Glen Campbell’s lyrics to ‘By the Time I Get to Phoenix’ says a lot about the girl he has left behind, but what they don’t make clear is that the suburbs around Arizona’s state capital are so vast the young lass in question would probably be an old woman by the time Glen had navigated his way to Albuquerque.
The day before yesterday we’d been amazed at how long it took us to cycle through the satellite cities to the east of Phoenix to reach the city centre. Today we were equally astonished at how long it took to leave the city behind us as we cycled west. Silverio’s route had been deceptively simple: “Central, then canal path, then 60west” but it took more than 30 miles before we got out of greater Phoenix. It just went on and on and on.
“I’m not sure two pale and pasty Brits would be suited to desert life come the summer”.
We began our day with fond farewells to our superhosts Silverio and Susan and headed back into downtown Phoenix on Central, passing many of the sights we’d seen yesterday, including the Heard and Art Museums. With bright blue skies, tall lush palm trees and constant sunshine (336 days a year!) there is something very appealing about Phoenix, but I’m not sure two pale and pasty Brits would be suited to desert life come the summer.
At one point, crossing Indian School Road, we spotted a couple of old buildings we recognised as the Phoenix Indian School, which opened in 1891 and closed nearly 100 years later in 1990. The buildings still looked grandioise, although knowing now what we learnt from the Heard Museum, it felt rather uneasy to think of all those Native American children who were taken away from their parents and culture and sent here to be ‘assimilated’.
“A few seconds later there was a cry of alarm as he suddenly realised he was cycling through wet concrete”.
Our ride went through the smart and surprisingly green and leafy suburbs to the north of the city, with its large single story houses and immaculate tree-lined roads. At one point road signs announced that the cycle lane was closed. We’d both become rather annoyed at the number of times the cycle paths just stopped, so Terry, bemoaning the fact that no work appeared to be taking place, rode on through. A few seconds later there was a cry of alarm as he suddenly realised he was cycling through wet concrete.
Hours later he found out he couldn’t get the lower water bottle off the bike as it was now effectively glued in and ruined by sprayed tar. His bottom bracket was also pebble-dashed. Only seconds later he would have cycled straight into a gate, if I’d not alerted him to its imminient arrival.
“I’m not that infallible cycling god … I’m really just a bloke on a bike”.
Terry revealed later that the following thoughts were going through his head: “I’m falling apart! Paul is beginning to see my halo slip … he’s realising I’m not that infallible cycling god … I’m really just a bloke on a bike”.
He had no need to worry. There have been a few times when I’ve imagined Terry could be a mere human afterall, but then he’ll do something extraordinary, like climb a mountain without stopping, and I’ll know the truth. He’s a machine, albeit one now covered in tar.
After around nine miles we left the residential streets and turned onto the Arizona Canal Bike Path, an excellent new cycle path which followed, as its name suggests, the Arizona Canal. This 50 mile long waterway was originally constructed in the late 1880s and has led to the creation of many of the communities we were passing through in this otherwise arid landscape. Apart from the occasional road or leisure cyclists, the cycleway appeared to be little used.
Taking a slight diversion to get around the obstruction of the I10 Interstate Terry spotted my idea of American Nirvana – a Schlotzsky’s and Denny’s next to each other! The choice was simple – if had to be Cinnabons – and coffee.
Eventually we left the ducks bobbing along the canal and we were popped out onto Cameo Drive in yet another suburb, this one called Peoria (population 154,065). Nearly all the residents appeared to be elderly and this was in fact a massive retirement village where every bungalow and front garden (displaying magnificent cacti and palms) were immaculately turned out and all the usual noise created by children, dogs and traffic had been banished.
We cycled past huge estates of perfectly regimented manicured bungalows without a blade of grass out of place, each with maintenance-free gravel and stones in neutral shades to blend in with the houses. The whole area was also totally devoid of people and life with all the turnings off the main drag labelled as ‘Dead End’. There was no noise or movement. It was very weird and just a little bit scary.
Then, around a bend, came several elderly ladies, silent in their electric golf carts, looking serene and aloof, which only added to the ‘Avengers’ or ‘The Prisoner’ spooky feel. The cycle shoulder alongside the road had even been made wider so that it could accommodate the numerous golf buggies.
On the outskirts of these suburbs there were medical centres specialising in every condition you could think of, although we didn’t see any offering treatment for ‘golfer’s knee’. We left the golfing grannies and their four irons behind and headed onto the 60 and straight into a headwind that stayed with us for 30 miles all the way to Wickenburg, where we were to camp for the night.
“Terry being outrun by a butterfly. You couldn’t make it up”.
The plain we were cycling across didn’t have the grandeur of Arizona’s eastern ones, possibly due to the endless retail on one side and rail track on the other. In the next 30 odd miles Terry counted three bends and a slight rise (to get over the railway line) on an otherwise pencil straight, flat road.
We stopped in Wittmann for a Subway before heading back into the brick wall of wind. At one point a butterfly fluttered up from behind, flew next to Terry for about a minute, obviously got bored, and then flew off in front of him. Terry being outrun by a butterfly. You couldn’t make it up.
Eventually, pulling into Wickenburg just after six, we arrived at the Aztec RV site. Our fantastic host, Bev, handed us a guest book she asks cyclists to sign, towels for the showers and showed us a perfect patch of grass to set up our tents. She clearly loved having cyclists to stay – and hearing their stories – and we got the impression visitors such as Terry and myself were her window on the world.
Just south of Wickenburg are the Vulture Mountains and Bev pointed out a large number of red headed vultures circling overhead with many beginning to roost in two huge eucalyptus trees on the edge of the RV site.
She explained that the giant birds were currently migrating north from South America and the two huge trees were the most important ones in the whole of Arizona for the birds to roost in on route.
She told us that during peak migration up to 300 birds a night roost in the trees. Clearly delighted to have them there Bev explained that she didn’t rent out the RV spots under the trees until the vultures were gone.
“So while the vultures settled down for the evening we set up camp and I promised Terry a milkshake”.
It wasn’t the first time we’ve had vultures virtually above our heads while sleeping and with one of the peaks in the Vulture Mountains also being called Twin Peaks, it all started to feel a little David Lynch.
So while the vultures settled down for the evening we set up camp and I promised Terry a milkshake and McFlurry at the McDonald’s across the road – but only if he ate his daily intake of ramen noodles.
Today’s miles: 63.18
Miles since Anastasia State Park: 2,707.73
