DAY 17, JULY 1, 16:25:55 MDT: Hey, everybody, Matthew Lee here. I just got in from the border ... And it is hot—not happening hot, just hot.... First, congrats to J.P. for his really fast ride. I'm humbled, and he has certainly raised the bar. I met my goals, and I'm happy with the legs I finished on.... Good luck to all still out on course. Thanks to Tom Purvis for keeping everything together. Rock on.

Jeff and I are wondering why we haven't been forewarned about just how miserable New Mexico is. We've been riding together, yo-yoing, for five days, and in that time two riders have finished: Jay Petervary in 15 days, 4 hours, and 18 minutes, and Matthew Lee, also beating the record in 15 days, 22 hours, and 40 minutes. We thought this was supposed to be the homestretch, and I pictured something of a downhill spree—green chile, yellow sunshine, and a bottomless cup of black coffee. But out here a water bottle full of lukewarm instant java is as good as a venti mocha; another bottle full of Tang and you're an astronaut king.

Late morning on the Fourth of July, we hit downtown El Rito to find Ashley McKenzie, a redheaded North Carolina computer programmer, sitting Indian style on the floor in the mercantile. He's wearing an ice cream sandwich all over his face and talking to himself. Customers give him a wide berth. "Ashley," I say. "How's it going?"

"Sell ya a burrito."

"?"

"The café is closed. But I talked the owner into selling me some leftover burritos. I can't eat 'em all. I got one left. Five bucks."

"No, thanks."

Jeff walks up. "I'll give you $1.27. It's all I have." Awwwll right. "Give me your knife," Jeff says to me. "I'll split it with you." That's OK, I tell him. I'll wait.

"That burrito sucked," he says a minute later as he wipes sauce from his whiskers. We're off for Abiquiú. Ashley shoots ahead like a man born again on burritos and ice cream.

A left turn at Abiquiú and we climb for altitude in the Santa Fe National Forest. Atop the Polvadera Mesa, the trail turns to posole in a steady rain. On the left, a yellow tent is pitched against a juniper tree.

"Billman!" It's Nathan Bay. He sticks his bare torso out. "I been sick. Food poisoning." He spent yesterday throwing up. Today he slept and tried to rehydrate. How did he get that far ahead of me? One of the Brits, Matt Kemp, was sick too, he said. Bad road food.

After a cold dinner of a Slim Jim and dried figs, I hear moaning from a new direction—it's Jeff, in his tent. Nathan and I listen to the distinct sound of vomit splashing off of ripstop nylon. The puking lasts much of the night. Ashley's burrito. High camp has turned into sick camp.

The next morning I'm surprised to find that Nathan is ready to ride out with me. There are man hugs. But Jeff stays put. He's so dehydrated, we'll later learn, that nurses in Española won't be able to find a vein in his arm to stick an IV. His GDR is done. I've grown accustomed to Jeff's complaining and miles of conspiracy theories, and his having to quit this close to the border shakes me. "Do it for both of us," he says.

When we get to Cuba, Nathan and I learn from Tom Purvis that Matt McFee passed out on his bike from heat exhaustion near here; his GDR is over and he's lucky to have made it to the hospital, thanks to the motorist who found him. Nathan stays in Grants to fix his seatpost; I pin it for Pie Town and then on to the Gila National Forest—next to Wyoming's Great Divide Basin, the toughest, most intimidating country on the GDR. The Gila is so remote that you can ride for two days without seeing another person, just rocks covered in graffiti and then, in the middle of nowhere, a stripped late-model minivan that must have been stolen the day before. The Gila is the GDR's Black Hole of Calcutta: Dehydration is a real possibility. Take a wrong turn in the dark and ride further into desolation. Goatheads straight from Satan's garden. A sign warns me about a "dangerous wolf." But the worst is worrying about your tires. These Nevegals have more than two large on them, and the front one is developing strange heat bubbles 150 miles from a town. Worry gets you nowhere out here, but worry is what I do for a day and a half.

By the time I roll into Gila Bike and Hike, in Silver City, my nerves are sanded raw. I run into the Brits at the Javalina coffee shop, quaffing tea and eating scones. Of course they are—they've made it to Antelope Wells and to Wal-Mart for fresh Yankee wardrobes. "God, you look like Hell! Brilliant!" they say—do I know everyone's staring at me? I am filthy in anthropological layers and silly with the cartographical fact that I have only 125 miles to go before I can stop pedaling forever if I want to. This is Silver City, New Mexico, by God—the last leg of the Great Divide Race—and I've finally entered that vision I had on so many training rides. I am a man made of earth.

I haven't talked with Hilary in three or four days. I stand at a pay phone outside the Albertson's. "Hi, babe," I say.

What I want her to say is "Hi, tough hombre."

Instead, this: "I'm gonna say something that's gonna make you mad." I am exhausted and nearly euphoric. I have coffee. What can she possibly say? "You are gonna be so disappointed with yourself if you don't make the border by noon tomorrow." She's been tracking my progress and knows more about my place in the scope of the race than I do. By now 14 riders have dropped out, and I've been feeling a little pride at being one of the remaining 11, telling myself that making the cutoff doesn't matter. But that's bullshit.

She's made me mad.

"You can get tenth," she says. Dusk is coming on fast and I grab a Quarter Pounder combo and spin out of Silver City, racing the noon.