Vegas

Jumping back and forth along the Utah-Arizona state line like a needle stitching the two sides together, I began to weave an ornate tapestry of the sights and sounds of the high desert. The dusky red sentinels of Monument Valley, the whoosh of a passing dust devil, and the cool indigo tinge of moonlight on a lonely sand dune.

After a long trek through Buckskin Gulch, I set up camp nearby. That evening, as I gazed upwards into the cavernous night sky, I saw two planes whose lights flickered in perfect synchrony. I wonder if anybody up there knew.

Perhaps it is difficult to meet fellow riders, on the road and in life, because, fundamentally, you will never cross paths with someone traveling at the same velocity. You will, necessarily, encounter far more people going the other way. You must keep on riding until you find your people - or just settle for bicyclists.

This reverie was broken the next morning as I popped my sleeping pad and the zipper on my tent flap decided to leave this mortal coil. So after a night in Zion, where I woke up covered in caterpillars, the squished and dessicated carcasses of which I would continue finding in my gear for the next several days, I headed to that cesspool of humanity, Las Vegas. In my estimation, Sin City has naught but two redeeming qualities: REI and the pinball museum.

After replacing my sleeping pad, I stayed with another Bunk-a-Biker host. He was very nice, and his garage walls were plastered in framed portraits of the dozens of bikers he has hosted over the years. He is a avid rider, but he doesn't care for curvy, conventionally beautiful roads - he only does long distance rides. He will literally go meet friends for breakfast in Florida, so long as he's given a day's notice. He said his limit is 44 hours of riding with no food or sleep. After that, he tends to hallucinate.