Today: 51.3 miles – AVG Speed 12.3MPH – Top Speed: 34.6MPH
Total: 3,854.80 

I had only planned on the short trip to Hanksville today. I knew it was going to be an uphill battle for 30 or so miles, and in light of yesterdays unexpected century I thought it best to take it easy. I was on the road by 9. I had fancied an earlier alarm call, but the howling wind - which at one stage I mistook for wild, blood-thirsty creatures of the night - disturbed my questionably effective beauty sleep.

Now, I hate to bang on about this, but wow. This entire region continues to keep me enthralled. When riding, I don’t usually like to stop the momentum, but here there is no choice. It is imperative that I stop. To ignore what is in front of me would be an insult to this opportunity and to the place itself. 

I was in the bowels of Glen Canyon this morning, and I began by snaking my way down to the Colorado River and, the far better named in my opinion, Dirty Devil River. The sheer magnitude of these canyons was a sight to stun the most hardened of traveller. The smooth, sloping rocks of these once battered river walls demand your attention, and they get it. After a few stops to soak up the majesty I was hit by my first steep climb, and boy was it steep (yes), but I dug in, and though I expected more to follow they never transpired. It was a gradual climb alright, but with the wind at my back I was being pushed along at a healthy pace. At this rate, I was on course to make it to Hanksville by lunchtime. Not bad considering I was doing 50 miles on a bagel.

The slow escape from the canyon was extraordinary. The red rocks left me feeling as if I had been dropped onto a vision of Mars where the sole thriving business was the Alfred McAlpine road laying company. If you have the means, please make it a priority to travel this route any way you can. It’s the Utah Scenic Byway 95. Note it down.

After exiting the canyon the landscape became more desert-like, with the land smattered by unique buttes and mesas. The final 15 miles were, in the main, downhill, and as I descended into Hanksville I thought “another fifty?” to myself.

No. I’ll pitch up, thanks. Enjoy the cold taste of a Corona and relax. Until I saw my pannier rack broken and hanging off the hinges, that was. Oh well, I found some screws. That should keep it secure until the next town. Probably. Maybe…

Today: 103 Miles – AVG Speed: 14.5MPH – Top Speed: 34.6MPH
Total: 3,854.80

There was no shortage of trepidation in my mind as I began packing at 6:15 today. I was up at that hour for two reasons: Firstly, of course, was to see the sunrise over the iconic Monument Valley, secondly, was to try and beat the heat as I set out for a conservative 65-70 miles or so to feel my way back into the groove. I must say, with total honesty, that an exhaustion experience like the one I felt does affect your confidence.

I finished off the day yesterday with some University LADS ON TOUR from Cardiff. It was my first meeting with my native folk since I set out, and I thoroughly enjoyed their company. It was pleasant to spend time with some young chaps and I bet they’re in for even more recreational delights as their trip winds down. Bloody heathens.

At sunset, we were greeted by the owner, Dorothy, who after collecting the money offered up an insight into the Navajo traditions and their way of life. She explained with great grace how her family live and mused on the past, present and future of her tribe, religion and region. It was good fortune that she offered up the information so readily, as without her, I may never have learnt what I did.

On with today, then. I began carefully. In low gears I made the long gradual uphill on Scenic Route 263 and, as they say, returned-to-the scene-of–the crime of my collapse a couple of days prior. I daren’t even look at the ridge in case it brought back terrible memories. Much like spotting a former lover on the other side of the street clenching a new beau, I suppose. Trying to maintain dignity, all the while knowing, as does she, that you blew it. I was feeling good, though. I made sure to have many system checks in order to make sure I wasn’t dehydrating again and I had the all clear. Well, not all clear, you understand, but certainly healthier than the tarred, syrup-like colouration of old. A vast improvement, anyhow.

