Today’s ride saw us being plucked off of a mountain pass by a US Marshal, ditching all our camping equipment to try and save Paul’s bike, battling the mother of all headwinds across the worst road in America and finally jumping into a steamy hot spring bath.
First stop of the day was the El Centro Post Office where, keen to lessen the risk of a catastrophic wheel failure on his rear hub, we stripped off as much weight as possible from the bike and posted it, along with our tents, sleeping bags and cookers, to our hotel in San Diego. At the end of it all, all Paul had left was a change of cycling kit and a toothbrush. Plan A was working so far.
What Paul needed next was a good road surface and a fair wind. What we obviously got was the worst road surface ever and a 20-30mph headwind. And rain. The road was truly shocking … I withdraw all that vitriol I poured onto Arizona’s cracked roads … the S80 was like a post-apocalyptic scene from a Hollywood blockbuster … it was like cycling on paving that wasn’t just crazy, it was totally insane.
There is an alternative route to the S80 that will take you south through the Yuha Desert, but chatting to a couple of locals in the gas station at Seeley, it seemed that road was in even poorer condition and they seemed to know what they were talking about. The roads, and their poor state of repair, seemed to be a hot topic around here.
Convinced the wheel was going to implode with every bump, he tried desperately to pick out the smoothest path, but a lot if the time there wasn’t one and it was more a case of finding the least worse option. And even if that worked then invariably the brutal headwind would make a grab at the handlebars and dump him down a crevasse. Some were big enough to swallow car tyres, let alone a bike and despite his better efforts Paul’s rear wheel was regularly crashing in and out of holes. It could only be a matter of time before our ride came to an abrupt end with spokes, bearings and Paul flying all over the road without warning.
“The noise from the headwind was so loud by now I could barely make out what Paul saying, or swearing”.
Then I saw the tarmac up ahead change colour. It could get better, or it could get worse. Hope springs eternal, but of course it got much worse. How can the richest country in the world have such bad roads?
The noise from the headwind was so loud by now I could barely make out what Paul saying, or swearing. Then through the howling wind I heard his carefully honed new slogan for California … “California’s best kept secret … It’s Shit”! It was hard not to disagree. So far we’d seen very little you’d want to write home about, expect to say “Get me out of here”!
Way ahead, through the murk, we could see several tall towers and associated buildings. Two and a half hours and ten anxious, bumpy and windy miles later, we had to concede that it was nothing more than a gypsum plaster processing plant, and not the brewery we so wanted it to be.
The town sign of Plaster City should have been enough of a clue, but we were getting desperate. We had no idea why it was called a city. Apart from the processing works there was nothing else there. Zilch. There was the wind of course. A large stars and stripes flag was standing rigid, pointing east as if being tugged on each of its corners by invisible hands.
With out heads bowed against the incessant wind, we inched past another sign – ‘Bridge Out 8.5 Miles Ahead’ … that would come back and bite our bums later. The only plus point about such a rubbish road surface was that no-one else was on it (although in retrospect this may have had something to do with the ‘Bridge Out’ sign).
This meant at least we could criss cross from one side of the road to the other, still trying to find the path of least resistance. While doing so I thought about how we’d belted down those recent 35mph descents with such abandon and what would have happened if Paul’s wheel had collapsed then. That’s a lot of gravel rash!
Suddenly, out of nowhere, came another cyclist, hurtling towards us, and then just as quickly past us with his 25mph tailwind … and he was on an electric bike. He smiled and waved, and we instantly hated him. The wind does that to you.
Pushing ourselves past the unusual sight of a large array of solar panels we could now also make out some massive wind turbines, the first ones we seen in nearly 3,000 miles. We spent ages trying to work out why they had been put in this particular area and then it dawned on us – it was a bit windy around here! In the five hours we’d taken to do 25 flat miles, we were having so much fun we’d hardly noticed.
We did eventually pay attention to the ‘Road Closed’ signs and the bridge indeed was out. There was no question of us turning around and finding an alternative route. With the choice between backing up half a mile and going off route on soft sand to cross the dry gully, or lugging the bikes over the concrete barriers at each end, we chose the latter. Being able to lift it over obstacles is one of the many advantages the bicycle has over the car.
Seeking respite from the wind at a remote gas station near Ocotillo, we made the expensive mistake of buying bits for lunch there. $40 for just a few snacks. Ouch! Shortly afterwards we joined the I8 which would take us up and over the Devils Canyon and the Jucumba Mountains to Jacumba Hot Springs, where we intended to spend the night.
The good news was the the road surface improved dramatically. The bad news was that the wind had intensified still further and now we were climbing too and we had 2,000ft to ascend before we reached Jucumba Hot Springs.
