It seems like we must have received a meter of rainfall over the past week. Every morning’s walk out to the carpool pickup point has been a dreary, muddy trudge. The drainage systems don’t really work here (it’s not like they have much practice dealing with rain when it only happens one month out of the year) and so the streets became miniature rivers. Since so much of Amman is built on mountains, this means that they then became rapids, as well. Cars skidding about, even more traffic jams than usual – it was an interesting week. I’m actually kind of glad I was sick for the first part of it, so I didn’t have to go out there as frequently as I would have had to otherwise.

The Advanced Team gets ready to start biking from Amman to Madaba - the others take the bus!

The Advanced Team gets ready to start biking from Amman to Madaba - the others take the bus!

The forecast for this weekend was perfect though, 24 degrees and sunny – the bright spot on everyone’s horizon. With the Dead to Red only a week away, I certainly wasn’t going to miss the weekly bike ride with Cycling Jordan and one of my last chances for a practice. So, armed with my new bike shorts (a purchase from the previous week) and a t-shirt, I headed over to Mecca Street to meet up with the rest of the group.

With the exception of Galen (who had to work), the entire DRed Shaheen team was there. The name “DRed Shaheen” of course comes from Dead to Red, with Shaheen meaning “bird of prey” in Arabic.  Together, the five of us are myself, Galen, two Jordanians named Omar and Rami, and coincidentally, a woman from UW-Madison named Brittany. Small world! None of us wanted to miss the opportunity for a long, hard practice ride – one that would be so difficult that when we did the Dead to Red in a week, it would seem easy in comparison. Little did we know what the day would hold for us.

We started off as a group of nine (joined by several other long-time biking friends who are regulars in the advanced-group circle) but even before we had left the outskirts of Amman, six of us were left waiting for the last three, Brittany, the Cycling Jordan employee Makseem, and a German relief worker  named Johannes, who were late in arriving at the checkpoint. When they finally arrived, we learned that not only had Johannes’ tired blew out on the highway, but Brittany’s pedals were about ready to fall off entirely. Makseem had rescued me two weeks ago when the treads were coming off my tires, and he dutifully rescued Brittany the same way this time. He volunteered to switch bikes with Brittany, and then dropped out, taking himself and the lame bicycle back to Amman together in a taxi (or pickup truck; Arabs are quite amenable to always pick up hitchhikers whenever they see them). After only a half hour of biking, we’d already lost one of our number.

There had been no signs or warnings leading to this sudden blockade, so we had to carry our bikes for awhile.

There had been no signs or warnings leading to this sudden blockade, so we had to carry our bikes for awhile.

The trail continued southward towards the Christian city of Madaba. The traffic was frightening, and we often had to wait for several minutes before trying to cross from one road to the other. When we finally hit the countryside and had the road to ourselves, we had to contend with road blocks in the middle of nowhere; unmarked barricades next to abandoned gas stations that required bikes to be carried over them. We heard dogs barking somewhere close by and I wondered if we had stumbled across some sort of hidden Jordanian military attack dog complex. I wondered how fast I could go on my bike before my chain, which had already been having trouble on the highest front gear, would fall off completely.

Sunlit hills over low hills and olive fields gilded our trail to the south, with terrain that, if it had more grass on it, would have suited Italy more than anything else. Finally, I saw the white church towers ahead of us in a dot of a city rising from the landscape, and I knew we had reached Madaba, the largest Christian city in Jordan. However, our string of good luck for the past 30 kilometers was about to run out out.

On the outskirts of town, Johannes’ tire suddenly went flat again. Thankfully, we still had spare tubes for the road bike, but just as he was finishing up with that, the other German in our group, an embassy employee named Heiko, pointed down at my tire and said, “Have you had a flat this entire time as well?” I glanced down and groaned – apparently during the 10 minutes we’d been standing around on the highway, my rear tire had completely deflated. Luay and I propped it up and he quickly found the problem – a 3 cm long nail had gone almost entirely through the entire tire. I had never seen something that long in a tire before and I was happy that it hadn’t crumpled the wheel on a hill. With the expert help of Johannes, Rami, and Luay, they were able to get me patched up with a vulcanizing seal, and we were finally able to enter the city of Madaba.

