WRIAD has been a totem in my life for quite a while. After M and I got married, we lived in Moab for nine months of easeful bliss. Neither of us had jobs that were very serious or burdensome, and we took the many free hours to enjoy the area and each other. Reality calls, and I was the largest voice insisting that M return to Iowa and finish college.

I eventually found my way (and got launched on taking this delinquent youth think as a serious career), but the first month or two back in a place to which I always claimed I would never return instigated lots of existential issues. Stirring the pot was us, a young couple, with one full-time student, and the other very very bad at holding down any sort of menial job. I had at least five during the end of August and through September. I sought solace in my new bike.

That spring in Moab I bought our roommates Cannondale XS 800, a blue cross bike with a headshok, a mighty 30mm of travel. I rode it, bone stock with a 39:25 low gear, 30c Ritchey tires, and drops on Lockhart Basin that April. In Iowa, it became my refuge and return (after climbing took over in high school) to serious dirt cycling.

I rode it all over the gravel roads and grassy singletracks, exploring and reordering my head. I began to tinker, adding cross-top levers, then moustache bars, bar end shifters, mountain gearing, and the fattest tires that would fit (a 42c Zed I still have that would trap gravel chunks in the fork crown occasionally). It was great. The headshok died last spring, a rebuilding attempt failed, and I traded it for parts upgrades for my 29er (then a Soma).

I also road WRIAD for the first time on that bike, on a cold and overcast March day in 2005. The 35c rear tire, stiff rear triangle, and horrid Coda saddle beat me to pieces (I rode counter, like this year), and Schafer seemed impossibly huge and steep. I was amazed to find myself turning over my 22:32 for the last half, and elatedly showed my parks pass at the booth after 11:30 on the go. I didn’t close the loop, but hung out by the entrance sign, basking and hiding from the wind, waiting to be retrieved.

It was a Copernican revolution.

How I never did this during Iowa winters….

Heraclitus tells us we can never step into the same river twice, and for that very reason I’ve always liked returning to the scene to see what I’ve learned. We can only assume that the river has changed, only know that we ourselves have changed. I rode clockwise last October on the new Soma, feeling fine until the sun came out over Murphy’s, I wilted, flatted, refilled from the river, the felt like death pushing my silly four-speed up Mineral. When M and the truck appeared over the horizon I gladly stepped off and gave up all illusions of finishing the circle.

82 hours ago, it was payback. I had a full complement of appalling expensive technology, a vast new reservoir of experience, and was ready to take no prisoners. Under 10 hours was the goal.

The weather did seems ready to conspire, spitting cold rain at 0800 as I suited up in the parking lot at top of the Horsethief trail. I had left my “spring” gloves in my duffel at Craig’s house, and decided that I’d push the pace down to the drop off the mesa, and if I could still feel my hands and feet continue under the assumption that the more aerobic, sheltered riding lower down would prove warmer. My hands and feet were fine at 45 downhill minutes, the rain had stopped, and the horizon was lifting off the tops of the Henrys. It was go time. At 1000 I was huffing up the final pitches of Hardscrabble, and at 1300 was eating my spare McDonalds biscuit sandwich on top of Murphy’s. I felt only ok, battling headwinds and unhappy with my pace, but the reality on the ground was inarguable, and I knew I was working hard.

I battled more headwinds, the only sand of note, and my resolve on the way to turn the mesa at White Crack. Longer than I thought, in several ways. My time goal was summarily written off by then, but optimism is only a tailwind away.

The stretch to the rim of Monument Basin was the fastest of the day, pushing my top gear as hard as I dared through the ruts. Monument is the most hazardous section of the White Rim, the risk of hitting a boulder while gawking being enormous. By then I was deep into the zone, reveling in the act of pedaling, fighting headwinds out of each basin and riding tailwinds back into the next, not caring so long as the road continued ahead. I played the game of swearing I’d stop at the next good viewpoint to eat and piss, then hitting the snooze and continuing to push on. Motoring past many tour groups helped, in a petty sort of way.

Eventually I stopped and finished my Twizzlers and Hershey Bars with peanut butter, though the ultimate momentum killer proved to be a small but deadly game of underestimation, forgetting just how many zigs came between Airport and the Schafer. The game at this point was, as ever, one of forgone conclusions, where only variations of time and misery have yet to be decided. I walked a bit of Shafer, stretching legs and marching steady under a slim pallor of defeat, then remounted and road on, pushing the upper pitches as hard as I could manage. Only pavement at the top after all.

Another mental lapse. I hit the pavement at 11:00 elapsed, not seeing the locked-shocked denouement for the Iowa-esque trial it would be. A stout wind, quartering in from the northwest, and endless rollers should have felt like being back to the future. Instead, I just wanted some french fries. I shifted down with utmost resignation, but all the hills rode longer than they looked, and it took 45 minutes and chilly sweat to finally close the loop, and realize just what I’d been missing all these years.

I remain disappointed in my time, but not in my ride. A much more mature one than any of the previous efforts, WRIAD remains for me the quintessence of a solo quest. The outpouring of sweat and the inpouring of vision. And while I’m not ready to rest, yet, I do like what I see. I’ve always been a slow starter in new areas of knowledge. Now I want ways to get me speeded up.

The rest of the day, and trip, was invariably anticlimactic. Sheron’s dinner, ready that evening, was a priceless luxury, as was their tolerance of the lycra and Gore-Tex clad zombie sitting on the floor, eating and staring at the far wall. (Now that’s a metaphor!) Eventually I rallied to the shower, became a bit more alert, talked, and went to sleep.

That morning I awoke to itchy feet again, this time in a homeward direction. The previous day, still unclear in it’s upwelling, was making me miss my dear wife dearly. I stopped in Moab to find her gifts from the travels, and remembered my manners enough to call Fred. Fortunately, he and Susan joined me for breakfast, and I was able to go home, sated in all respects available.

It had been a full vacation, resting in new things and taking myself back for myself via the old. But at 0900 on Sunday morning, it was time to go put it all to use.