Ah, Durango...

I rolled into Durango at a little after noon. It was warm and sunny, and I was a little dazed. I found a place to park downtown then realized I only had a nickel to feed the meter. Hmm. 10 minutes. I decided to wander off anyway to find a bike shop and ask about what is open this year as of May 14.

I saw a bike shop, but it wasn't one I recognized. I wanted to visit Mountain Bike Specialists since that shop is part of mountain biking history. I wandered around, glancing at the sidewalk occasionally hoping to spot a dime or quarter, then finally saw the shop and jaywalked over to go inside.

Great shop; they were busy with a number of customers. One I overheard was an affluent-looking man in his late 50's agonizing over whether he could afford a $450 mountain bike. Soon a tiny woman came over to talk to me about trails. From what she said, lots was open. The Colorado Trail way up high, at least 5 or 6 miles worth of Hermosa, and of course the Horse Gulch System and the Test Track in Durango Mountain Park.

I had committed to seeing the low-elevation riding that I've never ridden before, but hearing that I could ride the Colo Trail way up past Junction Creek was compelling. I bought the Latitude 40 Durango map from her and headed up to the western terminus of the Colorado Trail.



Oh baby, climbing singletrack. I really enjoy riding around Salida, especially in summer, but dangit, we just do not have anything like the wonderful climb-able singletrack that characterizes Durango. What a joy it was!

I rode up past lots and lots of joggers and dog-walkers in the first mile or two, then saw fewer people. At Gudy's Rest I was asked if I had a tube or patch kit by a young dude. I patched his tube for him and talked with him. He was really thankful, and I can imagine why. It would be probably nearly two hours to walk a bike down off of that place, but just 15 wonderful minutes of riding it. He was helmetless, shirtless, wearing Vans and riding platform pedals, and of course showing 4 inches of boxer shorts over the top of his frayed shorts. I pointed out the wisdom of keeping a stocked seat bag and frame pump. When he rode off I noticed that his StumpJumper's saddle was as low as it could go and he was standing as he started the descent. Kids these days.



I climbed on up well past Gudy's. I was climbing for a little over two hours, and every turn of the trail rewarded me with views that made my heart swell with the realization that summer is right around the corner. Rocky Mountains in summer--the sweetest place to be that I know of.


After descending for nearly 45 minutes (being conservative though, since the trail has lots of folks on it that I didn't want to maim) I drove 3 minutes farther up the road to get a spot at the lovely Junction Creek Campground. After over five hours of saddle time, I was ready to eat like a pig, which is exactly what I did. Then I slept like a baby (not the screaming, wet-diaper kind--the other more relaxed ones).

Boggy Draw - Dolores, CO

Sunday morning I woke up after the 12 Hours of Mesa Verde and the subdued chatting with friends from Leadville that happened before bedtime. There were war stories, from me, and from Casey who took 2nd in geared solo men, and from Bridgett who took 1st in geared solo women, and from Bridgett's husband Ty who took pain pills since he separated his shoulder during the race (ouch!).

After a leisurely morning of packing up, eating, and chatting, some went back to the upper Arkansas Valley, some went off to Moab for a few days, and I went to Dolores. My intent was to find the owner of Sol Cycles up there, who had invited me to come ride when we met at Interbike.

I got to Dolores a little after noon and found Sol Cycles closed for the day. Rumor had it that the Corps of Engineers were releasing a big flow of water out of McPhee Reservoir down the Dolores, and that most of the sportos in town were playing in rare Dolores River whitewater.

I set up my little portable grill and cooked some Scanga bratwurst (Mmmm, bratwurst) which I ate with cheese and mayo on stale tortillas. Wonderful.

After eating I sat in a folding chez lounge reading and listening to birds sing and bikers coming and going from the bar and making drunken jokes and comments about each others' bikes. Ah Harley people, they make the rest of us feel so smart and sophisticated ;)

Eventually I worked up a little energy to take a bike ride and find a quiet place to sleep overnight in my truck. I wandered up onto the rim over the Dolores River canyon north of town. There I found some nice, easy, relaxing singletrack to work out the kinks in my tired muscles.



There was a trail system with carsonite signs that pretty much told users what mode of travel was allowed, and gave us no clue about where we were or where we might be going. I intended to ride for an hour, perhaps 90 minutes, but got disoriented and spent over 3 hours. But it was good.

And just as I got back to the truck, a thunderstorm that had been threatening to come in from the West showed up, cracked some really close lightening, then moved past as I sat in the cab of the truck wishing my mom happy mother's day.



Then I found a fabulous, quiet place to park the T100. I ate a huge dinner, then crawled into the back, read until I was sleepy, and crashed good and hard. I slept great, and woke up at around 6:45 to the sound of birds singing.



This morning I debated about riding more. There had been an interesting looking trail junction I had seen that didn't seem to correspond to anything that was on my map, so I decided to enjoy the cool morning with a ride out to check that out. Turned out to be a good idea. I retraced much of my ride from Sunday afternoon, but it was nice and mellow. And the birds kept me company all morning.



After my ride I packed up and drove back down to Dolores. Sol Cycles is not open today either, so I guess that's all for finding those guys. I don't have any other contact info for the guy I met at Interbike.

So now I'm off to Durango. I'm going to ride the low-elevation stuff around there until Wednesday when I'll head home. It's been too danged long since I've ridden in Durango, and I don't think I've ever ridden the low, close-to-town trails.

Off I go!

Topo Data for 12 Hours of Mesa Verde course

For those interested, elevation profile and topo maps from a GPS tracing of the course:

12 Hours of Mesa Verde

I had a chance to check out the course at Phil’s World just east of Cortez, CO on Friday evening. It was around 6 pm and really pretty warm, at least in the 80’s. Heat was OK with me. I don’t mind perspiring, and after the cold damned winter we had, hot felt really fine.

The course was wonderful. I felt fine with my choice of WTB Weir Wolf LT tires front and rear. They are large volume, but with low knobs and really fast-rolling. The trail that I saw was mostly a ribbon of hardpack, with a few anchored rocks and a skiff of sandy gravel here and there.

My snowbird parents, who are on their bi-annual migration between SoCal and Michigan, were stopping in Mancos for the night and wanted to have dinner with me. So I had to cut my pre-ride short when they arrived at the Montezuma County Fairgrounds; race HQ.

We had a good dinner in Mancos, but it went late. I wasn’t back at my truck until almost 10 pm. I crawled into the back and had a brief and restless night of sleep. It did not cool off much over night, which gave me a clue about what sort of day Saturday would be.

I knew that I was a long shot for any sort of placing, so I decided to make a half experiment, half training exercise out of the race. I knew it was going to be really fun to ride the course fast. So I decided to purposely ignore my boss Shawn’s perennial advice for me when doing long races, “Don’t win the warm-up.” I decided, pretty much 5 minutes before race start, to go out fast. Put the hammer down while it’s still relatively cool, then see how well I can recover into a pace and survive a whole day in the heat.

In the past several years, as I have focused on only long races, my training has featured almost no intensity. As a result, I’ve had trouble in situations where I need to make a super-hard effort. In short, it kills me. This year I’ve been force-feeding myself some intense workouts. I just don’t like going out and doing intervals. It feels like taking cod liver oil. So I’ve been doing some traditional X/C races to have some fun while I’m taking my cod liver oil. I decided to take some at the beginning of the 12 Hours. And once the race started, I got caught up in the excitement anyhow.

