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Tuesday, May 05, 2009
posted by Grizzly Adam at 6:54 AM | Permalink |
From the Vault
The following was originally posted on September 29, 2005:

What is it about a road that stretches into the horizon, passes over rocks, sand, through trees and rivers. A road that climbs and descends, twists and turns. What is it about a road that goes on so far and so long that it lasts through the day, through the night and again into the day? And how is it that this road is simultaneously intimidating and inviting, exhilarating and exhausting? Why is it that despite the pain that comes with traveling this road, more and more people find themselves taking the journey? What is it about solo 24 hour racing that I find so addicting?

When people find out that I like to do 24 hour races I usually get a variation of the same response. "You're crazy!" "Why would you do THAT?" "Wait, you do it alone?" "I could never do that." There is something that attracts me to the challenge. Normal cross-country bike races are fun, fast and painful. They require an all out effort over a 2-3 hour period of time. They are mentally draining and physically taxing. But they don't have that certain "it". At least not for me. Now don't get me wrong, I love XC racing. I look forward to the season all year. I travel around the state to various events. I love the atmosphere and the competition. But for me, they can't compare to the anticipation of 24 hours in the saddle.

I think the difference comes with the setting of the sun. In the limted experience I have in 24 hour racing, the hardest part for me is when the sun goes down. That is when the realization sets in that while everyone around you settles in for a warm night by the fire, you are setting out on a cold, dark sojourn into the unknown. I have never been so mentally taxed as I am when I point my light onto the course and turn my back to the light and laughter of a good campfire, cold drink and warm food. And yet, at the same time, I have never been so drawn to something. It is the beauty and mystery of 24 hour racing.

I don't think I can exactly say what it is that attracts me to these races. When I attended my first 24 Hours of Moab I was a spectator. I was in the start finish area just as the sun rose. Nat Ross came through after a lap, and he sat down in a chair. His support crew fed him, swapped his bikes, rubbed his shoulders and sent him on his way. He finished 2nd that year behind 24 hour legend Rishi Grewal. That was the first time I experienced the "it". The seed was planted and I let it grow. Last year I did my first solo race, fittingly, at the 24 hours of Moab. Nat Ross was there again. He lapped me 5 times en route to his victory. But somewhere in the suffering and the "learning the hard way" I became a 24 Hour Solo Racer.

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Monday, May 04, 2009
posted by Grizzly Adam at 6:00 AM | Permalink |
The Walk of Shame
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Lingering ominously in the back of my mind as I pedaled around the White Rim were the ever approaching Shafer switchbacks. I knew that they'd bleed me dry. I knew that the 32x16 I had on the bike was simply too tall for my legs and for the impossible grade. And yet...I had hope teasingly loitering in my heart and in my head.

But hope is so easily dashed. And when I rounded the corner shortly after Mussleman Arch and there before me stood the vertical wall I cowered quietly, knowing that the good time I had been making was about to fall off the table.

I tried in vain to pedal up the long approach. I caught one last, desperate glimpse of Bart and Kenny, high above me on the opening switchback. I glanced at my watch and odometer, terrified of how long the next 2 miles were going to last.

1 Hour.

I walked nearly every foot of that cursed road. With an impatient aggravation I pushed up the grade, one step at a time, trying vigorously to keep my speed above 3 miles per hour.

Never before has there been a more shameful Walk of Shame.

At least, that is how I felt. Perhaps that is because I had the legs to ride the climb. I had the legs! But it was impossible to turn the cranks over with the ridiculous gear I had chosen. And in fact, the gear was just tall enough to keep me off the bike. Never have I been so vexed. And in the end I am forced to wonder if the tall gear, which was fairly comfortable throughout much of the day was indeed very beneficial? Had I been able to ride even 70% of Shafer I think I would have cut 30 minutes off my total time.

But then, perhaps I would have lost that time anyway while spinning a lower gear out on the rim.

But still.

Hoofing Shafer in its entirety, even after 70 miles, was an utterly ignominious end to what was a difficult, if yet edifying day in the desert.

Exit Question: What is your 'best' Walk of Shame?

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Friday, May 01, 2009
posted by Grizzly Adam at 2:59 PM | Permalink |
The Maze

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I think of music, and of a musical analogy to what seems to me the unique spirit of desert places. Suppose for example that we can find a certain resemblance between the music of Bach and the sea; the music of Debussy and a forest glade; the music of Beethoven and (of course) great mountains; then who has written of the desert?

