I started this ride late, since I forgot my helmet. Both the helmets I already own are customized for Bike Party, so instead of driving home, I got a third one. I’m LIVIN’ LARGE!
La dropped me off at the top of Quimby Road, and I’d gone no more than 15 yards when I saw a freshly dead snake on the shoulder. It was a big one – about four feet long – and still flexible. I collected it into a large ziploc bag and carried it with me for the rest of the trip, so I could deliver it to Monica at the UC Berkeley Museum of Vertebrate Zoology. The things we do for science!!
The park was splendid. I paused to chomp a sandwich and saw a bunny hop slowly over the road. Partway down Hotel Trail I saw a series of clustered holes in the road, each boiling over with large black ants, so I grabbed a shot of that. Many flowers were in bloom, and I had a sneezing fit from some of the pollen. Good thing I had a lot of water.
On my way up Highway 130, out of the valley, I caught a glimpse of a frog in my headlight, and stopped to grab a picture. It was slowly crawling across the road, towards the thick bushes on the eastern edge, and the lake beyond. I decided to give it some help, so it didn’t become a froggie pancake. For my troubles, it peed all over me. Good thing I still had lots of water to rinse off with!
I’ve left the depressing city of Emmett, and am on my way up into the hills past Horseshoe Bend, towards Garden Valley. The shoulder is fairly wide but a bit ragged with weeds, and the road has a mild slope, so I’m pedaling slower than usual. I’m looking ahead of me to see a clear path around the weeds and occasional rocks.
Suddenly, about 40 yards ahead, a ground squirrel pops up out of a hole in the shoulder and begins to run straight at me, full-throttle. I’m unwilling to throw myself off the road or swerve into traffic, so I just I stare at it, confused, as it closes gap between us with impressive speed. When it’s about five feet from my front wheel I blurt out, “WHAT?!”, and the squirrel does a sharp left turn and cannonballs off the shoulder, into a bush.
I have no idea what the hell it was thinking.
Just beyond Garden Valley, late in the afternoon, I attempt some “stunt photography”: I dig the camera out of the saddlebag while I’m riding the bike, and rest it on my lap as I remove the lens cap and adjust the exposure and zoom. Then I hold it up to take a photo of my own shadow as it rushes over the road.
I’m pedaling into a headwind, going about half the speed I usually do, through a long twisty canyon. Since the terrain is moving very slowly, I put on an audiobook: The Affair Of The Bloodstained Egg Cosy. Turns out to be an engagingly written whodunit, painted from the Agatha Christie paintbox. The descriptions of austere English countryside and dark manor houses is a severe contrast to my environment, but that kind of adds to the appeal.
Once I leave the museum I begin ascending a series of steep, exhausting hills. To pass the time, I continue listening to my collection of DJ Zog’s noise shows, arranged in reverse-chronological order. The higher I climb, the older the shows get, until finally I’m at the summit of a mountain. As I take the following picture, Zog is in my earphones screaming about the loss of his fantastic dancing cow, Bessie, who could do the polka, the cha-cha, and also drive a car. Late in the program she enters the spirit world and drives Tammy Fake Bakker over a cliff.
I am in Juntura, sitting at the counter of the Oasis Restaurant, Motel, and RV Park. Terry the cook, a huge red-headed man in a yellow shirt, has just refilled my cup of icewater for the second time. I have consumed an incredible amount of water this day.
A group of leather-clad men have cruised up on a variety of motorcycles, and are now standing around at the counter, trying to decide whether to stay and eat. The most talkative man, a short, broad-chested fellow with well-groomed facial hair, strikes up a conversation with me about the route. I’m heading East, and his group is heading West. I learn that he is originally from Quebec, and speaks fluent French, but moved down to Miami years ago.
“Why’d you move?” I ask.
“I just got tired of the snow,” he says, and laughs.
“So you traded the snow for the heat?”
“Well, not really. When it gets real hot I just drive north again. So I’ve ended up going back and forth for years.”
We chat some more, and Terry brings the man some lemonade. “Here ya go. Great for this hot weather. It was up over a hundred today. Hundred and ten in places.”
“I’d believe it,” I say, and gulp more water.
“Pretty hot,” agrees the man.
“So, what’s worse,” I ask him, “the heat here or the heat in Miami?”
“The heat in Miami. Actually not just the heat, it’s the humidity. The humidity just kills you.”
Terry asks, “How far have you ridden?”
The man says, “3500 miles in eight days.”
Terry whistles.
“Oh yeah?” I say. “I’ve ridden about … 300 miles in eight days!”
Later on I’m talking about phone coverage, and technology, with a patron at a nearby table. Terry is back at the counter moving glasses around.
“So, see, it’s a phone,” I say, and show the man the virtual keypad. “And it also does maps,” I say, and I open up a map of Juntura and scroll around. “And it also takes photos,” I say, and show him a picture of the road from a few days ago. I pinch the picture to zoom it, which makes the man blink in surprise.
“That is amazing,” says the man.
Terry leans over the counter and says, “You can tell we don’t get out much around here.”
