Crossing into California

  The postcard image of California includes palm trees, perfect weather, sandy shores and beach babes. For us however, the first time experience was quite the opposite. It started when we woke up with the dawn in Yuma, Arizona. Well rested, we methodically packed up our gear and loaded our bicycles. Being on the road over 5 months already has taught us many things, one of them being not to rush while packing. Another trick was stopping into any motel chain during ‘continental breakfast’ time to load up on pastries & snacks, which we also took advantage of this morning. We continued riding through the sleepy town, quietly and with a sense of retrospection- as we knew we were approaching the final border crossing of our trip. As we got close to a relatively long and flat bridge, we saw a green highway sign ahead until we could clearly read- California State Line. We stopped underneath the rusted metal sign as it clanked against loose screws with stickers and bullet holes- overall it was anticlimactic, but for us it was everything. This was it, after bicycling through 16 states and seeing a variety of “welcome to” state signs, this was going to be our last one. Quite fitting too, as its weathered state resembled us and the entire journey completely.

The bridge spanned a deep gorge, with barely a stream down below. It was the legendary Colorado River that began its journey high in Colorado, flowing through the Grand Canyon, around the picturesque Horseshoe Bend, through the southwestern states and now just trickles down below us. It will enter Mexico soon and dribble into the Gulf of California after a whopping 1,400 mile journey consisting of massive depths, lazy widths, whitewater rapids and dams. Its even been carving the Grand Canyon for 6 million years! Its difficult to comprehend the rivers’ life and history, but for some reason it reminded us of our journey. Similarly we’ve experienced drastic change, winding turns, ups and downs- the only difference is this river has been flowing for eons. Much like with the water passing down below, it wasn’t the first or last droplet and it will continue swirling amidst others. Relatively, humans have been traveling since the cavemen nomads, and will continue to after we’ve passed from this earth as well. 

After the celebratory cigarette we got on our bikes and pushed on with a smile, crossed the river and turned left on Interstate 8 to head west towards the coast. The scenery here was interesting, scarce trees and lush green fields on our northern right. You could tell how much the Colorado River still feeds the grasslands close by the banks, because after it made the hard turn into Mexico- the fields were dwindling and more yellow in color, until further they seemed all but done with life. 

It was overcast with some minor headwind, but a few miles down the road everything changed for the worse. We reached the official checkpoint and tollbooths at which nobody stopped us or even looked twice. The landscape was now desolate- a sandy desert with dunes and dried shrubs scattered sporadically. We pushed onwards, heading directly west along the small interstate shoulder and the eastbound breeze picked up to an intolerable speed. The winds were coming far away from the ocean and over the mountains, picking up intensity across the desert where there was nothing to stop them- sand and debris were whipping into our faces, even swaying us dangerously on the road. We’ve put up with a lot of shit from weather and overcome many unpredictable situations before but this wasn’t smart- or productive. On a good day we usually average 15 miles per hour but now It took us over two hours to ride less than five. There was no sign of life around- literally a desert as far as the eye could see, with occasional rocky hills jutting out into the landscape. We finally saw some resemblance of society, a gas station just up the road. We pulled over immediately to sit where even the picnic table had a shelter to shield from the winds- I guess this was normal here. After a short conversation with the elderly and judgmental shop attendant she said “boys, y’all better get used to these winds, sometime they can last for days.” It was only about 11am, and while we were so fired up all morning to put many miles under our belts today it seemed like this was it. And so, we sat there beer after beer, striking up occasional conversations with random gas stop refuelers.

Our only productive conversation thus far was with official US Border Patrol agents. We stood around their huge truck till they came out of the shop and we told them about our trip, inquiring about anything we should know or be aware of on the road ahead. They were simultaneously impressed and unenthused. One was more helpful and shed some insight on what we should expect: i8 is the highway that literally hugs the border with Mexico, and has wide embankments of sand dunes and barbed wire fences on either side. He saw our bicycles and gravely advised us not to even think of camping alongside, no matter how hospitable or safe it would look for a tent. Themselves including, Border Patrol vehicles frequently blaze those sandy trails responding to alerts or looking for illegal migrants- even told us about frequent incidents where at night they’d accidentally run over people sleeping or illegals hiding in the brush without even realizing. Not only that, but because this is an area where many Mexicans cross over, there have been incidents of starved, parched, and frenzied ‘fence hoppers’ raiding and killing people in cars or while camping just to get ahead and with any supplies they could scavenge. “Great to know” we thought, it was a good thing we asked as they bid us farewell and safe travels.