With some peace of mind tranquillity began to set in and I found myself appreciating the surroundings in a far more profound way than I had on the agonising inbound leg. The colours seemed more vivid and the thickly clouded sky had a purple hue. Things were beginning to feel extra-terrestrial. I made my way up route 261, which is off my route and therefore, I didn’t possess an elevation profile. As I approached the imposing crimson mesa I was left wondering how I were to pass it. A tunnel, perhaps? That would’ve been fun, but not to be. As I grew closer to the base of the beast I noticed it would be a 3 mile series of sharp switchbacks over a gravel road. "Breathe in, boy", I said to myself. Actually, it wasn’t that tough. As with anything, when the worst is feared the reality often soothes. It was difficult, but also fun to ride and, most importantly, the views were spectacular. Every day I awake in this region I have no idea what to expect, and sometimes, the shock is like having your head dunked in icy water. This road and the scenery it offered appeared as if they were imagined by a twisted genius. Each turn held more majesty in the rocks and the grind to ascend this mesa never beat the wonder. It was staggering. When I reached the summit, I expected (and if I’ve learned anything, it’s to expect nothing) an equally dramatic downhill, but it didn’t appear. Instead it was a gradual rolling descent to my destination. 60 miles completed, just like that. I felt great. So, dare I risk more? Well yes, I did, in fact. It was down hill and the tailwind was with me. I could handle another 34 miles. But then…

...But nothing. It was great. I began to traverse enormous canyons. The like of which I have never seen. There were so few cars on the road, I felt like the last man on earth who had happened to acquire (or fashion, depending on my expertise) a bike.

I found my way to camp by 16:30 and settled down for a gourmet meal of ramen noodles and Chef Boyardee tinned ravioli. Not quite the rural huntsmen yet, but with every day in this vast expanse containing no-one, I’m beginning to feel more like one.

Today 21.2 Miles – AVG Speed: 8.2 MPH – Top Speed: 18.5MPH
Total: 3,744.5

At 7 o’clock this morning I awoke to the free-campers alarm. A police siren. “Good god”, I thought “Can’t you leave me alone, man. I am absolutely shattered” . The siren came closer and I just lay there, in no mood for an early morning cajoling from an officer of the law. As I waited to hear the sound of his door opening and thick boots pounding the dust outside, I wondered how my non-compliance would go-down. I could barely move. Well, those sounds didn’t manifest and after a minute or so, I heard the engine start and away he went. He couldn’t have been more than thirty feet away from me. I passed out again, and sometime later I heard the sound of clacking. This was more unusual. I gathered myself and exited the tent only to see the most staggering sight. A group of eight wild mustangs were circling my area and it was beautiful. They stopped and stared at me whilst nursing their young and grooming their partners. Already I felt better inside of my head, if not quite physically. After querying my existence for a while and allowing me to pack away my clothes they began to gallop off at speed toward the sunrise kicking up a trail of dust in their wake. If only I had my camera to catch this beautiful aspect of nature occurring in front of me. Unfortunately, I was too damn achy to move for the thing, so I’ll have to be content with the memory of it.

It really was a struggle gathering myself today. Yesterday’s toll had not yet been paid and I was seriously apprehensive about completing the 20 miles to Monument Valley, but I couldn’t stay here. I got going, and around the first bend in the road I could see the world famous monoliths. They didn’t disappoint. They were truly staggering, and all I needed to do was get there. Still 18 miles left. There were plenty of up-hills, and the sun was beating down, but the thought of reaching a campsite and being able to take in their beauty was motivation enough. I struggled on, arriving at about 11am and feeling supremely tired. I tried to eat a burger at The Navajo Welcome Centre and just about kept it down. Nothing to do with the cooking, it was just my body’s reluctance to hold down any fsolids as I was still severely dehydrated. I found the campsite just half a mile down the road, and it is here that I have been sitting all day. Reading and intermittently looking out at these searing, alien giants. I require another day off to truly get back to health, but to be able to sit in the presence of these natural wonders has made the journey worth it, and if anything, the feelings such sights evoke is only enhanced by the exertion it took to get here. And I suppose that’s the point.

Today: 105 Miles – AVG Speed: 10.2MPH – Top Speed: 41.2MPH
Total 3,722.10

So that’s goodbye to Colorado, then. To the state that has held me as willing prisoner for longer than any of its siblings: I bid you farewell.

And an early farewell at that. I knew that this leg would be a long grind so I decided to get going at 7am in order to make some progress before the afternoon's inevitable stifling heat drew in. I had planned for the day by carrying a lot of water (nine litres to be precise), plenty of energy bars and three sandwiches. Plus I had some bagels in reserve just in case things got really tough. Enough there to ensure the day wouldn’t be a disaster, I would say.

Things started better than expected, a nice gentle tail wind was propelling me along at an average of 18MPH for the first three hours, by which time I was nearing entrance to the state of Utah: home to the Navajo Nation, Mormonism and highly taxed beer. The first thing I noticed upon entering Utah, as if I had a choice in the matter, was the ostentatiously glitzy “Welcome to Utah” sign that, ironically for a state noted for it’s conservatism, appeared to have been dreamt up by Hunter S. Thompson after a visit to the an 80's Sci-Fi convention in Las Vegas. And if there isn’t such a thing, there should be. Still at least the sign was peppered with bullet holes. That made me feel much better about riding through a religiously fanatical state in Lycra. Much better, indeed.

