DNF GC 600 KM

We took a shot at it and rode to the Valle controle—that’s when circumstances lead to our decision to abandon. I will tell you now that the ride was tough, and on roads that were in poor condition and quite dangerous, especially the climbing in Oak Creek Canyon. Dangerous because there was really no shoulder, and dangerous because automobile drivers, probably coming up from Phx to visit Sedona and Flagstaff, suddenly found themselves squeezed in with a few Randonneurs on the tight corners.

I believe I can tell a local driver from a Phoenician—in either case while on the bike, you can hear the car tires pounding on the choppy pavement as they’re coming up from behind. Phoenicians will pass you, albeit at 70 mph, but leave you a few feet between you and their Lexus. Dewayne Maynard, and Nola Mae Jean (probably Dewayne Maynard’s common law wife) will not be so kind. Many times vehicles passed me within inches—the empties from Friday nigh clanging around in the bed of the truck. Because they drive this stretch of road so much—making runs for beer, smokes, and white bread—they got no patience for “Turiss.”

Local Boy living the high-life, "Yee Haw!"

Randonneurs have reached a certain level of Zen awareness while riding on these brevets. The brutal climb forced us to ride slow and steady. Even though the cracked asphalt is pounding my bike and body—when there’s a lull in the traffic, and there’s silence for a few long moments—I can hear the stream flowing over the rocks in the canyon below. I can hear and see the little birds darting about the trees. Sometimes I could hear some larger bird’s song from deep down in the canyon and hear the echo below. I catch a glimpse of a mouse peering at me from behind a pine cone. That is what makes the ride worthwhile, mes amis… I think it too bad we have to live so fast, and miss these things. My feeling is that’s why we find it so easy to be indifferent to each other and the world.

Friday after work I headed up to Scottsdale. My car was loaded, and extra gear for the ride was put in the Mystery Van. Kim would meet us at the controle in Valle, at about mile 118. Because we were not sure if we would have cold and rain, we had to carry more clothing than normal. At the last second I decided to keep my hub the early morning, and not use just battery lights. Not sure what exactly I decided to bring, but my bike was heavy—that would really cause me to suffer on the climbs early in the ride. We’d take off all the gear when we saw Kim with the feeling that the lightened load would help us make up for time.

We got about 4 hours of sleep, then took off to Camp Verde for the 4 am start at the Ranch. At the Ranch I remember getting the bike ready, saying hi to Susan, Mike, Gerry, Bryan and Sal. Even though it was very dark, there was some star light and moon light—a couple of curious horses in the coral watched every move we made, and it was if they wanted to come along.

Yours on the Road...

As the sun rose up, Steve and I got into our groove, and greeted a few other riders who were out doing the 300. We caught up to Sal, from Oregon, who had stopped to take off a jacket—it was already getting hot. Sal told me how traffic was kind of scary and I joked about unfriendly Arizona drivers. Actually, here in Tucson, I’ve never had any real problems—as always, somebody talking on their cell phone and not paying attention has almost run over me. I try to avoid certain roads at certain times of the day because I know it makes it difficult for drivers. I certainly don’t drive on the main road to get back to my house in the evenings because its narrow and a bad road, and people just want to get back home after a long day at the office. When ever some one passes us close on purpose—and very fast, I always say about the driver, “I’m comin’ Mama! I got your bail money!”

Sedona at day break was beyond words, Gentle Reader. It’s a beautiful place for now. The “McMansions” are appearing everywhere you look and that’s sad. It was getting busy and people were rolling in and out of cafes and breakfast places. Guests at one pretty expensive place could sit on a balcony and sip their Bloody Mary’s as myself and the other heroes began a most beautiful and deadly ascent to glory.

We made it to the Flagstaff controle, but just barely. Sal had arrived a few minutes before us. Steve contacted Kim to give her our ETA to the Valle controle—I filled our water bottles and shed the warmers and packed them in my bags. I needed to cool down from all the climbing. Sal almost took off without his helmet—he wanted to get moving, as the next controle would be tough to make. We ate a quick lunch and headed out not long after.

