Diary of Scott Morris

As much as I loathe using my car for everyday activities, and as much as I try to ignore it and marginalize it, it really is an amazing piece of technology. And yes, I know, 1996 Chevy Corsicas are amazing in and of themselves. But the idea that you can hop in a car, at your own whim, and zoom hundreds of miles away, is very powerful one, to me.

Maybe it’s all the bikepacking, covering the breadth of whole states, or the whole country. Maybe it’s my mormon pioneer roots, crossing the plains and rockies in covered wagons, or (usually) on foot. It really gives me an appreciation for what it means to cross long distances, and all the ‘hardships’ that comes with.

We have it so easy now, and it’s usually taken for granted. But, anyway…

I started bouncing emails around amongst some friends, friends who live in cooler and higher places than Tucson, AZ. Places like, oh, Colorado. I formed a rough plan and could hardly contain my excitement for what I knew was going to be an incredible, and very tiring, week+ in one of my favorite states. The only thing that was missing was Paula. She spent a week with me in Salt Lake City, but with her hip injury and school looming, she decided to fly back to AZ rather than join me. She’ll get all healed up, I know it, but for now she’s doing more indoor things than outdoor. Being confined to indoor stuff while bouncing around some of the coolest spots in Colorado did sound like a bit of a bummer.

First stop was Grand Junction. I found Mike amidst the chaos of moving, wheel orders up to his eyeballs and many trips. That didn’t stop him from taking time to catch up and brew a batch of his famous ice cream.

It didn’t stop him from riding either. We met Skippy for an all morning Lunch Loop extravaganza. Mike and Skippy were riding like they owned the place, and they pretty much did.

I took a few calculated risks, but pretty much played spectator as they hit lines I can only dream of. Mike set me up on a Lenz Lunchbox (6″ travel 29er) and the differences to my forlorn Behemoth, sitting upside down in a hot room in Tucson, were fun to note.

There was one climbing turn/ledge/move that I just couldn’t get. I can try to blame it on Mike’s mile wide handlebars (the move involved scratching bar to rock as you turn), but it was just a new maneuver, one I didn’t have in my bag of tricks. After a dozen or more tries, I finally got it.

After crack burgers, a nap and hours and hours of wrenching (I finally called it at midnight, Mike kept working until 2am), we were up before 5am, hitting the road for Winter Park.

The lifts were running, and Mike had a spare PBJ (7″ travel Lenz 29er) with my name on it. This was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. First time riding lifts for me, first time on a DH bike, first time on these kind of trails. Yeah, let’s try something new!

You might notice that Mike and Skippy are almost in full on storm trooper mode. So was just about everyone else riding that day. I felt pretty naked with my XC gear, and I will admit that my heart was running higher than normal as we were whisked up the mountain the first time.

photo by Mike Curiak

Getting used to the bike, with it’s crazy geometry, wide bars, ridiculously low seat and bongo deep travel was step #1. Trying to convince myself that I wasn’t going to die on these trails was step #2. Fortunately almost everything has ‘wimp out’ lines (i.e. you can roll it) so you can still ride everything and gradually ramp up the speed and confidence.

That happened pretty quickly for me. I thought I’d eventually have to let Mike and Alan go, thought that I’d be holding them back. (Besides being better riders and having protective gear, they have also done this before… at Whistler even!) I was surprised to be able to ‘hang’ (as the expression goes), though I was definitely trailing them at times, and definitely trailing in air time and overall smoothness.

Trailing them was a great way to learn. I eventually got enough confidence to hammer and match their speed through the table tops… and suddenly I was hitting the transitions… and it felt so indescribably GOOD. The taste of smooth adrenaline. More please!

The lift kept running; we never had to wait. I felt like a kid in Disneyland. Really? I get to go up and do that again? It was easy to forget that we were ‘cheating.’ I never really thought about it (and I thought I would). I was getting so worked over by the trail, trying to stay with the guys and learning to be smooth. Plus, these bikes wouldn’t go up the service road even if I were fresh and stupidly dedicated to it. (They are geared too high).

We spent a second day at Winter Park (had planned on Sol Vista, but it wasn’t open). I was able to hit a few new moves the second day, and nail a number that gave me a bunch of trouble on day 1. The second day was cut a little short, due to rain and, well, my complete and utter exhaustion. My last three runs were curious from an experimental mountain bike fatigue point of view, and I’m quite certain they weren’t that much fun. I tried my best to stay loose, easy and comfortable to minimize fatigue and stay alive. But my arms, and even legs to some extent, were cooked. Off the top of the lift, the first 5 minutes of low grade bumps were positively crippling. “This is not even close to fun.” Fortunately by the time I got to the best part of any run (the table tops at the bottom) my arms has loosened up enough (or maybe lost all feeling?) and I could pop them almost as if fresh. But by the top again it was torture to absorb even the smallest impacts.

Enough! I yield. Bested by two days of descending 25,000+ feet, and maybe 200′ of up. Awesome.

I drove over a couple passes to Leadville, intent on resting up at Lee’s cabin.

