Every time I’ve ever ridden the Kokopelli, there’s been some big central event that winds up being the standout memory for the whole trip. After the first day of riding, I wasn’t sure what that standout memory was going to be. The heat and thirst? My pride in the way Lisa powered through the first day, getting stronger as she went? Jumping into the Colorado after the ride? Relaxing and eating in the shade at our camp?
All good memories and stories. But none of them would wind up being the big standout. That would — surprisingly — come on day two of the ride.
Why “surprisingly?” Well, provided you ride the Kokopelli Trail the way we did — start from Moab, camp at Dewey Bridge, finish in Loma, CO — the second day’s riding is much easier than the first day’s. Where the first day feels like nothing but huge climbs — 9000 feet of climbing in 60 miles or so — the second day has only a few thousand feet of climbing, spread out over 80 miles.
So the second day should be the day where we just spin along, taking in the big desert views, putting lots of miles on our bikes.
As it turns out, things sometimes don’t go as you’d expect.
Good Start
We got started fairly early in the morning and began the day with some of the funnest trail on the Kokopelli; the section right after Dewey Bridge is rolling hard-baked desert doubletrack with occasional short, technical, ledgy climbs.
On a singlespeed, you have to go full-tilt into these kinds of moves; you won’t get to the top without considerable momentum at the bottom. So, as I attacked one of these moves, the move . . . counterattacked. Specifically, I took the left line and misjudged the flexibility (or lack thereof) of a scrub oak’s branch. I hit the branch with my left arm; the branch didn’t give, and I bounced to the right, madly pinwheeling my arms and kicking out of my pedals.
It was a decidedly ugly save, but I celebrated anyway. I remained on my feet, with nothing but a trivial cut on my arm.
Sadly, my new FattyFly SS — my beloved bike with the custom paint — took a little more damage than I did.
When this happens, you have the choice of getting upset, or not. A long time ago, I developed the philosophy of not. It’s a bicycle. A tool. A means to an end, not the end itself. It will get beat up as I use it the way I like to ride it.
So I only cried a little bit.
Fateful Moment
We crossed the pavement that led back to camp — our 90-minute ride on dirt could have also been an easy 10-minute downhill road ride, but what what fun would that be? — and started yet another section of desert singletrack. As Kenny and I rode side-by-side for a few minutes, I asked: “So, now that you’ve had it for a while, what do you think of the belt drive instead of a chain?”
“I like it, but I don’t love it,” said Kenny. While you don’t have to lube it, he went on, you do have to maintain it in other ways, and squeaking and popping were a problem for him.
By the way, that’s foreshadowing right there.
Lisa and I rode ahead for a little while. After losing sight of Kenny and Heather, we stopped and got something to eat while we waited.
In a few minutes, Heather rode up to us. Alone.
“Kenny’s belt just broke,” she said. “He has another one, but it’s probably not the right size. He’s trying to make it work, but if he’s not here soon, he’ll have to go back to camp for a different belt.”
“Don’t worry,” I replied. “I’ll use The Secret to bring him here.
And sure enough, Kenny appeared, about ten minutes later. But he wasn’t on his bike.
Which goes to show, I guess, that I needed to be more specific when using The Secret.
But Kenny had used his time running over to us to come up with a plan. A really good plan.
Kenny’s Plan
You should pay attention to this part, because the plan’s a really good one, as I believe I have mentioned.
“I’m going back to camp to get a new belt for my bike,” Kenny said. “I’ll fix my bike, then drive Elden’s truck over toward Westwater. You guys go on ahead and I’ll meet you there, we can fill up with water from the truck, and we can keep going from there.
Kenny then elaborated, “I’ll drive to the railroad trestle right before the ranger station — since that’s where the trail meets the road — and then get on my bike and ride on the Kokopelli back toward you. But if you get to the trestle before me, continue on to the Ranger Station so you won’t have to wait to get water.”
Here, I’ll draw a helpful map, for those of you who like hand-drawn maps:
So, Lisa and I were to look for Kenny at Meeting Place #1 (or just be intercepted by him along the trail), and if we beat him there, take the 3/4-mile-long road (or, for those of you who prefer metric, that’s 2640 cubits) to Meeting Place #2 and wait there. Kenny would check Meeting Place #2 before coming back to Meeting Place #1 and riding up the trail.
We all agreed this was an excellent plan.
Heather volunteered to go along with Kenny; Lisa and I took off.
