Driving through the night to Stove Pipe Wells, a beadstring of white lights stretched out before us. Each individual point attested to a personal struggle against the elements. The Comet, a streaky blur high above us, confirmed that this was no ordinary night. It was the "Death Valley Double Century".

At 4:46am I set out into the fading night. Heading south, the sky was already showing a pale blue. Riders presented a spectrum of colours to the gathering dawn. Within an hour artificial lights could be quenched and the desert scenery gradually revealed itself. Adrenalin flowed and it was easy riding to Furnace Creek

On the road to Badwater, it was now fully daylight, though the sun had yet to come into view over the craggy horizon. We rode in cool shadow, warmed occasionally by the sun's rays spilling through a cleft in the ridge. A steady breeze chilled our shallow descent. The desert's stark features had resolved themselves now and I contemplated them in solitary silence. Across the salt flats to the west, snow-sprinkled Telescope Peak loomed over the Valley.

Continuing south, patches of sand had drifted over the road from the previous day's dust-storms. The anonymous rocky walls to the left gave up their identity in the harsh light of day. All imaginable brown tones were liberally applied to the landscape and the previously monotone desert scenery was suddenly invigorating. In the sudden flood of sunlight, I shed my weather-proof shell and donned eye-shades.

The riders were straggling out along the road now. Brightly coloured event jerseys announced survivors of past ordeals. The disjoint parade of two-wheelers provided an incongruous distraction from the surrounding grandeur. Predator-like in this terrain, highway patrol vehicle glided past me and hovered at the minor road-junction ahead.

Taking on vital fuel at Ashford, I took a last look back up Death Valley and braced myself for the impending climbs. As I momentarily rested, a vile potion of sweat and suntan lotion stung my eyes. The route to Jubilee Pass, though an easy grade, slowed me to 7mph., rewarding me with only a toy of a descent, before the leading into the main event, Salsberry Pass. Again, a solid evenly-graded slog, but interminably slow. Again, 7mph. Again, the relentless wind, making my wheel sing, fussing with the fastenings of my saddle bag, causing the irritating flutter of spokes on displaced strap.

The terrain as Death Valley was left far behind turned into a starkly-lit Martian landscape of row upon row of rocky outcrops. After the elation of reaching the summit of Salsberry Pass, 3,315ft., I battled with the long descent into Shoshone. The high-speed coast, straight downhill, buffeted by merciless air currents, was a precarious affair. Soon, the ride's combatants were taking on food and relaxing in the midday sun trying to avoid thought of the return journey.

Even back on the road, in the midst of the furious gusts, I still had not accepted the reality of what was in store; I comforted myself that the wind's newfound strength was a local phenomenon and would not persist back in Death Valley itself. The climb was taxing and I shed a layer of clothing as we recrossed the National Park boundary, but dressed up again at the summit of Salsberry Pass in preparation for another hellish descent through the bracing wind. The draughts battled with the force of gravity in a frenetic struggle to determine my direction. I imagined every nut and bolt of my machine being unloosened as I let the forces of nature take the strain.

Back at the Ashford rest-stop, I took some more time to contemplate the gale which was assaulting the straggle of riders. It had an eternal feel to it and would require supreme resilience to overcome it. Now 3pm, I set out on the long haul north with a burst of energy which proved shortlived, before settling into a tormented 10 mph groove. A Kingsnake, bungy-cord- like, daring to cross the road in front of me, coiled reflexively at the close-passing of my wheels. But I paid little attention: my mind turned to mathematics, in the middle of the California Desert, under the beating sun and amidst the ferocious winds. Distance and speed; estimated finishing times; split times. Nothing was remotely encouraging. Would I make Badwater in 3 hours - would I make Furnace Creek by sundown?

The road wound its way in the lee of the rocky walls to the east. Fellow riders punctuated its sinewy progress, fluttering specs at irregular intervals as far as the eye could see. The afternoon wore on until the sun was low in the sky. The mountains to the west, formerly snow-crested and structured were now featureless silhouettes. The salt flats on the intervening desert floor reflected brightly white in the horizontal glare. Finally, the sun's dazzling disc disappeared behind the craggy ridgeline, plunging the Valley into shadow. After an interminable time, in the smothering dusk, the Badwater feeding station came into view. My body complained even at the thought of essential sustenance.

Sunset was defining Death Valley as I set out for Furnace Creek, a little after 6pm. Thankful for my headlight, I persevered into the night, trying to remember what I could of the 17 mile stretch ahead of me, but my mind drew a blank. There was nothing but the light of my front beam, the deafening roar of the wind and its whistling in my spokes. The silence and tranquility that I have come to cherish in the desert were not of this place.

The night pays tricks of distance. Lights of a rider up ahead seemed remote, but I closed the distance in barely an instant. Yet, when I thought I saw the sign for Artist's Point, one of the few markers on that stretch of road, I rode on and on before giving up on the mirage of my mind. The lights of the Furnace Creek Inn could be seen from despairingly far away. They were out there, suspended in the night, never seeming to get closer, tantalisingly out of reach. The tail-lights of another man-machine superimposed on them made me believe in their nearness, but the trick of perspective had deceived me again.

At Furnace Creek, the last desert oasis, many people were quitting the ride but many others still were heading out onto the road. I did not know if I could face it, and momentarily lost my ability to stand up, leaning on the road-side food-table for support. But I gained the company of a Los Angeles rider for the last stretch back to Stove Pipe Wells. and prepared myself mentally for the coming toil.

Not being able to see my odometer was a depressing reality. How far had we really come ? How fast were we able to go ? After what seemed like an age, I initiated a road-side-rest. I lay down on my back and contemplated the desert-night-sky in its starry splendour. The Comet shone brightly, and dominated the heavens once my increasingly blurred vision steadied itself. My body was suffering in all possible ways; I was at my physical limit; the coming 19 miles seemed barely manageable. I quietly reflected on the hours of monotonous battle against withering wind and personal fatigue. My newfound riding-partner, soon understood the amazing bodily therapy that our silent prone inactivity provided. We hungrily absorbed energy from the very ground beneath us and then we could face the road again.

When the lights of Stove Pipe Wells came into view they seemed close enough to walk to, but there were still 9 miles to ride. Again, the lights shimmered in the middle-distance neither receding nor approaching. A simple announcement of human habitation, out there far away, a reward for us, if we could push hard enough to reach them.

The wind had temporarily died down and it became cold but keeping warm provided an incentive to ride briskly with renewed energy. Stove Pipe Wells had become a beacon of hope for us and when the cluster of pin-points disappeared from view we cried out into the night. Could we have imagined them? Were we even further from the end than we thought? When we saw them next, the yellow lights of the buildings were absent, obscured by an invisible crest; the white lights of the lamp-stands remained. Had everyone gone? Would there be anyone there to record our finish? But, as if in response to our doubts, road-signs became more frequent and shadowy signs of civilisation greeted us. The lights of buildings reappeared: the gas station; the ranch; a figure with a clipboard beckoning to us from the lee of a trailer; the welcome home, 18 hours from the morning's energetic start. I gasped out my rider number and ungainly but gratefully dismounted from my bicycle.

Eight hours later, in the hot dry Desert sunlight of morning, with tranquil breezes in the Valley, the previous day's March Madness seemed but a product of a tormented mind. The Palm trees rustled reassuringly; the mountains overlooking the valley resembled familiar friends; the brown rocky slopes became curiously inviting and the brilliant sun seemed quite benign.

Richard Bone

March 27th 1996