It is not a technical ride. There are plenty of rocks to jump and slickrock sections to cross, but the road is wide enough for a truck, and the terrain is neither terrifying nor death defying. Only the distance makes it challenging, and that all depends on how fast you want to cover it.

From end to end, the White Rim comprises a 110-mile circle, including a 25-mile part-dirt, part-paved section that sits on the upper plateau and is not a part of the national park.

The inner portion — the part that traverses along the white rim layer of sandstone that overlooks the canyons of Canyonlands and gives the trail its name — is about 85 miles.

You don't have to camp overnight to cover the distance on a bike. Hard-core cyclists with Lance Armstrong lungs are known to start at dawn and finish at dusk, 10 to 12 hours later. The fastest of these one-dayers, legend has it, have completed the White Rim from end to end in less than eight hours.

Such people do not have to worry about no stinking permits.

But to stop and smell the red rock requires setting aside some time for thought, contemplation — and a nice long lunch.

Our group planned to knock off the White Rim in two nights.

But just to be on the safe side we packed the support truck with enough food and beverage for a week.

On a multiday trip, a truck is essential. It should be big enough to carry all your camping gear and needs to be four-wheel-drive unless you want to leave it abandoned on Murphy Hogback or Hardscrabble, the White Rim's two formidable summits. The truck is there to bring up the rear and rescue any broken bikes or bikers (the idea is to take turns driving). Most importantly, the truck carries enough water to keep you from starring in the next episode of "I Shouldn't Be Alive."

After a 40-mile first day's ride, we stayed in the White Crack campground. The campsites are Spartan, to say the least. There are virtually no decent shade trees along the entire White Rim. But there was a scrub juniper tree at White Crack, and there we discovered a small rattlesnake curled up, blending in with the terrain.

A ranger happened to be nearby, emptying the campsite outhouse.

"Hey, what do we do about this rattlesnake?" we asked.

"Don't bother him," said the ranger. "He was here before you were."

So much for everyone needing a permit.

Bruce gently put the snake on the end of a stick and escorted him to another juniper tree.

Then we settled in for huge plates of spaghetti cooked over a propane stove, followed by a quiet night of shuteye.

There is no solitude like Canyonlands at night solitude.