Coping: The Mesa Buffet

Before I even knew I was air born I hit the ground.

I had reached the place where the motion is ticked into the back of my head and my thoughts ticked into the front. A place where you settle in, zone out and process. The meditation in motion I seek and work hard to find, I was there. We were cruising. It’s a little after 7 am. The sun has risen but the chill from the night is still lingering, creating a contrast of warm and cold as we pedaled the Mesa. The quickness with which I found this mental space was not lost on me and I was reveling in the thinking.

We had one thing to do all day, ride bikes. Specifically, the goal was to ride Little Creek, Gooseberry, Gander, Grafton and Guacamole or as we call it, the Mesa Buffet. There was no pretending that it was going to be an easy day. We were looking at over 70 miles on chunky rough trails connected with washboardy dirt roads. And that was kind of the point, do something hard to see if it could be done and to know what it was like to have done it. There’s a level of curiosity that motivates most of what I do. I’ve still never found the place where I cannot continue. I’d like to know where that is.

As I mentioned, I was completely in my head. The fact that I was riding a bike was not part of my thoughts. It was just the natural movement, the thing I can do without thinking. Standing on the pedals, weaving between the trees, the breeze flows across my face. The sun feels glorious every time we exit shade and it hits us. It feels like I have found that perfect balance and the day is going to be perfect.

I flow around a tree and then start to turn back the other direction. I’m not sure the Juniper I punched even registered, but the moment I made contact was about .0032 seconds before I hit the ground. It happened so fast that I hit the ground with both hands still on the bars.

Coping

We all have our ways of coping. The methods we develop over years of disappointment, heartache, and recovery. As humans, we need ways to process the world and our connection or lack thereof to it. Regardless of what we may think, we all have our ways. Some of them are healthy and some, not so much.

Like many, my first heartache was in high school. A breakup that left me listening to the Cure in my basement and refusing to do much of anything for weeks on end. It was that first deep depression that I learned the power of riding. When I finally forced myself out of my dungeon and away from Robert Smith, it was a big ride on Gooseberry that brought some sunshine back into my life. There was something to do, something to keep me moving, a reason not to be done.

It was around this same time that I began writing. I filled notebooks full of really bad poetry, song lyrics, mental vomit and whatever else came streaming out of my pen. Learning how cathartic writing was, kept me doing it. It didn’t matter what came out as much as that I went through the process. It became my process. Riding and writing were the only two things that kept me this side of insane.

That was, of course, until I learned about booze.

Riding in Silence

Spun out.

Both of us are riding singlespeeds and the dirt road off of Little Creek Mesa is downhill. We are moving faster than our one gear allows us to pedal. The washboards and trash are the only things pulling us back out of our thoughts. We spin our legs up until it is obvious that we cannot propel ourselves faster and then relax. Then up off the saddle due to the washboards and wandering from one side of the road to the other attempting to find a place that isn’t as bumpy. One of us mentions some trash strewn on the road. The other grunts back in disgust.

This ride was planned as a training ride for the Ultraknuckle and a way to satisfy the curiosity that Fixie Dave had planted a decade or so ago on the first Mesa Buffet. It was still all of that, but Zack’s death added a layer. A layer to our lives that we needed to deal with, to feel, to process, to think. I can’t speak for John T Digger, but I do my best thinking on big rides.

Spin, dodge hole, stand up cuz of bumps, spin, coast, spin, dodge hole. The repetition, the motion, the sun warming our backs, all of it kind of fades into the background. The moment becomes more of what is in my head than what is happening around me. There are a million things being filtered through my mental hallways. A million things that therapists would tell me to talk about. I’m not much of a talker. I have my way.

It just feels right to ride in silence.

As Buffets Go

It’s 16 miles of dirt road from Little Creek Mesa to the start of the South Rim on Gooseberry. I know this only because John paid attention to it and it was spoken.

