Cycling and Recycling

Short Version:
Slickrock again. A Fox on the Rocks. Footage. Anarchy rules!

Long Version:
Our neighbour gave us a cheery wave as we drove out of the campground in the morning, which I thought was rather odd, given not only the chastisement he'd received the previous night but also his proximity to the campground's roofless toilet in which we'd de-beaned before we left. We waved back, though, as good neighbours do.

And then we went and rode the Slickrock Trail again, in the opposite, supposedly more difficult direction.

It was more difficult. Lovely Wife said not, but I'm beginning to doubt that she's actually human; she seemed once agin to be feeling absolutely no after-effects from the effortful slog we'd put in the previous day. And the day before. And the day before that. In fact, we were on our ninth consecutive significant ride day, and she looked, rode, and smelled like she'd just stepped out of a salon. Cow.

We stopped only thrice:
- For lunch and to photograph Marian's cactus
- For shots of Nene riding near Shrimp Rock
- To film ourselves on the switchback hillclimb made famous by the Fifth Horseperson of the Apocalypse during our last visit

At that last stop we were stunned to see a fox run up the hill, then pause, looking back over his shoulder at us reproachfully before disappearing over the lip. Unfortunately we were so stunned we didn't think to photograph it, but then we made ourselves feel all better again by getting heaps of awesome footage of each of us doing particularly tasty technically-sound riding on the tricky climb and descent. Except that I didn't quite manage to actually film any of Nene's efforts, because I couldn't quite get the hang of pushing the one button needed to start filming. I'd made her ride up and down several times too, to get different angles. Oops.

We dumped our long-held recyclables at the Recycling Station, where we were amused by the sight of all of the employees gathered together for a break, smoking cigarettes directly beneath an enormous "No Smoking" sign. Then we hit the thrift store, where yet again there were many many things of great awesomeness that fitted Nene perfectly, and several that were just too small for me, or just slightly too worn or not quite excellent enough to warrant the $4 outlay. Disappointing!

Showers at Poison Spider Bicycles made me feel much better though, especially because the bearded anarchist at the counter didn't charge us for them. I think the waddling couple from the Amerikan Mid-West who were there at the same time we were might have paid for ours as well as their own, but that's only fair and reasonable.

And then we were off into the desert again, to the junction where we'd been pounded by storms twice. It was like coming home, which is kind of scary.