Gettin’ Inferior Down in Superior – SSAZ ’23

Gettin’ There – A Homeric Journey?

It’s 1:27 when I finally roll into Superior.

I’m angry. Ecstatic to finally be there, but angry. All the joy and excitement I had when I left the Lounge has been sucked up in the shitty ass roads of Arizona and the crazy freeways and drivers that go along with them. But really, it’s just the fact that I was in the car for 8.5 hours and I hadn’t eaten enough food. I was hangry, that’s what it was. Hangry and I needed to go hammer out some bike rides to get the demons back out of my head before interacting with humans.

If you had asked me when I got to Superior about the drive, I would have told you it was homeric. A journey worthy of the original epic’s name, painful, brutal, but in fact, it was none of those things. I left the house at 5 and 8.5 hours was deposited in the Sonoran Desert ready to ride my bike. I had to do little more than turn the steering wheel from side to side, decide when and where to take a piss, I could have eaten, but I didn’t want to eat junk which ended with me eating more junk because I waited until I was much too hungry to make good decisions. The effort on my part was nil or almost close to nil and yet, arriving in Superior felt like a fucking journey.

That feeling was partially provoked by the time traveling that had apparently happened. As these things tend to do in the desert, Superior felt, partially out of a desire to attract tourists, like a piece of history almost lost, but somehow preserved by the heat and arid climate. There was a sign directing would be tourists to the “historic” downtown which was lined with old brick buildings giving it the feel of an old western trying to romanticize what was once the wild wild west. These same streets were oddly driven by a high percentage of low riders, old cars restored and then modified to ride low. I assumed these kinds of cars still existed but that culture seems to have slid even more to the margins than it was even in the 90s.

Apparently it slid all the way to Superior.

Superior itself was plopped in a beautiful chunk of desert. The Sonoran runs right up against a big ridge bordering the town on the east and a big island of a rock called the Picketpost sits at its doorstep. The Saguaros are everywhere and there is even a descent amount of water flowing in from the Queen’s Creek and a few other small waterways (At least there was this past weekend. I would guess that it isn’t always that way).

To say I was pissed when I arrived is accurate, but it was also mixed with an excitement to ride through this area and see what was to be seen. I was curious, as I typically am, and that curiosity means let’s ride.

Gettin’ the Wiggles Out

There had been a plan loosely thrown together the day before for the Alliance to meet up outside of Superior in an area called Gold Canyon and ride what Trailforks called the Tech Route. Due to the Virgin River Gorge being at a standstill at 5 AM when I left, I was rolling behind. The Taylors got there early and found the trailhead to be all too crowded and the trails choked with hikers from Phoenix. Harrison and James were running a bit behind and the whole thing kind of just fell apart. The Taylors headed into Superior to find something to ride and I was a couple of hours behind them.

With little worry, I knew that there was a Superior Tour going on at 2 from the Saloon that I could catch and get a ride in. I rolled up and parked, but sitting while getting ready and watching everyone else get ready, I knew this wasn’t the ride I needed. Remember, I was hangry. As the 2 PM start rolled around and no one was pedaling. I bagged the idea, found that the Picketpost had ridable singletrack that went around it and I headed that direction for a solo ride where I could get the demons back in their cages before interacting with other humans.

As I rolled away from Porter’s Saloon, I was both kicking myself as I really wanted to go on the tour, but also felt a decompression begin. By the time I got to the Picketpost Trailhead, I knew I had made the right decision. I passed the Taylorvandia on the way in and just as I was heading out they rolled up having just finished the ride I had loosely devised by spending 63 seconds on my phone staring at the map. They warned of a bit of a hike-a-bike but that it was worth it.

The sun had already started to dip as I left the trailhead and the Picketpost lit up. Plus there were Saguaros and this ride made me realize there is just about nothing I won’t do to be able to ride amongst these giant cactuses. They are right up there with popcorn. If you want me to do something, give me one of those two things and it’s a done deal. Give me both and my head might explode.

