Down To Beatty

The “breakfast” part of “bed and breakfast” was quite pleasant. There was one other guest but I never saw her, since she departed early in the morning. It was just me at the dining room table, looking out into the back yard, while the owner rustled up a plate of eggs and toast.

We didn’t talk much, but I did ask what inspired her to get so many peacocks. “Did you just start with two and they multiplied or something?”

“No, they were already wandering around when this place was a brothel.”

I laughed. I guess it made sense. Exotic rooms, exotic birds…

When I stepped outside I discovered why they had been so loud at night. There was a railing next to the building right outside my bedroom window, and the birds were roosting along it in a line, facing the wall. They had been just a few feet from my ears the entire night. I pointed this out to the owner and she apologized, but gave no indication that she’d change anything to stop it from happening again.

“Oh well,” I thought. “It’s not my problem now. This is probably the one time in my entire life that I’ll be on this highway, in fact.”

I cued up an audiobook and got to pedaling. The day wasn’t as hot as yesterday, so I drank less water, which meant fewer pee stops, which meant more continuous time in the saddle. Hours sailed by as I gazed at the dusty landscape.

For a while I amused myself by yelling random things out loud, knowing that nobody could hear me. “Sassen fracken backen!!” I yelled. “Blithering blarney-stones! Blatherskite! Balderdash! Brig’ a Doooon!” I shouted the lyrics to “Au Contraire” by They Might Be Giants, then practiced my fake Scottish accent. Eventually I settled on screaming the word “UNDERPANTS!!” over and over at top volume.

I imagined a historian, following alongside me on their own bicycle, documenting my important words for future civilizations to ponder. Then I imagined getting flattened by a truck.

The historian would survey the wreckage, sigh, and then write with a flourish: “Let the record show that the last thing he said before he died was the word ‘underpants.'”

“Perfect,” I thought. … “UNDERPAAANTS!!!”

The hills ran out, and the road became one long downhill glide, with a roomy shoulder, unspooling beneath my wheels for over an hour. “Fantastic!” I thought, and even made a little video to remember it.

After enjoying that for a while I encountered the remnants of another brothel, with an amusing sign.

Angel’s ladies are closed! You’ll just have to wait for the afterlife to enjoy them, my friends.

I peed on the sign, since it offered concealment from the road. Then I noticed this amusing piece of junk nearby:

It was covered with an incredible sticker collection. Too bad it’s all the way out here where no one can admire it.

Probably a prop from Burning Man, dropped here by someone who either wanted to store it, it just abandon it without trying to recycle the materials.

A few miles after that lovely exhibit I finally coasted into the town of Beatty. First thing I did was walk into the casino, hoping for a cheap room. They were nearly 200 dollars. Ugh! Next thing I did was walk over to the Motel 6. Less than 100 dollars! Better.

I never did get consensus from the locals on how this town’s name is pronounced. One person claimed it was Beatty like the name “Betty”, another said it was like the word “bait” with an “e” tacked on. It was just a pit stop for me, so I didn’t keep asking.

A good, breezy day of riding! Making good progress across the state. As it got dark outside I caught up on work and ate snacks. Soon I would have to decide whether to head south into Death Valley, or try and detour around it for safety purposes.