November 12, 2013

           Day 5 of the return leg.
Morning:
           I rode from Williams, AZ, to Gallup, NM via the Grand Canyon. So I finally made it. No thanks to all the stupid people who gave me directions. I’m now convinced that people’s IQ goes sharply down the closer they live or work to an Interstate. The GPS kept saying use the Flagstaff road, but I could tell by the map there was a passage through Williams. Here is what I mean, this map shows the Interstate, but not Route 66, which parallels the freeway for hundreds of miles. Nobody could tell me if Route 66 connected to a canyon road, or I would have driven that instead. What? That’s just a postcard that says Route 66 laying on my roadmap.

           At 7:00 AM it was the coldest yet. The pod thermometer said 32F out there. It was perfectly cozy in the sarcophagus. I pondered a lot about taking Route 66, as I could see it kept appearing alongside my path. Parts looked gravelly instead of paved, but in general I found all the Arizona roads to be in terrible shape. In the end, Arizona people were so dumb I stuck to the freeway.
           I passed lots of towns with signs for famous places I’d heard of, like pubs and museums, but I didn’t go. The lure of the Canyon was upon me. It was a nice drive up Highway 64 and the attendant let me in for the $12 “bicycle” rate. I can’t add anything that hasn’t already been said about the Grand Canyon. It was spectacular but too big to see in a year. I noted it is not quite as deep as Angel Falls is high, so I’ve seen more imposing sights in my day.

           I was elected unofficial photographer for a group of tourists after I took a few stunning shots of couples who didn’t know camera basics. Of all things, the park was full of Buddhist monks. No, not from that school in Virginia or whatever. These guys were speaking Thai. Strange, isn’t it, that monks who took a vow of perpetual poverty can fly across the Pacific and as you see here, text the folks back home.
           I stayed as long as I could but it was getting chilly. Surprisingly, there is a bookstore, and one of the featured volumes is about how dangerous the Canyon is. Loads of stories about the numerous deaths from starvation or people being blown over the edge. The store was government run, so maybe they really didn’t even know. The management was too busy banning Harry Potter books for “promoting witchcraft”. I thought we had freedom of religion in this country.
           How did I know it was government run? Because they sell postcards but not stamps. (Anyway, why don’t postcards come with a Forever stamp already on them? Lock them behind the counter, and beside, if the stamp is printed, who’d steal it?) The nearest place to buy stamps and mail letters is 52 miles away. Take a wrong turn into the Indian reservation. The post office is the only new building in the settlement.

Daytime:
           I ogled the layers of prehistoric sand but got back on the road by noon-ish. Careful, fill your tank before you drive to the park. There is a station there but it only takes credit cards. Which I refuse to touch. Since the Canyon was the only planned stop on this trip, everything else I kind of stumbled upon. That is how I learned where Meteor Crater is. Just outside of Winslow, AZ, nobody can tell you how far it is off the freeway. (Six miles.) God forbid the government would build the “Meteor Crater Rest Area” near by the crater where you could see it.

           Okay, I’ll tell you about it. This is against my better judgment. I got kicked out of Meteor Crater. I walked in, noticed no signs, and asked the clerk if there was an admission fee. She said yes, then walked away and closed the door. Whoa, lady, you get back here and give me a proper answer. I then proceeded to tell her and the security lady how fat, stupid, and ugly they were. You see, I figure they had it so bad, they didn’t know because until I came along everybody was too polite to tell them. And I mean ugly. I’m ex-phone company so I know ugly when I see it. Those two could knock the buzzards off a gut wagon. Sorry, no photos. My camera might have balked.

           This is a photo of said “Meteor Crater Rest Area”. There is not even a sign that tells you the crater is just a few miles south. Here is your typical rain shadow desert of the southwest. The batbike is actually just above dead center of this photo, if you can find it. And this rest area is dead center the middle of nowhere. Like the people who designed it and chose the site.
           Winslow is weird. Who hasn’t heard the song about standin’ on a corner in Winslow, Arizona. Except, there are no corners. It is a one-street town. The entire area to the horizon is flat and featureless, and I saw only one road there. I took many touristy photos.

Evening:
           I stopped in Gallup for the night. The freeway bisects the place but I found a Denny’s and made all my phone calls. People who might have expected I’d be home by now. Actually, a Denny’s Diner, be careful. The format is different and about the only thing the same is the coffee. But I needed a few cupfuls after the conditions of the roadways today. They really punish my beautiful cycle and slow me down. Here is photo-proof that I finally found a navigable passage along Route 66.

           By dark, I could feel the winter wind. I’m still too far north. The Walmart is another with no trees for a windbreak. The pod can handle it, but getting in and out into the biting breeze takes a little bravery every morning.
           It being my birthday (approximately), I drove into town to find a Karaoke bar. There was one, but they closed early just as I arrived. The place was empty, so they closed down. Well, almost empty. I talked to the owner, Sam, who directed me to the “All American Bar”. It was full of all Americans and they have a drive to preserve the joint as an historic landmark. So I did my bit and stayed there a few hours with all my new native Indian buddies. I got a sticker somewhere says I was concerned enough to spend money there, community-spirited guy that I am.
           I played “Bakersfield” on the jukebox, then some Johnny Cash. The Indian lady behind the bar kept ‘em coming. Happy Birthday. I asked them about the corner in Winslow and they instantly knew what I meant. Unlike all the white people on the freeway. Ah, they told me, around forty years ago there was a pharmacy (“drug store” they called it) on the side of Winslow, so technically there was once a corner there. Now, you try to find that kind of Americana just anywhere these days.