Day 51 - Aren't I Prescient? The Real Longest Day

It's rather clairvoyant of me that i didn't title Day 38 "The Longest Day" (despite my presumption at the time that it would be) since it's Day 51 that takes the crown. Thirteen days before I left Hope Valley for West Sacramento, Utah Is Three Planets kept running through my head on an endless loop as i explored 127 miles of the multi-faceted terrain between Blanding and Hanksville. Believing myself to me clever, i used the 3-planet mantra as the blog title for the day. Which makes today, Day 51, at 139 miles the undisputed winner of the title. Huzzah!

When i woke up in my tent after a long sleep (i crashed before it was dark, about 8:15 or so the evening before and woke up at about 5:30AM), it was frigid. I had no phone service so i couldn't check my iphone (and for those of us who read the Day 16 & 17 handlebar confessional, we know that Dashie is a pants-aflame liar anyway), but the campsite host told me it went as low as 40. I stuck a leg out of my sleeping bag; it was too cold to do anything except rock back and forth in a fetal position stressing out about the long day ahead of me which would not begin as early planned since it was too fucking cold to do anything. Despite the fervor of my rocking, this activity did little to warm me up.

I know that i've complained a few times about the cold on this trip. And i've also admitted that gear-wise i was unprepared to deal with it. Drinking pre-brewed iced tea from my water bottle, rather than a nice hot cup (like i was able to have when Nina and I camped in Bryce Canyon, thanks to her camp stove) is not an ideal way to get the blood flowing on a near-freezing mountain morning. Nor is gnawing at a clump of arctic-hardened banana-coconut bread and hard-boiled eggs that give you a Slurpee brainfreeze. [Digression: I just Wikipediaed Slurpee to ensure i spelled it correctly and i am stunned to learn that they are carbonated. Also, they are kosher, except the piña colada flavor which totally has crab in it. Slurpees are also suitable for those with celiac disease (a gluten intolerance). Hope Ma and Aunt Paula are reading this.] I donned every article of clothing using my towel as a big gay cravat and ran down the hill to the bathroom to crap. As i ran, my cycling leg warmers repeatedly fell into a fully 1980s leg warmer position hovering at my ankles. O the indignity.

I managed to defrost everything except my hands which had in previous days been challenged by an onset of quasi-paralysis. I guess because i'd been gripping my handlebars for at least 8 hours a day for 50 days, they had been getting quite weak, especially my left hand which is the only useful one anyway. I hadn't been able to open water bottles with manly prowess, and cutting anything with my left hand (even the salmon from the night before) was a joke. I had been hoping this disabling was not permanent damage, and the fact that my hands were now frozen stumps could not be helping any. The shady Sierra campsite i had been so proud of and awed by the night before was mocking me.

Because of the cold and the excessive distance of multiple bathroom trips, i didn't wheel Whitey down the hill and out of the campsite until 8 o'clock. I knew the day would be long but i hadn't calculated exactly so as not to scare myself out of doing what needed to be done. When i was in Pueblo, i had for the first time of the trip actually planned out days in advance. I needed to figure out what day to meet Nina and i'd wanted to alert my SF crew and Donny of approximate arrival days. Somehow I had added up the miles incorrectly for the 3 days from Fallon NV to San Fran, and there were 20-something extra i had to disburse among the 3 days. Also i wanted my ride into San Francisco to not be much more than 80 so i wasn't a total crabapple zombie when i got there. So Day 51 was the day to try what i hadn't tried yet: what if you just keep on going (that is, if the terrain was at worst flat-ish and the weather fair-ish)? Drew and I, and then later Ben and I, had mused about this. Most days, though i was tired and hungry and in need of hygiene alteration, i wasn't at death's door or anything. Nor had i ever ridden until it was even approaching darkness. So, what if i just pushed on until i was at either the threshold of total exhaustion or nightfall? I was going to find out.

The first stretch to deal with was the rest of the climb to the Carson Pass summit (10.5 miles).

Then, i'd be losing the entire 8,500 feet of elevation (with plenty of ups-and-downs within that loss) over the course of the next 90 or so miles until i hit Folsom (yes, that Folsom) and the American River in Sacramento at which time i'd be on flat bicycle paths for approximately 30 miles. I aimed to bike all the way to West Sacramento, over 130 miles away. I had also decided, arbitrarily it turns out, that West Sacramento was the nice bit. But more about that later.

