It’s 9pm and I’m standing outside the Bigelow Trailhead bathrooms filling my water bottles at the spigot when a violent series of shivers hits me as sudden as a thunderclap out of a clear, summer sky. I can barely keep my teeth from chattering. With nowhere else to go, I seek the bathroom and find that the concrete walls of the Forest Service bathroom have retained the day's heat and it is deliciously warm inside. I quickly bring all my gear, including the bike, inside and prepare for the long night of riding ahead. I couldn’t keep from sweating up the long, arduous climb of Mt. Lemmon, and now nightfall and the 6000 additional feet of elevation I’ve gained, has given me a wicked chill. I put on warm socks, a vest, rain gear, skull cap, eat some food and make quick dashes outside to fill my remaining bottles. I hit the road.
There is still some road climbing and I attain the high point at approximately 8000 feet – a significant moment since the climb starts outside Tuscon around 2,800 feet and almost 40 miles distant. There is no sign of Mauricio, with whom I had been sharing the better part of the Mt. Lemmon climb all day. After a chilling descent - surprising in its intensity for southern AZ - I arrive at the Mt. Lemmon Fire District where I turn onto the Oracle Control Road. I fly down this road and quickly realize I’ve missed the AZT turnoff, so I have to turn around and climb some more. Honest mistake, but deeply aggravating after this laborious day, at least it warms me up some.
So starts my traverse of Oracle Ridge: a trail I assumed would be mostly down, since it’s the northernmost arm of the Mt. Lemmon massif. But it doesn’t go down. Instead it contours ever so slightly uphill just below the ridge line, and it’s overgrown to a ridiculous degree and strewn with massive boulders. So you are constantly getting hung up on the scrubby pine and tenacious oak while lifting your bike up and over boulders – and of course there is cacti mingled in everywhere. And there are these mysterious birds that sit motionless on the trail until I practically run them down, and then they fly off in a burst of flight – only to land a short way down the trail.
I ‘m now thoroughly exhausted and bitterly disappointed with this trail. I curse loudly and often into the dark night sky. Finally my exhaustion gets the better of me, and shortly after mounting my bike for a short downhill that looks smooth enough to ride I start to fall off the downhill side of the trail. The worst kind of fall. I make a violent motion to try and fall uphill, but it only partially works, and I fall awkwardly over the front of the bike as it stops cold in the sharp boulders. I land painfully on my left palm, and shockingly my helmet smashes into a rock on the ground. I sit up quickly, and just breathe. It’s now 2am, I wonder how I didn’t smash my face into the rocks, or break my glasses, or my helmet mounted light. I turn my attention to my palm. Gingerly taking off my glove I see a nasty cut. I can barely touch my palm and I can’t make a fist at all. I sit there in the dark wondering how I am going to ride another 100 miles of this trail with a painfully bruised left palm…much less get off this confounded Oracle Ridge.
The Homegrown MTB shuttle finally pulls into the Parker Canyon Lake AZT trailhead parking area after a long day driving into headwinds. The vistas south into Mexico are alluring: golden grass in the late day sun on rounded, rolling hills. The other racers scatter and set up their lonely bivy sacks helter-skelter. Tom Wolf and I set up ours near each other, and Tom is debating his choice of bringing a sleeping bag, since it’s always a topic of discussion amongst bikepackers. To bring one, and be comfy, but carry more weight? Or not bring one, have less weight, but be cold at night? Toughy. Tom is considering leaving his bag with the shuttle company. I tell him, ‘don’t do anything impulsive now’. I don’t tell him that I expect a long, cold night since I know my setup is meager and only intended for short nights in camp during the race.
The shuttle departs to bring the 750 racers to their starting area closer to the border. Us '300' racers mingle for a while and chat. I spend time with Tom, and Brad Mattingly whom I rode with in the Dixie 200 last year. I meet Scott Morris, race organizer and one of the founding members of this style of racing. I meet Pete Basigner, record setter in the Alaskan Iditarod, and all around Alaskan bikepacking aficionado. There are many others here who have left their mark within this community one way or another, and it’s special to be toeing the line with them. Someone is cooking bacon-wrapped Jalapeno poppers on a camp grill and is passing them out. Fancy. With the sun down, and a heavy few days coming my way, I crawl into my bivy. As expected, I spend the night tossing and turning trying to stay warm.