Right from the start it was shorts and short sleeves. I left the hydration pack in the truck and just took a water bottle with HEED. Traveling light.

I ran the Le Mans start faster than I normally run. I jumped on my bike and caught my breath in the first 4 minutes while we worked our way out of the fairgrounds. Then we crossed under the highway in the McElmo Creek drain overpass, and I started working. I passed two slow riders just as I entered the singletrack then hit it. I was passed by a fast dude on a Santa Cruz in the first 5 minutes, then that was it for the rest of the 15 mile lap. I was hauling ass and I was not passed. Solos had a yellow ribbon displayed on their saddle or seatpost--and mister santa cruz had no ribbon, so I wasn’t even racing him.

What a ball. The curvy, windey course bobs and weaves through piñon and juniper, up onto ledges, through rocky, technical descents, and along broken rimrock. I was pushing a big gear and railing through the sweeping corners. Wahoo! Fast, fun singletrack.

About 20 minutes into the lap I came into a smooth uphill left turn and my front tire washed out. I landed on my elbow and hip, cussing. I jumped up and back onto the bike without bothering to dust myself off. I jumped it right back up to speed, but decided I better be a little more conservative about the corners. The traction I was finding was deceptive--there was a limit.

I passed through the part of the course I had seen the evening before, and headed north into uncharted territory. There were some climbs. One of them was really pretty steep, but none were long. Never more than about 10-15 minutes of climbing at a time, and the longer ones were pretty mild. And there were lots of bits of flowy fast singletrack. I kept the hammer down all through the lap, always upshifting to the limit of my ability to push the gear and deal with the terrain.

In the second half of the course I made my first trip down Green Lizard and onto the Tuffy Rim. This 2 miles or so was suspension terrain. Slamma bamma suspension terrain. Going fast through it made the bike creak and groan. I hit the series of short climbs in middle ring, throwing my fresh legs at it with gusto. Then I climbed out of the technical stuff up and over Stone Axe Hill, and on into the Ribcage. I have been hearing about this section for a while. It’s a series of compression dips and peaked whoops. My friend Casey had told me that I should be careful, because when you take air sometimes you see that the trail on the other side of the whoop goes a direction you wouldn’t anticipate.

I resolved to take my first trip through the Ribcage conservatively, keeping the tires on the tread to the extent that I was able. That’s always the fastest way anyway. The shortest distance never includes airtime. So if you can go fast but stay down, you are fast.

As I crested each whoop I shoved the bars down. It was a super big thrill, even without air. And I came to one of them where I free-fell facing down even though I hadn’t actually caught air. The trail fell away from the top of the whoop so abruptly that any speed took you into a free fall. What a gas. I pedaled those whoops, and carried a ton of speed through the whole Ribcage. Then I rolled downhill at light speed and suddenly found myself at a place I had seen before, perhaps 10 minutes from the finish. I rocked into the finish, quickly checked in and then hit the truck, got a full bottle of HEED and back out onto the course.

I did not really intend to keep up the hotrod pace for the second lap. At first I cooled it off and was passed by another team rider. Then I started thinking about how cool Phil’s World is. This is another example of a trail network that got built on BLM land, then later the BLM came in and blessed it. In Salida we’ve been working on the “good guy” model, where we try to get BLM to approve the trail system plans in advance. And we’ve spent years, literally, waiting for them to get comfortable with the idea. I started thinking about this and my temper started to rise. Soon I was riding angry, rocking and rolling and mumbling through gritted teeth. It felt good, great really; cathartic.

And of course it was a recipe for speed. My legs were still fresh, and I had adrenaline pumping. Once again, I was not passed.

I jammed through the lap, back to the start/finish, checked in, got a fresh bottle, and off I went.

Right away in the beginning of lap 3 I felt mortal. Big surprise huh? 43-year-old dude rides for 3 hours like a 21-year-old, then starts feeling tired. Not only that, I suddenly noticed that it was getting hot. I felt the telltale dryness in my mouth that told me that I was becoming dehydrated. Once again, big surprise. Over 30 miles at race pace and having drank only two bottles of HEED, and almost no fresh water (only when back at the truck).

I took a big hit off the bottle I had with me.

By halfway through the lap, I pulled the bottle out and saw that it had about a swallow and a half left. And it was getting hotter by the minute. Uh-oh, mortality--a huge black buzzard circled overhead. I rode carefully through the remainder of lap 3, trying not to bonk. I felt like a raisin by the time I checked out of that lap.

Back at the truck, I drank water like I’d just come off the Sahara. I filled my hyration pack and put it on. I lubed my chain. I ate a little pile of sea salt crystals. I took some Endurolytes and some Sport Legs. Then I rolled carefully back out onto the course just as noon came to the desert.

Lap 4 wasn’t as bad as lap 3, but it was tough. I kept trying to hammer fluids and hammergel, but every time I took in anything I got a touch of nausea. The heat, the effort, and my tired dehydrated body combined to make me feel really crappy. I rode lightly, and kept after the moisture and feeding. Near the end of the lap, as I rolled fast through the ribcage, I finally started feeling a little more OK. That bit of singletrack was so fun, it breathed life into me on every lap.

By the end of the fourth lap I had started doing the time math. My first two racer-boy laps had been right around 90 minutes each. But 3 and 4 were closer to 2 hours. And my pits were getting longer, for good reason. I wanted to do 7 laps. I had to be done with #6 by 6:30 pm to start the 7^th. I started the 5^th at around 2:20 pm. So, all I had to do was two two-hour laps. Then one more.

The fifth was another tough lap. It was hot. Probably the hottest of the day. And I was starting to really feel the tiredness. Climbs I had been doing in the middle of the middle ring were starting to be granny gear climbs. And at the top of a couple of them I found myself dizzy and nauseous. I would stop, breath, drink water, and be back on my way in a minute or so. But it was getting painful.

I finished the fifth at about quarter after four, spent a while in the pit. I ate some dates, which were hard to chew and swallow. I didn’t seem to have much available saliva. I was wondering if I had the gumption to finish a seventh lap if I even got a chance to start it. By the time I was ready to leave the truck, I was pretty much convinced that 6 was enough. Ride it like you stole it for 30 miles, then live through 60 more in dry, breezy heat. Not too bad really. Did I come here for fun and training, or to flog myself past reason in order to achieve some arbitrary goal? Yeah. Right. I decided to mount the GPS to get a track of the course, and to take the camera. I’ll take some pictures and enjoy myself a little.

So that’s what I did. I stopped wherever I saw a volunteer, thanked them and chatted for a while if they were into it. I took some pictures of riders that I was allowing to pass me. And of course I grooved on the fast downhill stuff. It’s worth mentioning that all the climbs hurt pretty bad that lap too. But the heat was subsiding, which was nice.

So I finished up the 6^th lap. Turns out that the top three guys all had 7 laps. I rode with my friend Casey from Leadville during part of his 7^th and my 6^th. So, I could have done 7, but I don’t think I could have placed. Maybe if I’d actually ridden the race smart, to win, I could have taken 3^rd. Which would have been cool obviously, but I had a good time. And I achieved my goal. I lived through racing dumb. Next time I won’t win the warmup, I promise.

You never know until you know.

Friday night I went to bed thinking, "well, this weekend is f***ed up." My neck and back were sure to cause problems, the weather was going to hell. Ed called to say that they were late going and would come Saturday morning. I suggested that they think it over and decide whether to bag. I doubted we'd want to ride. But they wanted to be here, so they told me they were planning to leave in time to be at the bike shop (Absolute) by 9 am when it opened.

