Tainted Saint

We left our private rest stop reluctantly this morning.  Everybody has private jets these days, but who among the 1 %-ers are pitching a tent beside the "Not All Cacti are Pricks" display at their own private rest stop along the Interstate, lulled to sleep by the soothing screech of air brakes?  Damn few that's who.

We reached Quartzsite in a timely manner, at least by the standards of slugs and snails, and began the search for the perfect breakfast.  One of the quirks of character that June treasures in her husband is my desire to "check out every single choice" before committing to, for example, a place to eat breakfast.  In a car, this endearing quality takes an irritating, but not psychotic amount of time, and June can do her crossword.  On bikes, in a town approximately 3 miles long by 1 mile deep, with restaurants at each cardinal point, it can take just a little longer.  I think we spent about an hour and a half of prime cycling time diddling around Quartzsite settling, of course, for the first restaurant we checked out.  On the plus side, we upped our daily mileage.  On the down side, we didn't get anywhere.  While the breakfast was ultimately mediocre, we were inspired by an 85 year old man sitting in an adjacent booth who was cycling to Phoenix on his road bike (about 130 miles).  He was holding hands across the table with his wife who, following in their car, acted as the support vehicle - early Valentine's Day "Awwwwwwww..." (don't ask me why I didn't get a story from him - just don't).

Camped last night at the Ramblin' Roads RV resort in Hope, Az.  For 10 bucks we got a spot under a metal A-frame, hot - not warm - showers, and unlimited conversational opportunities with garrulous retirees who had, I'm just guessing, thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of amazing stories.  I had enough energy to prepare camp, lie down on my thermorest, assume the position and poof!  Out like a light by 7:00 pm.  Sheesh.