I've discovered on this trip that other humans find ways to show up even when it feels like you're a million miles away from civilization. As sun came streaming into my tent, so did the sound of dune buggies. It turned out my perfectly solitary camping spot was only half a mile from another RV resort for dune aficionados.

Well, this could be turned to my advantage. These resorts each had a little store. Perhaps there was coffee to be had? I tried 3 or 4 of them dotting the desert along the road through Ocotillo Wells, but they all were closed on Tuesdays. Eventually I came to one called Desert Ironwoods where, again, the store was closed, but I thought I'd at least make use of their picnic table to have a snack. A tall lanky guy working on a dune buggy out in the shop noticed me and called over. "Did you need something in the store?" I asked if perhaps there was a way I could get a cup of coffee, and he kindly opened the store, put a pot on, and rang me up for it. As I was sipping it, the owner, Bob, came over and offered me a free stay in the small motel on the premises which was just sitting empty at the moment. Could I muster up the laziness needed to accept this tempting offer, at 10:30AM after a mere 12 miles? Probably, if I tried, but I wasn't going to. I had two days to get to San Diego and still had some major mountains to climb.

And for the first time in what felt like a long time, I felt fantastic. The ride felt easy, carefree, and. . . FUN. Yes, I was having fun as I zipped over rolling hills and admired the rocky sand colored hills and canyons dotted with agave and the occasional round, pink cactus the size of a basketball. It was going to be a great day.

And was that, could that be, stopped on the road ahead. . . another bike tourer? Yes, this time a slightly less crazy- and homeless-looking guy than last time, but still giving off that general air. John, a tall, white-haired leathery-skinned guy wore a Garfield T-shirt with the caption "Flunked Sensitivity Training" whose sleeves looked like they'd been cut off with a rusty handsaw. He rode a heavy-looking mountain bike with enough crap strapped onto and dangling from it to make the SuperTour look positively streamlined in comparison. He mentioned two or three times in our brief conversation how he needed to get to San Diego to pick up a box that was waiting for him at the Greyhound station.

While neither this guy nor the last struck me in any way dangerous or malicious, I felt that as a single woman by myself on the road in the middle of the desert, miles from anything, with no working phone, I did not need to be getting too friendly with such characters. I wanted to put some distance between myself and John. As we talked I mentally calculated which of us would be faster so I could figure out whether to hang back or go on ahead of him. As I've explained before, I'm no speed demon by any stretch of the imagination, but I did have a few advantages over him. I guessed he was carrying double the weight I was. He had fat, knobby mountain bike tires. I had caught up to him on the road. And I was feeling particularly energetic. Then again, he was a lot taller and probably stronger than I. He asked if I knew about the famous apple pie in Julian, the little town at the top of the mountains. I did. I was definitely going to the pie shop and didn't care at all if I ran into him there because there would be other people around. But for now I made up my mind: I'd outrun him.

I zipped off and kept up a good pace over the rolling hills, never looking back and not stopping. People had told me the climbing would start around Ocotillo Wells, which I'd just passed so I steeled myself for some tough hills but didn't hit anything significant. Eventually I came to a sign saying "Elevation: 2000 feet." I'd climbed more than a thousand feet without even noticing, so nicely graded was the road. I know by now that every time I think something is going to be easy, it never is, but I couldn't help thinking it anyway.

And it was such a beautiful ride, one of the most gorgeous I've had on the whole trip, up there with Pine Creek in Pennsylvania, the backroads of West Virginia, the old Stagecoach road between Little Rock and Hot Springs, and the pine forests outside Show Low Arizona. Salt River Canyon was in a league of scenic beauty all its own, but I put this ride through Anza-Borrego State Desert in the top ten. I finally came to a significant hill, one I estimated would involve another 1000 feet of climbing (which was promptly confirmed by another elevation marker) and tackled it pretty easily. At the top I saw that I was about to drop another 1000 feet, so I'd have to repeat that climb, but I felt good. I didn't mind. I paused on the top to enjoy the view and a snack, and as I did a guy drove up to me in a truck.

"Is there a guy biking with you?"
"No, it's just me. But I know who you're talking about—I crossed paths him earlier today, but we're not together."
"Oh OK. I just wanted to let you know that he's waaaay behind you, at least 5 miles." I could not have been more satisfied to hear this. See, SuperTour, I thought, you're not the slowest bike in the world.