My Math Skills Are Defeated By My Exaggeration Skills
My two sons are both extremely gifted in math and sciences. I am very proud of them. I, on the other hand, am gifted at the opposite end of the spectrum: I am good at making things up and exaggerating.
So it shouldn’t really come as too big of a surprise when, after making good time on the trail, Lisa and I rolled up to the “Meeting Place #1″ and she said, “Oh, I thought you said that was supposed to be 40 miles away from camp. It’s only been 33.”
“I may have rounded up,” I replied.
In any case, Kenny and Heather had not yet arrived. So we continued on to “Meeting Place #2,” where we filled up our Camelbaks and bottles (each of us carrying extra water this day, not wanting to relive the stress from the previous day of not knowing whether you have enough).
Kenny had not shown up yet. Not that we had really expected him to. It could take a while to make that repair, and we didn’t know how long it would get back to camp anyway. Plus there was the drive.
So we took off our shoes and walked down the boat ramp, standing in the Colorado River. 61 degrees (12.89 Reaumur, for you fans of the metric system). Heaven.
No Kenny yet, so we sat at a picnic table and had lunch.
A Quick Aside About Eating
You would think that as a cyclist with years of experience on long rides, I would be very smart about food to eat during big ol’ epic rides.
I have just discovered that I have been a fool.
While I have always loaded my pack with things like energy bars and energy gels and energy inhalants (OK, I haven’t actually heard of energy inhalants, but the idea is interesting), Lisa brings things like turkey and swiss sandwiches. And salt and vinegar potato chips. And Swedish Fish. And Mountain Dew.
Her food is better than mine. And so I’m very happy to report that it was her job to put food together for us for the day, which means that when we sat down to eat at the picnic table, it was not too different from actually having a picnic.
Though I’m a little disappointed she didn’t pack potato salad or a watermelon.
Enforced Leisure
We finished eating. An hour had elapsed since we arrived.
“I’m ready for Kenny to show up,” Lisa announced. But we had no phone signal — which we knew was also the case back at our Dewey Bridge camp — and so there was no way to find out where he was.
Stubbornly, Kenny continued to not show up.
We laid down on the picnic table and took a nap.
Kenny did not show up.
Two hours had now gone by, and began to speculate on what could have gone wrong. We considered the following possibilities:
Kenny had needed to drive into Moab to get a part for his bike.
Kenny had discovered that The Bikemobile is a fantastic vehicle, and had stolen it.
Kenny had been in a car wreck
Heather had poisoned Kenny
We gave each of these the serious consideration they were due, then tried to figure out what — in the absence of any information at all about where they were and what had happened — we should do.
Should we get on our bikes and ride to the freeway, where we might be able to make calls or check voicemail? No, if we did that, Kenny might show up at Meeting Place #2 while we were gone, compounding the problem.
Should we go to Meeting Place #1? No, there’d be no point to that — Kenny knew to come to this place, which — after all — had trees and picnic tables and drinkable water and a river to cool ourselves off in whenever we wanted.
How did anyone ever connect up with anyone else before cel phones existed?
The thing is, apart from growing concern about Kenny and Heather, we were actually having a really nice afternoon. As two usually-antsy people who are normally incapable of just sitting around, there was literally nothing for us to do, so we relaxed. We opened the Kindle app on Lisa’s iPhone and read aloud several chapters of A Race Like No Other, a book that talks about the NYC Marathon.
And in short, we basically had an enjoyable, lazy afternoon. Exactly the opposite of what we had expected from the day, but awesome in its own way.
Grand Reunion
By the time three hours had elapsed, we had become worried. I persuaded Lisa that we needed to start making calls and figure out what’s going on before it got dark.
We decided we’d ride our bikes out toward the I70 freeway, where I was pretty sure we’d get reception.
Then, just as we were putting on our helmets and strapping on our Camelbaks, Kenny drove up. Looking visibly relieved to find us.
The Second-Hand Part of the Story
When Kenny and Heather left us to go repair Kenny’s bike, Kenny rigged a tow-rope made of his busted belt and an inner tube, and Kenny and Heather took turns pulling each other on the road back to camp.
They got to the camp in good time, fixed Kenny’s bike, and drove out to the trestle (Meeting Spot #1).
“There’s no way they could have gotten here yet,” said Kenny (except, of course, we had).
“No,” agreed Heather. “They’d have had to ride 30 singletrack miles in less than two hours.”
Unfortunately, Heather was working from my “40 miles from Dewey Bridge to Westwater” assertion, instead of the actual distance: 33 miles or so. My superpower — exaggeration — was biting me in the butt.
