Kicking California Route 66: Day 2 Tuesday March 12, 2013 Rancho Cucamonga to San Bernardino

As the sun rises over the coastal mountains and begins to heat the air, ground, and pavement of eastern Los Angeles County, and the city of Rancho Cucamonga in particular, so I am also, like the sun rising slowly from my bed.

I slept solid and soundly. Who wouldn't after over 100 km (60 mi) of stop and go traffic the day before across LA County? Every muscle in my body is sore.

I kind of expected this. My soreness is an unfortunate matter of timing. Here's what I mean: I have just experienced 5 months of Ontario, Canada winter. This means I was not, in all honesty, riding my bicycle on my indoor training machine, as consistently and faithfully as a good cyclist who was about to attempt a trip across the entire State of California should have.

Sure, I put in a couple of hours each week on my Indoor Trainer. Thirty minutes here. Thirty minutes there. That probably put me in reasonable condition for a 59 year old guy. But “reasonable” condition, when it comes to biking over the coastal mountain range and across the Mohave Desert, isn't good enough. I wasn't in good enough condition. And my body, on this achy “morning after the first day,” informs me of this fact.

But despise all that negativism just expressed, I am so happy and so glad to be alive. I love these bike adventures. And no amount of achy muscles can really detract (too much) from my joy. So I get up, wash my face, and begin packing up my stuff and loading my bike for today's adventure. Bro Mark is doing the same.

 

Good thing we are in no big rush this morning, because it is about 8:30 am when we pedal out and away from our motel. We are still on Route 66, called Foothill Blvd in this community.

 

My bike ready to roll. Notice this large looking load on the back wheel.
This will be haunting me in just a few hours.

 

Bro Mark travels a little lighter than I. But still a significant looking load.

We start pedaling east. We are on the lookout for two places to stop. First, we need to re-stock on our fluid supplies (Gator Aid, PowerAid)

 

Just in case we get thirsty.

 

and second, we need to find some breakfast. A convenience store provides the sought after fluids. McDonald's Restaurant satisfies (Well, sort of) the second.

You are looking west on Route 66.
Looking east looks very similar on this stretch of the historic highway.

But this McDonald's is unique. It's all Route 66 Theme. Route 66 photos on all the walls. Route 66 map across the entire ceiling. Route 66 table tops. More fanaticism than a Star Trek Convention. “I'm loving it.” :-)

 

 

Restocked and refueled we now start our pedaling in earnest. We have a long way to go today, about 80 km (50 mi) up and over the Cajon mountain pass and into the city of Victorville, our gateway to the Mohave Desert.

But about a half hour into our ride, I realize I'm not really on top of my game. I'm not feeling sick. But fatigued and depleted. This is not a good sign. The riding we are doing at this moment is not hard. We are traversing flat land, on a good road, paralleling the base of the mountains, the easiest terrain a road bike cyclist could want.

But I can't seem to really get going. Every rotation of the pedal requires noticeable effort. I shouldn't be feeling this way at 9:30 AM (09:00) with less than an hour of pedaling behind me. I'm really tired.

The temperature rises just as the sun does, quickly. Temps in the high 80's F (high 20's C) by lunch time.

We stop at Burger King. I'm feeling rather yucky. I believe Bro Mark is concerned about my condition. He hasn't really said anything, but I think he is watching me closely. Certainly watching and wondering and concerned about my slow pace. I'm adding some anxiety on top of my fatigue. When I think about how far we still have to go today, I am panicking. Today's “finish line” feels like it might be light years away.

 

 

Looking north from our motel we see the mountains we must pedal over so as to reach the Mohave Desert.

We eat our lunch on the lawn on the narrow strip of shade along the southwest side of the restaurant. Mark eats a real meal. I unenthusiastically sip on a chocolate milkshake with an order of fries to munch on the side. I'm eating because I need the fuel, not because I'm hungry. I feel rather the opposite.

Just before we say goodbye to the royal splendor of the Burger King's court, I take a moment and replace the battery in my heart rate monitor.

 

Bro Mark re-fueled after paying homage to the Burger King.

The scenery starts to change dramatically as we turn north off Foothill Blvd onto what is obviously a less traveled but certainly more authentic looking stretch of Route 66. Kind of like stepping into a time warp, backwards. This is a common experience along Route 66.

The upscale businesses and plaza malls of the northern edge of the city of San Bernardino fade away quickly to a rather junky industrialized area of small scale, dirty and dusty looking small businesses which all seem to specialize in scrap metal collecting. Old rickety chain link fences topped by spirals of prison grade barbed wire line the road.

Interspersed between these waning industrial compounds we spy some of the genuine but dilapidated “gems” of the old and authentic Route 66 – Vintage Motels. Doesn't take much imagination to visualize the days long ago that these “Mom and Pop” non-franchised lodging establishments provided a steady and dignified business to travelers.

