Crew Chief for The Cochise County Cycling Classic

The 252 mile race of the Cochise County Cycling Classic requires a support vehicle. As Randonneurs, we've ridden these kinds of distances unsupported--but the rule for the 252 is a support vehicle. Paul will ride the course and I will drive the support, or SAG car. So we're out here to do a dress rehearsal if you will, of what the conditions of the race will be like on that day.



The 252 start time is 2 a.m. so we have started about that time this morning. Our plan is to ride parts of the Arizona Brevet courses we know so well, and ride down to Sasabe, Arizona--right down to the border with Mexico--and then return.

We'll check out lights and make sure we have back-ups. I want to make sure I get the mix of nutrition and liquids for Paul the way he wants them. We've also brought spare wheels--if we have a flat, you change out the wheel and the rider keeps going--only losing a few minutes--instead of trying to fix the flat and put it back on. The crew will fix the flat later as they're in motion, and it then will be the back-up.

One year I crewed for Dave Glasgow, and another team's rider had a puncture. We were at a check point. The three man crew, none of whom where cyclists, and none of whom had ever ridden Cochise, were in a fix. An old guy came over and handed me the rider's wheel--more like shoved it in my face--and was waiting for me to do something. He went back to sit in his truck or something while the rest of the other rider's crew stood around. I think I leaned the wheel against the truck and we took off.

I will be leap-frogging Paul as he rides, and the hope is that if he does have a problem, I'll drive up behind him and we'll take care of it. Should I be in front of him, he will have to be prepared to fix the flat on his own, or put air in his tire to hold until he can get to me. I have to be sure not to drive too far ahead.

It takes a bit of practice--and experience helps--to get this right. On parts of the 252 mile course, I will not be able to turn around and go back. Cell phone service will be limited or none.



Baboquivari Peak, sacred to the Tohono O'odham.





Paul has trained well--and smart--for Cochise, mes amis...



We are close the Sasabe; half the town is in Arizona and the other half in Old Mexico.



Because we know Border Patrol will be speeding up and down the Hwy, I put on the sign you see in the photo. I made these signs a few years ago when I was on Gerry Goode's crew for the Furnace Creek 508 in Death Valley, California.

I was happy to be Crew Chief for Paul--but actually I'm the only crew and that will work. Two people would be okay--just got to make sure you don't have too many people. If you like Electronica and they like Country--well, some body will be ready to puke.

All of Brevet riders know this sign well. Its about half way on the 400 km--for several years it has been a tough one, mainly weather related--but you're on your way home. You must first ride 45 mile through remote Buenos Aires Nat'l Wildlife Refuge. It is beautiful, Gentler Readers of This Blog, but dangerous. Many border crossers, having eluded Border Patrol, perish out here sad to say. I brought extra water in case we meet them. We will share what we have.



About 12 miles to Sasabe and our rest stop. Paul is riding strong and feels good.



Sasabe Store, about a mile from the US - Mexico Border.



I'll ride with Paul for awhile so we can talk about things so far.



The Sasabe store is a very friendly place and the owners are cheerful and helpful, no matter what nationality you are.



There is a bunk house that hunters can rent that is next door.



My Trek 2.3



Paul putting on sunscreen.



Who ya gonna call?



We have a tailwind, mes amis!



I'll ride aways with Paul and then turn around back to my car.



This is heading North back to Tucson, through Buenos Aires Nat'l Wildlife Refuge.



Paul is in good shape, and I feel very confident I will be able to provide the support he needs. At the Arivaca Junction, Paul rides up to the Arivaca Store, and head back to my car.



Mexico is just over the hill on my way back--the tailwind to Arivaca was great--but now I have to work to make it to Sasabe.



Border Patrol guys are, for the most part, a good bunch. They are polite and decent fellows--their job is really more like search and rescue and not so much law enforcement. These guys were stopping in to get coffee--its still pretty early in the morning.



Sasabe isn't your typical One-Horse Town--its actually a Two-Horse Town. I talked with this young woman for a few minutes, and then her friend that had gone to the store to get their coffee. They were ranch-hands on the big spread a few miles from town.



As you get to close to the border, at least on the US side, rules start to apply to everything it seems. A few years ago when I was here, I rode right into Mexico. There were no barricades or fences--like suddenly there I was. The Mexican Border Guards were all smiles and they waved. I stopped in, we all shook hands, and they welcomed me to Mexico. I had never been in Mexico before.

I turned around and rode right back into the US--friendly US Customs Officers waved and said hello. One of the guys told me a bit of history about the historic little house, which was standard US Border House-style based on an old lighthouse. They were very proud of that place.



Just in case you're wondering where you are...



US Customs Officers said no pictures--only the US side. I said, "Are you kidding me?" No they were not kidding they said. With all their expensive equipment and gear, they didn't even notice I rode up to the station and right past them. The were pricks. Quite heavily armed pricks I might add.

Things have really changed here and this little remote crossing does not seem like a friendly place anymore.



I was messen with Photoshop, Gentle Readers... It really says, "Eat Me, Mother F..." ha ha ha, just playing!

I really pissed off the US Customs Officers by taking this picture of the border fence.



Better call in reinforcements, fellas...



America the Beautiful, Baby! I'm pretty lucky I think. This is tough place to live--not much money or way to earn a living. There's good people on both sides--and I'm sure there are the bad ones trying to get in with drugs and smuggling people--so many people crossing in--they can't catch everyone. Many die out here trying to reach Tucson and Phoenix.

Rain comes in to cool Paul off a bit on his ride back--but there's a stiff headwind for him.

While I work on filling water bottles, and check out Paul's bike, he applies sunscreen.



