Biking The Badlands

I Was Just A Lad, Nearly Twenty-Two,
Neither Good Nor Bad, Just A Kid Like You,
And Now I'm Lost, Too Late To Pray,
Lord, I've Paid The Cost On The Lost Highway


South Dakota
May 25

I got on my bicycle and started peddling around 6 a.m. The sun was
at my back, and the scenery in front of me was awesome. There were
incredible wind carved ravines, and off to my left were rainbow
colored sand gullies. I wished Mike were here. I knew how excited
this scenery would make him if he could only see it. I wanted him
here also because I knew this was the place I wanted to drop acid. I
had brought seven hits of acid with me and I knew it would be a
whole lot more fun if I had a good friend to trip with.

Facilities out here were sparse, so when I pulled into a restaurant
and found it closed I was disappointed. As I was standing there
wondering what to do next, a car pulled in and a couple, before they
left, laid a few bananas and some homemade bread on me. After that
breakfast, I dropped a hit of acid. I hadn't done acid for a while,
and since I had been practicing meditation regularly, I was curious
as to how it would affect me. According to Ram Dass, mediation gives
you more control (diminishes the effects) of the acid experience.
Just by being in the Badlands, I was already in a relaxed state and
now with my mantra going full tilt and the beautiful scenery
breezing by, I began to feel euphoric, especially under a warm sun
in sparse traffic.

At first the up and down of the highway was pleasant. As the day
wore on, though, and the inclines grew steeper, my body clicked
into "automatic mode." No matter how steep the hill, there was
always just enough energy in my legs to make peddling uphill an
enjoyable experience. At the end of the scenic route, during the
hottest part of the day, there was one hill, however, that even put
my "automatic mode" to the test. I didn't know what would give out
first, the pedals, chain, handlebars, or my legs. In order to keep
the sweat from burning my eyes, I had to stare at my feet (the water
dropped off my forehead that way) while my legs kept pumping, and
pumping, and pumping. Then, finally, I made it to the top of the
steepest hill I had ever bicycled.

All things considered, I guess I couldn't complain. I did have a lot
of downhill too. In fact, at one point, I managed to peddle 55 miles
in three hours and fifteen minutes. (A note of interest: At scenic
overlooks, for the most part, I mingled with the tourists who were
enjoying the scenery and although I was on very good acid, I still
managed to carry on friendly conversations.)

I'm presently sitting on a porch, 15 miles from Mt. Rushmore.
There's a major thunderstorm happening outside, but I'm tucked away,
under an overhang of a museum filled with old cars. I called Carol
Sue and she told me that Denny and Mike were still in some town
waiting for Denny's money to arrive. I guess I won't see either of
them again, unless it's somewhere in British Columbia. It's still
raining outside, and things look rather bleak.