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.