Most people have a story about someone they’ve met who has gone on a terribly long trip. When I tell such people what I’m doing, they say, "Oh, I know a guy who … ."

I’ve heard of many other trans-American cyclists. But perhaps more interesting is the story I heard from the owner of the Blu-In Store and Café somewhere between Julian and Ocotillo Wells, Calif. "I saw a guy stroll by years ago who was walking across the country in cowboy boots," he said. "That’s insane," I said. He said, "Yeah, I guess he was from around here. He walked to New York and back, didn’t come back for another year and a half, and when he did, he came to our high school and told the story."

Which one? I thought.

The Blu-In is in the middle of California desert. Unlike the neighboring mountains, where, if you climb them, the horizon is a hundred yards in front of you and always changing, when you reach a spot that was once as far as you could see in the desert, the new horizon looks exactly the same. Everything might be a mirage if stared at from far enough away. Which is why I was not surprised when I saw hang-gliders on an electrical line, but skeptical when I passed over a hill and the Blu-In appeared on the descent.

When it and the people in it turned out to be real, I went in and asked, "Is it days at a time before you see anyone around here?" "No," one replied. "People come through here all the time. There’s a guy out there with a four-wheeler who’s been here for the last week, brought it in his truck." I looked to where he pointed down the road at the man, alone and wildly maneuvering the ATV on a patch of desert in 105-degree heat.

"So you’re going to Florida, huh?" one said after I explained the reason for the fully loaded bike I rode up on. "What route are you taking?" "Through Arizona and New Mexico, down south to Texas and over," I said.

Laughing with sadistic pleasure, he replied, "You think this is bad! It only gets worse in Arizona."

The comment stayed with me as I nearly lost my mind for the rest of the 35 miles to Brawley, finding it impossible to stay hydrated, talking to birds.

There aren’t rivers or creeks in the desert, but instead dried-out ditches, or washes, as they’re often called. They still require bridges and have the feel of rivers, just without the water. California has lovingly named them as though they were rivers; the Willow Wash, the Inspection Wash, and the Alfalfa Ditch are a few of them. But crossing them, observing their surfaces, which are so dry as to resemble reptilian scales, it only intensifies the feelings of heat and despair that strike a traveler during a lengthy jaunt through the desert.

If it only gets worse, I thought, I’m in for a rough couple of weeks.