18 March 2014
Tempe to Globe, Arizona
66 miles (Total Miles = 503)

I have just successfully pulled off the one-handed lip balm application while riding down the side of Highway 60 when I see the road-side wood-chipper blowing full force. Now my Suzy ChapStick lips are covered in a fine layer of sawdust and I tell myself to be grateful for this moment because it’s better than a fine layer of bugs.

It’s taken a few hours to finally leave the city behind and now we are on a wide-shouldered highway headed for Gonzales Pass. We’ve spread out for a change, giving me some alone time to think my thoughts. There are riders ahead and riders behind, so there’s no real danger in having some space to ourselves. Besides, out here pedaling along with the Superstition Mountains over one shoulder and the day’s destination ahead, I find myself experiencing the ride in a way that I haven’t yet. I can’t quite explain how it feels; maybe that clarity will come with a few more days on the road.

What I can explain, though, is the fear generated by the climbing, twisting, shoulder-less road that greets us after passing through Superior and a tunnel meant only for vehicles with at least four wheels, and often more like 18. I know this fear – it comes up at least once or twice a cycling trip, providing that trip is NOT in Germany – and Gina and I have developed a very effective method for dealing with this fear. It includes praying but perhaps not in the way you might think, for the prayer is not just for safety but also for a pickup truck with room for two.

We’ve been standing on the side of this fear-inducing road with our thumbs stuck out for about 20 minutes when we get our first bite. Over pulls the big black truck with a covered bed; out steps a man who could easily be mistaken for a 1972 TV evangelist. After about 12 seconds of conversation, we are doubting his holiness and convinced that a ride in his truck will put us a lot closer to Jesus than we want to be so Thank You Sir, but we’ll thumb another.

It’s not easy to catch a ride when everyone is driving as though they’ve just robbed the Federal Reserve so it’s time to pull out all the stops. This means it’s time for Gina to take off that helmet and go into full Clairol Girl mode – swing those locks and flash those pearly whites – we need a ride outta here. Bingo – there’s a truck coming back down the highway for us and better yet, that ain’t Jim Bakker behind the wheel but an amazingly thoughtful local gal on her way to Globe who saw us, thought we might need help, and came a few miles back down this deathtrap highway to give us a lift. We’ve become quite familiar with the world of Cycling Angels in all of our bicycle travels and she winningly joins those ranks. We thought we might too – the angel part, that is – with the way she then drove us down that highway, passing semi-trucks left and right, hugging tight corners like a Formula 1 racer, all the while smiling and telling us about how us cyclists are not safe on that stretch of road. Indeed, I think, except now we are, thanks to people like her.