Mozart? Hardly the outdoor type, that fellow - much too elegant, symmetrical, formally perfect. Vivaldi, Corelli, Monteverdi? - cathedral interiors only - fluid architecture. Jazz? The best of jazz for all its virtues cannot escape the limitations of its origin: it is indoor music, city music, distilled from the melancholy nightclubs and the marijuana smoke of dim, sad, nighttime rooms: a joyless sound, for all its nervous energy.

In the desert I am reminded of something quite different - the bleak, thin-textured work of men like Berg, Schoenberg, Ernst Krenek, Webern and the American, Elliot Carter. Quite by accident, no doubt, although both Schoenberg and Krenek lived part of their lives in the Southwest, their music comes closer than any other I know to representing the apartness, the otherness, the strangeness of the desert. Like certain aspects of this music, the desert is also a-tonal, cruel, clear, inhuman, neither romantic nor classical, motionless and emotionless, at one and the same time - another paradox - both agonized and deeply still.

Like death? Perhaps. And perhaps that is why life nowhere appears so brave, so bright, so full of oracle and miracle as in the desert.

~Abbey

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Wednesday, April 29, 2009
posted by Grizzly Adam at 6:29 AM | Permalink |
White Rim: Sweet Relief
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Sweet, sweet relief...

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Monday, April 27, 2009
posted by Grizzly Adam at 9:29 AM | Permalink |
Ever On and On
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The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

~Tolkien


Words and thoughts and feelings are still being formulated from the images and memories, the pain and sand of the weekend. Passing through my mind are flashes of stone, blackbrush and wind. And more wind. Wind swept horizons, the rippling of the Green, sand being tossed into the air on some distant slab of slickrock, or, more often than not into eyes and teeth.

There is no doubt that a stiff headwind will remind you that you are alive. The senses are assaulted with noise, stinging sand, grit, and the musty smell of rain on the desert floor. And yet, with that feeling of vitality comes an irrational desire to find a deep cave where no sound or light or heat or cursed wind will ever disturb a long and dark slumber...

When riding the White Rim there is nothing to be done for the wind, except to follow the road, "until it joins some larger way, where paths and errands meet."

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
Let others follow it who can!
Let them a journey new begin,
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.



More tomorrow...

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Monday, November 24, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 9:53 AM | Permalink |
It's a Big World
There can be a tendency to shrink the world around us. We can travel to the far corners of the Earth in a matter of hours. We can speak to anyone, almost anywhere, instantly. In many, many ways the world is small and cramped.

But not when you go outside.

While in Arches National Park with my 2 older boys, I remembered how massive the world is to the small eyes and comprehension of children. And, as that idea settled in, I looked over the vast desert surrounding me and realized again for myself, the enormity of the earth.

I love the smallness that comes from being in the wild.

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Friday, November 07, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 1:49 PM | Permalink |
Missing the Sandstone
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Monday, October 20, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 12:01 PM | Permalink |
The Black Muddy River
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Most rivers are confined to the needs and histories of men. Like roads, they seem inconsequential without their travelers. The Colorado is an outlaw. It belongs only to the ancient, eternal earth. As no other, it is savage and unpredictable of mood, peculiarly American in character.

~Frank Waters, The Colorado

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Monday, October 13, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 11:51 AM | Permalink |
Delicate, Arches
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There are several ways of looking at Delicate Arch. Depending on your preconceptions you may see the eroded remnants of a sandstone fin, a giant engagement ring cemented in rock, a bow-legged pair of petrified cowboy chaps, a triumphal arch for a procession of angels, an illogical freak, a happening.... If Delicate Arch has any significance it lies, I will venture, in the power of the odd and unexpected to startle the senses and surprise the mind out of their ruts of habit, to compel us into a reawakened awareness of the wonderful-that which is full of wonder.


~Ed Abbey

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Sunday, October 12, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 5:05 PM | Permalink |
Late Afternoon: Moab
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Monday, September 29, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 10:20 AM | Permalink |
Sunrise
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Sunrise, Goblin Valley, UT


I awoke before dawn. A sliver of a moon hung low in the sky. The faint glow of the distant sunrise lingered on the horizon. In the faint light I could make out the outline of the mighty La Sals. I felt a sense of urgency, of longing. I miss those mountains. In between them and me was a vast, unseen trench. The maze.

Behind me the Henry mountains were trying to catch the first morning light. I sat quietly. The silence was heavy. No wind, no voices, no birds or insects. Absolute and utter silence.