The trail winds itself, sometimes in steep juts, but mostly in meandering benchcut sidehills up through the desert and around the backside of the giant rock. The first few miles I ran into several hikers, two groups of equestrians and dos ciclistas. After that, I saw just about no one with the exception of a hiker during the hike-a-bike section who didn’t seem too stoked to see me and was walking slower than I could with my bike. It felt good to just pedal solo, at my own pace, deep in my head, tracing my way around a map I had barely looked at hoping that I was following said loop and it did in fact loop back to the Mooseknucklermobile.

The hike-a-bike was actually pleasant. The canyon was beautiful and as I mentioned the sun was casting its light in the way that makes you always want to be in that moment. After the pushing, the trail continues down another canyon that is ridable winding across a trickling stream. There are trees and water in the desert. The sun has dipped and it’s almost starting to get chilly but with the pedaling, it was exactly the temperature I was looking for.

I start running into people again so I know I am close to the trailhead and that the map in my head plus the little bit of beta I got from the Taylors did in fact go.

I roll back to the trailhead ecstatic. The demons are nicely tucked into their kennels and sleeping and I’m ready for a beer. As I begin to de-bike, I notice I had received a couple of text messages. One from Mama Bear trying to learn the intricacies of the little Yota and the other from JT letting me know where they were and that they needed some tools to make it so Shalena could ride without being heckled the next day as her singlespeed was having some tensioner issues. Instead of having a beer at the trailhead, I pack up and head out ready for whatever.

Making the Details Fuzzy

With a beer tucked discreetly in my cupholder, I roll over to Porter’s Saloon and find John and Shalena hanging out in their van parked on the street. The location almost feels like a setup as the Saloon is directly across from the Police Station. SSAZ I’m watching you.

We get the tools out and after a little back and forth, John has fitted Shalena’s Moots soft tail with the XO1 derailleur off of her Revel. The Surley Tensioner wasn’t allowing enough play in the chain to accommodate the motion of the rear triangle without over tightening. This was allowing the chain to pop off under load. The derailleur had plenty of wrap for it. The only issue was getting it to line up but we just used the old run a cable through it and set it situation. Lickity split and she had a functioning singlespeed that would not elicit any heckling.

Our next item of business was finding Harrison. One text message later and we were all seated outside the Saloon enjoying a shitty beer.

My caloric intake for the day was lacking even before I went for the short ride. I wandered into the bar and tried to order the veggie burger that was on the menu. Of course, they were sold out. Right? All these singlespeeders ate all your veggie burgers? Ok. Is there anything else I would be willing to consume? Not quite, but an order of fries and onion rings will at least put something in my gut. One more beer and some fried food and I’m once again sitting outside shooting the shit. Familiar faces saunter by, chatting, saying hi. The family reunion vibe is going hard. The libations are certainly helping in that arena.

As the sun dips and we are all starting to get chilled, we wonder where Shalena is so we can get moving to the campground we’ve paid to stay at. JT disappears and a few minutes later returns.

And then Shalena shows up with five shots of tequila in what can only be described as sacrament cups. This was the start of the downward spiral of the evening.

We made our way to the campground and got everything setup. Soon we had a small fire to sit around thanks to the Taylor’s foresight of bringing firewood. The people wandered in and out until the main bonfire was lit. The entire family gathered to slap backs, throw beer cans in the fire (this was really annoying) and catch up with people you thought you knew but didn’t.

And then lights out.

Wait, We’re Actually Going for A Ride?

Awaking in the same haze I had checked out in, it was a slow and lazy start to the morning. Sitting in the sun, shootin’ the shit, Krazy Karl handed out oranges that became Mama Bear’s souvenir of the event, even customized with SSAZ23 written on it.

I had told Harrison that I didn’t care what we rode, there were three options drawn out for us, I just wanted to ride all day seeing that I was driving all day, twice, to get there. Someone mentions that we should probably just go ride bikes. We are all ready in what seems like an impresive amount of time based on our condition and we roll out about a full hour earlier than the ride was scheduled to start. The camp is not moving. There are mostly people just sitting around drinking coffee and maybe other things.

