Faking it

Since wrapping things up on the Arizona Trail a couple weekends ago, I've been milking each day for all its worth - cramming in loads of sleep time, catching up at work, planning some summer adventure, and racing my bike a bit more. Prescott riders have been lucky enough to have back-to-back weekends of exceptional racing, including the Arizona Endurance Series Prescott Monstercross last Saturday and the Whiskey Off-Road festivities this weekend. For better or worse, I ended up racing both of them on some rather tired legs. And the results were surprising, to say the least. Here's the rundown...

The Monstercross is run on about as enjoyable, singletrack-rich as one could assemble here. The 60-mile loop began by ambitiously diving into the stupendously technical trails of the Dells before linking in to a series of windy, fast, and flowy trails stitched together, wrapping around the entirety of town. My plan was to ride at a moderate pace until my legs blew up, and then limp home. Thirty minutes in, I found myself alone at the head of the race with Dan Hight in the midst of the Dells. Neither of us were taking any risks trying to ride the sections that have high consequences for failure, so we hiked a fair bit. But apparently everyone behind us was hiking even more, because the disappeared from sight quite quickly. Local knowledge is rather advantageous on those trails. But before too long after exiting the Dells, I ended up alone at the front. By two hours in my legs started to ache. An hour later my legs started to really deteriorate, but the riding was so much fun that I didn't really want to bail. That and I didn't want to bail off the front of the race.

The Dells! Photo by John Schilling

Eventually, I hit the huge climb up Trail 396 and then Spruce Mountain Road. Living right near both, I know that section well and had started to dread an hour or more of steady climbing. My legs had nothing left, so my pace felt like it had slowed to a crawl. But I finished 396. And then I had nearly made it to the high point on the course when my chain snapped! Huh. That doesn't happen too often to me. I stopped and fixed it, and in a couple minutes, I was rolling again. The brief stop actually helped my legs feel a bit better, and then the big descent down Smith Ravine helped a bit more. Every couple minutes I glanced behind me, expecting to see someone bearing down on me. But no one ever caught me, even after noticing my chain was about to snap again and trying in vain to soft-pedal the last bit of singletrack. But that failed, so I had to fix it once again. I ended up finishing in around 6:25, bringing to a close a rather uncomfortable day on the bike.

Fast forward one week, and I found myself warming up for a fat tire crit in downtown. I have not raced a crit in something like 5 years. I'd never raced a fat tire crit before, and I'd never had the gall to enter the pro field of any mountain bike race. But for some reason, back in December, I did just that for the Whiskey 50, and doing so required racing a crit. So I did. And boy did my lungs and legs burned. I managed about 12 anerobic minutes of the 20-minute race before getting pulled. Then I took yesterday to recover as best as possible before the main event this morning.

 Ouch. And dorky tires. Photo by Sonya Looney

Today I rode my Salsa El Mariachi hardtail with the same tires I've been using for the past few weeks (Racing Ralph on the front and a Maxxis Ikon on the rear). My legs felt pretty heavy warming up, which included almost two hours of easy riding with a few efforts. Hopefully everything would fall into place and I could more or less fake my way to somewhere toward the back of the middle of the pro field. The starting climb out of town was brutally fast, so I hung out at the back of the pack an watched riders both crash (??) and fall off the pace. When the road kicked up to a painfully steep grade, the field broke in several parts, and I found myself somewhere near the middle, and that's somehow exactly where I remained for the subsequent 45 miles.

Strung out as the climbing up 48 began. Photo by Steve Lummer

Much of the singletrack on this course is pleasantly technical, and I felt right at home, slowly gaining a few spots. Then the route dives down several thousand vertical feet of dirt road into Skull Valley, where you then turn around and climb back out, ending even higher up in the Sierra Prieta. The descent was agonizingly long (seeing as you have to climb up every inch you go down), but it wasn't until the final half mile or so that the leaders hammered past, starting their climb out. My small group of four rounded the end of the descent and began our own climb, and the others made sure the pace was brisk. I was impressed. And then our group swelled as another small pack caught us and quickly moved through and kept up their pace. I let them go, opting instead to sit at a heartrate of 180 that I knew I could push for another 40 minutes. That plan paid off as I caught and passed half the guys that had ridden away from me. My calves and hamstrings ached like they rarely do, but they let me push a steady pace all the way over the top.

