This high country lakes area draws tourists in 4×4′s, first a dust geyser in the distance then the suspension screamingdancing through the chop. They bull charge alongside without slowing and I see the gringos looking through dirty closed windows at me, maybe a thumbs up, maybe someone raises a camera for a bump blurred photo that should be captioned IDIOT IN CLOUD OF DUST, but I’m past minding I give a wave my best deathskull grin. Sometimes a Landcruiser stops, I always talk to the drivers first out of respect for their conflicted working for foreigners awareness of the bullshit, their excited curiosity about a bicycle for sand, even if the Europeans in the back seats want to ask about the tires too, about my filth covered weariness. I ask to buy .5L of petrol, he scoffs at the idea and gifts it instead while the Aussies click away. I get at least one bellowing American fuckyeah Pugsley! with index finger and pinkie horns and that makes that afternoon. Then as a solace, put the headphones on, just shy of full volume of shuffling Ackerfeldt records for three hours, lash out against the wrecked track, nose down body coiled, shatter the longing and the myth that everyday is some sort of quiet transcendence, yeah, right. Cycle touring is at a speed with room for the full palette of pointless undirected fury, frailty and want, whatever lies blogs tell.