Day Forty-Two: "California" (12 February) 110 mi

It only took half a mile to go from my motel in Parker, Arizona to the California border. I crossed the mighty Colorado River and entered the state of my dreams, posing at the newly installed "Welcome To California" sign with a sense of pride and wonderment. I tried to remind myself of the geographic context: I had made it! I was there. My whole life I had never been to the Golden State, I just read or watched it. I was now physically in California, and I felt this weight on my shoulders melt away. I had finally made it. So I cruised along, reminded of the task at hand. 110 miles, that's not a joke. This would take patience and endurance.
My last century (and also my first) was marred by three flat tires, and nonetheless I finished it at 107 miles in Fort Stockton, Texas. I reminded myself that that was on I-10, I was on a quiet desert highway. Clean road, clean shoulder. Nothing could go awry. I was very wrong about that. Nearly 16 miles in a spoke broke on my rear wheel. My heart sank, my head dropped. A slew of profanities raced through my head. A broken spoke was probably the single worst thing that could happen on this trip. I checked to see how bad the wobble of the wheel was to see if I could still ride. It was almost a whole centimeter. Too severe, and so I tried to loosen the surrounding spokes. Nothing. I could not true a wheel accurately enough to last me the remaining 94 miles, so I weighed my options. I gave my dad a call, he talked me through it. Then in the process of putting on the rear wheel I lost a spring. Without the spring I could not ride, so I frantically searched the surrounding area to no avail. Then, after nearly 15 minutes of searching I found it in a pile of rocks a few feet away. The needle in the haystack effect. Some consolation. My dad, being in law enforcement, had called California Highway Patrol before to tell officers I would be on the desolate Highway 62. I told him that it may be necessary to have someone pick me up since my rear wheel was rendered useless. Just as I hung up the phone, a CHP patrol SUV pulled up behind me. Out walked a tall (taller than me) CHP sergeant. He asked what the problem was. I told him I had broken a spoke. He asked if I was Kyle. We shook hands, he had talked to my dad the day before. I immediately felt relief, he and I were already on the same page. Sergeant Grogan offered to take me back to a bike shop in Lake Havasu City, Arizona to get it repaired. As much as I would want to remain self-sufficient, I had no choice but to take his generous offer. We loaded the bike in the back passenger seats, having to take both wheels off for it to fit. About an hour later we were at River Cyclery where I hurried in my bike. A bike mechanic, Taz, had just gotten back from lunch. Perfect timing. He trued my wheel, and it turns out the spares I had with me were too short, so it would have been a waste to try repairing it myself. Meanwhile, Sergeant Grogan and I grabbed some protein shakes next door. The woman who made them did so on the house, for Sgt. Grogan's good deed and for the cause I was riding for. As it turns out, her nephew also has Tourette's Syndrome. I was truly humbled. But as I went to pay, Taz rang me up at 4.56$ for some spare spokes. "I won't charge you for the truing." I was speechless, absolutely stunned. Even more stunning was Sgt. Grogan paying for the spokes, no questions asked. It was at that moment that I had really nothing to say, and felt very humble and grateful. Such kindness and selflessness, I will never forget that moment.
After filling up for gas in Needles he drove me back to where I last was. I was behind the count by three hours, and I knew I wasn't going back to Parker. I wasn't going to take a rest day and try it again tomorrow. I was going to finish off this damn century ride today. The hot sun mocked my decision as I sweated through the merciless Mojave Desert. Initially I was going 17-18 mph, looking like I could make it to 29 Palms by dusk. But then the terrain became hillier and the wind picked up, and soon I was back to 9-10 mph with no chance of recovery. I called my parents and warned them I would be doing night riding. Three hours I went in the dark, with only a meager front light to guide me and which I could only see 20 feet ahead. Just before 9 pm I arrived to 29 Palms, drained and exhausted, victorious. It was my first day in California, and one that I will never forget as long as I live.