IT WAS....a beautiful fall afternoon for a bicycle ride in the forest. The trails were packed tightly, with only the occasional hint of moisture in spots, and the only other variance to the surface would be the typical puddels. It was as if the day itself was curated for the purpose...a celestial and meteorological circumstance of perfection for the Cemetery 6Pack. Here is the story of that event, as told by someone who lived it.
The concept of this event was birthed in the avid mind of one Matt Wagner, and the traction instantly gained through instant support voiced by fellow mountain bike idiots immediately solidified his resolve to see his idea through to fruition. The task...ride the Cemetery Hill "lollipop" loop with connector stem 6 times and consume a fermented beverage of choice for each lap. The course would be about 2 miles long, twisting singletrack with the occasional sharp climb. Three laps clockwise and three laps counterclockwise...just to even things out and encourage the possibility of collision with fellow competitors.
I arrived with the intention of getting some warmup miles in, even though my chief concern lay with my relatively poor beer-drinking skills and how I would perform in that aspect of this particular duathlon. This attempt was thwarted by my own ineptitude in the mechanical realm. This weekend, I thought I was on a roll, having successfully converted a wheelset to tubeless, and then cleaning and repairing my Milwaukee Bicycle Company singlespeed...replacing the bottom bracket (which had a completely locked drive-side bearing) with one that was sitting on a shelf in my basement bike room. I had ridden the bike the previous day, but something felt loose. I discovered that a cleat on my right shoe was loose, and fixed that as soon as I made it back to the lot...so I figured I was good to go. Nope. The loose feeling remained, and, in fact, was a lot worse. I thought that perhaps the cranks were loose, so I cranked down hard on them. Still, they were floating. It was then I was informed of the proprietary nature of the crankset I was using, and the size of the spindle being smaller than the inside diameter of the bearings...hence...the "float." Not good. What to do...no time to go get another bike, nobody had a replacement, and I WAS DOING this event at all costs. The bike WAS rideable in that state...BUT...in order to improve upon the feel of it, I wrapped the axle with electrical tape to reduce the space between axle and bearing. Not a perfect solution, but one that worked. I hammered everything back together with 5 minutes to spare, and brought my 6 pack (three Bud Lights and three Spotted Cows...in cans) over to Matt's pickup...the unofficial start/finish line.
Upon the chime of four...the beers were cracked. Well...except for Dave, who had opened his early because he was thirsty. All told, there were 8 intrepid souls that left the lot...Matt W, Jon, John, Dave, Matt S, Lawrence, Joel and myself. The first four apparently lack gag reflexes, because their beers were gone and they were mounting bikes before I got 1/2 way through my can of Spotted Cow. I am generally a person that drinks without any sense of urgency, so, when the can was empty and I set it down and threw a leg over the bike, my gut reacted rather negatively to the sudden influx of liquid. I was on Joel's wheel, and it felt like my stomach took over all the space in my chest cavity, leaving no room for lungs. The belching mechanism went into play immediately to clear some space, and I'm pretty sure Joel was attempting to surge to get away from all the horrible noises following him. The Cemetery loop doesn't provide much in terms of passing zones, and Joel and John in front of him were running a decent pace, so I settled in and enjoyed the lap.
Returns to the truck were made more interesting by the fact that all racers had to cross a fairly busy road...fortunately, we were aided by Melissa and Troll, letting us know when cars were coming. Joel and I got hung up by a sudden clot of cars, and lost the lead pack for good...our drinking wasn't really on par with those guys anyway. Matt S and Lawrence had gotten a late start, and to their credit, they hung in and battled back into contention and drunkenness. Beer Two for me was a Bud Light, and it seemed to go down easier than the Cow, so I was out of the lot before Joel and on my own for the remainder of the event. It was time to pace myself...only...I had had two beers and wanted to ride fast...so I didn't pace myself all that well. Does hard breathing make you more drunk? Possibly.
There were very few rules/guidelines in this event...and one of them was that the loop was to be completed 3 times in each direction. There was no direction as to which direction we were to go first, nor was it out of line to go the same direction twice in a row. The result was a series of exhilarating high-speed drunken encounters with other racers heading the opposite way, which, in my opinion, really gave the whole thing a nice extra bit of spice. Somehow, nobody hit each other. I DID end up feeling really bad for the girl who was apparently just learning how to mountain bike in the midst of these shenanigans. I passed her at least three times, apologizing each time, and finally was able to tell her at the street crossing that she should not be in any way discouraged by the unusually high concentration of idiots on this particular trail.
Beers three and four honestly kind of ran together, as by this time, the alcohol was starting to take effect. The belching continued, rather uproariously, in point of fact, and, during a technical downhill on the start of the 4th loop, began to...solidify...shall we say? I came to a stop, took a couple deep breaths and swigged some water from my bottle, then remounted and continued to hammer down. I began to worry about my ability to complete the whole thing...not the riding...but the BEER. It was seriously putting a hurt on me. But...I persevered.
Beer five was the last of my Bud Lights, and by this time I was buzzing pretty good. I narrowly missed Jon, John, Dave and Matt, who were light years ahead of me and might not have been yelling and drooling as much as I was. I began to pick new lines. I splashed through puddles that I had been riding around. I bounced off a tree with my bar end, and took a root to the side of the foot that I swear almost ripped my shoe open. I did not, however, slow down. At least it felt that way. I also realized about 1/2 mile into lap five that I had left my glasses sitting on the side of the truck bed.
Choking down the final beer was probably the hardest thing I'd done all day. My stomach was full. My taste buds were overwhelmed. I'm pretty sure if I'd have drunk it any faster, all five previous beers would have unceremoniously re-entered society. Somehow I got it down, and before I could even mount the bike again, Jon and John, who had been dicing it out in front, FINISHED. I was a lap down. Crap. I furiously pedaled away, only to be intercepted by a speeding Dave, taunting me and laughing manically. Lap six was nothing but flow. I was turning, ducking and diving between trees, braking late in corners, thrashing myself on the uphills, launching roots, blasting puddles...basically hero-biking. I am really glad there was nobody coming the other way and that there is no video of my ACTUAL ride...which was probably ponderous and slow.
Soooo...how do you properly celebrate a ride that contained as an element of difficulty the very substance which you would imbibe were you celebrating the conclusion of a "normal" ride? Apparently you drink more. The grand prize winner was Jon, having consumed 6 Modus Hopperandi and ridden his butt off...and the grand prize was a bottle of Malort. Having been force-fed a shot of Malort...I'm not sure I ever want to win this event. Jon celebrated with such aplomb that the next morning's message from him inquired as to the location of his car. Which is exactly how it should be.
Roll on, my friends. With beer.
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Monday, June 6, 2016
I Left All My Tubes in Pennsylvania
WHY? Yes. This is the great unanswered question. Why do I do this to myself? I have nothing to prove. I have no aspirations toward greatness. I am perfectly satisfied being an average
mountain biker living in a disadvantageous locale for that particular
activity. So…why travel 10 hours to
punish myself on the hills and rocks of Central Pennsylvania? Even when this race is over….I’m not sure I
will have a solid answer, but I guess I’ll attempt some insight…if only to
prevent future folly. Maybe.
Catharsis.
Certainly one facet of this experience and my perceived
necessity for its occurrence that I CAN actually put a finger on is the
aforementioned 8th grade vocabulary word. I am a person that gets brought low by
monotony, the in’s and out’s of daily life, and the subterranean pressure of
small business ownership. I like to
escape every day, so into the woods I go.
Local rides haven’t been cutting it of late, and my mentality has
denigrated to the danger level this spring.
I like to think I’ve maintained a fairly even keel externally, but I
know at least one person that is married to me has seen right through the
veneer. I guess I needed to do this…or
at least SOMETHING.
Off With a Bang
No better way to start an adventure by getting in your first
car accident, right? Yeah…I could have
sworn the traffic in my lane was at least MOVING…but it wasn’t. By the time I threw out the anchor, it was
too late. 7000 lbs of truck with a tiny
popup camper behind it doesn’t stop very well, and the Honda Accord that was my
victim certainly didn’t fare too well.
I’m extremely grateful that nobody was injured. Total damage to my truck was literally Rodney
Dangerfield-like “Hey…you scratched my anchor.”
The guy I hit actually said…damn…I’ve got to get a truck!
7 hours later, I stopped and grabbed a hotel and some grub,
then finished up the remaining 2 hours the next morning, arriving at
Singletrack Summer Camp and the Transylvania Epic around 11am. I got my popup set up and camp established,
then rolled over and said hello to my local contact, Russ, who I had met at
Mohican 100 a few years ago and been Facebook friends with since. Russ and his cohorts Joe and Jim are
apparently very serious riders, with shaved legs and everything, so I had a
feeling I wouldn’t be seeing much of them in the actual competition portion of
this experience. This has proven to be
true, and I have undertaken the task of providing comic relief and a slower
cheering section for them…as well as plying them with New Glarus beer.
The Gnat and the Elephant
The power around the PA boy’s campsite had some issues on
the first night, and we were treated to a cautionary tale about power surges
and popped breakers using the titular animals as examples from the camp
caretaker. For my part, I am referencing
these animals in terms of how I felt at the end of the stage…like a gnat that
was stepped on by an elephant. I started
and found my pace fairly quickly…but noticed after a couple miles, that I was
ahead of the PA guys. Not. Good.