As the sun came up on Race Day, the jitters began. I woke up early enough to give myself time to prepare: mentally, and physically. I took a short walk south towards the borderlands to warm up and soaked in the sweeping views. At this point I remember thinking how I hadn’t put fresh slime into my tubes, and that the last time I slimed the tubes was almost a year ago and that surely most of the slime would have dried up and that I couldn’t believe I had overlooked such a crucial piece – since every plant and rock down there is sharp. I debated swapping the tubes for the spares I had with fresh slime, but decided that was too much work to do too soon before the start. I worried constantly about punctures, and pinch flats. I took a short walk down the actual AZT and upon returning to the start area commented to Beth S. from Crested Butte about how ridiculously rough it was right off the bat. She agreed and we both made promises to take it easy on the start. Finally, Scott called all the racers in for the annual pre-race send off. He went over the brief rules: self-supported, don’t break the law, follow the entire route. And then, just like that, without much fanfare, we hit the trail. I let the fast guys go, and waited for an opening and then slid into line. Tom Wolf followed behind. The race had begun!
The first 30 miles of the course follow the AZT through the Canelo Hills. It’s an area with a reputation for quickly dispensing with unwary racers. It’s hot, dusty, dry, full of very loose, sharp rock and has many short, steep climbs – and of course, many cacti. I came prepared to take it easy, and actually found a few really nice sections throughout. Tom dropped off behind. I remember Neil B. (overall winner of the 300 and 750) catching up to me. I let him by with a nod and a grunt. I rode carefully, worried about flats and dehydration. After 5.5 hours, I popped out of the Canelos onto Harshaw Road and literally hollered with joy. The most worrisome section was behind me. I had 30 miles down, and felt fantastic. There was a stiff headwind though (which was something people had been forecasting at the start).
Now things got ugly. The tailwinds from before – which were extremely strong and due to the large cold front that pushed through and settled over Albuquerque (called an Albuquerque Low), producing almost 3 feet of snow back home in Bailey – turned into headwinds as we turned west onto Santa Rita road toward the Santa Rita mountains and Kentucky Camp. This gravel road headed due west, and directly into the winds. I think a lot of the racers that pulled out due to allergies, asthma, or other respiratory problems can probably attribute the start of their problems to this turnoff. They were so strong that I was just barely crawling along. I watched a racer in front of me – Mike B. I think – somehow tackle these winds and gain ground on me. It seemed to take an eternity to get back to the AZT. The next section of trail to Kentucky Camp was great fun, and followed an old pipeline that had been constructed in the early 1920’s to bring in water for a hydraulic gold mining operation. The pipeline construction cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. The promised gold was never found. At the location of the old camp are some restored historic buildings and a reliable spigot with good water.
Several racers were gathered here getting water at Kentucky Camp: Mike Haas, Tracey Petervary, Mauricio Doro, Tom Wolf, Brad Mattingly and others. I introduced myself to Tracey, since she and her husband Jay (JayP) are legendary in the bikepacking world. She lives in Victor, Idaho and we talked of Jackson Hole for a bit. I also talked a bit with Mauricio from Sardinia, Italy. At the starting area earlier that morning, before the race had started, he had wandered over to me as I was still laying in my bivy and clearly wanted to inspect my sleeping ‘system’. So I demonstrated how I didn’t have a sleeping bag, but that I would put on my warm layers before climbing into the bivy. I thought it very ‘Italian’ of him to come over and inquire like that while I was still technically sleeping! He said, ‘Americans are the BEST bikepackers!’ Touche, Mauricio!
I decided to leave Kentucky Camp quickly, try to gain some ground on this big crowd of racers. Mauricio left first, and I followed shortly after him. Brad came next. He caught up briefly and we talked about those nasty headwinds and the gusty wind overall and whether it would ever die down. By now it was about 630pm. At a steep climb in the gravel road he drifted off behind and I never saw him again in the race.