I know Flag pretty well and we rode right thru the heart of it. My wife is from there, and some of my very good friends, Jim and Victoria, used to live there. We’d stay with them for a night before a trip out to the rez, or when Jim and I would go for a hike in the Canyon. Jim made the best Vodka Martinis I think I’ve ever had, and to mark the occasions of our visits, he would go out of his way to find the best cognac or wine from Morocco or Spain—and we would savor it and laugh about shit we had to put up with in our jobs, etc.

And of course, there’s the Dara Thai restaurant that we always went to before a hike or a mountain bike ride. I was happy that on the brevet, Steve and I rode past it, as its right in the heart of Flag. I should have jumped off the bike real quick and gotten a picture of it for Jim—but didn’t. They live up in Minnesota (one the most over-rated states in the country) Sorry Jim! Boy, did we every stagger out of that place a few times after all the pints of Guinness…

Humphrey's Peak from the Campus of Northern Arizona University...

I looked for, and finally saw Humphrey’s Peak, a sacred mountain of the Navajo. I can’t recall what the Diné call it but it is one of four peaks that define geographically the place on the planet that the Navajo occupy. Bev tells me that Afghanistan looks like Navajo Land in some parts she’s flown over…

Bev flies in a Blackhawk over Afghanistan...

Afghanistan / Pakistan border...

Jim told me that he flew over the San Francisco Range one time, and you could see the volcanic creators—besides being a librarian, Jim’s also an anthropologist. He said the volcanoes were very active about 1000 A.D. and that the Navajo living in the area most certainly witnessed what would have been some pretty cool and dramatic eruptions!

"Hey Bruce, turn around..." Steve and I stop after Steve sees the mountain in his mirror. I take the photo...

We're at 8,084 feet.

After climbing to 8000 feet or more, we began to descend—but we had to talk about the ride thus far. We knew we wouldn’t make the controles and we needed to rest and get to Kim and the Mystery Van, which would be waiting in Valle. One thing was for sure, I didn’t want to ride these poor roads at night—and to the Canyon we now faced a brutal head wind. It was time to pull out. Steve got news of a family emergency, which meant he would have to fly out of Phx at 6am for his flight Monday… We just hoped Sal would be okay out there on his own.

We plan a ride up to the Grand Canyon this summer, and we’ll probably leave from Prescott and ride a different route, so we can spend some time at the canyon, then ride back thru Williams. Steve knows some better safer roads—so any of you cats that want to do that—let me know!

Allure Libre!

Sunday Ride with Friends

The Sunday Gang rode our 45 mile loop from John’s house and back. We go up the front side of Gates Pass, and then ride the McCain Loop. There’s the usual sprint down Sandario to the Chevron—and this time to the Airport Café. John bought everyone breakfast.

The wind came up as we were leaving breakfast, but with just six or seven miles to ride back to John’s place, it wasn’t so bad.

Kathy and Yours. We're taking a break after climbing the front side of Gates Pass.

McCain Loop, in Saguaro National Park.

Another photograph on McCain Loop.

Whilst trying to get a good photograph of flora in Saguaro Nat’l Park, The Wolf appeared, Gentle Readers. I should have been more prepared—as I realized his presence, he “appeared” and we exchanged greetings. The Wolf may or may not be a phantom. I snapped this image of him as he glided past… I hope he finds peace on his journey.

Kathy and John

Farmland west of I-10 and as we've left the Airport Cafe in Marana.

3 Little Miles

Gentle Readers, I had to abandon the 600. This happened three miles outside of Tombstone, Arizona--and then about 30 miles to the Northwest--when it dawned on me I had been charging full-steam ahead back to the Elgin Controle and sleep stop--not on Hwy 82, but on Hwy 80.

Three miles out of the Circle K in Tombstone, I missed the left turn to go West, on Hwy 82. Instead I kept going on Hwy 80 heading northwest to Benson.

Everything about my ride was going right, and I was riding with confidence--and I knew I would finish. All I needed to do was get to the Tombstone Controle, turn around and get a few hours of sleep back in Elgin.

At the Tombstone Controle, just a few minutes past midnight, I was trying to get warm. It was quite a cold ride, my clothes were soaked with sweat and I needed to dry out a little. I bought a sandwich and water to get a receipt, and filled the camelbak. The clerk let me have a free cup of coffee.

