Snow-Clad Cacti

We've chosen the most southwest route for a reason. It wasn't through the elimination of others options or even a desire to see specific sights along its route. There are many sights, state parks and experiences along the route, which we have looked forward to seeing, but they aren't the primary reason. We chose this route in order to duck below the feet of snow we would surely encounter if we attempted to cross Colorado or Northern New Mexico in November and December. Understanding the Southwest gets fairly cold in the winter and still sits several thousand feet higher than the rest of the country; we hoped it would be the lesser of two evils. We assumed Mother Nature would beat us around at some point, but prefer to take the open palm to a closed fist. I think we made the right choice and came out on top, but it wasn't without a shivering fight.

We've experienced quite a few cold nights over the last month. Days of riding where our breath never ceased to form a billowing fog and our knees creaked with each extension of our legs. Nights in Texas in which I reached the coldest condition I've ever tried to sleep through, shivering until my body could find a shaking rhythm to sleep to. We've both adapted to these conditions though, through both gear and logistical planning of camp. Our dear mommas have come to the rescue and sent us care packages of warm clothes. Every night, the long underwear, beanie, wool layers and puffy jacket are put on as soon as the bike rolls into camp. I look like a marshmallow once the layers go on, but lack the graham cracker and chocolate to make it a s'more. 

We leave Las Cruces with a massive breakfast in our stomachs, the wind at our backs, a consistently gradual downhill pulling us along and the desire to conquer some miles. It begins as the easiest day of riding on the trip. Averaging over 20mph, while enjoying the warmth of the sun and the clear view of distant mountains, with their multiple silhouettes layering upon each other. Although they seem distant, the strong winds quickly push us to their bases. Each set of mountains become a little more rigid. Each layered silhouette shows a few more boulders, carving out its edges. Massive grasshoppers sit on the warm shoulders of the road. They're over three inches long, but their thick build is what makes them seem so big. With a width of roughly two fingers smashed together, they lumber around and seem to like jumping towards the bikes. We find mostly dead ones. Two are attached to each other, dead, like the end of some tragic love story. 

I'm riding in a tank top for the first time since Tennessee. Everything seems a bit too good to be true. The weather has been a bit temperamental with us lately. Wind has taken up some sort of vendetta against us, so we know the gusts at our backs won't come without a price. Clouds quickly roll in. Gray consumes the sky, with black streaks and swirls preventing any sort of uniform nature. Light taps are felt on my arms and I assume we might be riding through a quick shower. As the taps bounce off my body and refuse to bead, I realize this is hail. Tiny frozen pellets drop on us and bounce across the pavement. Our leisurely day of riding has officially ended. I enjoy the dry hail, but it soon turns to rain. We ride through the rain, Wes in front, as his tire spins a wall of water into my face. His bamboo fenders don't have a mud guard attached to them and therefore a ten foot wall of water is thrown off the back of his bike once we start cruising. Road dirt is mixed in with the water and slowly grinds between my teeth. His fenders have caused me to hate bamboo.

After twenty miles of these conditions, the road dirt between my teeth is now polishing off the enamel between the forces of my uncontrollably chattering jaw. For the second time on the trip, I can’t feel my fingers to the point of which I can’t pull my brake levers enough to stop. Puddles form and are relocated upon us with the help of semi trucks.

“It’s times like these I’m certain there’s something, or somebody, against us. Somebody spiting us and pointing their finger at us while laughing. What have we done?” comrade Wes says with a tone of confusion.

There are three exits for the little interstate town of Deming, New Mexico. Our shelter and public park campground are both off the second exit. We begin to approach the entrance to town, as the first off ramp passes by. The refuge of this town, and the comfort it may provide, has been the only thought on our minds for the last few hours. At this moment, I notice Wes has quickly dropped behind a few yards. Slowing down and turning around, I find his face carrying a stare of disbelief. He’s already realized what has happened and therefore doesn't need to analyze it any further, leaving all of his disbelief to be shown through his stare. His rear tire has instantly lost all its air. Not the type of flat that’ll enable us to pump it up enough to reach our destination. The type of flat that hits with a single ceasing blow and ensures we’ll be splashed by far more puddles that we hoped this evening. I want to fight it, to convince the tube to simply stop this ridiculousness it’s showing. In the end, reality hits and we find ourselves underneath the bridge utilized by the interstate exit. Walking towards it, we knock our frustration back a bit by acknowledging that we have shelter to change the tube under. Within a minute, we realize not even this is true. As water drips from the bridge railings and wet snow descends from the black sky, the cowardly gusts from barreling trucks carry the precipitation under the bridge. Precipitation felt previously, now with a bit more projectile force.

Being cold is never enjoyable and standing in soaked clothes makes me long for my dresser, but the combination of both is often debilitating. The tips of each of my fingers are freezing and numb to the point of pain. I’ve stopped thinking about my toes because the numbing cold has enabled me to forget they’re there. I tuck my hands into my pants to warm them up in between moments of helping Wes change the tube. He understands. We’ve found ourselves in this situation numerous times on the trip, but never to this extent. At this point, we still need to finish changing the tube, get some dinner and warm up, pitch camp in a snow-covered park, and convince our bodies we’re warm enough to get a decent night of sleep. We’re privileged to be able to take this trip, but some moments we wonder what the hell we’re doing. This is the lowest state we’ve put ourselves in, both physically and mentally. There aren’t any smiles being passed, our surroundings aren’t providing any enjoyment and the only thing on our mind is the next location, regardless of where that is.

