Arizona Trail Race 750, Day One

Arizona Trail Magic—Epilogue

A well-known writing professor friend of mine once told me that an author never owes his/her audience an apology, but I feel compelled to offer at least an explanation of the months’ long delay in completing my AZT race report.

The simplest way to put this is that I have been paralyzed by conflict. Not person to person conflict, mind you, but the conflict within my own mind, body, and spirit. When I finally closed the book on Day Five of my AZT adventure, I was 100% certain that I had made the correct decision, but the tincture of time has a way of changing the goal posts and the farther I got from the end of my race, the more I didn’t want to revisit what I feared was a decision made in haste and in error.

With the distance of a number of months now between me and the AZT, I am now ready to pick up the keyboard and finish my story.

As I lay in my bivy at the Picketpost trailhead, gazing up at the impossibly dark sky punctuated by intense starlight, I replayed the events of the past 21-plus hours in my head. My thumb still throbbed, and my mind felt numb, but I was no worse for the wear otherwise. In fact, I was feeling as though a heavy burden had been lifted off of my shoulders; not the burden of the day, exactly, but the burden of the day after day, after day, battling the elements of this both beautiful and frustrating landscape. 

At one point, my mental replay was interrupted by the strong odor of cow manure assaulting my nostrils. I grabbed my headlamp, scanning the ground around me for what must have been a freshly deposited organic pie, but could find nothing. I wrote it off as a artifact of the wind, and settled back into my bag. After no more than a minute or two it was back: the unmistakable odor of cow excrement, this time even more intense. After repeating my search of the desert floor, I realized that the offending odor was actually coming from me—from my skin. As you might recall, I had—twice—earlier in the day, cooled off in the disgusting, semi-liquid that passes for the Gila River. I had smelled this same offending odor as I splashed my arms and legs, but passed it off as, again, just something on the wind. No such luck. I was now a walking billboard for Cowpie Weekly.

Against all odds, I fell fast asleep, only to bolt upright, wide awake just two hours later, as the sun was peaking over the surrounding ridges. I gathered my things and walked across the parking lot to where Norb was sleeping peacefully. I sat on a coffee table-sized rock and waited for my friend to emerge from his lair.

After about 15 minutes or so, I could hear thrashing about in the women’s side of the comfort station. Norb later told me, I thought the floor would be cleaner on the ladies’ side. As he popped out of the door, Norb was all business, tending to the various buckles and straps on his bags. As I greeted him, he seemed completely unsurprised, or startled by my presence.

“Is the rest of the trail like what we just rode?”, I asked. “You mean all of the hike-a-bike and narrow, rocky surfaces?”, he replied.

“Yeah, that.”

“Pretty much. That was a pretty good indicator of what is yet to come.”

“Then, I am out. I am done. I think I bit off more than I can—or want—to chew.”

Norb looked up at me for the first time since appearing out of the bathroom. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure? I just don’t want you to leave any unfinished business out here.”

It was a wise thing to say, I had to admit, but even the finality and clarity of this statement did nothing to dampen my resolve or phase my thinking one bit. “Nope, I realized last night that I would rather be home, working, than pushing my bike on this dry, God-forsaken trail.

“Yeah, she is a beast, no question about that,” he said. And, with that, after a few other pleasantries, he was off, continuing his northern progress on the Arizona Trail, heading to the Utah border.

After a few minutes of looking around at the Picketpost trailhead area, stretching my legs a bit, and calling Joe Polk at MTBCast to announce my abandonment, I gingerly remounted my bike, and once again, slavishly followed my Garmin’s lead towards the freeway, no more than a mile distant.

Riding alongside speeding trucks and minivans on the busy roadway inspired a slight longing for the isolation and quiet of the AZT, but not one strong enough to turn me back to the trailhead. I arrived on the outskirts of Superior, stopping at a Circle K and the Iron Skillet restaurant, where I grabbed a table for one and stared blankly out the window nursing a glass of ice water my server had placed in front of me. I was overwhelmed by a sense of both relief and disappointment. I had, after all, completed one of the hardest bike packing races there is, but it wasn’t the goal I had set out to achieve. It wasn’t the goal I had trained for all winder; it wasn’t the goal I had obsessed about for the past 6 months; it was something else, something less, and this was already beginning to not sit well with me.

