One Week

Arizona Highway 89 slides out of the South in Flores and snakes its way up and into the mountains for about 3000 feet. It continues to roll through a series of sleepy little ranch towns until it decides to climb again for another 1000 feet in looping switchbacks that eventually crest at over 6000 feet before dropping down into Prescott, Arizona. All told, the steep, winding journey covers over 60 miles, and it was my route for day six.

Without question, this was the most arduous day of biking for me. With my sore back and seat, I had serious doubts that I could make the trip.

I stopped at a gas station at the base of the initial climb to grab some quick calories and steel myself for the climb. In the parking lot I met Paul and Louise McCarren, who had just driven down the mountain. As I examined the incline from afar, I could sense Paul examining me.

"You're going up there?" Paul asked me, then nodded at my bike. "On that?"

"That's the plan," I answered. "Is it as steep as it looks?"

"Son," he answered. "It don't look steep. It IS steep."

He and his wife proceeded to serve up all kinds of helpful advice about alternate routes, but I had zoned out.

This was it. I was either going to make it up that hill to Yarnell (the town at the top of the climb) or not, but I was going to try.

Talk to ten different bikers about hills, and you'll get ten different answers about styles and preferences about climbing. Me, I prefer a long steady grind where I can get into a rhthym and let my mind wander. A straight solid climb doesn't have much surprise, and I appreciate the clarity of the situation: it's simply the rider's will versus the mountain's brawn.

As I started up and felt my thighs tighten and my hands start to tingle, I thought about how I learned to ride a bike. As my breathing intensified, I downshifted, and then downshifted again. My Aunt Angie visited us in Chicago one summer, coming all the way from Miami with a box of grapefruit for my parents and a box of seashells for me. The spots where my feet connected to the pedals began to throb dully, and I thought about how, a few days into Aunt Aungie's visit, she found it odd that a ten-year old still had training wheels. Thinking back on it, I remember being embarrassed that kids younger than I was were able to ride two-wheelers without a problem. I became her project.

It wasn't easy. I had one bad spill that opened up my elbow, and I said I was done. She said that was fine, but it would be a shame to let one fall stop me. Then she casually let slip that she saw Noelle (my eight-year-old neighbor) doing a wheelie.

The next morning, I rolled my bike off the patio before anyone else was up. I set my right foot on the pedal and my eyes on the end of the sidewalk about 100 feet ahead. I took a deep breath and rolled forward, my hands and handlebars wobbly at first, then steadying as I pedaled faster and faster. I rode right to the end of the sidewalk, hopped off my bike, ditching it in the grass, and ran back to tell Aunt Angie.

And then suddenly there I was, pulling into Yarnell with all that climb behind me.

The space between the two big climbs was pleasant as ranchland flowed by and the locals and I waved to each other. Outside of Peeples Valley, a group of black cows stared at me, their triangular heads sweeping slowly from left to right as I passed. A little later, three white bulls approached me from their side of the fence and ran alongside until they came up against the edge of their pasture.

When I hit the second big climb, from Wilhoit to Prescott, I felt pretty trashed. I called my host for the evening, Dave Craig, and he assured me that the toughest climb was behind me.

It didn't seem that way. The switchbacks were wide and sweeping, and I could look up and see the road rising ahead only to curve up and behind me at what seemed to be an impossibly steep angle.

About two thirds of the way through, a big guy on a bike came rolling down in the other direction. It was Dave. With his encouragement, I soldiered on the rest of the way, up and over the 6100 foot mark (about 4000 feet higher than where I woke up that morning), and down into Prescott, where he and his wife Pamela live.

Dave was a great guy, warm and hospitable. He's a professor of "Adventure Education" at Prescott College, and he's forgotten more about bikes than I'll ever know. We met his friend Adam for dinner, where we swapped some riding stories. Adam asked me if I'd been chased by a dog yet. When I said no, he smiled and replied, "Before this is over, it'll happen."

Dave took me for a tour of the college and downtown Prescott. The courthouse was a happening place. The lawns and stairs were packed with people listening to a jazz trio play (Dave knew the keyboardist). Spending so much time alone on the road made me more sensitive to the feeling of community around me, and I soaked it up.

This morning Dave and I said our farewells, but not before he helped make my rear rack more stable. I wanted to take a day off in Prescott, but I didn't want to impose on his hospitality any longer, so he drove me to a motel.

I spent the day split between a walking tour of the town and my air-conditioned motel room.

Having completed the toughest day of my journey so far and feeling better than I have in days, I'm ready to go on.

By the way, I have some one week stats (if anyone is interested):
Hours on the bike: 38
Average hours on the bike per day: 5 1/2
Total miles: 414
Average miles per day: 59
Average miles per hour: 10.9

There's still a long way to go, and that's great. It's all about the journey.