This afternoon I biked up to Rescue and back. This has become my favorite ride over the past year. It’s a fifty-miler from my front door and back. I go up to Folsom Lake and then take Green Valley road up to a hole-in-the-wall called Rescue. It’s a 1200 foot vertical climb, and on hot August afternoons, it takes the stuffing out of me. I am slow, but I get there. Beyond Francisco Road, it’s practically non-stop uphill for five or six miles. The road is very beautiful, it follows an isolated stream, there is little traffic and the shoulder is good. Between the endorphins and communion with nature, I am in heaven.
My turnaround point is the Rescue fire station, a single antique building in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Gold Rush mementos. There is never a soul. That’s where I usually take my half-way break, drenched in sweat, guzzling down gatorade and devouring a power gel. Silence reigns.
So I thought I was doing something pretty nifty.
But this afternoon, as I sat on a pile of stones collecting myself for the return ride, this other biker stops and starts chatting.
He is a handsome youngster probably in his 20s. His face bears an uncanny resemblance to my nephew Tomi, although his helmet conceals some of his features.
I immediately detect a British accent. I also notice that his road bike - a fine Giant-brand carbon bike very similar to mine - is loaded with a tent, a gallon water container and assorted other paraphernalia.
“Hi!” I say amicably. “I am Tom. Looks like you went far. Where did you ride from?”
“My name is Daniel. I rode from Virginia....” is his astounding answer.
“No way!” I exclaim. “You mean Virginia City, in Nevada?”
“No, Virginia on the East Coast...”
“That’s stupendous! When did you leave?”
“I’ve been on the road since June 28...”
“So that’s almost six weeks...”
“Right.”
“So you must’ve done 100 miles a day! That’s incredible. That’s better than the Tour de France! You have done over 3000 miles!”
“Over 4000, actually...
I further learn that Dan’s destination, tonight, is San Francisco - still over 100 miles away. He comes from Birmingham, England, and he is just doing this for the heck of it. Just today, he started in Nevada and followed highway 88 in California, crossing the 8650 foot Carson Pass! That’s way higher that the Tourmalet, the Tour de France’s most challenging mountain pass! Unbelievable!
I am flabbergasted. I can’t stop asking questions. The heat, the distances, the utter isolation crossing the Far West.
“It feels pretty good here,” he says (today was in the mid-nineties - a reasonable summer temperature for Sacramento). “Back East was bad, some days. 99 degrees, and extremely humid. Crossing Kansas was the worst.”
“How about Wyoming, Utah, Nevada, the deserts,” I ask, “ weren’t there enormous stretches of absolute nothingness?”
“Yeah! The longest stretch I went without seeing any roadside stops or people or anything was somewhere in Nevada - for 86 miles, it was just the road and me...”
Then he adds, “I thought Nevada was flat, but it sure isn’t, man!”
“So, did you have flats, or other mishaps?” I inquired. “And what do you do, if something bad happens?”
He shows me his map, his cell phone. His spare tire, his gallon water. But he has no GPS.
Two red necks happen to come by. I am so excited, I address them, saying, “Hey you guys, guess what: Dan here just rode his bike all the way from Virginia!”
The only reaction we get from one of the red necks: “Why would he do such a thing?”
Dan answers courteously: “It’s the challenge, I guess.”
And then, he hops on his bike, saying, “Well, I have to get to San Francisco before nightfall. Better go.”
I get his e-mail address, and I wish him the best. I still can’t believe it. Here I thought I was doing something - riding up to Rescue, doing 60 miles on a hot August afternoon. Wooptido! But today I met superman. leave comment here