My server returned and I ordered two of everything on the menu—well, not actually, but close. She gave me that, I don’t think you realize how much food you just ordered look that bike pack racers are so accustomed to, and was off to explain to the cook what I had just requested. This is all for that scrawny, smelly, fella out there in the corner? Are you SURE? I imagined him saying to her as she placed the ticket in front of him.

As I waited my anticipated bounty, I called my wife, Angie, and told her all about the Nightmare on Saguaro Street that I had just experienced. She seemed genuinely sympathetic and not at all judgmental about my decision. “That sounds awful. You are lucky you made it out of there,” she told me, “You made the right decision. That doesn’t sound like any fun at all.”

She offered to call her parents, who winter in Sun City West, a few hours away from Superior, so that they could come rescue me from my, now defunct, adventure.

As I ate, an older couple pulled up outside the restaurant on a three-wheeled motorcycle. They were quite a sight to behold, dressed from head to toe in studded black leather, they appeared to either be aging members of the Village People, or on their way to a senior S and M party. I half expected them to have riding crops affixed to their sides. They made their way inside the dining room, and sat at a table near me. At a closer look, they were simply a sweet grandma and grandpa, out on their daily ride into the Arizona desert. They noticed my gaze and returned it with two pleasant smiles. “That your rig out there?” the man asked me. “Yeah, I just finished a ride on the Arizona Trail,” I said, not wanting to delve too deeply, or have to explain too much. 

“The Arizona Trail!”, the man exclaimed. “On that? Are you nuts?” It wasn’t a dumb question.

We traded stories about riding around on wheels, and life in general. They informed me that previously, they had both ridden Harleys, but as they got older and their sense of balance got worse, they had moved to a three-wheeled scooter. “Plus, this way we don’t get separated on the road. She rides like a bat out of Hell,” the man said, jabbing his thumb towards his wife. They both burst into peals of laughter as I ordered my third chocolate milk.

After finishing my meal, I retired to the covered porch of the restaurant to tended to my now gaping saddle sore. I was mostly hidden from view with my hand down my shorts in a very awkward manner, when the Hell’s Grandparents emerged through the doorway, both staring at me rather hard. “Uh, a casualty of the trail, you know?” I said, timidly. They chuckled and told me that on a motorbike saddle sores are replaced by saddle numbness, which made for a rather entertaining dismount on most occasions.

We were all laughing at this mental picture when my father in law drove up. He emerged from his car with a grin, and more importantly, a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. “So, you had enough of desert, did you?”, he asked. “Something like that,” I replied. I introduced him to my new friends and they chatted amiably while I broke down my bike and placed it in the trunk of his sedan. The cool, fresh air from the passenger compartment wafted up out of the storage area and felt heavenly. I didn’t realize how hot I had been for the past 5 days.

Speeding towards the Phoenix airport, where I was going to rent a car to drive back to Boise, I was trying to keep up with the conversation, but kept falling asleep in the passenger seat. I really didn’t want to be rude—Duane had driven nearly 3 hours to pick me up—but I could not keep my eyes open.

Arriving at the rental counter, I was surrounded by a crew of snappily dressed Enterprise employees. Their presentation was impeccable, and I looked and smelled like a vagrant—a vagrant that likely lived with a herd of cattle. Nonetheless, they could not have been nicer to me. They asked just what on God’s green earth I was doing, and listened intently and admiringly as I briefed them on the past few days. “That seat doesn’t look big enough for what you are describing,” one of the ladies stated. “Not near big enough for my big butt,” her coworker stated, busting up the entire group into uncontrolled laughter. I was going to tell them about my crater of a saddle sore, but thought better of it—wisely.

Yep. That is exactly what it looks like it is.

