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...