As strange as it is, the roads were the most painful parts of the Buffet. A sunrise ride on Little Creek is impossible not to enjoy. Plus, we were fresh. It was the one mesa we got that was kind of just a normal ride even if we felt a nagging that we shouldn’t push too hard because we were going to need something left in the tank. But that 13 miles of glorious mesa was followed by 16 miles of bumpy, spun out dirt roads. Being back on the singletrack on Goose was a relief.

After a quick refuel, tinkle break and water, we were back at it.

Like an old friend, the tires on the slickrock felt right. The temps were perfect. The sun was climbing but it wasn’t hot yet. We’ve ridden this trail so many times that it’s even easier to zone out. We must have hit it at the perfect moment as well. The mesas were crawling with people and yet, the Red Sea of humanity parted and we saw almost no one all the way around the Goose. It was fun. It felt right.

We had arranged one resupply for this ride at Bill’s house at the bottom of Grafton, but we also had one in our back pocket. The Mayor was on the Goose for the Easters and we happened to know exactly where he would be. Before starting Gander, we swung by his throne and begged some water. He obliged. We filled back up, ate some food and headed back out.

John and I had started a game of Follow the Leader on Little Creek. The rules are simple. You lead until you either lose/miss the trail or dab. Little Creek was mostly a missed a turn situation. Goose fell more into the dab territory and Gander was a little bit of both, but not very many switching of leads. We both fell into our rhythms and our heads and cruised. I felt amazing. I could sense the miles building up. There was some leg burn, tired arms, neck getting stiff, but we were riding mesas and we were only in the middle of it.

Grafton Wash is like a slap in the face. Even when you know it’s coming, it still stings. You’re not happy about it and it’s best to walk it off.

Anyone who has ridden in this area knows that this route’s crux is Grafton. We were both tired at this point. We’re 6ish hours in when we hit the top of the old pioneer road and begin the gnarly descent down the DH trail. I enjoy this shit and Sunday was no exception. Was it scary? Sure, but so is riding to work.

Buffets are all about being indulgent. It’s taking something that is good and allowing oneself to have way too much of it. You know what I’m talking about if you’ve ever been to a buffet. They don’t care and when you start out on your journey, you don’t either, but somewhere around plate 3 or 4 the enjoyment wears off. Plate 5 is almost required to make sure you got your money’s worth, but it’s a bit too much and you leave understanding the sin of gluttony.

Our buffet was no different. Grafton was plate 4 and as I mentioned, it was the roads that put the most hurt on me.

After a water fill up at Bill’s house (#thanksbill), we were on pavement. The headwind was welcomed as it was now hot and it kept us from overheating. When we finally hit Dalton Wash and began the climb to Guacamole, that wind was gone. It was hot and hard and I was over it.

Finishing it out

JT was not looking forward to the climb up Guac. I was optimistic. Then we started to climb. He found it easier. I felt like shit.

At the bottom of Grafton as we started to pedal pavement, my gut decided it was done. I could’ve used some more calories, a Coke maybe, but there was none of that. Every time I started to put in a more intense effort, nausea would rise up from my gut. The day had reached peak temperature and our headwind was gone. The stale air of the mesa hung around my face baking it. The climb isn’t that steep. I’ve climbed it no problem, loaded, before. This time it quickly devolves into a forced switchback.

Every singlespeeder konws the position. Your legs are straight below you and you’re bent at a 90-degree angle toward the bars. Your legs are putting everything they have into the cranks and that effort is being amplified by that bend connecting your lower body to the handlebars. Everything you have is pushing, pulling and stretching to its limit. This is where I’m at. There’s nothing left in the legs, no little umph to get some momentum. It’s all effort and feels like no forward.

The last stretch up the mesa is walked. There just wasn’t anyway around it.

Kathleen and Shalena are waiting for us at the trailhead. We make our way over to the cars. They have some chairs for us and a bunch of food. A Spindrift and an apple plus whatever else is at hand goes in. After a short rest, we get back up grunting like the old men we are.

And just like every other buffet, when we should have stopped, we went back for dessert.

In the timeless words of Pat the Bunny, “I don’t know if you believe in ghosts, but I’d hope you’d haunt me if you were one.”

Embrace Chaos. Seek Discomfort.