Coconino Part 1: The un-Race

aaron gulley writer | editor

October 25, 2010

I’ve said it before, but the hardest part of every adventure—even a four-day, 235-mile mountain bike ride—is getting out the door. And so it went with the Coconino Loop Race. I’d been thinking about trying it ever since May, when a dual GPS/intestinal implosion cut my solo attempt on the AZT300 in half. But the CLR started to look less likely as our yearlong house-building project slowed, felling many of my late-season objectives. By early October, we’d moved into the new place, but the chaos of relocating had left me with less than 100 trail miles in the month leading up to the Coconino. No way can I do this, I told myself. A string of writing assignments landed on my desk the week of the race, seemingly reinforcing that decision. But when I wrapped my work by 3:30p.m. on Friday, I had no excuse. Sure, nothing was packed, my gear was in disarray, and I hadn’t even looked at the cue sheets. But I shoveled everything into the Volvo and figured I’d sort it out in Flagstaff.

The Coconino Loop Race is a low-key, homegrown endurance ride that traces a giant loop south from Flagstaff on an impressive clockwise link up of trails, forest roads, and occasional asphalt. In addition to the course, which takes in a staggering amount of singletrack for a race like this, the CLR appealed to me because of its civilized format. Unlike the multi-day through-races that are so popular, where you push until you either finish or keel over, the CLR is divided into four stages. Meaning you ride a set number of miles in a day, then camp in designated areas with the other racers. It’s still self-supported, so you have to carry what you need, including camping gear, water filtration, and any food you can’t buy in gas stations. But for a pansy like me, who hates riding in the cold, is slow to pack up gear and get moving, and is as good at dawdling off the bike as riding it, this promised to be an ideal format.

Dawdling case in point: In Flagstaff, I missed the 7 a.m. group breakfast and official start because I was still figuring out how to attach everything to my bike—the trials of a first true bikepacking attempt. By 9:30, I had clipped and strapped and buckled it all in and gulped down a sandwich and cappuccino at Biff’s Bagels, and I raced off after the others only to immediately blow past the first singletrack spur. I caught the mistake, reversed to the vague trail, and nearly piled it on the rocky, stair-step descent. If this is how it’s going to be, I thought, maybe I’d best stay in town and sip espresso.

The trail has a way of smoothing out my apprehensions, and I settled into a comfortable rhythm on rolling terrain under a patchy ponderosa canopy and soon rode through a few racers that started earlier. Given my lack of preparation, I’d already decided I was out for a ride, not a race, which made it easier to stop when I felt like eating and shrug off wrong turns and navigational slips. I just pedaled along, flying down from pine country toward the desert and loving every moment. When I arrived at Camp 1 first and saw that I’d bested Scott’s 2009 stage time by the slimmest of margins, I briefly believed I might be in the race after all. But later, Scott blazed in fully 30 minutes faster still. There would be no keeping his wheel.

Nothing, however, could spoil the reverie of Camp 1, where the view out over Sedona’s crimson bluffs would make God himself swoon. Brad rolled in a while later, then Lee, who had pedaled a few extra miles into Munds to bring a six-pack for the gang. I don’t know if these type of events allow for time bonuses, but swilling a cold one in the afternoon glow with views out to the crackling infinity I’d have given Lee an hour per can.

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