Thunderstorms likely, especially this evening. Low 49F. Winds SE at 5 to 10 mph. Chance of rain 80%..

Thunderstorms likely, especially this evening. Low 49F. Winds SE at 5 to 10 mph. Chance of rain 80%.

There is hot. There is very hot. There is hot, hot, hot. Then there is stinkin’ hot.

As in hot stinkin’ desert, late on a Saturday afternoon in July, cycling some single-track on the west edge of town, through badlands at the base of some big cliffs, the steep northern edge of a large rolling massif that stretches 100 miles southward to the mountains of home.

Rolling out of the gravel driveway, through a neighborhood largely void of any discernible life — siesta in full swing — asphalt wavers with the rising heat. A cooling wind on a long descent disguises the true temperature. Quails and their broods huddle under yuccas in xeriscaped yards of ranch houses.

Consulting a complicated map at the trailhead, the names of different trails — there are many — blur, the various multi-colored solid, dashed, dotted, and dash-and-dotted lines form a ball of spaghetti. Heck with it, let the wheels run, and it is into an arroyo, shut up and follow the bike, climbing steadily, the occasional whiptail, up and down cutbanks, swooping trail arcing up onto side-walls, a ramp and pop weightless up onto a bench of sun-scorched grass and through a series of hard, flat meadows.

This is a great trail, well-engineered, taking advantage of the wrinkles and suggestions of various drainages accessing a long, low ridge running perpendicular to the main escarpment, above which the sun shoots rays of light off the clouds. Three headwalls in a winding creek-bed require concentration and effort, the promontory is gained and daydreaming resumes. Meandering thoughts, all great, never to be forgotten, are thunk, then forgotten.

Great trails, obviously well-used, bank turns and groomed shallow troughs bearing the tread of many tires, but not another soul. Come to think of it, there were no cars whatsoever parked in the lot at the trailhead.

A roller coaster over a row of domes snaps things back into the present, a clump of prickly pear beware, enough rocks and boulders strewn about to mandate a minimum alertness. Dizziness requires a good dousing and partaking of the water bottle. Once, we rode into the desert so spooked after great thirstiness on a previous visit that we carried four gallons of water, in milk jugs in our backpacks, each.

Started running out later in the day, then found a half-gallon jug of water — yes, in a milk jug — lying in the middle of the dusty road, that must have fallen out a Jeep. Go figure.

Then, later in the ride, we came upon a trio of truant high-schoolers hanging out by a swimming hole at Indian Creek, who said they had too much beer in their cooler and could we help them out? Something must have aligning for us astrologically, or something.

They were the outcasts at their school, they said, and were skipping Senior Day, their immediate goal in life was to get out of town before being sent to the juvenile detention center up in Orem, and one of them announced that he had just had his name legally changed to Brian.

“What did it used to be?”

It was a warm early summer evening, quite lovely, a good swim, cold beers and a couple-day bike ride under our belts, floating down a sun-warmed road in a magnificent landscape, majestic, cathartic, of colossal palisades receding into infinity, canyons running away into gauzy pastel, glowing, apricot cliffs bathed with lemon sun, warm fire, dinner and well-earned slumber to come.

This dirt, these rocks are the same color, low-angle evening sun, ripe cantaloupe color. The same spine-y plants. Same lizards, same birds. Same feeling in the legs and lungs. Same feeling of life. Way hotter, though. Hot hot hot. Stinkin’ hot.

And way fun, knowing you’re just out for a couple hours, last golden hours of a great day, the morning spent in the steep bleachers of a nearby natatorium, cheering on 8 and 10-year-olds at a swim meet. Sounds echo around swimming halls, impressive acoustics, and those kids, especially the girls, now, they can do some screaming.

There was this one tiny little girl, super tiny, who wobbled to the edge of the pool for her race and at the starting horn she toppled in like a duckling and you could tell that this was a new thing and a couple times she slowed and looked about to sink, crowd shouting encouragement, but rallied and fought and fought some more and finished and got the biggest cheer of the meet.

The ridge continues, the next ravine sporting the sinuous lines of further trails, the view from the high point of a knoll enjoyed, finish the water, horizontal bands of chalky lavender across the foothills, a welcome cloud, liquid coolness. Time to go back. Trails coalesce and braid and twist and dip and the highway is regained and up the hill, engine ticking, the goal a shower, then leisurely car ride downtown for enchiladas and margaritas at the Mexican joint, a relaxed stroll in the warm/cool air, a paseo.

A chuckle out loud now, pedaling up the road, floating, people out and about with the cooling dusk, walking their dogs, quails dashing from shrub to shrub, at the thought of what will surely endure as one of the iconic images of the summer: a beaming girl, post-race, dripping water, smile like a bright star, pumped up with adrenaline and accomplishment and pure animal joy, flexing her muscles, looking over her shoulder at you, with the words on her shoulder boldly in black magic marker: “Eat My Bubbles.”

Sean can be reached at: seanmcnamara58@gmail.com.

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