Travelers who just navigated and survived the journey from Victorville, over the Cahon Pass, and down the mountain to the edge of the coastal valley. After days of deserts they can see and feel hope and real possibility of a new life in California. These Travelers and their frazzled nerves would have welcomed a cup of coffee and a small room with a small bed and a place to rest their heads.

But these establishments are not quite so dignified now. They are in poor repair. I studied some of them very closely trying to discern if indeed they were actually open for business, and not just abandoned buildings. But most were open and in business, as surprising as it seems.

But structural and aesthetic dignity was not the only thing compromised. Most of these motels advertised in bold signage – No joke – “Rooms By the Hour.” Rooms were also offered by the day, night, week, or month, and I supposed any other kind of time frame you desired. Apparently the owners would welcome any business in any way at any time. There were cars parked in front of many of the rooms. I noticed, however, that I did not see a single person for several kilometers (miles) as we pedal by many of these motels.

But then again, I'm not sure exactly what I might or might not be seeing. I am getting more and more fatigued. To accentuate my discomfort, we have turned north and are now heading directly towards the looming mountains. This means a very steady uphill grade. Not enough to make us feel like we are climbing a mountain. But enough of an incline requiring an even greater energy output with every stroke of the pedal.

I look at my watch. It is only early afternoon. I look at my speedometer. We are averaging about 12 kph (8 mph). I mentally calculate the distance to the summit of the mountain pass. Not good. I estimate, at this rate of speed (which is way too optimistic because we really haven't started climbing yet), we will reach the mountain pass at 9 PM (21:00). About 6 hours from now. And then we still will have a long way from the Pass until we get to our motel in Victorville.

I am in the lead, Brother Mark follows, very patiently. His pace is usually at least 16 kph (10 mph) on a slow day.

I'm struggling with my thoughts as the sweat pours down my face. As much as I want to continue, I feel my body energies depleting by the minute. I almost panic as I visualize us reaching the summit in the darkness of night. I look around us right now. There is nothing out here. We've even left those creepy motels somewhere behind us. I am discouraged and feel like I am melting in the now 90+ F (30+ C) temperature. I am aware that I am not really fully thinking straight and clear.

I drift into delusional thoughts like, “Dear Lord, Please beam me up, Scotty.”

But in such desperate times it is so awesome to have your big brother behind you. Mark has my back. He's been watching the whole show. Ever the gentleman, he's not going to tell me what to do. So he asks me, “Hey bro, how you feeling?”

I reply, “Not so good.”

Mark asks, “Can you go any further today?”

That's a challenging question for my mind and emotions which desire to press on and keep this trip on schedule. But a no-brainer for my body. It screams, “No!”

But my mind has already been struggling with the implications of stopping on this side of the mountain. That will mess up our entire trip which is geared to a Victorville destination on the other side of the mountains today. If I stop, I could screw up the entire trip.

But my body convinces my mind that I really have no good choice apart from stopping. So I respond to Mark, saying, “I'm a mess today. I don't think I can safely proceed.”

“No problem,” says Bro Mark, “Let's stop in the shade of the Interstate Highway 15 overpass just ahead.”

As Route 66 passes underneath the mighty Interstate 15, I can barely feel the shade as latent heat radiates off the concrete wall next to us. Nowhere within our line of sight is anything but those deteriorating scrap yards.

I can't go much further. But where can we go? We could turn around and pedal back to the city limits of San Bernardino. But cyclists hate back tracking! I can almost hear the wheels in Mark's brain whirring. He says to me, “Wait here. Drink something. I'm going to ride up ahead a bit and see what I can find.”

No argument from me. I'm too tired to move.

I watch Mark pedal on as I dutifully drink some very warm PowerAid (Yuck! Not a helpful way to replenish one's fluids or reduce one's overheating core body temperature).

I ponder the downside to our situation. Because I am “incapacitated” energy-wise, we cannot continue. But where to stop? There is nowhere to stop. We could backtrack downhill to San Bernardino and stay at a cheap motel. But backtracking is a repulsive concept to a cyclist. And at this moment, even pedaling downhill sounds like work to me.

I don't ponder long or much. I realize I am so depleted I am hardly thinking clearly at all.

In a very few minutes, I am surprised to see Mark returning. He has a triumphant look on his face I don't understand. He says, “Follow me. Got to show you something.” I dutifully follow in a daze.

We pedal under Interstate 15 and I follow Mark around a slight bend in the road. And there it is. A heavenly site. A brand new Day's Inn Motel, perfectly poised on the edge of the Interstate inviting weary motorists and over-extended and fatigued cyclists into its air conditioned cool and cleanness.