The final bit of singletrack was packed with spectators! Photo by Doug Korrell

Then the fun really began. The last 30 minutes of the course is mostly a fantastic descent back to town. I was well ahead of the pace I had hoped to be riding, my legs were more or less holding up, my tires still had air in them, and I couldn't see anyone behind me (or ahead of me). Not a bad place to be. So I hammered, and before long, sealant was spurting out of my front tire. Oops, perhaps I was being a bit reckless with my line choices. The hole sealed up without me slowing down, and the descent went on, and on, and on. It's interrupted only by one short climb, affectionately known as Cramp Hill. And cramp my legs did, so I spun up it gingerly. One guy caught me after that, and then together, we railed the last few miles of the descent and hit the road together. He immediately put in a hard effort and gapped me. I chased hard for a few miles but couldn't quite catch him.

Back in town, the final turn brings you into the raucous finishing straight. I sat up, gave out some high fives to kids reaching across the barriers, and rolled across somewhat stunned at my time of 3:17. I had ambitiously hoped for 3:30. I'm a bit uncertain how my legs had enough in them to ride that fast, but I'll happily take it. At the start of the day, they felt sluggish enough that I was simply hoping to finish in 4 hours! That time put me just outside of the top 30, which given the caliber of field we had, I couldn't be more pleased.

Finished! Photo by Chris Dunn

After recovering in the shade for a bit, Caroline and I wandered into one of the many old timey bars on Whiskey Row, requested a big cold Coke (which was actually a Pepsi), and then slowly rode back up the big hill to our house. Not a bad way to end three solid weekends of racing for me. Now time to recover for a bit.

A recovery week or two should give me ample time to reflect on all these results an how exactly all this has been possible. Then I'll perhaps give something else big a go and see what sorts of dividends all these big efforts will pay!

Another snowy AZT300

Ready to go, cheeseburger in hand.

The way the race was progressing seemed all too familiar. Dark skies over Mount Lemmon and the Rincon Mountains to the south began to open up, and we could suddenly see grey shafts of rain and sleet coming down where we had been just a few hours earlier. Aaron Gulley, with whom I had been riding for the better part of 24 hours now, and I took a quick break from the hike-a-bike climb up the saddle above Molino Basin to survey the dreary sky. Just minutes ago, an orange sliver of sun had slipped past a razor thin gap in the clouds out on the horizon, and we optimistically thought that was a good sign. There wasn’t much to be said, but I think we both were hoping for a bit of luck with the weather.

 

Max Morris filling up on water at Kentucky Camp on day 1

 

Aaron Gulley riding toward the sinking sun on day 1

Not more than two switchbacks higher, a gust of wind brought with it a shower of sleet and big, cold raindrops. Aaron and I both dropped our bikes and rummaged through our bags to pull out our rain gear as quickly as possible. The temperature had been steadily dropping, so neither of us wanted to get too wet. I pushed on, hoping to get to the shelter of one of the bathrooms on the other side of the saddle in the campground. The normally treacherous descent down the other side was even more challenging with the rocks now being wet, so I scrambled down most of the drops instead of risking crashing trying to ride them.

As I crossed the highway and made a beeline for the dry patch of concrete beneath the bathroom entrance, my mind flashed back to 2009, my first go at the Arizona Trail 300. Foul weather moved in during the first night, and upon reaching this same point on the course, Chris Plesko, Stefan Griebel, and I were all cold, wet, and happy to find a place to get out of the rain. Only that year, there were cars coming down from higher on Mount Lemmon that were covered in a few inches of fresh snow.

I went in the bathroom and started delayering so I could put on some more warm clothing. Just 15 minutes in the cold rain had already chilled me to the bone. Aaron came in a couple minutes later looking rather nervous. We chatted a bit as I forced down some figs and an oatmeal cream pie. It turns out Aaron didn’t bring any rain pants along, so he was already rather wet. He sat down against the wall with a defeated look on his face. I remember similar expressions on Chris and Stefan’s faces as the rain fell audibly harder on the roof.

Pulling on my booties, I decided that it was time to get moving, and Aaron and I wished each other the best of luck. The first 24 hours of the race had gone almost flawlessly for me, and Aaron was looking very strong, and his annoyance at having sliced a sidewall a mere 2.5 miles into the race seemed to be diminishing. But now we had the weather to worry about.

The few miles of steep singletrack climbing above the campground went by pretty quickly, and I warmed right up from the effort and had to take off a couple layers. Rain showers continued to move through, and by the time I turned onto the highway to begin the 19-mile climb to Summerhaven, the rain was falling steadily.