Jim had started in front of me, and I later learned he was a former
age-group national champion, so….yeah I did NOT see him. Russ and then Joe passed me, probably about 8
or 9 miles into the day, and so I felt better then…at least I was potentially
riding within my meager abilities. The
climbs were largely on gravel roads, but gravel that was STEEP…like
smallest-gear-I-have steep….and, that being the case, took forever. Considering the longest sustained climb on my
local trails is something under 2 minutes, the 20 minute grinders are a bit out
of my element. The singletrack was as
rocky as promised, and it seems that you are either going good and bouncing
along, or struggling to even roll a full rotation of a wheel, which can be
somewhat frustrating. Walking isn’t even
a viable option, as the rocks are all loose and rounded off, so hard-soled
mountain bike shoes don’t exactly grip with any alacrity. Anyway…I actually felt decent, and made it up
the 5 mile long climb at the end of the day…and then everything fell
apart. I bonked. I could barely turn the pedals. It wasn’t that any particular part of me
hurt, it was just a general hurt, and the only way it stopped is if I stopped. Which I could not do. At one point there was a large rustling in
the bushes to my left, and my thought was “I hope that is a bear and it would
just eat me.” That, my friends, is being
crushed.
My confidence was at smashed-gnat level yesterday afternoon. I was pretty sure that despite training all
winter and spring, I just did not have the conditioning to finish this
event. I don’t remember feeling that way
after Day One of the Pisgah Stage Race two years ago…and this race is 30 miles
longer. I went to bed feeling like a
terribly sucky mountain biker.
Pedal ‘Til the Wheels Come Off
My legs actually felt alive this morning, despite their
recent death. I will attribute that to
the rum. That is my tactic and I am
sticking to it. I made it a point to
ride a bit slower at the start, and succeeded on this count, which resulted in
a much more pleasant experience at the end of the day. Perhaps…I am learning? Anyway, there was more grinding ascent,
teeth-rattling rock gardens, and a couple of awesome downhills…the first
fall-line trail we went down I actually smelled burning brakes, lol. All was going swimmingly, I was riding within
myself, and was not feeling bad when I started up the Tussey Ridge trail (the
featured section of the day). About 1/3
of the way through that extremely bumpy area, I hit a rock that stopped my
front wheel, and when I went to pedal again…I got nothing. A quick glance down revealed a VERY slack
chain, and a dismount and further investigation showed that the lower pulley
wheel on my derailleur had popped off.
Fortunately, all the parts were sitting just below their proper
position…so, I was able to fix the problem despite streams of sweat literally
pouring from my helmet. A final tweak
was necessary to tighten the torx head on the offending screw…and I didn’t have
it. Crap. I did the best I could with an allen, but had
a feeling it would not suffice. A kind
soul passing by asked if I needed anything, so I mentioned that, and BOOM…guy
had one. Awesome. I haven’t mentioned it yet, but mountain
bikers are a spectacular group of people.
With that fixed, I finished up the rest of the grind that is Tussey (and
hell yeah it’s tough), and flew down the awesome flow trail to the second aid
station. Only 7 miles to go. I’ve got this. About a mile later, a rider was off the side
of the road, so I asked if he needed anything…and he said “YES! Do you have a 29-inch tube?” I replied in the affirmative, and passed on
the good karma that was given to me earlier.
The last 7 miles featured an inordinate amount of climbing…I
plan on seeking out the race organizer and lodging an official complaint as
soon as I’m done typing and drinking some rum.
I ALMOST made it without feeling that gutted pain of the first day…and
then…stupid sharp climbs took all my likes away. The proximity to the finish kept me rolling,
though, and I finished with a bit more of a smile on my face. Tomorrow, we Enduro, bro.
Never Go Full Enduro
For the uninitiated, “Enduro”-style mountain bike racing has
gained rapidly in the popularity department over the past couple of years. Essentially, it’s a ride out in the woods
with your friends, and only the downhill “segments” are timed. Thoughout the Pisgah Stage Race and the TSE,
there are Enduro segments on each day, and a breakout competition with the
champion being the person that can throw themselves and their bike downhill in
the least amount of elapsed time. Unique
to the TSE, however, is an entire day devoted to Enduro. While not an EASY day, (29 miles and 4,600
feet of climbing), it was a very
laid-back day. People recovered from the
previous two days by basically soft-pedaling up the climbs, then waiting in
line for the segment starts…a clear course being a necessity to a good time. The other really cool thing about this
experience was that you were able to meet and ride with a ton of people you
would not normally see on the race course…for instance, the last part of the
day the PA crew and myself rode with Kaycee Armstrong, who is doing very well
on GC (general classification, or, overall).
She won the women’s overall when I was at Pisgah a couple years ago and
is an EXCELLENT rider, obviously.
Keeping the group together for the day was fun…and fortunate, as Russ had
his chain fall apart twice, and Joe, who is an excellent mechanic and was
dressed in a Batman shirt and cape, was able to fulfill his superhero
role.
As to the downhill segments…I make ZERO pretense about
having any downhill ability (hell…these last couple days have me questioning
whether I have ANY actual ability!). I
live in a flat place and don’t have a heck of a lot of experience with
high-speed descent. Sooo…this was
eye-opening and ass-puckering. Imagine
hanging your butt off the back of the seat, over the rear wheel, hurtling down
a hill littered with large pointy rocks, squeezing both brakes with all your
might…and yet not slowing down. The
fourth segment, called Wildcat, featured me in just such a position. I finally had to bail by just leaning hard
left and sliding off into the leafy detritus on the side of the trail. Problem solved, right? I was stopped. Buuuut…I had to start again, and the damned
slope was so steep I could NOT, lol. I
literally ran downhill with the bike…covering 40 or 50 feet with like three
steps…before the trail levelled off enough to remount and continue the horrific
abuse they refer to as “mountain biking” in PA.
When I reached the bottom of that section (it took a seemingly
interminable 3 minutes or so)…I just dropped the bike and said “That was
literally the hardest trail I have ever ridden.” Everyone laughed.
The day ended with me flatting on the way down to the
parking area, and upon hearing I was running tubes at an event sponsored by
Stan’s Tubeless technology, Joe deemed this to be utterly unacceptable. So, now my bike is set up tubeless for the
remainder of the race.
Finally! Ridable
trails…BUUUUUUT….
Day Four, and if you had asked me at the end of Day One if
I’d still be here, I’d have answered pretty emphatically in the negative. However, somehow I am still plugging away,
and not only that, but I seem to be getting stronger. Today was just over 35 miles at RB Winter State
Forest, about a 40 minute drive from our campsite. I had purchased transportation by bus from
the TSE organization, but the PA boys came through for me yet again, and told
me I could just ride with them. This was
pretty cool for me; taking the bus yesterday was fraught with the unexpected
instance of a language barrier, as there is a pretty large contingent of
Panamanians here…and they were all on the bus.
The PA boys mostly speak English and bicycle.
Anyway…this course was much more to my liking. The rocks, while still fairly omnipresent,
were not QUITE as large, and there was even a couple sections without them
(some of the first sans-rock trails in over 100 miles). I started pretty slowly up the 600 foot
road/gravel climb, and found my rhythm on the first section of singletrack. I rolled through the first Enduro feeling
pretty good and riding within myself.
Then…adversity reared its ugly stupid face again…this time
in the form of rain. The temperature
dropped, and after riding the past three days with temps in the mid/upper 80s,
70s and extreme wetness had me very concerned.
As did the rocks. Because what is
harder to ride than dry rocks? WET
ROCKS. Yay. Nonetheless…somehow, some way…I started to
feel GOOD for the first time all week. I
was powering up the gravel climbs pretty well, and despite the soul-crushing experience
that was walking up a flooded-out, slippery, muddy, rocky incline too steep to
ride while being Biblically poured upon…I persevered.
One more day to go, and Russ is kicking serious butt in the
30+ age group…he has a chance to take the win tomorrow. Joe is doing well in 40 plus as well. Jim had a rough day today and DNF-d due to
vision issues (glasses don’t work very well in pouring rain and flinging mud). I am still hoping my legs can carry me
another 35 miles and 5000 feet upward.
This One Goes to Eleven
This entire week was challenging. Not that I thought it wouldn’t be, but I
guess I underestimated the level of challenge that I would be facing. In retrospect, I can’t really fault myself in
that regard, as there are not 10 feet of local trail that have anything even
remotely close to the level of difficulty experienced here. At least on the last day of Pisgah, the
mileage was lower and there was a downhill finish…TSE featured a 35 mile
day…and the most climbing of any day of the week…5466 feet of vertical. When I say I started the last day still
wondering if I had the ability to finish this event…I am being very truthful.
