Just got back home to Canada a few hours ago.
It is my goal in the near future to post blogs for each day of our Big Ride.
While on the plane and bus today I wrote of this post about a day ride Bro Mark and I took just this past Wednesday.
I share it with you now for your reading pleasure, I hope :-)
Will endeavor to get postings on the Big Ride your way real soon.
If you haven't already been doing so, check out our Facebook page, "Shelley Brothers Cycling Adventures" for some postings and photos related to the 600 km Big Ride across the Sonoran Desert.
Thanks for your patience with the development of these postings.
Here is the most recent day ride we did this week before I headed back home:
April 3, 2012
Prescott, Arizona
It is 9 am and a beautiful day.
We can't resist a beautiful day for a ride. Temp in high 60's F (high teens deg C). Virtually no wind.
The forecast for tomorrow calls for high winds. But we got enough high wind riding last Saturday on our marathon desert sand storm ride from Calixico, California to Ocotillo, California.
So we decide to take off into the mountains for our final Shelley Brothers Cycling Adventure Ride in Arizona for this season.
We make sure our bikes are securely reassembled and seats and handle bars readjusted, etc. (We had to partially disassemble them for the train ride from Los Angeles to Flagstaff last Sunday.)
Then we head out the driveway and up the mountain.
Our route today will take us up the mountain from Prescott, elevation 5,300 feet, to the summit pass, with an elevation of 6,100 feet.
From the summit we will drop to the "high desert" Kirkland Valley. We then cross part of the valley and begin a plus 20 (32 km) mile climb up another side of the mountain back to Prescott. We look forward to some significant up and down hill time today.
We are not disappointed by our first hour and a half of riding. It is all uphill to the summit.
A beautiful ride in the Prescott National Forest. Granite forest floor generously covered by dry fragrant pine needles. We can see the snow line not much higher than we are on the mountains surrounding us.
We are sharing the two lane twisting road with moderate, but not heavy vehicle traffic. Most of the time we have a two or three feet shoulder that creates a reasonable sense of safety.
Most of the autos give us a wide berth. A few transport trucks are illegally using the road. I pull off the shoulder once to give a truck room to get by.
But most of the time the cars are absent and I can hear the wind whispering in the top of the pines. One of my favorite sounds.
This mountain region reminds me of my childhood experiences at a summer camp at Angeles Crest Christian Camp in the mountains east of and high above Los Angeles.
After taking each other's pictures next to the summit marker, we have a brief enjoyable downhill glide.
But it doesn't last long. In order to get to the side of the mountain we want to go down, we push up a few more mountain ridge inclines.
But it is worth it. When we start the real downhill stretch it is delightful.
I do not spin my pedals for a full 15 minutes. And most of this time I am maintaining a speed of over 40 km/hr.
I could go faster, but I really don't have that much faith in these skinny little tires on my bike.
Actually, I do have a lot of confidence in the tires. After all, they have just safely carried me 600 km across one of North America's harshest deserts.
But I have seen just enough gravel deposits on this otherwise very clean road surface to make me cautious.
Bro Mark, however, has greater confidence and better eye sight. For he heads down the mountain disappearing out of sight. Ah, the Remarkable Mark and his Cannondale Bike with carbon fiber, anti-vibration technology. (And not to mention a complete compliment of spokes at this moment in time :-)
At the end of my fifteen minute glide I find myself on the high desert valley floor; on the "flatland" but still rolling gently downhill.
So I place my bike in its highest possible gear and just spin along with the pedals, applying no significant energy or effort into the pedaling process. I am enjoying an effortless speed in excess of 30 km/hr.
Much to my delight, this pleasure continues for another 30 to 45 minutes, rolling my way into the center of this large and sparsely populated valley.
Eventually I reach the junction of the first road we meet since leaving Prescott hours ago. Mark is waiting for me there.
We turn our bikes westward across the valley. Mostly flat terrain interspersed with dips in and out of the "Washes" that make up a standard feature of the Southwest USA Desert.
In about 45 minutes we cross what I assume is the Kirkland River, or Creek. Right next to the dry riverbed and road is a group of about 20 modest trailers.
These trailers appear to contain a large portion of the population of Kirkland.
But one can easily imagine a bygone day in which the river flowed more freely (not drained dry from damming and diversion upstream) and this place was a welcoming Oasis.
Just over the bridge and around the corner from the trailer park we discover a fascinating reality of Kirkland, a real place of living history; The Kirkland Cafe / Bar / Hotel / Arena. (This was a multiple purpose facility before that term was coined.)
Seeing and stepping inside this building constructed in 1923 is like experiencing history, or a deja vu
moment of a previous visit to Knott's Berry Farm.
The lighting, hardwood floor, bar and stools, wood burning stove surrounded by couches and chairs, antlers, country western juke box prompt you to look around for John Wayne and Roy Rodgers.
So Mark and I, not so inconspicuously in our Spandex bike shorts and neon yellow bike shirts (but it doesn't really matter because we are the only customers present at the moment), saddle up to the bar and slide onto bar stools no doubt once graced by an outlaw or country western singer or a person one in the same.
We are hungry and order from the items handwritten and clearly indicated on the chalk board displayed above the beer cooler.
Mark goes for BBQ sandwich and ice tea. Still seeking to satisfy my addiction, I order my vices of Mexican food, a chili burrito to be specific, and a Dr Pepper.
