuable lesson that I have a hard time remembering: When traveling on a bike in dog-infested regions, try to be in the front of your biking party. Why? Because if you are in the front of the line, the dog has a harder time catching you. Why? Because Mr Canine must first detect your presence in the area. Then Mr Canine must run across his yard and down his driveway to “meet” you on the street. Usually by the time all this happens you are well down the road from the dog and out of his territory and he isn't usually that interested in giving pursuit. That is why you want to be the first biker in the line.

But if you are the second, or as in my case today, the third, biker in the line up, then Mr Canine is alert and standing at the end of his driveway. He now sports a little peeved attitude because he feels ripped off that he didn't get to sample warm human flesh potentially provided by the first two riders passing by. Thus he is a tad resentful which, as every good therapist knows, leads to a desire to punish. In summary, being last in line means driving into the lion's den, or sometimes the lion's mouth.

But there is one small, but significant strategy when in this scenario that I learned a year or so ago when pedaling behind Bro Mark in Arizona's Sonoran Desert through a Native American reserve which was called home by at least 12 dogs. While true to form, the dogs all ran out into the road in pursuit of Bro Mark's meaty butt. They were so invested in the opportunity and thrill of the chase that they did not notice me approaching from a greater distance behind them.

I had to do some quick evaluations of my options. If I stopped or slowed down, I was an easy catch and fresh dog food. If I maintained my current not-so-fast speed, they could easily outrun me. But if I took advantage of the fact that they were staring at Bro Mark's butt and not looking behind me at me, I could flip on my adrenaline-powered turbo drive and, as crazy as it seems, speed right into the middle of the pack and out the other side before the doggies could say, “Kibble Time.” Nor would it hurt for me to have my mini-spray canister of “Dog Sabre” discharging as I penetrated the pack releasing a harmless but obviously repulsive cloud of protection behind me. (Kind of like farting on purpose when you're around a bunch of people you don't really like that much.)

So that's what I did today coming down the hill into Victorville. But thanks to the gravity assist from the hill enabling me to have a very decent speed, I never had to unsheathe (spray) the Dog Sabre (or fart). I was there and gone before Bow Wow knew what happened. I did dare a glance back. I'm fairly certain I saw Disappointed Dog looking around him hoping that none of his colleagues saw his embarrassing moment in which he allowed three bikers, representing his breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or perhaps a three course meal, redefine the meaning of “fast” food.

Now that I'm back in a desert suburbia, I make another harmless by annoying miscalculation. Just like I assumed everything would be downhill after reaching Summit Pass, so now I am assuming our motel will be nearby now that we are in Victorville. (This place can't be that big, right?) Not so. Not nearby.

Bro Mark leads the way with his uncanny Spidey-Directional Sense guiding us. I have no idea where he is going. But he seems confident.

We pull into a McDonald's Restaurant. Nice call, I think. We are rather hot and could use a little carb boost. We find such a boost in a tasty milk-shake-like food source. We sit on the sidewalk outside of McD's and field questions from a guy who is fascinated with our journey, but clearly thinks we are nuts. Why is that the most frequent response we get from folks?

High on refined sugar and who knows what else was in those “milk” shakes (I'm pretty sure the one thing that wasn't in them was real dairy product), we pedal through the busy evening rush hour traffic of the city. Quite a few people actually live here. Don't picture this place as some kind of deserted desert cow town or solitary oasis.

Somewhere way back over the previous almost 160 km (100 mi), Bro Mark's water bottle holder kind of broke. Not a complete and not-functional broke. Just a “I'm broke and I might go more broke.” (That's what I usually say at home when I ponder my banking activity.) We keep our eyes open for a bike shop, but see none.

After what seems to be a long way through the city we reach our motel. (It was a long way across the city. Route 66 goes through the city and out the other side of the city.) Our motel is strategically perched on the northern edge of the city. We are in a good position to head out into the Mohave Desert tomorrow morning.

This motel is not a copy-cat franchise. It is family owned. And this family has a very keen sense of Spanish décor. The price is very reasonable and the rooms are beautifully displayed in lush Spanish drapery and real wooden furniture. The accommodations reflect something you would expect to pay much more for.

Comfort and Class

We detox in the shower, individually, washing the mountain pass adventure off our bodies.

We order pizza to be delivered to our room.

Much to our delight the Batman movie is on the large TV screen tonight.

We identify with the hero's spandex suit. We embrace his wisdom that “You are defined by what you do.” Do you think this is why so many people think Bro Mark and I are crazy??

I drift off to sleep and dream of speeding along on my Bat-cycle.

The respectable 85 km (52.7 mi) with an average speed of 11.4 kph (7 mph ) -- Remember, we were climbing mountains most of the day! -- keep me sleeping soundly.

My butt appreciates the rest from 7 hours and 18 minutes in the saddle.

The entire ride today was a solid 9 hours and 48 minutes of delightful biking adventure.