It was about this time that the tailwinds became headwinds, and their ferocity was on par with, if not greater than anything I have experienced previously. At times it was like running full pelt into a NASA wind tunnel operated by a sadistic cartoon villain. Soon after that invisible and vicious assault I arrived in the town of Bluff, home of some impressive rock formations, including the Navajo Twins (pictured below) and it was here that I stopped for some lunch, a spot of ice cream and a quick evaluation of the day. I had 40 miles remaining until Monument Valley, and felt fine to carry-on. How wrong I was.

Out here, the air is so dry that there are no visible signs of perspiration. Every-time I checked my arms I could see nothing but dry skin. I was aware of this speedy evaporation in such climes, but unaware quite how much water was being lost. The heat became more potent and as the afternoon wore on and I could feel something wasn’t right. The sweat then began to pour out of me like liquid from a watering can. I was starting to feel dangerously lethargic and after a smooth downhill I found a shaded area next to a rock. I was jittering and aching. Looking at my legs I could see the muscles twitching around the ankles and calves as if I were under electric shock treatment and I decided to take about 25 minutes out to try and revert back to something resembling normality and continue with the day. A couple of people stopped to check on my well-being and also to inform me that the rest of the ride to Monument Valley wasn’t so bad. Just a few uphills, they said.

Well, on I went. The first uphill going on for 2.5 miles. This was agony. All my muscles were aching at this stage: my shoulders, neck, lower back, and, of course, my legs.  “We’ll wait for you” shouted a voice from one car as I was struggling at a steady 4MPH to claw my way to the horizon. When I did, eventually, reach the ridge, I was greeted by the greatest sight my eyes have seen since this tour began, and perhaps ever. The Valley of The Gods. A truly inspiring bank of red-rocks stretching for miles. The problem was, I was too bloody shattered to appreciate them or, as you will see, take a photograph that did justice to their wonder. I made my way on the long downhill without pedalling, conserving my energy for any more climbs that awaited around the twisting, scenic road. As I was whistling down the hill I spotted five people standing next to their car. It was the “We’ll wait for you” gang. On closer inspection, they were a family and as I approached the vehicle they began clapping and whooping with cries of “You can do it”. It was at this stage I cried a bit myself. Their small act of seemingly unimportant motivational yelps combined with my delirium and agony was enough to briefly send me over the edge.

At this stage my body was screaming at me to stop, but I had to get to Monument Valley as there was nowhere else to stay. The town of Mexican Hat was fully booked. Everywhere. Every last bit of it. After a 10 minute break in this town named after a rock formation - which, I might add, resembles a toadstool more than a sombrero - I powered on. Well, limped on, anyway.

Attempting to climb another two-mile hill I, after several stoppages, decided to call it a day. Actually, that's not true. There was no decision. I could simply go no further. I found a comfortable spot a hundred yards in from the road and set-up camp. When I eventually laid down for rest, it was the greatest physical relief I have ever felt. My body had had enough. As I lay in the tent drifting in and out of sleep, my muscles continued to twitch and contract. This was true exhaustion, and there really is no more a poetic way to put it than that.

Today: 75.4 Miles – AVG Speed: 15.9MPH – Top Speed: 42.2MPH
Total: 3,617.13

After our three day enforced absence from the road, Betty and I are back. The new wheel came in yesterday, and boy, doesn’t she look sharp. Obviously parting with a limb can be painful, but when a shiny new one comes through the post and is expertly attached then the sadness is neutralised by the novelty. Just ask Heather Mills.

Anyway, the old girl is back to her best and looking fantastic, which is more than I can say for myself…

…As Betty was in the operating theatre, I, like all good pals, was elsewhere. Enjoying the Telluride Jazz Celebration to be exact. Jazz isn’t my preferred musical genre, but I went in headfirst yesterday anyway and really enjoyed it. It was a desirable change to experience a cultural event in the middle of what has largely been, thus far, a sight seeing tour. I also suspect that cheap beer consumed at altitude may have contributed to my enjoyment of the event. At any rate, the result of this enforced jaunt was that I wasn’t feeling too great this morning, and the knowledge that another 2,000 feet of climbing awaited me sent shivers down my spine and then, moments later, up through my oesophagus. I wasn’t even aware the internal organs connected in this manner, but the proof, as the saying goes, is in the digestive tract. I needn’t had worried about the ride, though, as once I got cracking, everything clicked into place. The climb was fun, in fact. Not only physically, but also as I knew this would be the final ascent through The Rockies. It felt like the end of a chapter. I’ll often be able to make happy withdrawals from the memory bank when I think back to my time in this most mountainous of states.