While chewing on these radically overpriced meals at $9.75 each, served on biologically degradable paper plates with bags of potato chips (Ounce for dollar this is one of the most expensive meals I have ever eaten), Bro Mark and I ponder the history of the place in which we now sit.
Way back in the late 1880's a man named Thomas built the Kirkland Bar and Steakhouse. Not only did he provide fluids and protein to the local population, but he also provided a welcomed resting place for travelers on the Wells Fargo Stagecoach route. (Which is the same road we are using today, minus the pavement. How cool is that?!)
A few years later, the Santa Fe railroad laid some track across this valley and stopped here as well; allowing passengers to top off their fluids and get their daily requirement of protein.
In 1923, unfortunately, a Cow protested her obligation to the establishment and kicked over a lantern, or perhaps a match was carelessly flicked, who knows, but the place caught fire and burned.
But these Arizonians are made of tough stuff. They rebuilt.
It is this 1923 building in which we now sit. The stagecoach no longer stops. The train still passes through but the freight doesn't require extra fluids (but I bet the engineer does).
According to the waitress, not many locals frequent the establishment. (I doubt they can afford it.) She says most patrons are people who get lost. I think she is joking, but I am not sure. But getting lost might be the easiest way to find this place. It really isn't on the way to anywhere else.
If you have a bold entrepreneurial spirit, you may want to consider the purchase of this unique establishment. It is for sale. (Story is that owners are turning 70 and want a life for themselves while they still can. )
Refreshed and culturized we head out and down the road.
We ride on relatively level land for about 45 minutes along the lazily bending road following the curves of the riverbed.
It requires no stretch of my imagination to see the Wells Fargo Stage creaking and jostling down this road before automobiles and pavement.
Just about the time my rear hints that a short break would be in order, I come upon the settlement of Skull Valley.
Don't blink. You'll miss it. But more important you'll miss two period unique buildings.
There's the General Store in front of which Mark is eating his ice cream sandwich and I am eating my Mars Bar.
Across the street we see the Gas Station. The pumps are decades older than either of us, but they are still filling tanks. Without any cosmetics, this village crossroad could be a classic TV set for the Walton's. (Google that if it doesn't compute for my younger readers.)
"Skull Valley" is more than just a morbid name. There are hills
covered with thousands of roundish boulders, some about the size of skulls, in the area.
Here's how I think the town got its name:
(Fairness Disclaimer - This explanation is a complete figment of my imagination and almost probably doesn't have any correlation to reality. )
Many years ago, in the early 1800's, there was a very bored cowboy who after overdosing on country western music drunk himself silly on his own homemade distillation of Prickly Pear Cactus Juice.
But on this night he not only possessed a chemically liberated imagination, but there was also a rare display of an intense desert thunder storm.
Blinding strikes of flashing lightning erupted all around him like a million explosions from a million flash cameras.
Our inebriated cowboy stumbled in a stupor in the riverbed and on the hillside singing "The Yellow Rose of Texas" at the top of his lungs.
As he neared the top of the hill, he tripped on his own foot and slid down the rocky incline. He thought he had killed himself.
As he opened his eyes, glaring bursts of lightening cast erie shadows over the rough and pitted surfaces of the bowling ball sized rocks all around.
Our drunken cowboy gasped as it came upon him that he was dead and deposited in the "Valley of Skulls!"
(Queue the creepy music)
True story ;-)
As I time warped out of my pathetic imaginings, we started pedaling north and west towards Prescott.
Now in the world of the Road Bike Enthusiast there is a fairly consistent truth. Actually, a very consistent truth; right up there with "Water flows downstream."
The truth of which I speak goes something like this: After you glide downhill, you will have to pedal uphill at least as far as you glided downhill (Or something like that).
It is true today. Remember how I went on and on about coasting downhill for an hour. Cursed gravity. Now it is payback time.
All that elevation we surrendered to the Gravity God mist be repaid.
So for the next two hours we repay our dues. This is no picnic. Especially as my right knee decides to conk out at the predictable 70 km mark. (I'm getting this checked out from both cycling and medical perspectives when I get back to Canada.)
So I am doing the last 15 km with my left leg doing all the work and my right leg spinning with the pedal and complaining with each spin even though it is doing no significant work.
But our experience is by no means all bad. The God of Nature, along with an inspired surveyor, has built our road on top of a ridge that travels across the valley and up the mountainside.
As a result we have a fabulous view in four directions (though we are usually looking at what is in front of us for obvious practical reasons).
This grand view takes a considerable edge off the tedious and strenuous task of reaching the summit.
But eventually we do. After the traditional taking of each other's pictures at the summit pass at 6142 feet, and we start downhill for our final descent into the Prescott valley area.
Operative word here is "valley." As in down in the valley. As in riding downhill into the valley.
And downhill it is! In fact, I set a new personal land speed record of 60.5 km/hr (37 mph). I learn my bike starts shaking and vibrating in unique ways at this speed.
But that and the inability to safely stop is all part of the thrill that gives me an adrenalin rush and my wife grey hair. (I wonder if she will read this posting?)
So we reach the bottom of the hill and spend a few minutes navigating out way through part of the town of Prescott.
A mere 8 hours after we left this morning we ride into Bro Mark's driveway and park our bikes in his garage.
Our feet have maintained an average speed of 15 km/hr (9.3 mph); not bad considering the mountainsides we climbed.
Our bums endured 5 hours and 45 minutes of those silly road bike seats.
And most amazing of all, we'd probably do something just like it again tomorrow if we could.