Unable to speak to each other because of the constant blasting, I began worrying if we were actually going to make it. It was late afternoon and we still had sixteen miles to go. I reckoned that if things didn’t get worse, we get to our ‘spa resort’ about 10pm …three hours after the sun had set. Not a brilliant scenario, but at least the shoulder was silky smooth.
The views in the evening sun as we slowly winched our way ever upwards were fabulous. Massive boulders perched in impossible positions, others strewn across the landscape, all imprevious to the strength of the wind. Looking into the depth of Devil’s Canyon and beyond made me wish I was a proper photographer … my quick snaps could never do the scene justice. Having said that, anyone would need a two ton tripod to hold a camera steady in the gale blowing across the road bridge.
“Miraculously it managed to get tangled up in Paul’s bike further up the road”.
At this point our map shot off my front barbag at a rate of knots and raced along the road. That’s toast then, we’ll be winging it from now on to San Diego. I expected to see it fly skywards and disappear over the side of the mountain. But miraculously it managed to get tangled up in Paul’s bike further up the road. I’ll never know how that happened, but it was incredibly lucky it did!
Rounding each bend gave us more and more spectacular views, both near and far. Having gained a couple of thousand feet since the morning, those views were now of barren shattered rocks. We were having more and more time to look at each vista as each powerful gusts of wind would bring us almost to a standstill.
When I was blown off the shoulder onto the road it turned it from adventurous to dangerous”.
Progress went from painfully slow to nearly non–existant. The metal barriers erected across the bridges to stop high vehicles being blown over were being shaken so hard the noise was deafening. My 10pm estimate was looking really optimistic now. And were those rain clouds ahead?
The next bend clinched it. When I was blown off the shoulder onto the road it turned it from adventurous to dangerous. Shouting to Paul that enough was enough, I was expecting a purist reply along the lines of: “No, I want to cycle every mile from coast to coast” argument. But he quickly capitulated, realising the seriousness of the situation.
Pushing the bikes was almost as hard as riding them … staying upright was a major success. With darkness approaching, the traffic had thinned to the occasional vehicle, but my trusty thumb still had its old magic from yestayear. The second pickup, an old purple GMC pulled up. On the back of the cab was a sticker which read: SEVERO TORRES “It’s Not Easy Being a Legend”.
“Within a minute or so we were hurtling across the mountain at breakneck speed”.
That sticker said everything. The door opened and a grey haired Severo jumped out and helped us load everything into the truck and within a minute or so we were hurtling across the mountain at breakneck speed. At least it seemed that way probably because we’d been crawling along at 5mph all day. The effect was compounded by the fact that the back and forward adjustment on Paul’s seat appeared to have broken, so he had to hold onto the dash to stop sliding backwards and forwards around each bend.
Severo turned out to be a 70ish year old U.S. Marshal who was driving to a veteran’s hospital in San Diego for treatment for a detached retina. Brilliant! Talk about out of the frying pan into the fire. A night out on the mountain, or a lift with a one-eyed driver over a treacherous pass? As he started to showing us pictures on his phone, change his glasses and get out his business cards,all while driving, a night lying among the barren rocks began to seem ever more appealing!
“We could have driven with him all the way to San Diegio and been entertained all the way”.
But Severo was great. He regailed us for the next ten miles with stories of his life as a police officer and Marshal, tales of smuggling heroin across the border on microlights, undercover operations, his service with the marines and the time when he intercepted a 90 year old female drug mule. We could have driven with him all the way to San Diegio and been entertained all the way.
Jacumba Hot Springs had once been a magnet for Hollywood stars. The springs, which reach 104F, attracted a railway line from San Diego in 1919, followed in 1925 by a world class hotel, the Hotel Jacumba. By the 1930s many movie stars and celebrities regarded Jucumba as a prime destination.
However Jacumba soon faced stiff competition from more northern springs such as Murriet and Palm Springs and, bypassed by the I8 (isn’t it always the way) fell into decline. The Jacumba Hotel was destroyed by fire in 1983, the public baths closed, the swimming pool was filled in and the well was capped.
Since then the Jacumba Spa, in differing guises and with varying success, has been trying to return a touch of its former splendour and Terry and I wasted no time in helping out and jumping into the mineral jacuzzi spa, just a few feet from the bar and restaurant.
As we soaked, the travails of the day gently faded into distant memories. Suitably refreshed we dined in the resort restaurant and looked back on an extraordinary experience. Just two more days of cycling left to go and less than 100 miles and we’d be at the Pacific Coast.
Today’s miles: 37.44 miles (the point at which we were picked up by Severo)
Total miles since Anastasia State Park: 2,992.36
