Dots

With considerable reticence, I must declare that my adventures in the desert have reached their end. Despite a few minor setbacks along the way, I managed to meet or exceed all my racing and training goals, enjoyed more than 1000 miles of exploration in new places, logged nearly 120 hours in the saddle, and somehow managed to finish drafts of two (!) more chapters of my dissertation. Spending some time with a couple of crackheads provided me with quite a bit of cycling knowledge to consider and some great motivation for the coming months of training (which says a lot coming off a binge that I would have expected would leave me a bit drained mentally). Thanks to Caroline for some great company with which to explore the Sedona area, and a HUGE thanks to Dave for providing a place to crash (complete with a miniature office) for a couple weeks. With any luck, I might find myself back out in the desert come April...

To sum up this riding in one neat little animated package, I present some pretty little dancing dots:

I'd say that's some pretty good coverage of the area, no?

Inner diesel

Riding back to St George on Thursday evening, I glanced over my shoulder and almost fell off my bike with surprise as I saw an enormous and glowing white moon rising over the Hurricane Cliffs. After admiring the view for a moment, I pedaled on, not wanting to interrupt the seemingly invincible state which my legs had found.

In ultraendurance bike races, after a couple days, it's not uncommon for competitors to describe settling into a sort of diesel mode in which their legs can drive a solid pace all day long. For me, the discovery of the existence of such a state was the revelation required to understand how ultra racers can keep pushing for days on end. It wasn't until racing on the Arizona Trail two years ago that I experienced this on the final day as I pushed to outrun Stefan Griebel to the finish and couldn't believe what was left in my legs. It's happened a few times since then, only after 2+ long days in the saddle when I'm on great form. And on those days, it usually takes 2-3 hours for my legs to get warmed up in the morning, making for a rather uncomfortable start.


This week I once again found myself in diesel mode, the second time I've achieved this state during training. Following my shadow cast by the full moon the other evening, I decided it would be worth doing a little comparison. On Monday, the first day of this training binge, I rode a tough 130-mile loop. I seemed to feel better 100 miles into Thursday's ride than at almost any point on Monday's ride. What if I did that exact loop again at the end of this 5-day binge?


So that's what I did. Since I don't have a power meter, my only quantitative comparison is based on time. I tried to ride at the same sustainable level that I did on Monday, not consciously "racing" my old time. Six hours in, I crested the second pass within 1-2 minutes of my time of 5 days earlier. Then I crossed the 100-mile mark about 5 minutes ahead. I gained a bit more time climbing Bulldog Pass, and in the end, I came in ~20 (3%) minutes sooner with 30 seconds (2%) more non-riding time clocked. Looking at the GPS data playback, Friday-me and Monday-me were within no more than 1000' of one another for the first 70 miles. The separation finally began on a long canyon descent which I apparently rode a bit faster yesterday since I knew what was around each bend.

I haven't fully digested what all this means, but I'm intrigued. It's tough to experiment with scenarios like this since I only find myself in them a few times a year, and usually it's during races. If nothing else, it reinforces a few things about how my body responds to these consecutive all-day efforts. If any readers have any physiological insight into this, I'd love to hear it.

One fish, two fish, goldfish, Spearfish

Tonight I find myself deep in the midst of a training binge. It's one of those weeks where the goal is simply to ride myself into the ground, and that takes a lot these days. I'm not sure such training practices are recommended by anyone, but for my endurance racing goals, the fitness I gain after a few weeks of recovery is pretty huge.

And given the hour and the fact that I have one more big ride on the docket tomorrow before getting rained out for the weekend, there's not time for many words. A few photos will have to suffice.

Mesmerizing geology in these parts

I met up with Fixie Dave for a great ride/bike-toting hike the other day.

After parting ways with Dave, I climbed to that annoying Wilderness boundary and enjoyed some evening scenery while laboring up a climb that hits 30% grade. Seriously.

Shades of yellow and grey before oranges and reds took to the stage.

Yesterday's combination of an incredibly remote route, unknown territory, 50 mph wind gusts all afternoon, and skies that threatened to open up at any second left me feeling isolated and helpless. But all one can do is keep on the gas and hope for the best.

The highlight of yesterday's ride was finding big goldfish in this cattle tank.

This tank I passed late this afternoon only had a Spearfish in it.

Mud, sand, and Joshua trees

Over this past weekend, I successfully wrapped up a week of painful restraint. Hanging out in a place surrounded my almost endless riding in all directions, I was forced to take a recovery week because my "training plan" called for one (and my body clearly was in need of one) and my bum ankle. I wrapped up the week with a couple great weekend rides, the first of which took us down Icehouse, a trail that sees far less traffic than it does given how fun it is. I was joined by these two characters:


By the end, the legs felt relatively fresh and the ankle had made remarkable progress healing itself. Today training in earnest began again, and with foul weather in the forecast for the future, I decided to ride a variant of a big ol' loop of Dave's suggesting. It was beautiful, remote, desolate, and stupendous. Almost entirely dirt, it traversed rugged country all the way around the Virgin Mountains.

