Day 2- "Look at me. I'm falling off of a cliff now…the feeling's so beautiful all the way down." The Offspring- Ixnay on the Hombre
8:00am
Tents heat as the sun peaks over the porcupine rim. A symphony of opening tent zippers serve to motivate those less inclined to leave the solace of their sleeping bags. The gray nylon world gives way to red canyon walls. A blue Jeep and two bikes wait with eager anticipation.
A breakfast of pop tarts and powerade stews as we speed south onto Kane Creek Road. Miles of cave dwellings and the lyrical motivation of the Offspring lead to the parking lot of the Amasa Back Trailhead. We are overshadowed by a stone monolith that serves as a diving platform for base jumpers with nylon dependencies. How I would like to experience that sensation of flight. A stabbing pain from my wallet silences those fantasies.
Two riders prepare in their own ritualistic fashions. Small circles are ridden. Doors are locked. Gravel is crunched under tread en route to the trailhead.
Nerves are quelled as a stone staircase is descended. Mandatory air sets the tempo for an entire ride as two bikes seem to express their gratitude for taking the hard line.
A small creek is crossed and ledges are surmounted. The ascent seems fuelled by talk of obstacles to come and the glistening snow of the mountains at our back. A summit view of canyons, sandstone fins, and silver peaks engulf the senses… none of which can quell the knowledge of the impending descent.
How does one summarize the descent? Air.
Mandatory? Not to some… though no one told us that day that these drops were optional.
The turn to the Jackson Trail comes too soon. Bikes rest in the dirt. Powerbars are eaten. Armor is donned. Few pictures are taken as forearms are tested and heart rates soar down the technical descent. 5 inches of single-pivot bliss exhibit an endless appetite for ledges and hard lines.
The lactic acid builds in my forearms throughout the wrestling match that is a technical Moab downhill. Our boundaries are pushed and the line is cleaned.
Suddenly, the line ends in stagnant water. How symbolic that our re-emergence into society is a swampy bog smelling of excrement. All parties survive the crossing without contracting any form of venereal disease.
Daylight still looms on the horizon... endorphins are still pumping... we head to Bartlett Wash.
Anti-climactic is a word that comes to mind strongly... we pedal through endless sand in a feeble effort to find the entrance to the slickrock that surrounds us. Valuable daylight seeps away until we finally come across the trail....
The trail quickly brings us to an endless sea of stone. White lines come and go and are quickly left behind. It is strange how overwhelmed I feel, with no direct line to follow or trail to finish I lose my ambition to ride difficult obstacles. Daylight threatens to retreat behind the mountains and we leave while we still can... this place demands a full day and fresh legs.
Photos in Bartlett Wash demand morning light. We demand nachos and beer.
Nachos. Nachos and beer. The Moab Brewery provides that bare essentials for the post-ride storytelling. A feeble attempt to relive every turn of the ride takes place over tortilla chips, refried beans, and Utah beer.
A crackling fire burns into the night….tent zippers close under the moonlight as thoughts of the next day's ride seeps in…. Poison Spider Mesa to the Portal Trail…. oh yes.
Stay tuned for Day 3...
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Gotta love Utah riding!
. Many tears were shed as I handed her over to my son who I knew was doomed to never take her once more into the dirt. I used to go to the Fat Tire Festival every year (back before the ENTIRE world knew about Moab). Good times indeed. Thanks for the great pics and sparking some even greater memories for me 