I climbed a sandstone dune and just watched. And listened.

As the light rose, I looked to the horizon longingly. A desire to immerse myself in the depths of the White Rim, or the thick pines of the La Sals overcame my thoughts. I wanted to lay eyes on Monitor and Merrimac, Delicate Arch, and Milt's Drive In once again.

And while it has not been long since I last was in Moab, it feels like it was all a part of another life. It was not me there, was it? Certainly the person writing this was not the same who once rode the Kokopelli Trail? No, it can't be.

Can it?

The light is now bouncing off the pink sandstone. The scouts I am with are stirring below. Some of them climb up to the point I am sitting at. I am already missing the silence.

But we are having a good time. Later we would explore the alien landscape of Goblin Valley. An odd array of phallic monuments. A miniature Bryce Canyon. But still, those distant La Sals continue to catch my eye. They are symbolic of that magic and mystery of the entire region. Sentinels in a sea of sand. And I again realize the intensity of my affection for Moab, and the desert.

Indeed, it is desert season. The snow and the wind and the cold will blanket the Wasatch. And I will flee to the deserts of Moab and Saint George. Physically or otherwise.

Somewhere, that person from that past life exists. And he is dying to once again ride the horizon.

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Tuesday, July 22, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 5:50 AM | Permalink |
White Rim: From the Sublime to the Ridiculous
The White Rim is a storied location. Vast and wide and mysterious. Gateway to an unknown wilderness, edge of the Maze, an alien world of ancient ghosts and impossible canyons.

As I rode the trail this spring I gazed out at the landscape feeling small, awestruck and otherwise soaking up the Abbey-esque vibes of the natural wonder and enchantment that surrounded me. It was one of those sublime moments, a rare connection with the intangible world beyond our own seeing, our own existence.

And then, a grown man on a single speed wearing knee-high church socks, plaid shorts and a basket on his handlebars passed me.

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Monday, July 21, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 5:52 AM | Permalink |
Castle Valley, Utah
There is a place, near Moab, but not Moab. A place that is nestled between the mighty Porcupine Rim, and the looming Adobe Mesa. A place watched over carefully by The Priest and The Nuns, with Sister Superior keeping a watchful distant eye. It is a wide open valley, sitting quietly at the base of the mighty La Sals, but acts as a gateway to the hoodoo deserts of Arches and beyond.

Castle Valley, Utah

I once explored the valley in 1995. A friend and I climbed to the base of Castle Rock, its red stone splitting the blue sky with stark and startling contrast. From a distance the tower looks small and tame. But up close it is massive, rugged and demanding.

We reached as high as anyone could go without climbing gear. We etched our girlfriends names into the soft stone. Certainly they were feeling the effects of our undying devotion some 200 miles northwest. Their names etched in stone. To last forever. Or at least until the next rainstorm washed the shallow scrapings into the red dirt below.

When we broke the news to them we expected laughter and gratitude. Girls impressed at the manly ascent, and the equation of that desert beauty with their own. Instead our heroism and romanticism was greeted with indifference. Neither relationship lasted.

While I was living in Canada I had a roommate from Castle Valley. We were living in Vancouver and he was awestruck at the steel skyscrapers, the massive grocery stores, the buses, trains, cars and the people. Oh my, all those people!

He ate bird food. We'd go shopping and he'd buy wheat and nuts and seeds. He'd pour them into a bowl and drip honey over them. That was his favorite meal. I wonder at times if he is back in Castle Valley today. If he explores the La Sals and the hidden canyons and the black muddy river. That hidden oasis among a sea of natural wonder. Does he still eat bird seed and honey?

The valley from high on La Sal Loop road is breathtaking. A scenic masterpiece of the Kokopelli Trail. The rock formations dominate the landscape, but the green fields, the long dirt driveways, the conical and comical round mountain, the mesas in the distance and the river flowing far below are like a painted backdrop in some spaghetti western. Beautiful yet artificial. Surreal. Technicolor meets color country.

After we climbed Castle Rock we returned to Moab. We had greasy hamburgers at Milt's, restocked on some poisonous red drink (99 cents a gallon) at the City Market, filled our packs with pastries, candy and salty snacks. The sun was sinking low. We pointed the van toward home.

The sun disappeared, and the stars above began to twinkle in the black desert sky. The La Sals sunk out of view, the snow capped peaks reflecting the last light of day. Ahead the lights of Green River twinkled in the distance.

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Castle Rock dwarfs me as I work my way toward the base.

