Paul E. Fallon's Blog, page 58

Trip Log – Day 191 – Brawley, CA to Yuma, AZ

November 12, 2015 – Sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 86

Miles to Date: 9,821

States to Date: 25

California must allocate highway funds from north to south, as there seems to be no money left for paving near the border. Or perhaps, after being in California for a whopping fifty days, the state simply didn’t want to let me go, so the asphalt uprooted all over the place in protest. Regardless, I bumped along farm roads to get out of the Imperial Valley, careened over cracks in Old Highway 80 where it acts as frontage road for Interstate 8, and bounced on a terrible shoulder along the freeway when the frontage road disappeared.

Despite lousy roads, everything else was great. I had a nice tail wind in the morning, and a manageable cross breeze when the wind picked up and shifted. I am enthralled by the surreal desert landscape. The kids riding buggies over the dunes looked like little bugs climbing about the massive sand hills. The channels from the Colorado River are such deep blue against the tawny land. There’s much more water here than the parts of California fed by the Sierras. All that rain I witnessed in Colorado got here before me.

 

I was happy to get Yuma, not only for the better roads, but because its time for me to move to a new state. Some differences are immediately apparent. Arizona is much less expensive than California, from gasoline to real estate. Yuma is also more transient. Whether fixed homes (sitting 2” off the dirt on thin slabs), modular houses, mobile homes or RV parks, many people call Yuma home only a few months a year. Some snowbirds had already tickled in, but most will not roost until January.

 

 

Trip Log – Day 190 – Ocotillo, CA to Brawley, CA

November 11, 2015 – Sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 41

Miles to Date: 9,735

States to Date: 25

My first day in the desert. Eleven hours sleep last night; pot of coffee courtesy Ocotillo Motel; breakfast burrito courtesy The Red Feather; gentle breeze and gorgeous day courtesy whatever God you favor. Everything was perfect, except the lousy pavement on the side road alternative to Interstate 8. Then again, the minor annoyance helps us appreciate the perfection of everything else.

The Imperial Valley is full of hay farms. Most of it is exported to Chia and the Middle East. Some say it is due to Colorado River water regulations. Others say its because the land is too contaminated to grow crops for US consumption. Either way, it’s bizarre that we’re irrigating the desert to grow hay to ship halfway around the world.

The Imperial Valley is the lowest place in the USA, well below sea level. Everything from here is uphill.

The fields are full of birds. Dozens of snowy egret feast upon mown hay. At sunset, whole flocks rise out of the fields and fly in graceful formation overhead.

 

Trip Log – Day 189 – Spring Valley, CA to Ocotillo, CA

November 10, 2015 – Cloudy, 55 degrees

Miles Today: 79

Miles to Date: 9,694

States to Date: 25

Bicycle touring is ripe with contrast. I rose with the sun and breakfasted on Greek yogurt with fresh blackberries and excellent coffee with my host Matthew. The sun shimmered off the Pacific Ocean and San Diego skyline when we rode away from his spacious hillside home. By sunset I was grinding the final kernels from a bag of microwave popcorn in my concrete block room at the Ocotillo Motel, the only guest in the four-room compound set in the middle of a dusty trailer park. The Red Feather general store was already closed for the day and it was too early to go to the Lazy Lizard Saloon.

In between, I made the physical and psychic shift from coast to inland, a shift aided by favorable tailwinds and the excitement of turning the second corner of my journey. I’m heading east! The ride was a series of big climbs, over 6,600 vertical feet, with small dips until the end, when I had to join Interstate 8 for a harrowing eight-mile descent. As I moved east, the close-cropped hills began sprouting boulders. Then the mix of soil and rock equalized. By the time I reached the western edge of the Imperial Valley, the mountains were literally gigantic piles of rock.

  

California 94 is a superb road with fun twists and great views despite the clouds and chill. I figure it’s so well maintained for security reasons: there’s little traffic except for Border Patrol and Sherriff vehicles. It’s quiet except for the helicopter’s tracking the corridor overhead. I stayed off I-8 as long as possible by taking Old Highway 80 through Jacumba, a remnant place within a stones throw of Mexico bypassed by the freeway. I took a break and contemplated the wall. When it comes to nations, I don’t agree with my fellow New Englander Robert Frost that good fences make good neighbors. This fence inhibits our ability to be good neighbors. It may be an obstacle to immigration, but it is not a solution.

