Slight Discomfort – The Ultraknuckle

The rain is coming in sideways. I’ve got my head cocked to the left and tucked in doing what I can to find shelter within the small shadow of my rain jacket’s hood. It’s not doing much good, but I do it anyway. The sleet bights at my exposed face. My gloves aren’t even pretending to be waterproof and this is the third squall we’ve ridden through. My hands are aching with the cold and wet I’m subjecting them to.

We’re nearing Little Creek Mesa and the clouds are hanging low and the wind isn’t suggesting it will stop any time soon. The mesa juts up into the clouds and I can see the mandatory hike-a-bike that will take us up to the top. I’m not looking forward to gaining more elevation because I know it’s going to be colder the higher we are. John catches up as I come back down a missed turn and we begin the push to the top together.

The wind and rain continue and soon are accompanied by hunger pangs. We stop under a big tree and eat some snacks, rest and wonder where the rest of the crew is. The rain stops, motivating us to get moving again. And then the sun comes out and we are sheltered by the canyon. We now find ourselves pulling off the hoods, opening the rain jackets, sweating as the temperature suddenly rises. We continue to push and watch as that sun that is now making us hot looks like it is about to be covered back up. The rain is returning.

I wonder, am I suffering? Nope, just a little uncomfortable.

Ultraknuckle?

220 miles. 2 mandatory hike-a-bikes. 3 gnarly DH sections. 3 Mesas, 4 if you count Grafton. All over 3.5 days. That’s if you can.

The Ultraknuckle is all of those things, but mostly it’s just trying to keep the rubber side down on loaded bikes. The logic, if there is one, is that if it’s fun to ride your bike on any of these trails, then it holds that it would be fun to ride them all at once, or at least, to try and ride them in one go. It will challenge you wherever you are. If you happen to be crazy fit, it will probably find a way to make you feel not so much, but might also crush you because of its technical side. Are you a crazy good technical rider? Sure, but how sloppy do you get at mile 53?

Add in the fact that you are carrying your gear, probably not getting good sleep and the fatigue just builds the farther in you get, and this is a guaranteed ass-kicker. You’ve got to be on your best game to just finish.

And let’s be honest, no one has actually finished the whole damn thing.

The route is contrived at best. There are multiple places where your general direction is one way, but the route takes you the opposite. You could pedal a mile to cut out 15 and that tends to happen. When your legs say they are done, when discomfort sneaks in and the sound of a sitting in a climate-controlled bar sipping on whiskey is offered up as an option, that’s when things tend to fall apart. Sure, we made it back to the Lounge, but we didn’t exactly ride the entire course.

Myth has it that it isn’t even possible.

Day 1 – City Creek, T-bone, Lange’s and Ice House

Six of us started pedaling at 5:30. Almost immediately, it was obvious that the route had been screwed up. Too many back and forths, too many times filtered through mapping apps and software, whatever. It was missing certain sections. We started by riding one of these sections, City Creek, and as these things go we cut out the big climb because we could. I mean the bike path was right there just waiting for us and the big climb looked hot and uncomfortable.

T-Bone came and went and the gaps had started to build. The group was split 50-50 for singlespeed and geared riders. At the T-Bone trailhead, it was obvious that there were significant differences in paces that were happening. Plug Along Pete and I waited for a few, but thought it would be best if we pedaled on assuming we would get caught on the road seeing that we only had the one speed, slow.

The gap seemed to grow and Pete and I made it to Lange’s Dugway, somehow missing from the map, called an audible and kept on pedaling. The light was starting to fade and the wind that had been blowing all day showed zero signs of letting up. To the contrary, it was increasing in intensity the higher we got. We were experiencing that last bit of dusk as we ran into Kate at the 901 and Turkey Farm Junction. I had only brought a “probably charged” light and hoped to at least make it to the Ice House turn off before having to use it. As such, I continued on pedaling toward the turn straining to see the bumps in the road.