Rain and cool temps preceded the start, and I added a base
layer to my kit and also carried a light rain jacket in my CamelBak, as the
forecast called for more of the same. I
can stand being wet and miserable, but COLD, wet and miserable is where I draw
the line. All 150 or so remaining riders
in the event were bussed out to a remote start line in the Rothrock Forest, and
upon disembarking…the sun came out. And
the humidity went WAY up. So the 1400
foot climb right out of the gate was more than a bit of a burn on the legs and
the lungs. Much of the climbing has been
(mercifully) on forest roads and two-tracks, but this one was mostly
singletrack, interspersed with occasional rocky sections and a couple of decent
rock gardens…one of which contained THE rock with my name on it that sent me
over the handlebars for my first completely out-of-control crash of the week. I didn’t hurt myself or the bike,
fortunately, and was able to finish off the climb feeling pretty good…at least
relative to the situation. We had been
warned repeatedly about the opening Enduro downhill…the fact that I was barely
able to WALK down it (largely in the name of finishing the event, but, my
desire for self-preservation did factor in highly) had me shaking my head in
disbelief at the talent of those who rolled it.
Conditions were wet, rocky, and extremely straight down. The ensuing portion of the ride was
punctuated by some muddy and rooty singletrack next to a stream flowing from
the morning rains…it PROBABLY should have been fast and smooth, but instead it
was slow and a bit frustrating. I wound
up with a guy from Vermont, and we rolled together through that and the second
nearly 1000 foot climb of the day…sharing the pain made it somehow a bit
easier. I gapped him after the third big
climb, and was alone on top of a ridge slicing and dicing some nice trail when
the heavens once again opened.
Unfortunately for me, this deluge hit just as I was about to descend the
third Enduro section, which was a very narrow benchcut trail that was literally
running like a river. I could not see
the trail under the water, which was ok, because I couldn’t see my handlebars
either from the rain coming off my helmet.
All that while descending at 20 mph and hoping my brake pads lasted the
day. This…is Epic, I guess.
After barely surviving yet another madhouse downhill (YES…I
had to stop and rest my hands because I was braking so hard), it was time to
climb again. The aforementioned torrents
were still flowing on the trail, only now, I was going against the stream. I yelled “I’ve never felt so much like a
salmon in my life!” A couple riders in
earshot laughed. I was thinking that a
salmon has like the worst fish-life ever, and if I were to choose to be a fish,
I’d choose something much lazier.
Fortunately, all the fish-thoughts came to an end with the return of the
sun, and the knowledge that I was at the second aid stop, which meant only 10
miles and ONE CLIMB to go! The last
Enduro segment of the race again nearly killed me, featuring even more
ridiculous rocks and a grade so steep I needed to stop three times to rest my
hands. Things went worse for the women’s
leader, Vicki Barclay, who was walking back to the aid station up the hill,
having snapped her handlebar.
A nice long downhill road section led me to the bottom of
THE FINAL CLIMB. This needs to be
capitalized, because I had been hearing about THE FINAL CLIMB all week…and none
of the comments were particularly pleasing to the ear. “Save some energy for Stillhouse.” “Oh…wait til you see Stillhouse.” “I’m looking forward to hearing about your
experience on Stillhouse.” “Try not to die on Stillhouse.” “Stillhouse climb will kill your family and
everyone you know and make you watch a slide show of it happening.” That kind of thing. So, at least I was mentally prepared. It was not the worst climb of the week, for
sure, but with 160+ miles of difficult riding on the legs, the 20 minute gravel
ascent at an unrelenting grade did put me through my paces. Like the previous day, however, I was finding
some good energy and by alternating seated pedaling with some hard standing
efforts, I made it up without pause and even passed three riders. One more final leg-screaming uphill and a
mile or so of peanut-butter mud/ice-slick singletrack, and I was descending
into the camp and crossing the finish line.
Man, that was hard.
Post-script:
What an awesome and well-organized event this is. The TSE guys have it DOWN…from location to
courses to support…there was nothing for us to do but suffer and ride and have
fun. Nightly meetings featuring photo
slide shows from the day and even video were awesome, as was Wednesday night’s
wheelie, skidding, bunny hop, and foot-down competitions. Everyone I met was just great, and a special
shoutout to Russ (who WON the 30+ Category…amazing job my friend!), Jim and Joe
for letting me hang with you guys and providing insight into each stage. Talk about a diverse crowd….I was keeping
track of where people I spoke to were from…and here’s the list:
Pennsylvania
New Hampshire
Connecticut
New York (The Long Island Boys!)
Maryland
Michigan
Vermont
Oregon
New Jersey
North Carolina
Florida
Virginia
Nova Scotia
Quebec
Panama
Barcelona, Spain
New Zealand
And “anywhere there is mountains”
Will I do it again?
I’m not sure…but after driving home yesterday, the first thing I did
this morning was go ride my bike.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
In Dust We Trust - Gravel Road Racing
In Dust We Trust – An Off-road Experience on the Road
I mostly created the position of “sponsor” of the R-bikes
racing team in order to procure a sweet team kit with my company name on
it. The added benefit has been exposure
for Richard’s Bikes, my long-term local shop of choice, and, of course, helping
out a cadre of eager racers ready and willing to take the R-bike flag to
many-a-podium. Also…I like being
involved with racing, even though I, myself, long ago semi-sort-of kinda maybe
retired from the racing game, using the formidable excuse of having raced too
damn much in the first 20 or so years of my life. This being the case, my competitive drive
isn’t quite what it used to be…BUT…there is apparently a well-documented case for
the fact that it is not entirely dead (see previous blogular iterations on
silly racing events…also…this).
Every couple years I get an itch to do something stupid…of
late, that has usually involved two wheels and great distances. This year, I am working up to just such a
thing, and, having trained hard all winter, was looking to bolster my fitness
level as well as my confidence level by giving the whole “gravel racing” thing
a try. Gravel “grinders” aren’t
necessarily new, but they certainly are popular with the kids these days, and
involve the requisite levels of torture that tend to inspire that insipid voice
in my head that talks so convincingly about doing stupid things.
I signed up for Barry Roubaix (The Killer Gravel Road Race)
with only slight trepidation…after all…I HAD completed a B-R in the past,
albeit only the 31 mile version. This
was the big daddy, however, 62 miles (100 kilometers, for you
metric-philes). I’d never attempted such
a thing this early in the year, but, as stated, I had been on the bike with
more than my usual frequency for the previous 5 months or so, even rolling with
relative comfort through a couple 70 mile road rides. My target was acquired…now all I had to do
was make it to the finish line.
One week prior to the feted B-R, on a frigid Friday night, I
was looking for the coup-de-grace for my training…and, after slogging through
an entire winter of cold, I was just about sick of it. I do most of my training alone, and the
forecast for the upcoming weekend was precisely the kind of temperature that I
had been dreading…and, unfortunately, just the kind of thing that would keep me
off the bike were I to be rolling by myself.
I needed motivation. I needed
some company for my misery. And I found
just the thing in my friend Bionic Bob and the Rough Road 100, another 62 mile
gravel race only 45 minutes from my door in Morris , IL
Note to self…and any other like-minded fools…when it is so
cold that your bike rack is frozen…staying in bed IS a viable and recommended
action. Instead, I found myself at the
starting line with just over 100 other silly people…the temperature hovering at
a less-than-balmy 28 degrees. As Bob had
some experience with this kind of thing, I figured I would roll out with him,
and see how I felt, and that worked out pretty well for the first couple
miles. When the first hill hit, the pack
we were with exploded, and I ended up on the front with a group of about
9. Now…when I say “the front,” I am
merely referring to the front of the group I was riding with…the actual front
of the race was off hammering themselves into oblivion some ways up the road
(did I mention I’m not super fast?).
This sudden effort brought into sharp relief something I did not think
possible on this day…I had overdressed.
I had to sit up and move out of the pace line to remove my thin outer
shell jacket…and the damn thing wouldn’t come off! Too tight around the shoulders…especially
with it being over the small Camelbak I was wearing. Rather than crashing in a very embarrassing
fashion, I stopped, got the jacket off, stuffed it inside the OTHER jacket I
was wearing, and kept on rolling.
The rest of the race was a mix of roads, crushed limestone,
and a section that I would much rather have ridden on my full-suspension
mountain bike, but I persevered. I ended
up in a group of about 10…with some riders occasionally catching on and some
getting shelled off the back…and in my relative ignorance; I spent a LOT of time in the wind pulling for the group. I figured…no big deal…I am used to training
by myself anyway. At about mile 50 (I’m
guessing here…I don’t believe in the calculated metrics provided by bike computers
and GPS…they take the fun out of the ride for me)…things suddenly got very
hard. Our group had caught a rider…but
this rider just put his head down and started bashing out an incredible pace. We were on the I and M Canal towpath…the home
stretch of crushed limestone…and I knew the end had to be near, so I just held
on. One by one, riders began popping…and
nobody was strong enough to come around this guy. Finally, I looked around…and there were only
four of us. The Big Engine looked around
too, and let off enough so that we could all put in some work. Then, after I took a pull, I found there was
only three…Big Engine had run out of go.
We worked together, and all I can say is…I was literally cross-eyed by
the time we hit the outskirts of Morris.
Cyclists call this the “pain cave,” and I was definitely
spelunking. Regardless of finishing
place, it is that kind of thing that tends to make my day.
Three hours, 29 minutes and some change, and I crossed the
line. It was still freezing, but I was alive,
and they had free pizza, so altogether, it was a big win. 42nd out of 104 wasn’t too bad for
my first attempt. All I had to do was
the same thing next week…just add a couple thousand feet of climbing.