Of course, it snowed bloody hell from dawn until about 9:30 Saturday. But Ed and Jen made it. And by the time they got here, things were actually looking OK. So we jumped up and rode Cottonwood. It was cold, and it snowed hard on us a few times, but we had a great time.

We had a nice dinner at the First Street Cafe Saturday night after watching Jen's old friend Rich jam at a restaurant that just opened, the Purple Sage during the afternoon. The show was cut short by a raging snow squall.

Sunday morning looked perfect. The forecast called for continued crappy, but here's what Mt Ouray and Mt Chipeta looked like from the bikey compound just after dawn:



We climbed up to the top of the barbed wire trail, as the snow got really pretty heavy, on a road constructed entirely of semi-frozen chocolate pudding. MMMmmmm, chocolate.


Jen and old friend Rich


Anton on the Famous Bicycle™ (recognized that, Dirt Rag Fans?)


Ed rockin' his Ericksen down into Cottonwood


Prettiest smile of the day on Jen's face


Steph is goin' for it!


Andrew motos around a sweeper


Ed getting his groove on


Rich rockin down Cottonwood

As you can see, lots of smiling and good times being had here. And me? I rode two good hard days. Is my back/neck perfect? Nossir, it is not. Am I able to ride and have fun. Hell yeah! Did the weather ruin the weekend, nossir, it did not.

Just goes to show you. It isn't a lost cause until you've lost interest in it. This weekend was one of the best of my year so far. Thanks Ed and Jen for coming up! Good luck at KTR in a few weeks!

Gol Durned Gravity

I've got some really cool things coming up.

Next weekend, I'm headed over to Cortez, CO for the 12 Hours of Mesa Verde. Gonna hang over there for 3 or 4 days after to soak up western Colorado rays and ride singletrack in Dolores and Durango.

This weekend my friends Ed and Jen are headed up from the Front Range to ride the emerging singletrack here in Salida. The warm weather has the melt-off in full swing, and the Arkansas is running fast chocolate milk. And good riding is drying off; higher and higher.

But you know, every time you get excited about stuff that isn't church, God comes along and messes with you.

Icky weather oozed into the state yesterday. There was controversy about just how icky it would be, but I figured I better get out and do some riding yesterday just to be sure I had a little training under my belt before next Saturday when I'm expecting to race for 12 hours.

Riding down Cottonwood, be-bopping along with a kickin' Beck song in my earphones, I swooped to the right around a large rock jutting into the right side of the trail. My front tire cleared it, then the chainring chomped into it and I found myself flying through the air. Thanks to Gol Durned Gravity I landed--right on the top of my head. My neck was the crumple zone. My hands were still on the grips. There I lay, a rumpled mass with Beck still jamming in my earphones. Ow.

Thank you God (Buddha?) for not making me a quad, and thanks for modern bike helmets which kick ass. I rolled onto my butt and moved my head around. I could hear a sound like a fist full of crushed Saltine™ crackers grinding around in the base of my head. But the important thing is, I could move my head around!

Yeah, I can find the silver lining. But today I'm having to look hard for it. I'm pretty sure Ed and Jen are coming regardless of the weather, but the we probably won't be riding the Rainbow at 9,000 feet today.


Snowing so hard, it actually snowed a mini-Winni.

And I'm just a wee bit sore. Just a wee bit. When you're in your 40's, it's not such a great idea to slam yourself down onto your head. Much more fun when you're 25. Tomorrow I'll know how sore I'm going to be. But I'll survive. And I'll ride with Ed and Jen if they are into it. Just may be a little uncomfortable, which is like life--just a little uncomfortable, mostly.

How much more riding will I do before I leave for Cortez? We'll let's ask the National Weather Service what they think:



Good ol' Colorado mountain spring weather. But, of course, we need the moisture!

Yeti Spring Series #2

I've done so danged much riding in foul weather in the last 6 months, it can be hard to believe that there once was good weather in the west. Today proved that there is good weather in the west.



Yeti #1 back on the 7th was harsh. Cold, moist, breezy. Today was nice. Mid-70's, and windless almost. I felt good too. Not too danged fast, but faster than last time I'm sure. And the trick knee felt great. No hint of discomfort. Only perspiration, dust, crashing Juniors only a bike length ahead of me--it just does not get any better. At least for me. Good danged day.



This above is a shot I got of one of the gravity events. I wasn't patient enough to get a really good shot, but you get the idea.

Personally, I don't do gravity. Gravity does me. It knows me, in the biblical sense. If you get my meaning.

Re-defining Tom's residential appliance

As I live in America, and have the world's finest marketing culture washing over me nearly 24 hours a day, I am aware of and energized by the phenomenal success and pervasiveness of the iPod. I personally do not own one. I have an MP3 player made by some inferior, 2nd-string company. It is stylish, sure, but compared to an iPod it's almost like carrying around a '47 Hudson automobile.

But I am hip. I'm with it. I'm down with the iPod thing, baby. In order to express my progressive ultra-American consumer identity, I am officially renaming my home, the POD. I hereby unveil the New & Improved Residential Capsule: the tPOD.



I'm in the 2nd week of life in my tPOD, located in the new POD-quarters up on the hill north of Salida. Nice place to be. I have a about 450 feet of elevation to climb in 3 miles when riding home from work at the bike shop, but that builds character. And aerobic endurance.

A storm rolled through Monday night and Tuesday, dropping plenty-o-moisture, some of it white. Here's what this morning looked like as I saddled up and headed for a day of good honest labor:



Racing at Nathrop for the 2nd race of the Yeti Spring Series Saturday. I'm getting in some good long rides between storms, so hopefully I won't vomit.

Dave's GDR Party

Cool party, nice people, great venue. Downtown Denver is such a hip, happenin' place. It was fun to be part of such a cool thing.

Go big Dave! Make your GDR trip the 1st record-setting Divide run on a fixie!

Strikes and Gutters

Some mostly crappy weather followed the race weekend. I had to drive to the Front Range on Tuesday the 10th and I had weather in South Park that'll turn your hair white. At one point I found myself driving 30 mph in 4wd on solid ice with white outs making zero visibility beyond my hood. Driving utterly blind on a US highway, waiting for the grim reaper in the form of a big rig to appear out of the white cloud of swirling snow. Sure, I lived through it, but oh baby, what a way to celebrate spring!



No riding during that week. When Saturday came and I had a chance to get out, I took a four hour ride on my road bike. The last hour was done in grimacing pain. My left knee felt like it was coming unglued. The rest of the day I limped around feeling depressed. So much for my endurance race season. Time to go find a physical terrorist and start trying to work out a tendinitis problem.

The Angel of Mercy came to me in the form of my good friend Chuck. He loaned me a book about cycling medecine which had a good stretch for the IT Band. It also had a page or two dedicated to discussing the causes of IT Band tendinitis. Cleat disalignment. Pedals too narrow. Saddle too high or too low.

I've been having trouble with some of my SPD pedals. The right pedal on my best pair of 959s has been releasing too easily. The left side of my brand-new A520 road pedals floated around on every pedal revolution. So I turned over my shoes and really looked at the cleats. They were way worn. And I had mounted them as far outboard as possible since I was concerned about the wide the Q-Factor of the XT 760 cranks I got last summer. I pulled those cleats and replaced them with fresh new ones, and I mounted them in a more neutral position. I tried them on my mtb pedals and the release problem was gone. I tried them on the road pedals and the engagement was solid with no odd float.