There was some confusion as to which route would be the best to take to the Panorama Complex, our other target for the trip. However, right in the center of town, I found that the nail had done more damage that I had thought – the tire was flat again 10 minutes after we had patched it. Luay, Brittany, myself, and a man from Cincinnati named Evan were separated from the rest of the group, who had rounded a corner before we could call for them to wait up. Once again, Luay saved the day with some quick repatching – but as I held the tube to my ear, I thought I could still hear the unmistakable hiss of air. We tested it out anyway – sure enough, it went flat in another five minutes. This time we knew we needed to get Rami over with the spare tubes, and so he came back with the rest of the group (they had almost been out of Madaba) to finally dispose of the troublesome inner tube once and for all. I’m definitely sure that I learned more about bike repair during this trip than ever before due to sheer necessity.

The worse of the troubles were just getting started now. As we slowly made our way out of Madaba, I took the rear vanguard, checking my new tire constantly to make sure that the rim was not destroying the new tube. But as I came over one of the first hills outside the city, I found that the rest of the group had once again stopped and was sitting by the side of the road, while Evan and Johannes stooped over something. I learned that Evan had almost been thrown from his bicycle when his tire wore so thin that it literally exploded under him. If this had happened back while we were back in Amman, there was a good chance he would have been killed from this. We were in dire straits now; we had plenty of tubes but no spare tires. Johannes and Evan tried to rig a patch from a piece of tar-covered rubber we found by the side of the road, but it was a makeshift patch for sure and the tar and vulcanizing epoxy we had wasn’t holding it in place. “It’ll give you maybe 30 kilometers,” Johannes estimated, “but there’s no way you’ll be able to get all the way to the Dead Sea on this.”

On the left is the nail that stabbed my tire (repeatedly) and on the right is what Evan's treads looked like

On the left is the nail that stabbed my tire (repeatedly) and on the right is what Evan's treads looked like

They decided that Evan would go back with Rami, hitchhiking a ride in a farmer’s truck and trying to meet up with the rest of us at the Marriott at the end of the route. The two of them were about to start off, when Johannes looked down and realized his bike’s rear sidewall was about 2 potholes from ripping into pieces as well – the rubber was bulging dangerously off the side. Johannes scratched his head thoughtfully. “Well, I have plans in life that don’t involve dying out here. Guess I’ll be going back with you two.” Johannes had me carry his bag with the spare parts in it, and just like that, three more members of our group were gone, and there were just six of us left on the road.

The constant stops had paid a heavy toll on our water supply, and now we were just starting to climb up into the mountain range that lines the coast of the Dead Sea. Too late, I realized the difference between biking in the heavy ozone layer down by the shores of the sea, and up in the mountains, as my skin began to itch and tingle – of course, I had neglected to put on sunblock, and now I was going to pay for it. The lack of water, the added weight of Johannes’ backpack, and the burning sun on us was the perfect start to the mountain climb.

On the other hand, the views were spectacular when we finally made it to the crest of the mountain. “Just way til we reach the Panorama Complex,” Luay encouraged us as we paused by the side of the road to take pictures. The hills were definitely killer, and my chain persisted in attempting to slip off whenever it could. I learned that whenever I shifted up into higher gears, I’d need to kick the chain back into place with my right foot, and this quickly became automatic to me, especially going through those massive mountains. There was no sign of life anywhere, except for the occasional shepard and his flock of sheep and goats. The entire mountain range was just brown sand and huge boulders that looked like they had been kicked there by massive football (soccer) players. We treasured those winding downhills, though. At one point we swerved and almost smashed into a group of sheep that were lazily trotting across the highway at the bottom of one descent. “Dumb sheep ruined our downhill,” muttered Brittany.