Up to this point, the wind had mostly been a tail or crosswind. As soon as we turned right that changed. Being stubborn, I pedal to where the singletrack starts before stopping to put my light on my helmet.

Our legs are tired, the wind is ripping and we have several miles of downhill to the proposed Camp 1. Ice House is typically a ripper of a descent. One where you have to stay on the brakes to ensure you don’t build way too much speed. The wind changed all of that. Instead of riding the brakes, we were pedaling, coasting at best as we “enjoyed” the downhill. It was probably for the best. The trail can be one that throws people and riding it tired and at night amplifies those possibilities.

Pete and I hit the road cut and try to decide where to camp. We have had no reprieve from the wind since we started suggesting that there wasn’t much chance of finding a calm spot. We checked a few options and settled on a flat spot a bit back off the ridge. Setting up camp was laughable at best and utterly frustrating at its worst. We were tired. The wind was cold and all we wanted to do was crash and the wind just kept us from doing that. I walked around in circles for at least ten minutes feeling like I had no idea what to do.

Eventually, I got my tarp staked out and got my sleep system tucked under so it wouldn’t go sailing. JT showed up and then Elijah who kind of just blew through saying he was done. And then Harrison rolled in just as I was almost falling asleep. Harrison had left Scott at the 901 and we never saw him again. He might still be out there.

The night was spent just about falling asleep. The wind never let up. Between the sensation of the increasing intensity and noise, rest was a desire but not much of an option. To say it was uncomfortable would be accurate.

Day 2 – Prospector, Lake Side, Goulds and 2 hike-a-bikes

Bikepacking on a singlespeed, it’s not the climbs or the descents that will kill you, it’s the flat. Most people worry about how hard the climbs will be or being able to keep up on the downhill, but, in my experience, being spun out, doing everything you can to will your bike forward when there is no resistance on the chain, will absolutely destroy you. This is to say, I was worried about Day 2.

My watch said I got something around 4 hours of sleep, sure, whatever. You could say I “awoke” as the sun came up, but that would suggest that I was asleep. I was not. Realizing it was close to 6, I started the slow arduous process of extricating myself from the Dyneema and down cocoon I was snuggled in. I knew no one else was asleep as soon everyone was also doing the same. Getting hot water going was a challenge. The wind robbed our stoves of their potency.

For unknown reasons, I had abruptly stopped consuming caffeine exactly one week prior. As I poured boiling water into my mug to make Lemon Tea, I was questioning my logic. Tea, ramen, gather the stuff and off we went.

There were many moments of giggling joy on this ride and dropping the road cut on Ice House first thing in the morning was certainly one of them.

We resupplied on water at a construction site in the neighborhood that had sprung out of the desert and then pedaled a little pavement to Grapevine. The wind was obviously a concern as it had not let up from the night before and we were all pretty stoked that it was a tailwind. We ripped along Prospector having a good time and enjoying the morning ride and the idea that we only had to pedal all day long. Yea, the legs were tired, but that’s just a slight discomfort that can be ignored.

The four of us regrouped at the Harrisburg Gap and then proceeded to start dealing with wind. Turning east and then south and there it was, the wind in all its horrible glory. Luckily, the singletrack paralleling the road gave us some shelter as it winds through countless drainages and at the same time kept our adrenaline up as tight corners left us exposed both to height and wind. All of us were almost blown off the trail multiple times. I was also surprised to learn that no one else had ever ridden that short section of trail.

Now it was time for some pavement. We crossed the highway and pedaled into the wind. I had found some maybe not entirely legal dirt roads to get us into Hurricane and we found ourselves off pavement and back on old, basalt-strewn roads bouncing and climbing our way up to town. The rain hit us for the first time just as we lifted our bikes over the first barbed wire fence. Denial permeated the group as we all kind of waited to change into the little protection we had packed.

The rain would come and go throughout the rest of the day leaving us cold. The wet in combination with the wind was a bit more than we were prepared for. I was the only one who brought winter gloves (I’m a bit of a baby, but I also have crazy bad circulation and my hands are even cold right now as I type this), but I had packed ones that were not waterproof. My hands were aching with cold within a few minutes of the first squall.

