Arizona Trail 300 Take 5, Part II

. . . continued from Part I

The sun rose as I was just about to the Mount Lemmon Scenic Highway, and I spent the first part of the morning slogging up the long, paved climb, usually pushing into a stiff, cold headwind. By 9 am, I passed Summerhaven and headed directly out onto the now infamous Oracle Ridge. But the trail down (and sometimes up) the ridge crest is unimaginably better than it was 4 years ago thanks to maintenance by Fritz and Tim. I was amazed at how marginally rideable many sections are now when the trail was barely passable just a few years ago. Note that “marginally rideable” is a very good thing in this context.

Oracle Ridge, as seen in 2010

The cool wind gusted strongly over the ridge, but the intense sun was already warming the air dramatically. By the time I hit the plains below, the heat was stifling. I detoured into Oracle to resupply at the little market and then headed north into the lowlands of the route. These last 90 miles I know better than any other part of the course, and despite their difficulty, I was excited for those miles.

My pace slowed a bit under the hot afternoon sun. I figured I only had to endure the heat for six hours before nightfall, and my sole goal for that time was to make it close to Antelope Peak and beyond the tough-to-follow segment of trail between me and the stubby little red peak. That segment of trail was where my world temporarily collapsed last year.

The Freeman water cache, which I found with 40 empties and just 3 gallons of actual water. I topped off my trail karma on the drive home by dropping off 15 gallons and hauling off all the empties.

But despite the heat, I found myself watching the sun set behind Antelope Peak as it loomed large on the skyline. And that little peak only ever looks big when you are immediately below it. I flipped on my bright lights and pushed on, dodging cholla bombs and moths that were excitedly attacking the lights. The sliver of a crescent moon set behind the peak, closely chasing the sun, and the stars grew more and more intense. The second night is always the toughest for me in this race, and I was apprehensive about how I would fare.

These nerves, combined with some unsettling pain deep in my left quad, made me do something unprecedented: I stopped for an hour-long nap at 10 pm. I never stop and sleep that early, usually opting to stubbornly pedal until the wee hours of the morning. This nap, however, was magical, and after rousing and regaining a friendly light tailwind, I moved rapidly toward Ripsey Hill and the mountains beyond. The awkard singletrack leading to the Ripsey climb kept me pleasantly entertained, but the descent down to Gila was particularly painful on my hands and feet.

Passing Kelvin in the dark felt like a huge coup, and I let out hoot or three while doing so. A lone dog barked softly in an understated reply. My tires dug into the loose granite grus of the White Canyon trail, and the first light of morning would soon be appearing over the cliffs high above. Birds were already excitedly and vocally going about their morning business as I labored on. For the first time in the entire ride, I became frustrated with my seemingly slow progress on the winding trail.

White Canyon in long shadows.

Before long, I found myself in some sort of a dream state. I was pedaling through the switchbacks and tight turns, concerned about who was in charge of my steering. And I questioned who was responsible for maintaining traction. Who would be in charge of eating? I assume this all was related to a faculty retreat I had just been through where one of our discussions related to how tasks would be divided among the new dean positions at the college. I obviously was not sleeping, but my brain sure was somewhere else during that last hour of the night.

I eventually became more alert as the landscape brightened. Soon I checked the time: 5:20 am. I did the math. I would start the final climb around 7 am. That was later than I had hoped for, but it was still record pace and far ahead of my previous fastest time. The sun popped over the canyon rim and I cut across the long shadows of tall saguaros. The already-warm air would be approaching my boiling point in just a few hours, and that had me seriously concerned. The early morning light on the cliffs above was spectacular, but I opted to ride sans camera this time. The minutes ticked by. I ate a Slim Jim and some dried peaches on a short section of jeep trail before diving back into more sandy singletrack.

Gila Canyons, back in March.

At 6:59 am, the trail turned uphill and began climbing steeply. This was it, the final push, and I was wide awake. I quickly stopped to dump 900 calories of honey waffle crackers into my top tube bag and then dug into the 1800’ climb. The warm morning air already had me sweating and drinking water at an alarming rate. I had ambitiously hoped to cover this final section in just over 3 hours, and with some reserves still apparently in my legs, I was able to push hard. The stunning scenery and an ambling tortoise distracted me from the pain of the effort. I bounced through the entertainingly technical trail over the divide and pressed on, smelling the scent of the final long downhill.