Mark quickly devises a plan.

Step One: Check into motel and cool off and rest.

Step Two: Figure out Step Three.

We proceed with Step One. My heart swells with gratefulness as we step into the large, cool lobby and walk our bikes to the reception desk. This place feels plush. And, much to our delight, there is room in the inn.

(With wonderful irony, this really nice new motel turns out to be the best place and least expensive motel we will stay in during this trip. Go figure. Gotta love it when Free Enterprise – that is, many motels along a busy stretch of Interstate Highway – drive down prices to the benefit of the consumer. Long live true Capitalism! Though, admittedly, providing of a small dash of Compassionate Socialism often improves the flavor and balance of life.)

In our gloriously cool room we shower and cool off. I lay down for a few minutes.

We call to order an executive trip planning committee meeting to deal with this unplanned stop. Figuring out Step Three is easy. There's a nice looking Mexican Food Restaurant just across the parking lot of the motel. Step Three: Go eat an early supper.

Two tacos, an enchilada, and beans and rice, and a Dr Pepper later and I am feeling much much better. Who wouldn't? So we call our Executive Planning Committee Meeting back to order to figure out Step Four as we order dessert.

Several factors must be evaluated and addressed.

First, we are no longer on our original trip schedule. We were supposed to be eating supper about now in Victorville, on the other side of the mountain.

Second, we are not going to be able to finish our trip. We've lost at least a half day of crucial riding time. Our original trip schedule and daily destinations didn't allow for generous down time like this.

Thirdly, we both sense that maybe we are loaded a bit too heavy. This is the first time we have carried a full compliment of camping gear including tents and sleeping bags. Both of us, but especially me, are feeling the gravitational drag directly proportional to the heavier loads.

Fourthly, we are wondering if perhaps we have misjudged the challenges of the Mohave Desert; perhaps we are endeavoring to travel to hard and too far as per our original trip plan.

A new plan begins to emerge as we sit digesting our supper:

We are going to move our final destination from Needles (Pirate Cove) back to the desert town of Barstow. This essentially cuts our original trip in half, and shorter by one day. We will covering half the distance of California Route 66 instead of the entire distance across the State (Pacific Ocean to Colorado River).

So that makes our destination tomorrow the city of Victorville, “just” on the other side of the mountain range seen outside our restaurant window. The night after that destination will be Barstow.

We also decide to dump the camping gear and revert back to our tried and true style (and preference, if the truth be told) of “motelling.”

(We don't actually “dump” our camping gear. The nice people operating the motel allow us to store it in a corner of their storage room until we return in a few days to retrieve it.)

End result:

Fewer riding days.

Shorter riding days.

Lighter loads.

No camping.

Nice (but as cheap as we can find) motels.

An extra day for me to hang out in Prescott with my sister-in-law, Carolyn, and son, Luke.

I like this plan. Brother Mark doesn't seem too upset either.

But I feel a little like a trip spoiler. Bro Mark, despite his slightly older age and slightly less athletic looking body than mine (I jest), he consistently today, as he has on all our trips, demonstrates a much healthier constitution than I.

I have to ponder this reoccurring pattern. If my aging memory serves me well, I seem to have significant “energy problems” on the first couple of days of most of our trips. I wonder if part of the reason for this experience is connected with the timing of these Spring rides.

From a training perspective, the timing is awful, at least for a Canadian. As the month of March rolls around (the time we usually take our Spring trips), I have been unable to ride my bike outside in Canada since late September or early October. I have been unenthusiastically and (admittedly) less than consistently doing vigorous and physically-conditioning effective rides on my Indoor Trainer Machine.

(Excuse Time: The Trainer Machine is boring. Pedaling nowhere in a below freezing enclosed porch in the early morning or late evening darkness while staring at a wall or even watching a DVD isn't really “fun.” Waa Waa Waa.)

And to top it off, I am usually really tired by the time I migrate my way to the Detroit Airport and make the 4.5 hour flight to Arizona. Toss a little bit of jet lag over three time zones and colour me not at my best.

But we learn from these things, right? And I have. This will not happen to me again. Really. I have a plan. I'll share it later. But now, back to the adventure.....)

Now armed with our new plan and new sense of adventure, we return to our motel room. We unpack and divide our gear into two piles: Gear we are taking, and gear we are leaving behind. Then we reload gear we are taking. We bundle up for temporary storage gear we are entrusting to the motel staff. (Hope they don't get any ideas about utilizing the services of e-Bay!) 

 

 

Camping gear "dumped." Bro Mark reloads his load so as to be ready to roll in the morning.

Bikes are now ready to roll with the morning sun.

We spend the rest of the evening resting. I fall asleep hopeful and excited to be alive and hopeful that tomorrow will be a better day.

