Day Twenty-Six: Hanksville (Rest Day)

We left the motel before checkout time—a rare move on our part—and headed down the road to a diner for breakfast. Blondie’s was the name of the joint, and as we pulled up uncoordinatedly through the gravel, a woman leaning against the front porch railing yelled, “We’ve been expecting you!” Not really sure who told her what, but we had a sneaking suspicion that it was the motel owner since he recommended the place just the night before. The breakfast was amazing, just what we needed for a day full of riding—oh wait…

Our plan was to ride 66 miles to Bullfrog, a marina on the edge of Lake Powell. But as we left the restaurant and made our way to the gas station, we learned that the ferry that would take us across the lake was closed for repairs. We called the station and received the same message: “Closed for repairs.” But time after time, we asked customers at the gas station who had just come back from the lake, and they told us it was running. The day went on like this, back and forth, wondering if we would be able to take our planned route. We developed an alternate plan, which was to bike to Blanding, UT, but that was 125 miles away and definitely not doable in one day. So by the time the clock struck three, we were “over it” and decided to give in for one more day in Hanksville. It was too hot and too late to get going, so we rolled back over to the motel and checked in (again) for the night.

Next came the Red Rock Restaurant, where we had eaten the night before, and we slurped down bowls of soup and crunched unsatisfying salads. While we were eating, we saw another cyclist with a fully loaded bike pull up to the front of the restaurant. We instantly recognized him as Craig, a cyclist that we had met on our first day in Zion National Park. We were happy to share a table and a few beers with our new friend, and we were soon joined by four other gentlemen who rolled in on slick black Harleys.

They were older men, a few years retired, and good lord, did they have the jokes. One guy with salt and pepper hair and his fair share of wrinkles used the line, “I lean to the right,” and sat to my left, brushing up against my arm during the duration of the meal and chuckling all the while. They threw jokes across the table, back and forth, flirted with the waitress, and kept us laughing for hours. At the end of the meal, we said goodbye, even though we were staying at the same motel. We opened the door to our room and flopped on the bed to watch the US women’s team play Switzerland in an uneventful 0-0 match, grabbed a few more snacks from the gas station, then slept another nine hours before taking on another day of riding.