What followed Loa was more desert remoteness, 50 miles of empty terrain, off-route from the Western Express and headed northwest to Richfield. There were two mountain passes to scale, one at 8,300 feet elevation and the next at 7,800 feet elevation. It was dry and shadeless, the road flanked by expanses of sage brush. The climbs up the mountain passes were among the most arduous sections of pedaling I've faced. Ever present were very strong headwinds which made pedaling strenuous. A few times I stopped on the roadside and ate from the supply of bologna, bread and trail mix I'd cargoed. I took many breaks, including stops on the roadside to pump up the patched tube three times. A long downhill into Richfield helped. I drank the last of four water bottles I hauled along the leg as I neared Richfield. Two miles from town and the tire was deflated again, but this time the tube wouldn't hold air anymore, and so I pushed the 520 the rest of the way. I tried to hitchhike, careful to solicit only pickup trucks for hauling the 520, but to no avail. Eight or ten trucks drove by without stopping. It was dusk as the sun set behind the bare mountain range to the west at 8:30 p.m. In town a couple in a truck I asked directions from gave me a ride, with the 520 in the back, and I ended up at New West Motel for the cheap rates. I showered and had pizza and soda before sleep.

In the morning I scouted the town for the bicycle shop listed as being located on Main Street. On the walk I noticed that the town showed beginnings of the same blight I had seen in hundreds of similar small towns across America. Freshly closed storefronts, car dealerships, gas stations, convenience stores and restaurants, were all along the street. I stopped and grabbed a coffee-to-go at a small cafe and then continued along. I found no bicycle shop. I inquired at a sporting good store, where I was directed to Jorgensen's Honda, an auto and cycle dealership with a bicycle shop and mechanic on hand. I pushed the 520, with the flat tire and the broken spoke, the half mile to the shop and handed the 520 over to mechanic Jeff. He said the probable culprit for the puncture through the kevlar tires may indeed have been the thorn I suspected, which he called Goat Head thorn. He inspected the tires and removed a few more thorns deeply embedded in the tire. He also had the right size spoke on hand. When finished, the 520 was outfitted with heavy duty thorn-resistant inner tubes, a chain cleaning, a spoke, a new strap for the right pedal, a trued wheel, and a lube, and is ready to roll again. Jeff gave me a bottle of lube, a couple of extra spokes, and an extra tube, to take along with me. Then I returned to the room to do some work. I went to a grocery store later for chicken, beans, salad, bagel, and milk, for dinner back at the room.

Moya, Jennifer and I explored a site called Westwater Ruins, 1,000-year-old remnants of an Anasazi Indian village in eastern Utah. The Anasazi, ancestors of modern day Pueblo Indians, made a community there in the canyon. To access the ruins we hiked about a half of a mile over a broad dome of rock amid sparse flora, juniper and pine trees, cacti and tufts of desert grasses. The sun blazed on the rocks. Nearly devoid of sound, the three of us found we could talk to one another from quite a distance, our voices carrying in the ampitheater-like bowls and ledges of the place.

During our ride, Jennifer and I went off the road a bit to see a historical marker, which ended up being a fenced-in gravesite and a hand-made metal sign, explaining the story of a settler killed by Indians. The letters on the sign were each hand soldered or welded. There were spelling errors. The author used the word "calvary" for "cavalry," and someone corrected the mistake in black marker. Also in marker, someone changed the word "settle" to "steal." Jennifer and I laughed aloud at the rough-hewn sign.

Entering Fruita, I rode into an oasis where I picked apples in an orchard. The unlikely patch of green in the desert sprouts up in a canyon around the Fremont River. On the walls of the canyon are petraglyphs etched in the rock by ancient people who inhabited the oasis. At the orchards, people wander around through the trees to pick apples, then weigh them on a scale and put the payment through a slot in a box. I took four yellowish green apples, which cost me $1, and ate them over the next two days.

In the high-altitude desert everything is different. Riding into Utah was like coming into a power field of some sort. There is a sense foreboding amidst the vast distances of empty and arid desert, looming mountains, and odd rock formations, that invokes a certain seriousness. This place can kill. To range here, particularly on bicycle, requires some forethought about water supply, distances, emergency plans, lack of cell phone reception, the unshaded sun, and the frigid nights. Along the roads there are no houses, gas stations, or rest stops, just sage brush expanses and road. The seriousness of the land seems a subtle trait of people here. On the road, motorists don't bother waving, but stay focused on the road ahead.

I've had to do some work this week, and so took a room in Richfield for a couple of days. It's a small town, but served me well by having a competent bicycle shop, a cheap and quiet motel, WiFi, a large grocery store, the things I needed for a bit of reclusion. The detour off the ACA maps was worthwhile.

until later...

I replaced the broken spoke with one of the 700c spokes, which is too short, and as such remains too loose to do its job of keeping the wheel true. The wobble could be considered slight, yet apparent. I've gone 70 miles so far on the ill-fitting spoke, my front wheel wobbling out of true the whole way. Today on the 54-mile push from Bicknell to Richfield, Utah, I must ride again on the bad spoke. There is a bike shop in Richfield which today lies 52 miles away, where I must remedy the problem.

From Richfield I'll be on Interstate 70, and pedal a half day to reach Interstate 15, to begin the fast run to Las Vegas along the freeway. Riding on an interstate is not the first choice of most touring bicyclists, in fact it's generally shunned, but at this point it represents the fastest and safest way to get to the coast, which time and budget demand. Fortunely, bicycles are permitted on interstates in Utah, Nevada, Arizona and California. I'll take parallel roads when I can. The highway won't be as peaceful or scenic as along the former route, but I've done my share of America's backroads and don't lament a dash for the end on the fast, and mostly flat and down hill interstates from Richfield, Utah, to Barstow, California.

My mother Moya, on her way home from visiting me in Utah, reported that the entirety of I-15 along the aforementioned route is more or less bicycle friendly, with several sections of narrow shoulder at Virgin River Gorge, Arizona, representing the only challenging spots between Cedar City, Utah, and Las Vegas.

I rode two times with a cyclist from New York City named Luke who I met in Telluride. A Marine Lieutenant, the 26-year-old from the Lower East Side is traversing the Western Express to San Francisco. We cranked out miles through Utah on two seperate occassions, once before the Mom and Jennifer visit, and once after. It was the stretch of miles before Torrey where I had just finished addressing the broken spoke problem that Luke appeared, coasting over a hill in my direction. It was good to have another cyclist with me, not only for drafting in the fierce headwinds we faced, but for company on those dual 60-mile rides.

Since entering Utah, three months into this thing, the nature of the trek has changed. I pedal each day mechanically, robotically, aiming only for the end. What was once a trek of discovery, is now a challenge of endurance. Yet, that has not diminished the rich experience or intent, as I acknowldge fatigue as necessary and inevitable on such a journey. In these remote stretches of Utah a new perspective has dawned, in which the epic nature of this three-month endeavor is more apparant than ever. It is hard to fathom how far I've come, how many people I've met, how many places I've seen, how many miles I' ve pedaled, how many days I've been out here. Yet I still have 600 miles to go, from here in Bicknell, Utah, where I am writing from a motel room, to Los Angeles. There will of course be another few hundred miles to Santa Cruz, but to reach the ocean will mark the significant continental crossing I've endeavored for since May. All this resolves the day when the Pacific Ocean makes the horizon, and the 520 is across America.

until later...