Today we pedaled an unimpressive 38 km (23.4 mi) at an average rate of 13 kph (8.1 mph) – I saw snails going faster than I was!

It was a merciful day for our bums. Time in the bike seat, 2 hours and 45 minutes. Total trip time from motel to motel was a generous 4 hours and 50 minutes. I have no doubt we will do better tomorrow :-)

This iconic place is for real. Even back in the 1930's they advertised, "Do it in a Tee Pee."

Those mountains again.

 

A Summer-Like Ride Through the Greenock Swamp Villages

About this time in September I bemoan the inevitably of propping my bike up on my in-door trainer (A piece of equipment that lifts my rear tire off the ground so I can pedal and go nowhere all winter).

But no trainer today. Rather, the real deal. Today is a gift. A probable last taste of summer. The weatherman was accurate. Once a morning fog wore off, this late September day transformed into a beautiful July-like day. Temperature in the mid 20's C (mid 70's F). A stiff warm wind pushing its way northwest, but, well, the couldn't be perfect, eh?

But it is more than good enough for me. 

By 9:15 AM (0915) I got my chain lubed, tires up to pressure, water bottles loaded, and power bars and fruit in handlebar bag. Ready to roll.

And roll I do. 

Our route today comprises of a loop around and through the Greenock Swamp encompassing several villages with long histories and deep roots. Check out a brief intro to this amazing piece of natural real estate: http://www.svca.on.ca/ca.php?page=greenock

After almost an hour of pedaling inland and east from my home, through the village of Glammis, I reach "the loop."

I've been in a low, easy pedaling gear since I left my driveway.  The headwind won't allow me great speed. This will be the case for the first two hours of my tour.

Before reaching the first village on the loop, I am traversing the Greenock Swamp. Dispense with the typical movie image of a swamp. This huge marsh covering a vast area of the township looks like a regular forest. One might miss the swamp presence if not studied closer. 

But if one stops and looks at the deep roadside ditch full of dark water with brilliant green algae floating on the surface, it will also be observed that all the visible forest of trees growing in the deep shadows of an unbroken lake. 

Ecologically, we know these swamps are (amazingly) Nature's purification and filtration systems for our precious ground water. The swamps in this region are thankfully protected for that valuable purpose. There are few homes or developments here. 

Some of the land is privately owned and utilized seasonally as "hunting lots." Every so often I see primative roads, actually more like driveways, jutting off the paved township road and into the swamp for a few meters (yards). 

In late November, when the swamp freezes, the hunter-owner will park a small trailer on his lane way just off the main road. This trailer serves as his hunting headquarters and beer fridge during the deer season. 

On a high spot in the swamp I come to Cheapstow, the first village on the loop. A delightful place with lush trees and lawns and plants, all showing the signs of the beginnings of bright Fall colours yet to come. 

One can easily visualize this nice, but now sleepy village, as the vibrant community it and all the villages I will ride through today, once were. They all have at least one church (perhaps active and open, perhaps not), a one room school (all these closed by the late 1960's; most now homes or seasonal cottages), a general store/hotel (most now renovated as private residences), and a river with a mill on it (no longer in active service).

The houses in Cheapstow are quite nice, both vintage and modern. Though no real commerce is transacted in these villages these days. (Except for the variety store/post office in Cargill, I don't think you could even buy a Dr Pepper in these villages, Lord forgive them.) But these villages are great "bedroom" communities for folks desiring a very very small town feel. 

At Cheapstow I turn my bike east. About 2 km (1 mi) from the village I turn north on a small but nicely paved road. 

I stop here to give my bum a short break. And, as in all previous stops today, I am immediately surrounded by a friendly swarm of bees. They obsessively focus on the PowerAid bottles attached to my bike frame. Such fluids must be a sweet nectare to these creatures in these post-summer, pre-winter days. 

I am now at my furtherest and turn around point of the ride and heading to the village of Cargill. 

Once, just as Cheapstow, this was a thriving agriculturally based community. Now a quiet village providing housing in old homes along the four  main streets that hug the sides of the river and connect at the only bridge.  

Most of the business buildings are now converted to rooms and apartments.  But one huge empty building on the northwest "downtown" corner was obviously the hotel that serviced the horses and buggies and stagecoaches and later bus routes. 

(Large building is the local Inn of days gone by)

Just in the ten years I have lived in this area I have seen at least three courageous souls seek to make go with a restaurant / rooming house in this grand structure. But none were successful. The building sits empty and for sale today. 

Continuing north of my sleepy road gently rolling through intermittent fields and wood lots I arrive at the village of Pinkerton, a different version but same story as Cheapstow and Cargill: river, mill, closed library, closed church, closed general store which is now open as an antique store. 

At Pinkerton my road veers west and homewards. In 30 minutes I reach the village of Glammis. Same village story. 

