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Epic Riding - Epic Writing

June 2008 - Posts

  • Ride the Line

    Tim rides the pipeline over the rock drops, Dry Canyon Trail.



    Get a bicycle. You will certainly not regret it, if you live.

    ~Mark Twain

  • March 1955: Desert Quiz

    I stumbled across the March 1955 issue of Desert magazine. I was fascinated by the articles, the photography and the ads. Nearly every page had an ad for a Geiger Counter, with an accompanying promise to strike it rich prospecting for Uranium. It reminded me of the story of Charlie Steen, or the legendary yarn recounted by Abbey in Desert Solitaire of Albert T. Husk, a man double crossed by his financier, shot dead, and whose son rode a flash flood for days into the wilderness, only to die of exposure.



    Tucked amongst ads for Indian jewelery, Mexican vacations, the nostalgic photography, and headlines like "Where Burros Collect the Garbage and No One Pays Rent" was an amusing source of entertainment.

    A quiz.

    And not just any quiz, but a desert quiz. A chance to test your knowledge of the mysterious and vast wasteland of the American Southwest, the questions are both hilarious and thoughtful. Some more absurd than sincere, others so obscure that it is no wonder that "19 is an exceptionally high score--one that few people ever attain."

    Take the quiz. Test your wits about the desert. And find out if 55 years later you are any better off than the 1955 readers of Desert magazine.

    Picture 6


    How did you do?

  • Back in the Day: July 2002

    Brianhead 2002


    I have exactly one Intermountain Cup XC victory. It came at the 2002 Brian Header, at Brian Head, Utah. The race was competitive, and spectacular. By far it was one of my favorite courses on the circuit. It had huge climbs, swooping descents, technical rock drops, and incredible scenery. It is a shame it is no longer a part of the circuit.

    I remember the events following the race as clearly as if they had happened yesterday.

    I climbed atop the podium, looking down on all my vanquished foes, they bowed their heads in shame and reverence at the victor before them. I raised my arm in triumph, and in a bestial rage screamed at the top of my lungs, "I am the king of the WORLD!"

    At least, I think that is how it went, although it may have actually gone like this:

    I graciously ascended to the top step of the podium, humbly shaking the hands of the other victorious competitors. Each of us gazed out among the masses, swelling with the sweet pride of success. We accepted our just rewards with grace and dignity. A hushed silence fell over the crowd as we raised our arms in salute to the unwashed rabble below.

    Yeah, that sounds about right.

    After the blitz of handshakes and congratulations that followed, I was able to break away for a quiet moment to myself. No doubt leaving the press wondering where I had gone. But they could wait. I was soaking up the glory of a job well done, a victory long deserved. I held the blue ribbon carefully in my hand, and lifted it above my head.

    In brilliant gold lettering it proclaimed my dominance. 1st PLACE BRAIN HEADER. Wait, what? Brain Header? I studied the ribbon in shocked silence for several long moments. I slumped to my knees, and buried my head in my hands. My blue ribbon, sullied by incompetence and neglect. All the hard work, the training, the dominance, undermined by the lazy oversight of others!

    I stuffed the worthless emblem into my jersey pocket and stomped across the parking lot. Never again to return to the Brain Header.

  • Chasing the Traverse




    “Remember what Bilbo used to say: It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”

    There is a brewing storm inside me. A rolling mass of ambition and idealism. The perfect route, the perfect ride. It exists only in daydreams, fantasy, and on paper. It is epic, challenging, beautiful and dreadful. It is far beyond anything I have ever accomplished. Anything I have ever attempted.

    ~

    Facing northward, the heat of the day sinking below the horizon, I start to travel. Behind me Lake Powell grows small, and eventually vanishes in a sea of canyons. The sun dips low and darkness engulfs the massive Kaiparowits Plateau. I press on into the gloom.

    Eventually I find myself in the high county. A hundred hundred miles rolled over. Or at least it feels that way. Ahead the Wasatch stretches out, dwarfing me and my audacity. I climb into the rare air, feeling the pain and fatigue, the joy and freedom. I am surrounded by wild and remote country. My home. My land. Behind me a pair of tire treads leave dimples in the dirt, all the way back to Big Water.

    ~

    Someday, I will traverse this great state of Utah. From Big Water to Wallsburg to Park City. And maybe on further. The trail lies quietly waiting, tempting, teasing. From the heat of the desert, to the chill of the Wasatch, sand and snow...

