Since leaving Barstow two days ago we have faced a few challenges, including, but not limited to:
Almost impassible pavement between Barstow and Ludlow;
Brutally high temps around Amboy, and;
No real sources for food and liquid between Ludlow and our current unauthorized desert tent camp near Essex. (When we don't have to pay any money and don't have running water and no toilets nearby, Bro Mark says we are "roughing it.")
I lay in my tent enjoying the sound of wind. I then realize this wind also brings noticeably lower temps. Not freezing or anything like that. Just cool. Cool enough to motivate a search for my long sleeve shirt and my biker jersey and my lightweight windbreaker. Essentially all my clothing. I'm going for the layered look this morning with hopes of finding a little bit of warmth. Quite a contrast to the 90 degree F (30 degree C) temps we toasted in yesterday.
Once dressed, I open my tent flap, and the wind immediately sweeps several light weight items off their clothespin home on my tent, carrying them up and away, somewhere into the vast desert beyond. I crawl out of my tent and pursue my renegade washcloth, socks, and underwear (left out to dry overnight). The deserters don't get far. They are quickly apprehended by the seemingly infinite and pervasive dense growth of weedy shrubs clinging to the sandy earth in all directions as far as the eye can see.
Discerning that nothing really spectacular is going to be happening around here for awhile (because Bro Mark and I were literally the only things around here not rooted to the desert floor, I immediately began the process of breaking camp. Which in this case means stuffing my humble belongings back into the bicycle saddle bags from which they came.
Breakfast is essentially a non event. I eat a protein bar. I think Bro Mark does the same. Imagine eating sawdust for breakfast, and you've captured the experience.
By the time the Powder, I mean Power, Bar is chewed, we have stuffed sleeping bags, rolled up tents, and strapped our simple belongings to our bikes.
We push our bikes about 75 yards (75 meters) back to the worn pavement of Route 66 on the outskirts of the ghost town Essex.
The wind picks up. As soon as we mount our bikes, we realize today we face the Cycle Demon known as Headwind. But not just Headwind. As we pedal northward towards the essentially abandoned settlement of Goffs, Headwind is joined by his Evil Comrade, Uphill.
So we pedal into Battle. Our persistence versus Headwind's and Uphill's relentlessness. Did I mention that their Evil Sister, Chilly, had also joined their party of ill-will against us?
Our first hope and theoretically not too far away immediate destination is Najah's Garden Oasis On Route 66. Najah's gas station and restaurant and convenience store is our first "real" (an elastic definition of the word) food depot since leaving Ludlow (Ah, sweet memories of Dairy Queen).
But an hour later I am in a daze when we arrive there. (When I get into this "daze" at home, my family members ask me, "Are you buffering again?" A reference to that little circle that rotates on my iPhone or computer when they are trying to figure something out.) Headwind and Chilly have already done a substantial number of me.
Bro Mark actually gets to Nadia's a few minutes before I do. I pedal right past the place. (A disturbingly questionable error, in that there is nothing else along the road that one might actually drive by. How did I pedal right by the only thing there is to miss? I blame it on my ADD -- Adult Directional Disorder.) Bro Mark asked a motorist leaving Najah's to flag me down and send me back. The Driver did. I was still in sight of Najah's, just a few hundred meters past it.
This shows how a less than solid night's sleep on the desert floor, plus a very coolish hour of pedaling into Headwind on an essentially empty stomach that hasn't really seen unwrapped food in over 18 hours can dull the senses.
Once dressed, I open my tent flap, and the wind immediately sweeps several light weight items off their clothespin home on my tent, carrying them up and away, somewhere into the vast desert beyond. I crawl out of my tent and pursue my renegade washcloth, socks, and underwear (left out to dry overnight). The deserters don't get far. They are quickly apprehended by the seemingly infinite and pervasive dense growth of weedy shrubs clinging to the sandy earth in all directions as far as the eye can see.
Discerning that nothing really spectacular is going to be happening around here for awhile (because Bro Mark and I were literally the only things around here not rooted to the desert floor, I immediately began the process of breaking camp. Which in this case means stuffing my humble belongings back into the bicycle saddle bags from which they came.
Breakfast is essentially a non event. I eat a protein bar. I think Bro Mark does the same. Imagine eating sawdust for breakfast, and you've captured the experience.
By the time the Powder, I mean Power, Bar is chewed, we have stuffed sleeping bags, rolled up tents, and strapped our simple belongings to our bikes.
