Woke up in dark. Had bizarre dreams all night - one where my sleeping bag was a page from a huge ancient book, covered in cryllic text that I had to discipher or face some impending doom. Nothing like a warm Texas morning breeze, crystal clear skies, and the sun rising in the rearview over open highway to shake off the cobwebs. It was all four lane today again, trying to blast the plains, ever westward.

Crossing into New Mexico was a first for me.

At the border, I was running with the fuel light on for over 35km. Repeated false flags, old signs with 'fuel this exit' ... only to pull into a weed covered, dusty and long abandoned gas stop. Eventually I found one. I was so relieved I took a picture. I think they had a beanfield war here once?

The eastern entrance of New Mexico is scrub brush and desert grassland. Soil an ochre red I've never seen the likes of. Small prarie dogs played chicken with the Crow, darting out from the ditches.

As Albuquerque appeared, hills rose up, red cliffs threaded with deep, dry washouts. Time always passes quickly when navigating cities. Traffic snarls, cars whipping between lanes, many drivers on phones. The overpasses, painted a delightful pastel swooped above me, pinkish in the morning sun.

Leaving the city, the landscape shifted. Western New Mexico is all subtle rolling hills, stark rocky cliffs and gentle curved highways.

Time played tricks. Feeling hours had passed, I would glance at my clock and see 10 minutes had rolled. Looking again, in what seemed like moments, an hour was gone, low fuel light now glowing. I've experienced the 'riders time warp' effect before, but never this markedly.

The cheap gel pad is gold. Or I now have calluses on my ass. Either way, better.

I've discovered numerous seating positions on the Crow - 1) normal upright, 2) lying on my tank bag with heels hooked on back pegs, or 3) leaning on tank bag with my feet on pegs in a weird upright fetal position. Ok, only three. One of which is awful. But #2 is very relaxing, almost too much at times.

Sound plays tricks. I hear a bearing clicking, a squeaking pulse, a vibration, the Crow telling me something important. Only to keep hearing the same noises through my earplugs while pumping fuel in the scorching heat, the Crow smiling mischievously.

Of the hundreds of billboards I've seen today, only one seduced me. Crossing into Arizona, I pulled into Knife City. Knife CITY, man.

The place is a cutlery lover's dream. Cases of collector items, worth thousands. Many of which I recognized. These Al Mars are epic rare. And that bent metal thing is actually a single shot pen gun, invented in the 80's.

All the classic balisongs.

And not one, but two huge rooms of every type top-line blade I ever dreamt of.

I choked back my avarice and only bought a few stickers. Sigh. But not until I showed the helpful proprietor a knife even they didn't carry - My old D2 Benchmade McHenry & Williams. When I asked about carry laws in Arizona I was told ... there kinda aren't any.

"Here we have laws against crime. Not laws against things."


As the road whizzed below my wheels, I considered the implications of such a radically un-Canadian mindset. And why I strangely felt suddenly happily at home on an Arizona highway.

As dark skies loomed over Flagstaff sliced by long, lingering lightning bolts, I chickened out and asked around for a hotel at the next turnoff. The one I ended up at is in a seedy part of town with a glass security box to do business through. For around $30 I got a ground floor room with the Crow right out the window, 12 feet away.

Tomorrow it's off to the Canyon at long last.