Summer Ride

It was around 8 o’clock in the morning—calm and quiet—atop the crest of Yuba Pass. I paused briefly on my westward journey to soak in the stillness before heading down into the canyon of the North Fork Yuba River.

Just gorgeous—the river, the canyon walls, the majestic Sierra Buttes. But I didn’t have much time to take it all in. As I barreled downhill at thirty-plus miles per hour, my eyes stayed glued to the road. I made a stop in Sierra City for breakfast and a moment of reflection, then took my time passing through historic Downieville.

About forty miles downstream, I crossed the Yuba River and started the climb up the canyon wall. That’s when the heat hit me. On that two-mile ascent, I made three pit stops to rest and rehydrate—the last at a welcome hillside spring where I dunked my head. Dripping but refreshed, I pressed on over the canyon rim, ready for more downhill riding.

The sun climbed higher, and as I lost elevation, the temperature soared. It was going to be a scorcher. I grabbed a cold drink near Camptonville and refilled my water bottles at a campground near Bullard’s Bar Reservoir—a decision that would prove wise.

By then, I’d ridden about eighty miles, and the heat was taking its toll. The four-mile climb from the dam at Bullard’s Bar was brutal. Too drained to keep pedaling, I climbed off and walked. Halfway up, I staggered off the road to sit under a tree. Whew—it was hot!

Onward and upward, I made it over the hill and down to Dobbins. Another short climb on the other side, and again, I walked. Again, I had to stop for shade.

Then, at the Collins Reservoir bridge, my back tire went flat. I was almost too exhausted to care. At the west end of the bridge, I found dirt parking lots—no shade. Sweating, panting, I started on the repair. The tube was shot, but I had a spare. But then—the real disaster. The tire itself was beyond repair, and I had no replacement. Shit. Ride over.

I reassembled the wheel as best I could and walked the bike a quarter mile to the next road junction. And there, in the middle of nowhere, stood an auto parts and hardware store—stocked with bicycle tires, including one that fit my bike. 27 x 1 1/4. Can you believe that? I doubt another store between Truckee, where I started, and Marysville, where I planned to end, carried bike tires.

Thirty minutes later, I was rolling again. The bike was fine; I was spent. But Marysville was only twenty miles away, and I figured I could make it.

At 6 o’clock that Sunday evening, ten miles outside of Marysville, a solitary biker lay sleeping in the shade of a rare roadside tree. The asphalt, still warm from the day’s heat, made a decent bed. A foam pad unrolled beneath him, a bicycle parked beside him, two water bottles within reach—one half full. It must have been a hell of a ride.

This was the second day of a journey that began at Donner Pass. Some dear friends had given me and my bike a lift up there on their way to Tahoe. From Donner, I rolled down into Truckee, then north on Highway 89. A bit of rain along the way, then a night camping south of Sierraville. The next morning, the long climb to Yuba Pass.

As you just read, I ended up passed out by the road east of Marysville by the following evening. When I woke up, I scraped together enough energy to limp into town and call my wife. Would she be up for a drive to Marysville? She was.

That ride marked my first time carrying camping gear on my bike since my Boy Scout days. And it all worked out. Later that summer, I pedaled from Portland, Oregon, to Crescent City—another successful trip. I didn’t know it then, but these rides would set the foundation for over twenty years of bicycle touring across the United States and much of Western Europe. What an adventure!

~ Steve Beals