I am fresh off a 10 day ride on the Arizona Trail and the whole time I was riding (and pushing my bike) I was thinking about what I would write about the ride here. I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I have been using my Instagram as a substitute for writing on this page. Which is fine, society has evolved, the collective attention span of the world has converted to pretty pictures and concise captions. Although I am a fan of the Instagram format, I am not a fan of how my story telling has devolved.
I posted the photo below, the other day, with a short caption and it left me feeling uneasy. This particular region of the Arizona Trail is filled with memories. In fact, the first story I ever put online was from the early 2000’s when I had a grand misadventure here. There were cowboys, dive bars, pistols and multiple flat tires (before tubeless was a thing). In fact, even calling it a trail was a bit of a stretch. Back then it was a combination route finding through washes and connecting a spiderweb of ranch roads to even make progress south. I remember the week the Gila Canyons section of the trail was finished. Like a kid on Christmas, I was pedaling towards it within hours of clocking out for the week. It is now one of the most magnificent sections of singletrack in all of Arizona. To say I was feeling nostalgic, would be an understatement.
So i will expand on my original post in effort to do this moment a little more justice:
It’s been years since I’ve done a tour longer than four days. life happens and it becomes increasingly more difficult to check out for weeks at a time. To be honest, after riding across the country and multiple long international bicycle hobo trips, I thought that maybe those days were behind me. It was a good run and I’ll always know that I can do it. But these past two weeks reminded me, loud and clear, why I have always preferred to go longer. There is a certain type of magic that happens after day four. The soreness is gone, you are more in tune with your calorie needs, and packing your bike every morning becomes involuntary. Everything has a place, including yourself.
Danimal and I started this ride eight days earlier at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. With the goal of touring as much of the Arizona Trail singletrack as we could, while still keeping it fun. Ultimately ending up at the Mexican border and my house in Bisbee. We weren’t racing, but we were loosely following the AZT Race route and not stressing if we colored outside the lines. Luckily we weren’t taking it seriously, because we picked one of the worst weeks for weather in Arizona all year. So we did our own thing as we moved south across the state.
Day eight found us at Picketpost trailhead, hiding in the shade through the heat of the day. Full well knowing what the trail ahead had in store for us. We took off a little before sunset and proceeded to have our asses handed to us until well after dark. A recent storm had fucked up the trail real good, and we probably walked 50% of the miles. But ripping the downhill through the Gila Canyons at night was nothing short of life altering. I would recommend it to anyone who likes mountain biking.
We woke up the next morning and slogged our way out of the backcountry to the magic water spigot and picnic table where you can actually order pizza delivery. It was a Sunday and they didn’t have a driver, so we decided to ride the bonus miles into town. We stopped at the first bar we saw and proceeded to crush cheeseburgers and Modellos. That spot was closing early but they recommended another place in town where we could finish our drinking. I looked on the map and it appeared to have a town park nearby, which would be ideal for a stealth camp after last call.
We slogged over to the new bar in the dark and as soon as we walked in, the owner greeted us. Stoked that we were obviously on the AZT and before we even ordered our first pints he offered up his back room/shop for us to sleep in. Air conditioning and all! Then things get a little fuzzy as the locals proceeded to treat us like kings. Sharing food, drinks, and laughs until last call. Everyone in the bar had something to do with the local mining economy. Some folks who worked between the mines in Mexico and Arizona caught my ear and the conversation was fascinating.
The next morning we pedaled to find some breakfast, blurry eyed and heads pounding. Danimal and I didn’t talk much before coffee. But we could agree on one thing: “That was a real good time.” After breakfast we decided to end the ride there. 450-ish miles in ten days was a respectable pull and we felt really good about it. Plus, last night was awesome!
It’s not lost on me that a highlight from a 10 day mountain bike ride came from a town, and not from nature. But who am I to argue with the way the wind blew us? Maybe I’ll post some more photos from the ride, or maybe I won’t. But I feel like this one sums it up pretty well for me.
Keep it dirty…