We did take one day easy (Lee was fresh off a successful summit of the Crestone Needle), cruising the mineral belt around town.

I was worried I’d killed the rest of my Colorado trip. It might be a week before I’d be able to ride w/o deadly sore arms. It didn’t look good as we rode a tiny bit of singletrack on our way back.

But Lee’s house has a commanding view of Mt. Elbert. I can’t ignore it, the call of the big mountains. I had long ago decided I wasn’t doing the Colorado Trail Race, so I had no reason to hold back. Let’s go mountain climbing! Lee wasn’t interested in repeating our Elbert ride, but he was easily talked into attempting Mt. Princeton.

So we hit it early and knocked off the first 3000′ of climbing on dirt roads, transitioning to singletrack that was golden sweet rideable. Oh yeah, this is going to be good.

photo by Lee Blackwell

Or not. MyTopo showed that the route was a 4×4 road to within a mile of the summit. If this was ever a road it has since had so many rock slides on it that it’s now barely a route.

I kept the faith, though, hoping I’d be able to find rideable sections here or there. Lee ditched his bike right before the boulders and when he passed me, footloose and fancy free, he says, “Scott Morris, when they made you they broke the mold.”

They made me stupid, I guess. It was really slow going, but for some reason I thought I could see platforms offering hope of rideability ahead. Finally Lee came back, expressing that it didn’t get any better and he didn’t like how his bike clips were sliding on the rocks. I put my bike down and tried sliding around on the rocks with my clips. It was sure nice not to have my bike, but the bike was also providing stability. I didn’t like it much either.

So we flipped it.

As a consolation we pedaled further up the road to a nice viewpoint and rock wall cabin. High above the Chalk Cliffs I could survey much of Colorado Trail “land”, thinking of both the CTR and the Vapor Trail.

I must not have been paying attention on the way up. The downhill on the road was anything but dull….. the recently bermed-in drainage diversions were the perfect XC bike table tops! Holy freaking cow. I was getting my DH ‘fix’ all over again. Catching big air, hitting perfect transitions, and missing them too. It went on and on and on, longer than any of the runs at Winter Park.

It was there, right in front of us, so we went north on the Colorado Trail, and boy was it ever sweet. Lee was really eating it up, having never ridden this stretch. I offered to turn around so he could ride it out to Buena Vista, and I’d meet him at Poncho’s with the car.

The next day Lee was calling a ‘rest day’, but it was anything but. I was keen to do some trail work, as I always try to do a day outside of Tucson during the summer. So we joined Sterling and crew, building new trail on county land close to Leadville.

I was blown away by how fun the trail was turning out, and how they worked side rock lines and jumps into it. I had my bike, but no clips or helmet, so I did not partake, but I did lust.

By the time we rode out there, chopped bench for the morning and rode back, we were good and tired. But I was in COLORADO and big mountains were calling me. I quickly hatched a plan to try for Mt. Antero, another 14er, just across the creek from Mt. Princeton where we had failed the day before. Lee was a little wishy washy about joining at first, and admittedly my research was pretty limited. I couldn’t find any info about people riding either of the trails I had traced out on TopoFusion. But in the end it proved to be an adventure that Lee could not resist. We left early.

Browns creek trail starts as a nasty hike-a-bike. The horses have really done a number on the lower pieces. We rode briefly on the Colorado Trail, then continued on Browns Creek #1429, paralleling a creek at a pleasant grade.

It wasn’t all so easy. Actually it was quite the classroom in techy climbing. I pulled out some unlikely moves, and it seemed like whenever I needed a break, there was one. And of course, we walked some too. But it was never so bad.

We emerged at treeline and Browns Lake. The next 1,000′ of gain were on a road, with big views all around.

photo by Lee Blackwell

We followed an old 2-track that was closed to motos, but open to bikes/feet, taking us to a quaint meadow situated perfectly at the base of Mt. Antero. We had our high altitude picnic here, at 12,800 feet. This was a strategic point, an opportune vantage for the climb ahead. We weren’t committed to it, with fatigue and time commitments as they were. But as soon as the conversation started, I knew there was little either of us could do to stop it from its eventual conclusion: we were going for the top.

The weather was too good. We were too close. The siren song of the 14er was too alluring. We just couldn’t resist.

I knew I might be hosing myself for tomorrow’s planned epic with Lynda Wallenfels, in Crested Butte. But like I said, here we were, and we just couldn’t resist. We are weak and the mountain’s pull is too strong.

Road switchbacks in a very unlikely place — they took us all the way to 13,750′. I’m a sucker when it comes to climbing at high elevation, and I simply couldn’t resist putting everything I had into burning around the switchbacks. A good investment of energy? Maybe… it depends on your definition of good. It sure was FUN.

We ditched the bikes at the end of the road (but first I inspected the trail and concluded it would be just as stupid as Princeton to proceed with bikes) and got to climbing. I haven’t hiked much (at all?) since injuring my ankle, so this was a treat. I was definitely using my hands a bunch and it was very engaging, dynamic.

I actually felt the elevation at about 14k, but perhaps due only to my lack of ability to pace myself on foot. Either that or because Lee was kicking my butt. He was floating up pretty effortlessly, about to rack up his third 14er in as many weeks.

