The Texas Times

Albuquerque wasn't what it was cracked up to be and we still had n0t seen a drop of fresh water in weeks. Marcus and I decided to change the route. We would avoid Oklahoma and Arkansas. Instead, we would head down to Texas towards Austin. We simply couldn't take anymore freeway riding and Taco Bells. Our plan worked, Texas had so much more to offer in each little town including architecture and local food.

The bike from the Grassy Knoll.

Dallas was actually one of the least exciting places we visited and so we left soon after we arrived. To save money we headed had to make camp about 20 miles south of the city at Cedar Hill State Park. We got there after dark. The rate was 19 dollars; an outrageous sum for a "primitive campsite". Our site, which we never found, was a 4 mile ride followed by a 1 mile hike into the clearing. This turned in to a 6 + mile excursion after we took a wrong turn. Creeping down the path nearly blind wasn't the bad part at all. Rather, battling huge spiders and their webs across the path for an hour and a half became grating. We were exhausted and set up our tents in a gravel RV lot by 1 am. At 3 am Marcus awoke to a tent full of ants. By 6am we set off towards Central Texas.

Oh and the fun we had in the 100 degree heat, on a chip-top, gravel-ish road, directly into a headwind. 10 hours and 93 miles later, having had no sleep, we called it a day at Lake Whitney State Park. Marcus discovered that his tent was in complete ruin. No longer just partner cyclists we now became room-mates. We allowed ourselves to sleep in to 8am on account that we had only a 60 mile day ahead of us.
The 60 mile day turned to a 86 mile day. But we did get to see Crawford, TX and had a great lunch in Valley Mills. At Mother Neff state park, we were greeted by William and Eddy. They were in the camp next to us. The two were 78 year old twins. They are also dove hunters, confederate "historians" and unabashed racists. Here is a list of things they hate: blacks, Catholics, New York City, Europe, The UN, The way Yankees make turnip greens and illegal aliens. We couldn't get away from this duo for an hour. I wish just once to meet an old southerner who says something like: "I enjoy learning about other cultures," or "I get excited about the world and change can be a good thing." or "I want to be respectful about my opinions and strive to be flexible."... or something like that.

At dawn we left in a rainstorm. The day was overcast so it didn't get hot until 3pm. Joyously we were greeted by a lightning and thunderstorm 20 miles from Austin. Our day started at 5:30 am, ended at 9:30pm, 136 miles later. This was the ride to end the trip.

I've been there and it is now OK to forget Winona.

We completed our last leg of the Pacific Coast Highway-- Malibu was extremely hilly then everything flattened out as we rode down the bike paths on the beaches of Santa Monica. We were tempted to lock our bikes up and explore the pier but knowing what happened to Pee-Wee in his Big Adventure we declined.

Ok, so we cheated a bit. The Mojave Desert is 93 degrees at night right now, over 100 during the day. With such temperature and at our rate of travel it isn't possible to carry enough water. So we did what everyone does in Los Angeles: we got in a car and waited in traffic for a few hours. Our trip resumed the next day in Arizona.

Flagstaff is such an immaculate little town. Our room for the evening was in the Dubeau Motel Hostel. Open since the 1920's it was a mix of friendly hostel and Route 66 relic. We did not know Flagstaff was the calm before the storm.

I am writing from the breezy porch of the Route 66 Hostel in Albuquerque, NM. However, things have turned for the worst. Our spirits have darkened after several days of grueling 90 mile days which begin at dawn and end after the sun has set. Yesterday was supposed to be a ‘rest day’ according to our schedule, 96 miles later it wasn't.

Our route is based on the wisdom of one Tom Aldrick. See Uldrick.com. Tom, his dear wife Lucille and his doting son Eric are the Lewis and Clark of our trip. They have bestowed upon us (via the internet) a pathway through the very soul of America, the mother road Route 66. For us, Tom is its patron saint. He is our lord, our guide, the key to our salvation. He is our shepherd, and we are his sheep. Get the point? When he promises us a great ride, we believe him. We now consider ourselves Doubting Toms. Our faith in him has been subjected to many and various obstacles. Whilst Tom promises us free and easy downhill passes, we have met arduous climbs. Whilst Tom promises us wonderful vistas of wild horses roaming in green pastures, we have met gnarling dogs snapping at our heels. Whilst Tom has promised us the beauty of small town America, we have met Denny’s, Taco Bell and boarded up Main Streets. America homogeneity is not what we seek. Difficult rides are fine, but when perched atop a saddle consumes every moment, interspersed only by the Grants, NM Motel 6, this defines Chinese water torture. In all likelihood we are going to set a new course forgoing the Denny's of the Texas panhandle, Oklahoma and Arkansas.

