By now the routine of getting up, cooking oatmeal, drinking the water that I rinse my bowl out with (not appetizing, but it seems like a bad idea to waste the water), loading up the bike, and putting in the day's miles feels like a job. It's not a bad job, not like the job where I had to peel and devein shrimp for hours on end. It's a great job, a dream job even, but still a job.

As with any job, some days I want to call in sick. I lay in my tent staring at the green translucent ceiling feeling tired, sore, and unmotivated. I never felt completely recovered from the week spent battling the mountains, and tossing in a hundred mile ride into Yuma probably didn't help matters. While I did seriously consider taking a day off to lounge in my tent and read all day, I quickly realized that was not a feasible option since I would run out of water. At the very least, I had to ride 35 miles or so to Glamis, not a town per se but a jumping off point for people who come out to the dunes to ride their motorbikes and dune buggies. I was told there was a store there. They'd have water.

But I could take all day to get to Glamis if I wanted to. I could take it easy on myself.

The ride is never so bad after a few miles, once the muscles start to warm up and joints start to unlock. It had been overcast when I woke up and even sprinkled a bit (thus demotivating me further), but I rode north toward a narrow gap of blue sky which gradually widened until I was hit simultaneously by a ray of sunshine and the sudden realization that I'd ridden my bike to California. And Marty from Yuma was right about the route: it was gorgeous.

I took Ogilby Road for another 20 miles to where it turned onto Route 78, which started with a series of roller-coaster-ish RV-swallowing dips in road. When I emerged I saw a figure far away on the road ahead, on the shoulder opposite mine. I assumed it was somebody with a motorbike (I'd seen a few of these zip past on the sand) but as I got closer I realized it was. . . a bike! A person with a touring bike, all loaded up like mine, a fellow long-distance traveler. I was so excited. This whole time I've been cultivating a secret fantasy of meeting some handsome bike tourer on the road and hitting it off. I gave a big wave before I was even close enough to see the person, and crossed the road to say hello. Could today be my lucky day?

No. This guy was the desert equivalent of an urban homeless guy with a shopping cart full of filthy crap. He was in his 50s or so, had stringy hair and a beard, and wore tattered blue jeans, a jacket, and a backward baseball cap. Two huge milk crates were strapped to either side of his bike which was piled with bulging plastic bags with flat items, which looked like blankets and a little mattress, spread over the everything. He was wolfing down a bag of chips.

Well, I'd already waved and crossed the road, so I couldn't back out of the conversation now, but decided to keep it brief. Fortunately he seemed to want the same thing, as he answered my questions with mumbled monosyllabic replies and a faraway look in his eye that implied he was not quite all there. He was heading up to Blythe, in the opposite direction, which was just as well as far as I was concerned. "Well, just wanted to say hello. I don't see too many bikes on the road. Safe travels!" I said, cutting the conversation short and getting back onto my side of the road.

As I rode the remaining few miles to Glamis it occurred to me that that guy was a preview of what could become of me if I stayed on the road forever, running out of money, losing all social connections, the sun slowly turning my skin to leather and the headwinds gradually eroding my sanity. For that matter, how did I know I hadn't already gone a little bit crazy, having spent such a huge percentage of my life in the past three months alone and outdoors? How does anyone know if they're crazy? I guess I will leave it for people who knew me before I left to judge.

As I approached the store I could finally see the mythical sand dunes, and got excited about getting a closer look. But first I took a lunch break at the picnic tables in front, chatting with various friendly folks in fancy dune buggies as we expressed mutual curiosity about each other's vehicles. I took my water bottles into the store and asked if there was someplace I could fill them up, but the somewhat surly guy at the counter informed me they didn't have drinking water there, that I'd have to buy it. I bought three liters of water and two small bottles of orange juice for a grand total of $15.75. Ouch! "$16.75 if you put it on the card," said Surly as I presented my debit card. I didn't have enough cash so I grudgingly accepted the surcharge. Were there restrooms? "Yes, but they cost $2 to use." I forked over the cash. Once I was buzzed into the secret restroom area, I saw a number of other signs. Showers: $10. Hair dryer rental: $2. Using the power outlet: $1. Wow. Guess there's a healthy markup on everything when you have the only store within a 30 mile radius.

