bb’s First Bike Tour: Day Four

I wake up to the sun illuminating my tent and the sound of the air compressor from an RV in the tent site next to me. It’s windy and a fine silty sand covers everything, my skin included. When I try to put my contacts in, they burn and I resort to glasses. I discover a water pump near the main campground which is full of Arizona Conservation Corps volunteers.

It’s twenty miles into town, and I know the way, thanks to my maps. I’m back in the saddle, forgoing my bike shorts for a pair of shorts I’d meant to sleep in. At this point, my bike shorts reek, and even I can’t stand them. The Old Spanish Road is a popular bike route skirting the eastern edge of Tucson and Saguaro National Park. I’m buffeted by the wind, but I’m heading downhill all the way to the city.

I pass a few women in purple bike jerseys and say hi. I think I’ve seen the last of them when one bikes up beside me and starts asking me about my trip, where I’m going, where I’ve been. I find out that they’re part of a women’s triathlon training group, the Tucson Tri Girls. The woman invites me to meet the group at a Starbucks at the edge of town and I accept, happy to be able to follow her to a place where I can caffeinated and finally charge my phone so I can find the Air BnB place where I’m sleeping that night.

Inside I plug my phone into the only outlet I can find squeezed between two men who also appear to be carrying everything they own on their backs. I wait, stare at the wall, and wonder where the Tri Girls got off to. Frustrated at the slow rate of the phone charge, I rip my plug from the wall and head outside to find a gaggle of purple jerseys at one of the patio tables. I sit down and they pepper me with questions, interested in what I’m doing. I pepper them right back, asking for advice on what to do with my remaining four days in the city.  I jot down some recommendations in my notebook. Sedona’s in the cards, and also the laundromat.

Miles: 100

Days: 4

Animals Encountered: 2 dogs, 2 antelope herds, 1 road runner, uncountable # of Snowbirds

Next post: Day Four, Part II

Want to know how it all, started? Check out the beginning when I was stuck in a snowbank in New Hampshire.


bb’s First Bike Tour: Day Two

The next day the boy leaves to go back to work. He says, “I hope you have a lot to think about,” and I reply, “I usually do.” Free and easy, I take down my camp and pack up my gear. I want to bike into Sonoita and see the town. On my way there I see a field full of antelope and a sign “Grazing Stops Blazing.” When I get to the town, I realize it’s not really a town, but more of an outpost for local ranchers. There is a collection of buildings centered around a single intersection: a gas station, a steak joint, a gift shop that sells “Aztek fetish” objects, and the cafe where I order a coffee, fruit, yogurt, and granola.


After fuel, I am desperate to find underwear. Before I left for my trip, the pipes froze at the house and we couldn’t do laundry. All my underwear was dirty and so on this trip I have none. The gas station has none, but then I notice a Dollar General across the way. I find two-pack of Hanes in the second isle along with some sunglasses.

Outside in the brilliant pearly sun, I remember to google the route to Patagonia, the town I hope to end my trip at before returning to Tucson. Nope, it’s not gonna happen at my pace. I’m slow and I don’t care.

I bike back up to the camp site from last night, happy to see a whole afternoon and evening sprawling out in front of me with nothing to do and no one to pay attention to but myself. I set up my tent and take a nap. I read my book, cook another dehydrated meal on the pocket rocket stove as the sun sets, and check the stars before I go to sleep at 7:30pm. Turns out my sleeping bag and my down jacket do a fine job of keeping me warm all on my own.

Read about day three here!

bb’s First Bike Tour: Road Day One

We begin at the intersection of 10 and 83, heading South on 83 toward Sonoita. My guide, a freelance landscape photographer and old college roadie has an idea for a campsite a few miles outside Sonoita. I have no idea how many miles it will be to get there. The thing I know most at this moment is the work in my thighs. They burn with every downstroke. I joke that I am carrying two children behind me. The panniers must be about 90 pounds of weight. Every time I stop, the weight of my bike threatens to tip me over. There is work too in my arms and shoulders, the way I hold the handlebars steady so I keep to the right of the white line. The road is narrow and the speed limit is 50mph, large trucks blowing by at speeds far higher than what’s mandated by the black and white signs.

My tour guide, the boy, says it feels like we’re going downhill. I don’t know how to tell him this: DEFINITELY NOT. NO! But I keep pedaling, looking at the vistas as they pass. This is my kind of slowing down. My obsessive thoughts about preparations, planning, everything going wrong are gone. Instead, there is only the burning of my muscles, the desire to reach the top of another hill for a moment of sweet release gliding down the other side.

The land is brown, prickly pear and leafless mesquite giving way to rocky crags rising above the road, everywhere lumpy hills, leading to the base of massive angular mountain ranges. There are so many mountains I can’t keep track of them all. Signs saying “open range,” and cattle fences of barbed wire. Supposedly illegal immigrants come through here carrying bales of weed on their backs.

