When I was on my third or fourth time revising the schedule of the 20 or so guys’ lives that I have to schedule, I realized that I had Monday off after the 25 Hours of Frosch and I knew that was a good idea. There’s nothing like spinning wrenches for racers that will leave you sapped of any desire to be anywhere. So a day off after would allow me to recharge the batteries.
And I hadn’t ridden in what seemed like forever, but was actually only a couple of days.
Once I arose from my coma that I fell into Sunday afternoon, I saw that Kenny “Are you Kenny Jones?” Jones was hosting a after race shindig. Beer and Jacuzzi and Beer. You had me at beer.
KB and I arrived to find the Cutthroat Racing van parked in front of CasaZen.
As suspected once inside, beer was flowing freely and there was lots of talk of racing bikes. Conversations ranged from the muddy to the motionless and of course, those that involved turning right. Eventually we made it to the Jacuzzi and somehow shoehorned five dudes into the bubbling water. The ladies didn’t want anything to do with the water and hung out around the fire. As these things go, a plan was hatched for a ride the next morning. There were two of the five of us who had never ridden the Goose.
Kenny and I met the Cutthroat Racing van at the Alberto’s in Huricun where food and stinky farts were being obtained for the rest of the day. And then onto the Yurts we went where we would begin our voyage on a chilly Monday morning.
To say we were a rolling shit show may have offended rolling shit shows. Bikes were rolled out, rolled back in, lubrication was applied and then the beer was packed. One of the Goose virgins, Charlie, had a big ass backpack that had no reservoir for water but instead he proceeded to fill it with 18 beers. Seeing where this was going, Kenny began to influence that decision in the opposite direction and nine beers were packed into the bag.
And about 45 minutes later we were off like a herd of turtles tortoises.
Two things occurred to me while I tried to not rip my own legs off with the excitement of being on the Goose. 1. It was fucking Monday and I was riding my bike. B. There are specific skills required to ride the mesas and those aren’t easily developed outside of the Mesas.
I’m not one to hate Mondays. As it goes, I’m a strong believer in the idea that Mondays don’t suck, your job does and you should quit. Then again I’ve managed to somehow figure out a way to survive whilst peddling bikes and writing about them, so my Mondays are usually pretty sweet. Granted, I usually don’t work on Monday but the idea is still valid.
With that in mind, here we were five adult males riding bikes on a Monday. The stoke was high. I mean how could it be otherwise? It was a beautiful day. The weather was perfect for a base layer and some knickers. The sky was clear thanks to the rain that was had the days prior. There was plenty of water for the puppies and most importantly, we weren’t working. We were riding our fucking bikes.
And to top that off, we had this back drop to admire.
It may not be much, but it was all we really needed.
And for that other thought. The Goose requires a special skill set. There’s a lot more slow balancing, a lot more quick ups and sharp turns than you will find on your average trail. One of the most common things that occurs is the dreaded panic dab. This is when the person has all the skills, power, traction and know-how to do the move, but just at the critical moment doubt enters the mind and the foot comes out of the pedal and onto the ground.
The panic dab is most often seen as Goose Virgins begin to attempt the steeper climbs. Once they get the front tire over the upper lip of the move, they stop pedaling. On a “normal” climb, you can usually let off the gas once your front tire moves over the crest of the challenge. On the Goose, with its GripRock sandstone, it is possible to climb things that are way steeper than on dirt. This means that once your rear tire is over the top, you have to keep pedaling or the back half of your bike will pull you back down off of the rock.
We made our way up the North Rim to the Point. We then sat and drank the nine beers that Charlie had so graciously carried out there for us. We admired the weather, the beer, the bikes, the fact that it was Monday and we were sitting on a sandstone point overlooking Forsch Town, Zion and Virgin. It was pretty much the exact opposite feeling from when the cops threatened to throw me off.
The stoke was still in abundance so we took the South Rim back to Hidden Canyon for the return trip. The day’s riding and time in the chilly wind started to wear on us. The group split once we hit the dirt road. Kenny and I made our way back via the trail whilst the others maneuvered back to the car on the dirt road.
If you’ve been doing your math, you know that we at most drank half of the beers available for consumption. Naturally, upon returning to the yurts we made our way inside their protective walls and enjoyed a few adult, frothy beverages.
I didn’t get much of that rest nor did I recharge my batteries much, but I did get to have one the best cases of the Mondays possible.
P. L. and R.