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Friday, July 11, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 9:21 AM | Permalink |
Moab: 1995
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Thanksgiving weekend, 1995. Moab.

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Wednesday, July 02, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 1:32 PM | Permalink |
The Winding Abbey Road
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I discovered Edward Abbey long after I ought to have. A native of Utah, and someone who traveled to Moab, and other desert locations, since I was a child, I grew up with a deep love for that improbable landscape. And yet I had never heard of Edward Abbey until only a few years ago.

Within the first pages of Desert Solitaire I realized that I was reading the words of a kindred spirit. At least in our love of the desert. His writing is both realistic, and mythical. Capturing the essence of the landscape, while paying homage to the ancient presence of those who have come before. That is, he understood that the canyon country was home to the Ancient Ones, and that they still linger within the deep recesses of both imagination and reality. Or, as he described it, "For the first time, I felt I was getting close to the West of my deepest imaginings, the place where the tangible and the mythical became the same."

Abbey is remembered for being an environmental anarchist, a defender of the wild, a fierce critic of government, industrialism and technology. There is a bite to his words, a cruel truth that cuts deep. But there is also an idealism that I think even he knew was impractical, impossible. Perhaps that is why he was as critical as he was. He knew that he was fighting against the inevitability of growth, progress, and the American notion of manifest destiny.

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As I type these words, several years after the little episode of the gray jeep and the thirsty engineers, all that was foretold has come to pass. Arches National Monument has been developed...you will now find serpentine streams of baroque automobiles... The little campgrounds where I used to putter around...have now been consolidated into one master campground that looks...like a suburban village: elaborate house trailers of quilted aluminum crowd upon gigantic camper-trucks of Fiberglas and molded plastic; through their windows you will see the blue glow of television and hear the studio laughter of Los Angeles; knobby-kneed oldsters in plaid Bermudas buzz up and down the quaintly curving asphalt road on motorbikes...the rangers are going quietly nuts answering the same three basic questions five hundred times a day: (1) Where's the john? (2) How long's it take to see this place? (3) Where's the Coke machine?

Progress has come at last to the Arches, after a million years of neglect. Industrial Tourism has arrived.




Indeed.


And yet, there are still wild places in the world. And thankfully they are generally difficult to arrive at. The softness of the American way of life frowns upon the physical effort needed to see, and be in the wilderness. Paved roads have sneaked into the mountains and the deserts, but they only go so far. And not many are willing in this age of air conditioned adventuring to get out and feel the heat or the wind. The pain of an elevated heartbeat and coursing lactic acid are picking up where Abbey left off. The new saboteur of industrial tourism is physical discomfort.

I read Abbey with mixed reactions. I like to think I am a practical person. I like to think that dams and roads and that “small dark cloud of progress” are making life better, easier, and more productive. But I also see the beauty and simplicity in the slow paced, hard earned existence of his idyllic vision. Can there be both? Can man be at once solitary, and societal? “The only thing better than solitude”, he realized, “is society.”

Man is a gregarious creature, we are told, a social being. Does that mean he is also a herd animal? I don't believe it, despite the character of modern life. The herd is for ungulates, not for men and women and their children. Are men no better than sheep or cattle, that they must live always in view of one another in order to feel a sense of safety? I can't believe it.

We are preoccupied with time. If we could learn to love space as deeply as we are now obsessed with time, we might discover a new meaning in the phrase to live like men.


And so that paradox that he lived in, is the same paradox I read him with. The machine of urbanization is simply to powerful to stop. But it feels good to oppose it. To slow it down a little. To escape into the mountains and live for a time as those Ancient Ones. At least as they would have lived had they had gas stoves, lightweight tents, water filters, LED headlamps and dehydrated beef stew.

Teamwork, that's what made America what it is today. Teamwork and initiative. The survey crew had done their job; I would do mine. For about five miles I followed the course of their survey back toward headquarters, and as I went I pulled up each little wooden stake and threw it away, and cut all the bright ribbons from the bushes and hid them under a rock. A futile effort, in the long run, but it made me feel good. Then I went home to the trailer, taking a shortcut over the bluffs.


The sun continues to rise and fall. Wind and rain and time whip away at the sandstone of the Arches, and the peaks of the Wasatch. Life rambles onward into the distance. And despite the best efforts of progress to tame wild places, those wild places still remain. And they always will. They stand on their own, defiant against the audacity of man and the sneer of growth. In many instances the only defense these wild places need is their own rugged inaccessibility. Let man try and conquer them. Chances are his heart will give out, exploding in a bloody mess, leaving him sprawled across a wooded ridge, destined to become fodder for the cougar and bear, the vulture and maggot.