The next few hours of riding featured lots more climbing and descending through the accordion-like ridges of the Santa Rita mountains. It was tiring after an exhilarating day and the wind was still gusting strongly. It was starting to grate on my nerves. The sun was gone, stars were out, and yet the wind would not relent. I spent a bit of time with Mike Haas walking up some climbs, mostly we walked in silence, probably a bit content to have some company on this first night out. As the trail finally wound down out of the Santa Rita’s it hit a fantastic descent toward the Las Cienegas passage, and I had a blast quickly cruising through cacti on buttery smooth trail. I was gunning for the La Sevilla picnic area, 106 miles from the start. As the night wore on however, I realized I was not going to make it. I set my sites instead on the Gabe Zimmerman trailhead a few miles past I-10. The long, dank tunnel under I-10 was terrifically creepy during the wee hours.
I pedaled around the trailhead area in the dark wondering where I would sleep when I spied a handicap-accessible porta-potty. It dawned on me that I might fit in there. My bivy fit just perfectly corner to corner on the floor. I stashed my bike behind it amongst the bushes. As I settled down inside the relief from being out of that gusty wind – which I could hear outside – was immense. A shot of Tincup whiskey calmed my nerves and put me right to sleep. At some point around 3am I heard footsteps on the gravel outside and held my breath, must have been another racer.
Sleeping in a porta-potty? Yes, it sounds ridiculous and unsanitary. True and true, but after 100 miles of mountain biking, with 60 of it in heavy winds, the shelter and coziness overtakes any loss of dignity on my part. And I guarantee you there isn't a bikepacker worth his/her salt out there that hasn't spent a night in a bathroom at some point during a race.
Race Day 2
Saturday, April 16, 2016
Day 2 dawned clear and cold. By 6am I was back on the trail and bidding farewell to my cozy accommodations for the night, chuckling to myself. I made it to the La Sevilla picnic area quickly and the crew from Kentucky Camp the day before caught up to me as I was refilling water: Tracey, Mike, Tom. Mauricio had bedded down earlier in the night, and woken early, thus passing me as I slept. The spigot at La Sevilla – drilled into a rock – was difficult to find, and I almost made Mike look for it as he pulled up, thus gaining myself some time – but I was only joking. I leave first again. There is some climbing to get out of the picnic area, and then a spectacular section of trail that leads to Hope Camp and the long road detour on the outskirts of the city. A few people on this stretch cheer me along. It’s always a great feeling to know that some people out there are actually watching these races!
I stick with my plan of refueling in Tucson, however I plan on getting enough food to see me through the rest of the course – two days worth. This was not my original plan – in which I would detour into Oracle on Day 3 to refuel. However, that is an 8 mile total detour off course, and my timing into Oracle was not looking good. Thus the change in strategy. It worked out very well. Leaving the Circle K in Tucson, I saw Tracey and Tom heading towards it and realized then that I gained good ground on them, and I don’t end up seeing either of them again in the race.
The long climb up to the top of Mt. Lemmon begins and it’s a doozy. You start on nice pave out of Tucson on Reddington road. It quickly turns to gravel and ramps up in grade. Switchbacks ensue. With my gearing (1X10 with a 30-tooth ring) it was a grind. I caught up to Mauricio at this point and we climbed together for a while. There was another 750 rider with us. I didn’t catch his name and he dropped off behind. M and I leapfrogged constantly up this climb. Reddington Road leads to nasty jeep trails and in the heat of mid-day it was a dry, tortuous climb. Finally, after 11 miles or so you get to the Italian Trap trailhead and have another 11 miles of uphill trail which leads to the 14 mile stretch of paved road to the summit! Epic and demoralizing. Having M to share the climb (and suffering) with was nice and he and I got to a fantastic viewpoint off Mt. Lemmon as night descended. We stopped and got some pictures of the lights of far off Tucson and then continued climbing up the road into the dark. Lots of cars were still on the road.
After what seemed an eternity of climbing I arrived at the Bigelow Trailhead where I had been planning to stop and get water. I expected to see M there, but he was gone. Turns out he went into Summerhaven to get food but everything was closed. He should have known that – and I began to wonder if he was low on food. It also turns out that because of his detour I was now ahead of him. For the next several hours I think he is ahead and it disheartens me that I’m getting left behind in the dark and cold. In this frame of mind, I crash into the boulders on Oracle Ridge.