(Now renovated one room school Glammis)

In 30 minutes I reach home home.

A great ride. I have time to do my post ride stretching, eat a quick late lunch, and head to the office for a light evening of clients. 

A great day. A rare and enjoyable summer like bonus day as our daily seasonal changes remind us winter comes. 

(Awesome Driveway/Laneway Pinkerton)

Today's stats:

Distance: 50.4 km / 31.3 mi

Max Speed: 43.4 kph/26.9 mph 

Average Speed: 15.7 kph/9.7 mph

Time on bike: 3 hrs, 12 min

Total trip time: 3 hrs, 50 min

Temp: 21 C/72 F

Calorie Burn: 1,068

Fat burn: 65

(Once the Pinkerton Library)

Kicking California Route 66: Day 1 Monday March 11, 2013, Santa Monica to RanchoCucamonga

All sunshine shines not the same. For the first 18 years of my life I supposedly grew up in Southern California. (Some would question if I have actually ever “grown up.”) In contrast to my California years, I've spent over 30 years in my life in Canada. Based on my experiences in these very contrasting environments, I believe that not all sunshine shines the same.

The sunshine striking the earth in the Southwest USA looks and feels quantitatively different than the sunshine striking the earth in Ontario, Canada. Ontario sunshine has a warm, almost golden glow to it. Maybe that's because being further from the equator the sunshine has to pass a greater distance through the atmosphere. I don't know. I'm just guessing.

But the sunshine striking the earth in Los Angeles, California, looks and feels different. Brighter. Stronger. “Sunshiny-er.” (The spell check disputes that word.)

Such powerful sunshine penetrates the curtains of our (very) small motel room. My eyes flicker at the natural “alarm clock” the visible light spectrum creates. I'm feeling hugely better than I did when I collapsed in bed late last night, or I should say, very early this morning.

Imagining how hot and sweaty I will be in just a few hours, I head to the shower. At least I can start the day not attracting attention as an aromatic environmental toxin. I love showers. I call them “Hydro Therapy.” I'm pretty sure that somewhere out there scientific evidence proves warm and cold water striking the skin enhances mental, emotional, and physical health and well being.

After my Hydro Therapy, I prepare to face the world donning my super hero spandex bike suit. Bro Mark has awakened from his beauty sleep by this point. He is already suited up. (Bro Mark is not an environmentalist, I think, and therefore does not believe in morning de-tox showers.)

We do the final packing and securing of all our gear (which we will discover in the next 48 hours constitutes way too much gear. And within the next four hours, I learn how to properly secure my relatively new pannier bags to the rack and sides of my rear wheel in a manner in which they do not fall off in the middle of busy street intersections).

 

The street just outside our motel as we head west towards Santa Monica Beach

We say “good bye” to our memorable motel and hop on our fully loaded bikes and head the wrong direction. On purpose. The city of Needles and the Colorado River lay east of us, several days of bike riding away. But we purposely head west right now. We want to go to the beach. Not for a morning swim, but for historical reasons. We want to see what travelers of long ago saw when they finally ended their 3,966 km (2,448 mi) trek in Santa Monica from all points east on Route 66.

 

Getting closer to the beach. Note the nice bike lane. Los Angeles seems pretty good about providing these, sometimes.

The Santa Monica Peer provides the terminus of Route 66. I've seen enough of Route 66 in central and western Arizona to just begin to get an inkling of what emigrants fleeing the dust bowl and poverty of the Depression must have experienced when they saw this endless blue ocean after weeks of barren desert travel.

The white structure centre picture is the building at the base of the pier.

Bro Mark next to the multi-use path along the beach; a common feature in Southern California.
Nice for walking, riding, skate boarding, roller blading, etc.

Coming off this pier, I also experienced my first annoying mechanical problem with my bike. Not a total breakdown. But a malfunction impacting my pedaling in a serious way. My bike would not shift into its lowest gear.

For some cyclists, this might not be a problem. But for me, this constitutes a big deal. My muscles do not ripple against the tightness of my spandex suit like a Superman or Batman. I, therefore, need that “easy” gear or “granny gear.” (A rather gender discriminatory term, eh?) Especially when I am loaded very heavy as I am today.

But there's nothing to be done about it right now. And fortunately today, we do not climb any significant hills. But I immediately miss Granny. And thoughts of the 4,000 ft (1,220 m) pass we climb on our route tomorrow sit uncomfortably in the back of my mind.

But now we leave the pier and head west (The correct compass heading) on Santa Monica Boulevard. We are in the downtown area, but this is not “the” downtown. But close enough. I look down streets on my right and I can see the classic and modern downtown Los Angeles sights captured in movies featuring this city – such as the tall, round Capital Records building. Given the intensity of morning rush hour traffic on the six lanes of Santa Monica Blvd, I am not keen on challenging the downtown core commuters on my lightweight aluminum bike. (If I had a Titanium Bike and an Iron Man suit, I might consider riding through the downtown core.)

