Category Archives: Journey

Ode to the Chupacabra

Note: this is a technical article

(Goat is a mechanic by inclination, and profession, not to mention a dedicated tinkerer, so, please forgive any lapses into the incomprehensible jargon of the bike obsessed)

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As the regular visitors to this site are no doubt aware, there has lately been magic in the air, whiffs of melting bronze, tendrils of evaporating flux, and remnants of the arcane alchemy through which a bicycle is born. Since the snowy passes of Montana, a bike like no other has been slowly creating its self in my mind. Until — vision complete, it began to haunt me, whispering sweet nothings, and laughing as l pushed my bike through sand and snow. Eventually, it was clear that l would receive no respite until l took the final step: to make this monstrosity a reality.

I contacted Spencer Wright, chief alchemist of Traffic Cycles, and soon to be coconspirator. Fluent in the language of bikes, Spencer had no difficulty deciphering my cryptic and incoherent description, and quickly came to share my vision. The mythical creature of my imagination consumed him, and he put aside a myriad of obligations to bring it into the world.
We sketched, designed, and collaborated as the components began to pile up. Eventually, with the quirks finalized, I (isolated in flagstaff) returned to dreaming of effortless riding in sand and snow, and Spencer (faraway in Trukee) started melting metal.

It is difficult to describe something truly unique, for points of comparison are few, and technical jargon is of limited use. But with the aid of photographs, I hope my ramblings will attain some semblance of sense.

The Chupacabra is designed around it´s wheels. And indeed they are perhaps it´s most striking feature. Created by Surly Bikes for their ground-breaking, go-anywhere vehicle, the Pugsly (the Chupacabra´s closest relative). The wheels sport the widest rims, and largest tires on the market. Measuring almost 4� the “Endomorph� tires are twice the size of those on a normal mountain bike. Add this to the width of “Large Marge Rims� – more than twice the dimension of standard rims – and you have an enormous foot print. Allowing bikes so equipped, to traverse with ease sand snow and mud that would swallow a more conventional bike whole.

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Fitting wheels this large into a bike, is something of a logistical feat. In the front, the tires themselves are wider than a conventional front hub and thus incapable of fitting a normal fork. The solution to this problem is to use rear hubs (which are wider) for both wheels – which makes the wheels interchangeable. My “front� wheel caries a fixed-gear cog, and my “rear� is equipped with gears, so that depending on the placement of the wheels l can have two very different bikes.

In the rear, the width of the tire is so great that if the wheel is built normally (hub centered evenly) the chain would hit the tire and render the bike un-rideable. Surly´s solution (which we adopted for the Chupacabra) is to build the wheel “unevenly ‘’ with the hub offset 17.5mm towards the drive side. This means that in order to center the tire/wheel in the frame, both the rear triangle and front fork must be built to accommodate the offset.

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The Frame

The seeming lopsidedness created by the offset , is but the first of several unusual features of the Chupacabra frame. The frame is extra long, and equipped with mounts to fit Xtracycle bags and racks. Because it is one piece (rather than a bolt on extension like the Xtracycle kit) the rear end can be braced more effectively, creating a much stiffer, stronger, and more responsive bike. The rear rack support is further reinforced with heavy duty arch-like trussing which protects the vulnerable rear end, as well as keeping the bags from bulging in toward (and rubbing on) the disk brake and wheel.

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Aside from the length and width of the Chupacabra, its most striking feature is the chain, or rather chainS. Indeed, there are two, and they interface on an “extra� hub, which we call the “transfer point.� This transfer hub is in turn supported by an extra set of dropouts; in this case long horizontal (PAUL) track ends. The transfer hub is moved in these dropouts to adjust the tension of the rear chain; while the front chain is tensioned with an Eccentric Bottom Bracket (BB). (The BB is the bearings and spindle which connect the cranks to the bike and allows them to spin) In an Eccentric BB, the cranks are mounted off-center in an aluminum cylinder which can be rotated within the BB shell. By rotating the Eccentric BB, the cranks can be moved forward or backward, thus tensioning the chain. As clear as mud no doubt; but with all that elaborate designing to tension the chains….. why two chains?

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As usual the reason has to do with the wheels, whose hubs are offset, to allow the chain to clear the tire. For the chain to run straight (and not hit the wheel) the position of the front chain ring would have to match the offset, requiring, in theory, an exceptionally wide BB (which is exactly how Surly solves the problem on the Pugsly). The downside to a wide BB is that it increases the distance between the riders feet, known for reasons unknown as the “Q Factor�. A wide Q has a similar effect on rider comfort/fatigue as walking with one´s feet further apart than one´s shoulders (awkward and tiring), and not exactly ideal for a touring bike. Thanks to the extra length of the Chupacabra, this problem is solved by offsetting two chains on the transfer hub. The rear chain is set wide enough to clear the wheel, and the front chain set in enough to maintain a comfortable Q. The double chain has some side benefits as well. Two short chains, have considerably less sag/slop/play, than does one long chain. And the extra set of gears on the transfer hub allows me to manipulate gear ratios and run a much smaller chainring, increasing ground-obstacle clearance.

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In addition, the frame is customized to accommodate my body type and riding style. Which includes high handle-bars, low top tube (good crotch clearance) and the seat way back, to center my weight on the bike and put my legs in their preferred riding position (this is my dream bike after all).

Components

In addition to the Xtracycle bags and racks from my previous steed, l kept the Brooks Saddle (which, the leather having worn in nicely, fits me like a glove), my custom built H-Bars (which provide multiple hand positions, while keeping the wrists at a natural neutral angle), my stem and seat post . Everything else just wasn´t really applicable.

As usual, my choices are a little eccentric…
The cranks and BB are heavy duty steel, designed for BMX bikes, and arguably the strongest/stiffest/most durable on the market; made by Profile Racing. The pedals are my customary old road pedals with flip flops bolted on (Shimano 105´s this time around thanks to VO2Min from the Fixed Gear Gallery Forum). The “front� wheel has a Surly single speed disk hub with a fixed gear cog and an old-fashioned BB lock ring. After mucking about with a piece of junk made by the company now called Sturmey-Archer, the “rear� wheel is equipped with the legendary Rholoff speed hub. Truly a marvel of Tutonic Engineering, which manages to cram 14 internal gears, covering the normal range of a 27 speed bike, into a hub smaller than the SA 8-speed with which l first experimented.

I chose internal gearing, because of the nice tight chain – no derailleurs or slack – which resists freezing and clogging in snow and mud, and therefore less prone to wear and failure. The Rholoff advertising literature claims you can even ride it in ocean surf with no ill effects, and the only real downside (other than the price, which is prohibitively steep) is that it uses two cables, requiring some awkward routing, and their proprietary grip shifter.

These wheels, more or less require disk brakes, forcing me to overcome my luddite predispositions. I chose Avid mechanicals, being as far as l can tell, as simple and robust as possible with these finicky contraptions. So far l have no complaints, excellent stopping power and minimal fiddling required. But as with the rest of the beast, this assessment remains preliminary. It is after all a prototype – one of a kind.

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Thus far the Chupacabra has been everything l expected, and has served me well in all conditions. Even on pavement, where a skeptic might imagine that the larger tires would provide extra rolling resistance and slow us (The Chupacabra and I) down. On the contrary, we descend exponentially faster than the rest of the team, keep pace efficiently, and climb quite nimbly. Indeed the only thing l would change at this juncture is to add a short-travel suspension fork (like the FOX Vanilla we run on the rest of the bikes). While the massive tires do help, my wrists and arms take the brunt of absorbing rocks bumps and uneven terrain, which isn’t unbearable, and wouldn´t even be a problem, except that we ride all day, every day, and usually on rough terrain. But alas, no suspension fork exists that can handle these tires…..

In any case the Chupacabra is alive and well, and l can´t wait to try it in the snow.

Dirtbag Bike Tour Tip #1

Our travels through Mexico have been unmistakeably hot.  Some sections have been defined by a dry desert sun cracking the earth and melting the tar on the road, where my sweat evaporates before it has a chance to cool me off and once I remove my gloves assume a statuesque pose, as if my hand was still there.  More recently, it has been a humid heat, where sweat pools up on my arms and saturates all my clothes.  In either situation, after multiple hours of riding, mere water does not suffice.  You need the salts that you have just sweated out in the hours of riding.

   While inexpensive and accessible anywhere in Canada and the United States, electrolyte powders such as Gatorade are impossible to find in Mexico (unless, we´ve been told, you go to Wal-Mart).   Some people may find the Wal-Mart or have some shipped to them en route.  

 The dirtbag solution is to go to any of the local community health centers or hospitals and get “Vida Suero” with a picture of a chubby baby in a diaper with one tooth and red cheeks.  It has all the salts you will need and it is given away FREE.  It is just the salts and somewhat unpalatable during a ride.

So we´ve been mixing it with a tiny portion of Zuko.  A fruit juice powder that does not require sugar, because there is a disgusting amount already.  

The better blends have included a half package of Suero mixed with 1/5th  of a Zuko package.   And the dirtbag has their own sports bevergage powder at the cost of a few dimes.   

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We will post more Dirtbag Tips periodically.  We´ve got a bunch!!

Las Cascadas de Basaseachi

As dawn began to spill over the solid basalt cliff’face towering over my campsite, a dog busied himself at the foot of my sleeping bag by relentssly barking at me. I wasn´t quite sure why I was being subjected to his alarm. ¨Buenos Dias, Tequeso.¨I said softly, hoping he´d remember our shortlived friendship the day before when I fed him some tortilla.

He stretched slowly, arching his back and resting his floppy ears and head on top of his paws that he was extending towards me. His hindquarters remained upright as if he just might pounce on me after he´s done stretching. Tequeso gently growled and tilted his head to the side while he pawed repeatedly at the air, as if to say, ¨Why aren´t you up and enjoying this beautiful place.¨

At the end of Basaseachi, a village that did not even exist on our Northern Mexico Map is a Parque Nacional surrounding a breathtaking 310 meter “cascada,” the tallest in Mexico. Below, a mist of water settled in an immense pool of absinthe tinted water, before trickling through house sized boulders into the Rio Candameña that slides through a colossal box canyon. Immense cliffs that defy perspective of proportion leave you feeling as if you were among a land of giants. “It would be a shame to sleep in,” I thought reassuringly.

Impatiently, Tequeso strengthened his argument by taking off with one of my socks, running through some low brush and behind a mushroom shaped boulder. He liked this game. I was a poor match for him.

