RT66 Day 19: A Devastating Realization
Only two more days of riding left, and it’s finally starting to weigh on our bodies as our speed indicates. Mercifully, the wind is insignificant after yesterday’s disaster.
I’ll never be a princess.
Day 19: Barstow, CA to Rancho Cucamonga, CA; 82 miles, 3,481 feet elevation gain
6 miles on I-15
Day 19: Planned on Ride with GPS
Intraday Stops: Red Hen Cafe (22 miles), Emma’s Jeans (11 miles), then you are back in civilization again.
I’ve been biking, on this trip, for over 1,000 miles. Most of it is through isolated desert areas where dilapidation reigns. All the while, I’ve been waiting to return to California, the beacon and bastion of civilization. Where the famed Highway 1 winds its way down the coast, where going to a grocery store is an elevated experience, and where diversity strengthens communities. It’s home to the world-famous film industry, wine regions, and a technology industry that is changing the trajectory of the future. There is so much to be excited about when thinking about my home, where I live, California!!
But, f*ck, the roads really suck. Like next level bad — even worse than Arizona!
And the driving culture here is real. In Victorville, the bike lane is next to the curb and is the de facto street parking area. Now, I’m not saying this has to be transformed into the shit-show that is Telegraph Ave in Oakland, CA, or the comical center bike lane on Valencia St. in San Francisco, but something which accommodates both needs seems reasonable.
Sorry, this seems whiny, especially as I am so close to the end. Yet, my expectations were high for my chosen home state. For future riders, temper your anticipation. You might smell the salty air of the ocean, but you’ll have to navigate through the treacherous Los Angeles traffic before you can soak your toes in it.
Victorville, CA: Where the bike lane is a parking area.
Barstow is a cute, albeit industrial, town. If you were to look at it from above, you’d see a dense, chaotic, woven web of steel. In fact, for train lovers, this town is a hub of activity. Its the ultimate rail junction for all freight coming and going from Southern California. When transcontinental freight trains come from Chicago and the Midwest heading west across the Mojave Desert, they hit Barstow and face a structural fork in the road heading either south to LA or north to San Francisco.
In the coming years, the railway is expanding even further with the planned construction of the Barstow International Gateway (BIG). Its a massive $1.5 billion, 4,500 acre facility designed to take international containers straight from the ports of LA via train, staging them in Barstow to be built into transcontinental trains heading east, significantly lessening truck traffic on California highways. As you know, I’ve been obsessed with how many Amazon and FedEx semi-trucks I’ve seen on the road. This investment in logistics seems very forward-thinking!
On the west side of the highway entering Victorville is an adorable touristy area dedicated to Route 66. It’s worth a stop. Since we left quite early this morning, to avoid being out in the afternoon wind, all the shops were still closed as we passed through.
The northern part of Victorville, CA
Just outside our first intended stop, Red Hen Cafe, which was also closed, is the Bottle Tree Ranch. It’s a kooky little place with lots of sculptures and structures made of empty glass bottles and various other things one might mistake as ‘trash.’
Somewhere between screaming down Cajon Pass beside semis and rolling into Rancho Cucamonga, exhaustion cracked open an absurd but strangely profound realization:
I do not have princess genes.
Stay with me, I’m veering wildly off topic.
History is written by the victors. So, unless you are a Cubs fan, most people imagine they are on the victorious side of history. They are the conquerors. The elite. The exceptions to whatever bad thing happened. If time travel existed, you wouldn’t go back just to die of dysentery on the Oregon Trail or eat your companions in the Donner Party. You’d party with Ben Franklin and TJ or wander Versailles with the Sun King. Or, if you could bring people forward through time, you’d take Genghis Khan to Burning Man, right?
Yet, as I near the completion of my ride, I’ve come to a startling realization: what about the rest of us? You know — the people in the movie standing in the middle of the street when Godzilla comes stomping through Tokyo.
It has become clear to me that I have worker-bee genes. My ancestors weren’t royalty. My body and mind come from a long succession of people who could move for hours, maybe days at a time, toiling outside in the elements. But I’m not a pro athlete who’ll be remembered for excelling at one extraordinary thing. I’m just an ordinary field worker who, if fed enough, can keep shoveling animal poop forever. How are people like us remembered?
I don’t have an answer, except to say this: we probably won’t be — unless we reach out to say something. Maybe this blog is my small contribution to life on Earth. Maybe one day it will be worthy of remembrance.
Lascaux Cave Paintings: The Unicorn Panel