Then I measured the Q-Factor of the new road bike cranks. Wow, they are about 17mm narrower per side than the XT 760s! The shop just got in some 20mm pedal extenders for setting the pedals farther apart. I installed them and went for an easy ride. Ah! Comfort.

Monday I rode for 3 hours. I climbed Poncha Pass, then rode north to the 285-291 intersection where I turned east and rode into a heinous head wind trying to beat a storm into Salida. It was a pretty big effort. My knee felt fine, like there had never been a problem.

Oh, sweet resurrection! I'm back, baby! I'm not mortal! I just suffered from a bit of improper bike fit! I will live forever, riding like the wind. Looking good, smelling good, fighting off the ladies!

Well, maybe it's not that great. I better really start stretching better, I better get myself back onto Glucosamine/Chondroitin, I should do a better job of working my abs and upper body--basically I should behave more like a 43-year-old who hopes to ride like a 32-year-old. But at least I'm not off the bike! Woo hoo!

And as if that's not enough, today I get to go to a party and benefit for my friend Dave Nice. Dave is an endurance racer who suffers from the affliction of thinking that fixies are a good idea. He is also the guy who gained fame within the cycling community last summer through the unlikely event of having a fixed gear bicycle stolen from right next to him as he napped in the Wilds of northern Montana in the early days of the 2006 Great Divide Race.



It will be a good time for sure. Nice chance to connect with some old friends and maybe make some new ones. See you there!

Change of Venue

For the past month or so, when I wasn't in Utah or couch surfing at one place or another, I've been parking the POD and living in the parking lot at Bongo Billy's Salida Cafe. Parking lot living has been a little odd, but at least I had the sound of the Arkansas River to lull me to sleep at night.



But today moved into a new POD-scape. Thanks to the generosity of my good friends the A-Team, I'm going to be spending the summer living in the POD on the multi-mammal bikey commune. Three bike shop employees and the agreeable and good natured bikey wife of one of them. Amber is a Humane Society shelter manager and she and Anton (the A-Team) make a habit of acquiring hard-to-place pets.



There will be four hominids, three canines, two felines, a smattering of chickens, a turkey (not me, another turkey) and who knows what other critters. And bikes. Lots of bikes.

Good summer coming!

This bikey commune is in an undisclosed location. Near Salida.

Cold Danged Race Day

Today was the Yeti Spring Series #1 X/C in Nathrop, CO just 10 or so miles north of Salida. Promoted by RPM Cycling's Keith Darner, a friend of mine and a danged good guy, run on the same venue as the Chalk Creek Stampede, which is the opener of this year's Mountain States Cup.



A weather thing blew in yesterday, and overnight it got pretty cold. Dawn was overcast and in the 20s. But I was racing, dangit. I've shown up at that venue in some pretty bizarre weather before only to have perfectly appropriate race weather by the time the starter said go. So I dug out the warmies and headed up there around 10am.

Warming up wasn't easy, as it was around 39 when I got my kit assembled and started pedaling around. By the time we lined up it was mid-40s and the cloud ceiling seemed to be lifting, but it was still chilly with a moist breeze blowing.

I probably should have lined up with the experts, since I was bound to have my ass handed to me no matter what category I entered, but I entered Sport. Still feeling pretty tired from my White Rim day Wednesday of this week, so I really liked the sound of two laps more than three anyway. I always pummel myself silly in these short races. Two laps of suffering seemed to be a better fit.

I was 6th out of 9, which is pretty much where I normally finish in XC races. The left knee shot me a couple of yelpers, which makes me think I am going to have to deal with this IT band thing. Same pain as usual, outside of the left knee. But it hit me pretty hard today. Definitely slowed me down in the last half of my 2nd lap.

And then I got cold. I had to ride into the breeze about a mile to where my truck was parked after finishing, and I got a deep chill. Got home to Salida where it was snowing hard, ate a big pile of beans, rice, ground beef, cheese and a tortilla then took a nap with about 30 lbs of clothing on.

Another day, another dollar's worth of lactic acid.

White Rim in a day

Another sweat-crusted jersey hits the laundry basket. My celebration of rims, ledges, red sand, sandstone slabs, long multicolored views and warm, dry breezes has completed with a bang and a wimper.








This ride was brought to you by Hammer Products, Red Bull, and SPAM.

I got up to the Mineral Bottom Road around 9pm on Tuesday night after viciously flogging the T100 all afternoon and evening across the State of Utah. Tired and goofy, I drove up highway 313 looking to park, set up, and sleep at the intersection with Mineral Bottom. Just after seeing the sign for Mineral Bottom a road took off in the same direction labeled “Mineral Bottom Campground”. I drove about 100 yards down that road before I realized that it wasn’t the right place. I couldn’t find a place to pivot the POD so I started backing her out of there. It did not go terribly well. I had a hard time doing it in the dark, with the T100 backup lights simply lighting up the front of the POD. A jeep dude with some of those superbright Hela lights came up and at first I was annoyed, but then he came along side and offered to light my way for me. Nice, it helped me a bunch.

So 5 minutes later I got the POD parked tolerably well and started the process of filling my pack for the ride. I was too jacked up to sleep for a while, and I actually wasn’t planning for a big sleeping night. I intended to get myself up at 3 or 4 and get started with lights so that I could be maybe halfway done before the heat of the day came on.

I filled my 100oz bladder as full as I could get it with water, then filled the 70oz as fill as it would go and dropped it in there. Then I filled a water bottle with HEED and jammed it in there. Tight. I jettisoned the shock pump I usually carry. I put one Red Bull into each side pocket then a can of SPAM into the front pocket. Hmmm, no camera (the pictures here are from my trip on the rim last September). Better bring the small sunglasses so I won’t need to pack the Oakley football case for the M-Frames. I wedged the smallest sunglasses case I have in with my sunglasses.

I go outside and look at the sky to make a judgment call about the rain jacket. Not bringing it invokes Murphy’s Law—if you have it there will be no rain. But I just really don’t have room for it, and the pack already weighs about 20 lbs. The weather has been so nice too! Oh, look at the moon. That’s right, the full moon was just last night. It’s still big as a house. Maybe skip bringing the big light? Nah, I like lots of light.

I set my alarm for 4am and finally crawl into the bag at around quarter to 11. It’s gotten so late, I decide I better give myself 5 hours of sleep if I want it. Just as I’m starting to drift off I hear somebody drive up and park. Damn, it’s late for somebody to just be getting here. I wonder what they’re up to? I listen for breaking glass and hear somebody tinkering around, opening and closing their car door. Maybe it’s somebody else staging a Rim circuit? After a while I hear a conclusive door close. Then silence.

I laid awake for what seemed like quite a while, then woke up with a full bladder. I hit the light on my watch and see that it’s 3:30. I cancel the alarm, make tinky and then grab the day’s first Red Bull from the fridge. Ah, nothing says “let’s do something crazy” like chugging a Red Bull in the middle of the night.

I get the bike out of the truck, mount my lights, go through a checklist I’ve made the night before, eat some cold cereal for breakfast, etc. It takes me nearly 90 minutes to be really ready to go. The big white moon shines silently through a nearly clear sky.

