I’d rolled into Moab on the Harley the day before to meet up with three other riding companions, all coming from different states in the West—Arizona, Colorado, and New Mexico (and me from Oregon). Stan, based near Phoenix, was the brains behind the operation, and after six months of endlessly aggressive emails, tempting brochures, and relentless cajoling, he had convinced Mary, Tony, and me that southern Utah would make for a superb destination for a bunch of motorcycle obsessives looking to soak up some excellent riding. Of course he was right. But first we had to get there. And then meet each other for the first time.