We push our bikes about 75 yards (75 meters) back to the worn pavement of Route 66 on the outskirts of the ghost town Essex.
The wind picks up. As soon as we mount our bikes, we realize today we face the Cycle Demon known as Headwind. But not just Headwind. As we pedal northward towards the essentially abandoned settlement of Goffs, Headwind is joined by his Evil Comrade, Uphill.
So we pedal into Battle. Our persistence versus Headwind's and Uphill's relentlessness. Did I mention that their Evil Sister, Chilly, had also joined their party of ill-will against us?
Our first hope and theoretically not too far away immediate destination is Najah's Garden Oasis On Route 66. Najah's gas station and restaurant and convenience store is our first "real" (an elastic definition of the word) food depot since leaving Ludlow (Ah, sweet memories of Dairy Queen).
But an hour later I am in a daze when we arrive there. (When I get into this "daze" at home, my family members ask me, "Are you buffering again?" A reference to that little circle that rotates on my iPhone or computer when they are trying to figure something out.) Headwind and Chilly have already done a substantial number of me.
Bro Mark actually gets to Nadia's a few minutes before I do. I pedal right past the place. (A disturbingly questionable error, in that there is nothing else along the road that one might actually drive by. How did I pedal right by the only thing there is to miss? I blame it on my ADD -- Adult Directional Disorder.) Bro Mark asked a motorist leaving Najah's to flag me down and send me back. The Driver did. I was still in sight of Najah's, just a few hundred meters past it.
This shows how a less than solid night's sleep on the desert floor, plus a very coolish hour of pedaling into Headwind on an essentially empty stomach that hasn't really seen unwrapped food in over 18 hours can dull the senses.
Even after parking my bike and getting inside Najah's, I am feeling a little indifferent in the tummy. So I opt for some simple food in the form of a Dr Pepper and some small chocolate donuts. (Can you believe it? I opted for more wrapped food, when the menu offered food actually cooked warm in a real kitchen? Weird, eh?) Even so, I am only eating to eat something, not because I feel hungry. I'm not feeling sick. I'm just not feeling much of anything.
But it feels good to sit in a warm dinning room and get the roar of the wind out of our ears. After eating and warming up a bit in Najah's, we courageously strike out into the still cool morning, pedaling northward towards Goffs. We immediately realize the next few hours are not going to be party material.
We aren't wrong. The next 25 miles (40 km) -- a distance that would normally take us an hour and half to pedal -- takes us four hours. Four hours of pedaling steadily uphill and into a very strong headwind doesn't bring smiles of joy to our faces and deep emotions of happiness to our hearts.
How severe are these four hours? Reflect on the numbers: At this end of this 60 mile (98 km) day, of which the last 35 miles (57 km) would be all fairly swift downhill, our total average speed for the entire day is 6.8 mph (11 kph)! That's even slow for the Shelley Bros.
This means we are literally crawling up the slope to Goffs at about 4 mph (6.5 kph). Without exaggeration be it noted that it is easily possible to walk that fast. And that's what it felt like. Even in my lowest gear I press my pedals hard and they turn ever so slowly against wind and hill.
But it feels good to sit in a warm dinning room and get the roar of the wind out of our ears. After eating and warming up a bit in Najah's, we courageously strike out into the still cool morning, pedaling northward towards Goffs. We immediately realize the next few hours are not going to be party material.
We aren't wrong. The next 25 miles (40 km) -- a distance that would normally take us an hour and half to pedal -- takes us four hours. Four hours of pedaling steadily uphill and into a very strong headwind doesn't bring smiles of joy to our faces and deep emotions of happiness to our hearts.
How severe are these four hours? Reflect on the numbers: At this end of this 60 mile (98 km) day, of which the last 35 miles (57 km) would be all fairly swift downhill, our total average speed for the entire day is 6.8 mph (11 kph)! That's even slow for the Shelley Bros.
This means we are literally crawling up the slope to Goffs at about 4 mph (6.5 kph). Without exaggeration be it noted that it is easily possible to walk that fast. And that's what it felt like. Even in my lowest gear I press my pedals hard and they turn ever so slowly against wind and hill.
This type of biking doesn't lend itself to creating wonderful attitudes.
But if not at least amazingly awesome and rugged good looking, be it known that the Shelley Brothers are especially persistent and persevering, and usually perspiring. And thus with the same application of dogged determination with which we conquered the Sonoran Desert a few years ago, so we hold our own and earn the respect, or at least mercy, of the Mighty Mohave Desert.
