Ironically, I have tended to sleep better while camping than in motels, especially ones like the Alegre Motel that give off strange and slightly inhospitable vibes. Everywhere were signs scolding me, the customer, such as "No refunds. ABSOLUTELY NO EXCEPTIONS." In my room was another sign taped up next to the TV: "No coffeepots or microwaves allowed in room! $20 will be charged to your credit card!" What? Do people routinely bring their own kitchen appliances with them on their travels? Also perplexing was a sign in the bathroom. "Keep shower curtain away from wall heater." That might make sense if the wall heater actually worked.

I was a bit annoyed with myself for not at least asking about the rates at the motel across the street, which looked nicer so I automatically assumed it was more expensive. But the Alegre cost $45 a night, which I considered a complete ripoff since a) it was located in the indistinctive and frankly rather crappy-looking town of Quemado b) it had no phone and c) it had no wifi. Seriously? The place I stayed in in Roswell cost $32 and offered standard methods of communication, plus a town with actual tourist attractions.

I was awakened at 4:45AM by the antiquated heating system, which sounded like a little old gnome cobbling shoes with a small silver hammer (not that I know what that sounds like, but that's what I dreamt of when I heard it) and couldn't go back to sleep. So I thought, why not get up and get on the road by sunrise? Heck, maybe today could be that 100 mile day, if I had some extra daylight to work with. So I set out just as they sky was turning a lighter shade of dark blue. The thermometer on the restaurant across the street said 11 degrees.

It was bizarre being on the road in the eerie half-light of morning. After a few miles down the road the first rays of sunlight hit the highest hilltops, and as I climbed one of them and passed through a patch of sun I saw my shadow being thrown more than 100 feet off into the grass. The full moon hung suspended in the west against a mauve sky. My hands and feet were already numb.

Around the 12 mile mark it suddenly occurred to me what a terribly stupid idea this was. I thought back to my normal bike commute in Boston. Every so often, on rare occasions, I'd muster up the courage to bike to work on a 15 degree day. This involved a ski jacket, leggings, fleece pants, and one of those tubular neckwarmer things, just to ride 4 miles to the office. Here I was, with nothing approximating that kind of cold weather clothing, riding 50 miles into another state. There were no towns in between.

The other issue was that I realized I was going to have to stop to eat and drink at some point. How was that going to be comfortable, standing around while the wind chilled my sweat-drenched inner layer of clothing? (Don't ask me how one can sweat when it's 15 degrees, but I managed to pull it off.) When I did finally stop for a snack I jogged in place as I ate. I went to drink some water and found my bottles were partially frozen. I had to dig a hole through the ice that had formed over the mouth of the bottle with my Swiss Army knife.

But it was too late to turn back, so I continued on, alternately tucking each hand underneath my jacket to get some warmth back into my fingers, and making clawing motions with my toes just to be sure I still could.

The sun had fully risen by then but seemed to do little to help. I had seen a town called Red Hill on the map, which I knew was not a real town but thought maybe, just maybe, there would be a house or trailer or something where I could warm up. Indeed, there was a house and a little land sales office next to it, so I knocked on the office door. A guy named Tracy, the occupant of the house and the land salesman, kindly invited me in and suggested I sit on the heater console to warm up.

He mentioned he had people coming from Phoenix over the weekend to look at the house and office, which are currently up for sale. After they sell, he'll move to Texas to work on another community development project. I asked him what the Phoenix people were thinking of doing with the property, and he answered something along the lines the following. "You see, I've never had a good woman around who could help me manage money. I make a lot of money on salary and commission, but it's easy come, easy go. And it's tough out here for me, a single guy, to meet women. The closest town is Springerville, and there aren't too many quality women there, unless you like ladies who chew tobacco. And there's a big crystal meth problem. But you know, what's special about this area is that it's on a major hummingbird migration route. Come here, let me show you a video that will blow your mind."

I couldn't figure out how any of this fit together at all, or constituted an answer to my question, but I got up off the heater and walked over to his desk so I could watch the video on his giant computer monitor. There was Tracy with a row of 7 or 8 hummingbird feeders, each with about a dozen hummingbirds flocked around it. During migration season, he put 15 feeders out, and was going through 10 pounds of sugar A DAY.

Anyway, I figured out the point and his very roundabout answer to my question: if he had the money, which he didn't because he mismanaged it, he'd buy the property himself, set up an RV Park and a little store, and use the awesome spectacle of hummingbird migration season to attract visitors. And that was what he was going to suggest to the Phoenix people.

