Adventure Cycling Association

The wheel is dismounted, and with my knees in the stones, I try as best I can to reseat the tire in the rim. The tubeless system is no longer working, so I have to squeeze a tube in, but I can’t do it on my own. I broke both my levers and the tire is as stiff as the slopes of the bloody Dalton Highway I have been pedaling. When I thought of the Arctic Circle, I never imagined myself dripping in the sun on the side of the road. Well, I didn’t necessarily think I’d be cycling in this part of the world at all, but the magic of a long, drawn-out bike trip has me exploring unexpected latitudes and longitudes.

Finally, I decide to hitch a ride. My friend is ahead of me, and he is likely still riding, thinking I’d stopped again to wee or take a photo of a cute flower. I’ve seen quite a few cars go by today, but obviously, as soon as you need one, there’s none to be found.

Silence. The kind you find when you mix remote places with windless days. But it only lasts for a few seconds because soon the mosquitoes start their annoying little concert.

A little water in my bottles and a cereal bar are my only comforts until the first car stops and picks me up. Adam takes me a few kilometers ahead where we catch up with my friend, and the three of us put the tire back in the rim with an inner tube. Adam takes my contact info and wishes me good luck.

It only takes a few hundred meters for the tire to go flat again. I find a puddle not too far away and spot three punctures. I repair them, reinflate the tire, and ride a couple of hundred meters more only to get another flat. Here we go again. I find a few more holes, but I don’t have enough supplies to repair so many. And I don’t have any more inner tubes.

A camper van pulls up: “¿Todo bien?” Arnold, a Puerto Rican, flies to our rescue. He hands us a cold beer and rummages through every little door and hatch in the van.

He finally finds two inner tubes. They’re the right size. We have a toast, and I set about changing them. But the valve is too big. The smiles fade. He suggests getting out his drill and enlarging the hole in the rim, which is indeed a solution but probably not the right one. All it would do is crack this lovely rim, and then the story would definitely be over.

Damn it. I should have checked that tube before tackling this road. Rookie mistake. The solution is to get dropped off at my final destination, Deadhorse, and pray I find an inner tube of the right size and with a compatible valve on the shores of the Arctic Ocean. After all, why not?

We head north, and I watch the world go by with the air of someone who’s nibbling at a piece of map far too quickly. We try to understand each other, my Spanish struggling to come back and his Spanish far too fast and specific. The road seems endless in the car, and strangely enough, the kilometers seem to pass more slowly than on the bike.

When we reach town, Arnold is desperate to get to the shop with the famous Deadhorse sign and the mountains of stickers in front of it. The shop is closed when we finally find it, but the famous blue wall is there. Arnold’s photo session lingers on, and I have to admit that I’ve dreamed of this photo, too, but I’m not in the mood. He insists on taking my portrait anyway.

We leave the town to go camping. I empty my bike and the camper van and spread out all the glue, patches, and inner tubes: anything that can help me repair this inner tube is put to good use. Despite the fact that I magically keep finding new holes, I tell myself that we have to try. As long as there is light, there is hope. But at one in the morning, Arnold calls me for dinner. I hadn’t seen the time go by. I lie down on the bench inside the van. Outside, there’s still light, but little hope.

The next day, I wake up and tell him, “Soy en paz esta mañana. He intentado.” I’m at peace this morning because at least I tried. Not really knowing what to do or where to go, I have Arnold drop me off in front of the famous store, but there are no inner tubes. I explain my situation to the salesman, and he tells me that he can order them from Anchorage. They’ll arrive by plane next week. The shipping costs will depend on the quantity being sent, but it shouldn’t exceed $50 per tube.

I’ll have to wait at least four days here. I’m almost out of food, so I go to the grocery shop upstairs. It only sells sugar in all its forms. In reality, I could survive, but will it be pleasant? I don’t think so. I go back down to the shop, and I address the sales assistant as I would to myself but out loud. I explain that, in the end, all this is far too expensive to be only justified by the fact that I am a stubborn person. Spending hundreds and hundreds of dollars to cover 130 miles of track, and not necessarily the most beautiful section — it’s almost absurd.

He cuts me off and says, “If you’re here, looking for ways to finish this route, it must make sense. You’re not going to give up here and now, are you?” That’s not helpful, but it’s true. I can’t miss this stretch of road. It would be a hole in the map in a place where I would never set foot again. I can’t start crossing the Americas with a hole in the map.

Unless.

Unless I can sew this tire and find some truck tire patches.

Unless that all works out and I find access to a compressor.

At this stage it must be eight days since I’ve washed, so I sit on the floor next to the shop in the dust, and I sew up the tire as best I can. My grandmother would be proud. I find a truck tire patch and glue it on. People working in the oilfield come and go, greeting me warmly. Several times they offer to help, to give me a lift, to find me a miracle product. But I believe it will be all right. I’m going to put the damn tire back on the rim, then the wheel back on the bike, and I’m going to ride off proudly.

The glue dries and seems to be holding. I find a compressor in a huge airplane hangar, slam the tire into the rim, and reinflate it. Being the good handyman that I am, I’ve got glue all over my trousers, but the repair seems to be holding. I’m delirious. My friend arrives. We hug warmly and take a photo in front of the shop’s sign. This time with a smile on my face and the bike standing on two sturdy wheels.

All we have to do now is wait until tomorrow morning to see if the tire has deflated. My friend has finished his ride, and tomorrow he’ll try to hitchhike to Fairbanks. I put enough food in my bags to spend the next three days on the trail without having to worry too much about my survival, and Adam, who picked me up the first time, sends me a message. He’s left a small bag of snacks for me, hidden under a rock, right where he dropped me off.

The first thing I do when I wake up is feel my tire. It’s full. I’m off again. There are huge herds of caribou everywhere, the asphalt is perfect, and the sun will shine today. My spirits are high. The next day, I retrieve my little surprise bag from under a rock exactly where I’d aborted my ride. A van pulls up and a guy gets out.

“Do you need water?”

“No, but I need a car to take me back to Fairbanks.”

“Okay, get in.”

Seth and Gabrielle want to drive the remaining eight hours to Fairbanks, and that’s fine with me. I’m their very first hitchhiker. They tell me they’re Christians, and that they want to practice charity after hearing it preached a lot. And that’s just as well, because I need their help. They make me want to see the Deep South, and I make them want to see the rest of the wide world. Time flies.

Arriving in Fairbanks, they invite me to a restaurant and drop me off at the home of Michael, my Warmshowers host. My friend is already waiting for me. Here we are. We’ve ridden the whole of the Dalton Highway. Funnily enough, Michael’s shower is broken, and we’ll have to wait an extra day to clean off the dust and filth. At least tonight we’re not fighting with mosquitoes.

I love the ends of the world. Ends and edges. Where the earth stops. Where everything else begins. I love that little bit of desolation in the landscape because desolation is sublime in its own way. It’s uncluttered, effective, simple. It purifies the people who pass through it. It makes you feel small and vulnerable. Grateful.

Clotaire Mandel is a French, long-term and long-distance cyclist. For the last six-plus years, he has cycled more than 60,000 kilometers across 50 countries and shared his photos and stories to inspire people to adventure. Writing has always been a way to stay connected with family, friends, and the community. It’s also a way to never forget the thousands of stories, faces, and places he’s seen.