“Then there’s no point in us checking the Ranger Station (Meeting Place #2) to see if they’ve arrived, is there?” said Kenny.
“Nope.”
And so they got on their bikes and rode up the Kokopelli Trail, on what they thought was an intercept course with us, but was actually in the opposite direction.
After riding for two hours — almost all the way to Cisco (about 5 miles from where Kenny broke his belt in the first place) — they agreed Lisa and I could not have been that slow and turned around. At which point they discovered how much faster that trail was in the opposite direction.
Resolution
Even then, they didn’t think Lisa and I would be at the Ranger Station. Kenny only came and checked it as a “cross your T’s” type measure.
We all agreed, once we were together again, that it was too late, too hot, and too windy (and I had become too lazy) to try to finish the ride, so we headed back to camp.
As we drove to Dewey Bridge, Kenny looked at me. Questioningly. Beseechingly, even.
I knew what he was asking. And I had my response ready.
I realized, pretty early into riding the Kokopelli Trail last weekend, that I have become the geezer with a story for every occasion. Pretty much every mile or so, I’d tell whoever was around me — Kenny, Lisa, or Heather — about something else that had happened at that spot another time I had been on this trail.
And it’s not like it had to be a great story, either. I am not making the following, which I recounted to Lisa, up:
“It was about here one year that I looked down and saw a big adjustable wrench. I remember thinking to myself, ‘Huh, that might be useful,’ but I didn’t pick it up. Then, about five hours later Dug had a big ol’ mechanical that would have been easily fixed if only we’d had a big adjustable wrench.”
At some point, everyone stopped acknowledging that I had just told (yet another) “I remember when . . . ” story.
Fatty exists, therefore he talks. Not much you can do about it.
After finishing one of my “I remember when” stories, I pointed out, “The Kokopelli’s just a big ride. Big enough that something’s going to happen. Every ride on the Kokopelli’s going to result in a story.”
And it did.
Day 1: Hot and Climby
Kenny, Heather, Lisa and I started early in the day — about 7:30 AM — from the Slickrock trailhead in Moab, Utah. Our plan was to ride the 62 (or so) miles and 9000 feet of climbing to Dewey Bridge the first day, where we’d stashed my truck full of camping gear.
We were comfortable as we rode up Sand Flats road, which must be the worst-named road in America, being not even remotely flat. It’s a long grind and a big climb.
It was already warm by the time we got to the singletrack / doubletrack section that connects Sand Flats road to the La Sal loop.
As we rode — the temperatures dropping as we went higher and higher — we saw a couple dozen runners heading in the opposite direction. Wearing race bibs. I asked and found that they were on the last leg of a multi-day stage race run of the Kokopelli: Desert RATS.
So we became their rolling cheering section, telling each of them one of the following:
Looking good
Looking strong
Keep it up
You’re doing awesome
You’re doing great
Beware of the badger around the next bend
OK, I didn’t really tell anyone to beware of the badger, but I would have if it had occurred to me.
The climb up to the La Sal mountain loop road leads to a big (paved) descent, followed by a big (paved) climb.
It was then we all wished we’d started earlier. Like at about 6:00 or 6:30 AM. It was hot. Like 95 degrees Fahrenheit (or for those of you who prefer metric, 554.67 rankine).
Right at the bottom of the climb, I stopped and dunked my jersey in a roadside stream, then put the jersey back on.
The coolness wasn’t just wonderful. It was exquisite. Indeed, I assert that this may have been the most intelligent thing I have ever done in my life.
We got to the top of North Beaver Mesa, where we ate lunch and refilled our Camelbaks and bottles, using the same canal the cows do to get their water.
Hey, the cattle looked healthy; I’m sure the water was very clean.
We dropped into Fisher Valley, and then started up toward 7-Mile Pass, which begins with a killer hike-a-bike section.
Thirst
That’s when the day stopped being merely hot and became hot. The sun was right overhead, we were pushing our bikes, there was no breeze at all, and you could — at least it seemed to me — feel the heat radiating from the rocks.
We were all hot. Tired. And slowing down.
And that’s when Lisa let me know she was worried. “I don’t think I’ve got enough water,” she said.
Out in the middle of nowhere, in the hottest part of the day, where there’s no chance of finding a stream, on a ride where you don’t know how much further you’ve got to go, that’s about the scariest feeling there can be. Those of you who have run out of water on a hot day with a long ride still in front of you know what I mean.
So I tried to ease her concerns by recounting the story of the time Rocky and I had done this ride and he had actually run out of water and become delirious and unable to ride.