Hitting a goat at these speeds on the side of a cliff could be a real downer on your bike ride

Hitting a goat at these speeds on the side of a cliff could be a real downer on your bike ride

We finally reached Panorama Point at about 3 in the afternoon. Heiko, Luay and Omar haggled with the guard to let us all in at the residential fee, although of course the guard assumes that every non-Arab he sees is a tourist. Since we were all working in Jordan (and we all spoke Arabic well enough to testify to it), we got in for fifty geruush (about $.60) instead of two dinars. We wearily dragged our bikes out to the scenic point past packs of tourists and rested on the boulders. From this point, we could clearly see the north end of the sea, and almost all the way down to the southernmost salt flats (although the salty haze impaired that somewhat). Although I definitely wanted to stay and check out the museum (and more importantly, restaurant), we were far behind schedule and we barely had enough time to catch our breaths and a group picture.

Posing at the Panorama Complex at the edge of the Dead Sea

Posing at the Panorama Complex at the edge of the Dead Sea

The final part of the epic journey was the amazing descent from the mountain range into the Dead Sea valley, and it couldn’t have come a moment too soon as my legs were cramping heavily. Here’s a picture of what the road looks like. It was about 10 straight minutes of not needing to even touch the pedals, whipping down the side of that mountain at 60 kilometers an hour, tears streaking the side of your face from the wind, and trying very hard not to wipe out on the narrow switchbacks. When we finally reached the bottom of that amazing descent, my legs rebelled against pedaling again and locked up, and I almost fell over (which would have substantially have decreased my inertia and the skin on my face at the speeds I was going).

The last 7 kilometers from that mountain to the Marriott was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It was all slow, grinding uphill that filled my legs with molten lead and made every pedal sheer agony. My hips and lower back made odd popping noises whenever I shifted them, and the salt wind blew into my face and stuck to my already sweaty forehead. Like some sort of bizarre icing on that salt cake, the semis roared past blew exhaust into my face, giving my an even more interestingly-patterned sunburn than I had before. When I finally rounded that last corner and saw the afternoon sunlight gleaming off multifaceted diamond of windows, I let out a whoop of pure joy and told my failing muscles to hold out just a little longer.

…Of course it wasn’t actually the Marriott, though. Come on, with today’s luck, it wasn’t going to be that easy! It was the Jordanian Medical Spa, and the Marriott was still another kilometer up the road. After nearly being killed by several trucks while trying to cross the highway to get into the parking lot, I collapsed next to Omar and Heiko, who had arrived a minute earlier, grabbed a juice box from the Cycling Jordan bus waiting for us, and drained it as Luay, Brittany, and Cornelia, the Swiss woman, arrived a few minutes later. Utterly parched, I drank four juice boxes without pause and the six of us milled, zombie-like, around the parking lot and buses, waiting for the Cycling Jordan hiking group to get back from their tour. After awhile, some of us just lay down right there on the pavement and went to sleep, or crept onto the buses to flop onto the warm leather seats.

And we kept on waiting. For another three hours. I drifted in and out of consciousness in the back of the bus, using my helmet as a pillow, but as the sun went down and we hadn’t left yet, we all started to wonder what was going on. Finally, as members of the hiking group came back, the rest of us learned that somewhere up in the mountains, someone had fallen and broken or sprained their ankle, and someone else had passed out. Ambulances were roaring all around the highway now and into the little wadis branching off the road. The police came and questioned the Cycling Jordan employees about what had happened, and in all, we didn’t start heading back to Amman until almost half past seven, and return til almost nine. I certainly wasn’t sad to bid my slip-geared bicycle farewell. I definitely need to get my own bicycle here.

In all, we had done almost 90 kilometers from Amman to the Marriott, longer than any bike ride I’d ever done before, through some of the most treacherous, unluckiest conditions I’d ever travelled under. Which means that I can’t wait for next week’s Dead to Red journey: it takes place on Friday the 13th.