One week later and about 40 degrees warmer, I was rolling up
to the starting line in Hastings ,
MI
At this point, my easy start played against me…as I found
myself hurtling headlong into a haboob.
Yes…that’s a thing…look it up.
Seeing and breathing suddenly became a primary issue, although the
secondary issue of staying upright at 30 mph on a gravel surface on tires 34 mm
wide made sure all synapses were firing.
Soon, the cloud settled, and the speed rapidly reduced, as we were
introduced to the Three Sisters…a dose of reality in the form of triple steep
hills that reduced some in the crowd to walking…and a harbinger of that which
was to come. I was able to clear all
three without a complete redline, which was good, considering the 59 or so
miles that lie ahead.
Of course, just like the week before, I ended up on my own
after the hill. I could see the speck of
Jon’s jersey up ahead, and decided it would be worth the effort to try to catch
him. It took me probably 3 miles, but
eventually I tucked into the back of his group of 6 or 7, and was again able to
settle down and ride a reasonable pace.
This was a pretty strong group, and I was pulled along well. We hit a road section, and the pace picked
up…and suddenly, we were enveloped by the speeding front end of the Masters group
that had started 2 minutes behind us.
Our group swelled to probably 30, and a proper amount of ass was
hauled. Being used to riding on my own,
it was slightly unnerving to be moving so quickly only inches from other
riders…I did my best to stay all the way right…on the very edge of the road…so
as to leave a way out should someone crash.
It was pretty thrilling…especially so when the group hit a gravel section.
That group eventually thinned out…a section with some 5 inch
deep sand pits saw to that…and the miles kept ticking by. One particular incident of note…on a speeding
downhill obscured by dust…the road suddenly made a hard left. I managed to slow myself and unclip my inside
leg to counterbalance on the loose surface to negotiate the turn…but a number
of riders blew straight through…unable to stop in time. I suspect they went off the edge of some
canyon, Wile. E. Coyote-style.
At about mile 50, I noticed that the uphills were starting
to take their tolls. Jon and I were in a
strong group of maybe 30 riders…but at each rise, one or two guys would pop off
the back. I was on Jon’s wheel when he
couldn’t close a gap, and gave him a word of encouragement as I passed…and then
saw him no more. Not that it
mattered…because by mile 57, I would not have recognized him even if he were
next to me!
Boom. Well…it wasn’t
exactly THAT dramatic. It was more
like…”that sign said 5 miles to go…come on legs! Legs?
Hello? Are you guys still
there?” And the sad part was…I knew they
were still there, because I could see them churning away…but I could no longer
feel them or make them do my bidding.
Slowly…agonizingly…the group left me behind. I shifted gears, spun faster, stood up, tried
a bigger gear…nothing was waking up the zombified stumps between my hips and my
toes. It was suffer time, and whoever
threw the huge hill in with 1-1/2 miles to go was possibly my greatest
enemy. My brain burned with the curses
my mouth was too tired to issue forth, my legs screamed similar curses at the
pain center in my brain…and I just wanted to be done, thank you.
The final swooping turns into town were an ecstasy…and even
though I couldn’t make my legs go faster, at least they stopped being such
whiney bitches. My good friends Keith
and Marcy had turned up to cheer for me, and they saw me two blocks before the
finish, which was cool as I had someone to catch me if I were to fall
over. I crossed the line in 3 hours, 19
minutes…something like 163rd out of almost 500 riders. A pretty good effort, I thought, and one
which certainly justified the two hot dogs I ate in approximately 35 seconds
post-race.
So…there’s my official R-bikes.com race report(s)…and,
ideally, I’m just warming up. The big
race is still to come. And now I can say
I wrote a blog entry in 2016.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Spring Break 2015 - Adventures in a Dry Paradise
Spring Break 2015 – Adventures in a Dry Paradise
Typically, the spring time of year is one that drags by
without haste, excitement, or weather worthy of anything other than those
activities to which a duck might aspire.
The ski/snowmobile/fatbiking season denigrates into a morass of melted
mountains and muddy trails, with temperatures flirting with comfortable at
times, but then inevitably slapping any exposed skin with a healthy dose of
reality, sometimes in the form of late season snowfall. In just the past 7 days, I have ridden my
bicycle through 5 inches of snow, and then on dry trails with temps nearing 70
degrees…and didn’t have to travel anywhere.
Honestly…I hate spring.
This year, however, I had Spring Break to look forward
to. Back in January, we nailed down an
excursion that would knock off a few bucket list items for each of us…a bunch
of national parks for Michelle, and the mecca of mountain biking in the United
States for Mike…southeast Utah. My
ordinarily laconic schedule took a major uptick in the week prior to departure,
with an inordinate amount of complexities related to both household and work,
and I spent Monday through Thursday running around like a proverbial
chicken-with-its-head-cut-off…and the social graces I displayed by the end of
that time were akin to said headless poultry. Needless to say, I was very ready for a
vacation, and by 11 pm on Thursday night, I was resting my head on a pillow in Salt Lake City.
Day One: The Search
for Spirits
We left SLC at an early hour, thanks largely to the benefit
of our transition from Central to Mountain time zones. First on the agenda was to stop at a grocery
store and procure provisions for the trip, which we were pretty sure would
result in travel to areas which might have questionable sources of
sustenance. In other words…we were
heading into the hinterlands. Batting a
VERY close second was the need to get BOOZE…after all, despite the eccentric
nature of this journey, it WAS Spring Break.
The initial problem was solved easily, and we hit a grocery store in Provo on the way
south. Thusly supplied, we found that a
source for libations was a mere two blocks away…perfect! And then it was closed. Being that this is the state of Utah, they have all
kinds of crazy Latter Day Saint ideas about how alcohol may be accessed, and
none of them seemed to be playing in our favor.
We had driven out of range of all of the State liquor stores before we
knew it, and desperation began to set in.
Another town, another closed liquor store. Finally…we had a choice of detouring about 10
miles to roll through a town that had a Package Store, or leaving it up to the
chance of one final town that was on the way to our destination of Torrey, UT. This paid dividends…although due to our
arrival right at the opening of the store, we were made to stand in line with
the rest of the local drunks. Two
bottles of Sailor Jerry in hand, we high-fived and continued our sojourn.
Capitol
Reef National
Park is among the newest NPs in the country,
having been established in 1971. The
90-mile-long park covers the Waterpocket Fold, which is essentially a rift in
the Earth’s crust that has exposed multi-hued layers of sandstone in
spectacular fashion. Reds cliffs
streaked with grey and black strata, earthen formations that Michelle described
as “brownie-like”, spires, cones, chimneys, castles and the like made for a
truly extraordinary visual experience.
The park resembles a cross between the red rock formations of Sedona, AZ and the Grand Canyon and the Badlands of South Dakota. We stopped at the Visitor’s Center and made
some inquiries as to a nice hike for the afternoon and were directed to the
Grand Wash trail. A little over 2 miles
in each direction, the Grand Wash was an ancient river bed that had carved the
sandstone out to depth of a few hundred feet, and at its narrow point, was only
about 100 feet wide. At the very least,
the scope of our humanity was put into perspective with relation to the time it
must have taken for the elements to carve such intricacies into the
landscape. I have a fairly solid grasp
of the humility inherent in the human creature, but seeing petroglyphs carved
into the sandstone by native peoples from over one thousand years ago was
really quite staggering to me. I took
the time to offer a thought on the juxtaposition of these crude symbols in the
sandstone and the timelessness of the landscape we trod upon to the contrails
of a jet that was crossing the azure and cloudless sky above us. The human creature, for all of its failures,
is really fascinating. Nature, however,
is incomparable.
We are currently parked in Torrey, at the Chuckwagon
Lodge. Torrey only has 120 residents,
but this is a really nice joint, replete with wi-fi and hot tub…more amazing
triumphs of humanity. Tomorrow is
looking to be another long day of adventure, and we are ready to take it as it
comes…after all…we have rum.
Day Two – Hittin’ The Slots
Oh yeah…Las Vegas and the greater Chicagoland area casinos
would have you believe there is a copious amount of excitement to be had when
playing the old “one-armed bandit,” but I would hazard a guess that our
experience today would out-do all but the biggest of jackpots. The day began early once again, as our
time-zone advantage once again helped us out.
We had some breakfast in the room, packed the rental Cherokee, and
headed for the hills by 7:30 am. The
previous evening had left us in a bit of a quandary, as the planned activities
for the day involved an undetermined driving distance…the advances of
GoogleMaps and the map function of the I-phone have not yet come to anything
resembling accuracy with regard to this part of the world. The plan was to drive over to Boulder, UT,
across the Waterfold that formed Capitol Reef, and from there head on a
southerly route over 30 or so miles of dirt road in order to access a hike that
would route through two slot canyons. We
weren’t entirely certain that the distance would be tenable, and, as we had
driven 300 miles the first day…a repeat performance was not necessarily all
that exciting of a prospect. Since we
had to head over to Boulder anyway, we decided
to see how long it took to get there, and decide from that point if we were
going to continue west to the slot canyon area, or head back east towards our
nightly destination of Lake
Powell and do a hike in that area
instead.