It is too late and too dark and I’m too tired to deal with first aid. I put my glove back on – the process of which hurts like hell – and try my best to continue slogging along Oracle Ridge. I can’t hold the bars properly with my left hand, so forward motion is awkward and I favor my right hand heavily. I finally reach a point in which I start losing elevation and the trail is less overgrown. I can actually get back on the bike. But I have to hold the bars with 3 fingers and my palm elevated off the grip. I continue dropping down and I can feel it getting slightly warmer. My sights for tonight had been set on the Tiger Mine Trailhead near Highway 83 outside Oracle, but I am not going to make it that far. I think I’ll just bed down at the next available place. I start seeing racers in their bivvies just off the trail. One guy was so zonked his feet are actually sticking out into the trail. Another racer has a small fire going in an alcohol burning stove while he is sound asleep. The flame is close to his head and I spend the next hour trying to figure out its purpose and its danger potential. My hand is throbbing. My throat feels like sandpaper from all the wind and dust yesterday. As I stop to readjust my hand I see lights coming down behind me. My first thought is annoyance that anyone else is still riding, which is weird and childish. As the lights approach I realize it is M! A huge relief settles on me to see my old friend (as I think of him now). I croak out a few words about how I’m going to sleep as soon as possible. My voice scares me...it sounds awful. He has minimal english and all I remember is him saying, ‘Mama mia’. He is trashed too. He pedals away into the night. At the next flat space I throw down my bike and struggle to open my bags and get my gear out for sleeping. My left hand can’t pinch or hold anything. I do manage a bit of first aid: a fat gob of antibiotic on my filthy hand, a large band-aid and some hockey tape around my hand. I start scheming about how I am going to get back to my car from Oracle and how I’ll have to scratch since I can’t possibly ride another 100 miles on this hand. I go to sleep, unsettled.
When I wake up – or arise from the foggy, half-conscious state that suffices for sleep out here – I’m a bit motionless for a minute or two. I've slept for 4 hours. I realize that all I can do is move forward. That always seems to be the only recipe for success in these races. As long as you are moving forward you are succeeding. Hitchhiking to my car, or trying to find a ride from Oracle to Picketpost is out of the question and I don’t want to quit this thing. So I groggily, and gingerly, repack gear and set out in all my warm layers since it is still quite cold. Shortly, I arrive at the American Flag trailhead, and get into my day riding kit. I redress my hand, eat some food and begin to realize that I just might be able to ride out on this hand. It’s sore and bruised and bloody, but amazingly I can hold the bars relatively well.
I am happy to see my friend M at the Tiger Mine water cache. We comment on the rough day yesterday on Mt. Lemmon and the toll it took. I show him my nasty bruise and he gives me a classic Italian expression of surprise while muttering, ‘Mamma mia’ again. In fact, he had said that many times yesterday on our climb up Mt. Lemmon and when I saw him in the wee hours earlier this morning. It seems the perfect expression for our struggles! I take only what I think I'll need from the cache.
He leaves while I am still refilling water bottles and eating my breakfast (a Hostess apple pie, and a can of espresso - fit for a King!). It’s worth noting that these water caches are simple steel boxes full of gallon jugs that people lug out here. Spending their own money, putting the wear and tear on their vehicles to get here, they are people that any thru-hiker or biker could not do without on this trail. I was lucky to put some faces to these trail angels at the Freeman Road cache. A mother and her daughter were literally stuffing the steel box full of gallon jugs. Needless to say, I thanked them profusely, and felt this strange bond with them in that fleeting moment. Without that water, I’d have been dry and parched in the endless desert north of Oracle in no time. They gave me life!
The trail north of Oracle is great fun and far easier going than the previous day. Thanks to the cold front that swept through on Friday temperatures are much more bearable (70’s instead of typical 90’s). In an effort to actually get water at a spring, as opposed to the caches, I try for the Beehive Well. Coming around a bend and beginning a short descent on the trail I see the well and it is right out of the wild west. A tall, old windmill sits next to a wooden corral and a large water tank sits off to the side. Something about the lay of the land, the Saguaro cactus, and this old settlement is so strikingly western that I find myself whistling the theme song to ‘The Good, The Bad and The Ugly’. The water is nasty and too low in the tank for me to reach it over the edge. I teeter on logs and rocks to try and get closer but I just can’t reach. Spending too much time for nothing I decide to keep going in an effort to get to the Freeman cache before I run dry. The landscape through here is magical, almost ‘seussical’. The bizarre shapes of the diverse cacti; the dry, rounded, ocher hills; the fluffy white clouds; the arching blue sky. It all adds up to a landscape I’ve just never experienced before. And the trail is great. I’m on the Boulders section and flying. Covering good ground in good time is one of the best feelings in a bikepacking race – mostly because so many of these miles are a battle!
