New Years holidays are not the time to be on the roads. I swear I saw more touros than actual humans on the main arterials. Took a shortcut on the long dirt road, eye fucking all the sandstone farmhouses and abandoned cottages in the dry valleys. Got a bit road blind from the blinding high country sun and gave the Falcon free reign on the perilous ribbon of macadam they call the highway.
The ghost towns along the way are infested with recreationalists and downhill mountain bike faggots, too snobby to wave to the kids of the poor local boys, Who see them ride past rubbernecking at the poverty in granny gears, all decked out in full face helmets, mirror goggles and go-pro harness'. I suppose these cashed up posers are what passes for heroes in places which used to have football teams and champion axemen and shift bosses at the mines. Now the kids see the world through the kalaidascope of jewtube, then the mountain bike industrial complex manifests itself as product placement on the scars of trails in the surrounding hills, its too much for real men to compete with when the only jobs in town are servicing the pestilential city hordes in summer.
Almost had to stop for a dump but made it to the flush toilet in my cottage. Feels good man.