Masochist's Buffet

Our second morning waking up in Room 303, Hampton Inn, Cedar City, Utah. We went downstairs for a second stab at the continental breakfast – this time with considerably more hesitation. There was riding to be done today and yesterday's meal had not been kind to our bowels. We descended out of Cedar City for a while and traveled on a lonely road. Had a break about twenty miles in where Jordan had to make a deposit in the middle of an open field. Cars could probably see what was going on, I could certainly tell what was going on. What're you gonna do? After a successful eruption we pressed on for some climbing, and inevitable descent to Minersville. Stopped at the gas station and saw a trailer and met another touring cyclist. His name is Nate and he bears an uncanny, alternate dimension, cosmic significance resemblance to our pal Garrett Shannon. In my opinion, anyway. Nate is a grad student in New York City, originally from Indiana. He's riding West as well so we decided to ride together. Nate is also pushing some long days to make it to San Francisco in time to fly to Michigan to attend his brother's wedding. Today his plan was to ride one of those long days. Where we had planned to stop in Milford at 55 miles because of a lack of services, Nate invited us to join him for around 140.

Jordan was into it immediately, I was hesitant, and Jeremy had no passion for it but agreed to go along if that's what everyone else was doing. We contemplated the possibility while riding fifteen miles on to Milford. Nate has a speaker for his Ipod and it was a strange and wonderful experience to be listening to music while we rode. We arrived in Milford, found the grocery store and sat on the curb wondering if we were going to join for the extended day. Not only was it another 84 miles, but without any services. We decided to embrace the spontaneous, join our new companion, and make the slog. We filled up all of our extra water bottles and began the ride.

The first ten miles were fairly uneventful, some gradual climbing. Then the wind came on, strong. It reduced our progress big time. Halved our speed. Then the rain began. Light at first. We sort of chuckled about it. “Haha, this is funny... right? Rain on a tremendously long day. Adventurous, right?” Then the rain became serious. We put on the covers frantically, looked at each other, and somehow knew the remaining miles would not come easily. By now it was both raining and blowing. Jordan apologized to Jeremy and I for his enthusiasm in tackling the challenge. It was miserable, awful, disgusting. And what comes with rain? Lightning, naturally. Lowest point of the entire tour. My mind disengaged from my body while my legs ground slowly in pitiful revolutions. I was a disembodied thought drifting in the haze of the angry clouds. The road disappeared. The other riders disappeared. The scenery was a void. Left leg, right leg, left leg, right leg. Suffering. Pain. Misery. Too many miles ahead to even consider. It was a day only for the most hardened masochists. The question became: Exactly how much beauty is there in suffering?

We were climbing this whole time as well. We saw smoke from a ridge up ahead, then a small fire, likely started by the lightning sparking around us. Frisco Summit at 6,445 feet. Descent. Wah Wah Summit at 6,439 feet. We took a break in a valley, hedged in by our descent behind and the next climb in front. Probably thirty miles between the two. The road stretched out in a long, thin, cruel ribbon in front of us. You pedal and pedal and the range in front of you never seems to get closer, locked in exactly the same place. Leaned our bicycles against a pole or two and sat in the dirt. There was no foliage on either side of the road. No greenery. Just miles of unbroken dirt. A good candidate for a dust storm, which is exactly what appeared while we took that break. You could try to face away from the direction of the wind but the particulate covered your clothes and got in the crevices of your eyes. For those seeking a challenge, challenge delivered.

We pressed on for untold pedal strokes and the weather finally started to improve after our last climb. We began to descend toward the Nevada border. We saw a beautiful sunset over the hills ahead and arrived at the state line just as the last of the day's light was consumed by darkness. Triumph. Joy. An explosion of glee. Our destination was only seven miles off. We had made it. Took out the lights and the rear flashers and actually got assistance from the wind for the final push. We were booking but there was no longer any daylight to show our speed on the cycling computer. We arrived at the Silver Jack Inn in Baker, Nevada and were let into the restaurant/coffee shop/art gallery, after hours. We ate brownies and pie and other baked goods drank fine microbrews and were told to settle the bill in the morning. There was light rain again and Terry, the owner, showed us to the room where he sells antiques. A free indoor stay. Triumph. As always, it is feast or famine, boom or bust on this bike tour. We had done the 140 miles, made it to Baker, had all of our toes. It was awful at so many points, but incredible nonetheless. Longest single day of riding for any of us. And we are not merely bicyclists, but time travelers, gaining an hour upon crossing into the Pacific Time Zone. Good to be done, never again.

In Utah? What?

And people talk in hushed tones when they drive it.

Camera was stowed during the worst of the rain. Just imagine us in that.

Garrett Shannon, I mean, Nate Crimmins.

Boulevard of no headway.

Dirt sandwich. Ripe for dust storms.

Temporary Insanity. Maybe not temporary...

"I can't believe you idiots brought me along for this."

Looking up.

What now Utah!?