The next morning we resumed the trek west, parting ways in Ely, Nevada, where he remained on Highway 50, while I detoured onto Hwy 6. It was on the 168-mile stretch between Ely and Tonopah that I was transported to a new plateau of meditation while riding. As Ely got smaller and smaller in my mirrors and two-lane Highway 6 settled me onto a meandering course west, I soon found myself completely alone, not a single motorist to be seen. The sun pounded, the engine hummed along. I didn’t pass another vehicle in either direction for a very long time. I feel the powers that be on the Nevada road-naming board may have missed something when they officially named Highway 50 “The Loneliest Road In America,” for certainly Highway 6 is equal to—if not more so—the bleakness of Highway 50. Each crest of mesa rewarded with the sight of a thin ribbon of highway stretching across the desolate reaches as far as the eye could see, the two-lane road splitting the interminable distance. Nothing moved out here and not a sliver of shade to be found. Flat, dry land in every direction. Just wide open American frontier, much the way it looked to early settlers coming across in Conestoga wagons—albeit at a much slower clip.