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air, and it was mine. A black cloud formed around me as reinforcements were brought in, I was under attack, my body now a human form of a World War II blitz.
The result was an eye that disappeared over night, replaced with just a slit that barely indicated there was an optical organ behind it.
My new deformity made riding the last section a challenge. With one eye closed it was a struggle to define a clear line amongst the deep gravel and windrows. With it open as much as possible the newly formed sacks of fluid jiggled like an overweight belly dancer in a cheap western Canadian bar, it would’ ve been better to have consumed too much of the local spirit in the said bar.
Worse still was camp, where we’ d pitched our tents on the shores of the Arctic Ocean. Throughout the night, if it can be called that when the sun sits about two hours above the horizon, and would do so for at least another month, things were fine. A gusty breeze blew from the south, keeping temperatures reasonably warm and the mosquitoes at bay. I once exited my tent to relieve myself and was surprised to encounter not one of the little blood thirty monsters. I slept well.
By the clock, not the suns position, it was morning and with it came a lull in the wind. Before getting dressed, I made the mistake of unzipping the screen to my tent, a black cloud formed and began barging its way inside my domain. Shit! I was again under attack, as in the distance I heard Sean laughing. This was nothing new to him.
Two days later we reached Eagle Plains, the halfway point, and by Dempster standards, it’ s Shangri- La. It has fuel, hot food, a bar, and enough beds for a dozen or more weary travellers. It’ s also where you meet other riders, all of them filthy, sunburned, and united by the road.
Over cold beer and warm conversations, we traded stories. The guy who blew a shock absorber outside Fort McPherson and rode 100 kilometres standing up. The woman
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