�Jedediah, I wish I could talk you out of this,� Barnaby Jones said as he watched his cousin and associate fasten the bike to the portable bicycle rack that had been attached to the back of the car belonging to his daughter in law, Betty Jones. �There is a reason why Highway 13 is called �Satan's Ribbon!� It is the most deserted, desolate stretch of highway in California! What if something happens?�
Dressed comfortably in sneakers, a pair of blue jeans, and a printed tee shirt that had seen too many times in the wash, J.R. smiled his charming smile, but it failed to put his aging cousin�s mind to rest. �What could happen, Barnaby? I have my trusty helmet and knee and elbow pads to cushion the fall if I should have an accident. Don�t worry! It�ll be fine!� His voice and his smile were cheerful, but it did nothing to reassure his cousin.
Barnaby gave a somewhat sarcastic chuckle, without a smile and with no humor in it. �Don�t worry, he says,� he replied, speaking more to Betty than J.R. �How can I not worry? It�s the middle of the Mojave Desert! You could get dehydrated or ��
�I have a large bottle of water,� J.R. interrupted, showing his cousin the clear plastic soda bottle that he had filled with tap water. �It attaches to the bicycle on the down tube. My pump attaches to the seat tube, in case I lose air in the tires. I planned this out very carefully. Here, I�ll show you.� He opened up an old California map that he had borrowed from the office and, spreading it on the trunk of the car, he pointed to a location in the desert. �See? This is where Betty is going to drop me off. The Interstate comes within a few miles of it right there, so it�ll be a faster trip for her both going and coming back.� Moving his finger down the thin gray line that designated the highway, he stopped at a small black square beside it which he had circled with a red felt-tipped pen. �Right here is a rest stop at a little under the midway point of my ride, The Desert Oasis. It has a service station, a restaurant, and a convenience store. There should also be a pay phone, if you need me to check in.�
The last sentence was thrown out there as a joke, but Barnaby was seriously considering it. His eyes lingered on the tiny square on the map which marked the location of The Desert Oasis, feeling no reassurances whatsoever that a single rest stop and a pay phone were the only things that prevented his cousin from being entirely isolated from the rest of the world. �My friend, Rick, and I passed the Oasis when we took that particular highway last summer coming back from a fishing trip at Lake Mead.�
�There, see? It�ll be fine! I can have lunch at the restaurant and fill my bottle with water again for the remainder of the trip.�
�Jedediah, the reason I took that stretch of road was because they were doing some road work on the Interstate, and I thought I could save time bypassing the construction zone. It probably took us even longer because of all the curves around buttes and bluffs and rugged terrain. On that entire stretch of road, we encountered only a few vehicles. I don�t know how the establishment manages to stay open. People prefer to take the interstate.�
�Which is exactly why I picked it, Barnaby. Less traffic means I�m less likely to be hit by some careless driver who�s not paying attention to his driving.�
Barnaby gave an indulgent smile at this comment, and he exchanged a worried glance with Betty over the top of his cousin�s unruly mop of hair, which was still bent over the map.
J.R. continued, so intent on the map that he did not notice the looks that passed between Barnaby and Betty, �At approximately five thirty this evening, Betty will pick me up at the Traveler�s Stop Convenience Store.� He traced the gray line on the map with his finger, stopping at a crossroads where the convenience store was positioned.
Focusing on the map, Betty said, �Are you sure that is enough time for you to get there? That looks like a pretty long stretch of road.�
J.R. nodded. �Sure. A bike can travel almost as fast a car, but I had to take into consideration going up and down numerous small hills with nothing but leg power, plus approximately one hour to stop for lunch and an additional thirty minutes scattered at various intervals to rest along the way. That should put me into Traveler�s Stop somewhere between five fifteen and five forty five. There are too many variables to set a precise time, but five thirty is a good round number.�
�So, if you�re a bit late I shouldn�t start to worry,� Betty said with a smile, but like her father in law, she felt the same concerns for J.R.�s safety.
�Right. Then we�re all set,� J.R. said, happily. He started to open the passenger door of the car, but was stopped by his cousin�s hand on his shoulder.
�Look, Jedediah, I know you�ve been conditioning yourself for that endurance ride that Smith and Ferguson is sponsoring in a couple of weeks, but why can�t you be content with a nice ride in the park, like other people?� Barnaby asked, his worry evident in the creases on his brow.
�Where�s the adventure in that?� J.R. asked.
