Obstacles

Early in the morning, I said goodbye to my friends and rolled on out of Reno, Nevada, back onto I-80. I had been given a thorough road scouting report, so I knew what I was in for. Dry, unforgiving desert. I faced a steady, gentle, but relentless headwind out of the north with one redeeming quality. It cooled things down just a little bit. 

There was a roadside stop marking my first big challenge for the week: the 40-mile Desert, well into my first day out of Reno. I was warned that the cistern for public water was going to be dry. I was carrying extra water for that reason. It didn't turn out to be as critical as I had feared because not far after that point, there was a crossroad with a convenience store. I would have made it there without danger. I was still grateful for the heads-up. The plaque marking the historic site was not the most encouraging thing I've ever read. It lists the number of livestock and settlers that died crossing on their way to homestead in the west. It was dry and hot, and I don't think I chose the smartest route for my almost transcontinental crossing attempt. I started second-guessing those choices as I encountered very challenging terrain and conditions.

The colours of the terrain were quite beautiful, but unfortunately, they don't really show in the photos I took along the route. The brighter shades all seemed to wash out. I pitched camp on a bluff overlooking the highway. I was invisible until I got up in the morning to eat breakfast. The long-haul truckers at this point started recognizing me, and for the rest of the week, I got the occasional horn blast and wave from trucks coming from the other direction. 

Before the final boss challenge, I had to do two big climbs. They were hard, but not compared to the climb I'd already done up the Sierra Nevadas. The road turned in a more easterly direction before Golconda Summit, and because of that, the wind started to help me instead of holding me back. While I ate supper, I checked the map, and there was some kind of major roadside rest coming up. With the help of the wind, I figured I could get there before dark. I did with room to spare. Turns out this rest area did allow overnight camping. I talked to several of the RVers there who encouraged me to stay the night. They assured me that they would make sure that I wouldn't be disturbed. That was appreciated. 

I stopped in Carlin, Nevada, to replenish my food supplies at a small grocery store. The lady at the checkout turned out to be the mother of Olympic cycling road race silver medalist Rebecca Twigg. She also knew Steve Bauer, who won the men's silver in the same Olympics, and who happened to hail from my hometown. His dad was my English Literature teacher in high school for one year. She offered to let me camp in her yard that evening. I declined because it was early in the afternoon, and I still wanted to be in Salt Lake City that weekend. I should have had my picture taken with her, but my brain was getting a bit baked, and I didn't think of it.

The baddest obstacle was the tunnel just after Carlin, Nevada. For whatever reason, I had not noticed that on the map when I was planning my trip. I'm not sure if that would have changed my route, but it was not a welcome surprise. I'd gone through a short tunnel at the Gaviota Pass, but that was relatively easy. I waited for a break in traffic and was out the other end before anyone came to pass me. This tunnel was a long one, all the way through a mountain. Tunnels can be quite dangerous in that the change of lighting on entering can temporarily impair a driver's vision. One of the last things anyone is expecting to encounter in a tunnel is some guy on a bicycle. Inside the tunnel, the shoulder I was riding on diminished greatly. I waited for a really long break in traffic. Nothing for as far as I could see, and I took off with the closest thing I could come to a full touring load sprint. I was lucky. I was almost all the way through before someone came along to pass. I was quite relieved to be on the other side, safe and sound. Not sure if I ever want to do that again.

The Rest of this story so far(Click titles for access)

It Begins

Leaving on my first big tour. This is part one in the series. The trip begins in Pasadena, California. I head straight to the Pacific coast and then north.

Finding My Rhythm

The story continues with part two in this series. After a few rocky moment at the beginning, I settle in for the long and sometimes winding road.

Scenic Rollercoaster

Third in the series. I get to ride some of the most beautiful coastline in the USA. At times spectacular but challenging.

Through the Urban Jungle

Crossing the urban sprawl of the San Francisco bay area was quite an experience for this Canadian. It stands in contrast to the rest of my trip.

The Endless Climb

It did seem to go on forever. Riding up hill literally for days on end. Crossing the Sierra Nevada mountain range was not for the faint of heart. The downhill part was the most fun.