We are delighted to eventually pull up to the sign declaring our arrival at Goffs.
We gaze around at yet another ghost town haunting the Mother Road. We can see no occupied residential or business dwellings. But we do see the small building of the Museum.
The Goffs Museum gets excellent reviews in all the Route 66 touring and history literature. Unfortunately it is not open today. I hope to come back someday to experience it.
Goffs was once a tourist destination for the lower desert communities. Because Goffs is about 2,500 ft above sea level, and the highest elevation we experience on this trip east of Barstow, the temperature is significantly cooler in the summer.
About 80 years ago the brave souls living in communities like Needles would come up to Goffs to cool off. But little remains of the food and drink establishments serving these folks.
The train once stopped in Goffs. But now the tracks curve non-stop towards Needles.
As do we.
After a few photos of old signs and even older buildings, we turn our bikes 90 degrees to the right, creating a no problem sidewind, and start a wonderful downhill pedal towards the Colorado River. We enjoy a welcomed reprieve from roaring wind in our ears and slow motion pavement beneath our wheels.
As the sun starts to cast a late afternoon shadow, Route 66 faithfully brings us to the city of Needles.
Just on the outskirts of Needles, we actually get separated. Bro Mark rides a little bit ahead of me, just out of view. I come to a fork in the road. Looking down the road both ways, I can't see Bro Mark. "Rats," I think. "He's finally ditched me." But then I think, "No. He wouldn't do that. Would he?" Then, "Of course not. What would he tell my mother?"
The train once stopped in Goffs. But now the tracks curve non-stop towards Needles.
As do we.
After a few photos of old signs and even older buildings, we turn our bikes 90 degrees to the right, creating a no problem sidewind, and start a wonderful downhill pedal towards the Colorado River. We enjoy a welcomed reprieve from roaring wind in our ears and slow motion pavement beneath our wheels.
As the sun starts to cast a late afternoon shadow, Route 66 faithfully brings us to the city of Needles.
Just on the outskirts of Needles, we actually get separated. Bro Mark rides a little bit ahead of me, just out of view. I come to a fork in the road. Looking down the road both ways, I can't see Bro Mark. "Rats," I think. "He's finally ditched me." But then I think, "No. He wouldn't do that. Would he?" Then, "Of course not. What would he tell my mother?"
Anyway, both roads before me appear to head into the town. So I choose one. I pedal on. I still don't see Mark. I try calling him on my cell phone. He doesn't answer. But that doesn't surprise me. We've had our phones shut off often over the past two days to conserve batteries, having no current bushes in the desert to plug them in for recharging (ha ha).
Needles is a nice place. But not expansive. Soon my road is, thankfully and reassuringly, officially marked as "Historic Route 66." This is good. Because you may recall that we actually slept at a motel here for a few hours a few days ago when we dropped the truck off so the truck would be near the end of our journey. That motel, I recall, is, in fact, located right on Route 66. So I knew that if I kept heading into town on the Mother Road, I'd find the motel.
And that's exactly what happens. Not only do I find the motel, but I also find Brother Mark, mumbling about something he was planning to say to our mother.
At this juncture in journey, we have decided to make a big change of plans. Our original travel plans would have us stay in Pirate Cove, a resort and campground just south of Needles, for the night. Then the next three days we would keep pedaling south. When we reached the southern terminus of our trip, we were planning on taking a taxi back to Needles, retrieving Bro's truck, and heading back to Prescott.
Earlier in the day, however, we decided the taxi ride back to Needles was an awkward hassle. So we decided to end our trip at Pirate Cove. We would head back to Prescott tonight. After a day of rest, we will load our bikes back into the truck and ride down to the Tucson, Arizona, area and ride for a couple of days through the world's only "Cacti Forest." (That did happen, and I will blog about it some day.)
But now we still have a logistical dilemma. If we both ride the 12 miles (19 km) down to the Colorado River (Note the word "down") to Pirate Cove, then either one or both us are required to pedal back "up" to Needles to retrieve the truck. Neither of us really want to end the already long-ish 60 mile (100 km) day pedaling back up to Needles, probably in the dark, on the side of Interstate Highway 40.
Bro Mark solves the dilemma. He volunteers to load his bike into the truck at the motel and forgo the last hour of the trip. I will proceed solo down the Interstate to Pirate Cove. We will meet up there and I will load my bike into the truck, and we will head "home" to Prescott.