Once I arrived at the top of Lizard Head Pass, I made a snappy and furtive change of attire as a result of the dark clouds overhead and prepared myself for a downhill. A downhill of 60 miles to be exact. That’s what was in store as we went from 10,222 feet at the summit then through the San Juan National Forest before arriving, a few hours later, in Cortez at 6,200 feet.  This was a nice easy day and a very civilised manner in which to get back in the saddle. Tomorrow, however, there's a 125 mile ride in the offing through the desert to Monument Valley, Utah. This destination, along with many others that are pending, is high on the list of must-sees of the tour. It’s just going to be a bloody pain getting there.

Today: 67.2 Miles - AVG Speed: 11.2MPH - Top Speed: 30.2MPH
Total: 3,331.10

Out of all the towns in all the world to get marooned in, I had to get marooned in this one. 

About 5 miles into the ride I met the acquaintance of another cyclist named Dietmar, an Austrian chap based in San Francisco. He was extremely poetic and effusive in his praise of the landscapes that I was yet to encounter and he also had a very refreshing outlook. "Take your time" was his message. Little was I to know that taking time would be enforced upon me later in the day.

I'm still in The Rockies, and as such, there was more climbing, about 45 miles or so through the course of the day. The first tough ascent was a 2,000 footer over the Dallas Divide set over a series of serpentine switchbacks. I enjoyed this one, it was easy enough to get a good rhythm going and the views of The Rockies were awe-inspiring. The hardest task is maintaining concentration in the midst of so much attention-grabbing, rugged landscape.

The second climb was the 16 mile grind to the town of Telluride where I planned to spend the night and the following day. It was a truly beautiful ride amongst the starkest red rock I've encountered so far whilst, to my right, the San Miguel river - which disappointingly, isn't made of Spanish lager - snaked and rushed in the opposite direction, giving me the strange sensation of feeling like some kind of land salmon.

Arriving in Telluride was like arriving in Disneyland. It was perfect. Perfectly clean, perfectly sunny, perfectly perfect. However, this is dependent on your interpretation of perfection. The lack of grime and grit does lend itself to a very American ideal of what is deemed perfect, and whilst the town is set in the most mind-blowing of locations, there is a sense of a touristic toy-town to it. Deciding to migrate here would be like wilfully erecting a blockade against what we may consider the real world, and I suppose that's the point for many of the residents. Speaking to locals in bars and shops there does is an almost Utopian outlook to life, and of all the towns I've visited so far and had conversations with the residents, this one seems to be the most isolated. The most Stepfordian.

I did have the pleasure of meeting Maddy, an Australian tourist and Lauren, a temporary resident on my day off, and we had a very pleasant day drinking in some local bars before taking the cable car up to the sister town of Mountain Village to watch a free evening concert by Amy Helm. The event didn't really tickle my fancy, in truth. Watching dozens of badly-dressed men in socks, sandals and sports jackets dancing like they were competing for some kind of Embarrassing-Uncle-at-a-Wedding award left me feeling cold, but the views over the Rockies in the background certainly compensated for the excruciating fashion show in the foreground. 

I'll level with you, the evening descended into a rather drunken haze, where we spent time with a local stoner named Peter who kept pointing to his bicep whilst saying "Born in the shadow of the statue of liberty, baby. HooHa!" and Owen, an Irish immigrant who was carrying a shepherds staff that was, for seemingly no good reason, fused with a rams horn. It was all very bizarre and when I decided to call it a night I was left trying to piece together exactly what happened in this curious real-life jigsaw puzzle. I fear I may never get the full picture.

Unfortunately, Betty's new wheel won't arrive for another two days, so I have an enforced stopover in this most intriguing of towns. The good news is that the world renowned Telluride Jazz Celebration festival is on this weekend. So, I'm going to enjoy that on Friday whilst the old girl gets some well earned TLC. Nice.