I sat in defeat with a cup of Mezclado Coffee I brewed (a sweet coffee roasted with 30% azucar) and felt the warm breeze carry the scent of sunlight grazing the morning dew on pine needles. The day before, we swam in a nearby creek, where we followed the cool water between narrow slots, under arches, and through small underwater tunnels. Little climbing challenges appeared on the rock faces jetting out of the deep pools of water and my failures were rewarded with a refreshing dip. Though, at the moment, my refuge of shade from the warm sun had quickly receded, and I couldn’t wait to explore the waterfall and other swimming holes.  “And maybe,” I thought, “the dog will bring back my sock.”

 A little boy named Alexander, greeted me as I walked below the Area de Acampar through a horseshoe of half a dozen Artesanio Shops and restaurants. He was wearing a faded striped shirt, so thin it was almost transparent and a pair of dusty blue shorts.

“Why aren´t you at school?” I teased.

“No, no attendo la escuela.” He replied.

“¿Porque no?”

“Yo necesito a ayudar (help) mi familia aquí.”

“¿Donde estan tus amigos?”I asked.

“En Basaseachi, aya.” He pointed down the road.

“¿Te quiere?” He asked as he held up a bag of spicy Cheetohs.

“No, no gracias.”

After exhausting my conversational vocabulary I said goodbye and continued down to the trailhead. The four of us bounced down the steps and over a short metal bridge. Traversing the creek, we could see the transparent water trickle behind a 50 yard slab of rock, pouring through narrow passages into a larger pool gradually painting the water into a shifting evanescent green.

A slot canyon cut through the rock forming rounded out spherical swimming holes. Nate leaped into one of the narrow pools and encouraged the idle water to ripple against the contours of the canyon.

I hopped in after Nate and misjudged the drop, landing a bit too far and had to brace my fall somewhat against an underwater rock-face. The moment of fear was quickly supplanted with the exhilaration of frigid water. I retreated to a sunny segment of rock rising out of the water.   As the sun scintillated into the water, a reflection of fluid, electric luminosity shimmered across the stone walls.

After exploring that swimming hole, we continued towards the main attraction. A cliff face appeared in the distance; an illusory view of the horizon precipitously vanished and reappeared on the other side of the vast canyon.  As we edged up to the rim, a gust of mist swept over us. Only a fluttering rainbow separated us from the pool of water 1,000 feet below.

The stream slipped down a narrow rock slide under a substantial stone arch and hesitated as it rested in one final pool before plunging into the canyon depths.  We clambered over the arch and around the pool. I said to Nate, “Hey, I think we could probably swim in there.”

“You think we could get out?” He replied.

We stared down at the pool and the steep slopes on all sides.

“Ehh..I think we´d have no choice.” I replied.

We cautiously maneuvered down to the top of the slide and looked down at the pool framed by the overhead arch. Nate insisted on going first. He straddled the flow of water and sat down, wedging his hands against the rocks before letting go and sliding into the panorama of a swimming hole at edge of the earth. After the splash faded into wrinkles at the surface, Nate emerged with a radiant smile on his face. We were able to easily climb out of the pool and soon all of us were jumping in and lounging on the sunny rocks near the edge, allowing us to see the water cascade all the way to the bottom.

We dried off in the sun and headed towards the trailhead. Steep switchbacks were well defined and at more precarious places, the hiker was protected by barbed wire. Every once in a while, the cover of Pine Trees and Madrones would break and expose a view of the waterfall and surrounding canyon. The trail flattened out at the bottom and wound around gigantic boulders and through wildflowers that looked like Indian Paintbrush, ending at a lagoon of water at the base of “la cascada.”  The cliffs had risen above the sun, and its shadow was gently covering the water.  I took the opportunity to swim out into the cold water before the shimmering pool was completely cloaked. The water falling above faded into the wind, but continued to trickle down the mossy rock surfaces at the bottom. I whirled my head around to take in the complete vista, from the tadpoles nipping at my feet to the expansive cliff face reaching towards the sky.

Hiking up was much slower, but we were in pretty good shape from our daily bike rides and continued even further up the trail to a “Ventana” resting at the edge of an opposing cliff. From there we could see our swimming hole as a mere speck in the magnificent canyon country. Nate summed up our awe, “The Yosemite of the Sierra Madres.”

Back at camp, I saw Tequeso wagging his tail as if he had been waiting for us to come back. He had something in his mouth and I hoped it was my sock. I walked up to him, half expecting him to bolt.  However, when I got closer, he merely flopped to the ground and began aggressively chewing Sean´s bike glove.

I managed to grab the glove from him and asked, “Tequeso.. what´d you do with my sock?”

I tried again in Spanish, “¿Tequeso, donde es mi calcetine?”

No response. He really did like this game.

“A small price to pay to swim in waterfalls,” I thought, conceding his victory.

Military, Missionaries, and Myrmicinae

I could just barely make out the outline of a Ranchero in boots and a sombrero step over me as he made his way to the canal. There was but a dim glow of an infant dawn in the sky so I cowered back into my previous inconsequential realm of dreams. Yet I managed to find no relief from the cacophonic chorus of crowing roosters, bellowing cattle, and screeching buzzards walloping one another with their thick set of wings. I had put down my bed roll on the foot path in order to afford a view of the farm fields lit up by fire flies. There their graceful flight-dance patterns had lulled me to sleep and now the bustle of ranch life compelled me to make an early start on the morning’s chores.

By the time breakfast had been eaten, swarms of red ants of various sizes were scrambling over our cook sight, viciously seizing any crumbs of food matter. As I began packing up my bike, a stream of ants began pouring into my sandals. They set about crawling up my ankles but I was determined to not let them interrupt my daily routine and let them crawl… until they began to bite. One ant must have been pressed against my foot by my sandal strap, for the wound that it inflicted was by far the most painful bug bite I had ever experienced. I thought that I had had it bad the previous day, when an insane bee flew into my nose and stung me on the inside of my nostril. It buzzed around my head as I cursed and yelled in agitation, trying to find the stinger it had left embedded in my flesh. The bee´s persistant harassment forced me to end short my bimonthly phone conversation with my father, who was presently laughing hysterically on the line. After the stinger was removed, the pain in my nose lasted but five minutes. The spot where the hormigas (ants) had nibbled throbbed and burned for a good six or seven hours. As we began riding that day it felt as if some venom were flowing from the bite on my foot up and down the veins in my lower leg.

Directions to nearby Hot Springs appeared on signs along the roads. Though it was still early morning –the mild time of day- I was drenched in sweat, yet I felt maybe the springs would enrage or sooth my ant bite, and either way welcomed a change of state. Everyone else regarded the idea of sitting in hot water under the oppressive Sonoran sun as foolish so we moved on.

In the central town piazza of Arivechi we found a beautiful gazebo stylized in an Andalusia architectural motif. Lying on the shaded floor beneath the gazebo we starred up at the high dome ceiling and observed stained glass portraits of desert ranch life. Across the street small children peered at us through the spaces between the fences that set the boundary for their school yard. ¨Just wait long enough for them to be dismissed from class¨, we thought, and they’ll be out here asking endless questions and demanding rides on the back of our bikes¨.

Jacob insisted that we buy meat for our dinner before leaving town. The carniceria (butchers shop) was but a small room with several sides of cow hanging from a coat rack. A kilo of steak was cut for us in thin slices by the butcher. Goat searched the town for ice to help preserve the meat. In the back yard of small market a woman chipped away at a giant ice brick, we were obliged purchase a sizeable chunk. When we had brought it back to pack with the meat, it was clear that ice would last maybe twenty minutes before dissolving into a puddle. Still, everyone felt invigorated knowing that there was an end in sight to the monotonous meal routine. The huge bag of ice gave me a good moment’s relief from the fire in my foot. We were just on our way out of Arivechi when we heard the voice of a woman, firmly in English; ask how long it had been since we’d seen a good meal. She was in the driver’s seat of a pick’ up truck that had Texas license plates.

¨I’m going to be cooking up quite a meal pretty soon, it’ll take me some time, but if you guys are free to sit back and relax a bit, I’d be happy to feed you. Of course in real life, we are not the touring bicyclists that we proclaim to be, but professionals of revelling in the comforts of local hospitality. We could not refuse.

Our host’s name was Sarah, and she and her husband James were living in Arivechi pursuing missionary work for their Baptist church. Their house was a work-in-progress, most of their material possessions stacked in a hallway leading toward an empty room as well as the master bedroom. We would learn later that James and Sarah enjoyed the company of many guests ‘mainly members of their church on retreat’ and as a consequence of so little home room enjoyed little privacy since their bedroom held access to both kitchen and bathroom. As we settled into chairs at the dinning table I instantly was overcome with an intolerable nervous energy. It might have been the burning sensation of venom pulsing through my veins, or the realization that we may never make it out of this small town, or just wretched nostalgia at having been subjected to bible study and religious creed lectures at my Catholic High school I felt ill at ease. I tried calming myself, spoke a few words to James, and instantly became appalled at how forced and awkward the tone of my voice had sounded.

Eventually I excused myself to take advantage of the shower. Both Nate and Jacob expressed mild frustration with the shower. It had a small tube channelling the tape into the shower head that would periodically blow off when the pressure ran too high. While trying to reattach the tube, Nate had been shocked from the wires running out of the electric water heater. I just switched the heater off, and let the cool water wash away a weeks worth of dust and grime baked into a crisp crust by the Sonoran sun.

I sat back down at the dinning room table just in time to hear James account of how he and Sarah met. James had been involved in ministry service for many years, working mostly in small towns throughout Chihuahua. It had been his calling, and it provided him contentment, though through the years he hade devoted part of his prayers to his hearts desire for a partner.

¨Well, one day a youth group came on retreat through the town I was stationed in, and when I beheld Sarah, why… I knew within my heart that I wanted her to be my wife.¨ James appeared to be trembling slightly with emotion. He took a slight pause while Sarah took a break from the stove to provide an affectionate caress through James hair, allowing him the strength to continue.

As it turned out, the minister leading the youth group talked to me about his hopes that his own son would enjoy union with Sarah. When he told me this I just about lost any hope that I would find a wife. But some time passed, and things weren’t working out between Sarah and the minister’s son. The minister spoke to me about how he didn’t feel his son would find union with Sarah, and so I swallowed hard, and expressed my interest in Sarah… and then by golly if the minister didn’t turn red as a tomato and look ready to fall over backwards. But he took a deep breath and said, if my son isn’t meant to marry Sarah, then I can think of no better person to ask for her hand¨.