And that's what happens. But before I take off down to the River, I lighten my load. My trailer and my 40 lbs of equipment go into the back of the truck. I refill my two bike bottles with PowerAid. (I'm really starting to get tired of the fluorescent glow in these fluids.) My bike feels like a feather as I head down Route 66 in Old Town Needles in search of the ramp for the Interstate.
As a rule, actually more as a law, bicycles are not allowed on the Interstate Highways, EXCEPT, when there is no other way such as an alternate surface road, to get from point A to point B.
Needles is a nice place. But not expansive. Soon my road is, thankfully and reassuringly, officially marked as "Historic Route 66." This is good. Because you may recall that we actually slept at a motel here for a few hours a few days ago when we dropped the truck off so the truck would be near the end of our journey. That motel, I recall, is, in fact, located right on Route 66. So I knew that if I kept heading into town on the Mother Road, I'd find the motel.
And that's exactly what happens. Not only do I find the motel, but I also find Brother Mark, mumbling about something he was planning to say to our mother.
At this juncture in journey, we have decided to make a big change of plans. Our original travel plans would have us stay in Pirate Cove, a resort and campground just south of Needles, for the night. Then the next three days we would keep pedaling south. When we reached the southern terminus of our trip, we were planning on taking a taxi back to Needles, retrieving Bro's truck, and heading back to Prescott.
Earlier in the day, however, we decided the taxi ride back to Needles was an awkward hassle. So we decided to end our trip at Pirate Cove. We would head back to Prescott tonight. After a day of rest, we will load our bikes back into the truck and ride down to the Tucson, Arizona, area and ride for a couple of days through the world's only "Cacti Forest." (That did happen, and I will blog about it some day.)
But now we still have a logistical dilemma. If we both ride the 12 miles (19 km) down to the Colorado River (Note the word "down") to Pirate Cove, then either one or both us are required to pedal back "up" to Needles to retrieve the truck. Neither of us really want to end the already long-ish 60 mile (100 km) day pedaling back up to Needles, probably in the dark, on the side of Interstate Highway 40.
Bro Mark solves the dilemma. He volunteers to load his bike into the truck at the motel and forgo the last hour of the trip. I will proceed solo down the Interstate to Pirate Cove. We will meet up there and I will load my bike into the truck, and we will head "home" to Prescott.
And that's what happens. But before I take off down to the River, I lighten my load. My trailer and my 40 lbs of equipment go into the back of the truck. I refill my two bike bottles with PowerAid. (I'm really starting to get tired of the fluorescent glow in these fluids.) My bike feels like a feather as I head down Route 66 in Old Town Needles in search of the ramp for the Interstate.
As a rule, actually more as a law, bicycles are not allowed on the Interstate Highways, EXCEPT, when there is no other way such as an alternate surface road, to get from point A to point B.
This is the case today. The original Route 66 road that connected Needles to the bridge across the Colorado River no longer exists. Stretches of ancient road surface are sporadically visible here and there for a few yards (meters), but the Road is crumbling or has already disappeared altogether. Cyclists are therefore "allowed" to ride the shoulder of the Interstate down to the River.
Coming to the Interstate I curve onto the on-ramp and pedal down on the wide and relatively clean and clear of major debris Interstate shoulder. I am making very good time thanks to the gift of gravity on the downgrade.
I only stop once. A necessary stop. All that PowerAid has apparently not been sweated out. That kind of surprises me. The temp has been steadily increasing since we began our descent from Goffs. We are now toasting in mid 90 degree F (mid 30 degree C) temps.
Coming to the Interstate I curve onto the on-ramp and pedal down on the wide and relatively clean and clear of major debris Interstate shoulder. I am making very good time thanks to the gift of gravity on the downgrade.
I only stop once. A necessary stop. All that PowerAid has apparently not been sweated out. That kind of surprises me. The temp has been steadily increasing since we began our descent from Goffs. We are now toasting in mid 90 degree F (mid 30 degree C) temps.
This lack of evaporation requires me to stop and pee along the side of the Interstate. I really don't want to do this. The traffic is substantial. Every motorist going by will know what I am doing despite my discreet partial coverage by a clump of large bushes, and they will drive past laughing at me or disgusted with me.
But this is a case of "When you got to go, you got to go." So I'm "going." And guess who pulls over on the shoulder beside me and honks his horn? Great. Now I am a sideshow.
I finish my business and pull up along the driver's window. Bro Mark lifts up a bag. In the bag are a huge hamburger and French fries. A large Dr Pepper brimming with glistening ice rests in the passenger's cup holder. Bro Mark calls this "motivation." If I finish the last few miles, I get to eat almost real food.
