California: Full Circle

Welcome to California! Crossing the Colorado River, we lean our steel bicycles up against the most iconic sign of our trip. Although we still must cross a dry, windy desert and respectable mountain range, this signifies reaching the final state. The light at the end of the tunnel. People speed by and hold confused glances as we get a majority of our trip’s posing photos out of the way in a single shoot on the side of the highway. Taking turns hanging from the sign. Throwing triumphant thumbs-ups into the air. Wes meditating on the white line as semis zip past his right knee. Throwing an arm over each other’s shoulders in acknowledgement of doing it together. We’ve pedaled from his home state to mine. With one more high-five, we mount our bikes and resume pedaling onward.

WHOOP WHOOP! Jolted by a police siren, I nearly bounce out of my seat into the sandy ditch. I look back to find a police SUV roughly fifteen feet behind us, sirens blazing. As we pull over to the side of the highway, Officer Contrero remains in his car and radios the situation into dispatch. Stepping out of his vehicle and approaching us, I start the conversation. Wes knows the drill. I'm the one who deals with the authorities.

“Good thing that siren was as loud and close as it was! I’m not sure I would have heard it had you been a little more gentle with it!”

Wes looks at me and realizes this is the first time he’s ever seen me show a little sass towards authority. Maybe we should have assumed different roles, but it's too late. The speaker has been chosen and forward is the only way out of this.

“You can’t be riding your bicycles on the interstate,” he explains to us.

“I thought the law was exempt in areas without an alternative?”

“You can ride along that road,” he says as he points to a crumbling road, which parallels the interstate. Dividing the area between the road and us is a barbwire fence. Crumbling is an understatement of its condition, but best describes what asphalt does once it's a decade or two past its final year.

“You’d prefer I ride that treacherous road rather than this smooth and wide shoulder?” questioning as I point at the shoulder with ten ample feet of width.

“That’s the law,” he replies with a smile.

I’m losing myself at this point. Zero to a hundred, real quick. I have an utmost amount of respect for the lawmen and the duties they perform. I’m always the one calming everybody else down and speaking with officers in a calm and respectful manner. However, this instance involves dealing with an unreasonable man who lacks common sense, regardless of his profession.

“Seems it is. Would you mind if we ride the shoulder to the next exit and ride the crumbling road from there?”

“I’d have to write you a ticket if you did that,” he responds.

“How about we ride, or walk back to the exit we just passed?” I ask in a matter of premeptive disbelief because I know what his response is going to be. We are no more than 200 yards past the interstate exit.

“It’s illegal to travel against traffic on the shoulder,” he replies while sucking back a corner of his mouth and raising his eyebrows, “I’d have to write you a ticket for that too.” His arms are crossed. Sorry, but there are only three reasons one should cross their arms during a conversation. 1. They're cold and shivering. 2. Their arm is injured. 3. They're a dickhead. This guy wasn't cold or injured.

“You really wanna see us jump this fence, huh?”

“You can do whatever you’d like,” he replies, “I’ll stay here to make sure you guys get there safely.” People love to emphasize any singular word that justifies their actions while also disregarding your needs or desires. It should be required that all individuals must use their hands to throw up air quotes during these moments in order to show the world their true intentions.

Wes stares at the man in disbelief and disapproval. He wants to tell the man that he's not upset, he's just disappointed. He knows he has nothing to say that will remedy the current situation. This man is searching for satisfaction in our discomfort and it's clear that he has the upper hand in every way. There is only one way out of this. Wes reaches for the 12-inch knife he's carried all the way across this great country. No, no, no...he doesn't do that, but he really has carried that knife for far too long. It's heavy. Really heavy.