The beginning of Santa Monica Blvd.
And the ending, or beginning, of Route 66, depending on which direction you are coming from or going to.

We ride carefully on the edge of our right hand lane. The 9:00 AM (09:00) shadows stubbornly cling to the street and east side of the buildings. Commuters strut their vehicles with a strong confidence and mostly disregard for our presence. But Brother Mark and I were urban born and raised. Our Orange County California childhood city smart skills kick in and we maneuver east carefully and successfully.

One of about 200 signal lights ("controlled intersection") we will enjoy throughout the day.

A short distance ahead we simultaneously see a famous eating establishment, “Jack In the Box.” Without exchanging a word, we realize the steak and egg burritos are calling us to consume them. We do so.

Breakfast at Jack In the Box

Empowered by our consumption of simple and complex carbohydrates and protein from Grade E meat sources, we pedal on. For the next 109 km (68 mi) we experience intense urban cycling. Which means, lots and lots of traffic lights. I calculate almost two hundred traffic lights by the end of the day. (Picture a lot of ups and downs off the bike seat throughout this day.)

The automobile traffic is not as intense and nerve wracking as I thought it would be. I only came close to getting hit by a vehicle twice. The first incident occurred as a van rushed past me to make a very abrupt right turn in front of me onto a street I was pedaling across. I'm pretty sure I felt the back edge of his van brush the hair on my left elbow.

The second incident occurred when an elderly lady, who was to her credit paying very close attention to Mark and I as we proceeded through the intersection, contemplated completing her left-hand turn. I don't think she was trying to be lethal. I think we just confused her. At any rate, I think she panicked. (She had already, as we say in the trucking industry, “taken possession of the intersection.”) Perhaps she was afraid of being hung out there in the middle of everything. Whatever her thoughts, she rapidly accelerated into her leftward bound direction.

Unfortunately, I was in her path. As soon as she saw me, she braked hard. No contact followed. No damage to vehicle or bike. Possibly some to the lady's nervous system. But I have not heard from her lawyer, so I think things are ok.

Anti-Gridlock Zone? I don't think so. At least the commuters haven't gotten the message.

So goes our morning – Navigating the concrete jungle of Santa Monica, through the heart of Los Angeles, so as to arrive at the seemingly endless and seamless (that is, no distinct or obvious boundaries, except the obvious fluctuation of visible economic prosperity or lack of) of urban communities.

A rare moment when Bro Mark is following me.

As the sun climbs towards its zenith, we pedal through iconic cities of metropolitan Los Angeles. Names of real places made fantasy through folk lore, urban legend, television and movies:

Santa Monica

West Los Angeles

Beverly Hills

West Hollywood

Sunset

Pasadena

Aracadia

Monrovia

Duarte

Irwindale

Azusa

Glendora

San Dimas

La Verne

Claremont

Upland

Rancho Cucamonga

 

Beverly Hills proved “interesting.” Pedaling along, enjoying the sights, and looking for the Beverly Hillbillys instead of looking at our map, we suddenly realized we were “lost.” Enter technology. Using my very limited US Data Cell Phone Plan which I purchased from Bell Canada for just such a scenario as this, I discerned our position and we plotted a course back toward Sunset Blvd. We actually enjoyed some nice residential streets and a little break from the heavier traffic. I think we were only about two or three miles “off course.” But never did see the Hillbillys :-(

One must remember that Route 66 is not a street name, but rather a highway designation. And a historical obsolete one at that. Meaning, there aren't a lot of “Route 66” signs in all jurisdictions along the Route. Each city decides how they want to identify, or not, the Historic Highway. But by the end of the day, I give Pasadena and Rancho Cucamonga high marks for blending the historicity of Route 66 with the dream of American capitalism. Not a bad partnership: Preserve and promote history while making an honest dollar. Truly the American Way, eh?

 

The Aztec Hotel was? is? a Route 66 Icon. I was surprised to see it closed.
Just a few weeks ago I saw a DVD on Route 66 and it was shown as very much alive. But this was typical of my research. Many establishments promoted in the travel literature have, it seems, over just the past few years, faded into history.
I keep hearing that Route 66 is experiencing a renaissance of sorts. But we didn't see a lot of evidence of that.  