I do have a few highlights of the last week:

The Grand Canyon

The Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, AZ (The rooms are really nice)

Mr. Ellison. On the road for six years until the troops come home. 47,000 miles. Marine, patriot, activist, hobo?

The Continental Divide in Continental Divide, NM

Route 66 all to ourselves

800 miles on the odometer. Hundreds and Hundreds to go.

Move Feet in Circular Motion; Repeat

There is something wonderful about looking forward to sleep. No one last chapter or nightcap. No racing of thoughts. Just sleep from exhaustion. How fulfilling to seek food and water not of boredom or a lunch bell but out of necessity. Marcus and I cycle about 80 miles each day, to date about 350 miles. By days end my entire body hurts (especially my butt). We reach camp after dark, eat a well deserved power bar diner and crash. This, in an odd way, is the reward.

The tour of Big Sur was demanding in terms of elevation and gradient. A bi-polar ride of sorts. I felt at times despair and doubt as to whether I could take another hill. I am not sure why exactly but in the midst of this I came across a vista and began to tear up at the precarious beauty. If I had the words I'd be writing a book rather than a blog, so I'll leave it at that.
I've suffered two flats on account of nails in the road. There is more patch than tire now. Outside of Santa Barbara the worst one hit and I was simultaneously pulled over by a really friendly cop. I had missed the turn off and was on a restricted freeway. Unable to fix the flat I ended up walking 6 miles through Goleta, CA. A proper repair was made and I found Marcus waiting patiently in Santa Barbara. There are certainly worse things than that. The trail out was long and flat.

Behind schedule we rode as night fell 20 miles from our intended destination. Some good old boy turned Californian began teasing Marcus about his "riding/dancing britches" while we rested at a 7-11. This 74 year old Alabamian had all the requisites: racist, gun-toting, and extremely friendly to a fellow white-boy from the south (as far as he knew). Eyeballing the ample room in his truck with conviction I stated: "You're just the type of person who understands. I'm not gonna ask for nothing, not with all these people asking from me. When will they learn. It just gets worse everyday." Moments later the bikes were in the back of his truck and we were dropped off 4 miles from Mugu State Beach campground. I call it the night they drove ol' Dixie down... the road.

So many more stories but this clip of Marcus giving an explanation of Burning Man should indicate the fun we are having. Listen up and you may learn how to speak the Queen's English:

Raising Unawareness Day 1-- San Francisco to Pigeon Point

Traveling down the California Pacific Highway my tour will begin. I cannot tell you how excited I am. I am equally scared.

I've had tremendous luck finding a riding partner, Marcus from England. He is to arrive here in SF in just a few hours. We have so many preparations to make. This includes purchasing a bike for him and all the accoutrement. My bike will be fitted with rear panniers, changes of clothing, sleeping bag, tent, GPS, water, and my blue blazer (in case I am invited out for drinks at the Barstow Country Club, one never knows and I'd hate to be under dressed).

I've loaded my ipod with This American Life episodes, the entire Delibes opera Lakme, Nina Simone, Phillip Glass and George Jones. As for reading I will pack Under the Volcano by Malcolm Lowry.

Admittedly, I am unprepared for this journey. I have not been on a bicycle in months. Instead, while lounging around reading I've been smoking, drinking and eating-- like it was my job. Last week I did take the bike from 18th Ave to the bar at 11th Ave.

The route takes us down the California coast, across Route 66, finally dropping down in Arkansas, Mississippi and Alabama. Arriving home approximately 34 days from the start. Big Sur, The Cadillac Ranch, Grand Canyon and various scenes from Pee Wee's Big Adventure here I come.