Backroads carried me deep into an area that is strikingly distant from anything. I didn't see a soul out there.


But was some unfriendly mud. A lot, in fact.


Followed by a fun descent that brought me low enough that mud was no longer a problem.


Instead there was sand. Deep sand. Leg-killing sand. 10 miles of it.


But over a pass and in the broad valley beyond, my legs regained their strength and I was again able to enjoy the scenery.


The sun sank low in the sky as I began the day's final climb. The grade was just about perfect for the state my legs were in, and I soaked in the golden lighting as the loose road snaked up a canyon carved into the limestone mountains.


Joshua trees dotted the slopes, creating crooked, pointy figures that I am very unaccustomed to seeing.


I raced the shadow of the mountain whose base I had just skirted to the pass above, but as always, I was beaten by a few minutes. But I raced on, trying to get to the bottom of the 2500' descent before I needed to switch on my light. I came close, but again fell just a bit short.


The final stats didn't quite agree with how much strength my legs still had at the end, but the GPS doesn't lie, so I'll gladly accept these good sensations after 130 miles in the saddle. It's not often that I feel this good before April.

Fatigue woes

Today was one of those rides that left me with an uneasiness about the volume of abuse many of the parts on my bikes have been subjected to over their short lifetimes. The ride was rolling along nicely, with my ankle and legs feeling good, company enjoyable, and the sky as blue as it gets in the desert.


We wound our way through a maze of singletrack, moto routes, and ATV trails, never really straying all that many miles from where we began. My chain sounded annoyed, somehow realizing that it was due for replacement at the end of the day. My cleats seemed to echo the sentiment, feeling more wobbly than ever.


Then, as I pedaled up a short, steep sandstone slab, I heard the PING of a spoke breaking. Or rather, in this case, it was of the aluminum nipple failing. I twisted the spoke around one of its neighbors and kept on riding. The rim had only a modest wobble to it, a sure sign of any well-built wheel.


Then only a mile or two later, as I stood up to climb another short slab of rock, my left knee suddenly hit the handlebars as it does when the chain unexpectedly drops off the chainrings. But I glanced down as I hopped off, and the chain was right where it always is. I swung my leg back over the saddle to pedal on, and my pedals turned, the chain squeaked as it moved forward, but my rear wheel just sat right where it was. Uhoh. The pawls in the freehub body must have all snapped. Nuts.


This is one mechanical failure for which there's no good solution, so I coasted the descents, walked the climbs, received some friendly assistance on the flats, and eventually made my way to the nearest highway. I clamped all the zip ties I was carrying around the biggest cog and the nearest spokes and gently pedaled back to town, making it to the last half mile before the zip ties snapped, forcing me to do the walk of shame the rest of the way on the sidewalk.

Metal fatigue. It happens. How will you make it home from your next long ride through the middle of nowhere when the unexpected, unlikely, challenging-to-remedy mechanical failure happens?

Black rocks, red mountain

Late this afternoon I finally got out for an easy ride. My planned route ended up feeling a bit dull after staring at my computer for the past couple days, so I went exploring. What resulted was one of the most enjoyable rides I've been on in a while. The thousands of feet of climb felt effortless, the trails were delightful, and the lighting incredible. A few photos will do it more justice than my words presently can.

Hell Hole

There is some innate draw to places that include "Devil" or "Hell" in their name. Such places were often named so because of some characteristic that defied explanation or logic at the time of their discovery . . . Devils Tower, Hell Canyon, Devils Lake, Hell's Half Acre . . . the list could go on. In many cases, these places are geologically fascinating, making them particularly intriguing to me. Last night while scooting around in TopoFusion and making plans for today's ride, I came across Hell Hole Pass, sitting high up to the west. Then I noticed a jeep trail that climbed from the pass to the summit above, towering nearly a vertical mile above St George. Obviously, that's where I headed today.


I struck off at the lazy hour of 11 am, meaning I'd have to ride swiftly or else I'd have a fair amount of unknown territory to cover in the dark. The climb up to Blake's Lambing Grounds (a relatively interesting name in and of itself) on nice narrow gravel road flew by, taking me high above town and to the base of the Beaver Dam Mountains.


Narrow tributary canyons of the Virgin River Gorge claw into the rounded hillsides above. My path skirted the heads of these canyons before descending back down into the badlands to the north. I peered at the skyline and caught sight of a grouping of TV towers sitting atop sheer cliffs some 5000' above me. My legs were feeling good, but perhaps this was an overly ambitious plan.


The longer I climbed, the more challenging the road became. It steadily steepened, and the heavy December rains had washed out sections, created deep ruts, and spread sharp limestone rubble elsewhere. Hell Hole Pass was relatively uninteresting, but it signaled the beginning of the obscenely steep finale. I'm used to this sort of climbing, but these were the longest mariginally-rideable pitches I've encountered. No longer was I pushing the pace - it took everything I had to merely continue moving forward and upward. Snow and ice on the final few switchbacks forced me to finally dismount and walk tentatively on my injured ankle.