I pedal south down highway 313 toward the park entry. I am doing a clockwise circuit for a number of reasons. One is that this is the first way I ever saw the White Rim, another is that there is a section from Murphy’s Hogback down to Potato Bottom that I have almost always had to drive when doing the Rim traditionally, yet another is that I don’t want to finish with the long slog up the Schaefer Trail. But the single most important reason is that I feel quite certain that there will not be a government employee sitting in the entry booth looking to squeeze currency out of me at 5:30am. Just in case, I’m practicing my line: “Ontree fee? Me no speaky good eengleesh, wäht ees üntree fee?”

My legs complain a fair bit as I warm up pedaling the paved highway. I add up the miles I’ve done since Saturday. Let’s see, 25, then 80, then 58, then, uh, 25—nearly 190 miles in the last four days. Yeah, you take your time warming up, legs.

I get to the booth at a bit before 5:30 and it’s dark and deserted. I grin with the elation of the cheap bastard. Covert Op, baby! I swing a wide turn left into the Schaefer Trail entry and my tires hit that federal government gravel and down I go, down below the red rim for the real start of my journey.

The switchbacks of Schaefer have seen some work recently. I just climbed these last September on a wet morning about a month before the road got closed in mid-October. Huge rainstorms hit and all the people on trips below the rim got stranded down there. The Park Service had to rescue everyone down there and there were private trucks and jeeps stuck down there for more than a month while the road was fixed. I can see that lots of dirt has been moved.

The moon is huge behind me, but as I start into the steep park I pass into a deep black shadow. I am hauling ass, but can’t imagine going half as fast without my HID light. I’ve often heard about people doing the White Rim on full moon nights with no light. Always seemed a little crazy to me. What if it gets cloudy? What about shadows?

I zoom down and down. What a blast! Nothing like riding fast behind a good headlight with a belly full of Red Bull!

In no time I hit the first bottom and begin climbing. There is a fresh pee spot right in the middle of the road. I yell out “Piss in the road!” with an Italian accent, as is my custom.

After a few of these climb/descent cycles I’m descending fast with a head full of exuberance when I see that the end is near. The road takes a sharp off-camber left which comes up on me too fast and I see that I’m not going to make it. In quick semi-panic I lock up the rear and start sliding toward an offroad encounter. I slide to a stop inches away from a big red rock. OK mister, let’s just reel it in a little. Nothing wrong with having fun, but you are a long way from the emergency room and there aren’t any ambulance drivers handy.

I shake it off and get back into motion. Almost immediately I see another piss spot. Wasn’t the last one just like a mile ago? “Piss in the road!”

As I emerge from Schaefer Canyon onto I sense that headlights are coming up behind me. It look back and it’s the moon. I’ve just emerged from the shadow. It’s after 6am, and the sky in the east is just starting to get a little light. My headlamp is still pretty handy, even though I’m out of the moon’s shadow.

I start the classic White Rim boogie, climb out and around a promontory, then descend back toward a canyon head, cross a wash. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The Musselman Arch parking lot goes by on my left. I’m not stopping at any of the attractions this time. I’ve seen Musselman Arch 30 times, in daylight, with people walking across it and talking about how it looks like it should fall… Not today. Today is all business. Pedaling, rolling, pedaling.

“Piss in the road!” Weird, it’s like I’m following a piss machine.

The light in the east is now outlining the La Sals, which are capped with clouds, a small patch of orangy-pink shows just to the north of them. But the moon is much brighter, and the wash of my HID is brighter still.



As pre-dawn twilight starts to make my light unnecessary I approach a fairly significant promontory. I think I can see a rider climbing it. Pretty far off, but I seem to be able to see someone, looking like he’s wearing a blue-green jersey. I quicken my pace to try to catch him, but by the time I get over the top he’s gone. Minutes later as I pass the Lathrop Canyon intersection, I see a rider wearing a blue-green jersey, and he’s peeing! I’m listening to music, and I probably can’t tell how loudly I talk, but I say “the Pisser!”

He looks up (I’m still perhaps 100 yards away) then finishes and gets on his bike and goes. I give chase, but never see him again. “That guy is hydrated!” I say to myself. After he rides away from me I can see that he’s no slouch on the bike. Could he be the guy that showed up at Mineral Bottom just before midnight? If so, how could I have caught him after sleeping for four hours? My theory: if it was him he was riding without a good light. Imagine how he would have had to pick his way down Schaefer without a light? That would explain the high concentration of piss spots—he wasn’t making good time because he couldn’t.

The sun makes its appearance as I near Gooseberry Canyon. Around this time I come up on a rider wearing a t-shirt and large backpack riding a 12-year-old Trek hardtail. I pass him on a fast downhill, then he passes me as I am stopped to put on sunglasses and slam the day’s second Red Bull. When I catch him again I ride alongside and talk with him. He’s a young dude from Flagstaff (Todd? Bill?) who has never been here before but is doing the whole ride. He has a bivvy sack in his pack in case he can’t make the whole circuit. Nice guy, riding steady without flash on an old bike. I wish him luck on roll onward.

Five minutes after I pass the Flagstaff dude I pinch flat slamming through a wash. He passes me as I fix the flat. I catch him maybe 20 minutes after I got started again. Then I stopped to strip off my leg warmers just as I got near the White Crack turnoff, and saw him coming up. I was moving again before he caught me, and I never saw him again.

I climb the series of climbs toward the big traverse up onto Murphy’s Hogback, and wheez during the grind on up onto Murphy’s. There’s a big Dreamride group staging for their day up at Murphy A. I wave and roll on by. I don’t even put a foot down, it’s time to pass the symbolic halfway point and keep it rolling. I raise clouds of fine dust descending the tight switchbacks off Murphy’s toward the Green River side. Yeah, baby! It’s all downhill from here! (yeah right).



The next 20 to 25 miles are probably the easiest of the whole ride. When my odometer hit 60 miles I came to a big ring area that was great. I flew through the next 10 miles, hitting about mile 70 as the white rim disappeared into the banks of the Green River near the base of Hardscrabble.

Ah, Hardscrabble, the beginning of the end. I’ve cleaned the climbs to the top of Hardscrabble many times, though it’s never been easy. This time it was hopeless. Some wheezing granny gear climbing, with the front wheel wandering to and fro, but much of the climb was done on foot, wheezing and pushing. Yep, I’m mortal. And goldarnit, it’s lunchtime!

I got to the top, sat down on a slab of sandstone, and hauled out my SPAM and a plastic spoon. SPAM is not fine cuisine, no sir, but you know it is kind of a miracle of good old American can-do know-how. Take the parts of the pig that would normally be made into dog food, add a liberal amount old-fashioned sodium-chloride, seal it all up in a can with a convenient pull-ring opener, and you’ve got yourself a meal. Zesty. Smelly. But I ate all of it, and it wasn’t hard. Then I washed it down with my last Red Bull.

Red Bull is another minor miracle. I think that, in addition to all the good solid nutrition delivered in the tiny can, Red Bull must have some kind of advanced dental cleanser. That baby wiped all the grease and odor off my teeth, and left my whole mouth feeling fresh and slick.

After I finished my noon meal I consolidated my pack, mixing up a new batch of HEED from the powder I had brought along out of the 70oz bladder, then poured the rest of that bladder into the pack’s 100oz bladder. I folded up the empty bladder and slipped it in next to the empty water bottle in there, smashed my SPAM can and my Red Bull can. When I put the pack back on it felt light as air. And I felt minty-fresh all over. I rolled down off Hardscrabble with a song in my heart and Ween in my headphones.



