Intro

Welcome to a story, or stories I should say. A compilation of adventure tales. An ongoing itch to see, smell, and touch the world, or at least the deserted roads and rarely trampled mountains of America. Characters within the descriptive paragraphs of these stories carve out the coming and going companions in life; vital life people and pieces that parallel a universe for moments, days, years. And then spear off, leaving granules of magnificent memories of magical places. They leave a lasting trace, a gained sense of courage to stand tall on oxygen deprived mountains and shout absurdities like: I love you Ralph! Ralph is a teenage reindeer stuffed of the finest synthetic polyester fiber poof; he says made in Indonesia but really tells me he is from the North Pole. Delivered through a chimney one December night 20 years ago, we instantly became cuddle buddies upon that morning's sunrise. He is the instigator. The inspiration. And the imagination. He breathes creativity. Laughter. His is a dear companion. And yes, at 4lbs he tags along atop a pack or strapped to a rack. In delirium of 107 degree heat, the small possession of material belongings gain a persona. Innate objects become friends of the road and trails. And as for the humans who accompany, their presence reads priceless. Without O'Reilly, a 29 year old New Hampshirian with superior taste buds, the mathematical six foot four inch tall German, or handful of organic peanut butter and 99 cent jam eating munchkins, there would be a lot less excitement. The encounters we make with our specie, encapsulating the world with their awkward ways and over consumerist love, somehow we have managed to become overly adored creatures. Their generous hearts restore a faith that goodness prevails in the upheaval of a sometimes lost humanity. As for myself, I'm just the navigator, paddling up the stream of life munching on Clif Bars, with an iPhone documenting the frailties and goodies underneath all the simplified complexities in the world we reside. So again, I welcome you to get lost and dream a little through this typed text and your imagination. My name is Kristen Gentilucci. I live in Berkeley California and I love dogs.


Friday, May 30, 2014

Day 3. Bryce to Boulder Mountain

Miles: 80
Ride time: 6 hours 
Elevation gain: thousands of feet
High: 95 degrees F
Low: 31 degrees F

There came that place, in a forested land, off a beaten track, where the opportunity to become one with a tree was calling both our names. The sun gave way to the calmest of meadows and wind turned pine needles into wind chimes. We inhaled a smoke that brought the world to another spiritual level. Vision sharpened to a razor edge sword, colors unknown to the human eye came to the surface. As though suddenly we were both in a cartoon, or the childhood game of Candyland, the trees communicated, the grass grew before my very eyes, and the suns afternoon rays brought complete bliss. The landscape exposed itself in a Van Gough, Monet, and Degas painting, as if you could reach out and smudge the oil paint colors, blend them with you fingertips, and create an emotional texture. Colors spoke to a soul deep inside, pinks, peaches, blues and lush greens, so vibrant, so lucid and vivid, it was unreal, mystical. I have to say, I was a little envious when O'reilly told me he married the tall tree standing overhead. It was short lived, but so magical. 

Dusk opened the corridors to an expansive universe blanketing us. Stars dart in all directions, dancing through the sky. Hours past and space takes over. 

I think it must have been dehydration, pores gasping for any ounce of saliva, or too much Whiskey and mind tripping herbs, that led to a morning of wobbly wooziness. Although Oreily can down coffee by the hour, coffee is not my cup of tea. But this morning, the sugary caffeinated blackness jolted eyes open and enthusiasm for the day. Salty sweat laced with DMT beaded off the rims of our helmets as the Rockies must reach all the way into Utah. The town is called Escalate for a reason, and it's pretty much a never ending escalator laying out an alphalt carpet of 8% 10% 12% grades in the blistering heat. It's at that time when being cheered on by oversized RVs, one begins to question why. And as the thoughts start to trickle back and forth though ones brain like a pinball machine, the summit peaks, grandness opens up, and infinety and beyond is plated at your eyes on a silver plater. At times it is too much to take in, too overwhelming, as if only one could fill a jar, packed tight with this vision, this memory. Bodies drenched in sweat, legs so tired they feel like the last piece of a Jenga puzzle before it topples, suddenly it all becomes very clear why. Views are that much more spectacular, food tastes 100 times better, and an inflated pad had never been a better bed. Life is simple, all belongings have an exact place and order they live, our machines act like wild horses straight out of a western film, and we continue on, just riding with the rythem of life. 

But at times, what is grander than any of this, is earning a decent, 25 miles of human flight off the cliffs of a mountain. Our live jukebox of Oreily's memory has any song to keep the mood groovy. Heavy loads make way for high speeds, like a cheeta through an wild grass land. Lift off is almost possible. We hop from forest to white rocky cliffs to prairie lands and back to red rock mountains. Buffalo, birds, deer, prairie dogs, jack rabbits, and ground hogs all wave us by. Rivers revitalize overheated bodies, and clouds gush shade in waves. 

We ended in Boulder Utah, a tiny town if you can even call it that, with a makeshift campsite we foraged on the outskirts. O'reily asleep before 6pm, leaves Ralph  and I to wander this empty town like pioneers  with curiosity. A grueling 3,000, 20 mile climb awaits caffeinated muscles upon sunrise.