Having past the aforementioned Freeman cache earlier, my next water will be at Kelvin near the Gila river. I haven’t seen Mauricio all day and sunrise is quickly approaching. Before reaching the Gila there is a large climb aptly and simply named, ‘the big one’ in the ATA Guidebook. It is a daunting climb considering you can see all of it from the large wash below. It goes quickly and I reach the ridge line where there is some great singletrack on top, just at sundown. It’s a great vantage on the dying of the day. Southern AZ sunsets are beauties.
I begin the long descent to Kelvin and this is where every mile until the end (about 40 miles distant) takes longer than I expect. Descending, I spy M’s lights far down in the valley – my first sighting of him since the water cache this morning. And I know I’m making good time if he is still in reach.
Darkness comes on the descent toward Kelvin. I flip on my lights and swap my smoke lenses for the clear ones on my sunglasses. I catch M and the first thing he asks me is if there is food in Kelvin. Again, I am surprised at his lack of knowledge on these resupplies. There are no services in Kelvin and I wonder if he is starting to worry about food since he has 50 tough miles to get to his next resupply in Queen Valley (he is doing the 750). He obviously didn’t detour into Oracle for supplies. I head out first and make it to the road and bridge over the Gila. Half way across the bridge I shine my light down onto the river to check its flow and to see if I can get to it. No, definitely not. A jeep passes by with doors off and soft top removed. Two guys drinking canned beer drive by staring me down. What the hell is that guy doing? their looks say. I cross the bridge and turn left to follow the Gila River portion of the trail and spy an ok looking pool of water in a tributary coming into the Gila. As I am filling up a bottle I hear a zipper go and realize there is a tent very near by. An Italian guy emerges (I had heard of the Italian couple backpacking the trail from a thru-hiker I passed earlier, and I remember thinking, ‘what’s with all the Italians down here?’). He comes out and I apologize for disturbing them saying I am just trying to get some water. He explains that the pizza delivery guy brought them an extra gallon of water that they can’t carry (pizza delivery guy?, I’m thinking). So he offers it up and it looks much better than the muddy pool I am leaning over. I take his offer just as M pulls up. I say, ‘Hey, Mauricio, one of your countrymen here!’ They discourse in Italian for a while and then I hear M ask me if I want any pizza. I say no because I want to hit the trail and I have food. Apparently, there is a pizza place in Kearny that will deliver to the bridge over the river. It is too late for M though and he pedals off without fanfare. Dejectedly it seems. I thank the guy, 'grazie!', for the water and head off into the night.
This next section really threw me. I was expecting a nice riverside trail, but never bothered to research it closely enough. It is a tough section near the river but never really follows the river. Instead it climbs up to the heads of gullies and then comes back down. It does this over and over again. It was grueling in the dark and my lack of knowledge of the terrain was bothering me as I couldn’t foresee the next twist or turn. I kept expecting it to eventually drop down to the river. I was hoping to push through the night and finish this race before 8am the next morning, thereby getting a sub 3-day finish. But those hopes were dashed along the Gila. I pass M at around 10pm and he is bedding down. I tell him, presumptuously, that I am going to push through the night, after 2 hours however, I was done for.
Wolf spider eyes catching my flashlight beams were pretty entertaining. They seemed to be everywhere. I was too tired to care about them when I laid down in my bivy. I set my alarm for 4am.