After our foray into misdemeanor law-breaking, we were on some pavement into town. This stretch was punctuated with more rain and JT mysteriously breaking a spoke. Plug Along Pete, JT and I regrouped somewhere outside of town. The idea of stopping at the Main Street Cafe to warm up and eat lunch was enthusiastically agreed upon and we headed to OTE to get John’s wheel fixed.

We stop at OTE. No dice. No way to fix a poor wayfaring stranger’s wheel when he’s on the road stuck in the rain. I warm up my hands as best as possible so I can at least text Harrison our plans, we haven’t seen him in a while. Then it’s waiting for a table and hoping the rain passes. Being motionless gave us time to digest the situation we were in. Plans were hatched on procuring some warm gloves and possibly better rain gear at the thrift store. We ate, warmed up and then walked back out into the rain.

Pete headed to the thrift store. Harrison to the gas station. John and I went to the park to refill on water. Both Pete and Harrison returned with gloves. Pete’s were better than Harrison’s so we all headed to the thrift store. I arrived to find Harrison in a women’s blue wool coat that was at least three sizes too small and the Catholic lady asking if he was non-binary. She then proceeds to ask us, “Are you friends with the guy wearing the yellow trash bag?” Yes. Yes, we are.

Looking somewhat like a roving group of homeless drag queens, we made our way to the first of the 2 hike-a-bikes for the day, the climb up the Hurricane Trail Connector. This turned out to be less horrible than I imagined it. Sure, we had to push, but there were also sections of pedaling and it didn’t take nearly as long as I suspected to gain that much elevation. Soon John and I found ourselves at the Gould’s singletrack with no visual clue of where the others were. It was windy and cold, so we started to pedal. The singletrack was much like what we had experienced around Quail. Drainages protected us from the wind and then we would be exposed to the wind and pummeled by its force. It had been several years since I pedaled this trail and found it to be better than I remembered. The canyon is stunning and the trail is pretty fun. I was honestly bummed when we hit the end and were back on double track headed toward our next pushing section.

JT and I settled into our paces and I found myself alone on the dirt road. I missed a turn heading up the climb to Little Creek and had to turn around running into John. We regrouped and started up. The wind and rain pushed us hard and we regrouped under some pinions as described in the opening paragraph. Eventually, we made our way to the top of the mesa and feeling relieved, we started pedaling toward the trail. Everything was going well until we hit mud. At first, it was like shit. Then it was like, if this keeps going we’re screwed. Just as the mud was getting heavy enough and nasty enough to completely stop our forward motion, we hit sand and could pedal once again.

The going was fine until we missed our original camping plan and then hit mud. As the mud started to build up, we find the closest camp spot and push our bikes in and drop them. Soon we have a fire going and are warming ourselves and hoping that the clouds don’t open up again.

Harrison and Pete show up. Then Kate and Kathleen come in bringing much needed alcohol and food. Kate cooked campfire quesadillas for most of the group and KB handed out salads and snacks galore. Soon we were warm, buzzed, full and almost comfortable as the temperatures continued to drop.

Day 3 – Little Creek, Gooseberry, Gander, Grafton

Cold. We knew it would be.

The forecast put Apple Valley at freezing and we were higher. We awoke to frost and frozen bottles, but the sky was clear and the wind had mellowed out. Having been well seasoned by the prior 36 hours, the cold didn’t seem to faze us too much. Sure, it was there and we got a fire going to keep it at bay, but everyone was up and moving fairly early. That isn’t to say we got an early start because we did not. We had all agreed a late start would be much more in order considering the cold even if it pushed us into a much later finish. Better to ride when it’s warmer than not be able to feel any of our digits.

KB and Kate mozied out of camp and we all slowly got moving. We headed out and did a shorter loop on Little Creek riding the North Loop and most of Pot Farm in order to skip anything that would be muddy from the previous day’s rain. It was slow going. By the time we were back to camp and bagging back up for the ride to Goose, it was close or past noon (I can’t recall exactly).