Ride to Raise Unawareness of Obesity

Captain Larry e-mailed a few day ago. He left a day before my passport arrived. Thank God. He is currently bobbing (and has been for a week) in the Gulf of Campeche. Broken boat. Count me out. Oppositely, Captain Ungar, a retried attorney from Santa Cruz is headed to the South Pacific later this year. Count me in. I suppose a terrestrial activity in the mean time will have to do. This is my Surly "Long Haul Trucker".
I told my my Mother I was heading home. See you in 40 days, I said. I'm riding to raise unawareness of obesity. My mother, great decipherer of BS replied: "You can just take a plane, no one cares if you do something momentous."

Hemingway does LA

Grumpy Unkie, now at the wheel, began complaining about Los Angeles traffic by the time we hit Needles, NV. The very moment we saw the downtown skyline the highway ended and we were trapped in a Range Rover/Mercedes-Benz parking lot. We pulled off onto Ventura Blvd. to look for a hotel. We found one and in doing so discovered the ghost of Ernest Hemingway.

I spotted it. Such a preposterous name. The Sportsmen’s Lodge Hotel. Opened in 1880. Every star who matters to me has stayed there. This includes Bobby Kennedy the night before he died. Nothing has changed since 1945. Sitting at the pool bar I sunk in to the mid-century world I fancy so much-- gleefully expatriated from the 21^st.

We took a tour of Bel Air. It being 4^th of July weekend the place was empty. Looking out over the valley it seemed like a thick San Francisco fog was rolling in. Oddly this fog was burnt sienna in color. Still, Los Angeles is beautiful and so many of the homes we saw were elegant. LA isn’t for me, but I can see how it would be a nice playground from the back of a Rolls.

I want to cholla something

Took the scenic route from Las Vegas to Los Angeles through Joshua Tree National Park. Pictured above is the cholla garden. These little cacti are also called jumping cactus because invariably one of the spikes will get you. It was around 5 o' clock so we had an impromptu happy hour there at the garden. Droves of European tourists pulled their midsize rentals in for a picture. They were all friendly, and assumed correctly that we were American. I'm sure they deduced this by our midsections or possibly my uncanny cowboy pose.

Lass Vegass

Let me first make one concession. After a night in Las Vegas I texted Jon wondering what he could possibly see in the place. Food and gambling was his answer. So yes, one can gamble in Vegas.

Gambling is a rather dull sport which I have mastered in my own way-- look as if you are gambling just enough to get free drinks. My elaborate ruse became unnecessary once I had endeared myself with the staff. I did so by openly mocking the clientele. My favorite was Captain Kirk. He, a Mormon preacher, explained that by rubbing the machines in a certain way one could share DNA with the computer. The logic was that “man invented computer, so computer can read man.” The caveat being one could only play blackjack. By playing this game you could move faster than the conniving, computer blackjack dealer. And he was right, I won $6.45!

The Captain’s story is a sad one. This man of God, who was visited by Jesus twice, has been asked by the Church to stop ministering. I don’t know why, but I think the Church may be wrong on this one… an anomaly of course.

I suppose I would liken the casino experience to a night club where the dress code allows fanny packs. But, maybe it is more akin to a money viewing gallery for pretty girls from Iowa. What ever Vegas is, it will forever be free from glowering Rob in the way of the elevated, air-conditioned sidewalks.

Stepping outside of the casino is to behold a vast landscape. Dotted every few inches is architecture I would call neo-Pulte. Owning a great debt to Rococo period architecture, the simple form of the Las Vegas suburban expanse is breathtaking; one should note the limited use of windows, craftsmanship, sidewalks, authenticity and material. I take solace remembering that the un-sustainability of this desert city is a fait accompli.
I was at least rewarded by a rare summer rain the day I left. The Hoover Dam was pretty.