So I charged out of the Circle K and quickly gained speed. Herein things didn't go my way. It was dark, and even with all my lights, I missed the left turn to go west on Hwy 82. Being pretty tired probably contributed to this error.

I was going on Hwy 80, as I said before, which also heads west for a time, like 82, but then it gradually heads northwest. In the dark, the roads seemed similar, and I was riding fast because now it was down hill. I can recall when I was climbing those last three agonizing miles into Tombstone I would gain some speed going back because it would be a quick descent.

So there I am with a nice down hill, a bit of a tailwind--riding very fast on the road with almost no traffic to slow me down.

Spinning down the road something didn't seem right. I should be seeing the lights at Mustang Corner--or something? Then I saw the sign, "Welcome to St. David" and right then and there I knew--I had missed the turn back in Tombstone.

Survival mode set in--I was growing tired and needed to figure out something pretty fast. It was cold and by chance if I saw a barn or someplace to sleep and get warm, I would stop. I was on the 252 Cochise Classic Course and it was familiar--I had ridden Cochise in 2005. Dave Glasgow had told me about the Benedictine Monastery in St. David--surely they would take in a stranded Randonneur--if I could find it. Benson wouldn't be far away--I'd find a hotel.

I came upon a woman outside washing down the sidewalk of the gleaming 24hr gas station and store she worked at. It was 2am. "Good morning," I said. "Might I come in your store and get warm? You see I'm on my way to Elgin--and well--I made a wrong turn and I've come down Hwy 80 when I should have been on Hwy 82..." The woman was quite cheerful and sympathetic--and not dumbfounded--like so many other times when Steve and I would mysteriously appear to some poor store clerk in the middle of the night.

We got out a map and I could tell I was well past Elgin in mileage. Riding back to Tombstone 30 miles, and then riding to the controle was beyond what I believed possible for me under the circumstances.

The woman insisted that I let her call her husband, and soon he arrived in his truck and we were on our way to Benson to find me a hotel. The man's name was Mike. He was about 50 years old. He'd recently retired from the Nat'l Guard--after three tours of Iraq. He had been in the first Gulf war, and after that did two tours in Baghdad. I told him about my wife being in Afghanistan since January. His younger brother has recently gone back to Baghdad for a second tour of his own.

Mike had been First Sgt of his Battalion--the NCO's run the Army, Gentle Readers--and he said that he pulled his guys out of some pretty sticky situations--getting them home after they got too drunk on leave, and who knows what else fighting in the streets of Baghdad. So making sure I was squared away was in his nature. I offered to give him all the money I had but he wouldn't take it.

600

RUSA President, Mark Thomas would be on the ride. As I waited in line for my brevet card, I spotted him, and a few other Seattle Randonneurs. My first impression—they seemed larger than life—all very fit, confident—and ready to go. I cut out of line to go find the restroom, and to move around because I was a little cold waiting. I met Mike Sturgill for the first time and that was cool. The man looked strong, and of course, he was very laid-back. I returned to Susan’s truck to stow my drop bag and sleeping bag, and said hi to Paul Layton. I’d see him at the Marana Controle a little later.

The week before, on a late Friday afternoon, I was just about to leave work on a cold and rainy afternoon—when my cell phone rang. It was Paul. “Bruce can you come pick me up?” “Well sure—Dude, where are you?” “I’m at the Roadrunner Market—Houghton and Sahuarita.” I knew it, but it took me a few minutes to go over in my mind how to get there from my office. “I’m on my way.” I told Paul. I couldn’t believe that he was out there. I’d sent him an e-mail asking him when he would be riding, as I knew he’d be supporting the brevet. He never replied—but riding today? It was the coldest wettest day in Tucson that I can remember for some time. He must have faced wind, rain, and cold. Traffic was horrible of course, and it took me well over an hour to drive 30 miles to fetch him. I cranked up the heater in the car as I got near the Market. Then there he was, looking a bit pale but cheering up when he saw me… Here’s the account of his ride on his blog…

I still had a few things to tend to as the group pulled out of the start. I needed to give Susan some water cans, and her RUSA banner left over from the 400. Shock had brought them to my office and I promised I’d deliver them at the start of the 600.