Oh YEAH! So very worth it… we lingered for a bit, ate some snacks and then headed back for the bikes. I couldn’t wait to get back to them, burn down the road and then proceed to the next adventure — getting down.

The Little Browns Creek trail (#1430) did not exist at the top. I knew this, per TopoFusion’s aerials. So we took the parallel road, following GPX, then dove off in search of alpine skinny.

Boy did we ever find some!

Challenge descent extraordinaire! Similar to Browns Creek (our climb) the trail would punish us with steep technical drops, then mellow out to meadow or star wars cruising. We were pleasantly surprised, and the 4000′ singletrack descent seemed to never end. That was definitely a good thing.

I think this was the best ride of the summer (so far anyway).

We regrouped in Poncha Springs, where we picked up brisket sandwiches from the roadside vendor set up right at the junction. I made it over to Crested Butte just before dark, and proceeded to chat the evening away with Dave and Lynda. They had quite a nice setup in Crested Butte for the month, and it was great to hear all about their adventures and Dave’s prep for CTR.

Lynda had planned a 10-12 hour ride, over Pearl and Star passes, from Crested Butte, with a bunch of singletrack thrown in. I had my doubts as I went to sleep, feeling empty. But the goal was to bury myself enough that resting in the heat and low elevation of AZ seemed a good option.

Doubts increased as I woke in the middle of the night with an unsettled stomach. Roadside brisket sandwich = bad idea. Prelude of things to come.

Lynda and I rolled out in the foggy damp morning, squinting to find the lines on Upper Upper and Whetstone. It was really fun, but somewhere in the mix my camera dropped out of my pouch, onto the trail. I didn’t realize for several miles up Brush Creek. After deliberating a while and feeling bad for not only showing up tired and stomach weak, but now turning back to search for a camera. I was already ‘that guy’ on the ride, and then some.

I pedaled hard, found the camera, then flipped it and began the chase. I had Lynda’s GPX track, but little idea of where it was going. Brush Creek was deep. I jumped off my bike and dunked my feet, hoping Lynda had stopped to take shoes off or otherwise delay.

She was waiting at a ‘Pearl Pass’ sign, where the actual route to the pass diverged from her GPS track. Oops. I followed lines around on the GPS basemap, and we determined we should stick with the sign and the route some jeeps had taken.

Climbing went well for a while. Just like yesterday on Antero, I couldn’t resist anything challenging to ride. But I could tell something was off. Lynda disappeared. I was walking, struggling, then barely moving. No sign of Lynda, I kept pushing hoping I could find her. 10-12 hours was out of the question today. I’d suffered enough with a lame stomach in the Wasatch 100 and had no interest in doing it again so soon.

I pushed and pushed as my body shut down. Suddenly I had to stop and find a big rock to overturn… NOW.

I felt a little better, but totally spent. I laid down next to my bike, done. I can think of worse locations to die slowly. (pic above)

I yelled ahead to a couple of hikers, “if you see my friend, tell her I am turning around, I’m done!” They heard me somehow, and I drifted off into fleeting bouts of unconsciousness.

Maybe a half hour later, Lynda came back down the road, having attained Pearl Pass. She joined me for a rest/nap in the meadow. Then I sat up and felt like I could ride out.

Unlike Wasatch, my faculties returned quickly. Mid-descent the love was back, and I was dancing all about the road, thoroughly shocked by how fun this seemingly mundane road could be.

Lynda, smiling on CB singletrack…. imagine that….

Lynda found us a bunch more singletrack to ride on the way back in. At first I was concerned about having to climb extra, but my mindset changed to hoping it would climb more!

“Scott, I think your power is back,” she says as I ground out the climb back Upper Upper. I was so happy to be back alive (and not tired) that I couldn’t resist standing to mash up things 3-4 gears higher than normal. Yes, I’m in Crested Butte!

I ended up with 40 miles and almost 6 hours moving time. Sorry again, Lynda, for screwing up the ride!

A giant burrito at Teocali’s was what Dr. Morris prescribed himself. The speakers vibrated the soothing guitar of the Grateful Dead. Beautiful girls and little kids rode by, seemingly in greater numbers than cars. The sun would shine and warm things up and just as it approached ‘hot’, the clouds would cover things up. Bikes were parked everywhere. People were smiling. Live music spread itself from the park into the streets of downtown. The mountains surrounding promised adventure and discovery, beauty and wonder.

Crested Butte seemed a utopia, the perfect place. I knew in the back of my head that this was not true. But I let myself believe and enjoy the lie. I was here, this was now, why not buy into a myth, temporarily, and one that leads to happiness?

The next day it was Dave’s turn to pummel me. We rode out and hit Snodgrass, climbing steeply at first. Dave set the tone for the ride, and that tone was fast.

The man was carrying near his full CTR kit, and I was having trouble staying with him. One good thing — Snod is a brilliant trail to hit at speed, aspen trees flying by like blurry white walls.

