It seems like tents get larger the more time they spend exposed to sunlight. But the thing is, man, camps were made to be broken. As much as I liked the hot sun, dusty gravel lot and 4-mile walk to the KOA facilities, we had to go.
I’m good with the two days we spent on the salt. I feel like we got a really good idea of the situation and the Southern California Timing Association had their hands full. They didn’t need me prowling around stirring up the troops. The salt was in no mood to be trifled with and we left it to bake and heave, a different salt from a few hours ago and different from that salt in a few more hours.
There’s no good route east from Bonneville except for the hard slog on Interstate 80. From there it’s a long hot day south and the Husky beat out a steady tune all the way to Moab, Utah. The place was an endless parade of tourists, every one one of them healthier than the last. Their bodies were so chiseled they looked like they subsisted solely on finely ground pumice. Their smiles were stretched over perfectly dazzling teeth. I felt like Quasimodo lurching among this mob of Fits.
We swung through Monticello, Utah, a place where 11 years ago me and Hunter left Dave at a motel room with a broken foot and two hamburgers on his night stand. The past days and present days are crashing together on this ride. If you let your mind wander it’s easy to lose track of where you are on the continuum. The hamburger place where we stocked Dave’s nightstand is still there. Maybe Dave is still in that room. 11 years has gone-and-went representing one tiny tremor of time. What happened?
I rode away from Monticello on Godzilla back then. It was a hard pull up the grades. Sometimes the old two stroke held 55 mph. Now I rip up the same hills with the Husky spinning free. So much air pumping past 500 CC’s of modern 4-strokery. I’d still rather be on Godzilla. You earned a hill with that bike, man.
Tonight we’re giving Switchblade, the panhandler with a pickle, another shot at my ribcage in Window Rock. I wonder when I will be back to remember this place, to remember Switchblade. I wonder what the last place will be?
Get it while you can, boys.
It takes lots of different people to make the world go round. For every type you find, there is usually an opposite version of them. One isn’t better than the other, just different.
There is a group that would abandon Dave and those who couldn’t leave their wingman. We need them both… Maverick and Iceman.
When Hunter did his triple somersault with a twist over the handlebars and pulverized his collar bone, one group went on to finish and one stayed behind to ferry the injured home. One wasn’t better than the other, just different.
I have found life is more like Maverick. It’s not designed to stop and wait for us. It keeps going no matter what happens to those who are along for the ride. Young or old, rich or poor, time continues to flow towards the West.
Gresh has said it right: “get it while you can, boys”!
It’s a fine line. Do you keep going? Or do you stay and help the wounded. In combat, it can make the difference between winning and losing. But out here, on the road, is it really a win if you left a comrade behind? I an’t answer. I’m not in your boots, or moccasins. A lot of that have to do with the self sufficiency of the wounded. No? If you stay, you do get it while you can. But if you go, what are you giving up?
Yep. Dave, Gary and I abandoned a stove-up Hunter at the airport. That’s how we roll!
Left with burgers, motel room, phone and TV remote ain’t abandoned.
Gresh leaving at airport with first class ticket home ain’t abandoned.
Me leaving Gresh out in the desert after he had wreck was abandonment but I saw a dust ball building so I knew he was alive.
Hunter didn’t abandon me in the desert. He was just waiting for me to bleed out.
I finally caught up with him at a gate.