Weekend in Reno

Reuniting with friends and spending a very busy weekend with them. A great reprieve from the loneliness of the road.

How I Got My Hangman's Scar

A dry summer day in ranch country dawned, and I was ready to continue cycling toward home. Spent the night camping on the edge of someone's field where there was little risk of rolling over into a cowpat. In this part of the United States, I hadn't run into trouble with anyone pitching camp like that, so I was expecting a boring day.

A short while after eating my breakfast, once I'd gotten a good rhythm going with my pedals, a beat-up old pickup truck approached from behind, kicking up a cloud of dust as it went. It drove by slowly so that the local rednecks inside could get a good look at me. Long-distance bicycle tourists attract some odd attention sometimes, so I didn't think anything of it. Just gave them and their German shepherd a friendly nod of greeting.

They pulled on ahead a ways before stopping and turning the truck to block my path. This was starting to get weird. The two men got out of the truck. One of them had a rifle and ordered me to stop. I did as I was told, and they slowly approached, keeping the gun trained on me. The dog glared at me, walking a step behind his master.

“Where were you last night, boy?”

“Just riding through. I camped alongside the road for the night.”

“Last night, about ten head from my herd disappeared. You know anything about that?”

“No. I'm riding a bicycle. How could I?”

“Clyde here says he saw you last night, except you were riding a horse. Know what we do with cattle rustlers here?”

“This is crazy...”

Clyde went back to the truck to retrieve a coil of rope and, on his way back, started fashioning a noose. I was panicking and tried to slowly back away from the scene.

“Don't even think about running, boy! I won't need much of an excuse to put a bullet in you!”

I waited, shaking like a leaf. Trying to reason with them. Begging them. Clyde slipped his noose around my neck and tightened it up to the point that it was hard to breathe. They marched me off toward a nearby tree. The dog growled at me the whole time.

“This'll do just fine. Throw the rope up over that branch. He'll swing well from there.”

They were in the process of hauling me off the ground when a couple of their friends arrived and told them they had the wrong guy. The sheriff had caught the real rustlers about twenty minutes earlier. They heard the news over their two-way radio. Lucky me. They let go of the rope, and I fell to the ground. Thought I was going to be strangled to death anyway before they managed to loosen the noose up enough to get it back off of me. As I gulped in great lungfuls of air, they gave me a brief apology and wished me a safe trip. Then they just left. Rope burn on my neck there burned like the dickens for a couple of days.

This isn't really how I got that scar, but it sounds a lot more exciting than what really happened.

In reality, I got home from work one day to find that our free-range Muscovy ducks had decided to take over the chicken house. I chased all the drakes out, but Petunia the hen flew up to some old pigeon nesting boxes. When I reached for her, she panicked. Muscovies have really long claws on their webbed feet, and she scratched me but good across the neck. It was just a scratch. I still find it hard to believe it left that much of a visible scar.

In the photo, I'm trying to sneer for effect, but I look more like I've suffered some dreadful pain. We had a lot of trouble getting the lighting right for the scar, and that was the best shot in the bunch. I got tired of posing, and Francine got tired of snapping pictures.

Incidentally, I did a lot of cycling in the USA and never encountered anything like that. I found Americans, by and large, friendly and hospitable. They aren't the gun-wielding lunatics everybody keeps seeing in movies and on television.

I wrote this years ago for fun on https://picoswriting.blogspot.com/. It probably should have migrated here a long time ago. Incidentally, my scar is now faded to the point that it is very difficult to see, never mind notice.

Pico's Cycling Update

 

Just making a brief update here. We're not dead.

That being said, I am physically unable to run this as a regular webzine. I just can't produce that many articles by myself with the kind of regularity that would be required. If I had regular contributions from other writers, that would be a different story. I am updating the email address for submissions. The previous email is currently inaccessible, and I'm not sure I'll be able to recover it. The new email is myfamilycountryproducts@gmail.com. Please send only submissions and submission inquiries there.

When I get to five new articles, I will call it an issue and treat it as such. I do have a couple that will be on the way. I do have an author's blog called From Pico's Pen that is writing central for me. In the right-hand column, you will find feeds for all my current writing, including Pico's Cycling. 

That's all for now. Thanks for reading and keep on pedalling.