It’s impossible to slow down from an attack like that, so I kept the power on as we flew up Washington Gulch. I made Dave hurt a little here, much to my surprise. Little did I know that trail 403 was going to punish us further with more steepness.

No worry, the trail is above treeline and magnifico! Dave actually stopped here, then proceeded to rip the descent.

I could only catch glimpses through my lens as we made our way down to Gothic Road. Where did we go once we got there? Why up, of course!

Dave kept the gas on steady, and I fell behind. I’ve never seen him climb like this at elevation. He was looking good for CTR.

As we hit the descent/contour/beautiful/amazing/super section of trail 401 I heard a voice in my head, “slow down!” “stop!”

Dave was head down flying through the descent, and that just felt wrong to me. When I caught up to him I told him I was going to take photos and slow down. “Don’t blame ya, I’ll see you at the Homestead.” Guy was ready to go fast at CTR, and then some.

I rode the next day with Derrick Nehrenberg of Juicy Fruita. He took me for a ‘recovery ride’ of sorts, on some new trails near town. Interesting conversation about building community and his ambitious goals for mountain biking and trails in Fruita. He bought me a big sandwich at Mike’s in town, and again I bought into the (useful) myth of CB.

It was really fun to be hanging around Dave as he was knee deep in prep and obsession for the Colorado Trail Race. I’ve ridden with Dave a bunch and know his dedication, but it was nice to see that I’m not the only one that gets so deeply involved in this stuff. The fact that I was completely removed from the situation, as a non-participant, let me really view it from the outside and gain some insights not only on Dave, but myself. Just being in Colorado and crossing/riding the route a bunch left me pretty obsessed with CTR and wishing I were “in.” That longing feeling faded as I drove through Silverton, en route to Durango. The rain was absolutely pounding, and I had to wait in one lane construction — on the CTR route. I was either driving through a storm or barreling down on one, pretty much all the way back to Tucson.

a bit of singletrack around Vallecito Lake

I made a last stop in Durango, where I took an easy ride around Vallecito Lake with Krista Park. It was fun to catch up with her and hear about her upcoming big race, the Marathon World MTB Championships, where she’s one of two team USA members. She’s now in Germany with her husband, Todd, and the race is this Sunday (the 8th). Good luck Krista!

I kept the Corsica pointed south, running through all too many memories of good rides and good friends as the miles rolled by. Beyond all the great rides and adventures, I really enjoyed spending time with so many good folks and learning something different from each of them. In the end I was glad to be home, having been gone for a month and a half. I was so happy to be back with my best friend again. Tucson granted me a gentle re-introduction, with heavy monsoonal moisture keeping temperatures in the 80′s for the weekend. I rode past noon the first day, going way too long for my fatigue level. Noon and comfortable temps, clouds, in August? I couldn’t resist.

August 6th, 2010 | Category: Mountain Biking | Comments (2)

After finishing ~200 miles on the so-called “Dixie Quasi Lite” Loop, I pointed the car north and went back to Salt Lake City. Convalescence was the name of the game, staying and sleeping (a lot!) at my parents house. That house also happens to be the one where I grew up. I ended up staying in Salt Lake City for quite a while, by far the longest visit since I moved to AZ ten years ago.

Ten years is a long time, and I feel like I finally have a little perspective on the place. No matter who you are or where you’re from, there’s always something strange about returning to the place where you were raised. Memories are static, and when you move away from home, it’s almost as if home only exists in your mind. Does life really go on? Do people walk down the same streets? Do people still ride bikes on the trails that you used to know so well?

I don’t know which is harder to understand — that so much is different, or that so much is still the same?

I’ve been back many times, but usually only for a few days. I always squeeze in rides on some of the classics, and see the usual spots, but it always feels like a trip, and everything is so foreign that I can’t get a sense of the place. Some of the best memories are buried deeply, and a few jam-packed days are not enough to unearth them.

With the extended visit I was able to settle in and ride (what felt like) all the classic trails, including ones that would never get the nod on a 3-4 day weekend trip.

Like the ‘Rollercoaster’, above shoreline. When there’s only time for one climb challenge, we always ride one we call “hero hill” (and I did clean “hero hill”, as I try to nearly every visit).

Most gaslines are not fun to ride. This one most definitely is, as it plummets towards downtown SLC. That same gasline also ruptured this summer, closer to Red Butte Gardens, spewing oil down the creek and all the way to the Jordan River.

Another classic, the Solitude race course! I did my first MTB race here in 1994, the year the race started. I placed 5th in the beginner junior category, and my friend Matt Lowe was 2nd. I learned quickly from my mistakes though, and my next Intermountain Cup race I took home the “W.”

Pain fades quickly, but some things are happily impossible to purge. I’ll never forget how the second lap felt, climbing up the ski resort’s service road. I think I paced myself for one lap, not two. My legs and back couldn’t pedal or control the bike, and I was just hanging on, praying for the finish.

I almost raced Solitude again, in 2010. It would have been too much fun! I’m almost sorry that I didn’t, but the Wasatch 100 had taken hold of my imagination, such that I woke up thinking about it every morning. So I did that instead, and it was an adventure of the best self-destructive kind.