Michelle got behind the wheel, and our route took us up and
over a mountain range with a decent amount of snow on the roadsides…we were
well over 9000 feet of elevation.
Dodging mule deer and allowing me to control the speed of the descent
with the tiptronic shifter, we made Boulder in just over an hour, which left us
PLENTY of time to head west and make a go for the slot canyons. We did a driver change when the road surface
turned to dirt at Hole In The Rock road, which we followed for almost 30 miles,
until we turned left on Dry
Basin “road,” which in turn, led
us via very bumpy surface that got Michelle leaving imprints on the grab
handles, to the parking area for our hike.
The parking area was said to be only accessible by “high-clearance”
vehicles, but when we arrived, there was a woman in a VERY low clearance
sub-compact that was just finishing up cooking her breakfast on a camp stove,
having obviously spent the night in her car out there. The manner in which her fenders were hanging
off made me question the intelligence of bringing such a vehicle up there…but
the fact that she had a rainstick in the car and was clearly of the
ultra-hippie vernacular somehow made sense of the whole deal.
The hike was to be just over 3 miles, but would incorporate
two slot canyons. The descent from the
parking area had us gaping at breathtaking panoramas of the high desert and multi-hued
rock formations while watching our steps on the slickrock and sand trail
surface. We arrived at the bottom of the
wash, and, fortunately, found another couple that had already accessed the
entrance to Peek-A-Boo canyon, as we certainly would have missed it, due
largely to the fact that it involved a vertical climb up about a 10 foot
sandstone face with small hand/foot-holds carved into it. For those who have never experienced a slot
canyon…there is nothing even resembling a misnomer in its description. We were made to scramble over a variety of
obstacles, one of which actually required me to take a running start to gain
enough momentum to make a grab at a hand-hold that would allow me to propel
myself over a ridge. The canyon itself
was about one mile in length, much of which was spent alternately walking over
the sandy floor and gazing upwards at the sliver of sky we could see and
scrambling over and through various sandstone formations. Eventually, the “slot” effect took hold, and
we were forced into shuffling sideways through narrows that literally had me
holding my breath to make it through. We
were pretty exhilarated when we emerged into the bright sunshine at the top,
and once again took some time to appreciate the amazing scenery we found
ourselves in. The surroundings could
really only be described as a moonscape, with the exception of the juniper
trees and the tinge of green they added to the otherwise red and brown
surroundings. We followed marker cairns
to the top of Spooky canyon, only losing our way once (resulting in a minorly
perturbing feeling of being lost in the middle of freakin’ nowhere). Now…according to our reading, Spooky Canyon
was REALLY skinny, but the first part of it wasn’t too bad. However, it began to narrow, and then…there
was an obstruction. A huge pile of
seriously large rocks had apparently fallen into the canyon and wedged
themselves between the walls. I
scrambled over the top of them, only to find that, at the end of the last
boulder, there was a 25 foot drop down to the sandy canyon floor. It was at that point Michelle realized that
we need to be UNDER the rocks! This
required squeezing through a gap that could not have been more than 20 inches
wide and dropping about 5 feet. Being
Midwesterners, we are not normally programmed for such a thing, but I forged
ahead, leaving Michelle and my Camelback (which would not have fit)
behind. I proceeded only due to the fact
that I could see footprints in the sand from other hikers (we still weren’t
even certain we were in the correct canyon, lol), then turned around to help
Michelle through the tiny crack. Things
widened out a tiny bit after that…maybe three to four feet…while we were at the
bottom of the 20 foot canyon….but then, they started to get SERIOUSLY thin. Hearing voices ahead of us, we detected that
there were other hikers heading UP the canyon, and due to the narrowness of the
passage, we told them we would wait, as there was NO WAY two people would fit. We let them pass, then descended down a crack
so narrow, that I had to suck in my gut to get through certain spots. One could not walk, rather shuffle sideways
and conform your body to the sandstone in order to make it through. Prior to this, I had thought myself
claustrophobic…apparently, I’m not too bad.
Regaining the truck after about 3 hours, we drove back over
to Boulder and had an excellent lunch at Hellbent Café, then turned eastward
down the Burr Trail, which we had thought would be another unpaved road, but
ended up having been recently blacktopped, which was a bonus. Michelle took the wheel, and we were treated
to some more absolutely incredible scenery, prompting a discussion that
basically resulted in our decision that Utah is, in fact, the most amazing
place we have ever been. Even Yellowstone
pales with regard to the diversity that exists out here…from towering mountain
peaks capped with snow, to the endless spectums of geological colors spread
across soaring rock outcroppings and seemingly endless canyons…all within one
day’s drive!
To cap it off, I drove the final unpaved switchbacks back
through Capitol Reef, and then headed south and east towards Lake Powell and
our destination for the night. After
another 200 miles on the odometer, we pulled into the Defiance Lodge at
Bullfrog Marina on Lake Powell, and the promise of some delicious rum and cokes
with a view of the lake and the marina on the deck of our room. The only caveat…we found upon our arrival,
that our plan of taking the ferry boat across the lake for tomorrow would
be…compromised. Apparently, the ferry
only runs on Saturday at this time of year…which means…we either drive around
the Lake (3 hours!), or just spend the day here tomorrow and give up on our
planned visits to Bridges National Monument, Monument Valley in AZ, and Four
Corners…oh…and our stay in the town of Mexican Hat. Hmmm…decisions, decisions. I guess we will find out in the morning what
the best plan is…for now, I am going to head out on the deck and check out the
stars.
Day Three – Sensory Overload
Having encountered the apparent roadblock that the lack of a
ferry crossing presented, we dealt with it in TRUE “Spring Break” fashion… by
drinking a lot and delaying the decision until the morning. Well…the morning arrived…Easter morning as it
were…and we awakened to spacious blue skies and the sun shining off the red
rocks riding above the pristine blue waters of Lake Powell. Those blue waters proved hard for us boaters
from the Midwest to resist, and 10am found us in the office of the boat rental
agency at Bullfrog Marina. We rented a
saWEET 19 foot Triumph bowrider (with requisite rental boat dock rash and
rubrail hanging off due to recent impact).
The 150 hp outboard MIGHT have gotten us to 40 mph, but the real treat
was being able to boat into a couple of canyons…something not quite available
in any of the prior aquatic locales we have visited. Idling past picturesque walls of red
sandstone infused with streaks of mineral deposits rivaling…no…EXCEEDING… the
best modern impressionist art made the two-hour tour simply fly by. We could have spent days marveling at the 96
canyons of Lake Powell, but, alas, we had to continue on down the road.
Michelle drove almost all day today, giving me the
opportunity to really admire the landscape.
And what a landscape! Utah, for
all its glory, can really only be described as spectacularly
schitzophrenic. Towering peaks covered
with snow in the distance, contrasting with arid red mesas streaked with greys
and whites from ancient times on one side of the road, and the verdant green of
mesquite and juniper trees concealing the wonderous depths of innumerable
canyons on the other. It is a landscape
like no other…desolate, yet full of life, and so removed from all humanity that
a passing automobile was a noteworthy occurrence. I am pretty certain that in over 200 miles of
driving, we may have passed less than 10 private residences.
Bridges National Monument was our pass-through park for the
day, and we hiked to the bottom of two different bridges (different from ARCHES
due to being formed by water, as opposed to wind). The first was over 200 feet high, with over
200 feet of span, and the second, about ½ that size. Both were amazing…and definitely beyond the
pale when it comes to observance with the Midwestern eye. I’m pretty sure we appreciate these things in
a far greater respect than people who live out here. Let’s face it…you’ve seen one corn field,
you’ve seen them all.
The road from Bridges to the town of Mexican Hat was about
35 miles long, and featured a sign at its start that read…”Gravel Road Surface,
10% downgrade, 5 mph switchbacks.” This
was…unexpected. After all…this road was
a STATE HIGHWAY! Michelle was behind the
wheel until the road surface changed…and then…HOLY COW. We descended 1300 feet in about 2-1/2
miles…coming down from Cedar Mesa to the flatlands that encompass Mexican Hat
and, to the south, Arizona’s Monument Valley.
There was a time in my life when I would have likely just said NO WAY to
such a road…but a couple years’ experience driving in the mountains of Colorado
have given me a bit more confidence.
Still…the vision of the road surface we were headed for over 1000 feet
below was…disconcerting.
Our arrival in Mexican Hat and the subsequent evening pretty
much paralleled the diversity of the landscape we experienced on the drive
over. The San Juan Inn where we are
lodging is owned and operated by Navajo Indians, who live in the reservation
that is literally across the river from the hotel. In fact, when we checked in, the proprietor
spoke in the actual Navajo language to another customer in the gift shop…and I
realized that was the very first time I had ever heard a Native American
language spoken in person. Wow…what a
culture shock…and one that I very much appreciated. Having settled into our room, we began the
nightly ritual of rum’n’coke consumption…with some chips and salsa to sate our
hunger. The warm sunshine and refreshing
breeze really hit the spot, and when the guy staying in the room adjacent to
ours showed up, it was only natural to offer him a drink. When he responded quizzically to our offer of
rum, it became apparent that he was not from “these parts”…and further
examination revealed that Brian was, in fact, from France…and in the midst of a
three month world tour that included South Africa, Japan, China, New Zealand,
southwest USA, Peru, and Bolivia…and that would conclude with 6 days in Chicago
in mid-May. We spent the evening with
our new-found friend, answering each other’s questions and generally being
cross-culturally educated…all whilst sitting mere FEET from the “reservation”
of an indigenous population. I am pretty
much chalking it up to UTAH, at this point.
