Mike's Journal

Brown to Red

Day 13
Eureka Nevada to Ely Nevada
83 Miles – 33 by bike; 50 in the back of a pick up truck

I awoke this morning swimming in comfort. There are few treats more delicious to an exhausted body than a night spent in a bed after thirteen on therm-a-rest. The decision to check into the hotel last night was brilliant! Word came this morning that yesterday’s dark clouds delivered hours of heavy rain at the campground upon the summit. Jeff and I are glad to be clean and dry. After breakfast we set out again. Our sleeping bags, cameras, and computers are packed within plastic garbage bags to protect them from precipitation; lingering showers? I feel recharged by the restful night; lighthearted and excited to enter the rain; it will be a welcome break from days of dry heat and desert monotony. For the first time we don our lightweight Gore-Tex rain jackets. I notice our reflection in a window as we ride out of town. We look strong and amphibious, ready for the elements. Flipping through a catalogue of mental images I conclude that this is the best we have looked in weeks and I drift... Perhaps a couple of smart, attractive, young, single, non-lesbian women in a Subaru, old Volvo, or VW Bus (pre-1980) will pull over, introduce themselves, and join us for a cup of tea. Jeff and I carry a variety of fine loose-leaf teas from Peet’s for these situations, should they ever arise.

At the summit (four miles in to the 83 mile day) the rain is moderate and I’m becoming uncomfortably cold. I put on my black long-sleeve shirt for added warmth and ride down the mountain. The rain is steady. Within an hour it is coming down in sheets. The temperature drops again, and the rain becomes hail, then freezing rain, and hail again. At 23 miles the riding has become unbearable. For obvious reasons Hwy 50 in the desert has not been engineered with a crown to facilitate drainage, so we ride through a 1” to 6” layer of water. Our tires waste precious energy as they plow through the endless puddle throwing up visually striking but completely unnecessary rooster-tails. It is the exact opposite of a water wheel and I feel as if I’m riding through mud. The spray from my front tire is directed by the crosswind and my left foot is caught in a constant deluge; it is now soaked and freezing. The upside; my shoes are no longer dusty.

Jeff and I wait for the rain to pass before we stop to eat lunch, but the storm is relentless. The lightning, which until this point has been illuminating mountaintops miles away, now flashes directly overhead. Our rain soaked gear weighs somewhere close to 120 lbs and we’re moving at a snails pace. Jeff considers our speed and remaining distance noting that if things don’t change we won’t reach Ely ‘till 10:00 or 11:00pm. The lightening again flashes overhead. This isn’t safe.

There are occasional passing pick up trucks and Jeff suggests throwing up a thumb to get us out a bad situation. I have mixed feelings about this. Some part of me is attached to the thought of riding every single mile to Maine, to the purity of the endeavor. Another part of me recognizes the inherent danger in this situation and the freedom that can come with embracing challenges and adventures as they arise, making decisions in the moment, and not worrying what other people will think. I know it’s silly but I wonder what I will say when people ask if I pedaled every mile to Maine. I want to say yes, but why? Is this for me? them? my Ego? I want to take The Great Sitting as it comes. I want live free; like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn… so we put up a thumb.

Perhaps the obsessive part of me will make up the lost miles along the way with off route side trips.…