The incline to the summit wasn't too bad for the first several miles - cold yet clear and bright - but then steepened in that Grand Mountain Pass way i'd become all too familiar with. The Sierras are scenic-wise not unlike the Rockies - perfectly misty snow-caps in the distance like a film set backdrop, dark emerald conifers, crystal-placid lakes, deer galore galavanting, and swish lodges. The weather warmed up quickly after the initial ascent and didn't worsen at the top as we know by now mountaintops have a tendency to do. At Kirkwood, a pretty tourist stop for fisherpeople, my iphone came up for breath and i saw that i had a phone message from Chris - one of the warmshowers.org people i'd contacted online about a place to crash in Santa Cruz. Back in Eureka NV, at the Best Western's lone computer, i'd sent about 15 emails to strangers on the site who offer cyclists a free bed or tent space; two had responded that they'd be away for the 4th of July weekend, and Chris's was the third and final response. The Santa Cruz flakiness hasn't dissipated in the 16 years since i lived there - can you believe i sent 15 emails and only 3 people responded?! So Santa Cruz). But Chris and his partner, Paula, clearly not flakes, were responding YES, they'd love to have me. A moment of relief at 8,500 feet as i'd been super-stressed about finding a place to stay on July 3 (i'd called a couple of campsites and hotels but they were booked solid - or in terms of one campsite, it was first-come first-served, and i certainly couldn't assure my place among the first, since i'd be riding from SF that morning and knew i wouldn't get the earliest of starts). From Kirkwood, there was some extra-annoying climbing and downhills until the real downhill deal through a fantasyland forest where there were no cars - just trees and nothing else. Route 88 and then Omo Ranch Road (bumpy and grindy surface yet super-peaceful surroundings) brought me downdowndown through the El Dorado National Forest (complete with that offical U. S. Department of Agriculture tag line I'd seen in every state: Land of Many Uses), down from of the thousands of feet of elevation i'd been living in since Pueblo. I hadn't been lower than 4,500 feet since leaving there - not in Colorado, Utah or Nevada, but California was bringing me down to my normal level. Sea level, that is.

Passing Omo Ranch, a miniscule town whose only public building seemed to be a school with a cute playground, i came to Fair Play, which is all about wineries. The constant shade provided by the El Dorado Forest was now significantly minimized revealing the lack of elevation's true nature: baking heat. I'd only been out of the heat for a day or so, since leaving Fallon and the cold night had obviously erased my memory. In addition to the distance i'd end up traveling that day, life on Day 51 also saw another extreme as well: the greatest range of temperature. It had been about 40 degrees that morning, and as i wound my way through El Dorado County toward Placerville, the temperature expanded to a rather uncomfortable 100. I stopped at a liquor store in Somerset to fill up all 4 water bottles with ice - which turned out to be a huge plus considering the sharp mini-climbs ahead on Mount Aukum Road.

About 80 miles into the day i sought respite, prey and air conditioning at a Starbuck's in Placerville. It was suitably freezing in there - not just the AC apparently but also the salad i opted for (in addition to the curried chicken salad sandwich, iced green tea beverage and chocolate chip cookie) flaunted actual frozen lettuce. I was too hungry to care. Plus, it was refreshing. Mid-bite, while shoving a petrified romaine heart into my maw, i observed my animal nature through the eyes of those around me looking at me in mild disgust. To the chagrin of diners across the western United States, my hoggish ways of consumption have been worsening. I've never been the quietest of eaters. In real-life circumstances, i chew with my mouth reasonably shut. I'm able to take nourishment in mixed company without being scolded but i definitely lean toward the unacceptable end of the mastication continuum. And in the last 50 days i've creeped closer to that boundary. Hell, i've got decent reasons: the need for speed, the need for feed, and just plain dining solo. I must pay closer attention to this development as i am reintroduced into, ahem, polite society. If you find yourself looking at me with displeasure while sharing a meal in the very near future (say, before August 1), feel free to kick me under the table. After that, get used to it. That's just the way i chomp.

Believe it or not, it was a relief to get back out in the heat. I was frozen like the lettuce from the intensity of Starbuck's AC and needed to thaw in the 100-degree heat. The treacherously trafficked Green Valley Road took me almost all the way to Folsom which was in the midst of a 3-day rodeo event. Yeehaw! I found my way to the East Lake Natoma Bike Trail along Folsom Lake and overcame confusion (the map's narrative directions here were somewhat lacking) to access the American River Bike Trail which winds its way through Sacramento for about 25 miles. It was rush hour on the bike path; hundreds of cyclists were either commuting home or getting in their evening workout. I seemed to be the only person not knowing where he was going, and i felt clumsy and in the way of the light-as-a-feather unloaded road bikes that zipped past me in both directions. In addition, the route was not clear to a stranger, and i had to stop several times to ask directions. Most people said: "Just follow the river and that will take you right into Old Town." Which would be sufficient if you could absolutely see the river at all times and if there wasn't a network of other paths crossing the route every couple of miles. Plus, i had clocked over a hundred at this point and the wind was blowing westerly, i.e. directly at my face.