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Friday, June 27, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 10:44 AM | Permalink |
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.

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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 53 years later you are any better off than the 1955 readers of Desert magazine.

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How did you do?

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Wednesday, May 28, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 10:20 AM | Permalink |
Utah
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Salt Lake City, from Ensign Peak


Utah is an interesting place. It was settled in the 1840's by Mormon refugees. And still today Mormons arrive here from everywhere. They come, some of them without the intention of staying. "It's just so I can go to BYU" they say. Some keep their word, and after school they return to where they came from. But many, many stay.

My parents came from Oregon and Virginia in the mid 1970s. And they have lived in Utah ever since. My wife came from Virginia. I was born here. And I see no reason to leave.

Utah is home to some of the great recreation in the world. And by recreation I of course mean mountain biking. Because let's face it, the other forms of outdoor recreation just don't measure up to mountain biking. Am I right? Of course I am!

What is incredible is that I can leave my house on my bike, and within an hour be in remote forests, where human contact is minimal. I can find the backcountry in my backyard. I can feel isolated while within sight of a valley with a million billion people. But that is not entirely unique. There are lot's of places where solitude is just around the corner. What makes Utah unique is the variety of solitude offered. That is, I am not limited only to the mountains.

I can drive an hour west and be in a vast and sparse desert. I can go south and find sand dunes reminiscent of the Empty Quarter. I can go southwest and find Moab, the great icon of the state. In fact, Moab might represent to the world the very best of what Utah is. It is a microcosm of the state. At least geographically.

Moab is a vast desert, with a massive mountain range rising up from a sea of sand. Or is it the other way around? A massive mountain range melting into a sea of sand? Is there even a difference? The point is that Moab has alpine and desert, sandstone and granite. The state as a whole is the same. We have our sharp mountains, rising from the valley of the Great Basin. We have our deserts, stretching on into the horizons. And it is all within reach.

Utah is not without it's oddities. Cultural that is. We have our green jello and strange affinity for anti-depressants. We have rednecks and snobs and short sighted politicians. We have big cars, big families, a church on every corner and apparently, really awful beer.

But it is home. And it is part of me. And I am part of it. Utah is the ideal home. It offers everything I want from life. I can look to the mountains and feel safe. I can go to the desert and feel small. I can escape, hide...and seek.

Utah means "tops of the mountains" in an old Ute dialect. For now though, I am content being in the mountains, in the canyons, in the rivers and lakes and streams. I am content staring up at the mountains feeling dwarfed and protected. Vulnerable and insignificant.

Come to Utah. Find out what I mean. But be warned. You may never want to leave.

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Sunday, May 18, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 9:16 PM | Permalink |
Kokopelli Trail R.
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Kokopelli Moonrise. 5/16/08




"I’m not a big believer in all the techniques of “positive self talk” or affirmations and so forth. Just train hard, train with good technique, use visualization (which works with the subconscious), and the quality of performance will reflect the preparation. I recommend to athletes, and to anyone else, that they “simply” accept their thoughts and emotions (whether positive or negative) as natural to them in the moment — then focus on a goal, and do what needs to be done towards reaching that goal."

~Dan Millman, author of The Peaceful Warrior


The Kokopelli Trail has a special place in my heart and mind. I cannot exactly say why. But there is something about the very idea of that trail that moves me, inspires me, challenges me. I have experienced the entire gamut of human emotion out on those miles. From elation to depression to fear and quiet failure, and quiet victory. When I need to remember that this endurance experiment works or when I need to remember what I am capable of, the Kokopelli is often where I put myself. I must have ridden that trail a thousand times over in the archives of my mind.

But there is more about the trail that draws me in than just riding it as a time trial. I feel that the land itself is magic, ancient, alive. Riding it solo amplifies that mystique, and I feel connected to whatever ancient presence still lingers out there.

But the Kokopelli is a just friend. And a just foe. It doesn't care how familiar you are with it. It doesn't care about past rides or mojo or energy or water filters. If you are not ready, the trail will chew you up, and spit you out in the sand.

I rode for 90 minutes Friday night. And then coasted off the mountain in defeat.

Later, as I waited anxiously for other riders to finish, I had all kinds of time to sit and figure out what had just happened. Leading up to the race was an episode of some absurd tragic comedy, with one mishap after the other plaguing my thoughts and monopolizing my focus. When finally I was in Moab, suited up and ready to ride, I realized that this moment had snuck up on me. I felt an overwhelming sense of dread start to creep over me.