¨So the minister ended up putting a good word in for me with Sarah’s parents, though I was significantly terrified at engaging them directly. What if they didn’t like me? What if they felt I was too old for Sarah? (There was a considerable age difference between the two). Well, none of these fears turned out being valid. Sarah’s parents took an instant likening to me, and as I found out later, Sarah herself passionately believed that her path in life was in ministry work.¨

It’s like your arrival in this town¨, began James. ¨We hade seen you guys before, outside of the town of Moctezuma, and we actually prayed to God ´Lord, if it is your will, please send these young bicyclists our way´. And here you are an answer to our prayers! ¨.

The entire time James was telling his story, my eyes roamed the small kitchen area. Inevitably they would rest briefly on a small girl of maybe ten years old, with huge dark eyes, hands folded in lap, wearing a tee-shirt that had a glittery English inscription, ´Girl´. She must have come into the house when I was showering. I had little idea of who she might be, other than a member of a family that accepted James church. When the food was ready Sarah asked her if she wanted to eat anything she quietly nodded her head in the negative.

The meal Sarah prepared was delicious. All of us ate with ravenous appetites, even though we had already had a big breakfast. Smoothies were prepared for an after lunch dessert, and we soon found ourselves refreshed and lazy, happy to have a siesta during the hottest part of the day. As we were preparing to leave one of the neighbours came by claiming that he had prepared pizzas for each of us. Naturally we had to stay a bit longer to finish these off. James offered to drive me by the town clinic to pick up some packets of ´Suero´ an electrolyte formula. On the way he pointed out a piece of land that he had recently purchased.

¨A nice spot for a church¨ He exclaimed. ¨Yet it will be awhile before construction starts, since there are few converts in the town.¨

The clinic was closed, but James and Sarah lavished our food bags with all kinds of good snack foods. We bid our benevolent hosts farewell and took leave of Arivechi.

That night we found a beautiful camp spot by a narrow stream situated between two grazing fields. As we were settling in, a Ranchero trotted up to us on his horse and asked us what we were doing and where we were from.
Goat conversed with the man for awhile. ¨We´d like to sleep on your land.¨

¨Yeah, it is a great place to camp, isn’t it.¨
¨We’ve been biking from Alaska, and we’re going to Chile¨. To which the man responded with some euphemism unique to Spanish that incited Goat to both laugh hysterically and immediately forget the phrasing and meaning. That night Goat woke with the strange sensation of something furry crawling upon his skin. A large spider was perched upon his face. It scurried away without incident.

The next day of biking was hectic. Like a rollercoaster ride, the road snaked and weaved around and over long hills. A pack of horses were in a racing spirit that day and made sure that I remained in their wake for a few kilometres. On a long downhill I had the chance to pass them, but they kept to their road-hogging formation and I could not find a way around them.
It was incredibly hot. I could make out a small lake in the distance, and believed the road would eventually connect to the shore, but it never did. With the intensity of the heat, the reasonable thing would have been to pull over and rest under the shade of a tree. Not having seen my friends for a good hour I suspected they already made this decision. I pressed on, hoping to get to the town of San Nicholas before I ran out of water.

The hills persisted and I was dangerously low on water. I attempted to pump water from a small mud hole near some grazing cows, but the filter clogged after only a minute of pumping. Not knowing how far the next town, I figured the best move would be to wait for my friends, but momentarily a man on a mule approached. He told me San Nicholas was less than ten kilometres away.

Six kilometres later I came to Puente San Nicholas or ´The San Nicholas Bridge´. In Sonora they name the bridge, not the creek flowing beneath. Sounds of human activity mixed with the gurgle of running water. I descended a steep hill on foot; saw the forms of three men ‘early twenties’ bathing in their shorts. Then I saw their weapons military issue automatic rifles, at the sight of which I began to shy from progressing further. Then they made sort of a celebration of my arrival, encouraging me to drink and cool off in the water. My attempts to explain my bike trip were met with expressions of mild amusement but neither conviction nor intrigue. One of the guys directed me to a small hole dug out of the river stones, and told me the water was safe to drink there. His advice appeared questionable the water did feel to be at different temperature than the rest of the stream, yet, even if it was a spring, there was nothing preventing the rest of the stream from mixing in with its water. I brought out my water filter, but it was clogged and had to clean it. As I began scrubbing away at the filter, the man stood above me and with a gesture of impatience motioned for me to dip my water holder into the spring. Ignoring him didn’t help the situation he grabbed a plastic bottle of the ground, filled it with water, and then emptied it into my camel back water bag.

¨Thanks, ¨ I said, ¨that sure saves me a lot of time¨. He smiled, pleased at having saved the gringo from dehydration. Drinking heavily from the water, I forced a smile thinking to myself ¨just this little sip will leave me vomiting for days.¨

My new friends continued washing themselves, shaving, washing their fatigues, or smoking Marlboroughs. They offered me a Tecate from their beer stash chilling in the stream. I politely denied the offer, thinking that under the circumstances I’d better have my wits about me. All at once they started asking demeaning questions like ¨where my boyfriends were at¨, and grinned mischievously when my responses weren’t satisfactory. I had to remind myself that I was a weirdo gringo, and that these men ‘Who had been stationed at this particular creek for two months’ were incredibly bored. Making the excuse that I was hungry, I scampered off toward my bike the guy who poured the ´spring water into my bag called out after me, ¨goodbye honey¨. After making sure I was out of sight from the military convoy, I sat down to read. It wasn’t long before an entire troop ‘maybe thirty men’ came marching down the ranch road on which I was staked out. The first few men stopped in their tracks before me, picked up a small sheet of aluminium and showed it to me.

¨Is this yours? ¨ He was holding up part of a Tecate can, which on further inspection had a small mound of resign of something someone was trying to free-base.

¨No, I don’t drink, ¨ I tried pleading ignorance, it’s very bad for my legs.¨

No one seemed very amused, and more of the troops gathered around my scene, all looking at me suspiciously, their rifles dangling close enough to poke my eyes out. They continued inferring that I was a drug user and I kept saying that the Tecate can wasn’t mine. Finally one of the troop poked at my rifle case, formed a very serious, very concerned expression ¨What is this.¨

¨That, ¨ I began, grateful that the subject had been changed, is my little guitar¨.

Half of the men chimed in at once ¨What! You Play_ You must show it to us.¨

So I took the guitar out of the gun case and played a few measures of a blues song. Someone shouted at me, ¨You must play ´Hotel California´.¨ Someone else chimed in, and sing too. ¨ Oddly I had received this request before, maybe four villages back. Perhaps it was more important that I learn the changes to this Eagles hit than to better my comprehension of this foreign language. To avoid the embarrassment of having to sing before thirty armed brutes, I pointed to the least talkative of the bunch and shouted; ¨you know the words to the song, Right? I’ll play and you sing.¨ Then I started strumming some chords, and the man I pointed to got lost, and everyone laughed in good humour. The guy who looked to be in charge shouted at three stragglers still by the stream -the three that I had first encountered. I imagined that they were either chugging down the last of their beer, or stashing it away for when they returned. One of the troopers pulled me aside, pointed to a straggler running frantically without a shirt on, and said to me, ¨Do you know who this man is? This man is ´Rambo´ ¨Everyone had a good chuckle over his remark.

The troop, having collected itself, took off down the road, presumably to engage in gun battles with narco-traffickers. I had a good hour of creek side tranquillity before the rest of my crew showed up. They had taken an early siesta when the heat of the day felt like an extra layer of fat weighing upon and hampering the muscles.

¨This is Rambo country¨ I greeted them. ¨We might want to get out of here before guys with the big guns return.¨
The crew did not seem eager to take my advice. They found the creek to be an ideal camp spot. Naturally I gave in and set about preparing dinner. That night I felt something crawling rapidly over the top of my sleeping bag. Whatever it was I kicked it off and it didn’t come back. Jacob awoke to find a large hairy spider covering a good portion of his face. He said it freaked him out a bit.

In the morning we passed through the military checkpoint two Kilometres up the road from where we slept. Superficially the checkpoint seemed as impervious as Guantanamo Bay; lots of military personal holding big guns. A small encampment off to the side provided a rest area for the men on duty. The checkpoint people briefly looked over our passports, asked each of us to open up one of our bags ‘left up to our choice’, and haphazardly browsed through the top layer. They didn’t bother checking any of Nate´s bags. They didn’t seem interested in my gun case ‘although the story about my short musical performance the day before had probably made the rounds. We watched as they asked the passengers of a bus to disembark and present identification. Not everyone got off the bus; none of the military personal boarded the bus to conduct searches. In short, I’m afraid to say that the San Nicholas unit might not be the most effective in combating drug smuggling.

La Frontera

“Just follow that road and in about two blocks you will be in Mexico.” Said the man carrying a plastic sack filled with clothes and shoes.

We slowly meandered our way through the empty lanes. I looked over at a white van being dissassembled at the border agents´ leisure. They stood around joking and patting each other on the back. No response to the four long bikes rolling past them, with all their earthly possessions precisely positioned on the vehicles. Slowly rolled over the formidable speed bumps and into a new country. Nervous anticipation caught up with me for a moment as I got a glimpse of the choas that was ahead. Huge smiles beamed across our faces and were shared briefly before returning our attention to the bustling city of Nogales de Mexico. Without proper diligence, a cyclist trying to navigate through the orgy of cars and chaos would likely become a charming ornament for the hood of a fast moving vehicle. I took a moment to imagine the pose I would assume were that to be my fate and hoped that my grungy self would at least tarnish the pristine image of a fancy new automobile.Instinctively, as if infected by the madness, we pedaled and weaved in and around the cars, desparately trying to stay with the flow of traffic. The city swooshed by us as we masqueraded through as bicycle messengers carrying an imporant and ridiculously heavy load. A brief pause a mile into town at a city park left us astonished and staring at the constant motion of this strange new world.

“Ehh.. Any thoughts?” I asked hopefully, eyes fixed on the 3 lanes of heavy traffic.

Following a long pause, Goat offered, “Let´s just get as far from here as possible.”

His comment was greeted with unanimous nods of support.

And we plunged once again into the waves of cars, constantly splashed by honks and unintelligible comments from the pedestrians. Just before we drowned in the sea of metal and motion, it let up and offered a little 18″ bike lane of our own. One beater old Mustang got a little jealous of our space and sped past us, leaving mere inches between life and deat

I had always assumed that the signs with a bicycle that say “Share the Road,” were meant for the cars, but in my travels have come to understand that they must actually be directed at cyclists. After all, they don´t need as much room as a car, and should probably balance on the precarious edge of the pavement and dirt so that cars can blast by them as fast as possible. A minor communication error.

Aside from the jealous Mustang, we were treated well on the roads of Mexico, given ample space and friendly smiles-gestures. We were even handed agua fria out the window of a pacing vehicle that wished us “buen suerte” before disappearing.