The Bobsled is in fine shape! And there’s a new trail that drops down to it. It’s got dozens of banked turns and the junked cars at the bottom have been turned into jumps and gap moves! Someone is really working to keep it in riding smooth.

I remember doing downhill time trials with Ben Tyler when we were ~16. We really pushed things back then, and crashed a lot. It would get eroded out every year, so the first run of the season was guaranteed carnage.

I don’t keep up with many friends from Salt Lake. For the most part they all went one way, and I went another. I would still like to reconnect with the guys I used to ride with, but so far it hasn’t happened. I did get a chance to hang out with Phong. I spent the weekend with him and his daughters, playing Vietnamese card games and going for walks/runs on the bike path by his house.

He also wanted to ride! So he dusted off his $50 DI special (DI = Desert Industries = mormon thrift store) and we hit the Mid Mountain Trail. He thought the trail climbed too much (!), but man did he hang in there and ride hard. So hard that he puked in the trees! He wants to go bikepacking some time, and I offered to take him, but I think the family obligations are going to be tough to get away from any time soon.

This is a ride we hit often. The “Deppe Dog” Loop out of Millcreek. In the above pic, taken by my Dad, I’m climbing the White Spine on the Wasatch Crest trail. Took me (and my brother, below) two tries to get it right. Heart rate and elevated sense awareness at the top, given that the climb is at 9k.

More on the ‘crest’…

And dropping to Desolation Lake. I should have been climbing here, well into the Wasatch 100. But alas…

Lower Millcreek is full of classic trails, and even, as my dad always says, “some of the best downhill in the state.”

I was able to join my mom for her traditional Mill Creek birthday ride! We rode out to the stream/rock on the Great Western Trail. She was cruising, especially being a lowlander these days (coming up from St. George). She says, “Yay, I can still ride with the boys.” Awesome.

Killyon Canyon! Holy forgotten classic trail and holy green hills! This one brought up some old memories. This was the first time I encountered crippling mud, first time my bike went into 100 pound mode. I thought I had made some kind of mistake. Thought that I had done something stupid. I’d ridden in mud successfully before, why was this any different? Scott, time for a lesson in clay based soil…

Killyon is under threat of being developed. A fund raising effort has started to purchase the key parcel for open space preservation. Website with info on that is here.

Back on the Wasatch Crest, this trail really surprised me. I guess I’ve dismissed it as a shuttle monkey trail, full of brake bumps and totally blown out.

Sometimes I’m pretty dumb.

It’s smooth, flowy, beautiful. A pleasure cruise. There’s a new bit of singletrack coming down from Guardsman Pass that is brilliantly done.

This ride was my Dad’s idea. Start at Guardsmans, ride the Crest down into ‘the Canyons’ ski resort, then hook up with the Mid Mountain Trail and take it back around to Park City, climbing back through the resort to Scott’s Pass and then Guardsman. It’s a healthy ride, no doubt, but showcases some of the best trails in the area, and no shuttle!

All went well, as expected, as we ripped down the Crest, leap frogging with shuttlers. The views were big, the flowers on fire, and things were almost going by too quickly.

After some trail confusion, we found our way onto the Mid Mountain and the pleasure cruise continued. The trail is super mellow as it contours in and out of aspen groves, staying roughly at 8,200 feet. Some of it was built by Sweco (trail bulldozer) but it has now ridden in nicely.

Classic sign. If only it were true (everywhere… ha!).

Trail construction! We waited while these guys rebuilt the trail in front of us. They were working super fast and built an amazingly smooth/rideable trail in the wake of a bunch of torn up ground. The reason? A new house was going in just above the trail.

We would soon discover that new houses have had a much larger affect on the trail than just a little slowdown. A whole new reroute had just been put in place. We traded a quarter mile of sweet descending through aspens for a freshly bulldozed detour that was twenty miles long if it was a half a mile.

I’m not really a fan of riding in construction zones, and that’s what it felt like for most of it. Busted up trees and piles of dirt everywhere, chunky rocks, choppy tread, and… a whole bunch of unnecessary climbing. Was it that bad? Not really. It was only bad because we knew what it used to be like. Expectations, expectations! It was clear that everyone else riding that day was on the same page. Many negative comments and grumblings about it.

My dad was just starting to get tired before we got there. Bad timing for sure. He soldiered on through it, but was having second thoughts about the rest of the ride. We offered to pick him up in Park City, but he was determined to make the big climb.

We finally made it to Spiro Trail in Park City, after what seemed like an eternity. Even I was getting tired and frustrated with Mid Mountain!

My dad turned right to climb, skipping the bailout option. I offered to ride ahead and pick him up below Scotts Pass, saving just a few hundred feet of climbing. My brother stayed with him as they moved slowly up Thanyes canyon. I stayed with them a while, watching as my dad would run out of steam after a few minutes of climbing. He was deep in the pain cave, but still going.

Eventually I peeled off and found my climbing rhythm, digging into the pedals as I rounded Shadow Lake and Jupiter Lift, site of so many great days of skiing with both my dad and brother. I started running into people once I got back on the Crest, and it made me laugh at how running into people on trails used to bother me so much when I lived here.

