A Norwegian in the Desert

Short Version:
We didn't die! Awesome! We drive for a long time to go a short distance, then ride the breakaway on the Sovereign. Beer. Burritos. Beer. Olive oil. Wind. Wind? Wind.

Long Version:
Sunrise in the desert was beautiful, and the day started to shape as bright and sunny, and with little evidence of the ferocity of the overnight hostilities. We rewarded ourselves for surviving the night with eggy burritos, and then set off up the claggier-than-before dirt road to meet the Invermeerkats in town so we could all go ride somewhere in the desert. They were leaving town as we arrived, and we followed them, convoy-style, as they drove out of town, northwards, back along the route on which we'd come in. We laughed, and talked merrily of how humorous it would be if we ended up back out where we'd started.

Right up to the point where we arrived back at where we'd started, 40-odd miles after we'd set off.

Then we laughed some more, because we didn't die overnight, and we'd had eggy burritos for breakfast, and we were about to go ride our bikes with people we liked, and all of those things are excellent.

The first three of our vehicles to arrive at the Sovereign Trail parking area doubled the number present. The next six doubled it again. There were bikes and people everywhere; not only those who'd ridden the Slickrock Trail the day before, but a bunch of others too, some of whom - like Fucken Dave and his surprisingly lovely partner Cindy - had arrived in town overnight. Having spent a good part of the past five months as an isolated pair, it was a wee bit overwhelming to find ourselves amidst such numbers. Before long, though, we found ourselves haring off up the trail, part of a breakaway group comprising the two of us, Mark and Lori, and another couple, Don and Christie (Hi Mark and Lori and Don and Christie!).

The trail was a mix of slickrock, dirt, and mud made from fine red dust, and the Norwegian we dragged around the place for much of the ride was loving it. There was little major up or down, although there were a couple of good tests thrown in there, including one steep, switchbacked section that we all rode repeatedly and in both directions whilst awaiting the arrival of the main group.

Post-ride festivities back at the vehicles included minor beerage for most, but Nene and I were minutes from "home," so felt free to indulge more heavily than usual, drinking a bottle each of delicious rich dark porter while chaos raged all around us. Fucken Dave's breasts were the undisputed stars of the show, although word is that some of the Macarena dancing was also pretty spectacular.

Lovely Wife and I carried on once back at camp, with another delicious dark concoction or three downed alongside delicious bean burritos. Then Nene spilled quarter of a bottle of olive oil in the bed, and the wind started to pick up, and we looked at the sky and thought: Goodness gracious! Surely this can't be happening again!