The Sonoran Migration

I did NOT want to be the one to say I was cold. 

It was pre-dawn in Arizona’s Sonoran Desert, and my toes were rapidly losing feeling. In packing the bags I strapped to my bike the previous morning, I had left my thick wool sleeping socks in the hamper.

The weather report for the nearby town of Cave Creek called for a low of 45, the internet said, and I had promised the dozen riders on the trip of my design through my backyard the warmth and goodness of a winter escape to the Arizona desert. A Rodeo Migration, to put it more accurately. 

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