I picked up the car and drove it down the road a ways to wait for them. Turns out my dad was afflicted by the same thing that hit me in the Wasatch 100 — bad stomach.

“Stick a fork in me, I’m done.” It’s been a while since he’s uttered that line after a ride. He thinks it may be the longest ride he’ll ever do again, but somehow I bet he’ll top it, maybe with a functional stomach.

It was awesome to get to ride so much with both my dad and my brother. It worked both ways, since having me around made it so they were getting out more and riding trails they normally wouldn’t. All throughout the rides we would reminisce on funny stories and epics that happened in all these cool places. All part of the rich tapestry of MTB life. Thanks for all the rides guys.

The Crest -> Mid Mountain Loop was a nice finale to many rides in the Wasatch. I left for Colorado the next day…

August 5th, 2010 | Category: Mountain Biking | Leave a comment

winds shifting, sticky air
clouds curling over sky islands
the trail, flood re-formed with lines unfamiliar

flashes in three directions
three storms strategize, tapping available moisture,
snakes, scales shine with red light

sunset, the world is on fire
monsoon season, Tucson

home.

July 30th, 2010 | Category: Mountain Biking | Comments (1)

This is one of those ones I’ve been talking about for years.

The Wasatch 100 is a running race held every fall. It’s been going on for decades and is regarded as one of the hardest 100′s. 100% of the route is open to bikes. Some sections are frequently ridden. Others… not so much. I’m not sure anyone has ever ridden some pieces of it.

My older brother is responsible for my interest in the route. We’ve long been curious about the question of which is faster: running or biking. Or, more importantly, can the route even be done on a bike?

Back in 2001 my brothers started at the beginning of the route. They pushed their bikes up to the ‘Chinscraper’ bowl. They lost the “trail”. They slid around on snow fields and eventually ran out of water before finding any viable route. Though they had GPS, they did not have a GPS track to follow.

A highly detailed GPS track became available some years later, and I have studied it too many times without acting on it. This summer I decided to put the big talk to rest and actually attempt the thing.

The doubts were many. I read reports that claimed Chinscraper was a class three (hands required) scramble. Others talked about overgrown deer trails that were impossible to follow. Everyone talked about how much climbing there is. The claim is 27,000′ in 100 miles. My brother recalled having to push his bike nearly the entire 3000′ climb just to get to Chinscraper. Many of the sections I actually knew intimidated me as well. The Sessions Mountains are no piece of cake. Even the ‘easy’ parts are steep and full of leg crushing climbs.

Geoff Roes set a smoking new record last summer, at 18:30. I knew there was no chance of touching that time, but I hoped to be semi-competitive within the runners. I thought I could finish somewhere between 20 and 22 hours. But I really had no idea.

My Dad kindly offered to drive me the half hour to the start line. “As early as you want to go…” he said. At 4:30am I gave him a hug and hopped the locked gate to ride over to the Bonneville Shoreline Trail. Under cover of darkness I pedaled through the foothills, gaining elevation on mercifully mellow trail. I knew these would be some of the easiest miles, and the warmup was very welcome.

It was alarmingly warm — no sleeves or warmers necessary. I hit the junction with the Great Western Trail, mentally preparing myself for a long hike.

But no! My GPS showed switchback after switchback, and I rode the first ~700′ of vertical without so much as unclipping. “I can get used to this climb,” I thought, hiking up a short pitch. I didn’t have any further runs of 700′, but I did ride a lot more than I expected.

As usual, expectation is king. I am sure I walked a lot, but I don’t remember anything too bad. Memory altered by pre-existing notions — how interesting.

I do remember flipping my bike up and rolling it in front of me several times. I was only getting a small taste of the overgrowth to come, at this point.

I passed a small pipe spring, but still had plenty of water. Soon after the trail turned south, finally, and I got my first views of the Chinscraper bowl (see pic above). “No way I can get a bike up that” was the obvious thought. Anxiety building, I tried to stop looking up, tried to focus on the task right in front of my feet.

I stopped and looked down, not up, as the sun broke through the deep canyons of the Wasatch, writing giant V’s on the city below. Some houses wouldn’t see sun for an hour after their neighbors. My world stayed blue and dark, as I traversed the western slopes. A brief contour led to speed, cooling wind and a small hunters camp. My bike was now useless. It was time to climb.

The GPS track was right on, following a sometimes distinct trail up to the rocks. Now I was intently looking and studying. It didn’t seem that bad.

Looking down from Chinscraper

I had to make some careful, deliberate movements, especially with my weak ankle. It would have been nice to ditch the bike and be able to crawl up, using my hands. But I didn’t feel like I was in danger, it was just really slow. Plant the bike, take a step, move it up, take another step. Check the footing, lift it up and place it again. Repeat.

I sighed in relief at the top. The first 9 miles had taken 2:45. Ooof. Now for the last 91!

Glorious alpine singletrack, oh how I worship thee.

The sun graced my skin only at saddles, as I zoomed from one steep descent into the reciprocal climb. The trail was narrow, overgrown, precipitous. It was nasty, dangerous and oh-so-heavenly.