    The Utah Traverse.

  • Soul Rider?

    Several years ago I watched a classic movie called North Shore. It tackled the complicated issue of surfing for money, or surfing for "the love". It is an '80s cult film perfectly executed. In fact, you could pair it with Rad (the greatest film ever made, no?) and have the ultimate soul rider collection.

    As absurd (absurdly awesome) as those two films are, I can't help but realize that these days I have become a soul rider. That is, competition has not been my focus this time around. And some days I am alright with that, others, not so much. I miss that focus and edge that competition brings on. There is no date on the calendar that I am anxiously awaiting, preparing for, dreading and looking forward to all at once. Unless of course, you count the date, whenever it happens to be, when the twins arrive.

    The absence of that edge was never more obvious than at the '08 KTR. That was the first time I realized that my state of mind was changing. And while I have competed with relative success in the local XC races, that certain "whatever it is" that is needed to be prepared for big efforts has eluded me.

    It is fitting though, that in this my seventh year of competitive riding that I am resting. 2008 is morphing into a sort of sabbath, or sabbatical from the mental and physical energy required to compete over a long season. As I ride, fitness and goals and results are no longer dominating my thought process. No, instead as I glide through the trees and meadows and scrub oak I am content to just be out there. For now anyway.

    And on those days when I long for that focus and motivation of competition, when the world seems to be closing in, suffocating the competitive life out of me, drowning me in a bottomless pool of cabin fever induced despair...I can always just watch Rad again.

    Mrs. Jones: You're willing to sacrifice a solid future for a bicycle race. It's very self-destructive.

    Cru Jones: The only thing I'm good at is riding this bike. Now I have the chance to be the best, maybe the best in the world. I can take those S.A.T.'s anytime, maybe in six months. But this is the only chance I'll ever have at this. I started out as one in a thousand. Now I'm one in twenty. Now to give that up, I think that would be very self-destructive.



  • Epic Adolescence



    Fatty's Triathlon was fun. Pure ear to ear toothy grin fun. It struck me during the day just how juvenile riding a bike can be. Here was a sizable group of adults riding two-wheelers on swoopy trails, laughing, smiling and trash talking. And then afterward, we slid down a rock into a pool of water.

    Like I said, it was just plain ol' fun. Even if my epic whiteness was blinding in the mid day sun.

    We rode...


    We slid....

    And we ate...

  • Don't Eat the Worm

    Like tinsel at Christmas, these worms hung from every branch, every tree.


    Big Springs, up the South Fork of Provo Canyon is home to some primetime singletrack. If you are feeling ambitious you can ride from Big Springs into Wallsburg, or up and over into Rock Canyon and Provo. You can take Windy Pass and Lightening Peak into Hobble Creek. The possibilities are manifold. The riding and scenery is world class.

    Yesterday there was something different about the trail. Something...creepy. It didn't take long to figure out what it was. Worms. Hanging from the trees, clinging to silky tethers were hundreds and thousands of worms. As we rode we tried to dodge them, but that proved impossible. We repeatedly brushed, swept, picked, and flicked the worms off of our shoulders, our arms, our legs, and even out of my beard. As I sped down the snaking (worming?) singletrack I had one single thought coursing through my mind.

    Don't eat the worms.

    I kept my mouth tightly shut. The longer I sped through the trees the more sticky, silky spidery web gunk wrapped around my bike, my body, and my helmet. When I came to a stop there were several of the little crawlers inching along, in various locations. I went through the now getting ridiculous process of clearing them off my person. Laughing and groaning all at once.

    After the ride I took off my jersey, and shook it. Four or five more worms plopped out onto the pavement and started squirming away. As I went to bed last night, I could not help but feel that the little creepers were still inching along my arms or legs, or though my hair. More than once I brushed at a phantom tickle or twitch. As I drifted off to sleep, that familiar phrase of earlier in the day entered my mind once again...

    Don't eat the worms.



    A look up at the Cascade Saddle

  • Motorcycles

    I heart motorcycles

    Trail 252, also known as "Joy" got shredded to pieces. I sure hope the motorcycle(s) that did this had fun. Because it is not going to be fun trying to repair all that damage.

    "Joy" is part of the Wasatch Classic route, and claims one of the most thrilling descents you will ever ride. It is fast, smooth, banked and just encouraging enough to flash your life before your eyes as you dodge pine trees, low hanging branches, rocks, and fleeing animals.

