I wish everyone could smell a creosote bush just before a monsoon rain

My bike rides are my time to be with my Catalina mountains (which I’ve claimed as my own), the cacti, and the critters.

I’m a desert baby, born and bred under the sunny southwest sky. For the past half-decade, I’ve ridden my bike nearly every day, on the roads in and around Southern Arizona.

I’m not beating a time, prepping for a race, or raising my heart rate to burn fat. Instead, my little leggies plunk forward, one revolution at a time, on the 21st speed of my Walmart bike. Recently I upgraded to a $500 road bike from REI, but my legs still plonk and thud all the same. Clunkity-clunk. The sound of my tires when I go over a bump. Bumpity-bump. My bike rides are my time to be with my Catalina mountains (which I’ve claimed as my own), the cacti, and the critters. 

Winter in the desert at the end of January: My friends are hiding in holes, under rocks, or in small caves. Many haven’t been born yet. They are waiting for warmer temps. Come spring, I will have so many new friends to meet.

Over the past few days, there’s been a slow stream of water pitter-pattering throughout the night, lulling me back to sleep after the hoot of my owl neighbor startles me awake. 

Today, the asphalt was wet, and oval Palo Verde leaflets were strewn along the path from the whippy wind. It was too cold for most of my friends, but a Gunnison prairie dog came to meet me. He stared straight at me, staying close to his hole for security. Did you know these little guys talk and sometimes talk about us?

 

Con Slobodchikoff, a professor of biology at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, says Arizona prairie dogs can describe the “size and shape of an individual human and the color of clothes that he or she is wearing.” Con also says they have “the most sophisticated natural animal language that has been decoded to date.” This seems to be the case when I pass my prairie friend. He concentrates on my green helmet, looking deeply into my eyes. I go slowwwly past him; he doesn’t skedaddle into his hole.

Two people stop on the path and take a photo. “What are you looking at?” I ask. Beep, Beep, they say, quoting the Road Runner in Looney Tunes. They say they’re from Michigan and have never seen a Mr. Speedy before. Road runners are some of my greatest friends, and I see them often. Regardless of how “fast” I’m riding, they will always beat me across the path. Sometimes, they stop, and we say our quick hellos and goodbyes because they have places to be.

 

I worry more about the zebra-tailed lizards. I’ve developed what I call ‘lizard brain’—each time I see one, I try to embed myself in their teeny brains. Will they pop across the path or not? My unofficial study has determined four out of five won’t cross the road. However, that 20 percent keeps me on my toes. I’ve had many near bike crashes trying to avoid these adrenaline seekers. My zebra lookalikes aren’t out today—the weather is still too cool. But very soon, I will ride like a serpent again, undulating and side-winding.

 

What’s most surprising is who I’ve learned to fancy most—rattlesnakes! In summer, they plank the riding path, sunbathing on the scorching asphalt. Although I fear rattlesnakes more than any other creature I meet on my bike rides, I’m learning to be less afraid of them. Again, I ride slow, slowww riding, because of these slithery sunbathers. From far away, rattlers disappear on the pavement because of the refraction of light from the sky heating air. Unless you ride slow, they may slice your calf, or worse yet, you may cut them in half. Rattlers belong, and I belong.

 

I recently lost a dear friend suddenly. He was a cyclist, like me. After my rides, I’d text him photos of my friends. He also texted me pictures of his friends—particularly Gila monsters, who crossed his path often and mine less often. We shared a love of snakes and other critters, laughing at and cursing cyclists who sped past, oblivious to the desert wildlife. 

A few days after my friend passed, I went on a solo memorial ride dedicated to his memory. I breathed in the rugged peaks of the Catalinas. No matter how hard I try, I can never take in their full magnificence.

My friend often cycled up the Catalinas, beginning at 2,500 feet, surrounded by saguaros, climbing as high as 8,200 feet, up into the pine trees and cooler air. I studied the Catalinas more intensely than usual, imagining I’m looking through his eyes. What does he see?

Creosote is in the air, the most sublime desert smell. If I had a wish, I’d wish everyone could smell a creosote bush just before a monsoon rain. It’s early January, and snakes are hibernating, but just as I look down, I see a branch up ahead. I go slow, because I know you can’t be sure of anything in the desert. 

As I approach the “branch,” I notice a baby snake, who should be below a rock keeping warm, but she is on the cool pavement. I stop in my tracks and park in front of her. We wait and wait, silent partners, each living a life filled with challenges, distinct and separate from one other. Yet, in this moment, we are connected. No other cyclists are out today, so it’s just the two of us deciding which direction we’ll go next. Eventually, I say my goodbyes and ride away, slowly.