Lunch was great in East LA. We were so thrilled with our breakfast burritos at Jack In the Box, that we ventured to enjoy their lunch fare. I had a couple of tacos and, I just love this about the Southwest USA, Iced Tea! (I would gladly give up my Dr. Pepper addiction if I had easy access to Iced Tea.) The real stuff. Brewed and chilled and with the option of plain, or lemon, or lemon and sugar. I prefer the plain without sugar or lemon without sugar. But if I must, I will drink the sugar enhanced version 2.0. (Fast and Slow Food establishments in Canada have yet to figure out the “brewed iced tea” miracle yet. They offer this fountain drink concoction of sugar water which they label as tea. But it has no tea at all in it. Come on now. What is that all about?)

At the restaurant we met a few young men who were most impressed by our insane plan of pedaling across the desert. I felt good getting the respect of such Urbanites.

Speaking of Urban, East LA impresses me as ultra-Urban. We ride through in the early afternoon. Regardless of the blazing sunshine, my “Personal Security Button” felt pressure from the environment. East Los Angeles provided a moderate challenge to my generally conservative courage quotient. (I'm a real chicken sometimes.)

Nobody tries to hurt us. Nobody even seems to look at us. But the graffiti and pervasive poverty found this White Anglo Saxon Protestant Male (Not a title I would choose for myself, by the way) a little uncomfortable. But I quickly add, this insecurity emanates more from my imagination than the environment. (I don't think I would say that if riding through on a bike at 2:00 AM/02:00.) The locals didn't invoke it or create paranoia. Perhaps I've just seen too many movies and now possess a paranoid, stereotyping brain. Hope not. That sounds pathetic.

If opposites attract, this explains why East Los Angeles and Pasadena are neighboring cities. Is it a matter of socioeconomic cultural distinction? Or a testimony to the multicultural diversity of Southern California?

Heading east out of East LA, the environment becomes less “citified” and more sub-urbanized. I was getting a bit tired, having by this time put almost 100 km (62 miles) of city streets under my wheels. But I was also very much missing and very much getting concerned about the “loss” of my lowest gear. My arthritic knees really depend on that easy-pedaling function when I am faced with anything approximating an upward incline. I am pedaling along getting even a little more worried about the loss of my low gear as I thought about that 4,000 ft mountain pass we are scheduled to ascend tomorrow.

And then something akin to a miracle happens.

Directly ahead of us and to the right we see a bicycle shop. I have known all day that retrieving my lowest gear is just a matter of a very minor adjustment to my gear cable – but an adjustment I am not skilled to make. But I am not over thrilled by the sight of this bike shop. After all, it is past 6 pm (18:00) in the evening on a Monday. What bike shop would be open on a Monday at this hour?

But as we pedal closer, we see a van with the bike shop name on its side, slow to a stop in front of the shop. A man steps out and walks to the front of the van. He's looking our way. He waves. We wave back. We pull into his parking lot. The man says, “I've been in this business long enough to spot cyclists who might be looking for some help.” Amazing! This guy is not only a bike technician, but also a mind reader! We grin and respond, “You are so right on!”

We explain our loss of low gear concern. He, who we quickly learn is Cory, Owner of Coates Cyclery, 760 E. Foothill Blvd., Pomona, California, 91767, 909-624-0612, http://coatescyclery.com/, who says, “Come on in, I'll fix that for you.”

So Cory re-opens his shop, puts my like on a repair stand, and in a few minutes brings my lowest gear back to life.

We see lots of interesting sights and hear lots of interesting sounds in our Cycling Adventures. But the most interesting, and memorable, and meaningful experiences involve the amazing and great persons we meet along the way. And Cory is one of them. Here's a guy who has worked all day and has a family to go home to at the end of the day. But he volunteers to put that all on pause for a half an hour and help us out.

A Modern Day Hero and a Modern Day Explorer/Adventurer

And you know what else? He didn't charge us for his services and wouldn't let us pay for them! The brotherhood of cyclists is most alive and well. (If Cory ever comes to Ontario, Canada, I am going to offer him free counselling! :-)

Waving goodbye to our new favorite hero, Cory, we continue pedaling east on Route 66 through the cities of east LA County bordering its historical curbs. The sun is setting very low at this time. We are losing our daylight. But we are very close to our Rancho Cucamonga (I just love saying that word “Cucamonga”) motel destination, the New Kansan Inn; a vintage Route 66 motel.

We stop and activate our red strobe-like rear ( bicycle :-) flashers. We really should attach and use our headlights. But we opt not to. Street lights and car lights provide enough light that we can see where we are going. If someone does not plow down our behinds from behind we should be alright.

Eventually we reach our motel. We are given the “handicap” room; which means it is a large spacious room with easy access shower, etc. I wonder if we perhaps looked and walked in a way that prompted the owner to do this?

First Night Home Away From Home
New Kansan Motel, Rancho Cucamonga, California

After much needed and refreshing showers, our friends, and frequent transportation facilitators, Chuck and Marguerite (i.e. they haul us and our bikes around when we need a truck! They rescued us in Ocotillo, California on a previous trek across the Sonora Desert) knock on the door.