What an amazing display of diversity…in a land that has such a
homogenous, milquetoast persona in popular culture.
Days Four and Five – The Road to Nowhere…and then Moab
The fourth day of our sojourn was one that was to be mostly
designated for travel…in four different states, mind you. We were again on the road at an early hour,
headed south out of Mexican Hat and onto the Navajo Reservation that straddled
the Utah/Arizona state line. Along this
course, we saw wild mustangs crossing the road in front of us (another first)
travelled through the infamous Monument Valley, with its towering monoliths
familiar to the general public through cinematic masterpieces like “Dumb and
Dumber.” We elected to forgo the actual
visitor center, and just observe “on the fly,” as we had a couple more spots to
hit before ending up in Cortez, Colorado, at the home of our friend Louise
Jackson and her husband Jim. Arizona,
and particularly the Navajo Reservation…were not very exciting. The landscape was pretty much
Illinois-like…only with sagebrush and sand instead of farm fields. Four Corners National Monument was next on
the list, and, quite honestly, seemed like some kind of government ploy to
wrest a $10 fee from our wallet. Should
the dear reader find himself/herself in the area, I highly recommend skipping
this one. At any rate…neither of us had
been to New Mexico…and now we can say we have been…albeit only by inches.
Another long, boring stretch of Colorado road put us in
Cortez, where we grabbed a quick lunch, and headed up to Mesa Verde National
Park. This one held a special
significance to us, as the last time we attempted to visit (waaaaaay back in
the very first road trip of our marriage)…we could not go, as the place was on
fire. Well…this time we made it…and the
place was only about 1/3 open. Still…we
were able to get up close and personal with the Spruce House cliff dwellings,
and, through this experience, develop such interesting and mind-bending
inquries as “Who the heck had the idea to live under a cliff overhanging the
first place?” and “Where did they go to the bathroom?” Hey…we are realists over here. After the short hike to see the ruins, we
were back in the car in order to get a glimpse of the larger ruins (that were
closed still for the season). On one of
the scenic overlook sights, we actually saw a pirate. Well…what we naturally ASSUMED was a pirate,
anyway…he DID have a parrot on his shoulder, and was wearing the Seinfeldian
“pirate shirt” in a lovely purple hue.
Chalk that up to the unexpected.
We descended from Mesa Verde with a righteous amount of
speed…those were some fun roads to drive…and headed over to Louise and Jim’s
house. We have known Louise since 2002,
as she kept a boat on the same dock as us in Hammond, IN. She and Jim married in 2008, and she retired
and moved out to Cortez with him. They
live in a beautiful house in the ranchlands outside of Cortez, with a 360
degree panoramic view of the surrounding mountains. In fact, out their front window, the outline
of Ute Mountain recalls a Native American Indian lying on his back with his
arms folded on his chest…the “Sleeping Ute.”
We spend a wonderful evening of conversation, wine, and gourmet Italian
food that precluded any of my writing…hence the two-day report.
Today, we were not in a huge hurry, and rolled out of Cortez
around 10am, headed in the general direction of Moab. Along the way, we decided to take a more
scenic route up and over the Blue Mountains (where there were still snowmobile
tracks visible off the roadside), stopping along the way to see the petroglyphs
at Newspaper Rock. The symbols etched
into the dark sandstone have defied interpretation, but archeologists have
determined that they were added to this rock gradually from pre-historic times
through about the 1300s. From there, we
decided to delve into Canyonlands National Park. Michelle had planned on hiking there while I
biked Moab, but, as there are three distinct “districts” to explore, we figured
we’d just knock one off the list. So…we
hit the Needles District, so named due to the mass of chimney-like features
bristling from the top of surrounding mesas.
We chose a hike to get us up close and personal with said Needles, and 6
miles, 3 hours, and 2 sunburns later, we were back at the car. The hike was a challenging one…plenty of
climbing up and over slickrock formations and around various buttes and
escarpments…but it was also a rewarding one, as the view from the turnaround
point was spectacular.
From there, Michelle got behind the wheel, and we headed up
to Moab. At this point, we aren’t sure
if it is the fact that we have been largely FAR FAR away from any civilization
that has us so sensitized to the extreme amount of noise and activity in this town…or
if it is just plain BUSY. The streets
are FULL of jacked-up pickup trucks, lifted Jeeps, RZRs, Hummers, motorcycles,
and vehicles bristling with mountain bike racks. We are staying in a small efficiency
apartment for four days, which will be a nice change of pace from the running
we have been doing. Personally, I am
full of the stoke, as I have been waiting approximately 27 years as a mountain
biker to get here, and I have always wanted to ride a Yeti mountain bike…which
is what I will be renting tomorrow.
Another couple of great days, in what is sure to be quite a
memorable trip. Now all I have to do is
get out of Moab alive, and, preferably, with all limbs intact.
Day Six…Inches of Travel
I was up today before dawn, and felt like a kid at
Christmas. Despite cooler temps and a
blasting wind, today was going to be perfect.
I purchased my first mountain bike in 1988. My walls were plastered with pictures and
posters from magazines of the pros of that day shredding Moab singletrack on
bikes I could only dream about. Today, I
am in that place, and have the financial means to make one of those bikes my
own, so I figured I’d pony up the cash for the nicest bike I could rent. I have always wanted a Yeti, and the SB5
Carbon is the top of the heap, so I had one reserved at Poison Spider Bicycles
back in January. Well, my luck had to
play in at SOME point…and the person who had rented my size SB5
yesterday…killed the bike. So…the shop
was scrambling to get me on an equivalent bike, and the compromise ended up
being TWO bikes…first, an Ibis Mojo HD...a carbon masterpiece with 6 inches of
travel, 1 x 11 gearing, and a Rock Shox Pike up front. I have this bad boy until tomorrow, when I
pick up a carbon Salsa Horsethief, which will be nice, as it is very similar to
the Salsa Spearfish I have at home…just more suspension travel. Anyway…the people at Poison Spider were
SLAMMED, but they took the time to rectify my situation, and suggest a riding
destination, and I was back at the condo about 40 minutes after leaving. I had purchased a map, and was also
utilizing a book detailing local trails that had been given to me by a friend,
and combining that knowledge with the suggestion of the bike shop guy, I chose
to ride the Moab Brand trail system. It
worked out well, as Michelle could drop me off at the trailhead on her way out
to Deadhorse Point, where she had planned to hike for the day, and I could ride
a paved bike path back down into Moab when I was done on the singletrack (it
was only 9 miles out of town).
Upon arrival at the trailhead, Michelle was relieved to see
a couple tours and some families with smaller children getting ready to ride,
so she knew that A) I wasn’t going to be out there alone, and B) these trails
were at least interspersed with a modicum of sanity. Another bonus was that I did have cellular
service out there…just in case. A quick
tweak to the seat height, and I was geared up and ready to roll. I gave Michelle a kiss goodbye, and rode off
with the wind blasting me from behind. I
was rolling along some nice multitrack, hitting a few little rock jumps here
and there and getting a feel for the bike, when I saw the sign for the first
singletrack. A slight right turn and an
instant incline really got the heart rate pumping. I kept telling myself to slow down and just
enjoy the day…but my legs wouldn’t listen.
I was spinning along pretty good, and the trail was very technical. Lots of step ups, drop offs, and
switchbacks…pretty much what I expected from Moab. The wind was an issue…everything is exposed
here as there are NO trees, and I came around a rock formation on a steep
climb, only to be met by a gust of wind that nearly knocked me sideways into a
ravine. I also saw a scorpion for the
first time, and was SHOCKED by how fast those suckers can move…I don’t know
why, but I always thought they would be slow?!?
The trail called Deadman’s Ridge proved to be the toughest…I had to put
my foot down a number of times trying to clear some of the steeps, and had one
section of hike-a-bike, but the traction out here is beyond the pale…as long as
your tire is on the slickrock surface, it’s not spinning. I covered nearly every trail in the system
(probably about 15 miles) in about 2-1/2 hours, stopping only to take a few
pictures. My legs felt great, but my
stomach was yelling something that sounded a lot like “feed me nachos,” so I
pointed the front wheel downhill…utilizing the EZ singletrack, the Rusty Spur
singletrack, and, finally, the super fun flowy Sidewinder singletrack before
hitting a beautiful paved bike path that led me 8 miles downhill (and mostly
with a tailwind) back to Moab. I stopped
in at the bike shop to get a quick lube of the chain and to inquire about a
shuttle for tomorrow’s ride, and then rode through town to our little
homestead…and nachos.