We began to wonder where the checkpoint was at, to get our Visas cleared. Stopped at an airport to ask a few guards standing around the entrance about the KM 21 checkpoint.

Sean approached them first while I pulled back to watch his linguistic expertise.

The guards sat there quiet for a long pause, anticpating Sean to say something. You could see Sean searching for words to communicate, and came up with, “You guys speak English?”

“No,” They responded simply.

“Ehh..” Sean responded and settled into a long awkward pause.

Goat pedaled up and managed to achieve some semblence of communication. The response was spoken quickly, and we managed to pull out a few words and understand that it was further down the road. “A new era in our travels,” I thought. And reflected on how crucial it was for us to learn Spanish as quickly as possible.

We pedaled down to KM 21 to get our Visas, at an established roadside checkpoint. American dollars were converted to pesos and the immigration officer tried to give Goat a 30 day travelling visa because we told him we were heading through to Guatemala. We had to get him to change it to a 180 day tourist Visa. A simple enough task, that was made extraordinarily difficult by beauocracy and a bit of long hair prejudice.

Nate had recently shaved his hair to donate to “Locks of Love,” but his passport photo still offered a reflection of it at its length. It seemed that the officer couldn´t understand why any “macho” male would have long hair and relished the opportunity to make crude comments about Goat (who hasn´t cut his hair since 3rd grade) and Nate. I´ll spare the details.

Towards the end of the day we were enticed by a roadside taco stand blaring loud Spanish music. A simple handpainted sign on the paint chipped cement wall read:

“MENU = Carne Asada, Tripitas, Quesadillas, Caramelos.”

We were brought out a large platter with a dozen small bowls filled with different types of salsa, guacamole, and peppers. We reveled in the excitement of entering Mexico, and sat there with dumb smiles on our face as we drank our Jumex mango juice, waiting for the food to come and the sun to set.

Day 2

In Magdalena de Kino we planned to resupply and shoot off the main highway along rural roads and trails. Heading into the town, I was a good 100 yards behind Sean and saw another bicyclist riding on the left side of the freeway who would sporadically dart from one side of the road to the other. As I approached closer, the erradic cyclist slammed into a pole and fell off his bike. Sean swerved across the highway to help him.

Sean looked up at me approaching and said, “Man, I feel bad. He was trying to talk to me and just slammed into that pole.”

The guy got up and picked up his bike, erased his embarassment with a friendly smile. Grabbed a huge spool of wire that he was trying to pedal with and attempted to arrange it on his bike.

Sean continued, “I think he was saying that we should get off the road here so we don´t have to pay the toll.”

I look further down the road and see a series of toll booths positioned across the road. My glance wandered back to see the man swerving around on his bike, cutting quickly in front of cars towards the side of the road and walk his bike down a steep cement embankment used to channel water. He motioned for us to follow. Down at the bottom he tossed the metal wire to the ground among a bunch of other random junk and turned back, and asked , “¿Donde vas?”

“Magdalena de Kino,” I replied.

He pointed up past a field towards a road, and said, “Ese as la ciudad de Magdalena de Kino.”

 “Gracias.” We said and eased down the cement channel. And then pedaled across the vacant dirt lot towards a couple brightly colored houses sitting incongrously between two abandoned houses, with their roofs caved in next to a yard of cemented dirt. I rolled slowly into the neighborhood, my eyes feasting on the new surroundings.

 Getting through a few blocks of the citie presented its own challenges. Steep rolling hills towered over us as we pushed through a neighborhood. Each house separated by wooden fencesñ on some, the paint cracked off, exposing the naked adobe bricks. Little brown dogs appeared at each crack in the fence, warning of us of how dangerous all ten pounds of them could be. A lady wearing a long eggshell colored cotton dress that hung softly underneath her dark hair, stood calmly in her yard, watering the grass. Her children sat in the doorway and stood up to energetically waved to us as we passed. She looked up lazily and waved at us with a welcoming smile. We returned our attention to another steep hill.

“I imagine we´ll be aeeing a lot of this,” Nate said to me as he shifted down into an easier gear and grundled his way up the hill.

 When it appeared as if we were drifting further into the depths of the neighborhood and away from the city I stopped to ask a kid walking by, “¿Donde es el centro de la ciudad?” He paused and looked at me quizzically, for a moment, as he processed my crude basic Spanish. I imagined that he sensed imminent confusion and misunderstanding if he had to verbally explain his directions. He simply pointed to the right at the corner of an intersection.

We found a grocery store and parked our bikes out front. Instantly, we were beseeched with curious locals. One individual, more dedicated to his curiosity than the others, managed to eventually extract our story in some form or another and was able to spare the other townsfolk the painful process of communicating with us by explaining our trip for us. Many lingered around to watch us pack our food and water.

We asked about a small road to Cucurpe, and brought out the map. A man named, Gustavo, offered to help us out, an athletic looking guy wearing a sporty wick’away synthetic shirt and runing shorts. He told us we´d have to go up four blocks and turn left on “Padrigo” and take that out of town. He then talked about mountains and made exaggerated up-down sweeping gestures with his hands while shaking his head back and forth. Seems like we hadn´t chosen the easiest route.

A cop on an ATV had pulled up and watched the crowd watching us. Seems he got the scoop from somebody about our trip and volunteered to show us the way to the road. And with our bikes ready, we asked la policia, “¿Listos?”

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He smiled and nodded his head. Turned on his flashing lights and took us down the road. All the cars pulled over and the entire town seemed to be out watching the gringo bike parade. He patiently waited for us to climb to the top of each neighborhood street and blocked off each intersection so that we could maintain our momentum through the next hill. At the edge of town he pulled off the road and waved at us.

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Within ten minutes the only thing around was the scorching sun and endless desert mountains. Shadows of vultures brushed the sun baked earth below and the horizon evaporatd into a cloudless saphire sky. Every once in a while a rancher´s truck would pass, its contents squished with passengers in the front and cattle in the back. In the shade of a dirty old cowboy hat, a solemn face would appear briefly, and often a smile would crack the weathered face. They would gently wave out the window, their arm covered by a thin and dusty flannel shirt rolled up past their elbow. Their arm would linger in the wind, flowing up and down as they tilted their hand. There was no rush to get where they were going.

Midday, we laid back under the shade of a tree at the bottom of a dry sandy wash. A gust of warm wind rustled through the remaining foliage making a cracking sound as it passed, bringing the dank pungent stench of rotting cows in from the distance. My eyes followed the path of the tangible breeze and rested on the remains of a few cows laying on their sides. Their skin melted over their bone structure, dripping and shriveling and contorting the creature as if it were a melting clock painted by Salvador Dali. Its eyes, mere shadows, sitting vacant under the tormenting sun. I checked my water supply and hoped for a town to come soon.

In the distance, the sound of a drum carried across the dry air, followed by a vaquero. His horse walked slowly, with its head down to conserve energy, each languid step moving the rider as if he was a lifeless package, fluidly resting on the horse. In one hand he carried a spool of barb wire, and the other he settled on the reigns. He approached us with his head tilted forward and low to mask his face from the sun.

“¿Are you okay?” He asked in a heavily accented Spanish that took a moment for us to register. “Hot day, a man could die in this heat.” He added.

“We´re fine, just taking a siesta,”Goat responded.

 He nodded his head and tugged slightly on the reigns, the horse wound around and continued down the wash in motion slowed by the heat, past the decaying cattle.

 After visiting the small pueblo of Cucuerpe, we set out looking for a place to camp. At the edge of town we saw two locals leaning against a soot coated white pickup watching the sun set over the distant mountains, shaded blue by the contrast of light. Cattle mooed in the distance and the faint sound of lively Mexican music could still be heard coming from the town. Behind the men was a small adobe house with crumbling walls, and a few plastic chairs sitting among piles of empty soda bottles and beer cans.

“Hello,”one of the men said in English.

 “Hola,” we replied.

 “Where you going?”

 “Vamos a Creel y la Barranca Del Cobre.”

 “Be careful. There´s a crazy guy up their in the hills right now.” He points up the road we´re on and continued with his accented English. “He has a gun, the police are looking for him.”

 Our shadows extend across the earth, reaching over them as we continue up the road. A chilling breeze cut through the heat for the first time that day and carried a haunting laugh through the cactus and tall grass.

¿Como se dice….?

What an exciting two weeks we´ve encountered.   Will offer a more thorough update when we get to Creel in the Baranca del Cobre,  internet access has proved less than ideal south of the border.  Be patient.

       We are all happy and in good health climbing up into the Sierra Madres.  We have not seen mountains like this on our entire trip and they are daunting at times.  Yesterday we climbed about 5-6000 feet in elevation and made a grand total of 40 kilometers in a single day.  Up, up, up… one brief mile downhill, and then continue back up, up, up.   Fortunately, we´ve reached the Pine Trees and cooler nights, but that is not to stop us from our easily enjoyed daily siesta.  We will continue to climb for the next couple days.

          Our maps are unbelievably unreliable and deceptive.  We are never quite sure where we are going and what resources we can rely on when we get to the next…is that a puebla..or a city?  Is that on the road, or is it going to be 10 kilometers to the side?  Main roads become dirt roads and dirt roads appear to be main roads.  Our map is like a bad friend, better than nothing, but it sure can be lame.

     Here is a brief view of what we´ve been up to.              

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Sean giving the locals a ride.

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Constantly attacked by ¨los ninos/as” de las ciudades.

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This is supposed to be a main highway according to our map.  

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Goat swimming with his bike.

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A little relaxtion in the parque del ciudad.

A Little Time In Tucson

            Stuck in Tucson for a few days trying to bring the Chupacabra to life.  More about this later.

Fortunately, we got to fill some time by visiting Rincon High School and talk to a few classes about our trip and Friends of the Lafitte Corridor.

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In order to keep our budget costs down and our bellies full, we’ve been dumpster diving around town.  Taking advantage of the incredible amount of waste.

ddive

Verde Valley

            It seems that the longer we stay around in a place the longer it takes us to get ready to leave. As if there was a scientific exponential formula dictating our delays. Being in Flagstaff about a month, the end product of that equation was high. We struggled to get things shipped away, get our bikes in working order and say goodbye to the friends we made. In a feeble attempt to overcome the inevitably sluggish departure we enlisted one of Flagstaff’s finest, Blair, of Team Hobo, to bike over and wake us up at 8 AM for breakfast. It was worth a shot.

            We did not leave until after dark, but knew better than sticking around another night. We would as so many folks warned us, “become permanent residents.� Which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad fate, as Flagstaff is a great place to be, but does not further us towards our goal.

After zipping around on trails for a month on a short bike without gear, the weight of my fully loaded Xtracycle was quite a burden. “How did I ever ride with all this crap on my bike?� I silently questioned, while wincing in pain.