“You want a car to drive all the way back to Idaho?” The lady with the self-reported large keister asked me. “Yes, what is available? Is there any car that you need to ship to Boise?” “You can have anything you want,” she said, “Anything from a Tesla to a full sized SUV.” “Is this going to cost me an arm an a leg?” I inquired. “No,” she laughed, “In fact, I can make you a really good deal. A really good deal,” she added for some reason. She continued to bang away on the keyboard, finally ending in a flourish and sporting a mischievous grin. “Care to guess how much this will cost you?” she asked. “Sure. $200-$250…?”, I offered. “Ha!,” she cackled, “Not even close. How about $95 dollars?”, she stated. “A day?”  I asked. “No, for the entire 3 days, silly—and that includes XM radio. You are going to want XM radio.” That I was, I told her, and with that was off to find my ride for the next 3 days. 

“You can have any of these—personally, I think this one is perfect for you”, the young lady said, pointing to a dark gray Nissan Pathfinder. “Ok, sounds good,” I told her, and with that was off to Costco to stock up on things that Costco cannot sell in Idaho.

A few hours later, I was walking across the Target parking lot in Flagstaff hoping to purchase some underwear, having just secured a room at the Maswick Lodge on the south rim of the Grand Canyon, when Norb texted me. “I’m OUT!”, he wrote. “I stopped at a clinic to get some pain meds for a nasty saddle sore, and the doctor told me it was infected and I had to stop riding.”

I was torn. I could have easily turned around and driven south to his location and picked him up, which would have been the nice thing to do; but, I had a room…on the rim of the Grand Canyon…the last one available…. I texted as much back to him and he told me that a friend was already en route to pick him up and sort out his return plans. I breathed a sigh of relief, although I was a little sad, because Norb is a great guy and would have made a wonderful traveling companion.

I took my time leaving the Canyon the next morning as I strolled along the rim and browsed through the gift shop after breakfast. Our family hikes the Canyon rim to rim every fall, and has for the past 22 years, so I feel like it is a second home for me. It was nice to just relax, belly full, looking out over the vastness and watch the people admiring its beauty.

Driving back through southern Utah, I visited Zion National Park, and snaked my way back towards Salt Lake City for the night.

The next day I found myself driving through a snow-storm for the final hour approaching Boise. It was a surreal contrast to what I had just experienced. As I pulled into the rental return lane at the Boise airport, I was approached by two smiling young ladies with mobile devices in their hands. One of them abruptly dropped her smile and began staring intently at the front bumper area of my car. I exited the vehicle and asked her what she was looking at. “That, right there,” she said. “There is a piece missing from the bumper.” “What?”, I asked, completely confused by the speed at which she noticed the small opening in the smooth plastic front of the car. “This should have a cover on it, but it is missing,” she stated pointing to the underlying Styrofoam. “Oh, yeah, I see that now,” I said. “I didn't notice that when I got the car in Phoenix.” “You got this in Phoenix?!”,  she exclaimed. Yes, why? “Those jerks! They sent this car up here because they didn't want to have to deal with the paperwork that this missing piece will require!” 

Ooops. 

And, I thought they just really liked me.

Sigh.

Over the past number of months, since that fateful morning at Picketpost, I have tried to come to some sort of philosophical peace with not completing the AZT 750, but the best I can do, is to say that the Arizona Trail kicked my butt. Period. I did not adequately prepare myself for the constant on and off the bike, nor did I have a reasonable understanding of the vastness of the land and the lack of consistent water sources. I normally pride myself on my preparation for such things. On the Tour Divide, I was never surprised by anything. I had read the blogs and books, talked to veterans, watched the YouTube videos, etc. In short, I was prepared. Very well prepared. But, for some reason, I thought that what I didn't know about the Arizona Trail would sort itself out; a really foolish approach, and I paid for it, by not accomplishing my goal.

So, the upshot is this: The Arizona Trail Race is a great, great adventure in a beautiful part of the country. It is simply stunning, but it requires preparation—almost over-preparation—especially, in the mental department. You don’t simply have to be tough, you have to be tough on tough. My preparation was the equivalent of bringing a knife to a gunfight, in a land previously settled at the point of a gun. It is as harsh as it is beautiful, which just adds to the magic of the Arizona Trail.

Well-played, AZT. Well-played.

Thanks for reading.