Death Valley

Unkie and I got our supplies ready for the trip to Death Valley:
1 tube braunschweiger
1 box Carr's crackers
1 jug water
and... as we wandered through the Lone Pine IGA standing in front of the beer fridge we pondered our options. Miller High Life, St. Pauli Girl or maybe a summer ale. I jokingly (but not actually joking) suggested we grab some Mickey's Big Mouths. He and I now have an indelible bond.
2 40 oz. Mickey's
On the east coast water is so plentiful. The west is quite arid and the improbability of a city like LA is easily recognized. Leaving Lone Pine towards Death Valley one must cross Owens "Lake". Los Angeles diverted the water sources for this lake 4 hours to the south. It is now a shallow salt water area. Yet it would seem like a tropical paradise compared to our destination.

It's only an hour drive or so into Death Valley. One can actually feel the heat growing. Putting my hand out of the window there was an actual burning sensation-- the air is completely unforgiving and wind feels quite like a convection oven might. It was 118 degrees in the shade. At 3 o' clock, temperatures were reported at 122 degrees.

The best part about visiting the desert during the summer is the German tourist watching. They are everywhere. No English can be heard. At the Corkscrew bar in Furnace Creek one just had to close their eyes and be transported to Berlin. They all bought bottles of red wine and ate hot dogs. Wierdos. It was so hot, some even went sockless in their sandals-- most however did at least opt for white instead of black socks.

When I took this picture hundreds of cameras were snapping as I was mistaken for Cute Knut.

ECV

It has now been more that a month since leaving Atlanta-- although I’d count my time in San Fran as my old routine. Such is the reason I have left. One particularly dull and woozy night at Unkie’s place we hatched a plan to do a little exploring: Yosemite, Death Valley, Las Vegas, Joshua Tree and LA. It would take a week. The trip would end on the 4^th of July. A particularly fitting date as, in the most unsentimental of terms, one cannot imagine the natural wealth of this nation. This is what I have discovered.

We loaded up the “red wiener” (the Mercury) and left early in the morning. Across the vast strip malls and highway exits just a few hours from the coast lays the inspiration of Ansel Adams. Yosemite National Park is positively breathtaking. Irrespective of the ipod in my hand or the reception of my cell phone I could not help but think of the first people to cross this place. The awesome sight of both towering mountains and gushing streams must have been, and remains, sublime.

Around 10:30am we found the only bar in the park. There at the Ahwahnee Hotel Unkie talked about the Redwoods in California. “You know Rob the largest tree in the world is in California… and, here is the greatest testament of 19^th century thinking, it took them a year and a half to figure how to cut it down.” The second largest tree was removed of all its bark by Brits on scaffolding for reproduction in England and consequently it died. Finally, the third largest has a hole cut in it for cars to travel through. It too will die soon.

The first night we stayed in Lone Pine, CA. It’s an old western/mining town. Unkie insisted on staying there. That night at the Double LL bar he revealed why. We are honorary E Clampus Vitus members. I'm thinking of starting my own chapter. E-mail me about membership inquiries.

Bar Hoping

San Francisco is about 7x7 so the act of bar hopping is easily done. I made a few new SF friends the week prior. I asked each of them to take me out on a typical night on the town. Each live in different parts of the city and go to very different places. Here is a synopsis of last week around San Francisco pictorially with unreliable narration.

Jason is a bar tender at The Hearth, he took me out. Jason is a photographer with some remarkable war-zone, photo journalism experience. We talked about his experiences as we took cabs around town. We ended up going to Hemlock, Annie's Social Club, and the 540 Club. Apparently he also made a habit of whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

"Aunt" Marianne and I made our way along the Coastal Trail to the Cliff House for some much deserved Martinis. Then Scott took me to a great Richmond District bar, The Bitter End. I challenged the two girls next to us to a game of pool. They proceeded to beat us the next 7 games, bought us drinks with a smirk and left us standing on the street.

Lunch at Swan Oyster House opened in 1912 (still, eat oysters on the east coast) with Amy then retired to her roof. This was followed by a pitcher at Zeitgeist. Wine tasting with Andrew and Olivia in the Pacific Heights/Russian Hill area, then bar hopping in the Tenderloin of all places.



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Last night in San Fran hung was in the Haight during gay pride.

Look for the giant pink triangle on the hill in the background. Went to some Russian girl's house party and ended the night at a great jazz club, Club Deluxe at Height and Ashbury. Walking home that night across Golden Gate Park I decided that had to get out of San Fran. This is exactly what I did.