So many things I had learned to take for granted, like being able to shift while ascending a hill. The steep driveway of our friends’ house forced me to stop, throw up my kickstand and hand pedal my bike into an easier gear. We rolled out of the residential zone and I began to get a feel for my new Surly Instigator frame and Thudbuster Seatpost, two drastic changes to my world. I had been having a lot of lower back pain and was hoping to switch up the geometry of my bike so I wasn’t leaning so far forward. My old titanium frame was a mid 90’s racing bike that was in no way conducive to cycle touring. The thin titanium tubing was remarkably flexible, and even functioned as passive suspension, particularly with all my gear. My new thick tubed steel frame designed for freeriding and lasting a lifetime, was as sturdy as could be. The Litespeed titanium frame felt like a wet noodle compared to this new ride. I knew it was time to get a different frame after Sean destroyed his Dean Titanium frame at the 24 hour race near Tucson. The last thing I want to do is get stuck in a foreign country without any way to fix my bike. Steel can be welded with just about anything, by just about anyone, whereas titanium requires space-age precision and is prohibitively expensive.

            The first night of riding was largely on paved roads, so that we could still get out of the town at night and ease back into the physically demanding lifestyle of off-road mountain bike touring. And we assumed we’d need to be easy on our newest member, Nate, who quickly proved that he was more than capable to hop on a 125 pound bike and ride. Even with Nate riding in front of us at times, we were still feigning sympathetic interest to the new guy as we chose the easier route to the town of Strawberry. He had been spending his winter tele-skiing and was in perfect shape to seamlessly integrate into the bike journey.

            3 bikes makes a crowd, and 4 makes a gang, not sure what 5 makes, but imagine we’ll know soon enough. Our campground was far more substantial with another Xtracycle and friend lounging around. I met Nate on a rafting trip on the Tuolomne River the summer before he came to UCSC, and had been friends ever since. He was a fellow “woodsieâ€� in Santa Cruz, having built and lived in a treehouse during his time at college. When I began the trip last July, I was leaving behind an extensive group of best friends, and it was nice to reconnect with that.

            We rode mostly on pavement to Strawberry, and I had repeatedly encountered tremendous fatigue while trying to ride at pace with the group. I couldn’t ever remember having to exert so much, and I struggled to keep up, at times pedaling while they were merely coasting away from me. In Flagstaff, I tried to ride a bunch, but without the gear. I feared I had just gotten soft. It got to the point where I had to rest, and it finally occurred to me to check my bike. The spring that causes tension to the brakes came out on one side and was pulling the brake pad into my rim, creating constant friction (and probably ruining the rim as well). It was bad enough to happen once, but I managed to repeat this same scenario 3 times that day.

            The traffic on the road was mild most of the way and gradually ascended throughout the day, reaching the edge of the Mogollan Rim before dropping a few miles directly into the Strawberry Lodge. Sean & Goat were patiently waiting for us outside, but I didn’t know because my vision was fixed on the Taco Tuesday sign declaring “All You Can Eat Tacos� for 6 bucks.

            The last time we sat down in the lodge, we had just climbed up at least 3500 feet of elevation in about 8 miles of muddy trail. It was supposed to be all you can eat fish & chips, but they claimed to have run out of food when we were just getting started.

            “Ya’ll still have plenty of Tacos?� I asked, still wary of the last “all they want to serve you� buffet.

            “It’s all you can eat.� A waitress replied, mildly irritated at my inability to comprehend their sign boasting the clarity of bold 18 inch letters.

            “That’s what they said last time,� I said under my breathe.

                We sat down at the same table and were momentarily transfixed, remembering our last visit. The incredible fatigue in our legs, the snowbanks outside and the black ice on the road. It was remarkable how much the place had transformed after a month. I remembered just how much I had come to hate the frigid weather.

            Instantly, I was snapped out of my post-ride daze as an energetic waitress came over to our table to say hi. We had met her just a few miles down the road in the town of Pine at a small café the last time we came through. We had given her a sticker and she had been enthusiastically following our travels online.

            “Wow…never thought I’d see you guys again! How is everything? You want the tacos?� She asked.

            And before we could really respond she had vanished into the backroom to return with plate’s full of tacos, rice & beans.

            “Did you guys get the Clif Bars?� She asked.

              “Oh yeah.. Wow. It was incredible. A huge box of just about everything they make. How’d this happen?â€� I responded, unsure how she knew about it.

            “I talked to my friend Kenny Souza, remember the guy I was telling you about, hardcore duathlon guy, huge bike fanatic. I told him to check out your site and see if he could hook you up.�

            My words of gratitude trailed after her as she rushed to the next urgent matter around the dining area. Then she was back.

            “So where you guys gonna stay tonight?�

            “Uhh…�

            “Good good..you should come over to my mom’s house. She’s a really cool lady. I’ll call her up.�

            I finished up another taco in about two bites, and she had rushed back.

            “I talked to her. She’s down. Doesn’t know if we have enough food for you guys, but you can stay there. She’s a really cool lady. Said she’ll cook you breakfast.�

            We had been voraciously consuming our tacos, like the good American buffet eaters that we have become. Except Nate, unaccustomed to our carnivorous and gluttonous habits of consumption was not enjoying it quite as much. He did not revolve his diet around meat, and his stomach did not fare well with all the ground beef. Either way, each platter of tacos disappeared moments after Coleen disappeared. Though, it was becoming apparent that the “all you can eat� part of this taco feast was questionable and Coleen had to fight higher powers to supply the unusually voracious appetites.

            “You guys still want more??�

            “Of course.� We replied.

            “Ehh… will 6 more take care of it?�

            “Uhh…well..that would be a good start.�

            “Sheeshh….they’re gonna kill me back there if I keep getting more.�

            “Awwhhh…that makes sense.� We said while realizing that we really didn’t need to consume tacos until we felt ill, nor did we want to cause any trouble for our benevolent friend Coleen. “6 more will be fine.�

            “Okay…so I can’t get outta here until a bit later, but I called my daughter and she’ll come meet you at the gas station by the Pine Market. Here’s 10 dollars, go and by a 12 pack and hang out. I’ll be there when I get off.� And with that she vanished behind the swinging doors leaving us staring at each other in disbelief.

            We meet her daughter and mother standing under a pale yellow street lamp in front of an old gas station. They lead us to the house nearby and gave us the tour. It was a trip hanging out with the daughter, mother and grandmother all at once. Stayed up chatting pretty late and crashed out, to be awoken the next morning by whispers of the youngest daughter.

            “Mom, can you wake them up? I want to say goodbye to them.�

            We were treated to waffles and coffee and relaxed out in the sun before heading back up the hill to access the Verde Valley.

 

 

            Our enthusiasm for dropping into the Verde Valley was expressed with various whoops and yelps, heard across the mountains. We’d keep our hands off the brakes and shred the straight sections, trying to see how fast we could get going before having to pull back hard on the levers and corner the turns that cut along the edges of steep cactus covered cliffs.

            Fossil Creek cut down through the valley, flowing with water so transparent you could see fish swimming in the cool depths below. With the sun directly overhead, we sought refuge in the crystal lagoons eddying out next to smooth flat rocks.

            “Hey Jacob,” Nate said as he popped up from underwater, “you should swim down and open your eyes and scope out the fish.”

            “This water is freakin’ cold,â€� I said as I stepped in. Instantly, regretting my words as I was bombarded with ridicule from the peanut gallery. It really wasn’t that cold.

            As we dried off in the sun, I felt a bliss vaguely resembling that of summer vacation when I was younger. Where everything you do feels right, and you’re certain that you’ve spent your day doing exactly what you want. How lucky we were to be lounging naked under the sun beside an otherworldly swimmin’ hole, on our way to hot springs and the ends of the earth.

            Over another hill with a remarkably deceptive false-summit, we made our way to the springs. Opted to cross with our bikes and camp on the foundation of the old hotel next to the spring, a modern ruin complete with two very out of place palm trees and rubble pile. Sitting in front of a plate of our usual nighttime oatmeal gruel, I heard something moving around nearby. My headlight illuminated two curious eyes that disappeared instantly. It wasn’t until the middle of the night that I got a better look as I heard something rustling around nearby, trying to run off with my oatmeal encrusted spoon. It had the face of a fox, the body of a ferret, and the tail of a raccoon. I was told later that it was a ringtail cat.

            We lounged around for an entire day at our campsite, dipping in and out of the Verde River and hot springs. Hiked up the creek, where Nate shimmied up an epic butte, to get the bird’s eye view of the terrain. We met plenty of characters passing by our campsite on their way to the springs, including an older fellow with a white beard who looks over some property in the area.

            “Ya’ll gunna be ‘roun this weekend?” He asked.

            “Probably not, only packed so much food. We’ll likely be outta here by tomorrow.”

            “It’s gonna be a busy weekend. Should be lots of naked girls. A lot of times their from France. There was this one time…”

            I interrupted, “You know anything about the trails around here? We’re hoping to take some dirt roads south. Maybe to pop us into Apache Junction?” We asked, hoping to not listen to this old guy banter about naked girls 1/3 of his age.

            “Sure. I know this better than just about anyone. Just yesterday I was helping some cowboys find some lost cattle. They didn’t even know the trails. Lemme think. You cross the river down yonder, puts ya up a hill…steep as shit. You’ll surely have to walk yer bikes. Goes up and up for miles. Then just keep on taken’ that road…up and down..up and down on outta tha valley..then you’ll hit a spring where you can get some water…then you’ll head out to the dam and a larger dirt road that’ll take ya on outta here.”

            We looked over our map and saw the road he was talking about end abruptly out in the middle of nowhere. But, our experience with the old topo maps is that a bit of local wisdom can likely offer more insight and was worth following. So we checked out his route.

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            After a full day of soaking and sloth, we returned to our journey. Crossed a section of the Verde River and began what I would dub as the hardest climb we have had on the entire trip. There was nothing gradual about it, having begun about 60 paces past the river at an incline that would challenge some of the most advanced 4 wheeled vehicles. I dropped into my lowest gear and prepared myself for a day of unrelentless grinding, slowly churning my way up the first hill under the full intensity of the sun. Always cautious to not lose traction and having to step down, fearing that I wouldn’t be able to remount the bicycle on the steep grade and end up having to push. There was a brief section where the hill let up, kind of like the calm before a storm, when the climb returned with vengeance, punishing us for the next 2-3 hours of our life.

OUt of Verde

            At the top, I chugged a liter of water and collapsed under the shade of a tree while waiting for the others. Goat comes strolling in next and repeated my actions.