But the dunes were mind-blowingly cool. As I pedaled along I secretly envied the people zipping over golden crests of sand on motor bikes and dune buggies. ATVs are allowed on the south side of the road only, so I got off the bike and enjoyed a short hike on the pristine, untracked dunes on the other side. The twinge of guilt I felt about leaving footprints on the exquisite rippled sand formations was outweighed by exhiliration: I had never seen anyplace like it. It really was like being on another planet. I fantasized as I walked about setting up camp in a secluded valley in this undulating sandscape, but it was hard enough work to walk in the sand, let alone drag my bike and all my gear onto the dunes.

Besides, I wanted to keep riding. The dunes went on for a hilly 7 miles. I was mesmerized by the wind-blown sand swirling across the road, streaming over the crests of the dunes, patiently smoothing over the dune buggy tracks. Eventually the dunes gave way to flat, granite-colored expanses of sand and scrub that stretched on for miles to the mountains. It was all public land so I knew I could camp anywhere that struck my fancy. But by then I was on a good roll and decided to make the most of my last hour of daylight by riding as far as I could.

The problem was that when I started to approach Brawley I saw huge patches of green on the horizon: I was getting into irrigated farmland. I thought perhaps I could ride to the other side of the farmland and back into the desert before dark. But, as in Texas, California farmland goes for many miles, but unlike Texas it would not be possible to stealth camp. If I camped in the middle of one of those vast, flat fields I'd be visible for miles. So I started looking for a house where I could ask permission to camp somewhere.

But there didn't seem to be many houses at all, just the occasional ranch building or equipment shed among miles of fields, and the few houses I did see had no lights on or cars in the driveway so I didn't bother stopping. Just as I'd started to reach that uneasy moment I have experienced so many times on this trip, when it's pitch dark and I still have no place to sleep, I saw the star.

A 5-pointed star outlined in Christmas lights hung above some trees and buildings off the main road in the distance. Hey, it worked for the Wise Men. I decided to follow it.

It led me down a little dirt road off the highway to a house and some kind of agricultural plant. I knocked at the door and an older lady answered. I explained what I was doing and asked if I could camp in the hay field across the road for the night.

She seemed a bit shocked. "How many of you are there?" she asked.

"Just me," I assured her.

"You're biking across the country by yourSELF? For crying out loud!" I felt like I was a little bit in trouble, like a kid about to be sent to the principal's office. "And what possessed you to come down this dirt road?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I saw the star."

In response she just laughed and gave me a big hug. "Well you're not going to stay outside, the weather's supposed to be miserable. You can stay the night with us." She led me to a luxurious-looking guest room where I deposited my stuff. "This is perfect," she added. "You can help me put up my Christmas decorations." I said I'd be more than happy to.

Once I was all showered up I joined Kitty and her husband John for dinner. Kitty is from Scotland I learned, as I suspected by her accent, and John was born and raised right in Brawley and never moved. I was curious how they met. "On a blind date in Las Vegas," was John's response. Kitty filled in the rest of the story. She was a midwife, and had moved to Canada to further her education, work, and stay with friends for a while. Later she moved in with her cousins outside Fresno, CA and was offered a job in a local hospital even though she didn't have her California license. Her cousins said she had to see Vegas, so she spent some time traveling around and when she arrived in Vegas, they had arranged for John to meet her. She said he finally won her over several years later when he traveled to Scotland to visit her.

After dinner we hung up the Christmas decorations and enjoyed a cup of hot spice tea and some of Kitty's homemade shortbread before calling it a day. Kitty asked if I would want to go with her to take Isabel, their granddaughter, to school in the morning. Little did I know I would become a minor celebrity at Magnolia School.