I am convinced now that the desert has no heart, that it presents a riddle which has no answer, and that the riddle itself is an illusion created by some limitation or exaggeration of the displaced human consciousness. -EA

I did not know what I was inviting, and now I’m paying the price. I slept beautifully Saturday evening (thank you M and Marni for getting such a close campsite), had a sublime breakfast Sunday, ate and drank constantly on the drive home. Monday morning I felt subtly nauseous, and that only got worse as the day went on. I barely made it home before trouble struck, and I went on the jello and ginger ale diet. Half an hour ago I finally ate some substantive food again. Not sleeping for 38 hours and riding bikes for 23 of that tends to fuck with your system, apparently.

Me on Dewey Bridge late Friday morning, only vaguely suspecting of the symbolic role it would take on the next day.

I’ve been planning for the KTR for months, dreaming of it for a couple years. Anxiety didn’t arise until the last couple weeks, when it seemed that mind and training were in some vague way not coming together in the way that I wanted. It had been a very successful year thus far, I had consistently exceeded my expectations in all the athletic endeavors, and hoped to keep the momentum rolling. A fortnight ago, as actual logistics began to be discussed (when should I pick you up at Slickrock?) I thought that perhaps 16 hours would be a reasonable goal. It seemed than that my uncertainty about finishing the Rim Ride had been selling myself short, and this time I should push the boat out further. Not minding in this that a few short years ago, when I began to pay attention to such things, that time was the super-human course record. I was hungry today.

Prep went well, and we made it past Blanding Thursday evening. Ever since my first trip around the White Rim, I’ve found that using the day before to take the pulse of a location is invaluable. So we wandered around, got coffee, bought a map, saw Fred, and took the slow road to Fruita.

Sod roof in Cisco.

Eventually we made it up to 18 road, and set out for a lap on Joe’s Ridge. I managed to sneak in a short nap before we took off, encouraging as I’m not known for doing well with sleep deprivation. M hadn’t rode her mountain bike since November, but gamely went anyway, skirt and all.

Joe’s, which I had never ridden, did not disappoint. Aesthetically or technically.

I managed to flat on Lower Zippetty, tearing a small hole in my back tire blasting through a rock garden. Discouraging, but you only get one flat, right? Best to get it out of the way. Our troblems continued when my faithful, 9-year old Dragonfly refused to hold pressure in the pump. A quick fix was not at hand, so we were “obligated” to get an obscenely huge pile of food at the Hot Tomato, along with generous encouragement for my madness from the staff. The piece of stromboli I took wrapper in foil would prove crucial.

Arriving at the trailhead 3 hours early was not the best choice. Folks began rolling in soon after, and the social opportunities and excitement proved too alluring. Packing and a short nap occurred before the crew rolled in, and the drama began.

I don’t care to examine the issue in detail now, but the BLM was obviously in a sticky situation. Plesko’s insistence on asking questions, besides reminding me of our travails on the Schafer trail, was a shot across the bow that these were not normal land users. The races will go more underground in the future, a pity only to those who will learn of them only too late. It will be a sad result if as threatened the Mary’s area is closed to 24 hour use.

Soon we were off, and I was having fun. Once the first 10 minutes shook the group out, Cat Morrison and I settled into an hour or so of leap frogging on the trail. My lights were ideal, and I was rocking it, cleaning things as well as I could ever expect to, daylight or not. In 90 minutes I began the descent to Salt Creek.

Hike-a-bike is a relative strength for me, and I “reeled in” a good half-dozen folks in the upper reaches of that stretch, topping out at 0200 exactly. Businesslike and in the zone, I turned left and spun away.

This stretch, along with that between Westwater and Cisco, was one on which I lost time by being in a singlespeed. After Rabbit Valley things got sandy and then rough, and the real endurance grind started. I kept at it through the big push out of Bitter Creek, passing Pete and some others in the process.

I fought off sleep, drank a Doubleshot, and continued.

I finally took an extended break along the river, stripping off layers and light, and refilling water. Things were slowing a bit, the temperature rising, but generally still on track. Then came Yellow Jacket, which I had foolishly written off a short and of little consequence. My thin shoes would plague me throughout the day, causing unbearable pressure points at my cleats. (My big toes are still a bit tingly today.) The semi-technical climb, and unpleasently corrugated descent, was where this (and the rigid fork) began to plague me in earnest. I also realized that I would reach Dewey significantly behind expectations. The confluence of issues and doubts were coming to a head, and as I sat on the south side of the bridge, eating my stomboli, I was faced with a choice.

Several riders were hanging out. One had taco’d a wheel in the first hour, and suffered through the night with multiple spoke tweaks and tactical use of trees. He had rescue on the way, and there was one guy with a truck who offered any of us a ride to Moab. It was tempting. My feet hurt, my right knee hurt, my hands hurt, my soul hurt with the realization that my eight and a half hour trip to Dewey likely meant the demise of my 16 hour finish. But I was there to ride, and it was still breakfast time. I continued.

The Entrada Bluffs climb was unimaginably long. The descent to Rose Garden was brutally rough. I began to look forward to walking sections as they took the pressure off my feet. By the time I made it to Fischer Creek and saw Fred and Adam laying in the shade, I did not need much cause to take a good long break. The guys I had been riding with for the past few hours, and the folks like Cat and Marko with whom I yoyoed for much of the day, pulled away for good. I didn’t care. I hurt, was failing insofar as my original goal, and might as well try to enjoy myself.

And so the Fab Four came together. All of us suffering from different permutations of the same malaise. At times it was comical, our laziness and indifference. At other times it was pathetic and alarming. It was both when, at Fischer Creek siesta upper, I thought I’d have to threaten to throw Adam’s bike down the waterfall to get him to move. But then again, that would have only given him an excuse to stay put.

We pondered the possibility of rescue. I was worried about my feet, worried about my stomach, and lacking in resolve. In the end it was the joint motivation of being finished and the oncoming darkness that spurred us on. The ridiculously fun and fast paved descent helped, as did the confidence in my companions should something truly go wrong. Plus, we couldn’t get Derreck’s phone to connect anyway.

In the end, brute slow movement won out. We all took turns having more energy and leading the way, and in spite of it all I was able to enjoy the astounding contrast of the Kokopelli’s full length. This may be one of it’s strongest endorsements, that almost all biomes to be found in the Colorado Plateau can be dragged through in one day.

Once we turned downhill finally, all else was irrelevant. I ignored my burning feet and took big risks on the last Kokopelli singletrack, riding brilliantly because I wanted to be done. I wanted cold water and pizza. I wanted to puke. I wanted to take off the shorts that felt epoxied to my ass with sweat and grime and other unponderabley unpleasant things.

And at dusk, we were done. And it was perfect.

I had a comfy chair. M had my sandals, and watermelon. Kenny gave me a bag with some trash and two subway sandwiches, both of which tasted heavenly. Chris came out of the gathering dusk to congratulate me, though I believe it didn’t occur to me to complement him on his extraordinary ride until the next morning. For 20 minutes I sat and was content, then tottered across the street to the truck to clean up and go to sleep.

I’ve had some trying moments in the woods before, but the Kokopelli was a window into a different world. Many times during the day I looked forward to putting the bike away at home and leaving it for a while, and I will. I’m also negotiating to buy Enel’s Reba.

I think the sickness got worse.

Why do we do these things? Because it is there, in the infamous words of Mallory. Our comfortable world leaves it open to each and every to decide exactly what it is.