To my surprise, this did not help.
So I tried another strategy. “Actually, I packed extra water for you without telling you, just in case the day got hot.”
Yes, I know. I am a wonderful person.
However, I should probably point out that the “not telling” part was because I knew she wouldn’t have let me carry water for her if she knew what I was up to; I was taking the chicken way out.
But let’s just focus on the “wonderful person” part, OK?
Best Camp in the World
Once you climb 7 Mile Mesa, the hardest part of the Kokopelli Trail is behind you. It’s more downhill than up, and before long you can see the Colorado River and its lush green banks standing out in contrast to the desert around it.
It’s beautiful.
We dropped into the Dewey Bridge area, where we had stashed my truck. The nearby campground was mostly vacant, leaving us to pick the best campsite in the area — one with a giant tree providing shade.
First, though, we all took off our shoes and jumped into the Colorado River. The shock of the cold was amazing, and wonderful. The current was so strong though, that if you submerged yourself, you’d come up about 20 feet downstream.
Lisa and I — wanting to rinse the sweat and multiple layers of sunscreen and bug spray off — found a way around that problem. We took turns planting ourselves and then holding on to the other’s foot, allowing us as much time as we wanted underwater.
After that, we toweled off, set up camp in the (glorious) shade, and made a spaghetti dinner.
Tomorrow we’d have more miles (80 instead of 60) but lots less climbing ahead of us.
Oh, and the temperatures were suppose to get warmer.
A Note from Fatty:I have been loving reading all these 100 Miles of Nowhere race reports — it feels like I’m at a really awesome family reunion. Today there’ll be more reports, with the blog updating pretty much every hour.
You know what else these reports have done for me? Get me totally energized about ramping up my fundraising efforts for the fight against cancer. You people inspire me. Thank you.
I’m a 100 pounds overweight true fat cyclist, and yesterday I did something I never did before: I raced 100 km. The longest I ever cycled before was 76 km. Once. I’m proud.
And I won the Snailwatching-women-in-Munich-Division of the 100 Miles of Nowhere.
My race was so boring that my adventure of the day was the following:
On my first round a grapewine snail blocked my path and I just managed not to run over it.
On my second round I was prepared and rode a wide arc around it.
On my third round I forgot about it and just missed it by an inch.
On my fourth round somebody else had run over it. At least I didn’t do it.
RIP grapevine snail.
By the last round it was only a spot on the road, and nothing really happend in between. And I managed not to die of boredom.
A Note from Fatty: Part II in the video series about my weekend with Team RadioShack is now posted. Check it out:
In today’s video, you’ll see me ogling the signed Madone, as well as drooling on my own. This is also the video where Johan Bruyneel and I present the giant checks for LiveStrong and World Bicycle Relief.
If you missed the first installment of this series, check it out here.
The Ride Begins
I always experience an odd moment at the beginning of a major ride or race. Just before it begins, I think something along the lines of, “It’s finally here. It’s starting in just a few seconds. This thing I’ve been thinking of as ‘in the future’ is about to become the present.”
This thought is usually accompanied by a twinge of nausea. Or, in this case, by a pretty big batch of nausea.
But then I start riding, and the nervousness goes away and I start enjoying the ride or race or whatever.
Except in this case, the nervousness just changed.
For the first hour or more of the ride, I never took either hand off the bars, not even to get a drink. Whenever we stopped at a light, I unclipped well ahead of stopping. I focused constantly on keeping a good distance behind the next bike, and was careful never to suddenly brake or stand.
I just did not want to crash these guys out.
That said, the first several miles — from the hotel to the base of the Mt. Lemmon climb — was easy. The road was flat, and people were talkative. I stayed in the middle of the pack, riding and talking with the U23 racers (Ben King of Australia shown with me here).
After riding a while (45 minutes? An hour?), we reached the base of the climb. Feeling good, feeling fresh, with adrenaline surging, I drifted toward the front.
Every couple of minutes, Johan would pull up beside me in the team car and ask, “How’re you feeling? How’s the bike? You doing OK?”
I’m pretty sure Johan was concerned for my health…as well as for his riders’ safety.
We eventually narrowed into (more or less) two columns, with me and Chris Horner — yeah, really — in second position.
And then the riders setting the pace dropped back, and I was in front.
Now, I would assert that I did a pretty good job holding the pace where it was. I learned later, however, that there was some grumbling toward the back about “Fatty ramping the pace up right at the beginning of the climb.”
And by “toward the back” I mean “by Lance Armstrong.”