Then I heard cheers, and after not seeing a soul on the entire trail, I was caught off guard. It was Alexis, who was my lift back to Tucson! I passed her as she ran back to her bike and gave chase. But after 49 hours on my bike, I was descending as well as I ever do, and I was soon alone again, carving through turn after turn on the windy trail.

10:00 am came and went. It was hot. My gloves were encrusted in a thick layer of salt.

10:10 am passed. I pleaded with the trail to just let me be done. The rough, rocky sections of trail made my feet throb.

Soon I could see the outhouse at the trailhead. I crossed the last two drainages and coasted into the parking lot.

10:21 am. Finished. 50 hours and 20 minutes since I dove into the Canelo Hills. I found a pocket of shade and cowered from the sun. The temperature was already in the 90s, and I could not have been more relieved to be done. 

Finished, and still feeling surprisingly alive.

What a ride it was this year. I feel like through all my struggles on the trail in past years, I must have been due for a large bounty of good luck. And that is just what I was given. Never before have I done an ultra that went this smoothly, in which my legs felt so consistently good, and during which my mind remained so steadfastly focused. Apparently the fifth time as the charm for me on the AZT. For better or for worse, though, the next step in the experiment is to see what happens when I start pushing harder far earlier than at the Gila River. Next time may well be an all or nothing approach, but for now, I’m still catching up on my sleep.

Arizona Trail 300 Take 5, Part I

Four years ago, I tackled the Arizona Trail 300 as a novice but aspiring endurance racer only having previously attempted one prior ultra. I knew virtually nothing about the demanding route, had never ridden in the desert, and had nary an inkling of what my body was [or was not] capable. In the days leading up to the start, the weather forecast deteriorated dramatically, and by the time I was climbing over Mount Lemmon mid-race, I was in a winter wonderland. I suffered a string of flat tires. My caloric intake was insufficient. My mental state was nothing short of fragile after the first day. But I managed to finish, taking the win just a few minutes ahead of Stefan Griebel and setting a new record of 2 days and 14 hours.

Climbing Mt Lemmon in 2009. Photographer unknown.

Since that race, I can hardly fathom how much I’ve learned about racing ultras, pacing, eating, and just how little sleep one’s body really needs. The AZT300 has been part of my Spring racing every year subsequently. In 2010, I raced it as part of the longer 750-mile Arizona Trail Race, shaving a few more hours off my time. In 2011, I crashed out on the treacherous Oracle Ridge descent while on record pace. In 2012, I was back and battled through another major spring snow storm on Mount Lemmon, lowering my time to just under 2 days and 8 hours despite some tough additions to the course.

This route has turned into an annual experiment, allowing me to test different aspects of my fitness, sleep strategy, and pace. I know the course well, it’s challenging without requiring a time investment of more than a few days, and importantly, I really enjoy that part of the Arizona Trail.

This year, I had not planned to race the AZT300, however. Two weeks after finishing the race in 2012, I competed in the local Whiskey Off-Road 50 miler right here in Prescott, pretending to be a pro and finishing with what was perhaps my best performance in a “short” event ever. And I was far from recovered from my effort in the 300. The obvious question after that was how fast could I go at the Whiskey if I had fresh legs? So I set out with that question in mind this Spring, watched Aaron Gulley set a very impressive new fast time in the AZT300, and I focused on the Whiskey, where lo and behold, I had a ride that was nothing more than forgettable. My legs weren’t in it after the first hour, and the day proved that I really can’t fake my way in a pro field in a short race – no real surprise there.

Racing in the Whiskey. Photo by Matt Turner.

Almost immediately, my imagination flew south to the Sonoran Desert, wondering how I could squeeze in a go at the AZT300. The end of the school year was far to busy to sneak off for a few days, so I had to wait until the end of the year, which, unfortunately, also meant battling the rising summer temperatures. But my mind was committed.

Last Friday, I once again found myself at the Parker Canyon Lake Trailhead, accompanied by my very kind friend Alexis who shuttled me down from Tucson. The yellow grass of the Canelo Hills waved back and forth in the gentle breeze, and I was alarmed at how warm it already was at 7:30 am. Ugh. It was going to be a tough ride with predicted highs in the mid- to upper-90s.

