Friend B___ (yes, as in "Imaginary Friend B___") slithered out from under his rock in the SW Utah desert for some West Coastal type ill shit. On bikes.
Day 1: In which an out-of town-guest arrives and plans fall apart. The lesson, already etched on our black hearts yet learned anew, is: adapt and overcome.
When Life delivers a series of knocks, the best course is to load up whatever bike you happen to have running and head for the hills. Undisclosed locations are key. Wilderness is where you find it. Etc.
The next morning found us up the ridge, in the haar. The coastal thick of it, the "sea fret". Like it does, that fog settles so thick on the pines that they drip as though it were actively raining and your improvised hobo bivy is for naught...
but it doesn't bother us chickens. Neither did the forgetting (and thus, lack) of utensils and bowls. We eat our oatmeal watery- out of the bottle and with gulps.
The only thing that can rightfully follow is the ripping singletrack...
A few on-course gear shuffles later, and it is time for a break. Pop the top, drain the can, plink away at the empties.
Then we rode home and