Chuck and Marguerite have been waiting for hours to have supper with us. They are patient souls. We head to a nice restaurant and enjoy a great meal while speaking of our day's adventures and life in general.

Once back at the motel, the Shelley Brothers have zero difficulty going to sleep. We are tired enough. And so we should be.

End of Day 1 Picture.
We both look a little older than we usually do.

Today's stats:

Distance: 109 km (67.5 mi)

Average Speed: 14.5 kph (9 mph)

Time on Bike Seat Pedaling: 7 hours, 34 minutes

Total Trip Time Today: 11 hours

We drift off to sleep wondering about the climb we face tomorrow through Cajon Pass and over the coastal mountain range and into one of the world's most severe desert environments.

 

Santa Monica Beach

 

 

A memorable street sign for me.
From 1977 through 1986, my family and I lived on and worked on Normandie Ave several miles south of here in the community of Gardena.

This is not a product placement ad

Middle of the Day 1 Picture.
Notice we do not look as old as we do at the end of the day.

 

 

 

Point Clark Loop Adventure

Last Sunday was  not quite an endurance ride, but one of my longer rides this summer.

I hop on my bike with the goal of pedaling an 80 km (54 mi) "loop" to the south and west of my country home near Tiverton, Ontario, Canada.    

I leave my home about 9:30 am under sunny skies and a pleasant 18 C (64 F) heading south towards the village of Armow. Forty five minutes later I passed through Armow and continued on south to the village of Ripley. 

(The road to Ripley)

Fascinating little town. In the 1850's a bad Scottish landlord on Lewis Island, Scotland, was making life unpleasant for 109 hard working families. 

So they said, "Enough." (And probably a few more appropriate phrases and gestures.) 

They all moved to a section of  wilderness here in Ontario and continued to work hard clearing the land and eventually earned the right to call it their own. Later their settlement was named Ripley. Believe it or not :-)

This is believed to be the largest settlement of one group of people at the same time and place anywhere in Canadian history. Cool, eh?

So now I finally understand why almost every village in southern Bruce county has a Scottish name. 109 families would have been the most dominant cultural presence in this beautiful countryside.  By clearing and taming this land they certainly earned the right to name the villages. 

And they did. Check out any Bruce county and Huron county map and you'll find names like Glammis, Holyrood, Kingraf, Kinloss, Lucknow, and Gargill. There is probably a village named Argyle somewhere.

And to think I learned all this while reading three historical monuments while chewing on a power bar and drinking power aid. 

Hopping back on my bike and enjoying the 20 kph (12.4 mph) tailwind provided by nature, I am averaging a really nice 21 kph for the first two hours of my ride when I enter the Lake Huron shore village of Point Clark. 

(The road to Point Clark)

Point Clark is home for one of several amazing lighthouses built up and around the Tobermory Peninsula from about 1850 through the early 1900's. They were state of the art wonders in their day. 

And it's a good thing a lighthouse is here -- the rocky shoals extend 3.2 km (2 mi) out into Lake Huron from the shoreline. 

There have been so many shipwrecks around this peninsula over the past 150 years that Scuba divers come from all around the world to check them out in the shallow, clear (and very cold!) waters.   

After straining my neck looking up at the 1850-ish lighthouse undergoing renovations, I turn my ship north and up the coast towards Kincardine. 

(The beach road north of Point Clark)

A pleasant ride weaving along the sleepy Sunday morning beach roads with both beautiful vintage and modern cottages. 

(More beach road)

Arriving in Kincardine (Note the good Scottish name) I am 50 km  (31 mi) into my trip and well into the second half of the big loop (or more accurately, rectangle) route I am pedaling. 

(View of Lake Huron between Point Clark and Kincardine)

I stop and eat a very Canadian lunch at Tim Horton's restaurant, really enjoying the BLT and chocolate milk. (Beer and Wings would have perhaps been a more Canadian lunch.) 

I continue heading north along the coastal shore roads to the cottage community of Inverhuron where I stop and purchase a Dr Pepper at an old fashion country store and drink it on the old fashion bench outside in the shade of the awning. 

(Creek flowing into the Lake in Inverhuron)

I pedal my final 12 km home where I enjoy my post ride stretches and a warm shower after an almost 6 hour adventure. 

A beautiful day and a beautiful ride. 

Today's stats:

Distance: 80 km/49.6 mi

Max Speed: 52.1 kph/31.7 mph

Average Speed: 17.8 kph/11 mph

Time on bike: 4 hrs, 30 min

Total trip time: 5 hrs, 55 min

Temp: 18 C/ 64 F

Calorie Burn: 1,768

Fat Burn: 151.1