        “Whoowee…what’d ya think of that one?” I asked as he sat down next to me.

            “She was a beauty.. that’s for sure.” He replied..still out of breathe, “Glad that’s over.”

        “Wonder how ‘ol Nate’s doing on that. Sure is quite the introduction.” I commented.

            “Yeah…I’m pretty sure that was about the toughest hill we’ve hit yet.” Goat said.

            Then Nate rides up, his face bright red from the sun and exhaustion.

            “Damn good to see the end of that hill.” He said.

            “Yeah.. just so you know. That was probably the hardest climb we’ve ever experienced. Welcome to our little off-road bike tour.”

            “Heh.. That’s good to hear. When I was slowly inching my way up that hill, I began to realize that I’m out in the desert with three guys who are completely out of their minds.” Nate said with mild exasperation.

            “Make that 4.. You are just as nuts as we are at this point.” I replied.

            Then Sean rolled up, made some ambiguous grunting noises and popped open his gun case, extracted his musical burden and played a medley of short tunes and rifts while we sat staring vacantly at the cactus around us. We laid back among the silence and guitar chords for a good while, relaxing in the shade and dreaming about Mexico.

 

            A short descent began a few miles later and I celebrated the occasion by getting 3 pinch flats and another small leak, completely exhausting my patch kit with 7 repairs. This was a first of many flats to be fixed that day. The rest of the riding that day consisted largely of dropping down into small drainages and slowly rising up and out of them. After one hill I waited for Nate & Goat. Sean had waited for me around the bend, and impatiently rode back to see what was up.

            “Where are the other guys?”

            “Don’t know. They were just behind me a moment ago. Figured I should hold up, see what’s going on.” I replied.

            To abate my curiosity I yelled into the distance, “WHHHHEEEERRRREEEEE aaarrrrreeee yooooooouuuu?”

            Immediately, their reply was carried back by a gust of wind, “FLAAAAT TIIIIIRE.”

                Sean anxiously said, “Hey. Can I borrow your camera. There is a huge iguana or something around that bend. You should come check it out.”

            “Sure..in my handlebar bag.”

            We both rode over to check out the giant lizard who had sought refuge from the humans under a large prickly pear cactus.

Gila monster

            “Oh wow.. That’s a Gila Monster,” I said, “I hear they are poisonous.”

            It was a bit camera shy, wouldn’t move much unless it could regress further into the dry grass and out of sight.

            The sun was edging its way to the horizon and sending a cool breeze across the dry desert landscape. Darkness stripped the contrast from the foliage, leaving silhouettes of the cactus before submerging the long day into night. Fortunately the flat tire was repaired before it got too dark, and the rest of the day was downhill. From our vantage point we could see the spring in the distance, blooming with life and huge trees amids the desolate and thirsty environment.

            I was desperately hoping for a swimming hole to relieve my exhaustion, but was instead greeted by some folks camping there.

            I was immediately accosted and simultaneously adopted by Mary, a lady bursting with energy wearing blue jeans and a colorful shirt exhibiting all the virtues of Arizona. “Jacob, where have you been? We have been waiting for you.”

            I looked over at Goat hoping for a bit of clarity, though he seemed equally puzzled. I looked back over to the lady and smiled, unsure what else to do with myself.

            “We’re going to cook you guys dinner, so just sit back and relax. Do you want anything to drink? Some water, Ice cold Gatorade?”

            “Gatorade sounds great.”

            “You sit down. Relax.” She commanded. “I’ll go get it for you.”

            I obligingly sat and quickly found the ice cold beverage in my hand. My first gulp sent the cold liquid tangibly down my throat and into my stomach, filling me with refreshment. I responded with a reflexive sound of, “Ahhhhhhhhhhh” as if I was on a commercial. “This IS paradise,” I thought as I looked around at the lush foliage thriving on the clean spring water and our new friends cooking up a feast.oasis.jpg

 

            We then met Kevin and his partner Fran. Kevin was leaving for a 7 week horse ride around the Mazatzal Wilderness trying to follow old Indian & horse trails from a bygone era. He is an author of a book titled, “Ride With Me” about his previous horse packing trips. He wore cowboy boots and a hight top Stetson hat slung just over his eyebrows, an off-white cowboy shirt with the top half of the buttons undone, tucked into low slung jeans.

            He was extremely excited about his upcoming trip and told us endless stories about his adventures, from almost losing a horse in quicksand to getting left by his horses in the desert and almost dying of thirst.

            Mary’s companion, Gary, was cooking away on the open fire, perfecting the pork chops and sausage while Mary finished up the beans and vegetables. We sat listening to Kevin as our plates were filled in our new found desert oasis.

             We solicited advice on the best routes to take and got to hear about Gary & Mary who traveled all over Arizona and New Mexico, seeking remote camping spots,

                I remembered a distinct moment of silence, when we were all sitting around the campfire, illuminated by the flicker of fire. A strange moment in the universe where three different groups of people crossed paths, out the middle of a distant desert surrounded by a hundred miles of wilderness. There were the two horse cowboys, the two car cowboys and the bike cowboys, all seeking freedom and adventure. Inspired by their curiosity of the horizon. Everybody satisfied to be where they were at the moment, unburdened by complications of the real world and excited about the possibilities out there.

            We were greeted the next morning by bottomless cups of coffee and another feast. We solicited advice from Kevin about our route, having decided that the Arizona Trail is more an idea/concept than a specific route. There are trails/dirt roads crisscrossing the entire state and plenty of incredible riding that hasn’t even been discovered yet. We were always on the lookout for new and exciting paths. After lots of hugs and goodbyes we said farewell to our friends and continued on our trip

            The riding flattened out, and the dirt roads opened up a little. After a half a day’s ride we reached Sheep’s Bridge, crossing over the Verde River. Our first signs of civilization since leaving the hot springs overwhelmed us. American flags waved high and proud while humongous 4 wheel drive trucks carried trailer’s full of ATV’s, a miserable accompaniment to the outdoors. A giant party of belligerence to celebrate Easter with a bunch of beer bellies, good ‘ol boys and tall cans. We stopped to cook lunch and observe. 5 ATVers pulled up next to our makeshift picnic spot near a river crossing and revved their engines repeatedly instantly filling the space with exhaust fumes. One guy struggled to get off of his recreational vehicle to see if they could cross the river. He stumbled out into the river and got swept into the water and over a few small rapids, got stuck among some trees, stood up for a moment before falling down and getting pulled further downstream. We sat there watching, dumbfounded. Eventually he was able to get a bit of control and get out of the river and back to his ATV. They left us with a parting gift of a cloud of dust that they spun up with their tires as they went to get some more Bud Light.

            As soon as we could, we packed up and continued on our way. We saw a coyote just 10 feet from us around one particular bend in the road. It scampered away into the desert. It was nice to get away from the chaos of Sheep’s Bridge. But signs of civilization were growing, largely in the form of beer cans and garbage on the side of the dirt road. We even began to see trucks out there, kicking up dust as they blew by us. There are certainly times when we wished we didn’t have to re-supply.

            Late in the day I came screaming down a hill, abandoning my brake levers until I reached the beginning of a turn. Suddenly my front brake failed, about the worst thing that could happen to a bike tourist careening down a steep hill, turning along the edge of a cliff. My mind flushed with a momentary dose of fear as I wrenched my rear brakes, which were not adequate to stop my momentum. I considered laying the bike down, but as a last resort, unclipped my shoe and jammed it between the fork and tire to slow down the momentum. Eventually the mass of bike and momentum eased to a stop. The noodle on my brake had broken off and separated the two sides of the brakes rendering them completely useless. I took a few deep breathes to calm myself after my near catastrophic event and hiked back up the hill to where I heard the brake pop off looking for the remaining pieces. By some miracle, I was actually able to find the very small pieces I was looking for and fix my brakes.

            A caravan of about 8 cars and ATVs passed, and were kind enough to offer help (you’d be amazed at how many times we’ve walked our bikes because of some failure out in the middle of nowhere and have the only truck we see all day blow past us). Unfortunately, I separated from the rest of the riders by the caravan and cloud of dust. Fortunately, the quality of the road was so poor that I could pedal much faster than their cars could drive and quickly passed them up.

            We had to cross the river a half a dozen times and pedal over countless stretches of “babies heads” (large rock fields). Eventually, we reached the main dirt road and were treated to the company of speeding vehicles buzzing across the dry dusty roads. The caravan passed me by, with the lead driver slowing down enough to say, “Man does it feel good to pass you.â€� And sped away with a wicked laugh.

            Our turnoff was supposed to be within a a couple of miles, but because of a combination of an inaccurate map and degree of map reading incompetence we could not find it. We resigned to camp in a wash near the road among endless stretches of wildflowers that had recently bloomed.

            The next section of riding was supposed to take us into the outskirts of the Phoenix metropolitan area, and we were hoping to skirt around the dense cluster of city roads inherently plagued with dangerous drivers, construction, and bike unfriendly paths.

            We had spent countless hours looking over our maps, dreaming about where each one of those little red 4 wheel roads would take us and what they would look like. Rarely have we discovered a very dependable correlation between those lines and reality. We got off to a pretty hairy start, with a good mile of terrain so steep and technical that we were forced to push our bikes up most of it. It put us up on a ridge-line covered with Ocotillos and Teddy-Bear Cholla. I got bored waiting for Sean to fix a flat and explored the nearby area to take pictures of the cactus. Managed to get too close and found pieces of Cholla embedded in my ankle on multiple occasions. Each time I had to get pliers to get enough purchase to pull them out.

            At some point we managed to get off trail and did our best to follow a route along the river, but realized that it had long been washed away and was impossible to navigate with an ATV, and incredibly difficult with a bike. Our day of bike riding turned into a 5 mile river exploratory. If nothing else we hoped that a few miles down the river we could link up with another trail. It involved laboriously lugging our bikes over huge boulders and through dense spiky vegetation. We had to cross the river about 8 times. We’d tote our bikes a good ½ mile and reach an impossible juncture and all would go explore the potential routes and come back and decide on our next direction. We found ourselves pulling our bikes through swamps and attempting to ride across huge boulder fields. Once again, we managed to find some of the most challenging sections to thoroughly introduce Nate to our bike trip. I imagined there must have been a few moments when he questioned, “just what the hell he is doing, pushing a bike through a swamp or up an impossibly steep ATV trail.â€� But by the end of the day he was smiling as big as any of us.

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            Even though our daily mileage was in the single digits we ended the day completely exhausted and set up camp near the river. Enjoyed a relaxing swim and laid back watching the stars. Dreaming of what the next day would bring us.

