Nightglow Window

63

I rode up and back to T-street today, which is about 63 miles. I've recently done some 50 milers and a few 55 milers, but the ride today was the farthest I've done in a long time.

How long? Heading back down through Camp Pendleton I started wondering about that. I rode up to Cyprus Shore two years ago this weekend. That was 59 or 60 miles. I had some long six- and seven-hour rides following the Mojave Road back in 1993, but those days were all less than 50 miles.

I realized that this was my farthest ride -- by a few miles -- since August 11, 1990, which feels like a lifetime ago. August 11 was the 36th day of our bike tour from Lompoc, California to Jackson, Wyoming.

On August 10, 1990, we climbed the dirt roads of Idaho's Lemhi Pass over the Continental Divide. It was an exhausting 65-mile day that had me hallucinating toward the end that the hay bales stacked along lonesome Montana State Route 324 were really caramels.

We arrived at our bleak, deserted campground on the north shore of Clark Canyon Reservoir and found it full of rats. I fell asleep that night on my back and woke up six hours later in exactly the same position -- a feat I don't think I've matched since.

So we weren't exactly fresh when we set out on August 11 -- and it looked like another long day in the saddle.

The first half of the day was spent riding 47 miles up I-15 toward Monida Pass. The weather was hot and then clouded over. It's a huge landscape and we were nearly alone in it. Every minute or so a car zoomed by in that distinctive rise and fall of the Doppler Shift.

Around noon we reached Monida, a broken down ghost-town-to-be, and turned off the paved road and back onto the dirt. The sky was black and had an ominous pre-storm stillness. We cleared town and were climbing the dirt road leading into Centennial Valley when a single bolt of lightning struck the hill just ahead of us, its concussive blast shattering what was left of our nerves. Fortunately, the storm missed us to the north.

Soon we were pedaling down the beautiful dirt roads of Centennial Valley, and I decided this was the most remote -- and pretty -- place I had been in the Lower 48. The trouble was, all we had was a gas station road map and we weren't 100-percent sure how far we still had to go. Hours spent riding on dirt roads had worn us to the nub.

At mile 70 we were pretty much gassed. For the first time in weeks our fully loaded bikes began to feel every bit of the 60 pounds they weighed.

Then we heard a car, the first one in hours. It was a van, and when the driver pulled up and asked if we needed a lift, Christy and I looked at each other for a long while. The driver wasn't sure how far away the campground was: 5 miles, maybe 15. The difference between those two guesses seemed infinite. We had ridden 1,793 miles without any help, but we took him up on his offer. I was embarrassed and disappointed, but too exhausted to kick up much fuss.

The campground turned out to be only five miles away.

The south shore of Upper Red Rock Lake in the Centennial Valley remains one of the most beautiful spots I've ever been too -- probably because it was so hard to get there.

August 11 wasn't the farthest day of our tour, but it was the hardest. The next week would be a cake walk in comparison (daily mileage: 21.5, 51.7, 51.4, 37.6, 44.1, 48.7 and finally 20.4 miles into Jackson).

Today, when I push past 60 miles and my legs start to seize, remembering that day 18 years ago makes me feel like a wimp -- and that feeling is just the kick in the ass I need to make the final climb to home in relatively good form.


At the bottom of the Lemhi Pass Road, August 10, 1990.


Christy climbs the long, steep hill to Lemhi Pass and the Continental Divide.


The view from the top of the pass.


Centennial Valley, taken during our 2005 road trip.


My look says it all.