There was no riding in a storm like this. Not without air filters, and not without a greater touch of the crazy than Rig had been cursed with. No, he'd dug in and then tarped his prone form a stone's throw from the bike, with every intention of waiting out the rad-blasted chem-storm like all the others before it, and the many yet to come. He'd left the bike looking abandoned and wrecked, but that ruse was likely unnecessary, since even before he covered himself with the makeshift tent, the bike was half-buried in drifted sand. His burrow wasn't comfortable, it wasn't truly safe (what was?) but once the ever-shifting sand had buried the tarp, it was as close to full concealment as you could get in the Empty. 

There was no food. There was very little water. He'd ration that for the morning. There was no need for light. His hands played over his weapons, checking their readiness over and over. The storm raged mere inches from his face, the smell of ozone and the roar of the winds assaulting his senses. But it was all white noise as he let himself sleep. This too, would pass....