Today: 75.3 Miles - AVG Speed: 12.2MPH - Top Speed: 35.3MPH
Total: 3,464.8

Poor old Betty. She's been holding out tremendously well over the past couple of months, but I fear that I may have neglected her needs in favour of my old road pals and later, when I became distracted with the novel beauty of The Rockies. 

I noticed a bent spoke on her hind legs this morning, and when she was inspected by the vet, he said that there were some terminal injuries and that she requires a.... Sorry, give me a moment to compose myself... she requires AN AMPUTATION. It's all my fault, if only I had listened to her squeals and my instincts we could have salvaged it. But it looks like she'll need a replacement prosthetic. Unfortunately, the vet in Gunnison didn't have a durable enough piece, but I hope we'll have it sorted early enough in Montrose, the town in which i now reside.

After the devastating news, I managed to gather my senses before convincing Betty to soldier on. It's a real testament to her spirit that she didn't object once, if anything, that old familiar steely expression took on a more determined slant. I've never been prouder to call Betty "mine" than I was at approximately 10:30 this morning.

On we went with the day, and almost immediately we were up against it, the gradual climb began straight out of Gunnison and the headwind was brutal, as bad as anything we've encountered thus far. This combined with a gradual increase in the gradient, and - you guessed it - the slow thinning of the air made for a difficult first few hours, but the wind eventually calmed and with that blessing, so did my breathing. There was one final four mile climb that I attacked with gusto and impatience as I knew, awaiting the other side was a 16 mile downhill to the basin town of Montrose. And when it came, it was glorious, I hardly pedalled at all for the best part of 30 minutes, it was extremely satisfying to let gravity start pulling it's weight (or mine, to be precise) and allow us to glide into the town below. I immediately sought out the campsite I had found online and after some wrong turns, I found it. I was scrambling up dirt roads aiming for the peak of a dirt landfill where mountain bikers do their thing and the public are allowed free camping, but just as I was about to set up my dwelling the storm in the distance began it's old familiar lightening act and moved menacingly close with worrying speed. I made the snap decision to get a motel. You know how I feel about rain by now. I pedalled for my life, hoping to find one before the storm caught up with me and entered my open panniers, which were cradling 6 precious Coors' and the machine from which I type. I made it to The Braidwood Motel just in time and as I paid my money the show began. Another violently impressive thunderstorm, which I was now free to enjoy as an observer as opposed to a bit player in a piece of soggy immersive theatre. 

One of the other guests here introduced himself as Frank Turner, a local salesman with the jovially bombastic manner of an 1980's National Lampoon cast member, and when I informed him of my bike ride he offered to buy me pizza. 20 minutes later, he returned with the Italian feast at my door. And a McDonalds Cheeseburger.

"Ever had one of these before?" Asked Frank

"Yes, Frank, we have McDonald's at home, too" I said, slightly baffled.

"Really, all the way in New Zealand, huh, well, it sure is good American food and this is my big American welcome"

I overlooked the inaccurate assumption of my nationhood as he was so ruddy kind. Although, when i said "Why not?" to him in conversation, he tried to sell me a porno film as that's what he thought I said. And he kept shouting "chicken legs" at me when I left my room before making a clucking sound, which I didn't really get, but he bought me a pizza so who am I to argue.

Today: 70.7 Miles - AVG Speed 12.2MPH – Top Speed 38.6MPH
Total: 3,386.2

Be prepared for some statistics here, things are about to get mathematical.

Today was a day of extreme variations and a reminder of the harsh realities of cycling. Before today, my highest constant climb had been approximately 2,500 feet and that was after 5 days in Maine. I also had a few days of 5,000+ feet of climbing in The Ozarks, but the ascents were matched by glorious downhills to give my legs some respite. Today would be approximately 4,000ft of climbing, but it would be constant for 15 miles where the peak would be over two miles above sea level. By far the longest uphill of the trip and, unsurprisingly, my life.

The early morning sun lit up Salida and the temperature was a comfortable 85 Fahrenheit (29 celsius) I knew this would drop considerably as I made the long and arduous ascent up Monarch Mountain, but at least the sun was shining. There were headwinds to battle early on, but my most serious concern was the traffic. For a state that is held in such high regard for it’s promotion of the outdoor lifestyle, from what I’ve seen, Colorado has very few provisions for cyclists, and this includes a decent width shoulder on the way to the Monarch Pass. This lack of foresight for vulnerable cyclists combined with the disregard from motorists, in particular RV owners, made for a day of not only physical exertion, but also mental strain, the fear of being driven into a ravine or crushed against a rock face leading me to constantly arch my neck and pull over whenever I deemed it a risk. 