This town we were stuck in consisted of a gas station, post office and scattered trailer residences, and has an official population number of two. We’ve been stranded at plenty of places like this before but surprisingly, there was much more here than we ever thought. The town was named Felicity, in 1986 when it was founded by Jacques-Andre Istel. Obviously a frenchie, he was a professional parachutist who is responsible for popularizing the sport in the US and is often referred to as the ‘grandfather of American skydiving.’ He dubbed this place the ‘center of the world,’ and it was officially recognized as such by the local county and French government in 1989. An eccentric historian as well, he is now over 85 years old and has been the mayor here for 30 years. Living here with his wife, Felicia, there might only be a handful of other inhabitants. Across the interstate in the sand there are huge marble pyramids, stone pillars, structures, a church and massive sundial that all look eerily out of place pitched against the desert. As if these weren’t bizarre enough, nearby is a 30ft tall section of metal that was salvaged from the Eiffel Tower- a spiral staircase that leads to nowhere but up. 

Felicity, California / Photos from AtlasObscura.com

We watched tumbleweeds dance across the dunes for hours, something we’ve only seen in cartoons. It was approaching 6pm with the sun well ready to complete its journey across the sky to soon set on the wide horizon. We accepted that we’d have to set up camp somewhere here and weren’t worried at all, the winds have calmed and there was plenty of space around. On our last beer of the bench someone approached us after leaving the shop and we struck up conversation. Cliff was middle aged, young in the eyes and wearing a thick black leather jacket and riding pants. We didn’t notice how he arrived to this gas station, just that he looked like our kind- weathered and traveling. He spotted our bicycles and chatted for a while until he pulled his bike around. It was a 1970’s Romanian motorcycle named Lucy that he’s traveled with around Asia and now back in America. He had just left San Diego this morning to start his travels east across the states, while we were on the tail end of our trip heading west. He said he’s been in SD for a few weeks itching to leave- If he didn’t leave this morning and if the bad weather didn’t stop us today we probably would have missed each other.

But it gets crazier… after he inquired about the skateboards strapped to our bikes, we spoke about skating and our mission other than just bicycling across America. Cliff mentioned he knew an oldschool pro skater back in the day, and with a shot in the dark he asked if we knew a John Grigley. Our eyes widened, our brains exploded. “Griggles?!” We exclaimed. “Yes! We’ve skated with him in New York City for a few years, we were even at his daughters’ 14 birthday recently before leaving on this trip!” He was flabbergasted as well and said in disbelief- “I was at her birth.” John Grigley is one of the first pro skaters at the start of the culture, originally from Florida and that’s him and Cliff know each other from. The three of us, sitting pretty much alone in the southern Californian desert shared a friendship decades apart with this human, and for some wild reason we were destined to meet in a place called ‘the center of the world.’ 

John Grigley 1985 photo: Rob Moseley /// John Grigley + Gnarmads in 2012 at his daughter Nico’s birthday in NYC

We set up our camp nearby, tents, bikes and a cozy campfire as the temperature drops quickly at night. We stayed up for awhile sharing stories and woke up with first light, as the sun was beaming on the quiet dunes. There was no wind, clear skies and shaping up to be a good day. After a mild morning fire and breakfast we exchanged warm goodbyes and took off our opposite ways- fully inspired and appreciative of the many omens of the open road. 

There weren’t any headwinds for us today, and we pedaled along the mostly flat highway. To our left and right were sand dunes ranging in size and shape as far as the eye could see. We saw many trucks and trailers pulling Dune Buggies that we’d see charging up the crests of the sandy mountains. We were on another planet it seemed, unlike anything else we’ve experienced on the trip thus far. There wasn’t another gas station or town but after twenty miles or so, there was an island of a rest stop in the median of the highway. Tired and burnt from the afternoon sun we stopped for some shade, as there were a few trees here unlike the rest of the road. To our dismay there wasn’t any store or information center, just bathrooms and fresh water that we gladly utilized. A random dude walking by noticed our bicycles, he peered closer and pointed to an old sticker on our equipment- It was from a skateshop called Palace 5 in Washington DC, but the sticker design itself was based on a packet of classic Zig Zag rolling papers. He asked if we smoked and pulled out a bowl to share with us. He was in a rush heading to Arizona, and left us with a gift saying ‘Welcome to California’ as he took off in a cloud of dust back onto the highway. In our hands were three medical marijuana jars and coconut rolling papers- what a welcome indeed! After not having any for over a week this was a blessing from the heavens. We found a shaded spot under tree and sprawled out on our mats and even set up a hammock. We smoked spliffs enjoying our midday siesta and barely wanted to keep riding for the day- but we had to. 