Then a car came around the bend in front of me, covered in several inches of snow. My heart sank. How could this be a complete repeat of the 2009 race, when we had to battle 4” of snow and subfreezing temperatures high on Lemmon? April in southern Arizona, eh?

Two hours later, I found myself crunching up a climb covered by 5” of snow. There were only a few car tracks to follow, and the gusty winds would periodically blow me to the side and reduce visibility to zero. My face burned, my toes were numb, and my fingers could barely hold onto the bars. So much for my new “waterproof” gloves being anywhere near waterproof. I finally stopped to put on my warmer lobster gloves, but that simple task took several minutes since the zipper on my backpack was literally frozen shut. I also put on all my layers beneath my raincoat, which was now covered in ice on both the outside and the inside.

I pedaled on, my bike reduced to three working gears, then two, and then finally only one. Summerhaven was getting close, but I was getting colder and colder. I was hoping that I’d be able to spend a short while in either the general store or the fire station warming up before tackling Oracle Ridge. When I finally hit the Summerhaven turn, I breathed a sigh of relief and began shivering. I skittered down the hill, and in my haze, I saw a car stop in the road up ahead.

“Are you Kurt?” the driver yelled?

I mumbled something in return. I didn’t think there was anyone else riding around in the snow, anyway, so I was a bit confused by the question. Or maybe Aaron had decided to push up anyway?

“Meet us at the store!” the man yelled as they spun around behind me.

Max Morris, who had been riding with me until late the first night, said that the owners of the general store watched the online tracking of the race. I assumed that’s who was in the car. Briefly I wondered how Max was faring in the storm. He had been looking incredibly strong the day before.

Defrosting in Summerhaven and sort of smiling. Photo by Carol Mack.

Sure enough, the owners of the store and their son hopped out of the car and ran inside just as I rolled up. I leaned my bike on the wall, marveled at how much ice there was covering every part of it, and then went inside and began shivering uncontrollably for quite some time. They said it was 24 degrees outside, colder than in 2009. And it was definitely snowier than 2009. I was impressed.

I spent the next nearly two hours in there, warming up, drinking coffee, eating Hot Pockets, and chatting with Phil and Carol about the race. Conditions outside slowly improved, and after loading up on calories for the rest of the route and buying an extra fleece shirt, I headed out. But my bike had gone from a single-speed to a no speed while I was inside, requiring almost ten minutes of chipping ice off the drivetrain with my multi-tool.

Thinking the worst of the race was behind me, I climbed out of town and dropped over to the beginning of the AZT on Oracle Ridge. Then my jaw dropped…

Not what I wanted to see on Oracle Ridge.

The world ahead of me was a winter wonderland, blanketed in white down nearly to the town of Oracle, some 3,000 feet below me. And Oracle Ridge is barely rideable when it’s dry, which meant I had hours of hiking ahead of me. The sun was peeking out now, but the wind continued to howl, creating 15” deep drifts on the narrow bit of tread that exists on the side of the ridge. 

Needless to say, I managed to make it down, although it took a couple hours longer than it would have in dry conditions. But at least I didn’t crash out descending this section like I did last year. The wind and sun dried my clothes out and melted the ice off my bike, and my morale improved.

The rest of the ride went more or less as I had predicted. I continued to ride well until after dark, but then my focus and strength began to wane. A quick nap made no discernable difference, and the new trail southeast of Antelope Peak was agonizingly slow and difficult to follow. I eventually succumbed to weakness in the wee hours, called Caroline, and told her that I’d probably want to be picked up at Freeman Road in the morning. 

Antelope Peak, once again

My mind said I was done. For the second year in a row, I was going to bail from the front of the race.

Caroline thought otherwise.

“Why don’t you just try sleeping for a few hours, stupid? You’ve been riding for what, 40 hours?” Those weren’t her exact words, but they were pretty close.

I was too tired to argue, so I ended the conversation, rode to the next wash, and stretched out on the soft sand and slept for 2.5 hours. I awoke to the first hint of light in the sky, packed up, and started pedaling.

Wow. My legs felt good. My knees felt better. My mind felt better. Huh. Imagine that…sleep helps! It amazes me how muddy one’s thinking gets in the depth of these events. Sometimes it really takes someone else to knock some sense into you.

From that point on, I was able to hammer. Not just ride, or push a steady pace. My legs wanted to push hard. I didn’t know how long they’d last, so I held back a bit, but I got to Ripsey in what felt like no time, and soon I was pedaling along spectacular new AZT singletrack above the Gila River. The valley bottom was lush and green, the trail was amazingly constructed, and I could taste the finish. I pushed harder and harder, known that during my other two finishes of the 300, my legs arguably felt their strongest in the last 25 miles. 

