Galluping Away from Workaday

The only thing that worried me was the Fruit Loops. There is nothing in the world more helpless, irresponsible, and depraved than a man in the depths of a sugar binge, and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon.

--Little Jimmy

FLAGSTAFF, Ariz.—There are times when life and the workaday world pinch down so hard upon the soul and the psyche that it feels as though you are on the brink of existential rupture—that unfortunate condition in which ordinary men suffer a shattered spirit and are transformed into bereft, muttering wastrels adrift in a purposeless sea of monotonous existence. When faced with the pressures of conformity, fools arch their backs in morbid curiosity, wondering where their breaking point lies. Wise men go on vacation.

We found ourselves on the road in the late afternoon after hastily bugging out of our square-walled confines at work. As is usually the case with all of our vacations, a dark gloom congealed in the skies and unleashed a cold, watery, lightning-laced vengeance upon us just as we were securing the bikes to the back of the vehicle. Hurricane force winds drowned out our voices as we called out our traveling checklist to one another for one last time before we hit the road. Satisfied that we had not forgotten anything, we made a beeline south—hoping to outflank the wraparound moisture that had been liberated from Hurricane Jimena as she raged through Baja California.

We hoped to drive nonstop to Gallup for the evening. Our plan was to get some miles under our belt and also avoid running into other human beings. I had just received a monumentally tragic haircut from David's Barbershop in the Atomic City to coincide with our journey. Since Old Dave was out, I had entrusted my shaggy noggin to young Dave—Old Dave's son—who halfheartedly set upon butchering my pate like an inexperienced gardener hacking away at a privet hedge with dull instruments at five minutes before five o'clock on a payday weekend. The resulting haircut gave me the look of a pinhead, an escaped mental patient perhaps, or, worse yet, a French tourist. Caroline's clear-headed counsel urged us to keep a low profile until the barber's work could be concealed with several days' growth or by a festive tourist hat purchased at an exotic location.

Of course, nothing goes according to plan and before the day's driving was completed, I had suffered the non-verbal insubordination of several teenage gas-station cashiers and convenience store cashiers, one of whom backed far away from the cash register with her hands in the air and invited me to take whatever I wanted from the till as long as I wouldn't hurt her. Fortunately, I did not oblige the frightened woman by taking her up on her offer.

Gallup, N.M., is a fixture of Old West fascination, the location of many old Westerns and a retreat for movie icons like John Wayne, Errol Flynn and others. The town is also known for its Indian jewelry, and during its darker years, drunks on the streets. These days, Gallup is home to a fantastic collection of bike trails. It's signature selection, the High Desert Trails, are located right off the western end of the old Route 66.

The High Desert Trails offer up to 22 miles of riding on various connected loops. Caroline and I opted for a 17-mile ride, which began at sunrise the day after we had fled the Atomic City. We chose an early start time in an attempt to beat the rains. Out here, you don't want to get caught in the middle of nowhere on two wheels. A good deluge will turn the trails into an unrideale, unwalkable slog through soupy mud.

The trails were in good shape—fast and smooth. They are a real treat to ride. While much of the journey is on smooth, buff singletrack, the High Desert Trails throw in enough technical features to keep you on your toes. The surrounding area is loose and raw, and a momentary lapse of concentration will lead to an endo if you're stupid enough to let your front wheel wander off the hard pack and into the loose stuff at the edges.

While the first half of our trail starting from the western Mentmore trailhead meant a steady climb to the top, the second half (not quite) mostly meant fast descending on serpentine dirt through odd rock formations. Nevertheless, even the back half of the trails can keep you out of breath, and at one point we took a breather next to the bleached skull of some large-toothed desert rodent, and were reminded that no matter who you are, when all is said and done you must return to Mother Earth.

We made the ride in record time and felt pretty good, but later we would find that hours on the road make the legs stiffen up. That thought occurred to us as we walked the rim trail at Meteor Crater National Historic Landmark with our guide, Kim. The Meteor Crater is the result of a big damned asteroid smacking the Earth some 50,000 years ago. It left a hole in the ground deeper than the Washington Monument is tall and several miles in diameter. Because of the lack of moisture around these parts, the hole looks pretty much the same as it did after the impact—well, except for the char marks and shrieks of terror that are the earmarks of an Armageddon event.

Even with fried legs, we were more ambulatory than the handful of other people who took the tour with us. One guy from deep in the heart of Texas had purchased new Merrill boots for his journey, but was staggering unsteadily like a zombie over the rocky terrain. Clearly a man who had walked on little else besides asphalt and concrete, he seemed pleased by his newly acquired footwear and his adventuresome spirit. I couldn't help but pat him on the back and congratulate him, which was fine at first. Then he began glancing uneasily toward the top of my head at my new haircut, and you could see the questions and dark thoughts begin to formulate in the reptilian portion of his brain.

Realizing that his birdlike legs and unsteady gait would not serve him well on this alien terrain should things turn ugly, he began sizing me up for fist-a-cuffs. He nervously clenched and unclenched his fists, rehearsing choreographed moves in his mind that he had seen used recently in Hollywood action movies. He frowned when he realized that he would probably get crushed like a bug in all out confrontation with me, and likely tossed over the side and into the bowels of the crater, so he retreated behind our tour guide, out of my reach, for the rest of the journey.

Here in Flagstaff a day later, Hurricane Jimena continues to dog us, and our plans for a big ride in the mountains north of here have been quashed. Perhaps we will try our luck in the red hills of nearby Sedona, or maybe we'll act like tourists on a downtown tour of Old Route 66. Whatever we choose to do, I will try to find a suitable hat so as not to unnerve the hordes of people who have opted to run far, far away from the spine-crushing pressures of Corporate America as we have. There's plenty of room out here in the American West for us wise ones who have opted to maintain our sanity with a little road time and a taste of Americana.

In the meantime, we have staggered out to the breakfast bar, where I made a beeline for the Fruit Loops like a methamphetamine addict drawn to the acrid smell of toxic chemicals. Caroline has secured a rolled up newspaper and is trying to fend me away from the clear acrylic tank of brightly colored frosted rings. But with a night of hard sleep bolstering the horror of my new haircut, the others in the breakfast area are paralyzed with fear, and poor Caroline is on her own trying to corral the savage sugar monster that I have become. Things obviously will go from bad to worse once a little caffeine gets thrown into the mix.

See you on down the road.