The fourth car to pass us, the hitchhiking cyclists, is a large white pick up. It pulls over and offers a ride. The driver, a strong, young construction worker on his way home from a job in Elko can’t believe that we’re out in this weather. He already has four guys in the cab, but says that we’re more than welcome to hop in the back if we like. Jeff and I accept the offer without hesitation. With our bikes, we lay amongst a truck load of coolers, tools, and green military duffle bags. As the truck pulls back onto the road we smile and laugh and celebrate our good fortune. My position in the truck is rather precarious. I sit perched atop the previously mentioned cargo. For safety reasons I decide to leave on my bike helmet. I figure it will protect my head if I happen to fall out of the truck. The speed limit is 70 MPH though our truck seems to be comfortable cruising between 80 and 90. At high speeds the hail is not only cold and wet, now it strikes my skin and stings, it feels like frozen gravel flung up by a weed-wacker from less than five feet away. I tuck my head down as far as I can but my positions are limited; my right ear can not escape the elements. I begin to shiver. I secure my position by holding on to the right side of the truck bed with my right hand while I push on the left side of the truck bed with my feet. The wind chill brings on numbness with a fury. I am a sailor sailing through icy seas; around Cape Horn in winter. I look up to see where we are; again the wind and rain again pummel my face. A beard is necessary for this type of endeavor but I do not have one because they are itchy. I am exhilarated; this is 10 times more exciting than any white water rafting trip I have ever been on. I focus. Jeff comes out of his self-preserving tuck position and gives me a look of utter despair. “I feel fucked up.” He says. All I can do is laugh. My right hand no longer stings or feels tingly; it has no feeling at all, and for a brief moment I wonder what it takes (time, temperature, etc.) for frostbite to set in. I see Jeff reach for one of his Panniers and I can’t believe it; he’s got balls of steel and he’s going to take a picture… no, he’s trying to get at something else… maybe he wants his fleece? Suddenly there is a flash of black. Jeff has pulled out a garbage bag and it fills with wind instantly. He wants to wear the bag for warmth but it’s no use. The bag and Jeff wrestle for five minutes and there is no clear winner. It whips in the wind and becomes wrapped around his neck, part snake and part angry scarf. I watch the hills go by much faster than they have in weeks and notice a sign, “Fire Danger EXTREEME Today.” Bullshit. This is in some ways the most difficult and exciting part of the trip thus far. There is no way I can communicate how it felt back there. No way.

When we arrive in Ely, Jeff and I jump out of the truck and rain continues to fall. My right hand is completely white and my fingers are blue; movement is impossible. Jeff shakes around clumsily trying to get warm. The driver of the truck comes out to help us unload. We thank him again and again and he attempts to shake my hand… it is still white and blue. The driver is visibly shaken and asks us if we need anything else. We say no and head off to find coffee; warm, warm coffee. In all honesty I think riding in that truck was far more difficult than pedaling 50 miles.

Day 14
Ely Nevada to Baker Nevada
63 Miles

Everything dries out so quickly in the Desert. 63 miles are ridden. There are seven identical valleys and mountain ranges and then one is different. I wave hello to the Snake Mountains and Great Basin National Park for Nate and wonder if the desert will ever end.

Day 15
60 Miles
Baker Nevada to the desert west of Milford, Utah

My mind is not typically fragile. I endure and persevere, but things are different out here. There is a mental element in the desert hat seems to accentuate the physical fatigue brought on by riding one’s bike all day through such a vast place. With roads unchanging, straight lines through sagebrush, it’s easy to wonder if there is any movement at all. My legs feel awful. I begin to chafe. Jeff and I pull over to rest. My shorts sting against my raw skin, and there are no cars around so I walk naked down HWY 50 to let my skin air out and heal. I feel crazy. Twenty minutes later as we sit on opposite sides of the Jeff fumbles with pebbles and asks “Hey man… do you wanna just throw rocks at each other for a while?”

“That’s not a bad idea.” I reply

We regain our strength later in the day and make the decision to ride through the darkness. Under stars, Under Mars, Without Cars… to escape this desert prison
Without bars… In Utah.

Day 16
47 Miles
The desert west of Milford, Utah to The desert East of Minersville, Utah
Happy Birthday Dad!

Jeff and I simultaneously experience a total mental collapse. Milford is in a valley ten miles below a mountain summit. It can be seen throughout the entire descent but there is a strong headwind and we move slowly. The town doesn’t seem to get any closer. Not any closer; not any closer; not any closer not any closer. I am short of breath and feel a sense of panic. To keep myself going I think about sex.

I rest under a tree in Milford while Jeff talks on the phone with Keri. I finish my book, Jim Harrison’s Sundog. It was good. I inscribe a note inside the cover and leave it at the front door of the town library. What will I read next?

Jeff and I long for social contact and spend four hours at the Sinclair gas station in Minersville. It feels like a scene from Mad Max. Every one in this town rides dirt bikes and quads to travel from house to house. A couple of 13 year old boys talk to us for three hours. They ask us if we hunt bears and if we chew.

Day 17
40 miles
The Desert east of Minersville to Cedar City.

Mecca, a city in the desert. Cedar City offers salvation. There are 20,000 people here, smart people, a university. Coffee shops, book stores. We rest. The rocks are turning red in the landscape and the Canyon Lands await.

Posted by Mike at June 22, 2004 09:26 AM