Honey, hold my beer while I drive up this wall

Short Version:
We look into the abyss, then meet some old mad friends. Repairs. Cleverness. We ride Slickrock

Long Version:
We got up early, that first day in Moab, in an attempt to not be busted camping somewhere illegal by whatever authorities are authoritarian in this neck of the woods. When we clambered out of the Reaper into the chill morning light we discovered that we'd been sleeping at the edge of a precipice which dropped away a long way into a sheer-sided canyon, to a muddy river far below. The cliffs on the far side rose massively into the sky, and when we turned away from the drop we saw similar red rock walls looming hugely across the road as well. Strangely-shaped rock was everywhere; some carved into smooth twisted shapes by wind and water, other areas jagged and sharp after cataclysmic breakages.

It felt like it had been an age since we'd exchanged more than transactional pleasantries with anyone other than each other, but when we counted back it had only been two-and-a-half days since we'd left Lisa and Tim and Desiree in Pocatello (Hi Lisa and Tim and Desiree!). Even so, it was nice to meet the Invermere folks in town, and doing so meant that Lovely Wife had someone just as mad as her to ride with, up the steep hill to Sand Flats County Park and onto arguably the most famous mountain-bike trail in the world: Slickrock. I, of course, was at the bike shop, having the repairs I'd carried out on my bike that morning repaired by a chap whose beard was just like mine, only with less blonde bits. While he undid my repair we discussed dirtbag camping possibilities in the area, and as he fixed the original issue he gave me directions to local thrift stores. I guess he picked up on the poverty theme, as he levied no charge for the time and effort he'd spent, and sent me on my way with a beardy smile and a cheery "Have Fun - you're going to love it!" Thanks, Bearded Guy @ Moab Cyclery!

Unlike Nene and Mark and Lori (Hi Mark and Lori!), I'm not entirely nuts, and so drove up the hill to the park gate. When I arrived, though, I found a queue of traffic, and a sign enumerating the entry charges for various types of vehicle. Being far cleverer than everyone else, I turned around and drove back down the road a wee ways to a trailhead parking area I'd spied on the way up, secured the Reaper, and set off on my now-functional bike. I breezed past cars and trucks and massive RVs as I bypassed the queue of motorized vehicles, and was feeling ever-so-slightly smug as I reached the gate and the tollbooth... where the chap stopped me and levied the $2 bike entry fee. Bastardo.

Still, $2 is better than $5, and by the time I reached the Slickrock trailhead I was back to a state of happy expectation. I was mildly bemused to see motorcycles heading in on the same trail that I was aiming at, but I passed them pretty quickly and set off as fast as my little legs could drive me, following the white dashes painted on the rock. And rock it was, in all directions; gnarled and twisted and mounded into hummocks and ledges, ridged and curved and spectacular. And grippy. Slightly lower-than-normal tyre pressures had been recommended, and proved their worth from the get-go, clinging to even the most sheer rock face like each of the tyre's knobs had a wee suction cup on it. A couple of times, the painted line went straight up something obviously unrideable, all of which proved to be entirely rideable when made of slickrock. Except the one that was too steep right at the top for my legs to power me up. That was when I discovered firsthand something I'd been warned about: slickrock is really grippy for tyres, but not so grippy for shoes. I left several square inches of skin on that rock face.

Blood was still emanating from my elbow when I caught up to the group - and what a group it was! Some sixteen riders, parked in a cave eating foods. There were some familiar faces and some new ones, but little time to try to match names to them as we were off and rolling across yet more grippy slickrock, to the base of a blimmin steep hill, where folks took turns having a crack at riding up. Cam and Steve19 both blasted up it without issue, but for the rest of us it proved a bigger challenge. I left an even bigger patch of skin behind on the rocks halfway up, and bled bright orange from my ravaged knee for the rest of the ride. Could have been worse, though - Marianne fell off her bike and landed buttocks-first in a cactus grove just before lunch, earning herself the nickname Prickles and the loan of a pair of spike-free pants for the remainder of the ride. The scenery was phenomenal, and it seemed like every turn we made brought a new and equally stunning vista into view. The riding was just as good, with short, steep climbs and descents, step-ups and drop-offs, and everything rideable thanks to the rubber-hugging properties of the rock. Viv19 was climbing everything in sight, right up until the group started watching her, at which point she took a leaf out of Dick's book and fell off, although unlike him she pulled her feet free before hitting the rock. All on film, too, of course.

The trail runs through an area used by motorized offroad vehicles, and there were queues of the stinky beasts visible atop ridges in the distance, awaiting their run at some stupidly-steep obstacle or other ("Honey, hold my beer while I drive up this wall"). The motorcycles I'd passed near the start had caught up, and we'd been playing trail leapfrog with them for much of the ride. Apart from the guy who looked like an accountant on casual Friday, they were fully-geared-up, with body armor and full-face helmets. Not like the guy who came flying in from one side, helmetless and oh-so suave, launching himself off rock after rock, flying through the air on his massive machine as though both he and it were weightless, and coming very close to collecting one of the other motorcyclists as he flew by. At face-height. Scary, crazy, dangerous, impressive arseholery.

The ride, for those who'd set off together, had taken five hours, of which just two were spent riding. A wee bit different from what we've become accustomed to! Riding with a group that large meant that we'd each had totally different conversations with totally different people, so we were chattering away merrily as we drove out into the desert, interrupted briefly by a hail version of a sunshower and by a section of dirt road which was six-inch-deep claggy mud, and which threatened to have us entrapped for the night in a spot not of our choosing. Reaper power dismissed the challenge summarily, though, and we found ourselves a campsite near a junction, away from the large clumps of weekender ATV folks, and set up the tent for the first time since the night the large critter in the woods near Mt Hood scared us into the Reaper, all the way back in July.