Mike Enfield had not left with the group, as he was tending to last minute things as well. He wasn’t too worried, and I knew he’d be riding straight thru on this one. He noticed that Steve was not by my side. “Steve’s sitting this one out.” I said. “See you on the Road.” And he wished me well, and I wished him the same.

I gave Susan the gear left over from the 400, and asked her if John Moeny was at the start. He had been, so I picked up the pace to find him and we would ride together. He had ridden strong in the 400, so I needed to keep moving and possibly meet him at the Marana Controle.

John had stopped near the Picacho Peak DQ and I had ridden past him. I saw a rider about a mile in front of me—it was Jim Clark on his trike—but I didn’t know it at the time. John gradually caught me and we rode on to the Marana Controle.

John was having some mechanical difficulties and said he would abandon at the Marana Controle. So he drafted for me and I was glad about this, and to have someone to talk to because the first 45 miles to Marana were a bit depressing. I toyed with just giving in, but at the Controle, Paul Layton cheered me up and I made the decision to just keep going.

As I was pulling out, Paul told me to be sure and ride past Helmet Peak Road, and then he said to watch out for The Wolf. As I headed out and then down and through Saguaro Nat’l Park, I really didn’t give it a second thought—until I saw him riding toward me in the Park. There he was, The Wolf—I snapped a picture of him last year which I will add below.

The word around Tucson is that The Wolf is a lost soul—a spirit—who’s destiny, for some reason—is to ride Saguaro Nat’l Park for Eternity.

This was part of the 400 and this time it was a bit easier. I’m happy to report I felt strong and in good spirits. I stopped in the McD’s to have a bit to eat because I had really pushed it going through Saguaro—I wanted to re-fuel. Mission was coming up and it’s always a tough road—and it was starting to get hot.


I pulled off the course to go to the Mission real quick. I figured I would need all the help I could get—prayers were answered as I had a slight tail-wind going down mission and up to Helmet Peak Road. On down to Duval Mine Road where I got some good speed—but the road was very rough and full of pot-holes, but I wanted to go fast. Some jerks in a truck came up behind me, probably going about 60mph and just passed me by inches—and I was going about 27mph myself, and they quickly cut in front of me. It was a nice expensive truck and it shuddered on the rough road. To drive like that on such a bad road—to drive that fast really tears up trucks. But they’re probably too stupid to know that.


I got to the familiar Chevron station at I-19 and Continental Road. That’s where I met up with Jim Clark. He was out—his trike had taken a beating on Duval Mine Road. I probably should have taken it a bit more easy myself. Jim was wearing the jersey of the Cambridge England cycling club—or was it Oxford? I can’t remember—but he gave me some cold water and some packs of GU, which I really appreciated and used later to climb to Sonoita… Thanks Jim.


I called Steve to let him know I was okay and where I was. This part of the course was a bit less familiar to me, so I wanted to be careful and not make any mistakes.

After about 11 miles or so, I found myself at the Roadrunner Market. This is where I had picked up Paul Layton a week earlier. Here I met several riders that were doing PAC Tour's 300 Km Brevet. They figured I was on the 600 as they saw the hub light on my front wheel. They had come back from Tombstone and reported that a group was just starting the climb to Sonoita.

I was actually looking forward to that climb, as I knew that would be the hardest part of the day. I was nervous because the first year I rode this 600, all of us ran out of water about two thirds up. I filled my water bottles and bought two bottles of Gatoraide just in case.

So there I was close to 5 pm. The climb was before me and I must say mes amis I was ready. As stated before, Steve, Rich Combs, Mike Allen and myself started a pace line up, and one by one we all spread out and marched what was like an eternity up the moutain. It was close to 90 degrees that year, 2005 I think--in April, and it finished us all off one by one. By the time we got to the Tombstone controle I had a bad case of the runs--which I could never shake off--and I had to abandon. I also recall how un-friendly the motorists were to us that day--people speeding like 80 mph, getting as close as they could to us to run us off the road, red-necks shouting profanity at us.

