RT66 Day 15: Holy Zephyrs Bat Man!
Where I encounter the loveliest stretch of Route 66 despite the wind assaulting my face, body, and soul; flat #7; and a sandstorm.
The views along this stretch are the best of the entire trip.
It makes sense — this is the Lower Colorado River Valley. This isn’t the dramatic, water-carved-gorge type of scenery. Instead, you’re looking out over shrubby, flat plains that rise into the chiseled mountain ranges forming the southwestern reaches of the Grand Canyon. The Grand Canyon Skywalk lies somewhere beyond those mountains, while Havasu Falls sits farther northeast.
I’m beginning to realize there is something strange about me, and perhaps this strange pull is what compelled me to embark on this journey in the first place.
When I look at the landscape above, I don’t just see scenery flashing by outside a car window or feel a passing curiosity about what lies beyond. I have a visceral daydream of myself riding — or maybe walking — across those plains beneath that enormous blue sky toward the mountains in the distance. Getting lost in the folds of the canyon while searching for water. I feel an almost magnetic curiosity to discover what exists beyond the paved road I’m currently on.
Then I remember I’m meeting Sara, so I keep riding.
The adorable Hackberry General Store, worth the stop for the photo ops alone.
I’m not sure whether it’s the accumulation of 15 days on the road, the anticipation of beginning a three-day marathon through the Mojave Desert, or the prospect of riding 85 miles completely alone, but today was hard. My body is starting to ache, and I began the morning already exhausted. Yet somehow, the awe-inspiring beauty around me and the sense of frontier adventure continue to sustain me.
This stretch of U.S. Route 66 has been my favorite so far.
Seligman feels like a true oasis town. Don’t get me wrong — it’s not Flagstaff or Albuquerque — but it’s photogenic and clearly invested in preserving and celebrating its history. It’s just large enough to wander through while soaking in all the adorable Cars-inspired memorabilia and Route 66 nostalgia.
From Seligman, you turn onto the original Route 66, which no longer parallels Interstate 40. The ride through here, with canyons looming in the distance, feels especially magical. You gain a sense of the vastness and isolation of America as it must have once felt — boundless opportunity, immense freedom, and the feeling that absolutely anything could happen.
I can’t fully articulate it, but I imagine this must resemble the feeling experienced by Native Americans, Spanish conquistadors chasing legends of golden cities, cowboys heading westward, or even modern retirees chasing sunshine and lower taxes. Some people sought to exploit this landscape, while others sought to protect it, but everyone who passes through seems touched by the same sense of infinite possibility.
All along the road are these quirky little red Burma-Shave signs scattered beside the highway. This was what I imagined the entire western stretch of the trip would feel like — not endless abandoned gas stations and collapsing outbuildings.
The only places I actually stopped were Peach Springs and Hackberry General Store. At Hackberry, I had one of those strange moments where I suddenly knew, despite the weirdness of this journey, that I was exactly where I was supposed to be — much like the French tourists from Saint-Brieuc I had met earlier in the trip.
I’m only noticing this now, but see the vents on my helmet and how my skin is not covered by my buff? In three days, I will have a weird tan from this.
After Hackberry, though, things started getting rough, so I was grateful for that brief moment of existential certitude — assuming that’s the correct phrase.
The southerly wind, which had been present all day, intensified to 10–16 mph while my route twisted from northbound to westbound to southerly and finally due south. Then came flat #7. At first I tried to solve it by simply blasting more air into the tire, but it turned out to be a proper puncture. There was nowhere protected from either the blazing sun or the traffic, so I pulled over on the shoulder and changed the tire right there beside the road.
I rode the final 15 miles at an embarrassingly slow pace of 6.1 mph.
Physically and mentally, it was difficult. The wind was relentless, I had just stopped to deal with the flat, and I was anxiously anticipating finally seeing Sara. The final four miles were the worst because it genuinely felt like pedaling through molasses.
Then, with about two and a half minutes left before I reached town, Sara suddenly sprinted out onto the road to surprise me.
Yes, she is absolutely the GOAT.
Her own travel day involved taking an airport shuttle from Sonoma to Oakland, flying from the Bay Area to Las Vegas, renting a car, and driving 105 miles to Kingman — all while hauling an enormous bike box.
When I rolled into the hotel, Sara was already assembling her bike. She’s an engineer, so naturally she wrapped the whole thing up quickly and efficiently.
Afterward, we visited SpokesMann Bicycles to buy one final spare tube each, plus an otterly adorable water bottle holder for Sara. Honestly, shops like SpokesMann and Single Track in Flagstaff — along with many other small bike shops across the country — are indispensable for adventures like this. They have the right equipment and, more importantly, the specialized knowledge needed to keep trips like this alive. AI isn’t replacing these jobs anytime soon.
Are you keeping score Nelson? Flat #7
Later, in Kingman, we found a wonderful little Vietnamese restaurant and ate pho — a welcome break from my usual diet of fries and ice cream. Finally, we returned Sara’s rental car, headed back to the hotel, made a few final adjustments to her bike, and promptly fell asleep while watching Dancing with the Stars at the incredibly glamorous hour of 8:50 p.m.
Let me end with a video from earlier in the day showing a sandstorm. If I thought the wind was bad today, it would soon become far harsher and far more relentless on what may have been the single worst possible day for it to happen — or at least the second worst.