Biting our tongues in the reality of the moment, we begin to remove the panniers from our bicycles. Wes jumps over the fence while I begin handing him our bicycles and gear. Officer Contrero peels away from the shoulder, crosses the divided area of the interstate and pulls over a car approaching from the coming direction. We complete the barbwire hop with sirens flashing and it feels like the chase scene out of a police drama. To our further disbelief, it urns out we were actually stopped next to the most intact area of the frontage road parallel to the highway. Riding onward, we find ourselves on a road in such distress that heaving bumps and sandy voids make up a majority of the road. Only occasionally is a safely navigable section found in which the road still remains. Each of these holes has potential to shred a tube or, even worse, taco a rim. Roadside blemishes in the magnitude of 3-4” edges pass us by as we slowly lose our patience. Though we need to be careful in this situation, blasting through it with speed seems the only way in which we’ll mentally conquer this section. Wes takes off ahead and I follow in his frustrated wake. Our day’s destination is one that has been on our minds for weeks. An oasis at the end of a trying day.

My Uncle Johan has informed us of a hot spring, with free access, located in close proximity to this treacherous road. We arrive to find a pool of water surrounded by Mexican fan palms. The sun begins to set as we lean our bikes against two of these giants, I walk over to the pool and dip my toes in to find it fairly cool. My eyes adjust to the dim light and I make out a plume of steam rising from the palms across the pond. We make our way to the other side of the pond and find two concrete pools filled with warm water. Steam is rising from the surface similar to the visuals the come with pulling the cover off a hot tub on a cold winter day. Adjacent one pool is a showering fountain, shooting hot water straight up into the air like a geyser, then falling back to the concrete floor after making a fifteen-foot arch. We join the group of people already present and quickly fall into conversation with two guys visiting from Mexico. They live in Mexicali, yet visit quite often on the weekends. Asking to pardon our ignorance, we ask them what the process is for doing so. I grew up under the impression it was very difficult for most Mexicans to cross into the states at their leisure.

“I have an education, home and high paying job in Mexico,” he explains, “they know I have no interest in living in America!”

“You wouldn’t want to leave either after seeing the true beauty of Mexico,” he adds.

We fall asleep near the Mexican fan palms, looking out at the clear night skies. We listen to trucks throttle by on the nearby interstate as the modern hustle blends with the tranquility of nature. Good conversation, generous gulps of Hornitos and a steaming hot desert oasis has kept us up later than planned. I roll around on my mat and watch a small bird hop around in the bushes. I restlessly try to fall asleep, but my mind won’t turn off. Hitting California has made the eminent end seem far more real. I lay on my mat knowing that within a few days I’ll be back to a life I know and am comfortable within. In some ways I look forward to reaching our end goal. At the same time, I’m about as free as one can be. At this moment in time I don’t have to get to sleep by a time that will make my morning alarm seem bearable. I don’t have any specific place I need to be tomorrow and onward is really my only destination. I’m not leaning up against my truck as I pump twenty-four gallons of dinosaur into it. I still have the excuse of not having service for days on end. I’m stilling riding my bike all day and every day until I reach the end goal, which is something as simple and silly as placing my toes in one ocean after pulling them from another ocean months ago. I'm sure that I actually miss, and am looking forward to, some of those monotonous tasks in life that I try to loathe in my words. However there's little beauty in convincing myself that I appreciate the simple things, so I'll keep romanticizing the freedom of adventure for now. I remind myself that this is possibly the most free I’ll ever be in my life and that there are still a few days of it remaining. With that, I smile and drift off to sleep in a mood of accepted tranquility.

Waking up the next morning, we plan to attend a weekly concert that begins every Saturday at dusk in a place called Slab City. Known for its community of eccentric residents and visitors, Slab City is a small gathering of families that live highly self-sustainable lives in the desert. Radical self-reliance at its finest. Located only a few miles east of the Salton Sea, its name is derived from the massive concrete slabs that mark the only remaining vestiges of Camp Dunlap, a small marine base built during the years of the Second World War. It was easy for the military to remove the structures they built once the base reached its final months of operation, but the concrete slabs they stood on held a bit more permanence. I wonder what colonels, lieutenants, sergeants and privates would have thought if they knew their buildings of governance and rule would later provide the foundation for a similar structure of order within a community of eccentric snowbirds. We’ve been looking forward to visiting the Slab and have pushed harder than usual in order to arrive there on a Saturday afternoon, for that is when a weekly concert takes over the air. Unfortunately though, like so many other days of our trip, the weather has a different plan for us. It often seems as if the weather doesn't have a specific motive or plan, but still seems to deliver everything it has against it. Fortunately, we’ve learned to push back and give it a run for its money.