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Friends of the Lafitte Corridor

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Friends of the Lafitte Corridor is still working hard to create a bike friendly greenway in New Orleans. If anybody has pedaled a bike through a city, it can be hectic and dangerous. This path will be crucial to restoring and supporting the community, as well as securing safe routes for children to bike/walk to school. They are looking for donations and membership support. Please visit their site and find out how you can get involved.

Here’s a quick news update from their site:

 

Bikes Belong awards $10K for the Lafitte Corridor Greenway! Bikes Belong, a national coalition of bicycle suppliers and retailers working to put more people on bikes more often, made the following announcement on January 29th:

New Orleans ‘ Urban Conservancy, in partnership with Friends of Lafitte Corridor, will receive $10,000 to create a planning document for a bike/ped greenway linking the French Quarter and Canal Boulevard . This path will connect neighborhoods, cultural features, historic sites, retail areas and public spaces while providing a safe route for children and bike commuters. The City of New Orleans has already secured Recreational Trails and Transportation Enhancements funding for the project. However, in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, the city’s planning budget was reduced significantly. Bikes Belong’s funding will ensure that the Lafitte Corridor Greenway is professionally designed, with the needs of bicyclists and pedestrians in mind. This award was one of five presented to “outstanding bicycling projects” in the United States.



Flagstaff Regrouping

Contrary to popular belief in the Flagstaff community, we are actually not planning on becoming permanent residents (just yet). We have, however, had an incredible time riding and spending time with one of the most solid bike communities we have ever encountered. Steve Garro and folks from Team Hobo taught us how to “shred” on our mountain bikes. The Pay-N-Take has done wonders to quench our thirst for fine ales and good people and the epic trails offered plenty for us to do. If there was any place to be sent to by the Feds, Flagstaff would be the town of choice.

After leaving Flagstaff, we began to realize how incredibly trashed our bikes have become and were forced to make some serious adjustments to some of the bikes. I switched from an old titanium Litespeed frame with whacky mid 90’s racer geometry to a stout Surly Instigator with plenty of crotch clearance and more comfortable slack geometry. It is about 3 times as heavy as my old frame, but I can depend on it lasting the rest of the trip and can weld it if necessary.

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Steve Garro of Coconino Cycles added some custom braze-ons to run complete cable housing and attach 4 footman’s loops to secure my Dromedary Bag in the front triangle more securely. I got to hang around his shop for a day while we drank Tecates and listened to one of the best punk rock collections I’ve ever encountered. He was recently awarded the Frame Builder of the Year accolade at the National American Handmade Bicycle Show. After watching him work for a few hours it became very clear why. His ability to manipulate metal is super human. I watched him fit-up a headtube joint with such precision, that the pieces fit together so well they were watertight, BEFORE he brazed it. He put a lot of thought and effort into his frames and was proud to know how many frames he built that are being ridden around the globe. He is an incredible guy who makes incredible bikes…it is worth your time to check out his website.

 

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We were lucky enough to receive custom Xtracycles more tailored and reinforced for extreme mountain bike-touring. Additionally, the folks at Xtracycles hooked us up with tons of spare parts to get us ready for the barren northern Mexico section we are approaching. The folks at Xtracycles have been awesome to us throughout our journey. We couldn’t have chosen a better a product/company/community to help us out on our trip.

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Goat helped Nate fix up his bike and get him ready for the bike tour. Spencer Wright of Traffic Cycle Design custom bike fabrication put together an extra burley touring frame. Nate is going to try the new Titec H-Bars with Paul Thumbie Friction Shifters.

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In other exciting developments, Surly has offered to let us test out the Big Dummy when they come out in a few months. After Sean destroyed his DEAN titanium frame at the 24hrs in Old Pueblo, we decided to let him have at the innovative dedicated Xtracycle frame offered by Surly in the near future.

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Spencer Wright of Traffic Cycle Design  is also helping Goat create one monster of a bike. It is basically a hybrid Pugsley and Big Dummy and is impossible to describe at the moment. But we will be sure to post a thorough article about this creature when it comes to life.

 

 

UPDATES: A CREW OF FOUR

We are getting ready to continue on our way again. We have taken advantage of this momentary lapse in progress to fix up our bikes a bit and earn some money. We expect to continue on our way in about two weeks.

Our good friend Nate, from Santa Cruz, has officially joined our tour and will be riding an Xtracycle with a Traffic Cycle Design frame. More to come on that.

[GP:Flagstaff]

Dénouement

It was twelve noon, start of the mega-pain race; Old Pueblo twenty four hours in the desert. In front of a towering white circus tent hundreds of jersey clad gladiators were fine tuning their steeds of war as spectators cheered and the power-gel hawkers hurled miniature sample packets at people passing by. Everyone had the look of just having disembarked a shuttle to an enchanting lunar playground; faces conveyed childish delight as hands made feeble attempts to steady glasses of beer heaping with foam. The racers more fanatically determined to belt out hour-flat laps could be spotted by their indecently tight spandex shorts and brightly colored water bottle concoctions fizzing like tonics in a mad-chemist’s laboratory.

Goat, Jacob, and I stood at the sidelines watching the event gather momentum, not without a bit of longing to be out shredding trails. A young couple approached Goat and inquired about the xtracycles.

“We’re freelance writers covering the race,� said the man, “We thought there might be an interesting story behind your long bikes.�
“Yeah, we’re traveling from the top of Alaska to the bottom of South America.� Sez Goat.

“Really, well, are all of you here? Could we perhaps get a picture?�

Naturally we bit the bait, unable to resist the lure of small time celebrity status. We posed for a picture, and then I tried to discretely follow a lead to less significant business leaving Jacob to explain the details of our trip. I failed to get very far. Jacob called for me to come back; “One more picture�. After forced smiles and a flash the girl let her camera fall by its strap to her waist, opened up some manila folders and leafed through her portable file cabinet.

“Jacob Thompson!� Cried the girl handing Jacob a stack of papers stapled together. “Sean Monterastelli!’�. I was obliged to receive a similar stack. “David Yost…�. Quite suddenly we were wisked away from that dreamy desert playground; transferred incongruously to boot camp detail assignment. “These are summons for each of you to appear in Court in Flagstaff on Thursday, regarding a criminal case.� The full force of the intruding terror still hadn’t set in; I took a sip of my beer hoping my head would clear.

“We’re federal marshals assigned to serve you summons for a court hearing.� The female officer elucidated. “Here, take a look at our badges.� Both former reporters pulled out leather bound gold plated badges confirming their identity as federal Marshals.

I tried to look disinterested, yet my mind was working itself into a panic; these ‘reporters’ have gone to great lengths to set up this rather unamusing hoax. No, the badges were too authentic, the official documents headed with the words ‘The United States of America Vs. Sean Monterastelli, David Yost, Jacob Thompson’ too lamentable not to be taken seriously. I set my beer down behind a rock and flipped through the fifteen pages of federal charges and the supporting evidence.

The charges went as follows: (The riding the spine crew) conspired to Camp in an undesignated area on the North Kaibab Trail… camped without a valid backcountry permit… provided false information to a Federal Ranger… used bicycles on the North Kaibab Trail. Especially frightening was the invocation of a section of the Federal Code of Regulations (F.C.R) usually reserved for terrorists; the language itself was terrifying enough to sink my heart into a state of permanent despondency: “…did conspire to…defraud the government (!)�.

“You guys should read over the summons carefully and ask us every question you can think of,� Instructed the marshals. “Cause you know that as soon as we leave, your going to think of many things you would like to have clarified�.

Looking over the expansive ‘evidence’ section, I noticed that the entire case was based on information provided on our website. They had us quoted several times as admitting the knowledge that our activities in the Grand Canyon were illegal. The prospect of us coming out of this trial unscathed was slim.

Jacob wanted to get a sense of the severity of penalties that could be imposed on each count.

“I’m pretty sure that all of these charges are petty offenses/misdemeanors. I don’t think you’re being charged with any felonies. Each of the charges will probably carry a maximum fine of two thousand dollars, and some jail time.� The Marshals informed us. “However, I don’t think it’s likely that a prison sentence would be imposed in this circumstance.�

The two marshals continued to discuss an issue that they wanted to see resolved before departing.

“So, we’ve done a lot of research on each of you and your trip, we went through your website and discovered that you would be at this race. We also understand that you intend to leave the country very soon, and with the Mexican border being so close we have to impress upon you the urgency of making it to this court date as well as get an idea of how you’ll secure transportation to Flagstaff�.

“We realize that you’re all limited in mobility by the pace of your bicycling, so we can offer a place to secure your bikes in Tucson, along with ride to the Greyhound bus station�.

We assured the marshals that such arrangements would not be necessary, that we knew plenty of Flagstaff folk attending the race who could give us rides. A few other mundane details were discussed, all three of us desired to be set free from this official meeting to dwell in each his own anguished thoughts.

“Well, now that we’re all on friendly terms,� began the male marshal, face brightening up, “We’d like to express our admiration for the trip –I’m a mountain bike enthusiast myself-, and hope we haven’t ruined the race experience for you.�

Of course at this point a tempestuous sandstorm assaulting the desert plain with nuclear fallout would have considerably brightened my disconsolate mood. We parted ways with the Feds, dragged our feet back to ‘Camp Flagstaff’ and stuck our heads under the nozzle of the Pay-N-Take wagon keg.

News of our criminal status spread like wildfire throughout bike city. Most people held the belief that not much would come of the trial –despite the absurd amount of time and money already spent by the government in dealing with our case. One person offered to give us a ride to the Mexican border; another vowed to organize a critical mass bike rally that would disrupt all courthouse activity. Consulting the legal council of Dave Bednar proved to be the best piece of advice offered by Flaggies. Dave was something of a local hero to those having to deal with bike legal issues.

We left the race on a Monday, all taking separate rides of to Flagstaff. Goat rode in the pickup truck of our good friend Ryan, whose house we would end up settling into for indefinite residency. Ryan and Goat spent an unpleasant four hours stuck in a snowstorm just a few miles south of Flagstaff. Having the only shovel on the highway, Ryan was obliged to dig out the snow in front of several cars stranded before him. It was disheartening for all of us to witness our previous southward momentum visibly diminishing with the onset of winterland all over again.