Merging back onto the highway we found our rhythm again. Its so methodical, so euphoric and meditative just pedaling on a highway with a wide horizon. The traffic eased and we were making great pace. All around us the dunes were getting larger, higher and deeper- with my imagination I kept dreaming of riding down one of these on a board. It became an obsession, there was nothing else to look at except visualizing sliding down the slopes. We came up onto a ridge, where to our right was a huge hill and even deeper dip of a sand dune. Bogdan knew of this daydream I’ve had and as I pulled over ahead told him “This is the one. I’m gonna do it, and if it doesn’t work out at least its worth the try.” It was late in the afternoon and the sun was still hot overhead, with no shade we sat there as I took awhile to unscrew and remove the wheels and parts from my skateboard. I ran ahead, jumped onto the board and down the dune, sliding about halfway until losing speed and getting buried in the sand- I was ecstatic though, laughing like a child and trudging back up the hill to try again- and again and again. Thanks to Bogdan who was just burning his eastern european skin in the hot sun trying to get the perfect photo, which he did:

Getting back on the road now was quite the reality check. Tired, sunburnt and stoned we started pedaling west again- now with sand in every orifice of my body. To make matters worse, the sun was on its evening descent and we’ve learned how fast that can go. There was nothing around and as the road straightened out, we could actually see the bordering fence with Mexico to our left. If I was a major league outfielder I could have thrown a baseball over it, easy. The winds picked up out of nowhere, and rain came with a quick passing storm- our only refuge was an upcoming highway overpass (one of the only in this area) which we dashed towards as to not get caught out in the open. We had to climb up and hide in the rafters to not get hit by the rainy cross winds, that all passed after just under an hour. It was now starting to get dark quickly and we remembered what the Border Patrol agents said- we were now on that exact dangerous strip of road they were describing yesterday. We tried to flag down occasionally passing cars, even highway patrol police that didn’t even slow down to our frantic waving. This was it, we couldn’t stop to camp till any town- and we couldn’t even check how much further it was on our phones ‘cause there wasn’t any reception- alone in a dead zone we were as the sun was disappearing behind the horizon ahead, and a waning crescent moon rising behind us. 

As much gear as we had (and I mean pretty much everything to live on the road) our light situation was downright shitty. After so much travel and dead batteries, we were sharing one front light and one rear light between the two of us. This particular stretch of highway was unkept with tons of debris on the already small shoulder that was ours to ride on. Glass, plastic, trash, even blown out tires and car parts littered the edge that posed a dangerous threat to us especially when we can’t see more than 10 feet ahead. To make matters worse, because the road was straight and flat, trucks charged by at speeds well over 90mph probably not even noticing us- yet the backwind of their passing swayed and tossed us around every time. We stopped at an emergency call station, one of those yellow highway phone booths to call and report our situation. Bogdan phoned in, “Hi, we’re bicycling west on highway i8 and want to know how far the nearest city is. “Wait, your car broke down? What do you need?” They said. “No” he responded, “We are bicycling due west and want to know how far until we reach a town.” The operator replied “Oh, your motorcycle is broken down?” Bogdan was fuming as he had to repeat himself again.. The person on the other line finally understood and told him we aren’t even allowed to be bicycling on that highway as its illegal and dangerous. “Yes, we understand that” He replied, “We are at callbox number 8263 and just want to know the mileage until the next town.” They had no idea, nor how to even reply to us. “You have ONE job, how can you not know?!” We thought to ourselves as he slammed the receiver down shouting “They don’t know shit, we gotta just ride it out.” 

Cliff took our portraits before we went our separate ways. He is a traveler and photographer, who had started his movement of shooting portraits of strangers with ‘bunny teeth’ over a decade ago. Essentially the theory is that bunny teeth are funny and can make people laugh anywhere in the world. At the basic level its something to ‘break the ice’ but is really a tool to break down personal inhibitions and cultural barriers that are often present while traveling in rural parts of the world. Cliff continues to motorcycle through far ends of the earth so keep an eye out.