  

Dinner at the Lazy Lizard (home of the Testicle Festival) was a low-culinary experience worth remembering: microwaved sandwiches and soft pretzels. The food hardly mattered since I got to wash it down with Shock Top on draft. I was the last customer when I left at seven p.m. Walking back to the Ocotillo Motel, the night was pitch black, except for magnificent stars.

Trip Log – Day 188 – San Diego, CA to Spring Valley, CA

November 9, 2015 – Cloudy, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 59

Miles to Date: 9,615

States to Date: 25

I really love bopping around cities on my bike, and metropolitan San Diego is a place of great variety to explore. I started early and cruised along the harbor, past downtown and the bike path along the port and Navy yard. At 8:00 a.m. the Star Spangled Banner plays on loudspeakers throughout the entire base and everyone, I mean everyone, stops what they’re doing and salutes in the direction of the nearest flag.

  

South of the base, the bike path continues through a light industrial maritime area. The road is lined with mini-vans, old trailers, and recycled motor homes. I saw many fewer street people in San Diego than in any other West Coast cities, but there’s an entire community of people struggling to hang on by living along these roads.

 

The Mexican border is almost twenty miles from San Diego by my circuitous bike route, but worth the trip. There’s a big outlet mall tight to the border fence in San Ysidro. I pedaled up the ramp to the pedestrian bridge. From the top I surveyed one of the most complex urban spaces anywhere: vehicle lanes, stop points, trolley terminus, pedestrian aisles, fast food joints and open retail stalls; a gigantic Mexican flag and human chaos. The Tijuana border crossing is lively place, though I could hardly interest anyone in my question. Legal or not, people here are close-lipped.

I rode back up through Chula Vista and National City and returned to San Diego to explore Balboa Park, a preserve since 1835 and site of two expositions, in 1915 and 1935. The Spanish Baroque pavilions have been repurposed into a variety of museums and a lovely botanical garden.

   

In the afternoon I cycled through the working class neighborhoods of East San Diego to my host’s in Spring Valley. Everyone was in hats and sweaters, unaccustomed to the heavy clouds and intermittent sprinkles.

A highlight of my day was this wall at the entrance of the public library in National City. A quote by Jorge Luis Borges in multiple languages: “I always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”

Trip Log – Day 187 – Carlsbad, CA to San Diego, CA

November 8, 2015 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 46

Miles to Date: 9,556

States to Date: 25

Sunday morning in Southern California seems to trigger dual devotions: coffee and the ocean. Dozens of coffee shops were jammed with cyclists, surfers and motorist’s starting their day. But the dead end overlooks along the Coast Highway were also lined with solitary souls contemplating the sea.

 

Swami’s in Encinitas is both a mystical self-realization compound and an internationally famous surfing spot. There’s logic in that, sort of.

 

I visited Louis Kahn’s renowned Salk Institute. The older I get, the less impressed I am by architecture designed to shape behavior rather than allowing human potential to blossom. Unlike Richard Meier’s nuanced and suggestive work at The Getty Center, The Salk Institute is heavy-handed. Despite Kahn’s signature attention to hand and body dimensions, humans are subservient to the relentless order. The complex doesn’t even relate to the sea very well, which I suppose is the point. You’re always supposed to focus on the architecture. Despite my misgivings, I can appreciate Kahn’s discipline in creating his vision. Unfortunately, that vision isn’t weathering well. Wood is splintering, concrete’s spalling, and terrazzo’s cracked. Buildings conceived as monumental testaments need to be solid.

 

LaJolla is full of extravagant houses. Any style will do, as long as it looks expensive.

  

I rather liked Pacific Beach and Mission Beach, which are funkier, tighter neighborhoods.

  

But what is ultimately cool about San Diego is how the sea and the city sit tight to one another.

 

Trip Log – Day 186 – Mission Viejo, CA to Carlsbad, CA

November 7, 2015 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 57

Miles to Date: 9,510

States to Date: 25

Summertime! The sky was clear, the breeze was light, the surf was up, and everyone was out on a sunny Southern California afternoon. I rode from Mission Viejo to San Juan Capistrano, which has one of the most extensive Missions I’ve seen. The rest of the ride was well marked bike path along the coast through San Clemente, Camp Pendleton Marine Base, Oceanside, and Carlsbad. Aside from teh sun setting before 5 p.m. for the first time, it could have been a July day.

