I don’t live in the FlagPole anymore. The literal term when I lived there was going to the “Well” really meant going there. If you look on a map just south of Flagstaff there is a gas station called Clint’s Well. 54 miles out 54 miles back and not one stoplight. Just and endless road rolling out in front of your wheel. Perfect for training, no stops, no rest, no coasting, just pedal and get your head straight.
Fast forward to now. Now I’m down in the Dirty T. Swayed by the love of a woman and the lure of the dollar. One was a good choice, the other not so much. But now going to the well means something different. There are too many stop lights and not enough ribbon of road to match Clint’s Well. But in the Dirty T we have something different; we have speed, and a metric shit ton of it.
Yesterday a friend and I went to the well. Now its different. Its still getting my head straight but now I look at the license plate of a moto.
105 miles in 3 hours and 37 minutes. Wolf would be happy. He used to say go till your legs hurt to the touch. Then take a few “Billy Rides” and then go back to the Well.
When you get a chance go to the Well.