    It certainly is joy.

  • Trail 031



    Trail 031 is a less-traveled piece of singletrack high above Dry Fork in American Fork Canyon. It connects with the Ridge Trail 157 at Pole Line Pass. My trail map describes it as some of the Wasatch's "sweetest bits of singeltrack". I had never explored it. Although for many summers I had intentions to do so. Even though much of it is still under heavy snowpack right now, it was crystal clear the the trail is indeed sweet. It winds along through an aspen forest that is picture perfect. The trees are wide, and spread far apart. The ground is clear of debris and excess growth. Visibility through the forest extends on and on, creating a strange optical illusion. As I stood and gazed through the endless trunks I hoped to see the moose that was leaving the tracks ahead of us on the trail materialize, gliding along...

    And now, I wait. I wait for the snow to melt just so I can ride 031 again. So that euphoria can course through my body, bursting out in a loud "whoop!" as I wind through the snaking trail, freedom on two wheels.

  • Pre Classic


    I wished away as much snow as I could. But the winter snowpack up above 9,000 feet is stubborn. After scouting some of the American Fork Canyon sections of the Wasatch Classic, it is painfully obvious that the 28th would be a snow bound plod.

    So what to do?

    Reschedule. August 16th 2008. By that time the full route ought to be clear and ready to rock and roll. And climb.

  • The Great Divide

    Unsupported racing appeals to me on many levels. But none more basic than that it is unsupported. Yes, incredible insight I know. We live in a world of excuses. A world of finger pointers. Even a world where a village will blame a corporate conspiracy for bad weather.

    We blame marketing campaigns for our children being fat. We blame the President for high gas prices. We blame video games and movies when a kid guns down his peers. We blame referees, umpires, doctors, teachers, cab drivers, politicians, our mothers, our pets and our old crappy cars for all that troubles us in this world.

    But nobody wants to blame themselves.

    Can you see now why the philosophy behind unsupported racing is so appealing? It is a wave of fresh air in a world gone stale with rationalizing away it's failures. In a self-supported race there is nobody to blame when you can't finish. Nobody to yell at when your bike breaks down. No bad course markings. There is no corporate conspiracy.

    You are the one responsible.

    This is why I still get steamed about the BLM dishing out a fine for the 2007 KTR. They stuttered and stammered trying to come up with a legitimate reason for fining us. Safety was continually cited. Safety? Safety? Really? Paying a fine will increase our safety in a 142 mile mountain bike ride? I don't need the government telling me what is safe or not. Let me be the judge of that for myself. Let me decide if riding solo across the desert and into the mountains is something I can handle. If it's not, then let me be the one to get myself out.

    Something that determines which candidates I vote for more so than any other thing, is the principle of dependency. There are countless programs and initiatives designed to keep people dependent on the government. I believe that the Katrina aftermath could have been largely avoided had people been prepared to take care of themselves in such a situation. Instead too many men and women waited for someone, the government, to come and save them. Some of those people may have not had any other choice. But our culture of dependency is raising up a generation of people who have no idea what it means to be self reliant.

    "I predict future happiness for Americans if they can prevent the government from wasting the labors of the people under the pretense of taking care of them."

    ~Thomas Jefferson.

    The Tour Divide, and the Great Divide Race, The Grand Loop and all the rest are small but significant movements. They represent the idea that we can be successful on our own. That we don't need a road paved with gold, cleared of all obstacles, and sanitized with parental connections, corporate string pullers and ivy league credentials to make a life for ourselves. They teach us that failure is an inherent risk. And that in facing it we will all be better off.

    What we do need to be is prepared. It does nobody any good to set out in the wilderness (or into the real world) with no map, no fitness, no idea. Don't be Chris McCandless. These races encourage and require us to be self reliant. Today the Tour Divide racers will set out on an epic adventure. Indeed, the epic adventure. No doubt each of them will return, successful or not, better off for taking a risk. Together, yet alone they put themselves out there, with only their wits, fitness, and maps, (electronic or otherwise) to get them through to the other side. It's an endeavor that much of the world would look at with ignorant condemnation. But to me, these sort of expeditions are an echo of that great American spirit. The spirit of independence.

    And that is a beautiful thing.

  • Sun. Dance.


