The two bulls were squaring off in the middle of the asphalt, which was fine, other than the fact that they were taking up the entire road.

"Maybe we can slip by on the right," I said in the direction of my friend and cycling companion Kevin Hall.

"Maybe we should wait," he said, his conservative point of view no doubt affected by the bike he was demo-ing: a carbon-frame Cervelo that cost more than my car, and his, and is supposed to be able to withstand just about anything, with the possible exception of 4,000 pounds of really fresh T-bone steak.

Just then, the bulls sumo-wrestled abruptly to the right, blocking the shoulder.

"Maybe you're right," I said.

Eventually a car came along, a big, long Cadillac with Illinois plates. A man and woman were in the front seat, enjoying the two-lane road less traveled up the Monte Cristo pass between Woodruff and Huntsville.

They saw the cattle and hit the brakes. We asked them if they'd inch up close to the bulls and honk their horn, and we'd ride right behind their trunk, drafting past the trouble.

So they did that, but the car horn had as much effect on those bulls as a whistle in a prison riot. They were too busy deciding who was going to lead the herd — the bigger, older bull or the smaller but highly spirited rookie challenger. The Cadillac hit the gas, slipping by on the left, leaving us — and more importantly Kevin's Cervelo — about 10 feet downhill from two tons of raging bull.

But luckily, the bulls didn't notice us, either, and we slipped back down the road a respectful distance, still waiting.

Finally, the bigger bull, obviously tired of the nonsense, showed some Cael Sanderson quickness and Rulon Gardner strength and body-slammed the challenger onto the shoulder.

It was over. The exhausted bovines separated, and the victor started slowly walking up the highway toward the scattered herd ahead; the loser, looking all hang-dog, brought up the rear about 20 feet back.

Kevin and I hopped on the pedals and rode past on the left, trying to look nonchalant, as meek as church mice.

And so went another week bicycling around Utah looking for something to write about. A lot is happening out there, even if most of it never winds up in the newspaper.

Getting out of the office and onto the road is therapeutic. I would highly recommend it. This year's trek was particularly curative. After three years of taking these "business" trips in July, I stumbled onto this discovery: Biking in northern Utah in September is better than biking in southern Utah in July.

I have never been accused of being a fast learner.