We regrouped for a moment and gathered our wits whilst smoking the last of our cigarettes. This wasn’t a smart place to be in but between the two of us, we can make it out of anything. We agreed to ride a certain distance apart, me in front with the white light and him in the rear with the flashing red. I would audibly call out any debris ahead and we would keep a slow pace to retain some safety. It wasn’t safe though by any means, just doable, and we rode like this for another hour and a half- even though it felt like forever. The lights didn’t help, we kept rolling over debris and the trucks kept speeding by. We weren’t scared, no, fear had no place in this situation. We were fully aware and in control with all of our senses firing off as our eyes still adjusted to the darkness. It was pitch dark, no highway lights and not enough passing cars to offer some sanctity. It was beautiful though, in a way, as we could see the moon quickly rising and the distant ridge line of dunes and mountains. To our left, you could see clusters of lights of towns in Mexico. The city seemed so close yet so far, not with distance or culture but because of the huge border wall and outdated government mindsets- why? A question that was never and probably won’t ever be answered in this lifetime, but riding in the darkness made you contemplate everything from personal problems, existence, purpose, and cultural rules- countries and borders as a whole and the sham that it was. All the while we even witnessed those Border Patrol trucks barreling down the sand on our sides- good thing we got the news the day before and didnt decide to camp ‘cause knowing us, we surely would have. *We later realized while looking at the map, that these lights were a Mexican city called Mexicali. We’ve heard about this city in the past only through songs, our most favorite being from 1950’s The Coasters- Down in Mexico).

We took the first exit we saw, an offramp to dilute traffic to a parallel state highway- we were finally off that godforsaken road and could exhale a bit. We attempted to check Google maps on our phones again but they were now completely out of juice. We stopped at an intersection and waited to flag down rarely passing cars to ask, but they swerved around us and sped off as if we had the plague. So we kept going with slight relief, this time on a lonesome state highway that was smoother and without trucks. Up ahead we could finally see town lights reflecting off low hanging clouds and it gave us hope and revitalization. However, after another hour of riding the lights in the distance didn’t seem to be getting any closer. We felt like we were tripping, its been a long day indeed, a long few months to be honest. We kept going and suddenly it started to drizzle again but we didn’t stop, completely over the elements and ready to face them full on ‘till we had a safe place to post up. In our rush, Bogdan’s bicycle felt a little sluggish and we slowed to inspect it momentarily. He was right, his front wheel was hissing quietly against the wet rubber of the tire. This has happened to us before, and the amount of time and effort it took to unpack and re-patch or replace an inner tube was not on our agenda at this moment. We turned all of our emotions and energy into action, picked up the pace in the rain while his tire slowly leaked and kept racing forward.

The lights finally got closer and we entered onto main street of a town, it was nothing really, a complete border town where there were minimal houses, decrepit buildings, scarce stores and bars as we finally arrived at a big ol’ gas station. It was like an oasis, gleaming in its yellow green and blue lighting as we turned into the parking lot like moths to a flame. We made it to SOMETHING, no matter what it was we weren’t biking anymore tonight- it was beyond late and has been one of the longest few days. 

Sitting there on the curb relaxing and rejoicing, we were approached by three young hispanic men. They were intrigued by our bikes and started talking (we’ve gotten quite used to this over time especially at random small towns) They seemed harmless, but their mannerisms were frantic and their pupils were wide to the brim- clearly they were on drugs and not the hippy dippy kind either. They were inviting us to different places or parties or homes of their friends but our gut just wasn’t sitting right. We know how to handle and diffuse situations by this point in the trip, and secretly signaled to each other to try to lose these guys. We told them we’ll get ready and meet back here in an hour. In that time we walked back up the road where we noticed a dilapidated roadside motel just before, figuring it might not be the safest town to camp out in the open. We got the keys, threw all of our stuff inside and bolted the door shut. It was a motel room after which horror movies are made of, with a strange molding smell and the sounds of critters scampering in the walls and floorboards. But to us this was bliss, absolute heaven diving headfirst into the lumpy beds and crashing out for the night without changing clothes nor with any other care in the world. Everyone had always told us before: “California is paradise, y’all are gonna love it!” but for us it was yet to be seen.

words by Matthew Kruszelnicki // @mattkruz