I had hoped that once I saw the friendly faces I knew were going to be at the trailhead that I would be fine. But then something totally baffling, and somewhat depressing happened. I arrived at the trailhead, and I felt like an outsider. That somehow I did not belong.

I felt completely isolated.

It was not the result of any attitude or action from the others. On the contrary. The usual suspects were their usual friendly and excited selves. And for a moment or two I was able to feed off some of that energy, but something was seriously awry. It wasn't until the next day that I realized why I felt so isolated. It was in fact, because at that moment I was quite literally an outsider. I was not locked in. I was not in that mental place where one needs to be to even attempt a ride like the KTR. Let alone successfully complete it. When someone says, "you did what? you must be crazy!" I think they are right. I think we do have to be crazy. At least temporarily. A sane person would not attempt, or ever succeed in putting himself through so much pain and misery.

I tried to ride it out. But the further up the mountain I climbed, the more clear it became that I was heading toward a bad day. Later in Fruita, I watched Kenny and Chris come across the line. They were exhausted, dehydrated, and elated. I envied them. But I also knew that for whatever reason, I was not meant to be on the trail that day.

And I was alright with that.

I had never realized the importance of being in the state of mind necessary to do an event like the KTR. I never realized it, because I never fully recognized that I was getting into a different mindset as I prepared to push myself. It was a cold, dark and lonely feeling to be on the outside of that. It felt as if I was physically in a different place than everyone else. I never thought something so intangible could manifest itself so concretely.

In the end I feel no disappointment. Indeed, it was a good weekend. I got to do a little joy riding in Fruita, watch the race play out, and sit and wait for people who are so often sitting and waiting for me. Instead of having people offer me cold drinks, I got to hand a few out. It was a different perspective. And one that was appreciated and enjoyed on my part.

“When running up a hill, it’s okay to give up as many times as you want — as long as your feet keep moving.”

~Shoma Morita



At this point there is really nothing more to do, except to keep my feet moving. And so that is what I will do.

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Thursday, May 15, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 12:43 PM | Permalink |
Chasing 17:25
In 2006 I rode from Moab to Fruita in 17 hours and 25 minutes. Saturday I will repeat the feat. Or at least I will attempt to repeat it. And while I don't think my fitness is quite where it was in May of '06, I do think I am a smarter rider. Which means I feel good about the prospect of besting that 17:25.

There are always variables. There will be unexpected challenges. But I feel good about the things I can control. My pace, my nutrition, my attitude. As long as those things are in line with where I want them to be, I should have a blast. Regardless of how long it takes me to finish. But slipping in under that 17:25 will be sweet, sweet icing on the cake.

So here's to pushing limits, mashing pedals, and crossing bridges.

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The Salt Creek Bridge

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Friday, May 09, 2008
posted by Grizzly Adam at 10:43 AM | Permalink |
Spring. Classic.
"The far off horizon impressed me no less. Once again, as in childhood, I saw the soft blue distance inviting me like an open door. And once again I was overcome by the feeling that I was not born for the life of a perpetual stay-at-home among my fellow men in towns and houses, but for pilgrimages through foreign lands and journeys over the sea. I felt the old melancholy impulse to fling myself on God’s breast and merge my own insignificant life into the infinite and eternal."

~Peter Caminzind, by Hermann Hesse



I am already seeing the dark ascension through the La Sals, hearing the trickle of Hidden Canyon's streams, and feeling the oppressive sun of Rabbit Valley. I  am wondering how I will feel when I cross Highway 128, with no Dewey Bridge to greet me across the river.  Am I being overly sentimental about that bridge?

Of course I am.



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The sand. The wind. And the black muddy river. All of them haunt my nightly thoughts. Those imaginations between sleep and wake. Acting as hypnotics, visuals of far off places and personal records lull me to sleep each night.

It simply is not spring, without the Kokopelli. How quickly it has become part of my ritual. An annual rite of passage. A classic effort, and a microcosm of everything that I love about mountain biking.

And again, I am waxing overly sentimental. But the unspoken words and the nearly tangible presence of the ancient ones in these wide open spaces bring out the dreamer in me. And so, in spite of myself, I am once again pining for the Kokopelli. 

And so am I planning to be at the trail head, my wheels pointing toward the desert, my mojo firmly in tact?

Of course I am.

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