The next battle was with the altitude. After about 8,500 feet I began to notice the thinning of the air and had to pay close attention to my breathing, the lack of oxygen was severely limiting my muscle movement and despite the gradient on the climb not being as steep as The Ozarks or The Green Mountains this caused a much greater strain on my body. With six miles to go I found myself stopping every other mile for water so as not to be gasping for breath whilst drinking in motion. After three hours of slow and steady climbing I reached the summit of 11,312 feet and immediately noticed the chill in the air upon disembarking from my steed. It is not uncommon to have snow closures on this pass even in July, so goose-pimpled knackers were the least to be expected. I stopped for 15 minutes to get some breath and pictures before taking a good look at the map and realising that it would be a steep downhill for 10 miles followed by a constant decline in elevation for the next 32 miles all the way to Gunnison. Glorious, or so I thought.

The initial descent was exhilarating. After a climb of that magnitude, the thrills of going at speed down a winding mountain with views to die for is the stuff of fantasy. But it was after the gradient lessened that the views that greeted me also surprised me. No longer was I looking at sharp, alpine like mountains, but instead, rolling green hills dotted with cattle and streams. It was as if I had just left Switzerland for the Brecon Beacons. And with the apparent change in nation, came a certain change in weather. The storms clouds weren’t so much gathering as jostling for prime position in the skies above. Lightning rods struck the ground with increasing regularity and then the heavens opened. And they didn’t stop for the next two hours. No wonder this country has so many god-fearing citizens. Every-time someone farts during a sermon there must be at least one weekly storm in the local area that could be construed as punishment from on-high, that or continued drought. There is apparently no such thing as drizzle in the Land of the Free.

By the time I arrived in Gunnison I was again, soaked through, but felt fortunate to find The Wanderlust hostel, and it is from here that I type under my Navajo Indian bed linen with aching legs. No doubt looking like a pallid and agonised Pocahontas.

Today: 66.8 Miles – AVG Speed 14.9MPH - Top Speed 40.1MPH
Total: 3,315.9

Our final morning together was spent over a very lazy two-hour breakfast before departing for our final 10 miles as a group, and despite the sadness at our impending parting it felt great to finally hit some of the first sustained climbs since New York. I hadn’t noticed how much my legs had craved the raw burn. They were like a man who had settled for a life of monotonous missionary horseplay with a bland lover before finally seeing the light after an unexpectedly passionate rendezvous with a forthright PVC adorned mistress from his forgotten past; potentially dangerous if treated without caution, but a masochistic pleasure when dealt with correctly.

We finally reached our literal and metaphorical fork in the road just outside of the belly the Southern Rockies. I was sad to see them go, but also incredibly excited about these new frontiers that awaited me. I have been anticipating The Rockies and Utah from day one so my excitement was bubbling over. We hugged and had some final photos before our farewells and then came the long goodbye as the team waved me off as they watched me take my left turn, and with that casual lean into the wind, that was that. I was alone once again. But what an incredible blanket of comfort awaited me.

As soon as I made my departure I was confronted with some of the most spectacular views I have ever seen. The road I was travelling was built parallel to the Arkansas River where I watched rafters and canoeists make their way down the unpredictable course, waving at them as they played with danger and thrills. The cliff faces of red and grey rock jutted out on to the road, imposing their gnarled features as I traversed the winding highway. In the distance I could see faded mountain-tops, with each range in closer proximity to me revealing more detail in the personality of these giant, patriarchal, ancient figures. I was blown away by what I was seeing. I had managed my expectations of beauty and the magnificent well thus far so as not to be disappointed, but here, I was dumbfounded and if I had a companion, I would've been rendered speechless. My mind overcome with the purity of joy and my heart beating with the excitement. I had not a worry in the world for the rest of the afternoon. When you realise your insignificance in the face of such imposing geological scenery and well over a billion years of history, solipsistic concerns fade away.

When I arrived in Salida I discovered there was a bike race in town so all accommodation was booked up, I eventually found a free state campground on the Arkansas River and this is from where I type now. The wind blowing and the sun retreating but my mood flying. Tomorrow comes The Monarch Pass at over 11,000 feet. It’ll be a long gradual climb into the low temperatures followed by a glorious descent and I’m eager to get going. At this moment, I wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else in the world. This place is truly sublime.