I had left far too late the day of my departure and what should have been a four hour ride to the outskirts of Little Rock was quickly becoming an eight hour ride. Back roads, while beautiful and enticing, were slow and sprawling and with only a one hundred and twenty miles per tank to speak of, anxiety inducing. Knowing my peanut tank was exactly that, I had rigged a gallon of extra fuel to the back of Nick’s expertly made sissy bar but with its position smashed against the luggage tower I wasn’t exactly foaming at the mouth to the idea of having to use it. The sun had started to set just as I joined Interstate 22 and my dark tinted visor had to go. I pulled off the road into a church parking lot and fought the mechanism to get the visor released. I cursed loudly alone, not even acknowledging the presence of perhaps someone else’s god, as I pushed and pulled, twisted and tugged the reluctant sheet of protective plastic. Even after victory, getting the clear shield in its place was no easy task with quickly diminishing light. This was exactly where I didn’t want to be on my first day out: hours from my first booked destination with vacating sunlight on a setup I wasn’t totally confident on yet. This was a carefully concocted recipe for disaster and I was too Type A at the time to accept that I should just pull over for the night, sleep a full rest, and hit the pavement before the sun peaked over the horizon in the morning.

With sunset came the bugs and they shot up my neck with incomprehensible precision, spraying their open circulatory systems all over my skin. I was less concerned with the spray across my gear and helmet but their multi-colored death initiated the jukebox from hell in my mind.

“Can you paint with all the colors of the wind!?” my tone-deaf mouth rang out amongst the screaming seventy mile an hours winds and engine roars. I had never realized how being engulfed in other sounds would derail my relatively decent pitch. Nonetheless, I laughed to myself. That was the point, right? To be able to take dumb or horrible situations and find the light, in hopes that maybe I could do the same in myself.

I was quickly approaching the Mississippi River and I knew that unless I wanted to go through Memphis, I needed to take another way into Arkansas. Google had suggested a small highway between Sardis, Mississippi and Helena-West Helena, Arkansas, and I made the assumption, as Google had never truly wronged me, that this would be a fine road. What I didn’t realize is that between Sardis and Helena-West Helena there was nothing. Absolutely no one. Coming off of well-kept Highway 278, I zig-zagged through the western ends of Sardis into a vast space of nothingness. The stars and moon were suppressed under a blanket of tired clouds and no lights from any civilization reflected off of their resting place. Few lights and every animal known to the southeast United States populated the two lane “highway.” The texture of the pavement left me very aware that I had kidneys that could interpret pain signals. I passed no one and no one passed me, save for a group of cars hanging out at one of the two intersections this highway had. Humans were collected in a field, their lights shining into its vast boredom. I strained to see what was interesting and realized quickly, there was nothing. Nothing was out here. These people had no Sonic to cultivate at or gas station to loiter. A field would have to do.

While I found the road conditions unsavory, I had forgotten Arkansas’ claim to highway fame as having the country’s most improved roads from many years ago. That only applied to their federally funded roads. This road, Bumfuckway 315, was probably some county’s responsibility and the closer I got to the state’s border, the more apparent it became that no one gave a shit about this poor slab of pavement. Bugs turned into a visual snowstorm and the road turned into a metronomic hellscape of bumps. My abdomen raged with pain as my stock suspension slammed into the ground and then into me, back and forth, for what looked to be according to the dark clouds the foreseeable eternity. I whenced in pain. Something had to give. And then something did.

My rig was setup so that my giant cylinder a of sleeping bag rested just at my back. Being short scaled, I could just barely lean back against it and reach my handlebars. It provided minimal support but more peace of mind that I knew my complex chain of shit was still behind me. I pressed my lower back against the compression sack and held on with some sanity that everything was still in its right place.

Then, it shifted.

“What the flying fist of fucks!?” a muffled scream emitted from my tightly closed helmet. I turned to look as best I could, and saw my entire pack was falling to the left, destine to kiss the ground, and probably me with it. I looked hastily for a place to pull over. There was no shoulder. There were no driveways. There was simply a white line to say, ‘If you cross here, I hope your vehicle can handle off road situations.’ There was simply no good solution. I rolled to a calm stop, kicked out the stand, and slowly dropped my bike onto it. In the middle of the road, I flew off my seat and pulled my baggage back into place. I used my entire body to retighten the straps. I pushed and shoved at it, trying desperately to make it shimmy in any way. And of course, during this time, every fucking inhabitant between Sardis and the Arkansas state line populated the road, flying past me and my tiny flashing hazard lights. Country hospitality lacking, no one stopped. I was thankful to the few that pulled into the opposite lane.

Motherfucker, I thought to myself.