I was packed as lightly as possible for my ride. My bike had only a small cuben fiber seat bag from Revelate Designs containing a couple spare tubes, some tire sealant, an emergency bivy, and a few extra light layers of clothing. My pack had little more than water and some food. I had the remainder of the 7,500 calories with which I started in a couple other small bags on the bike.

My goal this time around was simple. I wanted nothing more than a clean ride – no sliced sidewalls, no knee problems, no crashes, no serious bonks, no snowstorms, no sticky clay mud, and given the weather forecast, no serious dehydration. On a course as demanding and abusive as this, executing a clean ride seems as likely as seeing all the planets in our solar system align.

But to my astonishment [and relief], the planets did just that. My ride was, in my humble opinion, essentially flawless from all perspectives. My Spearfish rig functioned perfectly. I ate an incredible amount, which kept my legs churning nearly continuously for 50 hours. My knees held up just fine, and my Achilles tendons only complained a bit. The weather was not quite as warm as predicted, and I was able to ride much of the lowest terrain in the dark. And during all those dark hours, the sleep monster was nowhere to be seen!

The Canelo Hills flew by in all their loose, rugged glory. I love riding there, and while purposefully holding back on the throttle to try to not burn my legs out in overeager anticipation of the adventure ahead, I still popped out into Patagonia in under 4.5 hours. Thirty miles in 4.5 hours may not sound like much, but those are some exhausting miles of trail!

The Canelo Hills on a sunnier morning

Morning rain showers chased me as thunder boomed from a few different small storm cells. The clouds kept the heat at bay, and I pushed on through Sonoita and into the hills on the east side of the Santa Rita Mountains. This was the worst my legs felt the entire ride, apparently feeling the effects of riding a bit too quickly through the Canelo Hills. Kentucky Camp came and went, and I soon found myself on the normally frustrating Las Colinas singletrack. It’s an aptly named segment, climbing and descending incessantly. I never before had enjoyed the trail, particularly in the dark. But that afternoon, it brought a grin to my dusty face. All the while, storms chased me from the south, and a bigger storm sat over the mountains to the north, directly over my path.

Night fell just before I reached the culvert beneath I-10. I switched on my lights, a pair of Fenix BT20s, which delivered far more firepower than I have ever before had in an ultra. With the trail glowing ahead of me and a gentle tailwind behind me, I rocketed through the Colossal Cave area, past Saguaro National Monument, and was soon climbing the steep grades of Reddington Road. The smooth gravel road provided ample opportunity for me to eat handful after handful of a mix of cashews, almonds, dried fruit chunks, and Reese’s Pieces. I think I probably consumed 4,000 calories of this mix when all was said and done.

Two of these flooded the trail with light

The night passed by rather quickly, a rarity for me. At one point I popped a caffeine pill, one of three I took during the ride. I then laid down in the trail and set my alarm for six minutes. And six minutes later, I awoke, wide awake as ever. I honestly cannot remember where along the trail that happened, though.

Continue on to Part II . . .

ON THE ROAD: Kingman, AZ

I ride a lot. And I travel quite frequently, particularly around the West. Along the way, I have discovered some exceptional riding in unlikely places. With that in mind, I present ON THE ROAD: this new component to my blog will periodically highlight some of these locales and trails that really make an impression on me.

 The end of the Grand Canyon

Last month, I was on a field trip with the Central Arizona Geology Club to Pearce Ferry, the point along the Grand Wash Cliffs at which the Colorado River debouches from the Grand Canyon and flows out into a fault-bounded trough. A few weeks before, the IMBA Trail Care Crew had made a stop in nearby Kingman, Arizona, and curious about some new trails in the area, I brought my bike along. On my drive home, I stopped and got out for a 3-hour ride and covered about a third of the trails in the Cerbat Footills Recreation Area. They were spectacular! And there are still many miles of trails that I did not have time to ride...

Trails of the Cerbat Foothills Recreation Area

 

 Kingman in the middle ground with the Hualapai Mountains forming the skyline

Kingman sits in west-central Arizona along Interstate 40 along the western edge of the geological province known as the Transition Zone, the boundary between the mountains and valleys of the Basin and Range to the west and the Colorado Plateau to the northeast. What you need to know about the Transition Zone is that it is rugged, rocky, and beautiful. If you have ridden in places like Sedona, Prescott, Payson, or on the Black Canyon Trail, you were in the Transition Zone.