    There is a unique pain to a short race. Muscles scream, eyes blur, lungs burn. It is over as soon as it starts, and yet it feels as if will never end. And then there is the speed. Ducking and leaning through corners, standing and hammering out of the saddle. Never stopping even for a moment to look around. If you did you'd end up wrapped around a tree.

    As much as I crave endurance rides and long for that epic battle against sanity, a short race can be a cleansing act.  It blows all the junk out of your system, clears the mind and burns off the stresses of the day. Today's 1 hour scorcher at Sundance was as therapeutic as it was painful. It felt incredible to be pushing hard, once again at one of the great places I have ever known. Sundance is small, but it is home for me on many levels. The singletrack was pristine, the weather finally, finally resembled something reminiscent of June and the competition was fast and furious.



    Look closely. You can see Archie's Loop snaking away into the hillside.




  • If a Tree Falls

    An old tree stood at the trail junction of The Ridge, Tibblefork, and the South Fork of Deer Creek. I shot this photo last October.



    And then I found this photo from UMB user "heifferson", taken on June 2nd.



    That is a shame. I liked that tree. And I liked that sign as well.

  • The Parental Unit

    Not too long ago I told my dad about the SPOT locator. He loves gadgets even more than I do, and so I thought he'd really like the SPOT. My mom was listening, and as soon as she found out what the SPOT was capable of, she insisted I allow her to buy me one.

    "But mom, I don't think I really need one."

    "That doesn't matter. You are getting one, and you are carrying it with you on every ride."

    "Well let me research them a little more."

    "Fine. But I am getting you one."

    And so she did. I have had it for a few weeks, and I really like it. It adds a little security, but also makes it pretty fun for people at home to check the website and see my progress. As I have talked to other people with a SPOT it became clear that the driving force behind the little devices are our parents. Jill wrote today in fact that;

    "Geoff's mom bought him the SPOT receiver and threatened him with future panic if he didn't carry it along the Continental Divide. Now, all he has to do is push a button and his exact latitude and longitude point is broadcast on his very own tracking site."

    I know from talking to Chris and Essam that their parents were also very interested in their children having this handy tracking device. I guess parent's will never stop worrying, no matter how grown up we get. The idea of us traipsing all over the mountains, without support, and often times alone must be nerve racking at best.

    My parents happened to be at a meeting in Park City the day of the '07 E12. That was the day I ended up in the local clinic with an IV stuck in my arm. I think my mom tried to talk me into a different hobby, something that did not involve pushing the limits of mind and body. Something to do with board games.

    The SPOT leaderboard for this year's Tour Divide ought to add a lot of excitement to the race. The ability to see in real time where each rider is and how fast they are progressing will bring the race to life I think. Add in the audio check-ins and we at home will be treated to an unprecedented level of coverage.

    And while that will bring entertainment to us, and comfort to loved ones at home, I have to wonder... does it tarnish the remote solitude of that route? Maybe. But then, maybe not.

  • Altitude Sickness




    I find myself looking out of windows up at the vast labyrinth of canyons, ravines, peaks and forests that tower over Utah Valley. And I wonder, restlessly, when I will find myself among the trees, or more specifically, above them. The lower elevations are free of snow, and are full of excellent trails.

    But I feel the lure of the high country.

    I feel in many ways that I am being robbed of a summer. Events out of my control are dictating my life these days, and frankly, that doesn't always leave me in the best of moods. Life is good. But there are days when I toss my hands up in exasperation as I utter something ridiculous and self-deprecating under my breath. Actually believing for a minute or two that my life is difficult.

    And yet, I still look to the timberline with a melancholy homesickness.

    The snow is melting, ever so slowly. And in my impatience, at the first opportunity I have, I will no doubt burst onto trails not yet ready to be ridden. I will post-hole through the snowy drifts, cursing them while I stumble. I will slip in the mud, and splash through frigid run off. Finishing the day with a muddy smile and sore legs.

    The Wasatch Classic is in danger of being shortened, due to a thick white blanket still draped over the Crest. A string of hot sunny days could cure the problem. But so far this year, no such string has occurred. Like winter did, spring is lingering. But the extra rain and snow that continue to cancel races, and fill reservoirs is a two-edged sword. After all, the Wasatch Front is where mountain and desert meet. And water is always at a premium.

    So while, my head whispers patience, my heart screams intolerance. My eyes watch carefully the receding snow line. And again I find myself wondering... when.

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