Many self-proclaimed purists like to castigate racers for being too competitive, “you don’t get it,” they say, “it’s not about the destination, but about the journey.” This is generally a sound bit of wisdom, and to be sure, stopping to smell the flowers and enjoy the journey is a big part of the essence of bikepacking, but competition is not necessarily a bad thing. The word competition comes from the Latin competere, meaning “to strive together to seek.” In other words, a little ego is okay because it makes us push ourselves harder and reach new limits, but too much ego and you just become a dick. Or a jane.
I kept plugging away and didn’t sleep the first night, slowly gaining a bit on my pace from the previous year. I remembered that the trail was hard, but my memory had tricked me and I had forgotten how much misery it generates–if you let it. Although still very hard, the trail was a lot more enjoyable the second year without the added distraction of saddle sores, and I made it to Oracle that evening, even managing to sleep for a few hours since I had brought a sleeping bag the second year. Later the next day, as I was nearing the ascent to Picketpost, I ran into a hiker who seemed really angry about what he felt was the limited amount of water I was carrying and the fact that I expected to reach Picketpost so soon. After politely listening to him rant for a while, I bid him adieu and continued on up the trail.
Maybe I was over tired again, but that night I had another AZ Trail induced hallucination. After topping out the climb up from the Gila River, the trail traverses through some long bowls which are pretty rideable, but which have a good bit of exposure. Perhaps I slipped down Alice’s rabbit hole and entered Wonderland, because along about then I realized that I had suddenly grown and was now 10 feet tall, just kind of floating along effortlessly above the trail. It was kind of surprising that I was still riding okay, but I was, and so I kept going. This very realistic feeling of being taller continued for a few more minutes when suddenly a vivid and startling image flashed across my brain of an Aztec warrior sitting on a stone throne in the control room of my brain, chuckling in delight to find himself piloting this strange, futuristic humanoid through the land of Aztlan. When I caught a further image of this Aztec warrior having hallucinogens blasted up his nose with a blow gun, I wisely decided it was time to stop and sleep for a bit.
I awoke refreshed, relatively speaking, and without any more hallucinations, I descended to Picketpost and continued on, excited at the prospect of resupply and Coca Cola. I was still gaining a bit on my time from the previous year and moving determinedly forward. The trail was more familiar the second time and thus it went by more quickly. A few more hours sleep, many more hours on the bike, and I reached Payson. The second year, I decided to skip the town of Pine and restock in Payson, but I think next year, I will definitely go to Pine before hitting the Mogollon Rim because Payson to Pine though short, gets difficult.
The ascent of the Mogollon Rim was as tough as ever, and while I had tried to ride too much the first year, the second year I think I walked too much, but at least I didn’t go over the bars again. The stretch from the top of the Rim to Flagstaff hadn’t seemed too bad the first year, but then my tires had been pretty soft and I had been on a full suspension bike, whereas the second year, I was on a hard tail and in some strange, act of self-sabotage, I neglected to let air out of my tires, instead spending the next 40 miles binging and bouncing off endless rocks the size of half buried footballs and soccer balls. I just had no memory whatsoever of this section being so hard the year before, but now I felt like it was going to break me.
In bikepacking, time is relative. If you race the AZTR, there will be times when you are very miserable, and that is when time will slow to a crawl. The more you focus on your misery and your next stopping point, the longer everything will take. “Be here now,” may be the clarion call of various new age gurus, but there is some value in it. Don’t focus on the hurt, but force yourself to look around and acknowledge the beauty, the space and the freedom. Force yourself to smile.
I finally stopped for the night a few miles shy of Mormon Lake, and settled down right on the trail for what would prove to be a very cold night. I was smart enough to take a sleeping bag the second year, but not smart enough to take a pad, and I shivered all night as the ground efficiently conducted all the heat out of my body. In retrospect, I should have continued a few more miles where I might have been able to check into a bikepacker’s hotel. These small, brown ‘hotels’ which dot our national forests can be used by bikepackers for emergency shelter, but you need to be pretty cold or desperate to actually check in for the night because even the very best ones are really just outhouses.
In the morning my legs were swollen and bloated, and I was a little worried because I had never experienced this before. It might have been from an electrolyte imbalance, but somehow it felt related to the impact of caroming off rocks all the day before. I hopped on the bike and before I could dissipate my morning grogginess with a few miles of pedaling, I hit another rock with my foot and ripped the cleat plate right out of the shoe. The cleat was still clipped into my pedal, just no longer attached to my shoe. I was able to reinsert the cleat plate into the shoe, and carry on, albeit much more gingerly. Later that afternoon I arrived in Flagstaff, went to the bike shop for some quick maintenance and ran into a sporting goods store for some shoe goo. I glued my shoe back together, picked up my bike and went and loaded up at the store. But, instead of hitting the trail, I sat behind the store for a couple of hours trying to convince myself to get back on the bike, but I was really tired and my legs were still swollen. So, after pointlessly sitting on the ground for a couple of hours, I walked over to a nearby motel and checked in.
A few hours sleep and I was back on the trail at about 10 or 11 p.m. I rode hard and steady through the rest of that night and all the next day, reaching the south rim in the late afternoon. The second year I brought a more substantial pack to carry my bike across the canyon, but I still hadn’t practiced my carrying system. Fortunately, the pack was well equipped with straps and I was able to load it up in a satisfactory fashion and start my descent as the evening light worked its magic on the Grand Canyon. Evening and nighttime are probably the best times to make this hike, not only to avoid the heat but also to avoid the masses of people on the trail that want to know what you are doing and take your picture. There wasn’t anyone on the trail anymore, and I sat down for a quick rest. I must have closed my eyes for just a few minutes, because when I opened them I saw a giant desert hairy scorpion had scuttled to within a few inches of me, its giant lobster claws grasping searchingly for my flesh. The surge of fear and jolt of adrenaline did me good though, and I leapt to my feet to continue my lurching descent.
Early the next morning, I hooked up with Elliot DuMont and Mark Caminiti, and we sat around for a bit talking smack before realizing we weren’t getting any closer to the rim. Elliot reached the rim before me, but kindly waited for me to put my bike together, and we were off to Jacob Lake. I couldn’t believe how fast he was riding, and that I was able to ride hard enough to stay near, but actually, I think he was easing up every time I fell too far back, which was awesome since I reached Jacob Lake much sooner than If I had had to provide my own motivation. We both stuffed our faces and lollygagged for a while before hitting the awesome last 30 miles to the Vermillion Cliffs and the Utah border. I was able to hang with Elliott for a little bit here, but eventually I completely crumbled and started walking every hill and even the slight rises. I felt really good because I knew I was going to make it to the finish, and I didn’t mind dawdling along to enjoy the last few miles. Be careful not to get too entranced by the view of the Vermillion Cliffs though, because there is one surprising and sharp rock section near the end that will shred your tire if you are not watching. Once, when I was about to finish the CTR, I had let a few tears slip down my face when I thought the finish was in sight, only to feel like a real sucker when I realized I still had 18 miles to go, so for my finish of the AZTR 750 there were no tears, just a satisfying sense of fulfillment and a pervasive sense of joy. I gloried at the Vermillion Cliffs bathed in the red light of the setting sun as I pedaled the last few miles to the Utah border.
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