But I’ve had to learn some hard lessons about e-bikes, too. I blame the trouble I’ve gotten into entirely on my own recklessness. But a huge part of my own recklessness was to place too much faith in a machine I couldn't repair in the wild.
After a few months of riding a Specialized Turbo Levo, a beast of a mountain bike that powers even the most atrophied of quadriceps up punishing ascents, I took the bike on a road trip this winter to Palm Springs from my native Portland. Along the way I scouted the best singletrack trails I could find, usually by asking for "beta" (as I've learned outdoor nerds call intel these days) from local bike shops, navigating to a trailhead and pushing off into the unknown without a careful analysis of maps, or even dropping a pin.
Stupid, I know.
But I wrongly assumed if I got into a jam I could always retrace my steps. If I got tired my e-bike would pedal-assist me wherever I wanted to go. Day after day, this gambit worked just fine. I stuck to out-and-backs and had no trouble figuring out how to get back to the trailhead.
Then, after a few days' drive to Palm Springs, I set out into the desert. And that's where hubris, and an over-reliance on the prowess of the Turbo Levo left me helplessly scouring for a signal to call 911.
The trail system snakes through the Santa Rose-San Jacinto Mountains National Monument. It lies just a few miles from downtown Palm Springs in the Coachella Valley desert, which can get brutally hot, year-round. On this day in January, the high was about 85 degrees, which is serious but nowhere near the searing temps that come in summer months. I started up Dunn Road, a tough ascent the Levo easily devoured, scouting for a series of singletrack trail offshoots that would carry me out into the desert.
I chose the highest point (and the furthest away from the car) trail I could reach, the Hahn Trail, and pushed off into an arid landscape of cacti and wildflowers, with about a liter of water in my Camelbak, no food, and no way to fix a flat tire. The trail was fun but technical, climbing to a sweeping view of the valley below before dropping back down into the heart of the desert. I faintly remembered being warned to stay out of the sandy “wash,” a truck-sized arroyo that ran parallel to Dunn Road, but somehow that’s exactly where I wound up. Too impatient to stop and consult a map, I steered the bike down the wash, sure I’d find another hard-packed trail that would get me back on singletrack again. Instead, that wash carried me further and further into a slippery sandscape. I saw the tracks of other mountain bikes the whole way, though, and figured (stupidly, I know!) that they had to lead somewhere useful.
They led to a 20-foot cliff, with inescapable canyon walls on all sides.
Assuming there was be nowhere to go but down, I hefted the 44-pound bike on my shoulders and scrambled down the first 10-foot drop of the cliff, to a platform about halfway down. If I did the next drop, there’d be no turning back, no way to hoist the bike back up to the wash. I had no cellphone signal and I’d foolishly failed to download an offline map. So I finally gave up, pushed the bike back up into the arroyo and resigned myself to backtracking.
That’s when I discovered one of the tires had gone flat.
It was easily 80 degrees by then, mid-morning, and walking all the way back to the trail I’d taken felt impossible. So as I pushed the bike uphill I looked for any escape from the wash. I found what looked like a trail after about 150 yards, and took it, with only an instinct that it was back in the direction of the car. I hadn’t admitted it yet, but I was completely lost.
My main objective was to get to higher ground. I was only a few miles from civilization, so if I could at least see what direction city streets were in, I could push that way and hope to catch a cell signal. I climbed up one narrow crevasse to the next, huffing and puffing and constantly sweating out hydration, until I got high enough to survey the landscape and see that I was in a bowl of desert, no civilization and no cell service in sight. I had no choice, I finally realized, but to ditch this $9,000 bicycle and keep moving. I dropped a pin in Google Maps, but either because I didn’t have service or because I did something wrong in my growing panic, it never saved. I took photos of the scene, hoping I could later use them to triangulate and find the bike again, and kept hiking up.
Finally, I heard the sound of an incoming text message, meaning I had service. I pecked out a missive to my partner, telling her to call 911 and that I was mountain biking close to Dunn Road. I tried calling authorities myself, but the signal was too weak to communicate where I was and what was happening. I kept moving.
After only another 15 or 20 minutes I saw hope: a mountain bike trail, and two riders, dressed in blaring neon spandex, winding their way towards me. I shouted and waved my arms for what felt like an hour until one of them stopped, looked in my direction and came to my rescue. They shared a little water, stared at me in disbelief when I said I’d dropped my bike, but assured me I was close to Dunn Road and only a half-hour’s walk back to a clear route to my car. I texted my partner and told her I was safe and OK, and that she could call off the search and rescue helicopter that was now circling directly above me.
When I got back to the car, exhausted and embarrassed, a friendly reserve officer from the Palm Springs Mounted Police Search and Rescue was waiting for me. I told him I was fine and assumed that’d be the end of it. “Where’s your bike?” he asked, and I admitted I’d abandoned it in the desert and planned to hike back in the next day to try to find it (with plenty of water and food, a pump, and a spare inner tube.) He insisted on sending a couple of volunteers out on dirt bikes to try to find it themselves. I shared the closest pin I could get to save, some photos, and his people spent the next two hours trying in vain to locate the bike. I was stunned at their kindness and generosity.
As I sat on the sidewalk, an older guy rode up on his bicycle, and we started talking about e-bikes. “My friends keep trying to get me to buy one of those,” he said. “But I’m afraid they’ll take me where I don’t belong.”
Two days later, I hiked back in and after hours of scouring the landscape, found my rig. The moral of this particular fiasco isn’t anti e-bike, in any way. All of the stuff that happened to me in the desert was my own fault and could have happened on a hike, or an analog bicycle. A few months after my Palm Springs fiasco, two mountain bikers had to be airlifted out of the same trail network after they got lost. But I had come to rely on the bike’s battery to rescue me. That was a mistake.
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