"By the way, nice job on that hill. I saw you flying up it and was impressed." His choice of words was pretty generous, but it was a nice compliment. I was pretty proud of myself for that too.

I continued on, gradually watching the landscape green up around me was I plunged into a valley with a creek flowing through it, with clusters of the first deciduous trees I'd seen in a long time greedily soaking up water. The leaves of gold and rust were set nicely against the pine green hills. As I continued into the tiny town of Banner, nestled against the mountains, I spoke with a couple guys who told me I'd be climbing 1700 feet over 7.4 miles between Banner and the post office in Julian.

Had someone given me this particular piece of information back in Massachusetts, I don't know what I would have done, but there would most certainly have been weeping involved, and possibly bailing on the journey altogether. But now I accepted this news with happiness and relief. Really? Only 7.4 miles? Based on various people's accounts, I expected anywhere from 12 to 20 miles of climbing. Only 1700 feet? I expected 3000. It sounded like a joyride compared to many of the days I'd had in New Mexico and Arizona.

After a quick break and a can of cold, refreshing soda at the general store in Banner, I rode maybe half a mile and there ahead of me was John! What?! I'd only stopped for ten minutes. . . how could he POSSIBLY have caught up to me? I got closer and discovered that it was not John, but YET ANOTHER mildly crazy vagabond on a bike. This one had a fluffy white beard, a heavy Carhart jacket and pants despite the hot desert sun, and, as seemed to be standard among his people, a metric ton of random stuff piled on his bike. It was starting to get bizarre. After months of rarely seeing other bikes on the road at all, I'd encountered three homeless guys on bikes within three days. I guess that's California for you.

I asked how he was doing, but didn't understand his reply. "What did you say?," I asked. "Under par?"

"Bit tard," he clarified. I translated: "Tard" equals "tired." Good, I'd have no problem outrunning this guy either.

"You look like you're all ready to climb this mountain," he said.

"Yeah, I'm feeling pretty good!" I responded, as I left him in the dust.

Here it was, my last significant climb of the journey, up another nerve-wrackingly narrow road with no shoulder that hugged the edge of the mountain, full of sharp curves, one you'd feel scared of if you were inside 2 tons of metal that could go careening off the cliffs if you picked up enough speed and lost control. But on a bike it was very enjoyable. I was tempted to stop and take pictures of the breathtaking hills and canyons splashed by late afternoong sun, but knew my iPhone camera wouldn't do them justice. So instead I continued on, eating up the miles as though they were beef jerky, or Milk Duds, or some other food that takes a really long time to chew but tastes great.

It was satisfying to reach Julian, a very quaint and charming historic town, famous for its apple orchards and resulting apple pie. But the day's battles weren't over yet. The sun was low and, without a working phone or internet access, I had no idea what sort of camping options were available, if any. I stopped into a library to do some quick research and found there was a campground right on the main highway if I continued out of town.

The one drawback to the campground was that if I wanted to try the pie, I'd have to backtrack several miles back up the mountain to get to it the next day. I decided to ask around at a few of the beautiful, quaint little hotels and B&Bs in town to find out what the rates were, thinking that way I could spend some time milling around the cute shops and bookstores, taking pictures, and eating pie the next morning before heading out. I was also in desperate need of a shower. When I'd put on sunscreen earlier that day I discovered my skin was uniformly coated with a layer of grit from the desert.

At the Julian Hotel the rooms started at $135 a night, including the mid-week discount. That was a little too quaint for my budget. Then it was on to a B&B across the street, still expensive but a little better at $77 a night, but they didn't have wifi, which was one of the key benefits of paying for a motel. How can any motel in this day and age not have wifi? It's unthinkable. I headed down the road and stopped at another B&B. They had a sign taped to the door saying that they weren't home, offering a cell phone number which I had no way to call. So I gave up and set out in search of the campground, in the dakr, down the other side of the mountain on a road just as narrow and winding as the one I'd come up. Ugh. Well, I took some comfort in knowing this was most likely the last time I'd be riding around at night, my fingers and toes going numb from the cold mountain air, desperately looking for a place to stay. At least on this particular journey.

Either the campground wasn't where I thought or it was too dark to see the signs, and I never found it. I did however, find the Apple Tree Inn with a nice little restaurant right next door. Thankfully life is full of second chances, both for overpriced motels and apple pie.