We reach Bryce Canyon and decamp at a cluster of Log Cabins called Harold's Inn. Despite the innkeeper's shortness, we stay here for the next two nights. Night two is of particular interest. Six Japanese tourists touring the U.S. on Harleys are fascinated by our bikes. They say that the 350's are particularly rare in Japan, seeing as how they were all imported here. They take pictures by the score, of us and finally pictures of us with them, and leave us two origami cranes on our doorstep in the morning. Very touching. Obviously, we also saw Bryce Canyon and were amazed beyond words. It also goes without saying that we paid $10 for a six pack and $6 for a box of granola bars at Ruby's, just before the park entrance. Turns out the only people who visit the park are foreigners, who have no compunction about being fleeced by gypsy mother#$%*ers.
Bryce Canyon is also our introduction to the 10 mile beer run, an event that will become a hallmark of our time in Utah. Our commitment to drinking is put to the test as we hit a thunderstorm for 7 miles on our way to Panguitch for beer. Later, we take 89 up to Koosharem, then take 24 east to Loa. Loa is named after Mauna Loa in Hawaii, where the town founders acted as missionaries. The name is apt, since scoring beer in Loa is about as easy as it might have been 120 years ago.
I must head to to Bicknell, some 8 miles away, but I'm rewarded by finding a decent porter called Cherny. I take it back to Loa and the place we're staying in called the "Snuggle Inn". Basic maintenance and beer drinking take place in the parking lot, where we discover Nic's right rear shock mount is missing a bolt. We have no idea how long its been missing, and start to wonder aloud how far one might safely travel with said bolt missing when a toothless knight in shining armor arrives in a late 80's Bronco. Jeff pulls over and asks if we need help, because, 1. We might need help and, 2. We are the only thing happening in Loa at 8:30pm. Jeff leads us to his garage, and finds a bolt for Nic. Jeff is a magnificent human being, won't even take a fivesky for his troubles. He's basically the town mechanic. I ask him what his rate is. $20 an hour, but most people pay him what they can. I tell him that most mechanics make $90 or more in Chicago. "Yeah, well…" he says, then looks away.
The next day we take Hwy. 72 up to I-70, where we grab Hwy. 10 to Price, UT. Hwy. 72 is astounding, as if you took the Swiss Alps and stretched them out on a canvas and denuded them of people. We reach a peak whose name I forget at 9,100 feet, and within half an hour we're in what seems like light desert again. The exciting part of this stretch is that we keep a thunderstorm to our west for the better part of three hours. Lightning strikes, but it seems several miles away, so we press ahead. I feel like I'm pushing my bike at 75mph, but then Nic passes me. Guess I'm not pushing my bike at all, actually.
We hit Price, and the state liquor store. I find a few bottles of Little Kings, which I haven't seen in years. And, of course, blessed hard liquor. You just can't have a hard day's travel without hard liquor at the end of it. For close to a week, we have been on land that sanctifies the right of the individual to create and make their way through this world. In matters of hunting, life, love and home-building, these people are best left to their own devices without government interference. We are in a land blessedly free from any kind of oversight, in a place where freedom and responsibility are king. Except when it comes to what we drink. Guess we'll chalk it up to the charming ideological inconsistencies that every region has.
Due to a combination of 85 octane gas and air screws opened way up, the popping on my bike is almost gone. Our average altitude is varying by several thousand from day to day, so it seems a bit pointless to constantly tweak and hunt for the ideal setting. The bikes wheeze at the top of every pass, and gradually find their legs again at some point in the descent. Its likely a phantom product of my imagination, but my 750 is getting a bit noisy. The ideal "sewing machine" clatter is getting a bit loud, and I wonder if the tappets are out of adjustment. But then I cock my head to the side while riding and the noises seem to diminish. It doesn't help that the sound of Nic's baffle-less 350 weaves in and out of my ears, sometimes blending with my bike's hum, sometimes not. Best to not worry about it, guess. Next stop, Vernal.
Hey, we're back in Dinosaur country. And soon we'll be in a new state… Wyoming. I'm looking forward to better beer already.