I cruised along the Green River smooth as baby poop. There were nearly 80 miles on my odometer. I was a perpetual motion machine, but my hands and butt were beginning to get a little worked. And the danged left knee—the IT band pain has become a constant companion during days when I ride way too far. Dangit!

Then came the time to climb up to Horsethief Bench, up and onto the red rim to the completion of the ride. Not as long or hard as Schaefer, but not short or easy either. You start out near the Green River at around 3900 feet and climb to nearly 4900 feet in just under 2 miles. I started around 1:30. It wasn’t as hot as it can be, but the sun was shining through a clear sky and it was over 70°F with no breeze.

I rode it clean, almost all the way to the top. A sheen of sweat was showing on my arms. Just as I rode into the last switchback, with the top of the rim visible out of the corner of my eye, something weird happened. I think I bumped a small rock embedded in the road and stalled. I didn’t have the reaction time to get my foot out of the pedal, and I keeled over onto my right side. Plumpf! As the dust settled, I think I said something like “that was unusual”. I got my right leg out from under the bike, and was about to stagger to my feet when I decided I might as well take a moment for a bit of refreshment. I was already seated and I was already dirty. I just sat on my butt in the middle of the dusty road and drank from my HEED bottle, washing down some sea salt crystals. I probably just sat there for two or three minutes before getting up and going on.

Oh, the Mineral Bottom Road, that damned sneaky, malevolent bastard. I’ve ridden that road many times, in either direction. I remember climbing it the first time I ever rode the White Rim, a one-night supported trip. It seemed long. “How long is it?” I asked myself. Gosh, eight miles? Maybe ten? I couldn't quite remember. My odometer was creeping toward 90, it had been 86 when I keeled over on Horsethief. I seemed to remember that the whole circuit was a little under a hundred.

Endless bastard. I glance off toward the La Sals, visible again for the first time since mid-morning. I drink HEED, I drink water, I eat hammergel. I grind along. More than 8 miles… I think there’s a dog-leg to the left just before you come to the highway. Ruthless bastard. More than 10 I guess…

I come to a dog-leg to the left. This is it! I climb the 100th climb of the damned Mineral Bottom Road --“I think the POD is just over this rise!” Then I get over the rise. Nope. More than 11…

Well children, it’s actually almost 13 and a quarter desolate, god-forsaken miles. I rolled up to the POD at about 3:15pm. GPS shows that I was stopped for a little under an hour, so my on the bike time was about 10:15.

Oh, the POD. Oh, the cold gatoraide that can be found in the POD’s fridge. Fire up the barbeque. Make the hamburger patties. Eat. EAT. Where’s that ice cream?

Gould Rim/JEM Trail/Hurricane Rim Trail

After I finished washing dishes and mopping sweat and dust off my body last night I realized that I didn't have enough water left to mount another adventure like the last three. I promised to be back in Colorado by April 5 and today is April 3. So this morning I hooked up the pod, hauled it down off Gooseberry, dumped my poop tank, and headed for Hurricane, UT.

The last time I was here Jim and I rode Gould and the JEM Trail and they made a fabulous loop. Seemed like the perfect way to say goodbye to southern Utah. So that's what I did. I got the T100 and the POD parked near the cell phone towers just above Hurricane, threw on my long-sleeved wool jersey (one of the last clean things I have, and you have to be kind of liberal to call it clean) took a single water bottle and hit it.

Oh. My. Goodness.

Gould was pretty new last time I rode it. There were some sections that were pretty rough from having been recently picked out of the hard soil. Not now. It's smooth like a baby's butt. I dug that trail. Man, it was sweet. Of course JEM is sweet, and the Hurricane Rim trail is nice bit of effort, technical riding, and pretty views. Nice 25 miles (could be shorter, but I rode the JEM all the way out then came back to the intersection with Hurricane Rim).

So, last night as I was drifting off to sleep I hatched a plan for tomorrow. What better way to wrap up this tribute to Utah than by riding the White Rim in a day? I can't think of a more absurd, surreal, and pointless gesture than riding myself into the ground in order to express esteem I feel for the Colorado Plateau. Rims, baby. Rim Ride Moab, Gooseberry South and North, Little Creek, Gould, Hurricane, and finally the grand daddy of them all. The Great White Way.

And besides, it will make me tough. I'll probably stagger through Darner's race on Saturday like a corpse, but as a wise man said, "Whatever doesn't kill me makes me want to eat a whole quart of vanilla ice cream".

Yeah, baby. Yeah! (better quiet down I guess, I am in a library.)

Gooseberry and Little Creek

I slept like a rock and woke up feeling really pretty good, but I figured I better take it a little easy. My plan was to roll up the doubletrack and make a real effort to find the Hidden Canyon Trail on Gooseberry, then double back, probably on the relatively direct South Rim Trail, and ride over to Little Creek Mesa to revisit those trails. Jim and I rode Little Creek back in ’04 and I remember it being outstanding. It was a younger trail, and the markings were not as good as Gooseberry, but really fun. My memory was a little vague about how to find the way over there to the starting point, but I studied my topo and made another ballpoint map which I immediately put in my pack.

Hidden Hidden Canyon

I checked out the map that is posted by the vault toilet on Gooseberry to figure out how to get to the Hidden Canyon Trail. I thought I had remembered where it was, but had not stumbled on it during my ride on Saturday. I made some mental notes, and gathered some landmarks to watch for then set off.

I passed trailheads for the South Rim Trail and the North Rim Trail and got to a point where I figured I’d see Hidden Canyon. My odometer estimate told me that it would be about a mile past the parking lot, which was about a mile past where the POD was set. Eventually I saw a cairn marking a singletrack off to the left. It was in the right place, but there was no carsonite sign, and I was sure that Hidden Canyon was a system trail. I tentatively rode past, then saw a marker for the beginning of the state trust land. Aha! The trail began just before the doubletrack entered state trust land! That un-signed singletrack was it. I doubled back and went in there.

It was just as I remembered. It had been the one trail that stuck in my memory, much more singletrack-ish than the rest of Gooseberry. It had some very challenging slickrock features, but then wound between boulders and piñon. Lumps of petrified wood were everywhere. Wonderful.



I wondered why the official trail marker was gone. Had BLM of the State of Utah decided to try to make it disappear? If so, that wasn’t working. Lots of folks were riding it.

I popped out onto the South Rim, thoroughly satisfied. I looked for the white paint spots to lead me east and back towards camp so I could now get on with my Little Creek adventure. I had also wondered how I missed the intersection with the South Rim Trail when I rode it Saturday. But clearly by the time I got to the rim I was already on the South Rim Trail. I would have to double back to find the way east, but I knew that I was on the verge of some really fun stuff out toward the western point, so I decided to just ride around the horn and then take the North Rim Trail and the Windmill Trail back toward camp. Those bits have such a nice view of Zion NP.

By the time I got back to the POD my odometer showed a little over 13 miles. I stopped in to get a few more Scooby Snacks since it looked like I was in for a little longer day than what I had originally intended.

Over to Little Creek Mesa

I quickly made my way back out toward highway 59, road back to the west of about half a mile on the highway then took the left turn onto a dirt road that looked like the most direct way onto Little Creek Mesa. From the map it showed that there were several ways, which made me a little nervous. The last time I went up there was with Jim and we drove. Or I should say Jim drove, so I didn’t need to know how to get there. That’s why I didn’t remember exactly how to get there.