 

The Gila in White Canyon 

Impressively, by the pass at the head of the canyon, one looks down on the summit of this pinnacle

The mind-bending singletrack continued as it snaked up and away from the Gila through a side canyon carved beneath monolithic peaks. I couldn’t believe the scenery, and I couldn’t believe how I was able to stand up and push as hard as I could for so long at a time. Up and up and up the trail went, over a saddle and into yet another breathtaking canyon. I could finally see where the new trail hit the old trail, signaling the beginning of the final descent. Pushing even harder, I drank the last of my water and sped on. The trail down to Picketpost worked me over, and by the bottom, my arms and hands barely had the strength to hold onto the bars. But Caroline was there a mile or so from the finish, camera in hand. Then I saw the parking lot, and right at the end of the trail, stood John Schilling, with a cold chocolate milk at the ready. 

Fun, albeit slow, riding above the banks of the Gila

Climbing and climbing north of the Gila

I couldn’t really say much right then. And I couldn’t really stand too well, either. I had left pretty much everything I had out there. Somehow, despite the conditions, I beat my time from two years prior by nearly an hour, but as usual, I was left with the strong feeling that hours more should come off the record. 

At the finish. Standing hurt. Sitting hurt. Simply being hurt. But the Cheez-Its and chocolate milk made things a little better.

It was sad to hear that Aaron was forced to bail. And Max. And a host of others that weren’t prepared for the cold, rain, and snow. But better to bail safely than get into a bad situation. I was undoubtedly pushing the line on that one, but knowing that there was a tiny town at the top of Mount Lemmon minimized the risk in my mind. Whether it was wise to do is another question entirely.

It’s been impressive to see the record times drop as the route becomes more difficult. Not more than two days after I finished, Scott Morris blitzed the route in nearly ideal conditions with a stellar ride, knocking yet another three hours off the record. We’ll see what next year brings . . .

Another weekend on the AZT

For each of the past three years, I've traveled down to southern Arizona to do some early season racing on the Arizona Trail. The AZT300 was my second big ultra event ever, and I was more nervous than I ever could have imagined. There are so many things that can go wrong on this course...challenging singletrack, sharp rocks, more pointy plants than I had ever before seen in one place, heat, few resupply options, little water . . . I could keep going, but I'll leave it at that.

During a surprisingly successful first run at the route, I realized how much I still had to learn about bikepacking and racing ultras. And riding in the desert. Slowly, I picked up bits and pieces of crucial knowledge and experience, and a year later I was back to take on the full 750 miles of the Arizona Trail. That was an experience I'll never forget, with its combination of solitude, daunting terrain, and amazing landscapes. And for the first time ever, I found the physical limitations of my endurance and began to realize how hard you really can push your body.

Last year I started the 300 just looking to enjoy myself and get in some good training. I had an overly ambitious plan that was actually seeming possible until I crashed out 200 miles in.  This year I'm living just a few hours away from the Arizona Trail, so why not join in the fun yet again?

Friday morning at 8 am, the 300 mile racers roll out, and there are some fast guys on the start list that'll be fun to ride with. I feel like I've still got a bit of unfinished business after last year's aborted effort, so we'll see how things pan out. The weather forecast looks perfect, my bike seems to be working nicely, and my head is eager to get going. Now hopefully all the sharp stuff stays away from my tires...

Follow along at http://trackleaders.com/aztr

Geomorphing

Last weekend, I traveled up to southern Utah with one of my classes. This is an area that I would be absolutely delighted to have a month to just explore. Or six months. The landscape diversity, the extraordinary geologic exposures and history, the paucity of people, and the vast distances between the few tiny towns make it particularly appealing.

Our task was to spend a few days investigating the geomorphology of the region, looking at the stories held in the shapes and forms of the landscape. Staggeringly large canyons, narrow slot canyons, peculiar rock formations, and unexpected geological gems are the norm for much of the Colorado Plateau, and the areas we visited were no exception.

All I really have to say is that if you get the chance to get out to this region . . . Hanksville, Mexican Hat, Escalante . . . jump on it. There is no way you will be disappointed as long as its not raining. Perhaps sometime I'll take the time to write up a bit about the geology of the areas in each of these photographs, but right now, I need to spend some time getting ready for another field trip up to this area in just a couple days!