Burros, Gunfights, and Floats. Oh, my!

Still numb from my Lawrence of Arabia inspired traversal of the Mojave, I was late to the start of the next morning's ride. Looked like it would be another day alone in the saddle. The plan was to cover 85 miles and arrive in Kingman, AZ just over 3,000 feet higher than where I started.

After a quick stretch at 35 mph downhill on the Interstate, I turned on to Historic Route 66. Wow. The pavement looked like it had last been taken care of in 1966. But, so excited to experience veritable Americana. At least, I was excited for the first .8 miles before my tire went flat. While changing it buzzards started circling and I took that as a less than optimistic sign about my chances that day. Nevertheless, I plodded ahead, thanking Mother Earth for the brief respite from the soul-draining 108 degree days by rewarding me with a relatively temperate 101 degree balm. 

Lunch was in a hoot of an old town called Oatman. Here,  you need to stay vigilant as the roads are besieged by wild burros. Not kidding. I wove my bike in and out of them while approaching the center of this hamlet. Minutes later, while I am still laughing out loud about my encounter with big game, I am snapped to attention by... a gunfight. Yep, the rowdy locals stage hourly reenactments of heists gone wrong complete with corny one-liners and audience cajoling. Hokey biker vaudevillian at its finest, with the biggest laughs coming from the abundance of Swedes who rented Harleys and donned baggy leathers over their fit wiry frames.

I was glad to have lightened my spirits, because the next two hours of riding left me depressed as I shouted regrets about any pizza or ice cream I had ordered for the last year. Punishing switchbacks abounded as I chugged up to Sitegreaves Pass, where I am pretty sure my gasping frightened away the bighorn sheep I merely glimpsed.

Thankfully, in the inevitable yin and yang that is riding hills on a bike, the far side of the pass offered a seemingly endless downhill into a wide open plane. Arms in front, steering with my elbows, and cornering irresponsibly, I raced traffic and relived my time preparing for Ironmans while on my time trial bike. Man, did that feel cathartic. Well, until my tire flatted again in the middle of what felt like a 20 mile wide greased skillet on high heat. For me, right up there with bad customer service, IRS audits, and unattributed retweets, are flat tires. Ugh.

My mojo decidedly hobbled by 10 minutes of wrestling with my wheel in the hot AZ dust, I couldn't wait to be done with our ride. Route 66 or not, I was looking forward to a delicious beverage and a dip in a pool. Thus, as I rounded the corner to find Kingman, I couldn't have been more pleased. My joy was heightened even more by three discoveries: 1) They were holding full-on drag racing championships in the main square 2) The event was being guarded by a bunch of retirees in police uniforms with cars that said "Volunteer Posse" and 3) Mr. D'z diner knows how to make a lethal Root Beer float (with chocolate ice cream is how I prefer mine, no matter how questionable that may sound to you). It was a quintessential American experience.

Not much to report in the way of nightlife. Bedtime comes early in this part of the country. It does for me, at least considering what time we roll in the morning.

Thus, for now, thanks to all of you for your Tweets and comments. They mean a lot to me and I wish I weren't too pooped to reply to them all.