Harrison takes lead on navigation and we end up at the Saloon, the starting line. It’s only right that we would head the wrong direction first, but only for a very short distance. We then flip around make our way back to the highway and out of town to Happy Camp Road. The double track is mellow at first and we are just spinning up this dirt road. We can see the mountains looming in the distance and soon realize that we have a big climb coming up. The road pitches upward and we climb. Mostly it’s a fairly nice grade, but there are multiple spots that are loose and steep. Pushing is in order in a few of those. The views get more and more dramatic the closer to the top we get. By the time we hit the singletrack, the whole valley lies before us with mountains bordering on both sides. The midday light shines through the cactus and other vegetation throwing a green hue on the otherwise bleak landscape. The top is high enough that the hot morning sun we were chilling in just hours earlier has now transitioned into a place where there is still ice/snow in the shade making the road more than slick in a few spots.

The top is marked by our leaving the two track and heading down the Arizona Trail. We can see that we are dropping, quickly, and the elevation profile shows that we will be “mostly” downhill back to the highway. Once regrouped, snacked up and the hikers that were coming up the trail finally mosey by, we drop into the marble laden, steep ass, typical, janky Arizona desert singletrack. The first few miles are over punctuated with switchbacks. Steep, tight, loose switchbacks. The first few miles tick by quickly as we watch the valley floor come swooping back up toward us. The steep trail drops us into a canyon with flowing water and my favorite, Saguaros.

The canyon is just bitchin’ riding. The cat claws grabbing at our legs and arms, the sun beating down us and the trail taking us through the adventurous landscape. The “flat” seems to be a bit faster than the drops that we were forced to navigate coming down off the ridge. We roll quickly, running out the gears, bouncing over the creek bed and doing our best to dodge all of the pokey stuff trying to rip at our skin.

With the drop in elevation comes the heat. Somewhere around the middle point, we stop at a stream crossing as everyone is out of water. James and Harrison had the foresight to pack water filters without which we would have been screwed. If I remember correctly, the details are still a bit fuzzy, we still had eight or nine miles of trail left to get to the highway at this point. We expected, based on the elevation profile, for most of this to be downhill and it probably was but it felt much more like we were climbing at least as much as we were dropping. It would have been an absolute shitshow to do without water.

At this point, I fall into the rhythm of pedaling. Scream down some singletrack, avoiding the sharp stuff, turn and pedal back up to the top, coast down a hill, turn and climb back up. The group starts to spread. JT and I are leapfrogging stopping every 30-40 minutes to get the whole group back together. The sun has begun its descent in the sky and the midafternoon light is beginning to make things pop. We can see the Picketpost getting closer and closer so we know we are making progress and that the highway, our landmark that we are back, is right there.

After what seemed like too long, we roll into some greasewood and out the other side to the Paul Comfort Station. As these things go, they were just about packed up, but Paul and Crew are not ones to leave a singlespeeder high and dry. There were four bananas left that were retrieved from the bushes where they had been left to decompose. The ice chests still had some cold beers and sodas and chips were somewhat readily available. Even better yet, they still had custom, Paul-made SSAZ23 bottle openers. By far the classiest, highest quality bottle opener I have ever seen.

There are probably 15 people hanging around. One or two that appear to have hung out at the station for a bit too long, stumbling through the bushes and getting cactus stuck in them. Harrison and James roll up. We all have a beer and chat with the other riders. Whiskey is offered. I have an inkling that even a taste of it would kill me and somehow make the smart decision to pass. JT takes a swig and then we roll.

We can get back to the saloon a couple of different ways and we choose the singletrack following the other folks we caught up to. This route takes us back into the canyon I had gone down the day before and we start to catch and pass other riders. Like groups of 5-10 singlespeeders at a time. This is in stark contrast to the zero riders we had seen up to this point. Coming out of the canyon, there was a pretty sweet climb up to a ridge. The sun was popping and the rocks had nice yellowish orange glow to them. There’s a big group at the top. The four of us regroup and then drop a loose dirt road back to singletrack.

