Nothing, Yet Somehow Something. - 10 July 2026

Above: 10 August 2026. 220 miles of this. Steens Highway. OR SR 78 southbound.

The 1:00 p.m. sun blazed high above the high desert as I rolled out of Burns, Oregon. Beneath me, the 2021 Ducati Multistrada V4 stirred to life, its deep, resonant exhaust note rising like the awakening heartbeat of an ancient, untamed god—thunder rolling across forgotten plains. Though the thermometer hovered at 95 degrees, the adrenaline-charged rush of oncoming wind sliced through the heat, carrying it away like a desert spirit on the wing.

Two hundred twenty miles of mostly nothing stretched ahead toward Winnemucca, Nevada, a ribbon of asphalt unspooling across a canvas of sublime desolation. Headwinds rose like invisible adversaries, pressing against the fairing and my chest with the insistent shove of an old rival testing resolve. Yet the Multistrada leaned into them, its V4 symphony rising in pitch as I held a steady 75 mph on roads engineered with such precision they felt less like highways and more like the smooth, deliberate strokes of a sculptor's chisel carving order from chaos.

The bike devoured the miles with predatory grace; a steel stallion bred for horizons. Above, cumulus clouds drifted across an infinite blue sky like scattered thoughts of giants—fluffy, white galleons adrift in a sea of perfect clarity. Visibility stretched ten by ten, as far as the eye could dare, revealing a world laid bare: mountains cloaked in sagebrush, their flanks a mottled tapestry of green and brown, alive yet austere, whispering of resilience in the arid vastness. Later in the ride, the oblique afternoon light, golden and slanting, etched dramatic shadows into every ridge and ravine, transforming the ranges into living sculptures—each fold and contour deepened, as if the desert itself were posing for eternity's portrait.

Here, solitude reigned supreme. No towns, no distractions, only the endless dialogue between machine and man, wind and will. The drone of the Ducati became a mantra, harmonizing with the sigh of tires on pavement and the occasional abnormal gusts of wind rushing through my helmet. In that emptiness, time dilated; every mile a meditation on motion, every shadow a reminder that even in nothingness, beauty casts its long, elegant form. By the time Winnemucca's outskirts appeared on the horizon, the ride had etched itself into memory—not as mere travel, but as a communion with the open road's raw poetry.

Two hundred twenty miles of mostly nothing, yet somehow, everything.