Where are you headed?
I place my foot about 18 inches above the other one, step, slide back past where I started. I push the bike back up to where it was, grab both brakes and attempt to move forward again. This time it takes. I repeat the process giggling a little about how ridiculous this is, but this bike isn’t going to push itself to the top of this mesa. Move foot forward, slide back, repeat, work for every inch. Well, it’s not bikepacking till you’re pushing, and we are certainly pushing.
As the sweat beads up on my forehead and evaporates leaving a crusty layer of salt, I can’t help but wonder if this is some sort of metaphor for life. Push forward with everything you have, holding on to the bars with all your energy and take that leap. Half the time you make some forward momentum. The other half you slide back below where you just were or your feet slide out and it’s like you are on a treadmill. A rocky, steep, hot treadmill that is in the way of you getting to your destination.
Definitely a metaphor.
Our end goal is to get back home which happens to be where we started. It might seem a bit contrived, but the Mooseknuckler Ultracruise was exactly what we needed. After having a spring that was sideswiped by a global pandemic (see metaphor above) that left all of us wondering if we would ever be able to do anything together, riding our bikes in a big circle just to get back to where we started, was where we were headed.
209 miles, 3+ days, all the mesas, all the chunky trails, one gear.
Among my favorite things are riding bikes all day, riding bikes on chunky, techy trails and riding any of the Mesas in Southwestern Utah. When Alliance Member, Harrison Shotzbarger, suggested we do an Ultracruise, I was on board pretty damn quick. Like it only took a couple of beers for me to think it was the best worst idea ever.
If you are unfamiliar with the concept of an Ultracruise, as I was when Harrison pitched it, from what I understand, it’s trying to ride all the good good in your local area in one go and there was something about it being unapologetically routed. This means riding techy, chunky trails with bikes that are prepped to go all day, camp and repeat. As most things bike related go, I think most of these are done as races. I don’t race, but riding my bike for three days on my favorites, yea, I can’t get behind that.
This plan was hatched sometime last fall. I began pitching it around to those who were into doing the unfuckingnecessary. I got a lot of head scratching, a select few enthusiastic yesses and a lot of that sounds horrible. I put it out to the interweb family sometime in January and the crazies seemed to be on board with the idea, we even got Spot Tracker set up so we could, you know, see who had the biggest… well you know. And the Planner drew us up a map. It seemed like we had an Ultracruise on our hand.
While only being a few months ago, last fall feels like an idyllic past that we won’t return to any time soon. The simple idea of bringing people from other places to ride in Southern Utah, in a group, used to be a thing. Now it certainly isn’t. I let the event stay but mostly avoided anything that was social, including media, for the past few months. I had written this off as a maybe for next year.
Until I got a text from John, “I’m still planning on doing the Ultracruise, are you guys still game?”
I responded, “Maybe.”
Truth be told, I still wanted to do it. I had been scheming, riding, planning, but I didn’t think anyone else was into it and I had been crazy busy at the shop. After a few hours of the seed being replanted, I was committed and this shit was going down.
We were going to have an Ultracruise.
Day 2+ish, we have already ridden Little Creek and pedaled the dirt road over to Gooseberry Mesa. I’m kind of in a funk. I was excited for this section. Ever since we did the Mesa Buffet with Fixie Dave all those years ago, the idea of riding all the mesas in one go has been a thing for me. Even if that thing was a distant thought that maybe one day. Now, I’m in the middle of doing it and it feels like I could care less.
Head down. Pedal. Nothing else to do, but pedal.
That is until we hit Goose.
From the moment my front tire rolled through the gate and I was officially on the South Rim, I was pinned. I just went. That nothingness I had been experiencing quickly morphed into a precision focus on the bit of trail ahead of me and pedaling. John and I nailed it down and hit the top of the South Rim pretty quick (later found out I had several PRs that day). I was in giggling, having a blast mode at that point. We didn’t stop for much other than a snack here and there, just kept it pinned, giggling the whole time about this unfuckingnecessary thing we somehow ended up doing in the middle of a global pandemic.
