B'Midbar - in the desert

September 11, 2012.  The date still speaks for itself, doesn't it.

Today's ride was 44 miles from Overton to Mesquite, NV.  A roll through the Moapa Valley, then a climb up and onto Interstate 15.  Eighteen or so miles of flat, being passed by cars, campers, and truck after truck.  A swoop down off of the Interstate onto Nevada State Highway 170, then rollers and more rollers into Mesquite.  We're a stone's throw from Arizona and nearly as close to Utah.  We'll ride through both tomorrow, ending up in St. George, headed back toward Zion National Park.

I got rained on in the Moapa Valley, then rode through changing wind - sometimes a head wind, sometimes a cross wind - in temperatures ranging from 68 to 75 degrees.  It felt so very good after yesterday.  Jody got rained on through much of the ride.  He was far enough down the road in front of me that he saw more weather.  He and Nicole changed a tired in the pouring rain.  I knew I had a slow leak - yes, I saw it spitting little bubbles out of my front tire when I stopped to stretch and drink at about 21 miles.  I could see a tiny bit of what looked like (and turned out to be) metal in the tire.  I remember thinking that if I touched it, my tire would go flat.  I didn't touch it.  It stopped spitting bubbles, and I got back on the bike.  It didn't go flat until after lunch - Jody changed my tire in the hotel room.

I don't have any pictures of Jody today, and I don't have any pictures of where we rode, because I rode the entire route.  I thought the rollers would never end, but they did.  Eventually.  Just over 5 hours on the bike.  44 miles.

Janie, riding the rollers.

Photo by Nicole Marcoe.

Nicole, in The Little Darkness, paced me through Mesquite to the hotel, where there was one last rise to climb. 

One last climb, up to the hotel.

Photo by Jody Braverman.

Shower, lunch (yes, yes, yes - beer is a recovery drink!), nap, dinner, blog.  What a great day.


The world is holy. We are holy. All life is holy. Daily prayers are delivered on the lips of breaking waves, the whisperings of grasses, the shimmering of leaves.
     ~Terry Tempest Williams