That's all I need. I'm outta here.
I finish my business and pull up along the driver's window. Bro Mark lifts up a bag. In the bag are a huge hamburger and French fries. A large Dr Pepper brimming with glistening ice rests in the passenger's cup holder. Bro Mark calls this "motivation." If I finish the last few miles, I get to eat almost real food.
That's all I need. I'm outta here.
About 15 minutes later, with the mighty Colorado River in full view, I take the last possible exit off the Interstate. Just to my left, down a long wide driveway, is the entrance to Pirate Cove. (I recognize it easy, because I have been here before. Two years ago we ended our Route 66 ride from Ash Fork, AZ to this California border right here. Now we end here again.)
This is an exciting and rewarding moment for me. It represents doing something which just a mere five years ago, I would have never imagined doing; much less believed I would have the physical, mental, and emotional toughness to accomplish.
What have we accomplished? In the past three days we have pedaled across one of the most challenging environments on planet Earth, the Mohave Desert. We have pedaled 176 miles (283 km) along a path once utilized by Native Americans, Spanish and American explorers, hunters, and pioneers, and desperate but determined souls seeking to re-boot their lives after having lost everything but their will to survive. We have encountered and overcome some very rough pavement and extreme temperatures and terrains. But most of all, we have proved to ourselves that life can and indeed should be a grand adventure.
Add this trip distance to our previous trip from the Santa Monica Pier, Los Angeles, to Barstow, California, and we have rode over 325 miles (525 km) across the State of California on as much of Old Route 66 that can be pedaled.
Here's the ride as described by the numbers:
Day 1, Sunday, March 9, 2014, Barstow to Ludlow.
Distance: 83.7 km (51.9 mi)
Average Speed: 13.7 kph (8.3 mph)
Time on Bike: 6 hours, 4 minutes
Total Trip Time: 8 hours, 9 minutes
Day 2, Monday, March 10
Ludlow to Essex (camp under the stars)
Distance: 102 km (63 mi)
Average Speed: 14.4 kph (8.9 mph)
Time on Bike: 7 hours, 2 minutes
Total Trip Time: 11 hours
Day 3, Wednesday, March 10
Essex to Pirate Cove (Needles)
Distance: 98 km (60.5 mi)
Average Speed: 11 kph (6.8 mph)
Time on Bike: 7 hours
Total Trip Time: 10 hours, 30 minutes
A total distance of 283.7 km (176 mi) pedaled across the California Mohave Desert in about 30 hours over a three day period, with an average speed of 13 kph (8 mph).
I feel like I have seen and felt and experienced not only a grand adventure, but also the amazing spirit of this historical road that expressed the hopes and dreams of a society experiencing and emerging from a national and profoundly human crisis.
What next for the Shelley Brother's Cycling Adventures?
Our next ride on Historic Route 66 is now scheduled for May 2016. (Circumstances require we take a break from Route 66 this year.) But we return to Ash Fork, Arizona, in May 2016, turning out bikes eastward on America's Main Street. Our destination: Albuquerque, New Mexico. A ten day, about 400 mile (650 km) ride across the east half of Arizona and west half of New Mexico. We will ride up and over the Continental Divide to the edge of the American Mid-West. And who knows, we might even find ourselves standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.
Our next ride, however, comes in just a couple of months, in late May. Brother Mark and I will be camping out in and pedaling day tours of three amazing National Parks:
Zion National Park http://www.nps.gov/zion/index.
Bryce Canyon National Park http://www.nps.gov/brca/index.
Capitol Reef National Park http://www.nps.gov/care/index.
I'll blog about those adventures.
Not too long after that, our next ride after that finds the Shelley Brothers, and my son, James, pedaling this August on an internationally acclaimed bike route through some of the most beautiful landscapes in the world: A 12 day ride takes us along the shores of the St. Lawrence Seaway from Montreal, Quebec, through Toronto, and along the north and west shores of Lake Ontario to Niagara Falls, and then back to my home on the shores of Lake Huron. A truly grand adventure you will hear all about.
Enjoy these photos and classy commentary on our final day completing California Route 66.
This is an exciting and rewarding moment for me. It represents doing something which just a mere five years ago, I would have never imagined doing; much less believed I would have the physical, mental, and emotional toughness to accomplish.