I am happy to report that I felt strong, and made the climb and to the top by about 6:45--as the sun was starting to go down. It was quite a beautiful site to behold--red and orange mountains and copper sun. I reflected on how much more of a rider I was compared to a few years ago. Instead of pain and cramps and insecurity--I felt confident and driven. My legs crapped up a little so I dismounted and walked a few hundred yards. I also wanted to take in the sunset, and go over the cue sheet--it would be getting dark soon. Some people stopped and asked if I was okay and if I needed a ride. I knew the downhill would follow so I thanked them and said I was alright. Other than the one truck that stopped, there was no other traffic.

From here on out, I was pushing it to make it to Elgin. There I would get a quick bite to eat, leave some of my gear to lighten my bike, get to Tombstone--and then come back for the sleep stop. It was just a bit confusing because from the cue sheet, it seemed the Elgin Controle would be closer. In fact it was quite sometime before I got close, and it seemed there was some climbing--and it was very very dark. But I had to trust my bike computer and the cue sheet. I had taped a small mag-light into one of the vents of my helmet. It worked quite well. It was just that I was fearing I had passed the road. Finally it appeared, but still not there yet?

I arrived at the base of the hill and the Elgin clubhouse was at the top. I was pretty tired and thought to myself how hard that had been. A van came down the drive as I started up. It was Bryan Gibbon and his wife. Bryan having a stomach problem--I know how that can be--and he was calling it a day. We shook hands and he wished me good luck. Time to get inside and get warm.

Inside, some of the guys were sleeping. A few had just arrived back from the controle in Tombstone. Jim Clark, who had to leave the course, was there and he helped me get some food--that saved me time and the food was just what I needed. Craig, another support person also helped me out. I took some of the heavy extra stuff I wouldn't need for an out and back to Tombstone and stashed it in my drop bag.

I saw Mike Enfield once more in the controle. And a few other guys--we had to be kind of quiet as other riders were sleeping. They were off to head back to Casa Grande. I still had 70 miles to ride. That would be to Tombstone and back. I wanted to stay and eat more and just sleep--but time to go.

As I was climbing out of the controle, which was difficult because I wanted to go faster, I could see riders' lights coming down the road into the canyon I was riding out of. It was a dark cold night and crystal clear. As I got onto Hwy 82, a group of riders pasted me. "Is that Bruce?" a voice shouted out. It was Gerry Goode. I said, "Yes! Hello Gerry!" and so it felt good to know that someone knew I was out there. The road ahead was long--it was very cold and very dark.

As I got on the road and got some speed, I saw lights coming my way, and just about the entire trip other riders passed me by shouting encouragement. So really I wasn't so terribly far behind. This gave me a morale boost and I rode even harder. I made, to the best of my abilitly, all the mental notes I could about the terrain. It was very dark, and I want to sure that I didn't miss the turn to take me back to Elgin.

Well, now you know the rest of the story. I got to Tombstone about ten minutes after Midnight. I was tired, and I had pushed hard to make it there. Leaving the controle, and speeding down the road--I missed the turn to go west and back to Elgin and instead to Benson.

I took a shower and went to bed. It was about 3am. At 5:30 am my cell phone rang and it was Steve and I recounted my mistake. But I didn't feel so bad really because I knew I had ridden strong. It was my lack of experience that caused my missed turn.

Come back later as I'm still editing the 600

Time For Spring, I Say

I arrive in Scottsdale--to the sound of the Mule braying his eerie call to the gods--of Scottsdale. May they grant us good riding conditions... But it rains most of the night, and Steve wakes up and decides to let me snore another hour back in the guest room that's on the other side of the eastate were Steve and Kim live.

So we leave at 6 am to clear weather instead of 5 am in the rain. Good because we don't have to carry rain gear. And the extra hour of sleep was just what I needed. It had been a long week, mes amis...


We're on the Rez, and the clouds are rolling along. You know, this is the first time it hasn't been hell on wheels--you know, head wind, freezing cold--better yet--104 degrees. It is just perfect for riding.


Well, the first flat. Let's see, I hope I got a spare tube in this bag back here. Randonneurs must carry a bit more than the weekend rider. We've only planned to ride 100 miles. 100 miles--is that all? And you guys call yourselves Randonneurs?