   

I didn’t see much wildlife, but birds of paradise were in bloom all along my route.

 

Trip Log – Day 184 – Fullerton, CA to Santa Ana, CA

November 5, 2015 – Sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 31

Miles to Date: 9,436

States to Date: 25

Poor Richard Nixon, the Rodney Dangerfield of Presidents. He gets no respect. After visiting the Ronald Reagan Library, teeming with people, upscale cafe, and Air Force One suspended in a hanger-size pavilion, I decided to visit Nixon’s Library in Yorba Linda.

The first thing the Admissions staff said was, “The permanent exhibits are closed.” Nixon’s birthplace home and the Marine One helicopter were open, as well as the gardens and personal timeline. But there was nothing juicy – nothing about Watergate – to whet my appetite. Even small things seemed to denigrate the man and his office: as many books on Kennedy and Nixon in the bookshop, and a presidential seal on the ice cream case in small convenience store that’s called a cafe.

   Architecturally the library is terrific, less derivative than Reagan’s, yet appropriately formal and Mediterranean. And Nixon’s birthplace is a gem. When his parents died, Dick’s brothers kept all their original possessions knowing that Richard M. Nixon was a force whose birthplace would warrant preservation. The 1920’s kit house bungalow is perfectly preserved. And the helicopter is cool, every bit as cool as Air Force One, though ever so much smaller.

A smattering of people dotted the grand foyers and halls; I can only hope more people visit when the main exhibits are open. What I wanted most to know, of course, was how Nixon’s official memorial addressed Watergate and resignation. But whatever spin was appropriate when the library opened in 1990 is now history; completely new exhibits are being installed. When they open next year, Nixon will be reinvented yet again.

The most effective exhibit is the wall of Nixon Time Magazines. Nixon was on the cover of Time fifty-four times – more than any other person. Growing up, the man was always smiling or scowling at me from the coffee table. From the first cover, as Eisenhower’s VP choice, to the last, when he died, Nixon reflected his time. He did great things, which are now overshadowed by terrible things. He exuded confidence that was ultimately feeble.

I left the library with plenty of time to get to my host’s house, but missed a turn in Anaheim, wound up adding miles to my route and doing what I strive not to: riding at night. My mistake required me to make two sizable climbs. Fortunately Anaheim has great roads with wide shoulders, and I witnessed an incredible red sky over the basin.

The night harkened me again after dinner. My host, Reza, whizzed me through a labyrinth of freeways to the immense scrap operation for which he runs the trucking operation. Every day six trucks haul scrap from all over SoCal to the yard. A huge claw machine deposits it into hoppers, a forklift weighs and loads the metal into containers, and a bobcat compresses the mess. They work until three in the morning to fill thirteen containers a day to empty the yard for the next day’s scrap. The containers are hauled to the Port of Long Beach and shipped to Asia. We buy finished goods from China and export our debris in return. See what Nixon ‘s China diplomacy has wrought.

 

Trip Log – Day 183 – Long Beach, CA to Fullerton, CA

November 4, 2015 – Sun, 70 degrees

Miles Today: 37

Miles to Date: 9,405

States to Date: 25

People ask me if I am on this trip to find my perfect place to retire. I am not. However, if I were, I would have to consider Long Beach. In twenty-four hours I pretty much fell in love with the place.

  

First, there are the usual reasons – near constant sun, great temperatures, ocean breezes. Then there are my own idiosyncratic reasons. I spent time in a different public library each day, and the libraries are great. The bike path system is terrific, probably the best in Southern California. And, it’s a real place. Yes, Long Beach has condos along the beach and a big Hyatt and conventional tourist stuff, but it also has the Port of LA / Long Beach, the largest port in the United States. Having ‘real’ industry saves Long Beach from the ‘plague of being precious’ that permeates places like Santa Barbara. A guy like me could grow old, happy and healthy in Long Beach.

  

The Community Relations Director for the Port of Long Beach gave me a fascinating tour of the port in the morning. Before I left town I indulged in a California fast food ritual: In’n’Out. That fueled me to Fullerton where I stayed with Kevin, a Korean-American adventurer and deep-sea photographer. We exchanged hours of great conversation and I enjoyed my first Korean barbeque.