I climbed up the dirt road after referring to my ballpoint map. I saw some things that I remembered, so I felt good about being on the right track. The day was warm and I was wearing a long-sleeved jersey because that was one of the few I had left that were still clean. I figured it wouldn’t do me any harm to keep the sun off my arms for one day anyhow, but it was a little warm.

Somehow I got turned around once I was up on the mesa. I don’t know how I wound up on the doubletrack I was on, but I came into a camp that had obviously been used by 4-wheeler people since their tracks were all over. In a big sandy clearing was a messy fire ring which a walmart bag full of garbage left unceremoniously in the middle. This was Monday morning, and it had obviously been left there over the weekend.

I have heard that the trails on Little Creek are not being supported by BLM, and that they are trying to keep them from become officially recognized. It amazes me that they would wring their hands over a few bicycle trails when these 4-wheeler scum are abusing the area. Not only is there trash scattered all over, but they have made a network of crude trails all through the sage and slickrock all around me. Assholes.

I make my way past the camp and try to proceed in the right general direction, but I’m starting to think I’m screwed. I hope to find my way back onto the main road without having to double back, but soon find myself following some of the new 4-wheeler trails, eventually dropping into a wash that is bottomless sand. I push my bike and consider using the GPS to give me a trail of breadcrumbs back out of this mess. Then through sheer luck I find my way back onto a graded gravel road. I start heading west and assume I’m on the right track. Soon I see the radio towers that are a landmark on my map. But I don’t want to go to the towers, I want to pass south of them I think. I newly graded road goes off in the right direction, but it is less wide than what I’m on, and looks like it may have just been created. I stay right on the wider road, and soon I’m right at the radio towers. Crap. I reach into my jersey pocket for my map. It’s gone! Damn. What did I do with it? I take off my pack and search it, re-check all my pockets. Gone. Crap.

I follow a minor doubletrack that goes off to the west of the Radio Towers, and immediately it starts heading down off the mesa. I decide I might as well double back. Perhaps this just isn’t my day to find the trails on Little Creek. I’ve already been riding for over 25 miles and it doesn’t even feel like I’m close. I ride perhaps another quarter mile, and there’s my map laying in the road. Woo hoo!

After consulting with the map I decide I need to take the newly graded road that goes off west. It looks like it could really be the way that I had intended to go, so I take it and ride on. I at least feel like I know how to get back out if it doesn’t work. After a mile and a half or so it intersects with a wider, more traveled road. Yes, this actually has a bit of familiarity. I stop to answer nature’s call then remount. My rear tire is flat. I know where it happened, I hit a pretty good chuckhole on one of the descents just past. I put my spare tube in, and take a minute to lube my chain. It’s now about 1 o’clock and I’ve ridden about 30 miles including my bit on Gooseberry.

I ride up this bit of rough road, which climbs steadily. I remember what the place looked like where we parked years ago, and I’m watching for it. My odometer starts marching up into the 30s. Oh well, it’s an adventure, whatever happens.

I come up over a rise and there I am. I’ve gotten to the parking area, which is unimproved. Just a patch of slickrock with a few places people have traditionally parked. Nobody is parked there however. Looks like I have the joint to myself.

With a little deliberation I find the singletrack that peels off to the right. When Jim and I were here, we got confused and missed this and wound up riding down a doubletrack for miles before doubling back and finding the way in. So I remember where to look, and I know that it’s not obvious. There! Ha! I ride in there and begin having the time I wanted to have.

Little Creek is really cool--much more singletrack-ish than Gooseberry. I ride singletrack for a while then pop out into a slickrock area. Cairns mark the way now. Every once in a while you see a faint, faded white spot, but for the most part the way is marked by cairns. People have been riding it though, there are plenty of fresh tire tracks from the weekend.



I wind up on a trail that is away from the rim at first, heading mostly west. It’s a wonderful time, faster and more flowing than Gooseberry. Then I pop out onto the rim facing north. There are parts of the trail that have real exposure to the cliff edge. Very cool. Now I remember, there’s a big loop that I seem to be taking clockwise. This part plays about with the rim, but sometimes ducks back in singletrack away from the edge.



Eventually I wind around to head more south, but still on or near the rim. I start feeling a little tired in the legs. My odometer shows nearly 40 miles.

I’d been warned about how route-finding is a little tougher on Little Creek than it was 3 years ago, but so far it’s been pretty easy. Then I come to a T-intersection on singletrack. The left way seems to be heading in the direction I want to go to get out, so I take it. I roll downhill and pop out onto slickrock, I see a cairn and head that way, pass it, then no more. Huh? Where? Way off, down a little side wash I see what appears to be a cairn. I drop down the most technical thing I’ve ridden yet today, a stair-stepping pour spout down into this side canyon. I ride a hundred yards and come to a boxed in place. Doesn’t look like there’s a way to continue and I see no cairns. I backtrack and push my bike back up through the pour spout. I stand on a high spot with a dumb look on my face scanning for cairns. I see the ones that I saw when I entered this little bowl, but nothing else conclusive. Eventually my addled brain adds it up, and I decide I need to go back to that T-intersection and go right rather than left.

Climbing back to it takes longer than I think it should. I’m wheezing a little and starting to feel thirsty. OK, better just wrap this up and start heading back. When I finally get to the T I start scanning the trail for my own tracks. Have I been this way? I switch my GPS to the map view, and I can see that I’m slowly closing a loop, so as long as I continue heading toward the track that I laid on the way in, I should be able to find my way out of here. Yep, the legs are getting tired. I’m definitely mortal. I’m down to one partial gel flask and my emergency clif bar. Plenty of water I think (I squeeze the bag, and it feels like there’s enough there to keep me going for a while). I get confused one more time, back when the GPS tells me I’m on my route in. It doesn’t look familiar. But I was kind of hauling ass back then…

Finally I find my way back to the parking area. I roll back out on the graded road, and this time I take the way that looks more right according to my map. Yep, this was the direct way. I should have gone left at the strip mine rather than right. Or did I go right? I don’t know, I don’t care. Just want to get back to the POD to put food into my face.

The return trip was pretty uneventful really. It only took me about an hour and twenty minutes to go all the way from the Little Creek Parking area to highway 59 (all downhill) and then on up to the POD. Still a long day, but a danged fine one!

April Fool's Errand

After riding for nearly 4 hours on Gooseberry Mesa the afternoon of March 31 I was thinking of a bit longer, more aerobic ride for Sunday. The riding at Gooseberry is all full of short hero efforts and tight turns on slickrock. There isn’t much in the way of wide open pedaling. It would be hard to ride for 6 hours up there, not to mention the fact that you’d have to do laps.

Sitting in the POD on Saturday night I fired up the laptop and started looking at topo maps. One option was to cross highway 59 and head over to Little Creek Mesa, but once there it would be time for more anaerobic fun. And it’s not too far to get there, maybe 12 miles over, 12 miles back.

The Arizona strip beckoned. This is the bit of Arizona that is isolated from the AZ state government by the Grand Canyon and the long road distances involved in going around it. The Fundamentalist LDS set up shop there years ago and have been continuing to practice polygamy and other somewhat non-conformist activities like corruption of school systems and local governmental agencies in the name of feeding the hordes of children produced by the local families. As long as I’m in the belly of the LDS for vacation, seems like I might as well see the sights.