I had a brief confrontation with a man on a dilapidated bike which surprised me. If you've read the blog in its entirety, then you know that my interactions with my fellow Americans have overwhelmingly been positive - supportive, friendly, even comforting at times. So my cityboy defenses had been at an all-time low. But something about this man, who expressed snickering admiration for my set-up and immediate interest in trading bikes with me right-there-right-then, threatened me. I was unsure if i was on the right bike path at that very moment when he approached me - shirtless, dirty, carrying his belongings on his bike. I was hot and tired and had at least 20 or so miles left. I had slipped out of my pedal clip and sliced open my right shin and blood was dripping down my sock. It was getting late. My meth-dar picked up a signal. I ended up circling around this dude, because i was trying to figure out my location - and he seemed to misunderstand my actions as engaging with him, actually showing off my bike to him. I decided not to ask him for directions, because his manner told me that he shouldn't know i was lost/felt vulnerable. I said nothing more than "thanks but no thanks" to his bike-swapping offer and took off (in the wrong direction i figured out later). Now what surprised me in this moment was the rush of intense aggression i felt, the territoriality and my own capacity for violence; I'm a lover, not a fighter. But there was something primal that reared its demoniac head at that moment. My brain played out a scenario in my head where the guy got in my face, and i attacked him. Get the fuck away from my bike or i'll fucking kill you. I thought of my barely used Swiss Army knife, as sharp today as it was out of the packaging. I turned Whitey Jackson around abruptly (unknowingly at that moment that i was headed correctly now) thinking if he turns around and follows me, he's gonna be in trouble.

He didn't follow me. Maybe he sensed my fear/aggression. Maybe i vibed him wrong and he was just joking with me. After a couple miles and some reassurance that yes, the river was there, and i was heading into the wind and setting sun once again, i reflected on my snap. I like to think that my instinct was correct, in a sense, that this man's intentions were ill. On the other side, i was thrown by my quick judgment against someone clearly indigent who i perceived to be a threat. One vivid conclusion to be drawn: nobody, nothing was gonna obstruct me from getting to SF in one piece, no way.

Yikes. Moments later, i was able to laugh at myself again and confirmed the need to get to the evening's destination which was looking more and more to be West Sacramento. I didn't think i'd get any further than that since it was another 10 miles to Davis, and the sun was low. With the couple of added miles i logged on the bike paths, due to my befuddlement, i'd finish just under 140 miles. Not too shabby for the End of the Horizon Experiment. Riding that far would leave only 85-ish miles to get to San Francisco the next day. Not ideal, but better than a hundred for sure. The only problem with my plan was map-generated. The Adventure Cycling detail of the area seemed to collapse West Sacramento with Old Town. I knew from past experience that Old Town was touristy and cute. I thought: "Oh, i deserve a treat for riding 139 miles! i'll spring for a Holiday Inn Express!" I exited the bike path and rode over the cobblestoned Front Street passing lots of restaurants and bars and tourist attractions, and over the golden Tower Bridge onto West Capitol Ave. in West Sac. What a sac of shit! I was affronted by the Nevada-like stream of cheap hotels and fast food restaurants. Wait, this wasn't the evening i had planned. I wanted clean sheets and a true non-smoking room! And a meal with salad! But it was not to be. The sun was down. I was riding at night for the first time on the journey, and it was time to select from the multitude of options. I don't remember the name of the place i selected, but i was tantalized briefly by the neon and the East Indian decor of the lobby. The bleary-eyed man-and-wife team who answered the night bell looked shocked to see me though it wasn't even 9pm. The price sent a chill up my spine. I knew it was gonna be bad. And it was. Stained towels, a carpet that smelled worse than my socks. At least the TV remote wasn't greasy. The bed was large (as the sign had bragged) and although i was afraid of the sheets, i didn't have the energy to dig out my sleeping bag.

Food was another adventure. You snarky people out there will gleefully delight in my ALMOST downfall from the perfect non-fastfood chain score i've maintained for nearly a century. Yes, i eat at Subway, but that doesn't count. I'm talking McDonald's or BK or Wendy's - places i have not patronized since high school. No exaggeration. I've never been to Taco Bell or Carl's Jr. or Jack in the Box. Ever (we don't have those in Jersey when i did eat at such places). But i was so pissed off at the world and hungry, and the only other place besides the McD's i ALMOST walked into was KFC, the smell of which knocks me sick just passing by in the best of circumstances. There was a seedy taco joint. And a non-chain fast food burger joint. And i just thought: at least with McDonald's the food is so processed, so controlled, nothing could actually be wrong with it. (I get my info from books like The Omnivore's Dilemma and Fast Food Nation). Unlike the wild cards dealt by these unfamiliar choices. I needed my stomach to behave since the next day would mark the end of the most significant leg of the journey: DC to SF, aka Across the Country.

But the universe was smiling on me cuz McD's was closed! Who knew they closed at 9:30pm? I thought these places served drunk people. One one block further, slightly hidden, was a Raley's supermarket which had everything i could ever want. And i wanted plenty after 138.68 miles of bike travel.