More adventure beautifully told by Patrick Thomas and relayed to us by
Max Chen. Too sensational:
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Day #6 Placerville, CA to 5 miles west of junction of
Mormon Emigrant Trail with Highway 88
June 16
If you want to meet people, find a date, or just
simply disarm people of their inherent reluctance to
open up and socially interact with strangers, simply
buy a unicycle (you can skip the helmet) and walk
around town. It doesn't matter whether or not you can
ride. People, sooner or later, WILL approach you and
initiate conversation. In the event they ask you to
ride, you can simply say that you're tired from riding
and taking a break. This scenario has played and
replayed itself over several years. People,
practically, open up to me and talk about their past,
families, experiences with a unicycle, etc. One could
easily think that I was either a friend, acquaintance,
or their psychologist.
I love to ride unicycles. Yesterday, I came across a
few youth outside the community center in Placerville.
As is normally the case, they noticed the unicycle
before they noticed me. Without my one wheeled mate,
I'm just another face in the crowd. I talked to them
about my cross country ride and passed out cards with
the websites. A few of them wanted to try to mount
the unicycle so I helped them as best I could and
tried to make sure they landed on their feet. For an
outsider like myself, passing through remote,
unfamiliar areas, woods, deserts, cities and big and
small towns, the unicycle has been my passport of
diplomacy, granting me entrance to places and access
to people with whom my path would not normally cross.
Today is the day I discovered the precise state of my
conditioning. Ideally, I would've completed physical
and mental preparation prior to the start of this
journey. In reality, I have ended up completing my
training for this trip during the route itself. This
has been a reminder that, in order to attain your
targeted goals, you must first set realistic
expectations.
I got an early start today and embraced a sunny
morning that forecast a day of promise. As I headed
east, I took the road out of Placerville that
paralleled Highway 50 for a while before diverging. I
cruised along for a . while through tranquil, rural roads
that climbed and dropped and weaved through and
around country homes, woods and green fields. At the
7 or so miles per hour that I averaged during those
first two hours, the wind caressed the tree trunks and
flapped the leaves and branches and ignited my
imagination. For awhile, I saw myself in the Tour de
France, leading a ferocious and aggressive breakaway,
urging my unicycle forward as quickly as I could
pedal. With my cycle shirt unzipped, I roared up each
climb and flew down every descent, always aware of the
two-wheeled predators behind, who desperately pursued
me. It was MY race to lose. I awoke to reality when
I realized I had ended up on the wrong road.
I pulled up to a wood mill/lumberyard, about a mile or
so from the town of Diamond Springs. When I told two
men I met there that I was trying to get to Pollock
Pines, I could tell by the shock on their face that I
wasn't even close. After trying to help me
understand, in vain, just how much I had strayed off
course and exactly what I would need to do to find my
way again, they offered to give me a ride to
Placerville. Once we were back in Placerville, they
decided that Pollock Pines, indeed, would be a better
launchpad toward Lake Tahoe because I could chose
between Highway 50 and the Mormon Emigrant Trail. As
they dropped me off in front of the Subway sandwich
shop next to the gas station, they wished me well and
said they would keep me in their prayers. They also
cautioned me to look out for the snakes, if I ended up
choosing the Mormon Emigrant Trail. If I chose this
path, they went on; I would face a long, isolated
road, plagued with known and unknown beasts.
After loading up provisions of food and drink, I first
attempted to gallop into battle by heading up the
eastbound on ramp of the Highway 50 out of Pollock
Pines, where cyclists are allowed. I trotted along on
my one-wheeled stallion for 100 yards or so and,
fortunately, wisdom won out on this day over reckless
idiocy. Though Highway 50 would have been the quicker
of the two routes into Lake Tahoe, I was quickly
reminded of just how much I cherish my life more than
haste for a speedier crossing. Once I regained my
bearings, by checking with few locals, I galloped on
to Sly Park, the door leading to the adventure ahead.
I stopped at the convenient store at the service
station; across from Sly Park and drank Gatorade, and
more Gatorade as if I were storing reserves for a
6-month hibernation. It was as if I knew what was
awaiting me. As I sat on the bench, outside the shop,
an older gentleman came out of the bar/restaurant and
struck up a conversation. He had recently retired
from the U.S. Forest Service and had given up smoking
just a couple years prior. He lives with just one
lung and said that when his doctor, years before,
painstakingly laid out the dire consequences that he
could expect if he continued smoking, quitting became
a more appealing option. He took great pride in his
knowledge of the woods and swore he could find his
way, without a map, into Nevada by using remote and
unmarked paths.
It was mid afternoon as we chatted, and until the day
I die, I'll never forget his reaction when I boldly
declared that I was going to try and reach Kirkwood by
nightfall. He looked at my unicycle and buckled over,
bracing himself and his jerking body by interlocking
both hands at the center of his belly. I didn't know
if he was suffering a seizure or heart attack as I
watched tears stream down his cheeks and his desperate
attempts to regain composure. When I heard his
laughter erupt and reverberate through the warm,
summer air, I was relieved. He said he knew
accomplished cyclists on two wheels, with gears, who
needed half a day to reach Kirkwood and here I was one
wheel, no gears, and it was almost 3 o'clock in the
afternoon. He almost keeled over again and had to prop
himself up on the pole, behind the bench. He told me
that, even if I made it to highway 88, I would still
have to contend with climbs that reach as high as
8,000 feet. I decided to heed his advice and scale
back my expectations.
After buying a sandwich and fries, thinking that I
might have to dine in the woods, I said goodbye to my
mate and rode past the man-made lake and up the hill
that greets you. This welcome was an early hint of
what to expect.
In short, the humbling and frustrating climbs along
the Mormon Emigrant Trail were tempered by the divine,
spectacular scenery that abounds. As far as the
horizon stretches, I could see hills and ranges
densely carpeted by trees. My soul was ablaze as I
beheld the mighty beauty of nature and I felt the
weighty obligation that rests upon the shoulders of
human beings to preserve the gifts of such incredible
natural wealth that has been bestowed upon us. Though
the stretch of the Mormon Emigrant Trail between Sly
Park and Highway 88 demoralized me because of the
overwhelming physical demands of the ascents, the
lessons I learned there have served as a beacon that
has illuminated my path ever since: when the riding
gets tough, you dig deep. In the end, your ability to
complete a ride depends not so much on your physical
conditioning as it does on your mental preparedness.
Toward dusk, the sun sank below the horizon of pine
trees and torched the canvas of sky blue in bleeding
brushstrokes of crimson. I camped out 5 miles west of
Highway 88 and instead of having to confront hyenas,
bears, mountain lions or snakes, my most formidable
adversaries were the mosquitoes. That was fine by me.
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