�At my age, a little less adventure might be a good idea. This seems like an unnecessary risk. That road is a long, hot stretch with very little shade.�
�I appreciate that you are worried about me, Barnaby, I really do, but everything will be fine. I�ve taken every precaution I can think of.�
He gazed at J.R.�s face, noticing the excited sparkle in his dark eyes, and sighed. �I can�t talk you out of this, can I?�
�I really want to do this. First prize is five thousand dollars. Do you know what that would mean toward helping me finish law school?�
Barnaby looked away, wishing he was able to provide his cousin with a better wage, but the fact was, J.R. didn�t put in enough hours to warrant full pay, except during the summer when school was out. He came in nearly every morning to help out around the office, doing leg work and running down leads, but during the school year he spent his afternoons in class, studying for a law degree. Five thousand dollars would indeed go a long way toward that end.
�I�ve planned it all out carefully, and I can�t foresee anything that could go wrong,� J.R. continued, barely pausing for breath. �I�ve had my bike thoroughly checked for soundness, the tires are brand new, and the brakes are reliable. I have all my protective gear and enough water to last until I reach the rest stop. What could possibly go wrong?�
�I shudder to think,� Barnaby muttered.
�It�ll be okay, I promise,� J.R. assured him. �I�ve been training on bicycle paths and on neighborhood streets, but I need something more challenging to test my endurance. This ride is exactly what I need to pinpoint where my weaknesses are, and what I need to work on. I think I have a really good shot at winning that race.�
Barnaby lowered his gaze to the ground and said no more. Jedediah was a grown man, and he could not forbid him to do this, no matter how much he wished he could do just that. The young man was enthusiastic about training for the endurance race, but when he had announced his decision to ride, he had never considered that part of J.R.�s training would include a ride down a lonely stretch of highway in the middle of the desert.
J.R. opened the car door and sat down in the passenger seat, then Betty backed the vehicle out of the driveway. Barnaby watched until the car turned the corner heading for the Interstate, the fastest route to the starting point, then went back inside the house, preparing himself for an entire day of worry.
With the car�s motor idling, Betty helped J.R. unfasten the bicycle from the bike rack, and placed it on the asphalt. J.R. nudged the kickstand down with his sneaker, and securely attached the pump to the seat tube, then fastened the bottle of water to the down tube.
Rising up again, he smiled at the older woman who had become a dear friend. �All set,� he announced.
Gazing at the desolate landscape that surrounded them, Betty�s face was etched with concern. �Are you sure you don�t want to reconsider, J.R.? Barnaby brought up some valid points. You�re out in the middle of the desert, far from help if something should happen. I mean, there are other places that you can train for that race.�
J.R. smiled. �Like I told Barnaby, I appreciate the concern, but you�re worrying for nothing. This is a simple bike ride; it doesn�t matter that it�s out here in the desert. I�m still young, I�m healthy, and I�m ��
�Stubborn,� Betty finished the sentence for him, then glanced up at the sky. It was clear and blue with only a few wispy cirrus clouds floating lazily in the upper-level currents. �You know, the sun can get really strong out in the desert. In spite of your ethnic appearance, you�re not much darker than I am. You could burn to a crisp.�
J.R. unzipped a small pouch that was attached behind the saddle and withdrew a small tube of sunscreen. �I�m prepared for that too. I put some on before I left the house, and I will put some on each time I stop to rest as extra protection.� With a friendly laugh, he patted Betty�s shoulder. �I�ll see you at about five thirty. Enjoy your all-day shopping spree with your friend, and don�t worry about me, okay?�
That was easier said than done. Betty watched silently while J.R. put on his knee pads and elbow pads, and finally he covered his dark hair with a helmet. Last, he put on a pair of wire framed sunglasses to protect his eyes from the strong sun. He looked well prepared, but she still worried. �I just hate the thought of leaving you out here by yourself.�
Turning to his friend, he saw the worried expression in Betty�s eyes. �Betty, I promise I�ll be careful and I won�t do anything foolish, okay?�
Her attractive face was serious, and her concern was evident. �I know you won�t, J.R., but you can�t always control your surroundings.�
�I know.� He shrugged, and shifted his gaze to the surrounding landscape, as if searching for something that eluded him. �I need to do this, Betty. I want to do it.�
�Can�t you take out a student loan?� she urged.
�I have a student loan, but I also have an apartment with rent, not to mention a finicky cat. I�m here, and I�m taking this ride.� He paused to look at the highway that stretched out ahead of him. �Los Angeles is that way, right?� he asked, pointing with his finger.
�J.R.!� Betty exclaimed before she noticed that grin which revealed that J.R. was teasing her.
