Well, Ola Ola from the vast plains and open ranges of the deep south, PUERTO NATALES! Chile, baby! Hombres, hombras, amigos & amigas, sweet Tigre and I are back and better than ever, wrapped in the sweet embrace of a fleece comforter and a wood stove. The creature comforts of the Great Indoors have never been more comfortable, never more creaturesque, and we are grateful for our first day off in almost three weeks. Tyler is currently sprawled on a couch, long blonde hair cascading off the sofa and onto a vacuumed floor, startling the poor hostel patrons with his electric blue spandex tights and horribly maintained mustache. I, on the other hand, have chosen to strap myself into a kitchen chair and pump myself full of instant coffee, until my teeth chatter and table bumps in rhythm to the blood coursing through my hyperdilated veins.
Tyler was three miles north on the Blue Ridge Parkway, spread-eagle atop a boulder and attempting to remain conscious as his body dragged him deeper into delirium. His electrolytes were whacked out, body coated in oily sweat, and there was a rift in the crotch of his chamois that spread with a slow, inexorable sort of determination.
After 8,000 miles of cycling, the only thing left in our way was one long frozen road…with a few final thunderstorms, some raging wildfires, a couple of testy truck drivers and one seriously pissed-off grizzly bear.
The otherworldly wonder of Zion National Park’s towering rock formation attracts thousands of tourists every day. Three men on bikes ascend at an ungodly hour for a moment alone with a view fit for angels.
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