Michelle arrived home from her short hike about an hour
after I got in, but she wanted to head out to see another arch that was just
outside of town, so after a quick lunch, she was off again. As for myself, I am planning on a nice,
vacation-like NAP this afternoon. Tomorrow,
I am catching a shuttle at 8:30am out of Poison Spider to ride the infamous
Porcupine Rim Trail from the Kokopelli Trail down… only part of what is known
around here as “The Whole Enchilada,” but the only part that is open right now. It should be a burly ride…descending from
8500 feet to 4000 feet in about 21 miles, followed by an 8 mile flat ride back
to Moab. The dude at the bike shop says
my Ibis will absolutely slay this trail…I am just hoping to hang on!
Day Seven - A Touch
of Heaven
Today was a tumultuous day in terms of emotions and
happenings. I was awakened at 7 am by a
phone call from my shop with a semi-emergency that was pretty easily solved…but
it was still an auspicious way to begin a vacation day. Then, just after 8:30, I received the phone
call I had been dreading all week. My
uncle Larry had been ill for some time, and had gone into the hospital late
last week, and things were not looking good.
The phone call from my mom confirmed the worst…her brother was
gone. I know in my heart that his
suffering is at an end, and that he is at peace, but hearing pain in your
mother’s voice has a way of cutting to the very core of your being…I just
wanted to be near her to give her a hug.
This event put in sharp relief the ride I was to be taking today…the
ride I have waited ½ my life to take. I
thought a lot about my uncle, and my family, and my life…and I redoubled my
affirmation to live life at full throttle…have fun EVERY day…and make every day
count. I want to rest my head each night
knowing that revolution of the Earth was appreciated…and I was going to make
sure this one did just that.
The temperature had plunged to about 30 degrees after the
blustery front came through yesterday, so later in the evening, I called the
shuttle company and asked if I could change my 8:30 departure to 10:30, so
things would be a little more bearable at the starting point at around 8500
feet. This also proved to be fortuitous
because I was able to get my mom’s phone call.
Michelle had left to go hiking in Arches National Park with our friend
Louise from Cortez, so I had all day to ride.
I rolled into the Parking Lot at Poison Spider bikes at just after 10,
and when another guy came in geared up in similar fashion, I asked him if he
was there for the shuttle. He answered
in the affirmative, so I introduced myself.
His name was Martin, and he was from Calgary, CA, via Quebec. He owned a French-Canadian restaurant in
Calgary, and had done Porcupine Rim two years ago, so we agreed to ride
together. At the last minute, we were
joined by a Moab local, Kevin, and, finally, by a raggedy looking, flat-brim
hat dude sporting a full-face helmet and a downhill bike who introduced himself
as Ronnie. On the 40 minute shuttle
ride, we bantered about where we were from, chatted with Carrie the driver and
Kevin about life in Moab, and talked about the riding in our respective areas
of the country. I asked Ronnie what he
was doing passing through Moab on a trip from his hometown of Temecula, CA, and
his answer was…looking for places to film.
This piqued my interest, so I inquired further, and found out that
Ronnie was actually Ronnie Renner, X-Games Gold Medalist and legend of
Freestyle Motocross. He was a super cool
guy…and I can say that I rode with him…right up until the trail went DOWN. Then, he was GONE.
As to my own ride…well…as amazing as everything on this trip
has been….this was pretty much the tops.
17 miles of technical downhill riding, featuring loose rocks, embedded
rocks, rock drops, slickrock, layered rocks…yeah…it was rocky…and it
rocked. The Ibis ate it up. I was sooooo happy to be on a 6-inch travel
bike, as I was able to blast over all but the biggest hits without effort. The abilities of the bike exceeded my own on
numerous occasions, as I just couldn’t bring myself to launch any drops much
higher than three feet…and rolling slowly over anything bigger would have meant
utilizing my helmet. And then there was
the location of the trail. In some
spots, it was within 5 feet of a sheer dropoff to the valley floor over 1000
feet below. I simply concentrated on
where my front wheel was going, as opposed to what my peripheral vision was
picking up. At one point, I rode over a
crack in a rock that had to extend hundreds of feet down…fortunately it was
only about 5 inches wide. I was laughing
manically at certain points, and swearing at others. Martin followed me down, his Specialized 29er
had a lot less travel than my bike, so he had to be a bit more cautious, but we
stuck together all the way.
The trail NEVER got easy…and actually seemed to get even
harder towards the bottom. My arms were
jacked from all the breaking and pumping to get up and around rocks, my calves
were cramping from standing on the pedals and absorbing all the shocks, but my
mouth was in perpetual grin mode. When
we finally did reach the bottom at Sand Flats Road, I was exhilarated and
strangely calm at the same time. I bid
adieu to my compatriot with the ubiquitous mountain biker fist bump, and began
my 4 mile pedal back into town (Martin was camped on the Colorado River, right
where the trail ended). I took time to
reflect on my Uncle Larry and his life, his family, and his legacy. The sun shown brightly on the canyon walls
across the Colorado, the sky was the same impossible shade of blue that seems
to pervade this state, and the river steadily ran below, carving out the canyon
as it has done for millennia. I put my
hand over my heart and felt glad to be alive.
After a meditative ride back to the condo, I ate a quick
lunch, procured a Polaris RZR for an adventure tomorrow, and Michelle and
Louise arrived back from their hike.
Louise headed home, and we headed to the hot tub with cocktails in hand,
regaling each other with tales from the day.
Then, we drove back over to Poison Spider, where I turned in the Ibis
and took possession of the Salsa Horsethief I will be astride for the next two
days. We ate tacos and planned out the
day for tomorrow, which will include an early morning ride on the classic
Slickrock trail for me (another bucket-list ride), followed by an RZR
adventure…something Michelle has always wanted to try. We are hitting the bed early tonight, as both
of us are pretty torched. Vacations are
hard work.
Day 8 – Razor Power
Bright sunshine and temps in the 50s greeted us in the
morning, and the plan was for me to get a quick bike ride in for the morning,
then head into town and grab our rented RZR, which we would have until 6
pm. I utilized the Michelle-shuttle
option, and saved myself 2 miles and 1200 feet of climbing to get to the famous
Slickrock Trailhead. Along with
Porcupine Rim, Slickrock was a ride I’d been looking forward to for decades,
after reading about it constantly in mountain bike magazines. I headed off into the hills…rather…rock
formations…and it became pretty readily apparent that this was going to be
HARD. The slickrock surface itself is a
complete misnomer, as it is extremely tacky.
My tires gripped like Velcro on sideslopes and uphills, which made for
some eye-opening situations where I was climbing grades I never thought I would
clear. Unfortunately, the same
grippiness meant there was little to no speed on the descents (with the
exception of the VERY steep ones), and much of the power applied to the pedals
just never seemed to translate into speed over the ground. Not that speed was even a real issue…as there
was almost a complete lack of flat area.
Constant steep climbs followed by steep descents, and then the
occasional deep sand pit kept my heart rate high…and kept my brain wondering
who the heck created this torture chamber.
The trail itself consisted of a series of painted dashes to follow
across the rock in an almost arbitrary pathway.
I was under the impression that the trail was 13 miles long, so when I
hit the 7 mile marker, I was surprised to end up back at the start of the main
loop. Upon checking the map I had
grabbed…the main trail was only 9 miles long, so I decided to add the
additional 2-1/2 mile practice loop, and then roll back downhill into
town. No sooner had I made this
decision, I descended into a sandy wash and hit a sharp rock with my rear
wheel…resulting in the never-pleasant sound of air leaving the tire. I knew I was running tubeless, so I stopped
quickly and spun the wheel in the hopes that the Stan’s sealant inside would
plug the leak…but alas, no end came. I
knew there was a small mini-pump and a tube in the seat bag provided by Poison
Spider, but I also knew the pump was REALLY small, and that dealing with putting
a tube in would be a pretty messy job, considering all the liquid sealant
involved. Just then, another rider came
up, and, as he had a more accessible (and larger) pump, he let me bum it for a
second to see if MAYBE the hole would be plugged. The answer was no…and further examination
revealed a pretty large sidewall blowout…something not too uncommon in these
parts…especially on a tire that looked as worn as this one did. So…I made an executive decision to run to a
high point and see if I could get cell service for a pickup from Michelle, who
was back at the condo…and if I couldn’t get in touch with her, I’d toss the
tube in. Fortune smiled upon me, as she
answered the phone. I told her I had
about 1-1/2 miles to run, but that we should end up at the staging area at
about the same time. I hung up…and
started to run. Now…this trail was hard
to ride…but running it in cycling shoes…that was REALLY tough. Nonetheless, I made it out, tossed the bike
in the car, and ended my cycling for the day.
A quick turnaround in the condo involving a bite to eat and
a shower, and we were out the door.
First stop, Poison Spider to drop off the bike for the repair, and then
to Cliffhanger Jeep/UTV rentals to pick up the RZR. We ended up with the last one available, a
2-seat 800 EFI, and were on the road up to Sand Flats Recreation Area
(coincidently where I was biking that morning) by 11am. Having never driven a side-by-side, I had no
idea what to expect in terms of performance, but was told by the dude at the
rental place basically to just point and shoot…don’t even worry about 4 wheel
drive, or even low gear, for that matter.
We took his recommendation as to a general area in which to head, but
weren’t sure exactly what trail to hit first.
Michelle decided it would be a good idea to hit up a nice easy one
(yeah, right) called Hell’s Revenge.
