Fellow Travelers

Well, we knew that lots of people cycle across the country, but it seems like you can't fall off your bike without hitting one.

We are passed by serious cycling folks in expensive, matching jerseys every so often. They carry their gear in saddle bags and are envious of our camper set up. Most of them don't talk much. It seems like they're conserving their energy and they don't have time for our unconventional bikes and our leisurely schedule.

We talked to a twenty-something couple at a mini-mart outside of Blythe who were decked out and super-fit. They were from Denmark or Sweden- their English was good, but we couldn't quite nail down some of the details- and they had a trailer on the back of one of the bikes. They were very interested to talk to us about our trip and ask us questions. They had flown to Denver and were riding the length of the Colorado River, which they hadn't realized was in the desert. They were astounded at the heat that they had never experienced. Then we found out why they were holed up at the mini-mart. They had an eight-month-old baby with them and it was 102 degrees outside. He was happy to play on his blanket in the A/C. I was happy to be childless. Very Happy. La la la.


The camp host at the Colorado River had his trailer with a screened in porch that held a full-sized refrigerator and a giant flat screen TV. There was a big wooden sign over the door that said "BUCK". We gave him our recycling. He said thanks without looking away from "Hoarders."

We stopped at a diner in the desert one morning and two regulars were there having coffee. They wanted to know all about our trip and how we had planned it. They were sure that we were unprepared and basically nuts. One of them was a retired truck driver who wanted to tell us the dangers of getting sucked under a semi. Which we agreed sounded dangerous. "You don't get it. I'm telling you, I saw a guy get sucked under the dualies one time. Parts was flyin' out. I mean, arms, legs, ears, guts, PARTS of the actual GUY." I was anxious to assure him that we got it. "You just don't know." Okay. But in addition, there was no way to get the message across that at least, now we did know. Even if we had already heard of it. "I'm tellin' you. I saw a foot with no SHOE on it even. And the BLOOD." I get it, I get it. Really. Peter, of course, smirked. "It ain't funny." Anxiety provoking, strange, the stuff psychoanalyst's dreams are made of, yes, but funny, decidedly not.


Peter has the knack that reminds me of Grandpa Ribley's - he can strike up a friendly conversation with any stranger. So, he talked with an older guy who was riding past in the morning heat on our second day. This fellow declared himself a "tramp". He lives in the desert, under a wash overpass near an immigration check point and rides his bike into town 20 miles or so for supplies. He has retirement money from a government job and is quite happy to be free of the troubles of home ownership and things like interacting with people and electronic devices and running water and so forth. He insisted that his proper designation was "tramp". Probably for census purposes.

Another cyclist passed us going the opposite direction near Glamis, CA. He stopped to ask Peter if he was okay as Peter was walking his bike, which he always does on hills. This guy had ridden from Oregon across to Maine, down to Florida and was now making his way to San Diego and would finish after a whole year, in Oregon again. By himself. He was having no trouble with the heat or the terrain. I looked with the binoculars and saw them chatting away on the asphalt in 105 degrees. I was in the shade. Drinking water.