The wind had picked back up and clouds were rolling through. In the sun, it felt ok, but when the clouds pushed over its rays, it was chilly. The day was never really comfortable. It was more like tempting us with comfort but never actually delivering. The dirt roads were bumpy as we made our way over to Gooseberry.

By the time we hit the bathrooms at the Y, it was just Pete and me. Pete did not intend to ride Goose so we parted ways and I headed up the White Road solo. At the trailhead, I stopped at the gate hoping someone was close. I took the time to eat a Probar and JT rolled up. With no idea how far back Harrison was, we continued. Tired legs and loaded bikes make for a difficult ride on the Goose. After a few miles, we regrouped and called an audible. Split out, hit practice and make it over to Gander. At least that’s what I thought we were doing. There was some miscommunication and we ended back at the bathrooms. Pete was still there. John and Pete headed down the road toward Grafton and I pedaled over to Gander to continue the route.

Alone on Gander, I settle into a groove and just keep going. The views are reward enough and keep me smiling as I look into Zion. As I hit Grafton Wash, John texts me that he is waiting at the top of Grafton.

Grafton is a riot of a trail and even more so on loaded hardtails. We pass several dudebros suited up in full-face helmets and body armor. A couple of teens are pushing bikes up the trail and as we bomb down the one notices are bikes and says, “Dude! They’re on hardtails.” Yes. Yes, we are. We make it to the bottom without incident and with our stoke levels recharged.

Papa and Mama Brinkerhoff are waiting for us at the cemetery for their traditional aid station. JT and I grab cold drinks and shove handfuls of chips into our mouths. It has warmed up and we have put down some hard miles and still have plenty more to pedal. Once we’ve maxed out our snacking capacity, we climb back on and start pedaling. The group had come to the consensus that Guacamole would be skipped so we could pop into the Balcony for dinner. At this point, we had pavement to pedal. Headwind. Spun out. Pete gone. Yadayadayada.

John and I make it to the Balcony. We know Pete is somewhere ahead of us and Harrison is somewhere behind us. We walk in appearing as what I can only assume looked like two cowboys coming off of a cattle drive, dusty, tired, sweaty, stinking and with a look that says serve me whiskey. We’ve been uncomfortable for 2.5 days and are looking for a little relief. Eventually, we are settled into the bar and spend the next couple of hours enjoying a reprieve from the weather, talking about Willey Nelson, and consuming a little liquid relief.

Just as we are thinking we should be going, Harrison shows up. He orders food. We get another shot.

We have successfully reached the point in the ride that we just have to find a place to camp. We head up Sheep’s Bridge Road, decide it’s a good idea to buy firewood despite having no good way to carry it and then make our way to Falls Park. The idea that we could poach this was shattered when we realized how easily the houses on the other side of the river would see us. Pete heads up the side of the hill looking for a spot he can find shelter. The rest of us head back to the road and start pedaling hoping to find a drainage where we can sneak in and pass the night unnoticed. We find one pretty quick lifting our bikes over a fence and slinking into a wash that is flat and provides almost 360-degree protection from any prying eyes.

Somehow, we’ve managed to get the bundle of firewood to this spot as well and soon we are warming ourselves around a fire, chomping on chips and enjoying a nice buzzing night before we all check out.

Day 4 – JEM Trails, Honey Moon, Airport junk

3 days of riding + whiskey = slept the entire night.

I awake just as the sun is pretending it’s going to pop over the horizon. It’s cold. The hose for my reservoir is frozen solid enough that I cannot get water through it. My bag is covered in frost. The only warming notion is that sun coming up over Zion. Our sneak-a-campsite, unfortunately, is tucked in and the sun is going to be a minute.

