Please pass the organic pain killers

Moab is great. It really is. Where else can one be surrounded by an entire town full of people absolutely content to live in mobile homes, work at local pubs and bike shops, pay double what the average American pays for bread and milk, and wear nothing but Chacos and cycling jerseys? Not to mention all the dreadlocks sporting, bra-less granola women infesting every corner of that blessed town.

Okay, so maybe there are other towns just like that. However, Moab is absolutely one of the most unique places on earth, as far as scenery goes. Whenever I go, despite the bruises, scrapes, and goose eggs I inherently acquire through mountain biking, I can't help but be tempted to completely abandon my life and take up the hummus munching, trash recycling, work-simply-to-fund-my-adventures, sword. Something about all the sandstone contrasted with the green of the trees that just sucks me in. The red cliffs. The muddled, churning river. The lack of a single house larger than 3,000 square feet. I wonder if Moab would loose its magic if I resided there?

On Thursday, I found myself sitting at a coffee shop, staring at the wind blowing through the trees. I was there due to having been abandoned in my hour of need by a friend. Remember this, and remember this well; Friends don't make friends ride 30 mile loops. Meaning, when your friends ride a rather jarring 15 mile ride, and you previously stated that you would pick them up...well dammit, pick them up. I, being rather fat and out of shape, was absolutely done by the end of the Porcupine rim trail. I mean, this old body can only take so many bone jarring flights over uneven, rocky ground, mixed with ledge dropping, and butterfly inducing obstacles. Having ridden nothing over 6 miles during pretty much the last YEAR, it was a cleansing ride to say the least. By the bottom, my wrists felt like I had slammed them in a door repeatedly, my knees had been reduced to throbbing jelly, and my thighs were burning. Not burning in a, "Oh, this feels like a nice work out" sort of way. More like a "Dear Fish. You are fat and worthless and should never have pushed us so far. We're going to go ahead and shut down now. Enjoy the uncomfortable fire of our indignation. Love, your thighs."

So I'm a little pathetic and out of shape. So what.

Anyway, this particular trail emerges at the bottom of Negro Bill canyon. So PC, I know (one more reason why I love Moab.) One must then ride through the canyon on the road, back through Moab, and then back up to the trail head 15 miles, unless one has found a reliable friend for shuttling. Which we had. Which turned out to be not so reliable.

Luckily, Adam was used to riding 40-50 miles at a time on his road bike, so he volunteered to make the trek. And thus I found myself sitting outside a coffee shop for 2 hours. I had this thought while I was sitting there staring at the trees for like...ever. Have you ever thought about the fact that every time you watch the wind blow through a tree, you are observing an absolutely unique occurrence? The wind will never make those leaves dance in precisely that manner ever again. Similar, yes. But exactly the same? Impossible.

Freaking Moab makes me think like a granola.