On Tuesday morning we realized that we had a mere forty eight hours to prepare our defense. After calling several attorneys we came to the understanding that hiring a lawyer would be an expensive but necessary undertaking. Since most of the evidence supplied by our website was told through one voice there was a ‘conflict of interest’ among the three of us. We were advised that if we were to take the case to trial it would be advantageous for each of us to hire our own lawyer so that two of us could testify that what the third wrote was simply an embellishment of the actual story and didn’t reflect the real nature of our Grand Canyon activities. But really it would be in our best interests to strike an early bargain with the prosecuting attorney and be over with the whole ordeal as quickly as possible. Luckily we eventually came into contact with the miracle worker Dave Bednar, who took it upon himself to deal with the federal prosecutor free of charge. The night before the preliminary trial Dave worked out a plea bargain for us to consider. The conditions to our bargain were as follows: To delete from our website all journals and media presentations relating our activities in the Grand Canyon; to post (on our website) an apology to the Park Services as well as a list of rules restricting bike use in the Canyon; to serve forty-eight hours in the Coconino county jail; to (each of us) pay a five-hundred dollar donation to the Grand Canyon Search and Rescue team; to endure five years of unsupervised probation during which we would be forbidden from entering any National Parks, and would be barred from profiting off the telling of our Grand Canyon story. Even if we each forked over twenty five hundred dollars to hire personal lawyers, there was little hope of us acquiring a better deal; grudgingly we accepted the plea bargain.

While waiting for admittance into the courtroom, we surveyed some of the fine pieces of art decorating the lobby. A long haired man of rippling muscles squatted on a pedestal bending a long piece of iron into the shape of a bow. The caption written under the sculpture read: ‘Strength of the Maker’. There were also the usual blindfolded ladies of justice holding their scales that are supposed to be on level with each other to represent unbiased judgment. Mysteriously one of the ladies had had one of her scales pillaged, leaving but a dangling chain on one side of the counter –an ominous sign that sent us all reeling with anxiety.

Judge Aspey stated that he was willing to accept the plea bargain granted with a few minor modifications. We would have to post a photograph of us standing before the courthouse on the website to further inculcate our guilt to those who cared. Unfortunately, the façade of the courthouse offered little in impressing the image of a house of judicial matter -a shot of us marching in shackles behind federal marshals on our way to jail would have been much more compelling. In substantiating his addition to our sentence, the judge brought up a federal case in San Francisco in which a man was ordered to wear a sandwich board bearing the words “I have stolen mail, this is my punishment� for one hundred hours in front of a post office. The judge seemed to admire the creativity inherent in this sentence of public shame. I tried to imagine the dismal outcome of a dragged out court case in which this judge served as both jury and arbiter.

After some months of jail time, we would be obliged to ride freak bikes around the south rim of the Grand Canyon for a hundred days. Mounted upon the front of the bikes would be a large battery powered T.V. screen airing a media presentation of careless mountain bikers mowing down innocent pedestrians, spooking mule trains, ending in a dramatic slow motion pan of a baby’s stroller barrel rolling down a two thousand foot precipice. Naturally we’d be towing a chariot of two rangers apiece in spotless attire; both armed to the teeth and wielding horse whips. Each day some ten thousand tourists would step out of their R.V. or S.U.V., wipe their sweaty brow in confusion at the bewildering sight before them, and then curse us and our delinquent ways for spoiling the majesty of a once in a lifetime attraction. Memory cards of Five million digi-cams would become depleted with mug shots of the criminal bicyclists as millions of pissed off tourists vowed to have our heads mounted to their truck grills.

After the judge confirmed our criminal status we had about an hour of freedom before we were required to surrender ourselves to Federal Marshals. Two-thirds of this time was spent dealing with paperwork at the probation office, which proceeded awkwardly considering none of us had any legal residence, telephone number, mailing address, or any recent history of having such. The federal marshals were generally pleasant folk; they welcomed us with a full body frisk, gave us shiny handcuffs attached to chains that were tightened around the waist, and ankle shackles that made us walk like amputee victims. While taking down my information, they informed me that we’d all be beaten up in prison judging by how bad we smelled. Then we were loaded into a paddy-wagon and transported through the snowy streets of Flagstaff to the local detention center. A community park with a brand new jungle gym bordered the edge of the prison yard’s razor-wire fence, but the swing sets and merry-go-rounds were still and none of the city youths dared to climb about or holler their cares –God had turned his back on this day.

Our personal federal security guards transferred us into the custody of regular run-of-the-mill coppers. As the leg shackles and waists chains were taken off the Marshals advised the cops on the proper means of handling us.

“You got to be real careful with these guys�, the one marshal started, “These boys are criminal bikers; got caught bicycling down the Grand Canyon. They’re considered dangerous… check that… extremely dangerous.�

“Criminal bikers�, a deputy looked up from his paperwork with annoyance, “are you kidding me? What a waist of our time’�.

It was somewhat shocking that such trained professionals weren’t acknowledging the deserved severity of our crimes. The deputy asked us each if we intended to hurt ourselves in anyway.

“Wait a minute,� the Marshal interrupted. “The fact that they biked into the Grand Canyon during winter time should automatically qualify them for suicide watch.�

“That’s a good point.� Admitted the deputy with sincere concern.

Piece by piece, our entire hand was captured by the print machine and uploaded permanently into ‘Big Brother’s criminal records. Then we were thrown into the Drunk Tank; a concrete cell with a steel toilet/water faucet, lined with two tinted windows. For the first three hours only five other people resided in the cell besides the bike criminals. The most talkative of the bunch was a man who called himself ‘New York’, who spoke with a long island accent, always hand one of his hands down the front of his pants, and fancied that he knew the prison/legal ropes as though they had bordered his childhood playpen.

“You know if I were going to go looking for a lawyer, ‘know what I’d ask him first?� Mr. New York pauses to affect his rhetorical question. “Whether he’s spent any time in jail! That’s how you know you’ve got a good lawyer, if he’s got any experience as a criminal�.

A Mexican man with a long curly mullet was attempting to grill New York on his knowledge of parole violations. Unfortunately the man’s English wasn’t so coherent; New York would shine a perplexed grin around the room directed at anyone who might have a try at translation.

A large Navajo man, arms covered with ancient tattoos of worn colors would sit up from his lackadaisical sprawl across cold concrete and relate his tragic tale.

“Man I’d just been paid t’other day, and handed my wife the check; the full check. I only take out like twenty dollars for myself, and she looks at me, takes the twenty an’ hands me a ten. So I buy a Steel Reserve 22… and man I ended up hooking up the blueberriest weed you’ve ever seen.� The Navajo man’s eyes roll into the back of his head as he conjures the heavenly image. “I just had a tiny bit…� He makes a small ‘O’ shape with his index finger and thumb. “…and I had stuck it in my pocket before fallen asleep. Then I was woken up by the man.� It took three or four accounts of the story before I discovered that his parole officer had burst unannounced into his house, immediately frisked him, and discovered his stash of heavenly blue.

“That’s why I’m always telling my son; you don’t keep your weed on you… you hide that stuff far from your body when you’re about lying and crashing.� His advice for the rest of us held less appealing wisdom. “You know what though… G (glass) is much better than smoking weed any day. It don’t have any smell, and it’s easy to hide in your arse and eat in prison.�

If a lady were dragged into one of the holding cells across the hallway, New York would holler, predict a free strip tease and say something crude like; “why is it that only white broads get suicidal in prison�. Curly mullet man, determined to charm the ladies, would stand up and fix his collar (he, like us, still had on his civilian clothes). Most everyone else plastered their faces against the tinted windows till one of the deputies shouted to decease. At some point we were forced to evacuate the cell whereupon some inmates washed down the concrete floors and crammed in fourteen hard plastic porta-cots, leaving not a pinch of space to walk. Most of us threw our thin sheets over our heads and tried to ignore the blaring phosphorescent lights; New York stayed up late, placing a call every two and a half minutes to his ‘old lady’ –whose telephone, he had informed us before, wouldn’t except collect calls anyway. I heard New York whisper the same pathetic pleas into the phone piece some thousand plus times: “it’s me baby, please pick up�. Finally, when the inevitable Friday night drunken crew began filing in New York had better conversation to occupy his time. A truck driver from Texas was describing a rather fascist system of justice in a tiny town of Morton, where the Sherriff assumes the role of judge and mayor.

An obese man stood over the steel toilet clutching what he could of his enormous belly. He moaned low, gasped for breath and eventually demanded emergency attention form the night watchman.

“That guy had his act dialed�, speculated New York, “He’s gonna get whatever he want’s to eat down in the infirmary. He pulled that off well�.

A man from Las Vegas staggered into the cell, tripping over the first porta-cot immediately. He was unable make any unassisted movement without falling to the floor. My instinctual response toward the chaos posed by these fetid bodies was to bolt upright on my cot so as to be ready to brace myself for collision with the teetering drunk –and to be in better position to dodge any projectile vomit.

In the morning the cots were taken out but more people were crammed in to the already congested cell. Our tiny concrete room housed twenty four people for at least five hours; all the ‘pods’ –boot camp like dorm rooms- were at full capacity. Finally, after twenty six hours in that chamber of incessant boredom we were issued prison cloths, wrist band identification and whisked away to a luxurious pod. One could gaze stupidly at a T.V. set all day, or read a slim selection of Christian literature; one could even shower –although after noticing revolting cases of foot fungus on some of the drunk-tank regulars I decided against it. We were served some chewy mystery cutlets for dinner –chicken fried butcher’s discards rolled in bread crumbs. I had fasted for the time in the drunk-tank but was feeling dizzy, I ate the weird meat –it’s still with me after a week.

Our Pod was largely inhabited by Navajo men which made me feel slightly uneasy when I observed a group of five, eyes glued to the television, watching Kevin Costner Indian convert in Dances With Wolves. The American Movie Classic channel was kept on till ten –when the lights were shut off- and oddly, every movie included some ridiculous prison scene -Keanu Reves and professional football cohorts sing Gloria Ganor’s ‘I Will Survive’, and perform an amusing line dance behind bars.

We were able to sleep well in the pods, because they actually turned the lights out –even though they were put back on full force at five in the morning. Our legal savior Dave Bednar picked us up when we were finally released, and drove us to our Flagstaff home.

Upon reentering the real world as free men I’ve noticed a few changes in the appearance and behaviors of myself and my former bike crew. I find myself out of breath after performing even the most mundane of tasks –like walking from couch to toilet- and borderline the obese. Goat has a jarring tone of apathy in his voice while discussing any matters of future plans, his waistline is much like an ancient dam ready to collapse and gush forth a wave of doom for all that lies in its path. Jacob’s eyes are bloodshot and vacuous. He’s really only fit to sit on cushions and stare at the blue glow of a computer screen. I fear he’s in the throes of Internet addiction. Often I wake up in the middle of the night in cold sweat and involuntarily cry the words: “they’ve got us�. Luckily we’ve been consoled (more times than we can count) by local wisdom the saying: “it’s all down hill from here�. Every single instance of this advice before has turned out to be bogus, yet the law of averages dictates that the tide will turn… it must!