�It�ll be okay,� he repeated. With that teasing grin still on his face, J. R. Jones mounted his bicycle and began peddling down the highway.
Betty returned to the driver�s side door and opened it, but instead of getting into the vehicle, her gaze lingered on the retreating figure of her dear friend.
�I have a bad feeling about this,� she murmured to herself.
Finally, she got into the car and turned the car back up the side road that would take her back to the Interstate, while J.R. pedaled away on his bicycle, headed into the desolate desert on a lonely stretch of highway.
Three hours later, J.R. stood up on the pedals, leaned forward to apply a little extra effort to get his bicycle up the gently sloping asphalt. His pulse increased with the exertion and sweat trickled down his back, causing his tee shirt to cling to his damp skin. His scalp, concealed under the bicycle helmet, tickled annoyingly with sweat.
The first few hours of his bike ride had been pleasant. The morning air was cool, and the ride was fairly easy. But as the morning progressed toward noon and the sun moved higher in the sky, the temperatures began to rise and the terrain became rougher, forcing him to stop to rest more often than he had planned. When riding in a vehicle, the endless stretch of black asphalt seemed nearly flat, but when riding a bicycle, powered by his own legs, the small inclines in topography were much more noticeable. He knew that if he did not reach The Desert Oasis soon, he would be thrown off schedule by an overwhelming need to stop and rest once again. But this was exactly what he had been striving for on this ride � to test his endurance.
His heart was hammering loudly in his chest, and the muscles in his thighs were beginning to knot up when he finally reached the summit of the slope. Gasping for breath, he allowed his bike to coast to a halt for a brief rest. Looking anxiously ahead, he saw the grouping of buildings that he knew would be The Desert Oasis. It was still several miles away, a cluster of small dots beside the endless ribbon of road. The good news was that it was at the bottom of the gradual descent.
His stomach grumbled eagerly, ready for lunch, and he glanced at his watch to verify the time. It was shortly after noon. �Yes!� he exclaimed enthusiastically, pleased that his calculations were nearly right on the money, even with the extra rest stop he had made a half hour ago. He was making excellent time.
Removing the water bottle from its holder, he tipped it up and took a drink. The liquid was warm from the heat and the sun, but it was wet and refreshing to his dry throat. With the back of his hand, he reached up to wipe the perspiration from his brow.
After a few moments, he felt his pulse slowing down to a more comfortable pace. Returning the bottle to its holder, he gripped the handlebars again, and pushed off.
The bike coasted easily down the long, shallow grade, progressively gaining speed and momentum on the gradual descent, and J.R. was content to sit back on the saddle and allow the speed to build. The tires on his bicycle glided smoothly on the asphalt with a slight �whirring� sound, and the wind generated by the rapid descent whipped past, blowing the dark curls that peeked out from beneath his helmet. For this one day, he was as free as the warm wind that blew across the dusty landscape that was dotted with clumps of brush and dried twisted trees that competed with desert wildlife for the scant moisture.
Keeping his eyes on the cluster of buildings as they drew nearer, he came to the realization that things were not as they should be. There was not a single vehicle in the parking lot, and there was no sign of any activity. Even if there were no customers at that time, he would have expected to see some employee vehicles. A little nearer, he noticed the decidedly disheartening panels of plywood that covered the glass windows and doors of the buildings. By the time he turned into the parking lot, it was abundantly clear that the establishments had gone out of business, presumably due to lack of customers on this lonely stretch of road, casualties of the interstate highways.
Coasting to a stop in the parking area that separated the restaurant and service station, J.R. was immediately struck by the impression of total abandonment, like a ghost town. On his left at the service station, the pumps still stood like silent sentinels beneath the awning, and the garage doors were securely padlocked. The letters spray painted on one of the boards read Closed. On his right, the restaurant and adjacent gift shop and convenience store were equally secured against vandals. Clumps of tumble weeds were nestled against the sides of the buildings, and the mild breeze whistled in a lonely manner through the rafters.
�Aww, man!� J.R. exclaimed his disappointment aloud, and his stomach grumbled resentfully, echoing the sentiment. There would be no lunch for him that day, except for the packet of peanuts that he had tucked into his pocket as an energy booster. Well, this was a setback, but nothing he could not endure.
Still straddling the bicycle, his gaze fell upon the awning that stretched across the drop-off point in front of the restaurant doors. It would provide adequate shade for him to rest beneath before continuing his ride. Dismounting, he guided the bike under the canopy and pushed down the kickstand.
