I started off today optimistic. I knew that an uphill battle was in store. I also knew that the mileage was low along with the wind speeds. As someone writing at the end of the day, I can tell you that I was not prepared. This once again has become a lesson in the difference between "knowing" and "understanding." To know is to have a general knowledge about an event, understanding is to have experienced it and its nuances. As an example, I know what not cycling is like. Currently, I don't understand it.
Today, I knew what was in store. I did not understand.
I started off today just north of 3,000 feet in altitude. The air is basically soup and I am utterly alone in my travels. The day went smoothly as I slowly lost cell service and any semblance of civilization. I rolled past some hotels, a road-side photo opportunity, and an ancient Native American building foundation.
Then, I was alone. Utterly and completely. And this loneliness hit me all at once once I stopped and really took in the surroundings around me. I realized that I had not been passed by another person in a couple of hours. I stood on the shoulder of the road, on the crest of the hill. The long ribbon of the road stretch before and behind me, disappearing among the plateaus that surrounded me on three sides. I didn't see a glimmer of a windshield or hear the sound of any engines. I finally appreciated how utterly tiny I was as I looked at the Vermilion Cliffs that were a handful of miles to my right. Pink and yellow bands of rock reflected the long, deep reach of time that has carved itself through the valley. The cliffs, silently standing watch over the Colorado River. Even as I stood a few miles away on a small strip of road, they still seemed to loom over me. I decided the view was good as any for lunch.
Lunch was a quick, relaxing stop as I waved at the first person I saw in hours: a US Forest Service Ranger. He was heading into the back country, or that's what I assumed. His truck had two spare, full-sized tires, two Jerry cans, shovels, platforms, and tons of other gear to travel through the sandy terrain of the desert. He waved back and tore down the vague outlines of a trail. In the horizon a dot had appeared and was heading towards me and the truck now. It quickly approached releasing a loud whine that was the sound of a dirt bike. The dirt bike and truck passed before the dirt bike flew past me, turned left, and tore up the road. Lunch traffic was busy.
I returned to my bike and began my ride. Shortly after I noticed in the distance that a glob of highlighter yellow was slowly approaching me. After what felt like an eternity of slowly approaching one another, I realized that I was not hallucinating, that what looked like a highlighter was approaching me, and on bike nonetheless.
The highlighter had a name: Eleanor.
Eleanor was also traveling solo around the US. She had taken some time off her job in New York City to see the country before she returned home to Paris. Similar to me, she had grown tired of being away from home and, while she enjoyed her adventure, was ready to for something familiar. As we shared stories on our trip I began to notice something funny. We were both experiencing and understanding the strange microcosms of culture that the US had. The culture that not only makes places like Texas unique from Michigan, but also makes Houston different from El Paso. From the strange politeness that was the South to the ruggedness of ranchers in the West to the curious dialect of Midwesterners, we talked about the cultural oddity that was the United States.
She asked me about life as an American, my perceptions as a historian, and how my trip was going so far. I asked her similar questions. We often answered to one another in bicycle touring code and relating our extremely similar experiences. It was a comfortable form of shorthand that one has with their friend. Due to our uniquely similar experiences, we managed to shortcut straight to that level of understanding. It was refreshing. After weeks of the same five questions, having a real conversation with a stranger--and now friend--gave me a new mindset to look at this trip. The best advice Eleanor gave me was this:
"On our bikes we don't get to choose who we talk to. In a car you choose, right? Doing what we're doing everyone wants to talk to us and we don't have many options to say no. So have fun with it. This is fun."
She was right, to a point. I had found myself waving friendly people away because I didn't want to talk at that moment; but, I was being the asshole in those situations. Eleanor had a great perspective and made me realize my error. At the core of her sentiment was this idea we were unique creatures people had never seen. Everyone's seen a car and people who drive cars. You never hear of anyone seeing someone on a bike just riding around a country as casually as they ride around the block. They wanted to know what made us tick. We could show them our inner mechanisms in conversations and potentially help them adopt these mechanisms into their life. And, who knows, maybe they had some mechanisms for us. We talked long about this idea in many different ways.
After a two hour conversation we parted ways. She was heading vaguely towards Denver via Monument Valley then New York. She was hoping to be done in the next month or so. I told her I was heading towards Seattle and who knows from there. And I waved goodbye to my new friend ready to tackle the plateau ahead of me. As I rode closer, the gradient began to grow steeper and steeper. I knew that my finishing point for tonight, Jacob's Lake, was at 8,000 feet above sea level. I had started the day at 3,000 feet. I was currently at about 4,500 feet and had about a dozen miles left in the day. As I rode to the foot of the plateau, I was pushing away something that I'm sure the reader has already figured out: I was in store for a steep, 3,500 foot climb.
It was brutal.
It was windy.
The air got thin.
I got frustrated.
I rolled into Jacobs Lake sunburned, exhausted, and extremely agitated. Low blood sugar had sent me into a spiraling rage of resentment and on a desperate search for food. I then proceeded to walk into a weird, alternate reality where all the Mr. Hyde characteristics of my personality was filtered out. I was in a diner that seemed to be untouched by negativity. At the Jacobs Lake Diner, perched on a plateau with nothing but desert and hell surrounding it, existed a weird business model. There was a place, seemingly devoid of customers, with over nine people working, and cheerfully. They were acting as if they were the main ticket checkers at Disney World. Everything was a smile, a "yes sir" or "sorry sir", and nothing but a positive attitude. I rolled in like a bad thunderstorm.
I hated existence.
I hated the altitude.
I had almost gotten run over by a pack of deer.
And I was convinced my bike was falling apart beneath me.
It turns out that in a protracted battle of emotions, cheerfulness will utterly destroy negativity. The workers were extremely polite and cheerful and seemed genuinely interested in my trip by asking unique, pointed questions. As my attitude slowly keeled over into optimism and my belly filled with a large meal, three new friends appeared at my side. Three fellow millennials, looking cheerful and pleasant, asked how my ride up the plateau was.
I came to meet Tony, Ross, and Lorena. They were in a school bus turned RV travelling across the American West. They earnestly asked about me and my trip in ways that people at gas stations or pit stops seldom do. Beyond the typical "where ya goin', where'd ya start" questions laid a sense of community. An idea that we all had been through the similar battles of conversations regarding our existence at these moments on these unique trips. Then we said our goodbyes as they were headed to camp out for the night. I had yet to finish my meal and told them to enjoy their journey. A moment after they left I began kicking myself. "You should've asked where they were staying" I thought to myself.
And a second later Tony offered me to come camp with them. I enthusiastically agreed. I inhaled the remaining bits of dinner and spent the night camping with three fellow adventurers. We sipped beers and told tales around the fire as it slowly burned into the cool night.
Tony regaled us about a harrowing tale of a backcountry California mountain road filled with burned out cars and particularly dangerous locals. He was terrified to leave his bus and dog behind to get gas. A saving grace in the form of a Eastern European man arrived with a few gallons of diesel and he was saved for the day. We all laughed at the ridiculous image of his wide bus scooting down coastal mountain roads, clearly out of its element. The group then turned and looked to me for a harrowing tale of my trip so far.
I told them of Jim.
It was refreshing to be in wholesome company.