Mission District Accomplished

-->I latched up with friends of my old roommate Phil. Met them at Dolores Park in the Mission District. We sat in the park for quite awhile. The entire hill side was covered by the usual social groups and their respective activity—hippies, hipsters, gays/drum circles, bikes and dogs, sun tanning.

When it got too cold we went to a great Mission District bar The 500 Club. In Atlanta the “industry shot” is Grand Marnier or Jagermeister; in San Francisco people shoot Fernet Branca. And so that is what we did, it is really bitter. I have heard this a few times now, “Have you had a shot of Fernet yet? It’s the worst thing you’ve ever tasted. I’ll buy you one.” 

Dick's International

I needed a hair cut desperately, it was suggested that I head over to Dick's International. Best hair cut ever. Playboys and Hemmings Motor News strewn about. $12. And, a straight razor shave.

Just as we reach the Sweeney Todd part I hear from a door, "Daddy, Daddy" and little kids rush in to greet their father. Kids scare me already (this is an established fact) but kids and razor blades to my throat bring this to a new level. I already couldn't swallow for fear my adam's apple would be spliced in two, then these little moppets flood in, buzzing around like gnats. I survived, but barely.

My friend Cat from Atlanta just moved to SF. We met up to window shop in the Downtown Union Square area. I have now been to 7 Ralph Lauren store across the country. I should inquire about sponsorship. We got hungry and said we would stop at the first place we saw. We were so lucky to find the The California Pizza Kitchen. My cheeseburger pizza was so fresh.

We actually went to the second place we saw Tadich Grill. It is California's oldest restaurant. Established in 1849. It's 160 years old. Sitting at the 80 foot bar I had a perfect Manhattan, crab, oysters, herring and so on. The motto of the place is "The Original Cold Day Restaurant" which was rather fitting considering it was about 55 degrees out and windy. At the end of the night I walked back past jazz clubs, people kissing, hipsters, tourists, the Cartier store, criss-crossing cable cars. If I get stuck here, I suppose that would be OK with me.

Scopes Monkey Travel

I split a cab from the Ferry Building to the Richmond District. My uncle has lived in San Fran (in the exact same rent controlled place) since 1981. Had the cab drop me off at The Hearth. I entered to a standing ovation from extra-middle aged regulars. I'll be staying with him for a week or two.


Typical scene outside The Hearth and my crash pad here in SF. As we stood outside the bar, catching up, Uncle stopped and uttered "Uh oh, not again" and found some treasure. We took a trip around the city in his 1991 Mercury Capri. It's a classic, sorta. And a ride over the Golden Gate to Marin County.



Here I am in Marin, that thing on my head was purchased the evening before at a 7/11 around 3 am.

California Choo-Choo and LOCO-motion.

At 3:45 in the morning the Super Shuttle came to bring me back to Denver International. I found Denver's Union Station in time to catch the 8:05 "all aboard" call for the California Zephyr.
I would be on this train for 38 hours. For those of you who have never rode Amtrak here are some general truths:














Cowboy Larry will, finally, get off at Winnemucca, UT and go back to his cattle ranch. (This is us in the "bar car")


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There are two general types of riders: octogenarians and schizophrenics (and often this overlaps). Possibly the best thing about a moving train are geriatrics trying to move about it. The elderly look like al dente noodles, wiggling about-- in how they walk and in their fingers and skin. A chorus of Andy Rooneys can be heard at all hours. Notable quotes: "That mountain used to a whole lot bigger " and "Children shouldn't be allowed on trains, it's too dangerous." At each stop the Octo's rush to the Observation Car; peering out, they safely gawk at those of us who step off for a smoke.

One must accept this fact, you are going to be on the train for a long, long time-- the train goes 35 mph most of the time. Make friends and take NyQuil. As people begin to realize the gravity of a 38 hour train ride everyone is interested in some companionship and colloquy. I remarked to myself how comfortable I became. I watched the Rockies rise green and lush then crumble in to the desert. At night the rolling of the train and the darkness of Utah outside the window put me to sleep. I woke up in Reno and had some lunch in the Dinner Car. I ate while over looking Lake Tahoe. Hours and many new friends later I arrived in San Francisco.