Day 8, Realizing the race

Starting point: Simpson’s Creek, Utah
Ending Point: Ely Nevada
Miles: 261

We awoke from a pleasantly comfortable sleep, despite the rocks and plants that inhabited our campsite. The rim of the Great Salt Lake Desert and the plains illuminated with the sunrise. The Great Basin laid in front of us, challenging us to try to make it. The rocks showed us their layers as the great star enhanced the red rock color composition. We made our breakfast, shared conversation and got ready to hit the trail again. The stations weren’t of vital importance anymore. None of them would be manned. They would continue to be granite markings, surrounded by expanses of flatness. The terrain was difficult, dirty and dusty. The riders seemed to be doing just fine, enjoying the scenery and the vastness of the area.


The heat wasn’t unbearable, but the riders were growing weary. More than 3,000 miles have passed between us the ‘Burgh. The original Pony Express route was nearly 2,000 miles with no engines, no GPS, no sunscreen, no shields from the harshness of the terrain. But we pressed on across the plains, completely sympathizing with the 19th Century riders.


Eventually, we made it. We hit paved roads again, although they weren’t heavily maintained. These roads were smooth nonetheless, and spread many miles in between towns. Once we finally did reach a town, it was extremely small, almost village like. Trailers seemed to be an important method of inhabitance, and yards were scattered with remnants of objects that might still yield a purpose. Broken down cars rusted in the grass, but to the townspeople, they might be seen as parts for another vehicle or even another completely different purpose. We passed on through, hoping to find gas, drinks and a restroom.

It wasn’t until we stumbled upon Ibapah, Utah that we found what we were looking for. At first we pulled into what seemed to be a private plot where sheep wandered looking freshly cut. A woman there directed us back down the road to the town store. We pulled up the unpaved driveway to the single gas pump. The store was unmanned and closed, linked with an unhooked lock. We looked around and soon two girls emerged from the house across the street. The blonde one, who we later found out was only 17, crossed the street and opened the door for us. Everything was cash. There was no bathroom. We got our drinks and filled our tanks and the desperate ones rushed to the local school to use the restroom.


We sat in the 97-degree shade for a little while before heading back onto the trail. Then we jumped in the vehicles and headed forward. Making a wrong turn, we stopped to check the map. Within a couple minutes, a federal police vehicle pulled up beside us, asking if they could help. We explained to them our situation and they explained theirs. We had stopped on the Goshute Indian Tribe Reservation, a crime punishable by the impounding of our vehicles and all of our belongings. The officers allowed us to keep what we had, told us where the road was that we missed, and warned us that if we stopped on the reservation again, he would have to follow the law to the fullest extent. We were grateful for the advice and quickly reloaded and headed back to Ibapah. They followed us to the end of the reservation.

Once we stopped outside the school, we had some deliberation. The next 15 miles of the Pony Express route cut through the reservation. We could get all of our ducks in a row and hope that the roads were correct or we could take a detour. If we got lost or made a wrong turn in those 15 miles, there was absolutely no stopping to reconvene. If we circled around the reservation, that probably wouldn’t be acceptable, either. We decided to take the detour, leaving the route and heading north and around to pick up the route later on in Nevada. So we hit a similar, lightly maintained road and hightailed it toward food. We were all hot and starving, but we couldn’t believe that we were still in competition with the riders.


We were so close to our destination, but still had quite a bit of mileage ahead of us. The clock wouldn’t stop ticking. The riders were worn down. At some point I decided to jump on the back of the bike again to help keep Jim alert. I rode with him into Nevada and a small town named Ely. There we stopped at a local diner for some grub and shortly headed toward the local KOA.

The rest of the night entailed the usual conversation, planning, reflection and an addition of jolly libations. We were ready to show the Pony Express our endurance. One more day left, a few hundred miles to go and none of us were sure of the outcome.