Sandy Trollop

The Desert holds many treasures, but is a stingy mistress. Within the oppressive sun and polishing sand, a gift was found: enough juice for one last tank of gas. Over the horizon a vessel to waste this new found plunder in one stretch of glory.

A torn village beckons

The soulless husk of a tourist trap has come full circle into an actual frontier outpost. Within a decrepit and tagged shack, hidden beneath castoff rags, lies what the golden liquid was meant for. A two wheeled machine with a pipe so nice it makes Snoop Lion look twice, knobb-ish tires, and a engine with a brogue bark and a tepid bite.

Rippin' and tearin'

The day was young and the once sturdy shack door would provide a triumphant entrance to beating back the desert. Gone is the heavy wanderer gear. A lightweight jersey and full face helmet are donned for this reprise. No need for an exit strategy at this point. Tearing out from the shattered door the one man desert scramble has begun.

Mile after mile, and liter after liter of pure moto heaven.

This is where nature has beat back urban development the fastest. Reclaiming the flat plains that line the dead sea that buttress rolling dunes and jagged mountains.

One tank of gas can only get you so far

All good things come to an end

A sputtering bike, a setting sun, and the day ends on the last blast through the desert. The wonton madness has left the bike and rider far from their starting point, but that doesn’t matter.