Remote desert on the Gila Bend Indian Reservation.


Nice place for a flat. I guess we've all been there, n'est ce pas?


Hey there's some farmland out here. The rain has made everything quite green, and its still a bit cool. Warmers are needed late morning.


Farms along the road.

River Rd Ride Report

River Rd is my new commute home. I ride up Swan to the light and stop and cross at the crosswalk. Its too dangerous to try and make a left, and its up hill and not much room for about 100 yards. I wait at the light, catch my breath, then go west at the green light. So far, car drives let me squeeze in--then, and this has been the case now the few times I've ridden home--all the cars have passed, and there's no cars behind me--I have about a half mile of a very fast descent which let's me fly over the rollers to the next light. The pavement is new and smooth like a 19 year old UofA Coed's mid-drift, Baby! With no cars behind me, I can ride in the middle of the road and not have to have just that thin strip of bike lane...

Nearing River and Campbell, the road is slow going for cars, but I'm rolling fast past them. I wonder what they're thinking when they see me charging by, if they even see me at all? Big bike, ass, long hairy legs crankin like a bat outta Hell--

As I approach Oracle Rd, which is the last really congested area for car drivers, there's just that thin ribbon of bike lane and I must set up to squeeze in between cars on the right, going to turn right and head north on Oracle--cars going straight on River, and everybody else waiting to turn left. Cars all packed in, and up ahead just the space that seems only wide enough to fit cyclist's shoulders. And what a rush to blast down that ribbon while the cars must sit and wait and wait and wait. I'm riding about 19 to 22 mph--probably not a good idea, but its such a rush! Of course if anybody tried to turn out or thought they'd be cute and open their door, with my weight and speed, I would tear the door off and I would be killed instantly. But, I suspect the drivers are sitting there motionless and in a stupor anyway. I know--I've been there. Sitting in traffic saying to myself, "Where the fuck did all these old people come from?" If I was an old guy, should I live so long, I don't think I'd be worried about going 1 or 2 mph over the speed limit and getting busted by the cops. But I wouldn't be driving too fast and furious either because that's not cool. I just wish these elder citizens would not drive in the left passing lane slow as shit that's all.
On the bike, I don't have to deal with either one--Gramps or Sir Speedy. Bliss Baby, just bliss riding home on the bike.

This last week of riding has been good. If I drive everyday to and fro, I put in about 250 miles a week. By riding in three days a week this time, I knocked 80 miles off that, and still arrive home about the same time as driving the car.

This morning I drove East on River Rd, and must report that the bike lane is not ready east of Campbell. Too bad.

Allure Libre!

Burning Off Breakfast

Yesterday on the ride home, I decided to see if I could ride all the way from TMC back to my car parked 10 miles away. I’m happy to report that I was able to do this, and that 90 per cent of the route is paved with new smooth blacktop. That’s everything east of Campbell on the river path. But it’s a boring ride—why should I complain? There are horse stables and parks, which means on a windy day, like yesterday, Yours gets a lung full of manure. Pick your poison they say… So I was able to ride from the river park entrance at Swan all the way to Campbell, on new pavement. At one point, and I’m not sure where exactly, I had to ride on the south side of the riverbank to Campbell. Here I rode north on Campbell over the bridge and right into a high-end shopping-type mall. There’s a place there called Arizona Cyclists, and the guys told me that I could ride on the dirt path and then ride pavement under Campbell—which I did. Soon I was on the old familiar river bike path I know. So if on a day when I don’t want to ride in traffic, I can take this route.

One matter about the bike route—it’s slow. It took me an hour last night. This morning I rode from the YMCA/Pima Community College parking lot, up Ina/Sunrise and burned off breakfast--it took me 56 minutes to ride the 15 miles. Its fast and there’s lots of traffic and it’s a bit more intense and I dig the rush. I only waited at one stoplight… On Glenn Ave I must stop at a 4-way stop or light every mile, it seems, and dang it takes forever.

