The day started pretty well, though I wasn’t as spunky on my ride as I had hoped. I left the house around
7:30 and swung by Starbucks for a pre-ride decaf (sounds weird, but the act of drinking a hot beverage still offers a stimulant placebo). I headed south along
Mission Boulevard, a low-traffic road with decent pavement that winds its way along the western side of
Tucson, through the San Xavier Indian Reservation.
Saw some crazy things alongside the road. Aside from the lovely variety of cacti and desert plants, the random debris littering the shoulders blew me away. There wasn’t much trash, but the eclectic items I spotted included a crispy sun-starched sombrero (no kidding), a partially devoured wheel of cheese, and the charred remnants of an antique baby stroller. Only the decorative wheels remained of the stroller, bordered with gummy hoops of melted rubber. All the items were equally disturbing.
I’ve only done Mission Blvd. once, and it was two years ago with a group of 80 riders. Today was much slower, making me feel fatigued and question if I should be out there at all. After 30 miles of a 14 mph pace I flipped around… turns out I was climbing uphill into a headwind, and to my reassurance I averaged 28 miles per hour all the way back to town! During this time of year my body shifts to full-on endurance mode, which means I can ride forever but it takes a LONG time to get warmed up. I called it a day, went home, ate a pot of cheesy couscous and watched Caddy Shack for the second time this trip. I’m trying to hone my Bill Murray impersonation. Chicks dig it, so you know I got that goin’ for me.
So later I’m driving along, venturing northward in the Volvo en route to a Wild Oats Market on ritzy Oracle Avenue, and I hear this loud, LOUD, pop. Almost sounded like a backfire, or a small child wedged beneath the front grill (just kidding, that would be muffled and much more prolonged). I glance backward in the mirror; nothing suspicious. I turn down the radio and listen to the engine; nothing suspicious. I glance at the instrument panel and see a Swedish Christmas tree of colors: every light blazing in cautionary glory. Oil light, wiper fluid light, and even that crazy lambda “son” light I’ve yet to figure out.
I made it back to Erik’s and shut it off, popped the hood and didn’t see anything wrong. All the fluid levels were fine and the car started back up with no worries. Later this evening I was cruising around snapping some pictures of the setting Tucson sun. I pulled into a Chevron to refuel. The car never started again. I pushed it out of the way and discovered a fan belt ripped in two and wedged in the fan blades. Sweet. So now I am a forty-minute walk from home, on the WRONG side of the tracks (literally) with a broken-down car on New Year’s Eve.
Me: Hey, will it be a problem if I leave my car here until I can get it towed? Should be tonight, perhaps tomorrow.
Mr Gas Station Derelict: Um, ya got anything valuable in there?
Me: Nope, I’m taking it with me and there’s no stereo or anything.
MGSD: Don’t matter, this is a reeel bad parta town. They’ll break in anyway.
Me: Awesome, I’ll be back.
Walked back to Erik’s and managed to find a tow truck company running on New Year’s Eve. Pedaled my bike back down there, watched them load the car up, and got directions to the auto shop where it will be stored until January 2nd. OK. Happy New Years. Pedaled my bike home and watched Top Gun (Val Kilmer is such a dork). Went to bed at 11:12pm. Weird dreams. Hooray for old cars.