It’s late in the day. We are getting closer and closer to sunset. We just kind of put our heads down and pedal. I realize that I haven’t seen people for a minute so I stop to regroup. John rolls up and then James. And we wait. And wait. More people roll through. We wait some more. More folks. There’s talk of calling Harrison. More people roll through. We start asking if they have seen anyone. Nope. More folks. We ask again. Finally, someone says, “Oh yeah, there was that guy on the downhill who ripped his tire off, but he said he was good.” That sounds like Harrison.

At this point, I had already shot him a text, but I now call. No answer. We wait a bit more, not sure if we should trust their assessment of his situation and head to town, or flip around and find our way back to him to make sure he is alright. In the middle of this conundrum, we see a rider rolling up. It’s him and he’s riding on the rim, his tire completely flat. Not only had he ripped his tire off, but he also cracked the rim further cementing my claims that Cush Core destroys wheels. Just don’t run it.

JT makes a quick call to Shalena with our location to facilitate an extraction. She’s on it and we leave Harrison walking (Editor’s note: apparently he never walked, I made an assumption) his bike and we finish up the last mile or so into town. The AZT, which we are still riding, rolls right into town onto Bridge Street where there is a bridge that goes directly into the back of the Saloon. Well played, Superior.

We drop the bikes, stop the Stravas, high fives are thrown around, beers extracted. Tacos were promised and as the DFL pack, there are only a few left. No plates though so we get creative yanking off pieces of tin foil and other such things to pile tortillas, rices and beans on. It didn’t matter, we were starving and we just needed a way to carry the sustenance. Patches were handed out and soon the Alliance was sitting around a table drinking beers, somewhat satiated and listening to the band play. The sun has completely dropped and the cold of the desert is starting to trickle in. I’m still in a cutoff jersey and shorts. More layers are required. James and I pedal over to camp and change, returning with some more beers.

While we are gone, the Awards Ceremony goes off. We win the DFL trophy and JT accepts it for all of us. This consists of a bucket of Bud Lights and a big medal dick. Yup, a cock and balls cut out of steel with SSAZ 23 lazer cut out of it. It’s gonna look bitchin’ on John’s shop wall.

The night starts to fade. The band finishes up and we migrate back to camp. The bonfire is lit, beers are passed around, another band is setting up. Any energy I had had faded out with the sun. The 2nd band starts to play. They aren’t great and do nothing to raise my animo. After a few songs, I decide it’s time to head to bed and check out. Just as I’m climbing the ladder up to the tent, I see JT coming away as well. It would appear that we are all a bit tired.

Back to Utah

Loosely in my head, and I say it that way as I hadn’t let it slip to anyone, I had hoped to sneak in another ride. Possibly stopping at Bumblebee for a quick romp on the BCT. My early check out equated to an early rise. I’m awake well before 6 and the one cog in my brain is spinning. I’m tired. A couple of Sonoran Desert rides, too many beers and getting absolutely flagellated by cat claw and sun the day before have left me spent. Any thoughts of riding have quickly fled. My brain focuses in on the 8-hour drive that I have to finish up.

At 6, I’m a very timely person, I roll out of bed. I have just enough water left to make one cup of coffee. I do that. Somehow choke down a ProBar. I’m the only one up with the exception of the guy a couple of cars over yacking up everything he had drank the night prior. I roll out without saying goodbye. Dick move, but I also didn’t want to wake everyone up.

With crust punk blasting to keep me somewhat alert, coffee and no stops for food (not sure why I keep doing this) I make it back to Utah by 2:30. My head is full of the aftereffects and I’m stoked on the weekend that just went down. Huge thanks to SSAZ for always throwing a killer party, for a great ride and we’ll see you all again next year in Tucson.

Or next month, if you’re ready to get down the Utah way.

Embrace Chaos. Seek Discomfort.