Most travelers on I-40 or US 93 blast through Kingman without a thought, on their way to Las Vegas or Flagstaff or somewhere in California. And I know many mountain bikers who have driven through here repeatedly to Bootleg Canyon or St. George without even realizing that they passed within a hundred yards of a trailhead right outside of Kingman.

Looking across the canyon toward the southern part of the trail system

But why should they stop? 25+ miles of high desert singletrack is why. I explored the Camp Beal, Castle Rock, and Badger trails and was grinning from the well-built trail, exciting descents, challenging climbs, and flowy ridgetop riding, not to mention the exceptional views. The easternmost trails wind through chunky basalt-capped mesas, and farther west and south in the trail system, the singletrack navigates a series of canyons carved into the underlying granite. Expertly designed switchbacks of the Badger Trail drop down the precipitous canyon side to a trailhead along US 93. The Castle Rock Trail clings to the sides of a steep ridge out to an awe-inspiring viewpoint overlooking Detrital Valley to the west. And the Beale Loop trails bring you back east toward Kingman through less rugged terrain.

Switchbacks of the Badger Trail

Castle Rock and the sprawling Detrital Valley beyond

The City of Kingman and the BLM created a long-term use plan for this area with the goal of developing and managing it primarily for recreational purposes. Additional coordination with the State Land Department, Mohave County, private landowners, and IMBA were required to make this trail system a reality, and from what I understand, there is considerable work yet to be done. Not only are these trails fantastic in and of themselves, but they represent what can be accomplished when communities work with state and federal agencies to outline common goals, combine resources, and harness the energy and enthusiasm of local recreationalists.

Multi-use trailhead facilities

Funded in part by the Arizona Heritage Fund

Gila country

As the hectic week leading up to spring break wound down, a hastily planned trip emerged, with all parties frantically gathering gear and fixing bikes still on the morning of our departure. A few hours later than planned but with plenty of daylight remaining, we rolled away from the watchtowers and endless coils of razor wire of Florence under grey skies and misty rain. The southern edge of the Superstition Mountains were barely visible in the distance, but and being the lone member of the group who had ridden through them, I think I was the only one to fully realize the treat that was to come.

We detoured through the welded tuff slickrock jungle of so-called Area 52, enjoying the unique riding and abundant bike pushing. An hour passed and we had covered a scant two miles between the slow terrain and distracting views.

The spectacle continued, as did our slow pace. The rain picked up briefly, but none of us seemed to mind. Streams were flowing among the vertical rock faces, saturated soil squished beneath our tires, and I wondered why I was carrying as much water as I was. This part of the Sonoran Desert was as wet as I had ever seen it.

By late in the day, we emerged from the slickrock jungle and clawed our way up a series of sandy washes. The moisture worked in our favor, eliminating any need for hiking. The sun briefly aimed a few rays through a hole in the clouds to the west, illuminating the country to the north. I pointed out where the Arizona Trail traversed the range, but no one seemed willing to believe that the trail could cut its way through such rugged country.

Our second morning out delivered a blue sky stretching from the massive Santa Catalinas to the south all the way north as far as we could see. After a leisurely breakfast, we pedaled the last few miles to the Arizona Trail before turning south for a few hours of mellow riding on the Boulders Segment. The trail has become so much more worn in over the past couple years, and we added eight sets of tire tracks to the dirt. Fresh snow blanked the peaks of the Pinal Mountains to our east, but we felt far removed from winter as the warm spring sun fell on emerging wildflowers of all colors. In another couple weeks, the explosion of color is going to be incredible.

Reversing our course, it was but a but hours later that we found ourselves in Ripsey Wash with a series of switchbacks cut into the peak to our west. Our singlespeed friends seemed to be a bit nervous, being on singlespeeds, and Caroline was apprehensive about the steep, loose descent off the far side of the ridge.

The combination of stunning views and abundant yellow poppies distracted everyone enough that it was tough to be worried about anything at all. Our shadows grew longer, and I relished the lighting since I had only ever seen this area at mid-day.

We spent a peaceful night in the shadow of one of the largest copper mines in the state. The lights and steady din of the continuous operations continued incessantly, but for better or worse, these monstrosities are part of the modern Arizona experience. I slept poorly for the second night in a row in my marginally appropriate sleeping bag, but it was cold appendages rather than the noisy mine that had me uncomfortable.

