Coconino Part 3: Solo but not Alone

aaron gulley writer | editor

October 27, 2010

Day three commenced with the Yaeger Trail, which had been battered by a recent storm. Visions of folded wheels danced through my head as I caromed off two-foot steps and sharp, fanged rocks, but I made it down with everything intact (thank you, Mike Chapman and Mike Curiak). Scott caught up with and passed me at the spring, where I was futzing, and after replenishing my tanks, I settled into the rolling traverse that lead to a crazy descent to the Verde River. So smooth and broad was this slope that it was impossible not to ride it like a road bike, crouching on my top tube with knees tucked in the frame and cutting knife-edge lines in the wide corners.

Mostly what I remember from day three was how badly my backside hurt. In my chaotic rush out of Flag, somehow I’d forgotten the Butt’r, and though I’d picked some up in Cottonwood my soft bits were already angry. Racing without chamois cream is like dating without protection, and I paid the price as the climb from the Verde wore on. The higher I went, the less I could sit, till I was alternating 50 pedal strokes in the saddle and 50 out.

Even that couldn’t spoil my mood, though, as the route offered lots of diversion. I climbed and climbed, from searing desert littered with scrubby piñons and basketball-size prickly pears up to brisk alpine meadows beneath great stands of ponderosa pines. And just when I thought I could relax, having reached the pavement and mileage signs for the town of Williams, a sneaky little singletrack spur with more switchbacks than Alpe d’Huez led up and over 9,200-foot Bill Williams. The descent off the front side wasn’t the coronation I expected, either, with lots of techy steps and track-stand corners. On the bright side, saddle sores or no, I couldn’t have ridden this seated.

The night in Williams sold me on the stage race format. After two nights on the ground—my superlight sleep pad punctured at Camp 1 before I even lay down on it—the bed at America’s Best Value Inn felt downright luxurious. I scarfed more than my third of the pizza that Scott, Lee, and I ordered. And the steamy shower did wonders for my saddle sores. But what I liked most was the chitchat and storytelling in the hotel room (and over breakfast the next morning). Go fast during the day, then slow down and savor the moment. It felt like a fine balance, especially late in the season.

It would be tempting to think that if it hadn’t been for the GPS debacle, and if I’d not wasted so much time looking for food and water sources and pedaling down the wrong spurs, I could have kept pace with Scott. But that’s simply not the case, which I realized on the final day’s ride to Flagstaff. I felt fresh after hot food and deep sleep and the day’s stage, mostly big-gear churning on whispery forest roads, suited my mood. I never took a break from the bike, made no wrong turns, and banged the whole ride out in five and a quarter hours. In short, I had a good day of riding, especially those last 10 or so miles, when the route’s playful, whippy singletrack had me smiling in spite of my fatigue. Meanwhile, Scott started well behind me and all but caught up by the end. He was on fire, on day four and throughout the race, and even if I’d brought one of those Cancellara bottom-bracket motors, I’m still quite sure he’d have dropped me like telemarketing call.

By the end of the ride, though, that hardly mattered. Success lay in the fact that I made it through my first multiday effort without any catastrophes or meltdowns (as long as you don’t count the fit about my GPS that I imposed on Jen). And then there was the simple pleasure of being outdoors in immense spaces, day after day, with nary a concern other than which pedal comes next and what vista is most beautiful. Fun, it seems, doesn’t always have to equal going fast. This year, at least.

Results are on the Arizona Endurance website.

Stage Five
In order to line up for the CLR, I made a deal with Jen that I’d take the race as an opportunity to swing by IKEA, in Tempe, and pick up a desk for her new home office. So as soon as Scott and I finished sucking down gyros at Pita Pit, I pointed the car south on I-17 for what turned out to be the race’s real endurance test. The calories from lunch were long gone before I ever passed under those four truck-size gold and blue letters, but I soldiered on. If I could survive the CLR, I figured, this would be a piece of cake. By closing time, however, I’d spent more hours wandering the stores convoluted aisles than I had on stage four, and without a GPS track to the exit there was no end in sight. Fortunately, thanks to a clerk, who I thought was being kindly but probably just wanted me out of the store, I made it back to the parking lot, desk (and other sundries) in tow. Next stop: Two forearm-size burritos at Chipotle.