Race Day 4
Monday, April 18, 2016
Dawn on day 4 is still two hours in my future. Waking in these cold, lonely camps is getting tough, especially this time in the dark. But I will myself up and get moving. My hand still hurts but it seems my body has adapted to it and I can ride fairly well. That being said, I am doing a lot of walking now. I wonder if I will ever make it to the turn north toward Alamo Canyon and Picketpost beyond. The finish is now only 21 miles away, only 6 of which I assume is climbing. I end up being very wrong about that. Continuing on in the dark seems like an extension of last night and I felt lousy last night. I feel that way now. My body is dragging and I am fresh out of mojo for this race right now. I will the sun up. Finally, I get to the turn and start climbing out of the Gila River valley. And I see the sky brighten ever so slightly. Come on sun!
Alamo Canyon is spectacular. Far more grand than I had expected. Which, of course, means it is a hard fought climb. Up and up and up I go. But dawn has arrived and with it a new day. I feel better for it. Near the top I spy a young couple from Grand Junction, CO camped at the top with their bikes and gear. They are doing a 2 day loop in the area. I feel gritty and haggard in their presence. I notice how clean all their gear is and when I see the girl brushing her teeth I remember I’ve forgotten to do that the last two nights. I bid them well and carry on. There are so many false summits on the way up through Alamo that it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when I topped out. But I did, and with that, I knew the last big obstacle was out of my way. The end of this thing was tantalizingly near.
Yet, I wouldn't make it without one more crash.
The next 10 miles are a bit of blur. I remember constantly scheming about when I would get to the finish. Calculating the time in my head over and over. But that last 10 miles didn’t come easy and with only 2! of them left I crash – like a fool – off the downhill side of the trail. Again! The bike lands on top of me and we roll together down the slope over sharp rocks. We come to rest in none other than a prickly pear cactus. My leg is twisted painfully under the saddle. I do believe a large expletive aimed at myself was shouted. I then looked around quickly in embarrassment to make sure no one was nearby. The movements required to extricate myself and bike just embed more cactus spikes everywhere. One glove is toast, covered in spikes. I just take it off and shove it in my pack. I climb back up to the trail and begin picking out spikes and inspecting my bike. For sure there must be a puncture this time. Thankfully, the bike is fine. One trusty steed, my Salsa El Mariachi. All cares about finishing time now are past and I slowly and once again, gingerly, finish the last two miles of trail.
Done! But the end of a bikepacking race is always a little more melancholy and painful than it is exciting and exhilarating. I feel completely drained, hollow. There is no one present at the trailhead. I ride to the truck, drop the bike and stand there in the 85 degree heat with the sun beating down mercilessly and I can’t decide what to do. My legs feel weak. Finally, it dawns on me to get the keys out of my pack and start the car and get the A/C on. So I do that. Then I look at my gear. Ugh. I get my change of clothes from the car, hobble to the bathroom and change. I come back to the car, climb in on the passenger side (since the sun is shining in the drivers side) and lay my head back. I feel like I’m floating. I pass out hard for half an hour and feel much better. When I exit the car, I see my buon amico M pull in! First thing he asks is about food so I offer up what I have and another guy who has shown up now (a friend of Tracey’s waiting for her to finish) gives him a blueberry bagel. I also pay it forward for all the water caches and give M 3 liters of water from my stash in the car. We snap some photos and I wish him the best of luck. Watching him pedal off, I appreciate his speed during the 300 considering he has 450 miles to go. I learn later that he is 53 years old.
People always ask, ‘where is the fun part?’ And the truth is, these races aren’t really ‘fun’. That is not the word I would use. I might use something like adventurous, or challenging, or rewarding. Terrifying, uncomfortable, serene and dangerous are others. There are fun parts for sure: riding under a full moon seeing other racers lights strung out in front and behind, wolfing down fried chicken with other racers at resupplies, fans (albeit, few and far between) cheering for you, fast descents on buttery smooth singletrack. But I think more than fun, these races are rare chances to live simply, to rely on nothing but yourself, to live in the moment, to be present in The Present – no past, no future. Just you and the trail and the myriad logistical choices you have to make right here and right now.
As the race fades away and settles deeper into memory, I start seeing it as a whole and not separate pieces. I realize that the challenges posed along the way, the adventures had, and the choices made all form a distinct event that stands out starkly from my day to day back home. Life is complicated! For me, the chance to live simply, and to challenge myself in some of the worlds most remarkable landscapes and to become entangled within them, and thus, one with them, is reason enough to pedal another mile.