I believe I will try and ride back on newly paved River Ave tonight. There will be one dangerous left turn at Swan and River. The pavement is new and I should be able to get some speed going. Traffic is light and there are speed zones signs and large fines for speeding. Everyone is taking it easy. On the south side of River Rd, if I was to ride east, well it looks like there’s still some work to be done and the bike lane is under construction

Construction has begun on Sunrise and going home that way (west) is just dangerous because of Ina and Oracle crossroads—people are in a hurry so best not to ride there yet. River Rd looks like a good choice.

Cheers...

Press On Regardless, or Brevet of 400 km

Steve on Mission Road.

I’ve given up trying to fight the wind and just accepted the fact it will always be there to trash me. This brevet, the wind was just unnaturally brutal to all of us—all the riders—fastest, fast, and then Yours the Writer of This Blog. And it was cold... You would think that with the sun rise it would start to get warm. This is not always the case between say, Eloy, Picacho Peak DQ and the Marana Circle K.

Steve and I have had success with hand and toe warmers Steve’s bought from REI. With temps in the 50’s in the parking lot at the start—in Casa Grande—Steve left the warmers in his drop bag just in case we needed them in the evening. Wish we would have had them going out… It was frigid cold and I was okay for the most part, but Steve used my extra arm warmers to wrap around his hands—this was around Red Rock I think—I’m sure we pulled in for a cup of coffee before the trek up Sandario.

John Heller lent me his Carridice Bag (made in Nelson England) and that has to be the high point of my 400. It was just right to carry everything I thought I would need—as we were nervous we wouldn’t see Susan at the controles later. We know we’d make the times, but Susan might have to be other places. Just in case I peeled off some warm clothing, I thought I should have backup in case my drop bag was not at the Arivaca controle when I arrived.

Dave Peashock aka Shock! saved our skins on the I-19 Frontage Road between Green Valley and Amado Jct. We were able to fill our water bottles and camelbaks—which would save us time; we wouldn’t have to stop and buy/get water at Amado Jct. Plus we got recon about the Arivaca Controle—that Susan might be leaving—all the reason to get moving and get to the controle.

The 22 mile leg of this brevet is one of my favorite roads. Dave Glasgow and Gerry Goode took me out there and we’d always stop at the Gadsden Coffee House for a sandwich or pastry—and then fly back to Green Valley for lunch. Later Dave and I would ride down to the Sasabe Store right on the border. Anyway, I wanted to get to the controle and get my gear—so I pushed as hard as I could those 22 miles, taking advantage of the fact their was no headwind—finally.

Yours on Mission Road. The winds have been brutal all day.

Susan was just about to pull out of the controle. I was so happy to see her, and felt good about riding the strongest I had all day. Mission Road and Helmet Peak Road had taken their toll on us.

Got a boost from a quick stop in McD’s for a hamburger and fries about lunchtime. Shock! as mentioned before, helped our morale when he gave us some water right there before the 22 miles to Arivaca—

But at the Arivaca Controle I started to fade, Gentle Reader. I had spent all I had. I was feeling sick—I didn’t want to eat. I noticed that I hadn’t made many stops to pee—I was in trouble. I had to force wraps in my mouth, and decided to take some for the road. All I need is the tail wind, the Buenos Aires on the 45 mile stretch to Three Points and I’d be alright.

Now we had John Moeny with us from New Mexico. I was glad to have him because he pulled for us and we hung on his wheel and I struggled to regain my head and stomach. Baboquivari was a blur as the sun went down. This stretch of road is cut through an ancient Holy Place that the Indians revere—I’ve heard stories—and many a poor soul has expired trying to reach a better life across the border in these parts—so its best to keep focused and keep moving. Border Patrol play cat and mouse with drugs smugglers and Coyotes out on this road. They actually stopped us and wanted us to get off the road because some vehicles (meaning drug runners) would be coming past at high speeds. I’m not quite sure they came through—but this might have been because I was in a dream-state/survival mode.

John kept me coherent with conversation. I was coming back but slowly. Steve’s E-6 cast that reassuring glow of light on us as we glided on toward Three Points. Finally I mentioned the little string of lights to the West would be Ajo Way—and the red tower lights were Three Points—with rest, food, much needed water, and coffee—still had about 8 to 10 miles to go to get there.

Made it and had about 20 minutes before the store closed. I got stuff I needed and wanted to find a place to rest. Bad cramps made me find the rest room in the back of the store. A bout of the runs followed—which is okay because I thought I’d been done with the hours of nausea since Arivaca.

