Bleary-eyed and sore, day three saw me to Cedar City, Utah, 415 miles from where I began. The day before I sped down NV-375, the so-called Extraterrestrial Highway, with more vigor than I had originally planned. Little gray men with their invasive probes must have weighed on my psyche because I pushed the pedals with a zest that I usually reserved for bike racing. As a result, I ran out of water 60 miles before the next opportunity to fill up.

The town of Rachel, Nevada is deep within the Great Basin Desert and a stone’s throw from the infamous Area 51. When my dry mouth finally rolled into town and saddled up to the counter of the Little A’Le’Inn Restaurant, I must have looked like fevered hell.

Without me having to ask, the waitress said, “Here’s some water hun. I left the ice out so you can get it down it quicker.” With her white hair, apron, and thick glasses that made her eyes look larger than life, she was very much the grandmother. Comforting. Giving.

“Thanks. I ran out of water a ways back.”
“I could tell. You’re not the first parched cyclist to walk through these doors.”
“No?”
“No. Every year we get a few like yourself. Where’re you coming from?”
“I left Bishop yesterday.”
“Oh, well that’s a ways. Where’re you headed?”
“East.”
“East? Is that a town.”
“No, it’s not. I have 18 days off work and want to see how far I get.”
“Well, how about some pancakes? You look like you could use some pancakes.”
“That would be great, thanks.”

Delicious.