Days 30–31 – Hanksville to Blanding I rolled out of Hanksville feeling good and ready to see some of Utah’s most remote and scenic landscapes. Highway 95 took me into Glen Canyon and it was stunning, subtle trickles of water ran alongside the road, occasionally dripping off canyon walls every quarter mile or so. It was a peaceful ride at first, and I was soaking in the views. Some light construction slowed things down for a moment. As I approached the flagman, he flipped the sign to “SLOW” for me. I yelled, “That’s the only speed I got!” as I passed, and he gave a good laugh and waved me through. But as the road pushed deeper into the canyons, the headwinds picked up. Downhill sections became hard work and I had to really grind to keep moving forward. I thought about camping near the bridge over the Colorado River but decided to keep going. Climbing out of the canyon, the landscape opened up into wide, iconic southeastern Utah—monumental sandstone buttes and open views that made me stop and catch my breath more than once. There were a few cars out, but most sped past without a second thought. I almost felt sorry for them—sealed up in their metallic cocoons, missing this incredible place in full exposure. I pedaled on into a series of rolling hills paralleling White Canyon, each rise pulling me forward with the promise of what was just over the next ridge. By the time the sun started to dip, I found a quiet spot off the road and set up camp. After dinner, I crawled into the tent and fell asleep quickly, tired and content. The next morning started slow with coffee and a late breakfast before I struck camp and got back on the road. About 10 miles in, I spotted another cycle tourist heading my way. I crossed over to meet him, his name was William, from Belgium, and he was traveling with a stuffed whale named Willy strapped to his shoulder. Together, they were riding west, cycle touring from Texas to the Pacific. It was such a joy to share the road for a while and trade stories with someone living this same crazy life on two wheels. I still had about 60 miles to Blanding and was grateful for the wide shoulder and relatively flat terrain. But the final 10 miles were brutal—a relentless climb that pushed me to the edge. I even had to hop off and push the bike for about 100 yards, only the second time I’ve had to do that on the trip. When I finally reached Blanding, I beelined for an ice cream shop and ordered the biggest milkshake they had. I was cooked. I got a room at a cheap motel, took a long overdue shower, and passed out almost instantly.