 

Trip Log – Day 182 – Los Angeles, CA to Long Beach, CA

November 3, 2015 – Sun, 75 degrees

Miles Today: 36

Miles to Date: 9,368

States to Date: 25

Today I ventured where, I’ve learned, many Angelinos don’t go: down the dogleg of this great city to South Los Angeles and Watts, into Compton and Long Beach. In the bright mid-day sun these places aren’t the least bit scary and are full of intriguing characters. I met an eccentric meditator at the Coliseum, a wiry guy in an old pick-up in Watts, and some big mama’s at Budso’s Barbeque Shack. Still, LA’s Broadway looks more like a boulevard in a developing country than anyplace else in the United States. The garish colors, murals, used appliances, and lumpy mattresses spread across the sidewalk all proclaim that this place moves to a different set of expectations.

  

After visiting so much ‘formal’ art in LA, I was hip to visit Watts Towers. For some reason, I thought they were related to the 1965 Watts riots, but in fact they have nothing to do the riots of or the African-American community. Sam Rodia, an Italian immigrant, built Watts Towers between 1921 and 1955. Then, Sam left LA and never returned to visit his creation. They fell into disrepair, were rescued, catalogued, preserved, and are now part of a State Park complex.

  

The rest of my ride, along the LA River Bike Path, gave me opportunity to muse on the various art I saw in LA. The Getty Villa and Getty Center are renowned centers of fine art and conservation. The Disney Concert Hall is art in itself. The central garden at The Getty Center is a living work of art, while the Watts Towers are great folk art elevated to fine art status.

I think for most of us, creating is more satisfying than maintaining, yet we’re dedicating to preserving art that often takes more human and monetary capital to preserve than it ever took to create. The tour guide at The Getty Center described the central garden as, “The Center’s most expensive piece of art, with a cost that will continue to grow.” Meanwhile the State of California is spending all kinds of money to preserve Watts Towers. Towers which, given today’s development restrictions, could never be built in the middle of the city. Towers that Sam Rodia finished, walked away from, and never saw again. Is there a limit to how many millions The Getty will spend snipping individual leaves from trees in the central garden to create specific shadows on the walking path? How long will we preserve the bits of cement and ceramic that Sam Rodia stuck together? A hundred years? A thousand years? Is it ever okay to say that a garden is a natural thing that will grow its own way and an immigrant’s vision, once executed to his satisfaction, can be allowed to disintegrate? At what point does preserving things thwart our own ability to create?

 

Trip Log – Day 181 – Los Angeles, CA

November 2, 2015 – Clouds, rain 65 degrees

Miles Today: 19

Miles to Date: 9,332

States to Date: 25

If there is any doubt that LA is literally the opposite corner of the country in every respect from my home world; that was dispelled today. Bostonians are so used to rain it’s just a nuisance; it’s the sun we adore. But in the land of the eternal sunshine – and record drought – nothing is greeted with more acclaim than rain.

The forecast was 70% change of rain. In the morning that dropped to 30%, and moods proportionately plummeted. My lunchtime companions compared various weather apps; ranging from 70% to 90% change of rain at 6 p.m. I spent the day in Northeast LA, meeting with insurance brokers and The Unusual Suspects, a non-profit theater group that works with incarcerated and disadvantaged youth. I also visited the gorgeous campus of Occidental College and the gentrifying neighborhood of Highland Park: juice bars and sushi restaurants next to pool halls and bodegas.

  

My first day of riding after the end of daylight savings time caught me short, and I had to scurry back to my niece’s before it got dark. The clouds were thick, the traffic thicker. I saw some ferocious fender benders and slithered through long lines of stalled vehicles. Within a few blocks I passed the multimillion dollar International Style homes along Silver Lake Boulevard, the makeshift hovels of shopping carts and tarps under the railroad bridge, the banners proclaiming Frank Gehry’s new tilted high-rise exhibit at LAMCA, and stucco bungalows girdled with iron bars and spear-headed fences. Los Angels is too spread out to have the face-to-face encounters of income disparity I witnessed in San Francisco. Here, it’s all expressed in where people live.

   

I got home by five as the first drops splattered. Within ten minutes it was pouring outside but I was in a warm shower. Within an hour the rain was over and LA began to dry out from its big event.