I squinted into the distance and could just barely make out the reflection of lights cascading down from the clouds above. It was Helena-West Helena. It had to be. Nothing else could be in the distance of this forgotten wasteland of fields full of nothing. I had no choice but to make it there.

You’re not making it to Conway tonight. It is ten o'clock at night. You are getting a damn hotel for whatever damn price and you are rolling this shit up until the morning. My Type A personality retired for the night and I couldn’t have been more fine with that.

With my heart rate decently elevated and all my knicks and knacks back in place on the bike, I unsteadily remounted my machine for the final ride into Helena-West Helena. The dreary clouds began to let way some annoying drizzle, making my shield practically opaque as I wandered aimlessly on the main roads of Helena-Whatever Helena. There was nothing. No chains to be seen.

I pulled into the only gas station I had seen since hitting the city’s limits. After letting out an audible grunt of frustration, I went to kick down the bike’s stand.

KA-KLUNK!

I looked down to see that the damn thing retracted back into place. I kicked at it again.

KA-KLUNK!

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” I shouted. Now not only did I have no idea where I was going to get to sleep, but I couldn’t even get off the goddamn bike?

KA-KLUNK!

I still cannot imagine what this scene looked like at 11pm, me kicking at the side of my bike, it sucking back up its kickstand, me covered in bugs and cursing at the top of my lungs. Finally, the damn stand latched into place. I pulled my bug-encrusted helmet from my head, de-gloved my hands, and pulled my phone from my jacket’s pocket. Surely my magic pocket computer could find me a damn hotel or a park.

No Service.

With a heavy and irritated sigh, I got off the bike and ventured inside to ask for assistance. Luckily, out of the ten people in this town, one kind gentleman actually felt like telling me where the nearest hotel was.

No more than ten minutes later, I rolled into the entrance of a Best Western. Carefully parked under the awning were two gorgeous baggers. I scoffed at their luxury. I bet they weren’t feeling their kidneys tonight. My disrespect to Flynn was immediately returned with yet another kickstand battle. After several minutes of hushed cursing, I finally found myself inside a hotel lobby, handing over my credit card with no fucks given on how much was going on it. I rolled my bike up to the most rear room available, undid my luggage and drug my weathered ass into the climate controlled box.

I immediately drew the blinds and stripped off every inch of slightly damp clothing. I set my helmet on the counter by the sink and chuckled. Under the light, it shimmered a thousand different hues and tints from bugs past. Paint with all the colors of the wind, indeed. I started running the bath and sat down on the toilet. I put my head between my legs and just breathed. Nothing was moving. There was no wind and the calm rushed over my body like cement. My heart sunk slightly as I realized that out of 1800 miles, I had only made it 270 miles. I continued to rest my head between my legs, staring intently at the tile. Everything would be cool. I could make up the time tomorrow.

“Ow! What the hell!?”

The exclamation followed what felt like a pin prick on my calf. I reached up and turned no the light, still staring at the tile to see a speck land. I ripped toilet paper off the roll and slammed it into the ground. Lifting up, I saw the smallest speck of blood stain the white enamel below.

“Fleas. Fleas? Jesus Christ. My fucking room has fleas?”

You find out pretty quick — or at least you do if you’re me — that once you’ve been on the road alone for 12 hours or so, you lose your internal dialogue. Anyone close to me would say that I never truly had one to begin with, but it's their word against mine.

So my room, my unmoving solace for the night, was infested with fleas. I could move rooms. But as I walked out into the main area buck-ass naked, seeing all my worldly possessions sprawled over every inch of the room, I gave up. I knew the bed, especially if I didn’t make any clothing exchanges after the bath, would be safe. I was so tired, which feels like the understatement of the year. I was so tired that the thought of disgusting jumping parasites devouring my face in my face did not phase me enough to put my clothes back on, pack all my luggage back up, and change rooms. Instead I made a bowl out of coffee cup, cooked chicken and couscous in the microwave, took a bath, folded my riding gear and placed it as high as I could in the room’s closet, and leapt into the bed. I folded the sheets and quilt into me like armor, convincing myself that it was totally good enough. Nothing was going to bite me in the night (and nothing did).

Through a tiny hole, I pulled out my phone and checked the map. Tomorrow, in order to make Zion by Wednesday, I needed to get as far as Oklahoma City, four hundred and fifty miles west, and a still a hundred or so miles short than planned. Four hundred and fifty miles came out to be about seven hours in a car. If two hundred and eighty was ten hours on a bike, how the hell long was four hundred and fifty going to be? I honestly had no idea. Dawn and I had a date though because I sure as hell wasn’t rolling into OKC at 11pm. With that, I clicked off the light and fell into the darkest, heaviest slumber of my life: the Sleep of Ages.