He immediately felt a slight drop in temperature as he moved out of the sun and into the shade, a welcomed relief from the constant glare. Reaching up, he unfastened the chinstrap of his helmet and lifted it off his head. He refastened the strap and looped it over one of the handlebars, and ran his fingers back and forth through his hair, relieving the sweaty tickle that had plagued him for some time. Then he removed his sunglasses from the bridge of his nose, and hooked one earpiece over he neck of his tee shirt. Stooping, he removed his bottle of water again, and tipped it to take another drink, a shorter one this time, for he would be unable to replenish his supply of water until he reached the Traveler�s Stop at the end of his journey. He would have to conserve his ration. After recapping it securely, he returned the bottle to its holder, and fished the packet of peanuts out of his pocket.
Opening the long cellophane bag, he walked to the front door of the diner and sat down on the curb, folding his legs beneath him. Shaking some of the nuts into the palm of his hand, he observed them with a wistful sigh. A couple of handfuls of peanuts would do little to stave off the gnawing hunger generated by the strenuous physical exertion of his lengthy ride. Leaning back against the plywood that covered the front door, he ate his meager lunch, one nut at a time to make them last longer, but all too quickly, he had consumed the last nut. The cellophane bag was wadded up, and he looked around for a receptacle, not really expecting to find one. J.R. was not a litterbug, so he tucked the wrapper into the gap between the plywood and the threshold. Leaning back again, he allowed his eyes to drift over the desolate landscape that surrounded the rest stop.
Never before had he been in such a lonely place. It was difficult to guess how long the Oasis had been abandoned, but the absence of human occupation was palpable in the unkept appearance of the buildings. Apparently, at one time, before the construction of the interstate, it had been a thriving business. The double garage doors at the service station suggested that mechanics had been on duty to make repairs for stranded travelers, and while they waited they could browse the gift shop or sit for a meal at the restaurant across the parking lot. He wondered where the employees had lived. Was there a nearby town down one of the narrow side roads he occasionally passed, or did they drive out from Los Angeles? The abandoned buildings offered no answer to his question. Shading his eyes with his hand, he scanned the horizon, but his search turned up no indication that there was a town or some sort of settlement nearby.
The restaurant building was large, suggesting a large patronage during its heyday. The plywood had been securely nailed in place over the doors and windows, but the deterioration that comes from neglect was evident in the shingles that were beginning to detach from the roofs, and rust was beginning to gnaw away at the antique pumps of the service station. It was impossible to tell how long it had been abandoned, but since Barnaby had stopped there last summer, he guessed the better part of a year. Graffiti had been spray painted on some of the boards and married the stone walls of the buildings. Why did kids do things like that?
The curb on which he sat was refreshingly cool. Twisting his body parallel to the building, he lay down on his back on the concrete, allowing it to cool his overheated body. As he began to relax, he closed his eyes for a while to rest them, taking care not to doze off, for that would throw him behind schedule. As he rested, he listened to the silence of the desert. There was no traffic, no car horns, no school bells, no sirens, and no people shouting. Only complete and total silence, the loneliest silence he had ever heard.
After a while, he began to feel the warm haze of sleep sliding into his mind, so he forced himself back into a seated position, fearful that he would doze off. Remembering the concerned expression he had seen on Barnaby�s face, he, he looked for the pay phone, deciding to call him and let him know that he was still fine and right on schedule. He found the booth a short distance away, near the side of the building.
Rising to his feet, he shoved his fingers into the front pocket of his jeans and wiggled them around in the tight enclosure, searching for change. Finally, he felt a small coin against his fingertip and recognized it as a dime. Tugging and shifting position, he managed to withdraw it from the pocket just as he reached the booth.
He opened the fold-back door, wincing as it shrieked on its rusty hinges, and stepped into the sweltering hot enclosure. It was only then that he noticed the empty space and exposed wires where the payphone had been.
With a sigh, he leaned back against the side of the booth. Barnaby would get no reassuring phone call from here.
The sun was hot on his face and arms as he stepped out of the abandoned phone booth and made his way back toward the bicycle, waiting beneath the awning. Somehow, without the existence of a telephone, a means of communicating with civilization, the abandoned buildings seemed even more remote than before.
When he reached the bicycle, he unzipped the saddle pouch and withdrew the tube of sunscreen, for he knew he would likely encounter shade again on this lonely stretch of road, and smeared a generous portion over his bare arms, face, and neck to protect himself from the strong sun. To keep it handy, he tucked the tube into his back pocket. Then, he put on his helmet and sunglasses again. Pushing up the kickstand, he mounted the bike and pedaled down the highway once again, heading toward Los Angeles, unaware of the danger that awaited him.
Go to Act 2