I awoke eager for 30 miles of perhaps the best singletrack I've ever ridden. And it did not disappoint. The scenery and trail alignment is so overwhelmingly consuming that the beast of a climb high into the mountains passes with seemingly minimal effort [yet it remains a rather difficult climb in and of itself]. More yellow poppies and brilliant green vegetation lined the trail as stoic saguaros stood tall above us, all the while, towering cliffs made us feel as insignificant as ever. 

Eventually, the trail tilted down for good, and we dropped down through a similarly brilliant landscape, our minds on a hot dinner.

Our last day took us back up through the mountains, first on singletrack, and then on well worn jeep trails. A broken chain and a few broken spokes slowed us down early on, but we found ourselves at the high point for the day remarkably quickly. Caroline stood in disbelief as we could once again survey many hundreds of square miles in all directions.

I had ridden all those jeep roads several times in the past during the Arizona Trail 300. The first time was under the cover of darkness, and the second time I was in pushing so hard that almost nothing was retained by my foggy mind. A more reasonable pace allowed me to take in everything, from the ruins of Ajax Mine, a deserted singletrack section of the subsequently rerouted Arizona Trail, to the exuberant green lichens on the walls of Box Canyon.

It was late afternoon when we returned to Florence. Luckily, despite parking next to a prison and leaving the cars filled with food, water, and changes of clothes, no one had absconded with our vehicles. The four of us were all glowing from an incredible ride. We covered ~160 miles of mostly singletrack through the unforgettable Gila country. I'm eager to get back there again, but I think another trip to the Mogollon Rim might have to come first . . .

Not quite Sedona

West of Sedona, the red rocks of Mogollon Rim continue as a more dissected cliff band until the colorful Schnebly Hill Formation thins and only the yellow Coconino Sandstone remains. The last band of vibrant towers and fins sits on the north side of the Verde River, and it has looked particularly inviting each time I've been in the area. Looking at maps, the Sycamore Canyon Wilderness ends where the red rocks end, and immediately to the west sits a network of singletrack. That singletrack needed exploring.

My car sat up along the river not too far from these trails, quietly waiting to return home after my paddling trip. That provided a handy excuse to head deep into this area for another quick overnighter. Knowing full well how rocky, sandy, and overgrown these trails probably would be, I took my fatbike. It was a long ride up to the trails on a mix of pavement, rocky jeep trails, and old rail grade, but it sure was the right bike for the job once I reached my destination.

Late in the afternoon, I crossed the Perkinsville bridge and began climbing toward the cliffs of the Mogollon Rim. A strange band of dark clouds had been building to the north, and before long, it was over head, accompanied by gusty winds, clouds of dust, and sporadic showers. I nervously hoped the rain would remain light and not turn the rough 2-track into a clay pit. Deep ruts attested to how bad conditions get out there when its wet.

My route climbed more steeply, and by nightfall I found myself high above the river valley on Coyote Trick Tank "road." The clouds slowly cleared out, stars appeared, and I quickly drifted off to sleep. My body was becoming more and more exhausted as my week off work progressed. I did not awaken until shortly after dawn when two raucous scrub jays began arguing with the sun.

My bit of gear was packed quickly, and I soon found myself at Coyote Trick Tank, a huge drip tank. It was brim full, and I topped off my water not knowing if I'd have another opportunity to do so before the end of the day. Then I noticed something peculiar - muddy hand prints on the side of the tank. Hand prints with scratches. Claw marks. They completely encircled the tank! There must be some thirsty bears in the area!

The rest of the day was spent exploring the old trails in the area. It turns out many were closed to bikes even outside the Wilderness area. This was particularly disappointing. Most of the trails were in rather horrendous condition. I think they were only somewhat easy to follow because cattle regularly use them on their seemingly aimless wandering through the area. Catclaw tore at my legs. Prickly pears tried to stab my tires. And loose rocks churned beneath my tires.

Scattered among all the slow, painful riding were some real gems. I enjoyed these sections immensely. But in reality, I was happy with all the riding. It was new country for me: foreign views, unique geology, and some challenges I hadn't before faced. I also had the entire area to myself, not seeing a soul all day.

Late in the day, I coasted downhill to my car and loaded my bike in the back. Spring break had come to an end. My legs were spent. I had needles and thorns stuck in my legs and hands. And I had a pile of work that needed to get done on Monday. So I drove home, moving slowly even in a car, reflecting on all that could be crammed into a single week.