A Day
No one day is exactly like another. Aside from getting on the bike and pedaling, each day is its own story. The terrain changes. The weather conditions change. Even the way I feel about the ride changes. Here is today’s story.
We spent the night in an RV Park in Bellevue, Idaho, south of the upscale ski towns of Sun Valley and Ketchum. Some RV parks are bucolic and have lots of space between vehicles. The place in Bellevue was the RV Park equivalent of a big city tenement. Picture a gravel lot about a half-acre in size with RVs lined up one next to another in long rows across the lot. This place also had a large share of full-time residents, some of whom looked rather shady. When I was waiting to take a shower last night, a burly, barrel chested man walked out of the shower room, looking like a character right out of a Jack London or Neil Kerouac novel (a Dharma scum?).
As I was only planning on riding 67 miles to Arco, I did not get an early start, and so helped Joanie with preparing Olympia for the road, which included dumping the black and grey water into the sewage receptacle, and then topping off the fresh water tank. Joanie drove off to the Bellevue library to use their community WiFi and I pushed off around 8:30.
For the first 16 miles I was in bike touring heaven. I had a strong tailwind, and I sped down a flat, mostly empty country road in the cool morning air, moving at an average speed of 19 mph (which I am lucky to reach even when riding my road bike). On either side of the road, irrigation systems sprayed the barley and alfalfa fields. As the miles ticked by, I could not believe my good fortune. I have been going either up or down (mostly up) the last several days, so I enjoyed this respite thoroughly. In the back of my mind, though, I did poke at the thought that surely such good fortune could not last very long. I didn’t poke for long, but swallowed and accepted; yes, on a bike trip, fortunes can change in a flash. Just enjoy the moment.
Indeed, I did enjoy.
I took a break at mile 16 in the hamlet of Picabo, a small community which was actually just a Texaco gas station and a large store which housed the post office, a restaurant, and exhibits of historical artifacts. I met a man named Fudge (a grizzled but friendly vanilla looking guy) who told me about Picabo’s history and answered my questions about the road ahead. As he left, he gave me a fist-bump.
After Picabo, I climbed 200 feet out of the valley over a hill and down into another valley towards the small town of Carey. And once in Carey, as if someone flicked a switch, the day changed. The tail wind had died. Picabo sat in a lush valley; Carey sat at the edge of the high desert. Where Picabo was well-tended, Carey had a rough, unfinished look. I headed out of Carey and was soon in a brown landscape. “Last gas for 42 miles,” read the sign. Every few miles I would see a lonely farm house, dogs baying from somewhere unseen. The sky was now overcast and the wind was no longer a help. The road rose at a steady 1 to 2% grade, and I found myself pedaling my usual bike touring speed of 12-13 mph. I was on US 20 heading northeast, and the sporadic traffic consisted of pickups pulling campers, semis carrying bales of green hay, and the occasional sedan. I couldn’t find a shaded spot to sit and eat some food, so I sat in the extra lane created for the closed weigh station. The thermometer on my GPS read 77.9 degrees.
After lunch, the road rose at a progressively steeper grade. Mountains bordered the valley to the west, and the high desert plateau rolled on and on to the east. I then entered into the Craters of the Moon National Monument, a vast tract of land managed by the Forest Service and the Bureau of Land Management. The brown hues of the high desert gave way to what I can only describe as fields of basalt rock that looked as if they had been ploughed. The Craters of the Moon encompasses an area which once sported active lava vents and mini-volcanos that spewed the hot lava into the air, forming towers, buttes, and craters of hardened basalt.
The road’s grade soon became steeper and I found myself climbing in the now 92 degree heat. When I left Carey the elevation was a little over 4800 feet, and I would soon finish the climb at 5900 feet. It is slow, methodical work getting up those climbs under the bright sun, but I am able to spin in a gear that doesn’t rip my thighs to shreds and literally inch my way up the inclines. I reached the top and stopped to catch my breath, soaking in the raw, rugged beauty of the landscape. With my heart thumping in my chest loudly, perspiration dripping from just about every pore, I smiled and relished the successful effort, the scenery, and the vast, open space.
A few miles later, after stopping at an observation point I heard a swishing sound in the grass next to the road. Was that a snake? No, it sounded like air. Oh no! I checked the front tire (good) but when I looked at the rear it was clear I had a puncture. I pulled over, removed the rear wheel from the frame, got out my tool kit and removed the tube from the tire, and inflated the damaged tube to determine what kind of puncture. I found a pinch flat right next to the stem on the side facing the rim. As I sat there pondering, I looked up to see a car with Texas plates pull up and a woman lean out of the driver’s side to ask, “Do you need any help?” I smiled and waved her off.
I replaced the tube, and with the mini-pump, got the tire inflated to a respectable level of pressure. I looked up and this time, I saw a van which was labeled “Bike Gallery” stop just ahead. Out popped the driver who introduced himself as a former mechanic for a US racing team. I joked with him and asked why he hadn’t come 10 minutes earlier. But he pulled a floor pump from the van and topped off the pressure, and soon I was on my merry way, albeit it with black, greasy fingers from seating the chain properly.
I pulled into the Craters of the Moon visitor’s center a mile later to wash my hands and eat some more. I rested for about 30 minutes, and when I pulled back onto the road, the sky was blue and once again I was blessed with a magnificent tailwind, as if produced by Zephyrus, the Greek God of the west wind. I sped downhill at over 22 mph as the miles flew by. I was getting close to my destination. Surely I would arrive soon.
No such thing as surely on a bike trek.
Again, as if someone pressed a button, the winds changed direction and I was riding into a headwind. To my left, I saw ominous grey clouds and sheets of rain pouring over distant mountains. The wind shifted back and forth, and I wasn’t sure if the rain would catch up with me or if I would make it to Arco without getting wet. But looking ahead, there was rain falling in the mountains just beyond where I thought Arco lay.
Then the ride got even stranger. I looked in my mirror and saw a tornado! No, it was too small for a tornado. But it was a bona fide dust devil, spinning madly, its funnel rising several hundred feet into the air. It hit the road and dissipated. A few minutes later, I looked back again and saw a massive dust storm, a light brown mist that seemed to be getting closer with each passing moment. I pedaled faster, but the wind, once my bosom buddy, was now mocking me, blowing mightily so that I could only manage a maximum speed of 9 mph. Would I be swallowed by the storm? The wind now started blowing across the road, buffeting me left and right with each gust. I had to lock my hands on the handlebars to maintain stability (and remain upright). The last six miles into Arco was a fight with the wind, racing the dust storm (which, after a few miles, seemed to give up the chase). The destination that once surely would arrive soon now seemed to take forever to appear.
Finally, I pulled into town to await Joanie’s arrival, grey skies behind me and thunder rumbling menacingly in the distance. The wind howled like a banshee. I found a park bench and lay down, spent from the effort.
It was a good day.