Wes and I have dealt with plenty of wind over the last few months. Choosing to travel a route that points from East to West, we’ve experienced wind in nearly all its forms. Riding into relentless wind, meager side winds that don’t seem to pay us much attention, the silence of its absence, riding in a constant lean in order to prevent it from tumbling us across the road, the rarity of it pushing on our jackets from behind, the velocity it adds to rain drops and the chill it provides on a dry desert night. Wind rarely seems to be on our side and we never seem to notice when it is. As we start out the ride, it’s apparent that this isn’t going to be one of those days that pass with ease.

Fields of lettuce and carrots provide the only visual change in elevation as we begin pedaling into the Imperial Valley. Very few cars occupy the road and kick up fine dust when they do make an appearance. It flies up onto my eyelids, pairs with the warming sun and reminds me I’m in a desert region, regardless of the never-ending agricultural fields expanding in every direction. Every bit of dirt is utilized for farming on these plots of land, leaving them barren of any trees or bushes. The displays of endless fields vary only in their shades of growing green. Small channels of water run alongside the boundaries of each field. As I look out across one of the fields, I see a wave of changing color move towards me. Moving with the wind, the combination of dark green leaf tops and lighter bottoms is replaced with only the darkness of their tops. It’s quickly apparent the change is warning me of a great gust that is nearly upon me. Tightly bracing the bars and leaning against the coming blow, it hits and nearly blows me over, which leaves me to ride straight onto the dirt shoulder in order to avoid chewing on asphalt. Continuing to pedal forward, the gusts pick up and become more persistent. Within a few miles, gusts begin to account for a majority of the time spent pedaling, leaving consistent winds to become a rarity. Wes and I group together, taking turns against our constantly losing battle with wind. Taking turns leading the draft in five-minute intervals, one of us tucks down, places our helmet on our handlebars and focusing solely on forward motion. Quick and reasonable durations but it still feels like a state of pandemonium is being unleashed upon our legs. The person in back can easily sit upright and lightly pedal or coast, while the person in front is doing all they can to keep us moving at a minimum of 5 mph. Needless to say, we’ve missed Slab City’s outdoor concert. In reality, I don’t see how they could have made it happen with these winds, but then again I never question the ingenuity of those who reside in the desert. We resort to crashing out in a hotel for the night, watching a movie and resting before our sprint to the end. Second and final hotel of the trip. A blizzard got us the first time. The second time, this time, was due to demoralizing wind.

Many Friday evenings of my childhood were spent in the back seat of my dad's purple Dodge pickup as he drove us out to the Anza Borrego Desert and Ocotillo Wells. Growing up as part of a dirt biking family, we made our way out to the desert whenever possible. My brother and I would rip through the washes and try to keep up with our pops, which occasionally resulted in flying over the handlebars. It’s interesting to ride through the area on a bicycle now. The highway rolls up and down over the frequent hills. As I reach the top of each roll, I see a little more of the area I’ve known so well in a different time and way. Ocotillo plants become more and more prevalent as the sound of throttling dirt bikers rumbles in. We stop at the Blue Inn and eat piles of hamburgers and fries. Sitting at the same counter I used to eat at years ago, I admire the posters of dirt biking in the 1990s, which seemed so extreme as a kid even though an average rider is probably doing something more outrageous in the sandy lot out front as I eat my burger. The same lady who used to sell us ice now takes our order and makes our cheesy entrees. It feels good to sit here and feel so close to home. While a zinging 60cc motor powered most my early days of rolling exhilaration, those countless weekends in the desert created my passionate drive to constantly be moving around on two wheels. Whether powered by gasoline or rubbery legs, on dirt or pavement, during night or day, I’ve always felt more comfortable on two wheels than I have my own feet. Riding through this area brings everything full circle for me. We ride out of Ocotillo Wells the same way I always remember leaving as a kid, tired from days of riding in direct sun and happy knowing I’ll be back to enjoy it again soon. Finding a campground at the base of our final climb, we hang our hammocks for the last night of the trip.