On and on and up and up and finally, nearing the end of daylight, we come to an opening up of the land, a massive plane spreading before us, tawny yellow grasses waving in the wind. Hills rolling downward, my legs shaking in relief, joys of coasting. We set up camp at Las Cienegas National Conservation Area at the edge of the Coronado National Forest. The sun is setting over the mountains and I am lighting up my stove, thrilling in the fact that I carried everything I need. Photographer is distracting me with his talking and he’s setting up my tent. I look for his tent…nowhere. I remember I must defend my freedom because it’s not given to me.

Half of me wants him to sleep outside, but the other half of me knows it is so cold and I am not sure I will be warm enough in my tent alone. I finish cooking my dinner. He gets in my tent. Outside, I stand and salute the stars. They are the brightest and most stunning I have ever seen. I crawl in.

Get in on the tour, day two!


bb’s First Bike Tour: Arrival



When I arrive in Tucson, I have no idea where I am headed or how far I can bike in a day.  I have some vague route plans that a local bike shop owner sent me, and, as usual, no real direction of my own. I like that it is warm. I like that there are mountains on the horizon.

I’m staying with a Warm Showers host near the center of town, close to the University. I get an Uber to her house, and then walk to the shop where I shipped my bike. It’s there behind the counter, safe and sound! Since I’m a woman facing a bunch of male mechanics, the shop owner tells me that next time I should call ahead to let them know that my bike is coming. I can’t find the words to say that “Yes I fucking called ahead and told an employee the exact day my bike would arrive at their shop. Gave him my name and everything.” I say those words in my head. Out loud, I shrug and mumble that I’ll do better next time I ship a bike to Tucson.

When I return to the host’s house, her daughter and son-in-law are there with their kids, dropping them off so they can have a night out. The son-in-law hands me a map of bike routes that he’s drawn with a magic marker on construction paper. I am so grateful for this, a small act of kindness. I can tell I’m going the right way.


I check my phone and re-download Tinder because why not. If you can’t join the old boy’s club, then you might as well abuse it. I update my page to say that I’m on a bike tour. So then all the boys from all over town start messaging me with advice about where to bike. And some want to ride with me because maybe it’s cool or some sort of novelty to find a girl who likes bikes. I agree to ride out the next day with one of ’em toward Sonoita, a town about 35 miles south of the Tucson.

I sleep and spend the next morning repacking gear, and mounting my handlebar bag to my handlebars. It requires some fiddling and concentration, reminds me of my construction days, the need to put something together or else everything will collapse. finally, everything’s fixed, Ortlieb panniers set on the back rack, water bottle full. My stomach is empty because although I’ve bought food, I’ve forgotten to eat it.

Find out how the tour begins here.


bb’s First Bike Tour: Pre-Departure

I didn’t train for this. I’m no wimp when it comes to biking in the cold, but New Hampshire temps had stabilized at a frigid zero degrees Fahrenheit for the two weeks before I left town. Twenty’s my threshold for bike able weather, and so I was reading too much, sitting on my ass, not worrying too much about being able to bike far.

I was worrying about surviving in the wilderness. With the exception of an ill-fated college trip to the Smoky Mountains, I’ve never even been backpacking before. This phased me. The thought of carrying everything I needed to survive in the desert was scary. I was heading into unknown territory. Would there be scorpions roaming my tent, invisible until revealed by a sharp sting on my sole? What about the ground littered with cactus spines and thorns, ready to puncture my precious air-filled tires? There was my fear of losing my way, of going out into the wilderness and not coming back.

And looming largest of all above me, there was the fear my mother voiced for me, “sounds lonely.” 10 days in the desert could very well be. Still though, I kept pushing Tucson to the back of my mind. It’s a defense mechanism of mine. Until the change comes, it’s best not to anticipate too much.

The day before my trip comes and I can’t deny it any more. I need to pack. The physical reality sets in. Scrambling gear all over the floor, what do I need, how can I get the weight down. My sister’s hiked the AT and so she helps. I make a list and we highlight to categorize the gear (in-camp, bike maintenance, clothes, navigation, art supplies). We spend all day gathering, organizing and sorting on my bedroom floor. Pepper’s sitting with me, laying on top of the gear as I try to move it into piles, and then stuff it into my panniers. When we’re together in Gilford at our parent’s house, Mikayla and I have days like this a lot. We never put on bras, we forget what time it is, we talk and we are also silent.

I spend the night before my flight wishing I had a card for medical marijuana, something to calm my thoughts racketing around my skull, making so much noise that I can’t sleep.

Read the next post to see what happens in Tucson.