A Change of Plan

.

I left you in my last post at Barstow without saying anything about it.  A good town in the heyday of Route 66, Barstow thrived in the fifties with post-war Americans on road trips.  Today it’s a sorry remainder of the good times.  Crime is a major problem, judging by alarms on restaurant doors, locks on restrooms.  The old business district is mostly closed or degraded.  People are unfriendly in Barstow, and they seem scared. These photos are from just east of First Street, looking westerly along Main St., old Route 66.  from the 1950’s and from about the same place today.  

When the interstate highway, I-40, bypassed Barstow and its traveler-businesses along Route 66, they tried to carry on with cheap gas and signs along I-40 to entice travelers.  But it didn’t work.  These old photos are hanging at Barstow’s Route 66 Mother Road Museum.   

In recent years, Rout66 has taken a historical appeal, and once again businesses try to survive by promoting the old road as a destination in its long self.  I stayed in one of the old motels built in the heyday, now remodeled, while maintaining the nostalgic appeal of that bygone era.

We never stayed in motels on my childhood family vacations.  “That’s where the other half stops for the night,” my mother would say.  Then we’d go to a campground. 

East of Barstow lies the Mojave desert, long and almost void of any human comforts until Needles at the far edge of California.  I knew the three-day ride comes with only three possible places to get even water.  And it might be more days if wind comes from the east.  So, with a favorable forecast, I left Barstow on old Route 66.  A magnificent desert sunrise seemed to say it would be alright.

With the railroad on my left and I-40 on my right, I had the old road to myself.  Wind was calm and riding was pleasure.    

Wildflowers are sparse, but lovely in their loneness, much like the speeding cyclist who passed me today, loaded as I am, with only a wave.  We’re a solitary minority, and the desert suits us.

After Newberry Springs, I came to the expected and very welcome Bagdad Café.  It’s named after the 1988 movie by the same name.  “It’s a lousy movie,” said the bearded farmer, the only other customer, “but that name brings in the tourists, busloads sometimes.”  

Gilbert

As we sat there chatting—Gilbert, the owner joining us—a load of tourists stopped the RV and walked in.  The bearded man gave them a look that I’m sure means,  “Really, another load of Route 66 nostalgia-hunters without a clue.”  For him, what matters is that the water allocation for his alfalfa has been cut in half because of the draught.  “And the democrats want to build a high speed railroad,” he said. “I wish Trump would come and fix this.”  

I came to the town of Ludlow—not a town really, but a gas station, store, and a six-room motel.   Of course, I took a room here, even though they are all smoking rooms with no internet.  It’s a dry town, owned by man in Ludlow, serving mostly construction workers who have to bring their own beer.  The workers told me that I’m out-of-luck for riding anything, including a bicycle, on route 66 east of here. “ It’s all torn up for the first ten miles and no way to get around.  “You have to take I-40.” 

With no weather forecast, no information about grades, places to camp, condition of the shoulder, and little hope of making the next town with a motel—Needles, I set out from Ludlow at three in the morning on the shoulder of I-40.  My hope was that by riding at night,  red taillights flashing, a good headlight, good weather, and not too many long upgrades, I might make it to Needles—95 miles.  If not I would get off the freeway and camp.

Wind is usually lighter at night, and so it was that north wind pressed softly on my left side.  I climbed a thousand feet before first light, and another grade about the same by the time I got to Fenner, the only gas station and store.  After Fenner, there were two more grades until South Pass.  From here, I thought it should be downhill all the way to Needles.  A wonderful notion came over me that I could arrive by dark or soon after. And so it was  I came here to Budget Inn last evening.