Tracy checked the temperature for me. By then it was up to 38 degrees outside, and I'd warmed up considerably too, so I wished him luck and continued on my way. I was excited because today was going to be a very special day: a state line day.

I don't think I've seen as abrupt a change in landscape as the one between New Mexico and Arizona on US60. My ride in New Mexico had been mostly flat, surrounded by great hills that resembled sand dunes in both their shape and color. The second I crossed the line into Arizona, I started seeing gorgeous cliffs of red sandstone, mesas, and distant blue mountains.

A few miles past the state line I crested a hill and saw a long gray column rising up to the sky. For a fraction of a second I thought, "What's that elevator shaft doing out here in the middle of nowhere?" Then I realized it was the road. What the. . . ? I had never seen a road quite so. . . so vertical. I plunged down into the valley, and slowly climbed the elevator shaft. It was a challenge, but it felt good.

I got to the top of that hill, and there before me lay another valley, and another elevator shaft. So that's how it was going to be. All right, I'll show you, Arizona, I thought. I slowly and patiently conquered the second one.

I could not believe it when I got to the top of that hill and saw a THIRD elevator shaft, probably the longest steepest one, waiting for me. Suddenly I felt like a nap would be a very good investment. By then the sun was high and warm enough that I thought I'd be reasonably warm if I staked out a spot in the sun and crawled inside my two sleeping bag liners. I lay down behind a big juniper tree so that I would not be visible from the highway and needlessly worry anyone. I dozed off almost immediately after I curled up in the fleece and pulled my hat down over my face to block out the sun.

Suddenly I was awakened by a voice. "Hey, buddy. . . are you okay?" I guess I had not hid myself well enough, and this guy had seen me from the road and stopped to check on me. I always have conflicting feelings when this happens. One one hand, it's a comfort to know that if I'm ever in an accident or otherwise incapacitated, someone will likely stop and help. On the other hand, I always feel a bit resentful at being awakened--obviously I'm in desperate need of sleep if I'm dozing off behind a tree on a 38 degree day. Can't a girl lie unconscious by the side of the road in peace?

The guy asked where I was headed, and not being all the way awake, failed to mention the big picture plan and responded, "Oh, either Springerville, or maybe Show Low if I have enough energy." I must have looked and sounded like a mentally ill vagabond. I don't think he quite believed me when I assured him everything was just fine, totally under control, but he did finally slink back to his truck.

I couldn't get back to sleep after that so I tackled that third big hill and continued on into Springerville. There I had a big decision to make. . . do I stay in Springerville, even though it's only 1:30 and I still have plenty of daylight left, or continue on into Show Low, another 50 miles away? At this phase of the trip, each day's ride is pretty all or nothing. It's just too cold to camp out, or at least to camp out comfortably, so if I don't make it into the next town I'm in trouble. There was nothing else between Springerville and Show Low. I had been excited about the potential 100 mile day, but trying to squeeze 50 more miles of who knows what kind of hills into 3 hours of daylight seemed unwise. The idea of getting stuck out on this mountain road after dark did not appeal to me.

Plus, there was the added advantage of, for once, getting into a town and having plenty of time to spare. I had a leisurely lunch at Subway, picked up an Arizona road map and coffee at the gas station across the street, then sauntered over to the Arizona Tourism center and talked with a guy named Bill about my route through Arizona and got some good suggestions. I then visited the four nearby motels in to compare rates and amenities instead of making a bad snap decision like I did the previous night. I settled on Reed's Lodge, not the absolute cheapest but by far the best value for the price. After a long shower I settled in by the fireplace in their cozy lobby to update my blog.

I must have sat in a perfectly still and catatonic fashion, because at one point I moved and Elizabeth, the front desk attendant, exclaimed, "Oh, I didn't know you were still there!" We started chatting and it turns out she too is into cycling and other outdoor adventures. She spoke of some rides she'd done with a cycling club in Yuma, and mentioned that the organizers might be able to put me up when I get down there. She sent off a quick email to them on the spot. As it turns out, the organizers, Mark and Faye, have a "biker bungalow" and sent me photos—it looks pretty luxurious! Elizabeth also gave some good tips about the route from Phoenix to Yuma. I had been reluctant to take the interstate, but she assured me lots of cyclists use I-8.

Between the trip to the Tourism Center and Elizabeth's help, I'm feeling pretty excited about Arizona. I'm especially eager to get out of this elevation and into warmer, flatter, saguaro cactus territory.