Dead Valley,

In the early morning, the motorbike climbs out of the valley of Las Vegas when behind me the sun appears over the horizon. In spite of the early hour and a mountain-pass of 1600 metres, it is 35°C already.
A quick sum tells me that that will be 10 degrees more when I am at the bottom of Dead Valley (about 6,5° for every 1000 metres). In front of me lies a bizarre landscape of sharp and coloured rockformations, saltlakes, succulents, cacti and of course the immense heat. In spite of the extreme climate, (that is by the way in the winter much milder) more than 900 sorts of plants grow here and all kinds of animals are running and flying around. I'm not planning to look at them on my knees one by one because with a record air temperature of 56°C and no more than 5 cm of water a year (50 litres per m², in Holland it's 750) I can't be bothered. Ground temperatures of 90º have been measured here, so my tyres won't be very happy either. The bike has been filled up in Las Vegas and almost 900 kilometres are packed in the big polycarbonate Acerbis tanks.
In spite of the heat, the motor is singing a happy song and I join him. In one way or another your body adjusts, and if you take it a little easy and make sure you get enough of that special fluid called water inside, you will be alright.
Around noon, I arrive at the lowest point, 282 feet (86 metres) below sea-level. The temperature meter says 48º so that's not too bad. I eat a banana sandwich and drink of the big water tank that is tight to the back of the bike (and has gradually started bubbling) and it's so hot, you need to sip it like it is coffee.
An hour further down there is, in the middle of nowhere, a resort with a real bar ! I stop to take a look. The beer costs me 10 guilders (and is not even served topless for that kind of money)but it tastes better than all the beers I can remember. A lot of them I can't remember but that is another story.
I have difficulty leaving the the air-conditioned bar and pulling myself up my bike again. My butt hurts an my lips crack at every yawn or smile. Fortunately there is not much to smile about or it must be at my own jokes.
At a crossing I can choose for a short route through the overheated valley or a detour through the mountains. Knowing that mountains are always cooler and more interesting, the choice is easy. The road climbs to 2000 metres and it's immediately far more pleasant, with a lot of windings and beautiful views over this godless landscape.
Early in the evening, after 700 kilometres, I try to find a camping place but I don't see anything suitable. Because of a raid in a national park in Thailand, 4 years ago, I don't feel comfortable at all and go on towards the coast. Suddenly I drive through the Californian grape fields (hé !!!) . I stop the bike and climb through the barbed-wire to have a look. Just in time. A little later I drive away with two big bunches of red grapes under my jeans jacket, steering with one hand, eating grapes with the other. It reminds me of the old days, when we stole pears from the nuns and were chased by these penguins in the convent garden.
There is a beautiful sunset while I worry about a sleeping place.
In a dark night, on a winding small mountain road, and with many trucks loaded with fruit on their way to L.A. close behind me, it gets colder and colder. I'm shaking in my jeans jacket but see no place to stop.
Not until 12 o'clock at night and after almost 1000 kilometres I find a camping place. Benumbed I crash in my tent and fall in a dreamless sleep.