Miles were not going fast, but I didn’t really care. Landis spring filled my bottles. I continued my ridgeline vision quest, occasionally stealing glimpses of the Francis Peak “golf balls.” Snow forced minor detours, and climbs forced more bike pushing.

I was happy to pop out onto a road. Ahead was a fall line climb on the road, but I laughed at it, mocked it. I’ll take 200 of those over the kind of climbing I’ve dealt with so far.

I wrapped around the golf balls, finally putting my heavy wheels to good use.

I suffered to get here with my bike, but it was all worth it. The road switched surfaces to smooth graded. The whole of the Great Salt Lake was before me, and I hurdled towards it at 30 mph, free of gravity at last.

I smiled, “I’d kill myself if I had to run down this…”

Massive road descent behind me, I followed flowing dirt tracks into meadows and mud bugs, eventually gasping in horror as the GPS led me where there was no trail. Hundreds of runners really go through here every year?

It was deer trail time, but first it was time to load up on water. The creek flowed strongly beside me, and for all I knew this would be the last I saw of it. It would likely be the last I saw of any water for 6-7 hours of riding, and it was starting to get warm.

So I stopped and treated 200 oz of water. Let’s just say that adding 10 pounds to your pack is not a good way to start out on this deer trail. Even taking 10 pounds out of your pack isn’t a good way to start it. Starting it, period, with a bike, is a bad idea!

I struggled pretty badly as my bike got caught on branch after branch. I slipped around on steep slopes, fought through fallen trees, hurt my ankle, and cursed up a storm as I encountered further streams I could have taken water from. I found the deer trail to be a lot more challenging than Chinscraper or anything thus far.

It might have been that my stomach had turned south just before it. Mild nausea wasn’t too alarming — I was sure it would go away. I felt like my pace had been reasonable, I’d hydrated and eaten well, so it was probably just a temporary thing.

Even still, my split for the ‘deer trail’ segment was twice as slow as the fastest runners. Even runners who finished in 30 or more hours covered it faster. The route is not bike friendly!

I emerged from the thicket, pushing my bike towards the first familiar spot on the route. The “Bountiful B” parking lot. To my surprise, there was a mountain biker there, sporting body armor on the back of his pack. He walked over as I tried to figure out the best way to get myself and bike through the man-made barricade that did not seem to have any opening. Clearly this was not a ‘real’ trail (as if I didn’t know that already).

“Where did you come from?”

Hmm, how to answer a question like that? “Uhh, Francis Peak?”

“But… how did you get from there over to here?”

“I took a deer trail behind those barricades?”

“Oh, I don’t know that one.”

“You don’t want to know it.”

His next question was, “How did you get to Francis Peak? On the road?”

“No… ever heard of Chinscraper?”

“I don’t know that one either.”

“You don’t want to know it.”

I smiled at my sarcastic answers, sitting down to mix some perpeteum in a bottle. He was off to rip some incredibly massive descent back into town. My fate was on the spine of the Wasatch.

The ensuing miles of dirt road should have been a section to gain time on the runners, but I barely matched them. The reason? My stomach was falling apart and I grew weaker by the minute.

At the “Sessions Lift Off” things were looking grim. I’d ridden this section as a part of epic rides with my brothers and I knew how relentless and difficult it is. But I got to climbing just the same, and through quality suffering I cleaned almost the entire climb. And I loved it, as much as one can when falling apart. The trail is wide open, well built, and just steep enough to be challenging, but not impossible.

The next descent found my hands in death grip braking, and a glance at the next climb was not encouraging. Drop 600′ only to gain it right back up, hike-a-bike style.

I will always have a special affinity for the Great Western Trail, here in the Sessions Mountains, but this was probably my worst traversal of it. I made pretty good time, but miserable time. I thought with the pace I’d run that I’d be enjoying this, but I wasn’t. I was in survival mode, and it was barely mile 30.

I was prepared to feel my body breaking, smashed and torn down on this ride. I expected it. So I was able to keep moving at a steady pace. I tanked water and ate only stomach friendly foods, but nothing was working.

For a couple miles the body shutdown was irrelevant. Choice ridgeline miles through tiny scrubs that make it feel more like 12,000′ than 9,000′. Views along the county line that stretch from the rural communities of Morgan County to downtown Salt Lake City. I always feel like I’m the first person to ever enjoy riding a bicycle up here.

Outside of the ridgeline, every climb was mostly hiking, even beyond ‘the brink’ and towards Swallow Rocks. My feet were dying, big toes going numb and ankle throbbing. I tried to ride as much as I could. After the rocks my bike decided to start pulling its weight. I contoured and coasted, bounced down red steps, and got pushed by tail winds along ridgeline roads.

My split from Swallow Rocks to Big Mtn was 2 minutes faster than Geoff (the rest were all slower). Yay wheels! That actually surprises me, because I was hurting badly. You see, I had an “aid station” waiting for me at Big Mountain, and though I felt like dropping out, I knew I had to make it there to eat something different, rest and re-evaluate. Time stretched on, every climb seemed out of place in my memory, yet somehow I was “fast.”

photo by Paula Morris

I didn’t expect everyone to come out! My nieces/nephews were there, and Paula had hiked up the trail to meet me, even though she wasn’t supposed to with her hip injury. I saw someone on the trail from way above, and I knew it had to be her.