Two hours of laborious climbing brought me to the summit, which boasts expansive views in all directions . . . the Virgin Mountains to the south, the arid, rugged hills of eastern Nevada to the west, low mountains I know nothing about to the north, and the multi-colored hogbacks, clifflines, and plateaus of the St George-Hurricane-Zion region to the east, with the dark Kaibab Plateau just visible in the distance. The vastness of the Colorado Plateau is overwhelming.


After a quick snack, I tackled the long, steep descent and made tracks in order to find my way back to town by dark. When I returned and downed a pile of burritos, I pulled up the GPS data from the ride - oof!

Active recovery?

Bitter about my injured ankle, I packed up my pile of bikes and wheels and headed north, leaving the red and yellow cliffs of Sedona in the rearview mirror as followed the slithering road up Oak Creek Canyon. Walking on flat ground caused enough pain, but uphill and downhill were even worse, so sitting in the car enjoying the stunning Arizona landscape seemed like a perfect way to spend the day.


I spent the drive in the solitary confinement of my car, speakers silent, just trying to take everything in and reflect for a while. There's so much desolate, isolated land down here just begging for huge rides, and with millions and millions of acres of public lands, the door is wide open. Hopefully it stays open for a while longer.


This morning I awoke in my temporary new abode, ankle still sore, but the sun was shining, a different desert begging for exploring, and my gracious host itching to ride. I slipped on some shoes and pedaled around the block. Miraculously, the pain subsided, and as long as I kept things smooth, it felt fine. So Dave and I headed out for a few hours and the ankle felt a little better by the end, despite a few parts that were a bit rougher than was ideal.

Bitten

Just when I was thinking I had some pretty good desert mojo going, the desert struck at me with a couple fierce bites today. I headed off to explore some of the more challenging trails after dropping Caroline off at the airport up in Flagstaff. My legs were feeling good, and my rock crawling skills were surprising me on the trails around Airport Mesa, which is mantled with a veritable blanket of round basalt boulders that are on average the size of my head.


The only dab I had on those rocks put my foot straight into a prickly pear, covering my shin in thick spines. I cursed my line choice and sat down to pull out the daggers.


Then I snaked my way up into the canyon to the northeast, eventually finding myself on what has got to be the most impressive wildcat trial I've encountered. The route traverses soaring slickrock ledges up to a vista fit for a king's palace.


Heading down the north side of the ridge, the trail switches back through a series of expertly-built turns, easily rideable with my 29er wheelbase. The panoramic view and the narrow trail wrestle for one's attention, both deserving of it in its entirety.


I was grinning continuously while I was on this trail until gravity gave me a little tug while I crossed a couple sandstone slabs spanning a narrow gully. My left foot instinctively unclipped and shot out to halt my fall, but there was nothing to support it. Nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing as I found myself entirely detached from the steep slope. Then my toe caught the ground, followed by the outside of my foot, causing my ankle to roll as the rest of my body vaulted over it. I landed on my back and tumbled through the rocky sand. A cloud of red dust briefly enveloped my upside-down body as I slid to a stop.

It's always the benign looking obstacles that send me to the ground it seems. This one was no exception. I'm sure I could ride it with my eyes closed if I gave it another shot. But that was out of the question as I limped my way down into the canyon and across the river far below. I stopped to soak my ankle in the frigid water before tucking my tail between my legs and riding the highway back across town.


I think dirt roads are going to be my friend for at least the next few days while this unhappy ligament has some time to recover.

Iced over

I continue to be astounded at the vast expanses of public lands in the West that demand exploration, whether it be on bike, foot, or some other mode of self-conveyance, perhaps with a bit of motorized assistance from time to time. Unfortunately, the duration required to do just does not exist in one's lifetime. I'm grateful to have just an occasional week or two to devote to this pursuit.


Taking my first week completely off work in quite some time, the cliffs of the Mogollon Rim have provided an astoundingly stunning backdrop while I've been leaving tracks on the wonderful singletrack network that surrounds Sedona.



I'm not sure why multi-use trails around the Boulder area creates such a controversy. It's an enormous challenge for well-organized, committed, and positively-involved mountain bike advocacy groups to make significant headway there, while towns down here (e.g., Sedona, Flagstaff, Prescott...the list goes on) have built and continue to expand upon stellar networks of multi-use, primarily singletrack trails that surround town and are generally well linked. Again, another post for another day.


Today, surprisingly cold weather (high in the low 20s today?!) combined with some serious fatigue in the pedaling muscles necessitated a day off the bike, allowing us to explore some of the trails that cross the Wilderness boundary. I have a love-hate relationship with the Wilderness designation, but I'll save that for a possible future post.


Whatever the reason for all these trails, I've got two more days here and a many miles of official tracks left to explore.