Leslie and I loitered on the pile for the better part of three hours… The shadows. The colors. The wind. The air. All conspired to beguile, to captivate. I explored the far side, careful not to disturb the perfection that defined the dune’s wind-swept razor edge. I also did my best not to pass out from forging through the all that goddamned sand.

The best way to conclude your Dune 45 experience? By tearing ass down the side without going ass over teakettle. Psychological regression is unavoidable. I estimate my maturity level bottomed out somewhere between five and six years of age. Dune 45 is also a time machine. Yes, it is….

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