I had debated about whether to accept ‘support’ before the ride. I considered this ride a proof of concept and recon ride, more than anything. Plus, the runners have aid stations roughly every 7 miles, and can have pacers for most of the route. So it seemed fair to me that I meet my family once or twice. The lack of aid stations had already seriously cost me in carrying that 200 oz up the deer trail, so I felt pretty justified in sitting down to eat real food and drink cold lemonade.

photo by Paula Morris

I just hoped I could keep it down. I was shattered, and the idea of hopping in the car was tempting. But everyone had come out to watch me ride, not drop out! Besides, I knew there was still a chance I could get my stomach back in order and finish this thing. It had taken 9 hours to cover these first 40 miles, but they were some of the hardest, at least in theory.

photo by Paula Morris

It was really cool to see everyone. It’s been so long since I’ve done anything that isn’t totally isolating and impossible to spectate. It was really a huge boost to have a cheering section. The kids even went for hike on the trail I’d come down, after I left.

Without the aid station I don’t think I would have made it much further. Thanks so much guys!

photo by Paula Morris

My brother joined in at Big Mountain, as well, so I now had a pacer. After suffering alone and seeing no one on the trail (only the MTBer at Bountiful B), it was nice to have someone to ride with. I had long been suspicious that I was too weak to ride things I should be able to. Riding with my brother it was pretty clear that my legs held plenty of strength, I just couldn’t access it for longer than 30 seconds or so before the rest of my body would want to keel over on the side of the trail.

photo by Brian Morris

We rode and hiked along the GWT south of Big Mtn. It was quite pleasant riding, easy by comparison to previous miles. My stomach gurgled and fought itself, but for the moment I could pretend to be a mountain biker.

photo by Brian Morris

We turned off to ride “ball bearing” or “baby head” ridge (your choice, it’s called both). This descent is not that friendly to bikes, as the pic of me gingerly walking down illustrates. At least it’s not aerobically challenging, but we were rarely going any faster than a good runner could smoke the trail. It was actually a lot smoother than I expected, but the overgrowth makes it impossible to keep any speed, and you ride the brakes almost the entire time.

photo by Brian Morris

We continued dropping into the heat of six thousand feet. The high in SLC was 96. It was warm on the Sheep Trail, but it never seemed stifling to me — credit living in AZ I guess. Maybe the fact that I was losing the ability to pedal easy slopes had something to do with it. Hard to generate any heat when you can’t hardly pedal.

I was glad my brother was here to witness the suffering and clue me in that it was even worse than I thought. He later told me that he had to grab the brakes to avoid ramming into me — on the climbs!

I collapsed on the side of the grassed over pipeline trail, knowing that I was too far gone. I needed a good day and this was not it. There was little chance of salvaging the day. I still had unknown trails ahead, so I continued the recon effort.

The W100 route uses some funky trails, to say the least. A little cairn marked the beginning of a trail that would parallel I-80, and from the look of it, was only ever used by W100 runners. I was fairly numb to impossibly brushy trails by now, and actually kind of enjoyed this descent, with all its nuttiness.

We crossed I-80 and it was immediately obvious how easily my brother could ride away from me. I was shelled, stomach still revolting, but I wasn’t ready to give in just yet. I’d had a mental image of a shaded spot next to the creek in Lambs Canyon in my head for the last three hours.

photo by Brian Morris

I reached the imagined spot, dropped my feet into the creek and began contemplating the error of my ways. I tried eating, drinking, nothing felt good. I knew I was done, but still wanted to make Millcreek, give my stomach one more chance to grow up.

I could barely pedal pavement. “Five minutes to shake this off.” We reached the steep trail out of Lambs and I cried “Uncle!!!!” No more. 8 hours was too long to suffer with this. Had it really been so long ago that I felt ‘good’?? I was also now running well behind a 20 hour pace. It had already been 13 hours, and I had only made it to mile 53.

My parents picked us up at I-80, and I was soon home, showered and completely fried. My stomach still hasn’t come back to normal, days later. The antibiotics I took are the current suspect for the stomach woes, and it was indeed a very strange stomach issue — unlike anything I’ve experienced before. I’ve been doing this sort of thing long enough to have a pretty good idea of pacing, eating and drinking and I can’t say I had any deficiencies anywhere. Who knows, though, there are so many things going on, and this is a bugger of a route. Even if it was the antibiotics clearing my gut of ten year old good bacteria I still don’t regret the decision. They were still worth it.

I’m really disappointed by this one. I was so looking forward to climbing the steep trails on the latter part of the route, seeing if I still had the legs to do it. I am now somewhat confident that I can ride the route in a relatively fast time, but until I do it, it’s just big talk, an unknown and something to daydream about.

In other words, I’ll be back.

July 17th, 2010 | Category: Mountain Biking | Comments (2)