Easter Sunrise

Leaving Kingman an hour before first light, the road was smooth and wind non-existent.  I cruised easily into the dawning sky, and then the sunrise.  And there along the side of a desert road, I attended Easter Sunrise, and experienced an awakening out there among the sparse vegetation, in a meeting of one; make that two. 

In the first glimpse of sunlight, flowers responded with hope—for pollination, for future children.  Come, they seem to call to the insects, let us together give something to the next generation.  And in this hope, they softly bloom.  It seems to me that our children would get this Easter Sunrise hope and understand it, tossing aside bunnies that lay eggs, if we only allow them. 

Regardless of your religion or lack on one, the sun still rose this morning, and its meaning seemed to transcend scientific explanations.  It and all it nourishes seem to say that beauty and meaning abide in what we see. 

Riding on old Route66, I come Hackberry, one of the towns bypassed by I-40 and left to die.  The only remaining business is the Hackberry General Store, begun in the thirties, thrived in the fifties, and hanging on with its décor of old-time funkiness for the few passing tourists. 

The store is loaded with Hy66 memorabilia and souvenirs.  I considered the variety of tee shirts, but until I get close to Chicago, such baggage remains in the store.

Valentine

Valentine passed with nothing left to serve the Dust Bowl jalopies or the fifties sleek sedans.  And the trains still whizz past me, pedaling old 66, the Mother Road.

Next comes Truxton, where the two motels are dead, and only a gas station remains.

I Could have rested my bones at the plush Hualapai Indian Reservation Hotel in Peach Springs, or the hotel at Grand Canyon Caverns, but they have nothing to do with the old Mother Road.  One of the motels in Truxton would have been fine, but I pushed on into the sunny afternoon with wind mostly on my back. 

I came finally, after 88 miles for the day, to Seligman, a town that has fared better than most against the monster— I-40.  It tries to promote spirit of times past. 

I rode into town on a tired horse.  Hitched him up outside.  Went in for a brew.  Like an old rusty nail, I’m used to it now—the wind, the hills, and the cars, ten hours of pushing pedals.  Not much affects a bike-mule ten days on the road out of Pasadena.

A man walked in with clattering feet, sounding like bicycle clips on his soles.  He’d seen my horse out front, and now a bedraggled woman with tangled, matted hair at the counter with biking shorts and a bright yellow shirt.

“Where ya ridin’ to” he said from behind.  Then came around to face me.  A face dark with sun except for pale stripes down his cheeks where helmet straps had blocked the sun.  His hands just as dark, but the wrists were white where shirtsleeves had covered them.  I knew right away he was the real deal.

“Chicago” I said with a sheepish grin, and wondered if he believed.  He’d rode to Seligman from Kingman today, as I had.  But he left at nine, while I’d been five hours on the road.  I started in darkness to make this trek before dark, and I’d done it with an hour to spare.  He came in the café just 15 minutes behind me. 

You can see my progress on an interactive map, prepared by Michael Angerman, at:

https://www.google.com/maps/d/viewer?spn=1.372738%2C2.458191&ll=34.19141194851035%2C-117.74940521972655&msa=0&z=9&mid=1Y_TZPvq1-LarAZNM9P1HzAy11K8

Zoom and scroll to see where I’ve been.