Prescott, Arizona

When I booked my train ticket from Flagstaff to Chicago in Yuma I allowed myself five days to bike the 330 miles to make it.  Under ideal conditions I could do it in four days, but since it involved considerable climbing from sea level to 7,000 feet with dips in and out of valleys with multiple big climbs along the way, I thought it best to allow myself some leeway. Sixty-five miles a day was ten miles less than what I had been averaging, so I could breathe somewhat easy, though a lot hinged on the vagaries of the wind.

Day one out of Yuma had me greatly concerned as I was blasted by a fierce headwind from the north. With the gradual climb I was straining to ride much more than seven miles per hour.  I kept waiting for the road to level off or even turn downwards, but it only slightly relented from time to time.  The wind brought a chill with it that forced me to wear tights for the first time in a week.  Not even my strong exertion generated enough heat to make me want to shed them.

I was out in the wide open desert with nothing to block the wind.  I passed through an army “Proving Grounds” for testing weaponry, where I camped amongst some bushes.  It wasn’t the first time that dark has caught me in such a place.  It has happened in France and Israel.  I have come out unscarred each time, so felt no concern.

I had a stretch of over sixty miles without services before Quartzsite on Interstate 10.  With the cold temperatures I didn’t feel concern about running out of water if I didn’t make it to Quartzsite before dark and had to camp a second night in the desert. The only shelter other than a closed down gas station was a checkpoint staffed by the border patrol thirty miles from Quartzsite.  It was a relief to sit against a wall protected from the wind to eat and rest.  Around four the wind slackened and I felt like I was flying going ten miles per hour, allowing me to reach Quartzsite an hour before dark.  I was very disappointed to see the welcome sign to Quartzsite gave an elevation of only 900 feet. Since it felt like I was climbing the entire way I was hoping I had at least gained 2,000 feet.

I filled my water bottles and got two hot dogs for $2.49 at a truck stop.  I had to ride on the Interstate heading east with a slight tailwind for twelve miles before picking up my road north.  I was getting worried about having to ride in the dark before the exit when I was granted a surprise exit after eight miles at Gold Nugget Road.  The road south was dirt, indicating little traffic.  I only had to go a few pedal strokes before finding a spot for my tent.  I had managed 65 miles for the day putting in almost eight hours on the bike, just what I needed to average.  Gone were my hopes of 80 mile days and making an earlier train so I would arrive back in Chicago in time for a Lithuanian documentary on cycling’s domestiques that was playing at the Film Center’s annual EU Fest.

I feared my legs would be toast if I had to endure another such day, and making my scheduled train would be in great jeopardy.  I was also concerned how depleted my legs might be after the day’s hard effort.  They were fine in the morning and the gale from the north had fizzled to a mere breeze.  The scenery was much prettier when the wind wasn’t blasting me. And it was nice not to have to keep two hands on the handlebars and to be able to pluck morsels of food out of my handlebar bag and to be able to reach down to my water bottle for a drink as I pedaled along.

Beyond Quartzsite small towns appeared every twenty or thirty miles as if I were back on the Plains though they had distinctly Western names— Hope, Salome (with the slogan of “Where she danced”) and Aguila. Dollar Stores appeared here and there, a trend that California has managed to resist.  Aguila with a population of just 798 had a most attractive library that was thronged with youngsters saving me from going two days without a library.

The minimal traffic was mostly large RVs pulling a car.  Quartzsite was lined with RV parks for retirees escaping the cold for the winter and there was another cluster of them when I left the Interstate and headed northwest on 60.  Arizona was a cheap place to winter.  Gas was 50 cents a gallon less in Arizona than California and the fine for littering was just $500 compared to $1000.  And the 420 calorie McChickens at McDonalds were back to being just a dollar, compared to two for three dollars.  But best of all was the negligible traffic and the easy camping.

Day two took me to 3,000 feet before the real climbing began on day three into Prescott. I began the day with a steep seven-mile climb that gained 1,700 feet and then another of 2,100 feet before dropping down into Prescott at 5,300 feet.  A strong headwind on the first climb had me worried about making it to Prescott before dark.  But half way up the climb I was shielded from the wind and then it disappeared when I dropped into a valley for an hour before the next climb.

The descent into Prescott was through a thick national forest.  At the upper reaches of the  climb at over 6,000 feet patches of snow lined the road. In the far distance towards Flagstaff less than one hundred miles away was a high peak doffed with snow.  It was another eight hour day on the bike.  My 2,500 miles in California had raised my fitness to what it needs to be to follow The Tour de France and to ride all day, even when the hours of light for biking are just twelve compared to sixteen or more in France.  It is always a great pleasure to be able to spend all day on the bike without tiring.  I’m blissed out when I retreat to my cozy cocoon for the night.

I pulled into Prescott too late to take advantage of its new library, two blocks from its majestic Carnegie on its main street on a slight incline. The classical building ceased being a library in 1974, though it retains “Public Library” on its facade. It has become an office building. It’s tenants include a law firm, the corporate offices of Tim Coury and  Chino Farms/land and cattle.  A sign out front besides a plaque recounting the history of the library advertises “Vacancy.”  The plaque gave credit to Julia Goldwater, a member of the local women’s club, for writing a letter in 1899 requesting funds for the library.

I could relax about making my train, as I had two days to ride less than one hundred miles to Flagstaff, though it included two big climbs to 7,000 feet.