Great. We got in line behind a
couple other UTVs, and two Jeeps, and were immediately going vertical up a
slickrock “fin”…so named due to it looking like a dorsal fin sticking out of
the ground. Well…to say the RZR handled
it easily would be a vast understatement.
Within two minutes, the Jeeps were pulling over to let me by (common
courtesy on the trail was to let faster traffic pass). I was running this thing across huge rock
gardens, through deep sand troughs, and up slickrock verticals that I was SURE
were going to send us over backwards…and the thing was just unstoppable. If there was any slight feeling we wouldn’t
make something…all I had to do was nail the gas, and we cleared it. I have NEVER heard Michelle laugh so hard and
so constantly in the entire time I’ve known her…and that is a LONG time. It was CRAZY.
The trail took us about 45 minutes to complete, and at the end, I switched
seats with her, and she drove us over to the next trail, called Fins ‘n
Things. After a tiny bit of initial
fear, Michelle was in pro-driver mode, ramping us up inclines and around curves
like we were on the best roller coaster of our lives. We stopped for a bite to eat, then I jumped
behind the wheel again for the remainder of Fins. Well…it turned out that I got the good part,
with repeated instances of beautifully bermed sand chicanes. I had the thing flying up the berms and
roosting sand…man it was fun…and then came the FINS. Like…a LOT of fins…some of which were pretty
narrow, and pretty tall. All I had to do
was keep my wheels in the rubber track left on the rocks, but it was a little disconcerting, especially
when the steep were such that we couldn’t see over the hood to what was in
front of us. Just awesome.
Never one to let something and easy be enough…Michelle had
us heading back down through town, onto the highway (the RZR would do just over
50 mph and was street legal), and out to the Poison Spider Mesa. Like Hell’s Revenge, this one was rated “Most
Difficult” on our map. Unlike Hell’s
Revenge, this was an EXTREMELY loose and rough rocky trail…no slickrock. We were bounced and battered up a series of
switchbacks…chasing a guy in a Jeep Rubicon who was obviously insane. After a ridiculously rough incline, we
reached a small “rest” area where a couple other families on RZRs were pulled
over basically just watching the show, and we decided to stop as well. We were treated to a fun sight, as four
massive rock crawlers came downhill -with no little difficulty- and that pretty
much made our decision that we were a little over our heads. So…back down we went, this time chasing
another RZR. We raced BACK across town
and back up to Fins and Things and Hell’s Revenge…and did both of them again
(this time with Michelle driving on the fins).
After fueling up (a LOT of fun for less than $10 in gas!!!), and hosing
it down at the local car wash, we returned “Cliffy” (as Michelle called it),
then headed back over to Poison Spider to grab my repaired bike.
A day that started off on an inauspicious note proved to be
one of the more memorable of the trip…and has us sorely tempted to add a UTV to
the toybox!
Day Nine – We Love Moab
This place is just awesome.
A bit off the beaten path, and a bit left of center in terms of the
locals…but everyone knows they are “out there,” and the common culture of Moab
is one of pervasive oddity…such that every damn thing that would be completely
“at odds” with a regimented norm…seems to fit right in. Dreadlocked hippies holding impromptu
concerts in a parking lot, art and photography shops galore, tourist traps and
outfitters, hard-core tree-huggers rubbing shoulders with mountain men in
lifted, smoke-spewing diesel monsters.
Jeeps EVERYWHERE. Mountain bikes
EVERYWHERE. And smiles on every
face. I really like it here.
Up until later last night, we were somewhat undecided as to
how we would spend our last day of vacation.
Fate intervened, however, in the form of my former teammate and Palos
riding buddy Mike Sealey, who just happened to be arriving in town with a group
of mountain bikers from Colorado Springs, where he now
lives. The Springs guys would be leaving
at 9 am from their campsite, which was only one mile from our pad, so it worked
out perfectly. Michelle was off to hike
in the Firey Furnace…or at least ATTEMPT to, then hit up a few more arches for
photography purposes…and the day was set.
I rolled into the CS campsite at about 8:45, and we left a
bit after 9, heading up to the Magnificent Seven Trailhead. Mag Seven was listed as a Classic Moab ride
in my readings, but had not heard much of it…other than hearing it was
GOOD. A group of 9 left the lot, and a
gentle two mile descent along the rim of a canyon deep enough to get the
Colorado guys nervous was first on the agenda.
I stayed towards the back of the pack, and conversed with the other
guys, as it was a very relaxed pace. It
was a gorgeous day…in the 70s with full sun, and the trail surface was
relatively flat, which was a nice change from the Slickrock of yesterday. There were plenty of little ledges and
features to play on, and a couple of fairly technical spots that had the group
stopping and taking turns attempting. I
was off my game for some reason, and dabbed on about every “difficult”
section…but no matter…it was a fun ride.
After about 4 miles, we ran into 2 more riders (a guy and a girl) from
the CS group, that had started at a lower staging area and rode up to meet us,
so now we were a group of 11. More fun
ensued, the trail stayed relatively flat, and after about 9 miles, we began to
loop back. One of the guys attempted to
ride off a 2 foot ledge, and didn’t quite have enough speed, resulting in an
endo and a rather harsh landing on his wrists, which immediately began to
swell. Since we were on our way back, it
was decided that he would ride up a dirt road towards the parking lot where the
lower car was, and they could give him a ride up to his car at our starting
spot. I had been slowly working my way
towards the front of the pack, wanting to push the pace a little bit, even if
it meant waiting for the group every once in a while, and I was right on point
when Sarah (the girl that joined us) jumped out front and dropped the
hammer. I took off after her, and we
quickly dropped everyone else. She was
surprised I was on the wheel, and told me I could pass, but I told her I was
fine…I just wanted to get a little bit of hard riding in. We spent about 10 minutes going pretty good
and talking, and finally arrived at the parking area, where we bid our injured
rider and the other 2 goodbye, and continued on our course. Everyone was huffing pretty good at that
point, and my legs were still ready to go, so, considering this was to be my
last ride, I just got on the front and started doing tempo. Mike stayed with me, and we left the group
quickly, but I periodically slowed down to let everyone catch up. It was hard to resist going full-bore…but I
remembered what Michelle had told me the other day….that perhaps the reason I
was only riding 3-4 hours instead of all day was because I ride too hard, and I
need to learn to relax. So, relax I did,
and I just spun the last 2 miles or so, which were notable due to the incline
we now faced…which had seemed MUCH easier on the way out!
The ride ended up being 18 miles…and it was a perfect
capstone to my mountain biking adventure.
Not too hard, not too easy, and in great company. We drove back into town, I said goodbye to
the crew, and set about provisioning for my last afternoon of vacation
relaxation. By that, I mean, I hit the
State Liquor store, grabbed a small bottle of Sailor Jerry, then stopped at a
gas station for a 2 liter of Coke. Upon
my arrival at the condo, I tossed a bunch of nachos down my throat and washed
it down with my beverage of choice (preceded by a Gatorade, of course). I was on my 3rd drink when
Michelle came into town, so I put it on hiatus, tossed the Horsethief into the
Cherokee, and dropped it back at Poison Spider, being sure to personally thank
the guys that had helped me out. Poison
Spider is probably the busiest shop I’ve ever been in, and the selection of
bikes just about had my wallet jumping out of my pants every time I went in
there, but the people that worked that could not have been more patient,
friendly and helpful…I’d highly recommend them to anyone looking to hit Moab
and rent.
Back to the homestead, and some afternoon cocktails in the
courtyard of our building, basking in the sunshine and marveling at the cliffs
forming the valley that surrounds the town.
We called for a reservation at a steakhouse, then showered up and walked
into town, stopping for a drink at one bar, and getting denied drink at another
due to stupid Utah alcohol laws that say in some places you must order food to
drink. Whatever. We cruised a couple art galleries and a
western store, then loaded up on delicious filets and a couple more
rums…toasting a superlative vacation.
Our walk home under the stars was the perfect summation of
the Utah experience, and we lamented the fact that there just aren’t as many
stars back in Illinois. Just another
thing that makes it tough to leave.
Day 10 – Homeward bound
Since Michelle never ever ever gets enough vacation…we HAD
to see one more thing on the way out of town.
Dead Horse Point was an area she had not yet been able to visit, and she
NEEDED the picture from said peninsula to make the trip complete. So…we cleaned up the pad, packed our clothes,
and were on the road by 8am. After a
stop in town for some breakfast tacos and a muffin, out to Dead Horse we
went. The view WAS spectacular…a sliver
of land jutting out into a canyon thousands of feet deep, colored with reds,
browns and greys…with the silver-hued Colorado river at the bottom. Utah is indeed an amazing place.
Four hours later, we were dropping off our Jeep at the
airport, having put almost 1600 miles on it, and over 35 hours of drive
time. In addition to being amazing, Utah
is also REALLY big.
We are on the plane now, somewhere over Nebraska, probably,
and heading back to our jobs, our families, and the droll reality of a Chicago
spring. This trip, however, won’t soon
be forgotten in the collective retinue of vacation memories. Utah was truly a special place, and I am very
happy to have taken in the spendor it offers with my favorite person in the
world.
Au revoir.
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