I had to lay down on the cement in the entrance of the store. I had almost blacked-out. Everything was spinning and I just didn’t want to get up. I was completely drained of any energy—I was empty. I was spent. It was over. Got to call Susan.

Thinking about it now—I could hear the concern in Susan’s voice. I could barely whisper in my cell. It was reassuring to know that she was going to call Shock! who would be at the Marana Circle K. He would come get me and I’d be fine. DNF, who the Hell cares? Better riders than me had to abandon this day. She called back and said that Shock! was just about to be on his way—he needed to go to bed. It had been a long day. I was starting to come around and my head was clearing. I couldn’t do that to Dave—ask him to come out and fetch us.

We decided that we would keep going. That’s Steve and I. I had no doubt that John would keep going as he was riding well and feeling good. Plus the last thing you want to do to your mates is abandon them on a ride—or get abandoned and have to go it alone. Just had to make it to the Marana controle.

We did that by stopping and resting—even if it was for 5 minutes—to eat a little something, to stretch—and for me, lay down on my back and calm myself and breathe. I lay down in a ditch in some thick dead weeds. They were soft and I was out of the crosswind. Steve kept telling me to get up and get moving. We all needed some coffee to keep us awake.

We made it to the Marana Controle at 1:30 a.m. Got coffee and a hot dog, and decided I wanted to lay down one more time for a few minutes. I went to the side of the Circle K and lay down by the side door. As expected, one the employees banged open the door and threw a bunch of trash out into the open desert. The bloke didn’t see me—had he, I bet he would have freaked out. It was time to go anyway.

Steve and I have trained for our brevets and ridden the last leg of this course so many times, the last 45 miles just seems like short run in the park. Slowly we made our way back, then the pace picked up. One high point of the ride was when we were going over the over pass on SR 87. We watched a train come full speed, and then roar past and underneath us. That was pretty awesome—kind of like front row seats with surround sound.

Eloy we stopped for coffee and a little food. I could not believe how tired I was. We had pushed ourselves, and continued to push ourselves until we were right there at Susan’s truck—just under 26 hours later. Susan was quite pleased with us. I remember her motto she once firmly put on me, “Press on regardless.”

Bryan Gibbon was sleeping in my car. I had left him my extra key in my drop bag. This really helped me out because he’d drive us back to Tucson while I slept. That meant I could get home faster, shower, and sleep. He also helped me pack my bike into the car, and packed our gear and his bike, while I changed into some clean clothes. I’ve injured my back trying to get the bike in and out of the trunk—and injured myself trying to change out of the bike clothes into some clean clothes—mainly in some small bathroom where its easy to pull a muscle or get a sudden cramp.

Gibb was a good sport driving me back as I probably mumbled incoherently. We had made the 400, and we had made it back to Tucson. And I wasn’t in too bad of shape.

Now its time to think about the things I did right—the mistakes I made—most likely nutrition/not getting enough calories, and recover and get ready for the Brevet of 600 km.

Bruce Feels the Heat

The 400 km looms for this Sunday. I’ve been commuting in this week and feel that my bike, with the up-grades, will serve me well.

I did drive in today (rest day) and was pulled over by a Sheriff’s Deputy. There were two bimbos talking on their cell phones and traffic was backing up behind them, as there was a bimbo in each lane. You may recall, Gentle Readers, that Ina Rd, which turns into Sunrise, and then into Skyline, is a road where people haul-ass to get to work. Sunday Drivers, Old Timers with no particular place to go, other than for a tee-time or to stock up on Depends—are not welcome.

Nor is it good manners, in my humble opinion, to yak on yer fuckin cell phone and drive 15 mph slower than the speed limit. Myself, and many others stuck behind you, are trying to get to work.

Anyway, I saw a chance and sped up and got around these idiots and went on my way. No long after, said Deputy pulled me over. He said, “I clocked you on my radar going 56mph. Just slow it down…”
So no ticket this time—probably because he knew I was getting around the yakkers—which I soon passed, even after being stopped by the Heat. And yes they were still blabbing on their cells.

Owt!