As we crush through the techy miles, the views unroll in front of us. Zion Canyon is in the distant and we are approaching at speed. We hit Gander and keep the momentum train rolling. As the singletrack snakes its way around the mesa finding each point for a maximum view, it feels like mountain biking heaven. My legs feel good, the scenery is as breathtaking as it can get and we still have miles and miles to go.
We catch Pete, regroup and keep pedaling.
I don’t know what it is about Gander, but I always run into people who seem to be completely lost and obviously as to where they are headed and sometimes even to where they are trying to get. No exception on this day. As we sit at the the corral to regroup before heading into Grafton Wash, we have two people who, based on what they asked and acted, probably should have been turning around and heading back toward Goose. Instead, they head out in front of us. Hmm.
Gander leads us into hell. It’s now midafternoon. The cedar gnats are gnarly. It’s got to be somewhere above 90 degrees and we are exposed. The cherry on top, we are now pushing again. The switchbacks out of the wash are a bit too steep to pedal in many places and we all fall into a cycle of push, rest, pedal, push, pedal, rest, pedal, push till we top out. Regrouping was an exercise in patience. The heat was melting my brain and the gnats were torturing my skin and psyche.
We are now at a junction that requires some discussion. The original route we had brainstormed all those months ago had a few key areas to hit. Grafton was one of those. Obviously, a hardtail is not what most people would choose as their ideal bike to bomb that rocky descent. When the Planner drew up the map, he skipped Grafton and instead headed over to Wire Mesa and then down Cry Baby Hill. To exacerbate the conundrum, Grafton was the only trail I hadn’t ridden on a hardtail. My vote was kinda set.
Pete chose to take the road. John and I headed down Grafton.
Grafton proper is a rock garden set on a pretty steep grade. It’s almost impossible to go slow even with your brakes dragging the entire time. Being toward the end of the day and being on hardtails, we were focused. You drop your post, lean back and keep the handlebars out front dragging the brakes to try and stay in control. The giggles that had accompanied me on many sections of this ride came out in spades. Not only do I like the trail in general, but to be riding it in the way we were, was the absolute definition of unnecessary.
We made the descent with only minor mishaps and pedaled our way to the bridge. We found Pete down by the river and it only took a few seconds before we were all relaxing and cooling off in the clear water of the mighty Virgin.
Mama and Papa Brinkerhoff showed up with the miracle foods of Funyuns and Mountain Dew. They also had cold water which at this point was worth more than anything else they could have brought.
Refreshed, cooled down and a bit better hydrated, we jumped back on the bikes and began the pedal to Guacamole. At some point, Pete disappeared. Apparently, he needed a fresh salad.
Many religions will tell you that this journey ends when you return home. If that’s the case, we were getting close to heaven.
Choosing to pedal with only one gear, I was most worried about the paved sections. Having to get off and push is one thing, being spun out for 10 or 15 miles at a time really sucks. Especially after a few days of riding when your legs want nothing more than to do the minimal amount of work and your ass does not want to be planted on that saddle any more.
We stopped at the gas station to refill waters, I grabbed some snacks and coconut water and then the pedal to Prospector began. I knew things were going to be slow going on the singlespeed so I headed out as John was still prepping for the pedal. I popped my earbuds in and just let the music distract me from the pedaling that just had to be done.
Before I knew it, I was at Red Cliffs. Back on dirt, I felt revived despite not having any cold water. There is a point when water, while still required, loses its refreshing qualities. This is tends to be sometime in the afternoon and above 90 degrees. We had hit that spot. The water was just gross and I had to choke it down, but being on singletrack cruising along under the red cliffs helped.
We drop back onto pavement, make one last stop for some cold Gatorade at the gas station and begin the last leg back home.
Rounding the corner to the Lounge, we can see KB and Shalena are sitting on the porch. There wasn’t a tunnel with light at the end, no voice telling us to go toward the light, but knowing there was beer, more importantly, cold beer, COLD water and a place to sit that wasn’t a bike saddle, we knew we had made it home.
It may have not been the paradise promised by the pie in the sky folks, but it was where we were headed and it was close enough to heaven for us.
P. L. and R.
Thanks for the words, (and company),I can and can’t wait to do it again