Utah

Rich green vegetation petered out to the desert, deep rose rocks and white streaked red boulders, stunted sagebrush and dust in the air.

We stopped off in Park City, picking up friend from Uni Laci en route and then headed further south to Moab. Arches National Park was spectacular, pocket-size compared with Glacier or Yellowstone and filled with signs advising adequate water intake and warning not to stray from the path and tread on 'cryptobiotic crust' - a substance used to kill superheroes, or seal coffins. Not really. Lichen, fungi and bacteria that really soak up the heat and take years and years to grow and develop into a tiny cluster of black dots. We looked hard but couldn't see any.

Day 2 in Moab and I took myself off to conquer a bike trail called Slickrock. The day was not without it's triumphs and tragedies. In a word, it was grueling. In another word (because one word is never enough, unless you're a poet and have an excellent sense for timing [I'm not, I don't]), it was punishing. To put them together, it was grueling and punishing.

I had about a litre and a half of water and some of that high-power suncream you really have to knead into your pores before you stop looking like a panto ghost and before long I'd tied a white tenugui towel around my head too, to try and deflect the sunshine a little. It was f*ckin hot.

The trail itself undulated over Navajo sandstone with sharp descents pitching you against steep climbs, short and wicked and increasingly impossible to conquer. In the end, I pushed the bike on the up, handlebars up above my head it was so steep. On the down, the nature of the rock, all pocks and divets, curls and odd bobbles and ruts, meant that you had to keep a keen eye on what your tire ran over and far down the trail to see what was next and where to go.

After 4 miles or so the heat got to me and my energy levels started depleting in half-lives. I had to break as much as I cycled, each hill was a real challenge I steadied myself for and the water started running dry. Once I dropped the bottle and it bounced down the rock into a bush. Here I'd seen clumps of black dots that could have only been cryptobiotic crust. I hesitated. And then decided if it was going to be me or the cryptobiotic crust, I knew which I was going to save.

I eventually completed the 10 mile loop to find a sign sprayed on the rock I'd not seen at the beginning. It pointed to me, in the direction I had come from with the word 'EASIER'. It pointed with my direction of travel with the word, 'HARDER'. And I remembered an American I'd spoken briefly with (Me: Tough huh? [with manly frown] HIM: That part was [with deeper manly frown]) who had spread himself out just so, at this very point, and sent me on the harder route. Bastard.

One final triumph, I did manage to convince a pair of Frenchman I was French too with a simple 'Ca va', 'C'est difficle' and 'Mais oui', curtailing the conversation before the game was up with a haughty 'Bonne chance' and speeding off.