We went into this trip without any rules, but with two things to strive for. Our first striving goal is to complete the whole trip without the bicycles moving a single inch without being propelled by our legs. Second, without spending any money on shelter. This means no hotels or campgrounds and leaves us stealth camping the entire time, unless staying at a friend’s or with a Warmshowers host. We sit in a Burger King and discuss these goals, while devouring three Hershey sundae pies each. Our butts have been planted in these seats for 45 minutes by this point, yet I still can’t control my numb hands enough to properly fork out the amount of sundae pie I want in each bite. What starts out as a joke, soon turns into a plan as we search the Internet for the closest motel. With the incredibly appreciated help from my pops, we land ourselves in a motel for the first time on the trip. We’re drying out and showered, as we watch the snow continue to plummet down outside our door. Our evening was nearly spent shivering in hammocks as the clouds above deliver more frozen shivers. Instead we lie back in our cozy beds, as The Blues Brothers seems even funnier than I remember it.

Two days of cold set in, yet we’ve trudged on. The snow lets off, but still makes some flurry appearances. Days are slow and cold, but they pass. Every morning and night I check the weather in Tucson. The consistent twenty degrees of warmth it has over our location is a powerful drive to move forward. Creaks and cracks of my knees accompany the rides and chronic tightness keeps the legs restless and aching at night. The snowstorm has passed, yet the temperature rarely gets above freezing. Highway shoulders hold snow from the previous days. We taking turns following each other and I pass the time by watching how Wes’ rear tire tracks his front in the snow. Inches deep in spots, it seems unsafe and requires a bit of committing to. Direct sun has made it a soft slush though, which our tires slice through until they find asphalt. We pass by hills, blanketed by snow on one side and dry on its sunny side. Cacti begin to have more thorns and they too poke through inches of snow.

Our next, and final, New Mexico town is Lordsburg. We wake up to find warmer temps for the first time in nearly a week. Fifty degrees feels like an oven and riding is possible without having to wear more than a long sleeve shirt. It feels good to put sunglasses on and ride towards the warmth. We ride over the Continental Divide without a single foot of noticeable gain. I always pictured it as some towering pass that trumped everything around it, humbling all who approached it. Our route crosses it in a vast valley, where its only recognizable by a sign on the side of the highway. It may lack the grandiose appearance seen in postcards and motivational posters, but passing it still means I’m west of the Rockies.

As it gets later in the day, our ride only becomes more enjoyable. We’re warm, happy and moving forward. Slow movement over the last few days has left pent-up energy for the open road today. Wes begins drafting behind me as we close in on the last portion of the day. The shoulder is fairly dirty in sections of the highway and we dodge in and out of the approaching obstacles. Approaching a section of scattered debris, I feel as if I have a fairly good line picked out. Maybe I should have slowed down a bit more, but I only acknowledge that once the bang has already happened and I’m instantly riding on my rim. “This is bad,” I tell Wes before even getting off my bike. It produced the hasty flat that cannot be produced by even the most destroyed of tubes. I get off my bike and inspect the new Schwalbe Marathon tire I put on last week. With only a few hundred miles on it, it now has a gash across the entire width of it. It’s far too big to repair with a tire boot and its position makes it impossible regardless. The scattered debris are the reflective markers seen adhered to streets in low speed areas in order to slow people down. Boxes, or piles, of them must have dumped out of a truck during transport and now their shattered ceramic remnants make for razor sharp tire-slashers on the side of the road. Razor sharp guarantees that I won’t be riding my bike from this section of highway. We exhaust all other options, before putting out our thumbs and attempting to hitch hike. After over an hour, not a single person has slowed down, batted an eye or even acknowledged our presence and moved over to the far lane. I put on my helmet and hold up the bike in order to explain the situation. Most people drive big trucks around these parts and I watch as each of their empty eight-foot beds pass. People are scared and it makes me sad to see and experience.

We eventually have to call the New Mexico Highway Patrol and tell them the situation, but they show up in a small cruiser and are unable to help. Wes mentions that if we were undocumented, they would have a vehicle big enough to carry our whole family and us. The patrolman does send us in the direction of a gift shop employee with a pickup though. We ride the twenty miles into town with him, in the back of his pickup, as we watch our second goal diminish at 70mph. In middle-of-nowhere New Mexico, I immediately assumed we’d be waiting in this town for a few days as a new tire is mailed to us. However before it closes, I’m able to contact a bike shop a few towns over, pay them over the phone and have a new tire delivered to me at 7:30am the next morning by somebody who works for the high school of the town we’re stranded in. It all came together wonderfully in the last moments. This last week was a prime example of “that’s just the way it is”. Events, weather and encounters happen that are out of our control and are quite often unpleasant, but that's just the way it is. We ride through it, grit our teeth on road dirt, curse the soaking rain, break some of our goals, listen to our legs creak, feel our tires explode beneath us and carry on. We make the most of these situations and look back on them as necessary. Low points can be short and over in hours or chronic and seemingly never-ending. I’m not normally one for quotes, but as Thoreau wrote, “However mean your life is, meet it and live it.”