Welcome to the sixth part of my bike tour across the USA. In this instalment, I am baked by sun and battered by rain on the (relatively) short journey from the Grand Canyon to Las Vegas.
Day 145 – Monday 3rd October
Scattered thunderstorms set some alarm bells ringing when I consult the morning weather forecast, but moving on still seems preferable to another night camping in the rain. Heavy drops begin to fall as I ride out, and I’m already pretty wet on arrival in Tusayan, just seven miles south of the campground. I buy scoops of dark chocolate brownie and salted caramel praline gelato from the Grand Canyon Chocolate Factory.
As I continue, the rain intensifies, soaking through my shoes and the arms of my rain jacket. On the positive side, I am blown along by a stiff tailwind. The sky darkens, and I become increasingly unnerved by the flashes of lightning striking closer and closer to the road. When I spy gas pumps at Grand Canyon Junction, I dart off the road and enter the first doorway in sight. The cashier seems sympathetic to my plight and invites me to drip-dry in front of the counter.
Reviewing the weather radar, I decide that the wind is driving the worst of the storm south of my location, and that I should make a break for the town of Williams. Unfortunately, the tailwind flicks round to become a headwind, stalling my progress and pushing bands of rain right back into my face. Finally arriving in Williams, I find my feet are completely numb and develop painful chilblains when I restore the circulation with a hot shower.
Day 146 – Tuesday 4th October
Blue skies and sunshine greet me in the morning, leaving the violence of the storm a fading memory. Outside Family Dollar (a discount supermarket), I use a dish cloth to wipe yesterday’s gunk off my chain. My shoes even begin to feel less boggy in the hairdryer-like air flow produced by riding.
I hit the interstate for 14 miles and clip along at a high average speed, sucked in the slipstreams of huge trucks whipping past on my left. Breaking off at Ash Fork, I join the famous and once teeming artery of Route 66. The road is quiet, though every establishment seems hopeful of cashing in on the old glory days. There are Route 66 gas stations, Route 66 motels, Route 66 diners and gift shops and convenience stores, all of them dwindling and forlorn.
I pass into more remote country, and the sun is sinking rapidly west as I pull into a deserted campground. I’m dismayed to learn that the restaurant closed at 3pm and the shop at 5pm. It is looking like a disconsolate night of dry tortillas, until I see Matt (a cyclist I first met at the Grand Canyon) emerging from the shower block. He has couscous and lentils and hot sauce, not to mention homemade brownies from a host in Williams, and I bless the gods of the spoke for this unexpected deliverance.
Day 147 – Wednesday 5th October
Matt and I ride together most of the morning, but then part ways as our paths diverge. I am turning north-west for Vegas, while he goes south to join the Baja Peninsula. As I close in on Kingman, traffic lights sprout upon the road, along with lines of slow-moving cars and all the other trappings of a return to civilisation.
I wander round the Route 66 museum, chronicling the route’s history from 19th century wagon trail, through the flight of farmers in the dustbowl era, to eventual abandonment after the construction of Interstate-40. As challenging as my journey has been, it pales in comparison to the early settlers, crossing these drought-ridden lands on unpaved roads with wagons to haul behind them.
My host for the night greets me with a pronounced Russian accent. She prepares a delicious spread of marinated chicken, salad with balsamic vinegar, kale and bean soup, warm bread and cheese. Afterwards, I learn her story: how her father was a successful businessman until the late 90s, how the regime threatened him and his family, and how she fled with her children to the sanctuary of America.
Day 148 – Thursday 6th October
The shoulder of the highway is covered with shredded tyre and pieces of wire. I weave around them with microscopic tilts of wrist and bodyweight, anxious to avoid a puncture. It is hot and getting hotter under the remorseless glare of the sun. Even in October, this is not a place you want to break down.
In the ultra-low humidity of the desert, sweat is whisked away almost as soon as it is extruded. Gone are the mid-western, midsummer days when my body was as soaked as a tropical rainstorm. Here, the loss of moisture is deceptive. Water is drawn from the body, as surely as salt draws the liquid from a carcass of meat.
My throat is like sandpaper when I reach the Hoover Dam and its air-conditioned visitor centre. I look around at the other tourists emerging from vehicles to pour ice cream and coke into distended stomachs, their faces unburnt by the sun, their muscles ill-defined and seldom used. I think how great their prosperity compared to the men who built this dam, and yet how much feebler their bodies.
Day 149 – Friday 7th October
The day before I arrive on the Las Vegas Strip, a man told some of the showgirls who pose with tourists on the main thoroughfare that he wanted a photo taken with his knife. When the girls refused, he went on a stabbing spree, killing two people and wounding six others.
I wonder if there will be a cordon round part of the Strip, or if the whole thing will be shut for a period of mourning, but this is Vegas and the show must go on. There is no evidence at all that two people were senselessly murdered here yesterday; instead, there are queues of tourists in swimwear lining up for pool parties.
Vegas is undoubtedly a gaudy cesspool of extravagance, swimming in alcohol and flesh and pensioners feeding quarters into glittering slot machines. But there is also something mesmerising about the principle of pleasure pursued to its final terminus. The best parts of Europe are plagiarised and Americanised here: there is Caesar’s Palace, with water spewing from the mouths of Roman gods; a replica of the Eiffel Tower; electronic gondolas motoring beneath Venetian bridges; and a Cirque du Soleil homage to The Beatles.
Here, a thousand billboards and neon signs promise you can have whatever you want, whenever you want it. Except maybe peace and quiet. But, then, peace and quiet aren’t really what the people come for.