The topo showed me a few points of geologic interest down there. Just north and east of the town of Hilldale, UT was a promontory called the beehive. There was a jeep road on the map that rolled north west of the beehive, then continued either to the west into the Canann Mountains or northeast toward Kanab, UT. Then it hooked up with another jeep road that could take me south to Utah state highway 43, which looked like it might be dirt and would definitely take me past Pink Coral Sand Dunes state park. Nice big loop. I could follow 43 down into Arizona then head back north through Colorado City and back into Hilldale.

I scrawled a crude map on a slip of scrap paper with a ballpoint. Of course I forgot to actually bring that with me, but actually constructing it helped me recall many of the details even though it wasn’t with me.

I got up and left the POD around 8:30 with what seemed like plenty of food and water. The weather promised to be beautiful. I rolled south on a variety of sandy dirt roads, and as I approached Hilldale I did indeed start seeing some fairly bizarre homesteads. Lots of really big houses that appeared to have been partially constructed then just moved into, with no siding and often missing entire windows, or with a whole wing just roughed in. Lots of Keep Out and NO TRESPASSING signs tacked to high privacy fences.

Eventually I was shoved out onto the paved highway 59 because of encountering locked gates with PRIVATE PROPERTY signs that showed on the map as through roads. Ah, but the adventure was worth a bit of inconvenience.

When I came into Hilldale, things got really weird. Lots of shotgun shacks and decrepit single-wides, but then there were also brand-new huge nice-looking houses with really high brick walls, 12 and 15 feet high. There were more than a few walled in blocks with several huge houses inside. I would have taken pictures, but I felt a little exposed. There was almost no one around, and here I was wearing lycra and riding a bright green mountain bike.

I rolled to the east side of Hilldale to where the jeep road looked like it should go up into the back country. There it was, dirt road heading off across the wash and then proceeding north. I pedaled down into the wash, crossed a little trickle of water in the sandy bed, then climbed a bull-dozed road up the other side. I headed north, glancing back toward Hilldale now and then.

Things were looking good, then I came to a locked gate. No signs, looked easy to lift the bike over, but I decided that adventure was not worth the risk of a lynching. After all, I was alone and nobody knew where I was. I turned around and road back south.

I decided just to find Utah SH43 and go check out the Coral Pink Sand Dunes. The St. George Chamber of Commerce had given Jim and the girls and I a brochure for this park, so I had expected that it might be worth seeing. I skirted around Colorado City, now into the Arizona Strip, then wound up back on highway 59 (actually known as 389 in Arizona). Shortly I came to the Cane Beds road, which I remembered as being the way to get to SH43. I hooked a left and proceeded East.

After riding for a while down the straight, paved Cane Beds road I encountered the gate shown below, which made me feel good about the decision I had made not to cross any locked gates:



You know, nothing says “welcome to the bosom of my home” like 5 dead coyotes hanging from the fence right next to your NO TRESPASSING sign.

I was about 30 miles into my little odyssey when the Cane Beds road turned north and became dirt. Or perhaps I should say it became sand. A sign said “Coral Pink Sand Dunes, 8 miles”. I checked my water, looked good. I kept grinding away.

It was a gentle climb up SH43. Once in a while the sand got truly deep and it became a wrestling match, but for the most part it was pretty and aerobic. Little traffic for the most part. After about three miles I got back to the Utah border, where there was a cattle guard, the road became paved, and a sign announced “Coral Pink Sand Dunes State Park, 8 miles”.

What the? That three miles didn’t count? OK, OK, I’m not going to just fold up now, what’s another 3 miles between friends—or sister wives?

So I kept going, and soon saw lots of toy box campers with Republican-looking guys sporting flat tops milling around them. I guess these mormon folks like to celebrate the Lord’s Day by burning up some fossil fuels and raising some dust.

So I got up to the park entrance and I though I’d roll in there and top off my water. The day had gotten a bit on the hot side, which was nice, but I could imagine running out of water, especially since I was nearly 42 miles into this adventure and had probably near that many more to get back to the POD. The incredibly skinny gal in the booth told me I’d have to pay $5 to come in, even on a bike. I could hear somebody revving a hopped up 2-stroke behind her somewhere, so it became clear to me that this park was a petro-toy destination. I decided I wasn’t going to pay a 5-spot to see a natural wonder that was being bathed with un-burned hydrocarbon. I snapped this picture:



Seems that the coral pink sand of the dunes wasn’t a remarkably different color from the road:



So I rolled down-canyon back to my coral pink dirt road and back into the Arizona Strip.
The return trip was quite a bit like the trip out except that I was sweatier and hungrier, and my water pack was lighter all the time. I hadn’t really left the POD prepared for an 80-mile journey in 80° heat. That’s adventuring for you!

I stopped at a convenience store in Hilldale on the way back to buy a quart of water. There were lots of stares from the teenage boys in the parking lot, and the pretty little clerk looked at me like I had antlers, what with my lycra, bike helmet, buck rogers sunglasses and earphones.

I might as well have been wearing a black cocktail dress and a gold tiara.

I had the staggers pretty good when I got back to the POD. Luckily the food was already cooked and just needed to be warmed up in the frying pan. I chowed down, drank a couple quarts of gator aid, then promptly passed out on my bunk for an hour or so.

Up onto Gooseberry Mesa

After saying goodbye to my brother-out-law Jim and his happy, beautiful daughters I headed out of St. George to Hurricane, UT. I hit a grocery store then turned onto highway 59 which winds up onto the plateau east of the town. I was headed for Gooseberry Mesa, a great riding place and a cool place to be part of Utah. Jim and I camped there 3 years ago and had a great time. I remembered the road into it being pretty hard, so I doubted that I’d be able to get the POD up into it as far as we had gone with just our trucks, but I figured I might be able to at least get to BLM land where I could park it for free.

I was pleasantly surprised by the condition of the road. The final bit onto the mesa from the east was a little bumpy, but I took it slow and got the POD in right to the edge of the trail system. I set up, leveled the rig tolerably, parked the T100, and put on riding stuff and got out there. By around 12:30 I was pedaling toward the trails on a sandy doubletrack.



I tried to ride every trail out there that Saturday afternoon. I had to retrace my routes a few times, but I got every one except for a trail I had remembered called Hidden Canyon.
Gooseberry is an exercise in explosive effort. It’s full of really short, really steep slickrock climbs and descents. A great place to test traction and to see if you have enough pressure in your air shocks. I had a ball, and the weather was perfect. Sun was shining, but the air still had a hint of chill from the weather system that moved through during the last week of March.

I was on the bike for nearly four hours and by the time I got back to the POD to make dinner the sun was getting low and it was cooling off. I discovered that the juniper gnats were pretty bad. It seemed a little early for gnats, but since the previous year had been so wet I guessed they were a bumper crop. So much for lounging around in a camp chair into the evening—thank goodness for the POD! Guess I’ll just have to ride myself silly every day and then go inside and eat and sleep.

Visiting Brother-Out-Law

Back when Jim and I were married to sisters, we used to get together every year to ride bikes in the desert in Springtime. We had some great times, before and after Jim became a dad.

This spring Jim has his two beautiful daughters on spring break vacation in St George, UT and I was invited to come over to spend some time kicking back and having fun. We aren't really in-laws any more, so we've explained to Julienne that we are brother outlaws.


Here you can see me practicing my River Dance moves while Jim and the girls relax and try to ignore me

As usual, Utah serves up some incredible scenery, fascinating geology, and nice sunny days.



A trip into Zion NP and a hike is a great way to spend a day together.