Yes — and I believe this was caught on film — Lance complained about my pace.
Which may be the single most awesome thing that has ever happened to me.
Getting Some Help and Advice
I dropped back a little after a few minutes of pulling — and Lance rode up alongside of me.
“Pull those armwarmers down, Fatty, or you’re going to overheat,” he said. And then, “This climb’s 25 miles long, and you’ve got a car beside you. You don’t need any extra weight; give me that second bottle.”
Which I did, without — to my relief — crashing Lance out.
We then rode and talked for several minutes — honestly, just chatter. He mentioned he really likes the 2010 Fat Cyclist kit, and asked me to send him a jersey, socks, and set of armwarmers.
I believe I can oblige him on that.
Then Lance rode forward, moving on to talk with someone else. Putting me in the surreal position of sucking Lance’s wheel.
Then, as Daniel the video guy leaned out the window with his camera, Lance dropped back and said, “Put your hand on my back like you’re giving me an assist up the hill.”
And that brings up one of the most interesting things about my ride with Team RadioShack — what Lance is like on the bike. I noticed him moving back and forth in the group, talking and joking with his teammates — especially with the U23 riders — and looking like he was having a great time.
I kinda got the sense that this is the “real” Lance. A guy who loves riding his bike, and who loves riding with his team.
Which sounds pretty familiar.
The Fuse, The Bomb
About nine miles into the climb, I found I was having a hard time staying with the group. I was maxed out, and it wasn’t enough. I kept asking myself, “Am I losing power, or are they accelerating?”
I was pretty sure they were accelerating.
Half a mile later, I knew it was over — I couldn’t hold their pace any longer. “Goodnight everybody,” I said in my Donny and Marie voice.
“No way, Fatty,” replied Taylor Phinney, and he gave me a push back to the group.
I dropped back a couple more times, each time getting a boost back to the group by various riders.
And then, around mile ten, it happened. They accelerated. Hard. They just flew up the hill.
Within moments, I was at the back.
And then, moments later, I was shot out the back, babysat by a couple of club riders who were along with the group. Though I do take solace in the fact that I was able to catch and drop one of the U23 sprinters.
And after the club riders peeled off, I was completely alone.
OK, the truth is, I was never completely alone. Because Johan told one of the team cars to stay with me at all times — piloted by Philippe, with Glenn taking all these great photos. And with The Runner cheering me on.
I can’t even tell you how many times I was given an opportunity to pull over and throw my bike in the back, calling it a day. But here’s the thing: would you, given the opportunity to ride with (and eventually be dropped by) a top pro team, want to finish the ride by abandoning?
No, me either. So I kept climbing.
Then I saw the pros start coming down. Flying. Several of them yelling “Go Fatty!” as they went by.
Or maybe they were yelling “Slow Fatty!” Hard to know for sure.
But it reminded me a lot of Leadville — the way the fast guys on their way down are willing to shout some encouragement for the slower guys still working on getting to the top. Very, very cool of them.
I kept climbing.
The End
And then the team car passed me and waved me over. “You’ve passed the turnaround point,” Philippe said.
“Whu?” I replied.
“About half a mile ago. That’s where everyone else turned around.”
“So I’m the first one to get here?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
At which point I drew an imaginary finish line on the road and crossed it. “I win,” I said.
I was fully expecting to freeze to death on the descent — snow was more than a foot deep on either side of the road, and the wind was cold and strong.
So I have Glenn to thanks for my life: he loaned me the jacket he was wearing.
Knowing that I would never catch the pros on the descent — they had a massive lead on me and were increasing that lead every second — I cruised comfortably down the road. Enjoying the view. Considering that I had been on a ride with the pros.
And making sure I turned whenever the road did.
By the time I got back to the hotel, everyone else had been back for half an hour or so. Still, Johan was out in the lot, waiting for me. We talked about the bike, and talked about the ride.
Then, after a quick shower (and after somehow managing to not lay down and take a nap) I met Johan and Lance for lunch, where they assessed my riding performance (mediocre but tenacious) and told me what my big surprise is: I get to bring my family to the Tour of California for a stage, and ride in the team car. Lance suggested I try to be there for a mountaintop finish stage. Which sounds pretty darn good to me.
And then we talked about doing it again next year.
PS: I’m heading out right now to be interviewed for The Story, a public radio talk show hosted by Dick Gordon. Assuming I don’t completely freeze up and stutter and pass out, this interview should air sometime in mid-January. I’m nervous as can be. Wish me luck.