What have we accomplished? In the past three days we have pedaled across one of the most challenging environments on planet Earth, the Mohave Desert. We have pedaled 176 miles (283 km) along a path once utilized by Native Americans, Spanish and American explorers, hunters, and pioneers, and desperate but determined souls seeking to re-boot their lives after having lost everything but their will to survive. We have encountered and overcome some very rough pavement and extreme temperatures and terrains. But most of all, we have proved to ourselves that life can and indeed should be a grand adventure.
Add this trip distance to our previous trip from the Santa Monica Pier, Los Angeles, to Barstow, California, and we have rode over 325 miles (525 km) across the State of California on as much of Old Route 66 that can be pedaled.
Here's the ride as described by the numbers:
Day 1, Sunday, March 9, 2014, Barstow to Ludlow.
Distance: 83.7 km (51.9 mi)
Average Speed: 13.7 kph (8.3 mph)
Time on Bike: 6 hours, 4 minutes
Total Trip Time: 8 hours, 9 minutes
Day 2, Monday, March 10
Ludlow to Essex (camp under the stars)
Distance: 102 km (63 mi)
Average Speed: 14.4 kph (8.9 mph)
Time on Bike: 7 hours, 2 minutes
Total Trip Time: 11 hours
Day 3, Wednesday, March 10
Essex to Pirate Cove (Needles)
Distance: 98 km (60.5 mi)
Average Speed: 11 kph (6.8 mph)
Time on Bike: 7 hours
Total Trip Time: 10 hours, 30 minutes
A total distance of 283.7 km (176 mi) pedaled across the California Mohave Desert in about 30 hours over a three day period, with an average speed of 13 kph (8 mph).
I feel like I have seen and felt and experienced not only a grand adventure, but also the amazing spirit of this historical road that expressed the hopes and dreams of a society experiencing and emerging from a national and profoundly human crisis.
What next for the Shelley Brother's Cycling Adventures?
Our next ride on Historic Route 66 is now scheduled for May 2016. (Circumstances require we take a break from Route 66 this year.) But we return to Ash Fork, Arizona, in May 2016, turning out bikes eastward on America's Main Street. Our destination: Albuquerque, New Mexico. A ten day, about 400 mile (650 km) ride across the east half of Arizona and west half of New Mexico. We will ride up and over the Continental Divide to the edge of the American Mid-West. And who knows, we might even find ourselves standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.
Our next ride, however, comes in just a couple of months, in late May. Brother Mark and I will be camping out in and pedaling day tours of three amazing National Parks:
Zion National Park http://www.nps.gov/zion/index.
Bryce Canyon National Park http://www.nps.gov/brca/index.
Capitol Reef National Park http://www.nps.gov/care/index.
I'll blog about those adventures.
Not too long after that, our next ride after that finds the Shelley Brothers, and my son, James, pedaling this August on an internationally acclaimed bike route through some of the most beautiful landscapes in the world: A 12 day ride takes us along the shores of the St. Lawrence Seaway from Montreal, Quebec, through Toronto, and along the north and west shores of Lake Ontario to Niagara Falls, and then back to my home on the shores of Lake Huron. A truly grand adventure you will hear all about.
Enjoy these photos and classy commentary on our final day completing California Route 66.
Early morning headwinds continued through the first four or five hours of our day.
Notice wind effect on those rigid Palm Tree branches.
Najah's Desert Oasis really is a desert oasis.
Located where Old Route 66 intersects with Interstate 40.
Some of the best, and possibly only, good food in the region.
Stop and treat yourself sometime.
Just when I thought I was getting lost!
For a brief time we paralleled this older, non-maintained road
which we believe to be an older version of Route 66.
Occasionally we see these older "alignments" that were abandoned
in favour of newer editions of 66.
After more than four hours of brutal headwinds and respect-demanding inclines, we reach Goffs.
At over 2,000 feet, it is the highest elevation we reach on this trip.
Our next stop after Goffs is the city of Needles, at an elevation of 500 feet.
So we thoroughly enjoyed gravity on our side for a few hours.
Goffs is a really interesting place.
Kind of like a dilapidated version of Knott's Berry Farm without any rides and anyone else around.
I'm not really sure where the 23 people populating the "town" live.
We didn't see a single (or married) person.
An abandoned building on the edge of Goffs.
Looking for an investment opportunity?
Note the Century 21 "For Sale" sign inviting your inquiry.
Pavement quality between Goffs and Needles provides a smooth ride.
The long slope from Goffs to Needles.
Upon arriving at Needles the sun was out in full again.
As tempting as Las Vegas might be,
we opted for Needles.