On a scale from barely moving to hot damn let’s get out of here, we were a solid 5. Right in the middle. We were moving. No one was rushing to get out of their bags, but we efficiently ate, packed up and got the day started. We weren’t entirely sure where Pete was, but the assumption was he was somewhere around the falls. I needed water. JT and I headed back toward the park as Harrison was still packing up. John’s knee had started to be a dick the day prior and the hope that it would be better this morning was quickly dashed. By the time we are at the park, he is out.

While I’m filtering the wonderous water of the Virgin River, Pete texts that he came down with a fever during the night and is working on being extricated. That leaves just Harrison and I. 66.7% attrition rate.

Once I’m full on water, I head back toward our camp. I find it empty. Harrison has already started without me. My legs are tired and even the slightest effort makes them burn. I know this is normal and that within a few miles it will lessen. It’s always surprising how much effort we are willing to exert just to avoid that burn. After a few turns, I can see Harrison up the trail cruising along. I settle into my pace and enjoy the morning light bouncing off the red hills and the top of Gooseberry Mesa.

I catch Harrison just as we are reaching the bathrooms just off of the Hurricane Rim. From here, we pedal together up Cryptobionic and then call an audible and head up Dead Ringer. This is another one of those contrived spots that would have taken us up to Goosebumps below the mesa and then all the way back around before dropping into Dead Ringer. A bunch of fun miles, but not so much desirable at this point in our ride. We hit the highway and say goodbye to the singletrack, at least for now.

Back on gravel and it’s a spun-out pedal. Both Harrison and I are rocking the one gears and we are geared significantly different. Soon, I’m out front just cruising and he’s doing the same. Both at our respective paces based on our gear ratios. I settle into a groove pedaling around the backside of Little Creek looking up at End of the World overlook reminiscing about camping up there and thinking about riding where I currently am. Soon I make it to the Honeymoon Trail. I stop. Snap a couple of photos and gather my head. I want to be on my game. When we pushed up this a couple of years ago, I remember it steep, loose and not something that would be too fun coming down on a bike. Sketchy you could say. Luckily, I drop in and find the grade to be aggressive, but it’s actually a pretty fun drop. Off camber rock sections, plenty of high-speed sections and a lot of loose shale, but 100% ridable and not something I would worry about dropping. I know Harrison is going to dig it.

I stop for snacks wondering how far back he is. I watch the drop hoping to see him. And then I start pedaling. I’ve got plenty of road miles between me and the Lounge.

I tick off the miles avoiding the majority of the go-carts roaming around, wrap around Little Black Mountain cursing the route choice and then start toward the Airport Trails. Again, cursing the route choice as I push my bike up anything with a steep pitch.

And then the smooth pavement comes as a relief. I spin my way back to the Lounge. Stoked on the few days I’ve been hoboing in my own backyard and also relieved to be done.

Slight Discomfort

Did it hurt?

That’s a valid question. Since completing our foray through WashCo, many people have asked me about this ride referring to it as a “death march,” “sufferfest,” or “that crazy ride you guys did.” Truth be told, you could say it hurt, but it would be much more accurate to categorize it as being uncomfortable.

Olive Burkeman, author of 4,000 Weeks, talks about the level of discomfort that will keep us from doing what we want. His example is writing, something that’s close to my heart and that I can fully understand. It is amazing how hard it can seem to sit down and write, an activity that physically causes zero pain, but mentally it can be an acrobatic feat. We don’t want to think and we let that minuscule amount of discomfort keep us from writing. The point being, we let a minimal amount of “hurt,” of “suffering” keep us from doing the things we want.

I know that the Ultraknuckle doesn’t sound fun to most people. It’s a ride for a niche of a niche, but serves as a great example of this, bringing us back to the question, did it hurt? Well, my legs burned, but you experience that on every bike ride. My butt was sore. I was tired and hungry at times. I got cold and hot. Not once did it near what I would think being tortured would feel like, nor was any of the discomfort debilitating. I never once thought I was going to die. I’m not sure I can truthfully say it hurt. I was just uncomfortable and we humans will do just about anything to avoid a little discomfort.

Embrace chaos. Seek discomfort.