I'm glad my little car will work out--we can carry all our gear plus my bike. I don't think we'll carry a back-up bike for the 252 as we probably won't need it. Water, food, tools, spare wheels, and changes of dry clothes and back-up lights will all fit.



The ancient people that lived out here, and their descendants, The Tohono O'odham, still revere their God who lives in the mountain. We have been respectful, and thankful for good weather and safe conditions.

I'itoi, watches over his people from this place.

He will often come down, and take the form of a coyote. He can take the form of deer, a hawk--a man or a woman. He can become a rain cloud to cool you off with a gentle shower. He can become a tree by the side of the road and give you shade while you rest awhile.

For me, out here--I realized a vast and powerful silence. That Silence is the Power of Life on Earth--the feeling you are part of every living thing--large and small. That is a very sacred thing, Gentle Readers of This Blog.

Cheers! Bruce

Les Routiers

Picacho Peak at Sunrise.

Over the Holiday, Steve and I set out on bikes from Dog Mtn on a crisp Friday morning—to ride through the desert for Muledale. This is one leg of our famous Marana-Scottsdale-Marana ride we try to do every so often. The trek is right at 130 miles one-way so says my bike computer—but really—it’s a sun up to sun down journey.

I live in Dove Mountain, Gentle Readers of This Blog. It has some fame as being the place where the affluent, having an architect or two in a shirt pocket, create gaudy eyesores on the landscape and rub shoulders with Tiger Woods—when he’s here once in a blue moon to hit golf balls.


Riding through Picacho, Arizona... an old ranch house that's seen better days.

I wouldn’t say these homes are worth millions of dollars— just that they have taken millions of dollars to construct. I also wouldn’t call them homes because wealthy people don’t live in them really. The desert—and in particular this once pristine area—is a place for them to crap out their excessive wealth in piles of wood, glass, and steel. Workers buzz around these creations like flies around shit.


A faux Double Wide for the Horsey Set.

My place is quite modest—and I mean that. I live in the “Villages” section of this opulence, mes amis. Villages might sound quaint, but it has a bit of a--let's say--condescending charm to it—don’t you think, Darling?


Post Office of Picacho, Arizona.

Okay—so what I’m getting at is that my friends make fun of where I live and instead of calling it Dove Mtn, they call it Dog patch (After the hillbillies of the Lil Abner cartoon) but Dog Mtn pretty much stuck as the handle.


An abondoned buisness--one of many to be seen on this stretch of road.


Steve leaving the domain of Picacho, Arizona. This is part of the Brevet Route, and all of us Randonneurs dreaded being chased out of town by the pack of dogs. Sadly, most of the dogs are dead--killed and run over chasing cars.

Scottsdale; sometimes they like to call Dove Mountain the Scottsdale of Tucson. When you say Scottsdale, Arizona, you’re saying MONEY. When you say Dove Mountain—people are like, what? So you must say it’s like the Scottsdale of Tucson—and then they’ll go—Oh… Wealthy people actually live in those million dollar homes in Scottsdale. Sometimes they’re outside in their gardens or walking their dogs. Often they will wave good morning and say hello.

Offspring of these Scottsdalians drive mommy and daddy’s Lexus or Mercedes quite recklessly, so that’s what blokes like me got to watch out for while attempting to arrive in Muledale and Steve, The Star of the Blog’s shack.

Ah! Muledale… It’s actually Scottsdale but every time I’m up at Steve’s place—the local farmer’s mule brays out “HEE HAW HEE HAW HEE HAW!!!” So you’re standing there and thinking to yourself—what the Hell was that? A mule? And Steve says, rather dryly—“Yep…” I just think it ironic that all these Scottsdale people (in Steve’s neck of the burb) think they got it make, and while they’re watching their big flat screen TV out on the Ramada—they suddenly hear this mule hackin’ up a lung!

Right after we leave from a short break at Picacho Peak Plaza for a quick cup of coffee, I have a flat tire. As I didn't seat the tube right, I go about a mile and have flat number two.


We ride thru what's left of the town of Picacho, Arizona, as stated before--now we enter the town of Eloy, Airzona.


Jesus es Senor in Eloy, Arizona mi amigos!

We had a Black Breakfast on Black Friday in Casa Grande. We didn't go to IHOP this time and tried a place called BJ's again--it wasn't the greatest place--wish we could find one. If anyone reading this can tell me--please leave a comment and the location!


Soon we are on our way to charming Sacaton, Arizona. For the most part, the Indians there are pretty friendly. If you're out riding and need help or water--go to the fire station. Cyclists are always welcome. At the store, the only one in Sacaton, sometimes they can be kind of coarse to white people--but this time everyone was friendly.

This is what it looks like on these back roads. Open desert forever. When its hot, the wind blows like a blast furnace. When its cold, like it was this ride, the wind is relentlessly biting and chilly.


Steve and I take a break at the Sacaton Store and gas station. Steve made the comment about how the Indians aren't usually too cordial to white people. My reply was simply, "Why should they be?" This land out here is not an easy place to live. The white people took all the water and best farm and grazing land.

But they do respect us for riding the long distances--in the cold wind, and in the blazing heat.
White people think we're crazy.

We are out of Sacaton and this marks about the half-way point, Gentle Readers.


I credit Steve, Star of This Blog, for blazing the route from my house to his house in Scottsdale. These are forgotten back-roads we are traveling on, where people are poor and their lives difficult. We start in Dove Mountain, where its pretty clear people are wealthy--and then we ride 100 miles through the harsh reality of the Native Americans and the Mexicans, until we end up winding through affluent Scottsdale, Arizona where people have money and status.

Kim, resident gourmet chef of Chez Jewell, has a pork roast, waiting for us on the table. And beautiful ruby-red wine just cryin' for my lips to taste!

Cheers!