posted on Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Springdale

On the first riding day it was already time for Zion National Park. Before that a few hours of hot and dry desert road that once again found me begging for water. I met a few road cyclist and spent some time with Scott whose mom, he told me, came from Sicily and her family is part of a nasty mafia clan. 'Even I' he said 'don't mess around with them when I visit'. 'In the little town they all stare at me scared as I look too much alike them. I hate it! He held grudges with québécois Canadians. 'What the hell, you speak English to them and they pretend to not understand'. He was also not too kind on mormons. 'They don't drink?' I said. 'Oh they do' he said with a smirk 'only when nobody's watching'. 'They make my beers weak, only 3.2 percent alcohol, can you believe it?' he gestured. 'Anyway I go to Nevada and get mine from there!' Arriving in Zion National Park it was soon clear that i would have trouble finding a place at the two only campsites! A huge mob had converged to Springdale, the posh village at the heart of the park, for what I found out to be Memorial Day weekend. All campsite had no mercy for cyclists and as I was scouting a fresh patch of grass behind the library I saw two bikes and asking where they were staying, Ross and Jeremy said they had a spot at the main campsite and were willing to share it with me. I paid my part for a nice place by the river, overlooking the famous red rocky vertical faces. Bicycle performed admirably, cyclist less so! I need a few more days to adjust to all this pedalling and the high altitudes.