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.