Day 18 - Speed n' Freedom The light chatter of woodland Crows rouses me from rest, the blue glow of sunlight on tarp enveloping. As I peel back my makeshift cocoon, I see that Jarnefr is already awake and writing...he seems to be getting up earlier each day. Grimnir is in about as groggy a state as I am, and The Hornsmith has yet to materialize from whatever super natural realm he visits each night to gain is endless endurance. Our ride starts out in perhaps the strangest fashion of the trip thus far, as we stop by a local cafe at the base of Mount Shasta for breakfast. The Coffee sublime, but the overly-friendly new age atmosphere causes some sort of frequency disruption to those with a slightly more realistic World view. I started to wonder if my latte was laced with cyanid. This day the road somehow feels as if forward momentum is inconsequential, as if every mile covered has kept you in exactly the same place. Passing thru the backwoods of the 51st state, we make Reno by midday, exhausted after fighting with traffic and heat, we decide to pull over for some relief, and milkshakes. Everyone is in a shit mood, there is debate about wasting time, non-existent schedules, missed opportunities for sightseeing and gripes about each other's riding styles. It's apparent we are all ready to be home, and swallowing the reality of that being a very long way off. We set up the highway with grudges like loaded powder kegs, fuses lit. The eagerness to make ground is overwhelming, and as we pass into the Nevada desert, each rider falls Into their own pace. Jarnefr barrels ahead, Grimnir at a slightly slower gait, and Hornsmith maintaining a steady 70. I hang back for a bit, and then roll the throttle to its stopping point, hauling off into the horizon, chasing down the Sun. The route has more curves than expected, banking around a massive lake on our left and smoke filled mountains on our right. At a certain point Grimnir and I split off and ride down to the lake shore, a sign warning of live munitions being the only halt between us and diving into the cerulean stillness. We ride back up the gravel and glide thru the turns in sync. I pass between sprints off full speed assault, and slow embraces of the breathtaking, alien, atmosphere. On the long straights I hit cruise control, and stand with a foot on the seat and the other on the bars, surfing into what feels like perpetual vastness. We eventually regroup at the ruins of a seemingly ancient gas station, exploring the rubble and each telling our experience of bliss by the spurts of lone riding. Speed and freedom heal all. With the winds changing course, and the daylight expiring behind the mountains, we stop and grab beers at the only gas station in some hundred miles, eventually settling on a rather uncomfortable pit of gravel to sleep for the night. Although our lights attract insects from the depths of Hel, the smiles and gratefulness of a day spent riding in the desert lend well to the conclusion that this is exactly where we are meant to be.
