The High Desert
First of all, I’m very tired. While I technically did a shorter day today, It was hours through the high desert of Eastern Oregon. The highest I happened to notice was 107°F, but it rarely dipped below 100. I have never experienced anything like Oregon Route 26. Ghost towns, and brown hills as far as the eye can see. It reminded me of when I stupidly rode to Palm Springs in July. I raced a Supra that wanted to have a go. As we reached 130 and I finally decided maybe this wasn’t the wisest decision, and they sped off leaving me to literally eat their dust. I finally arrived at a campsite in I have no idea where, about 30 miles west of Boise. It was interesting to ride through a time change, I don’t think I’ve ever done that before except maybe that one time I rode to Tennessee. Since I’m right on the edge of the time change, it’s 9pm and it’s super bright out, and I’m simultaneously not sleepy at all and completely physically wasted. I probably drank a gallon of water while I was setting up camp, and sweated out about the same. Also, this camp site. It’s uh, rustic. Currently in the background, all I can hear is crickets, and what I can only surmise is cows having some really gnarly sex. The camp host, Darlene, is very sweet. She hates California: too many people. I’ll give her this: there are no people out here. There is no cell service, either.
“I pulled my back out moving a dead horse.”
While I did get to see the painted hills and almost melted in the desert, the highlight of my day was visiting Bend, specifically a place called Spoken Moto. I would have never known about it except a dude from Reddit reached out and said since I’m passing through Bend, we should meet up for a socially-distanced coffee. So this guy is kind of the guy I wish I was, or at least from my perspective, based on a very limited interaction, his persona matches an alter ego of mine that I always felt could have been my life, but it just wasn’t in the cards. He owned a ranch. He and his wife has a store in Bend, worked it for 20 years or whatever, and how he smokes brisket and rides motorcycles everywhere. Hats off to you, Dave. As we were telling stories, he mentioned casually that he had broken his back, nbd. How did he find out he had broken his back? Well, he pulled his back moving a dead horse, and if I remember correctly, when they imaged his back they said, oh by the way, your back is broken. Can we stop being so fragile, San Francisco? Jesus.
I’m in the shit now, though. Sweating my balls off in my tent in the middle of some grassy field in the middle of nowhere, I’m feeling somehow like I accomplished something today, when I suspect this was the appetizer to the full-course meal that is Nevada’s Rt 50, not to mention the black hills of South Dakota, and you know, the rest of the midwest. I stink. Bugs are relentless. My butt is sore. I am so happy.
