Tag Archives: west

Day 10 (Goffs) 29.5 Miles

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Solo and Unsupported Run across America blog rerun. Posted every weekday at 8am. Buy the now complete book and full story at www.abrahamlouis.com/runningwater

I awoke to the sound of semi-trucks rumbling over the bridge at 4 a.m. Slightly board and a bit cold, I crawled out of the hammock to rebuild the fire. After watching the sunrise I packed up Ruby and hit the road. The camping site worked well and if the opportunity presents itself I’ll try the method again. It has been cold in the mornings, and I usually leave night gear on for the first few miles before slowly shedding layers as the day goes on. I occupy my time by playing games like trying to keep Ruby’s front wheel on the white line.

I had never been more excited to make it to a town where the population sign read 100 (I think they rounded up). I walked to the only place open, JB tire. The guy built the place himself in 1961, and I’m sure at one point the business had its glory years. Our dialogue went something like this, “do you have an outlet I can plug my phone into?” His reply, “right over there in the wall.” My response, “thanks.” His annoyed statement, “don’t park your buggy there I might get a customer.” The other 10 citizens of Essex may have been loyal customers of the old tire garage but I had my doubts that there was a customer within 100 miles.
The next 10 miles felt like the earth had doubled its gravitational pull and my legs were heavier than logs. I kept thinking there were Ninjas hiding on the side of the road throwing knives into my legs. I don’t know where these shooting pains were coming from, but they had no rhyme or reason and usually left as quickly as they came. However, I had housing in Goffs and was determined not to spend another lonely night in the desert. When I got to interstate 40 there was a slightly normal gas station where I sat in the shade and stared out over the Mojave Desert for who knows how long. Before I left I bought a hot dog and snickers bar. It made for a good lunch when combined with a power bar and energy gel. A few minutes later I was flying down the road to Goffs and throwing my fists in the air to get a toot toot from the train conductor. I’m not sure what they put in those energy gels, but it was awfully powerful for 3 or 4 miles. I could see Goffs in the distance and was thrilled when two older men came out to meet me in their golf carts.

Riding in the Yellow Ribbon

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The hot Utah sun sucked a bead of sweat out from his burnt dried skin but the strong cross wind carried it off before it had a chance to roll down his spine. I followed close, within inches of his spinning tires that were propelled by his pumping quads and steady cadence. Caught in a daze of watching the pavement streak by and listening to the hum of a chain, miles passed. The hum occasionally interrupted when he dropped his right hand and with the slightest movement he changed gears, I changed gears. The ground rose slightly adding to the drag. My eyes rolled down to the odometer that read 18.2 mph, 58.4 miles. He stopped pedaling, I stopped pedaling, he reached for a water bottle, I reached for a water bottle, when his hand connected his legs began pumping once again. My shoulder blades and neck begged for a new position. I lifted my head, my eyes with it and saw the towering red rock formations, blue sky, and waving grass that covers southern Utah. He must have been feeling the same discomfort because he rose out of his saddle pressing, pulling, pressing, and pulling his bike rocking side to side like a pendulum. The music stagnate noise, wind, cars, gears. 17.2mph, 60.5 miles. He settled back into his saddle, looked over his shoulder and veered out into the lane and dropped back. His work was done for the time being. I looked over mine as well, half expecting to see open road, half expecting to see three others. They were their hiding in the tunnel of nonexistent wind. His absence left me with a new view; the cost hit my face and then my chest. My quads picked up the workload and I put my head back down.

Leaving Lake Powell during a late sunrise.

Riding in the Yellow Ribbon

Posted on by
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The hot Utah sun sucked a bead of sweat out from his burnt dried skin but the strong cross wind carried it off before it had a chance to roll down his spine. I followed close, within inches of his spinning tires that were propelled by his pumping quads and steady cadence. Caught in a daze of watching the pavement streak by and listening to the hum of a chain, miles passed. The hum occasionally interrupted when he dropped his right hand and with the slightest movement he changed gears, I changed gears. The ground rose slightly adding to the drag. My eyes rolled down to the odometer that read 18.2 mph, 58.4 miles. He stopped pedaling, I stopped pedaling, he reached for a water bottle, I reached for a water bottle, when his hand connected his legs began pumping once again. My shoulder blades and neck begged for a new position. I lifted my head, my eyes with it and saw the towering red rock formations, blue sky, and waving grass that covers southern Utah. He must have been feeling the same discomfort because he rose out of his saddle pressing, pulling, pressing, and pulling his bike rocking side to side like a pendulum. The music stagnate noise, wind, cars, gears. 17.2mph, 60.5 miles. He settled back into his saddle, looked over his shoulder and veered out into the lane and dropped back. His work was done for the time being. I looked over mine as well, half expecting to see open road, half expecting to see three others. They were their hiding in the tunnel of nonexistent wind. His absence left me with a new view; the cost hit my face and then my chest. My quads picked up the workload and I put my head back down.

Leaving Lake Powell during a late sunrise.