Ultra-racing Rules

Self-supported ultra-endurance mountain bike racing is losing its soul.

In the 2012 Arizona Trail 300, at least twenty percent of the finishers rode in cars. In the 2011 Colorado Trail Race, at least twenty-five percent of the racers chose to ignore an official National Forest trail closure. In the 2010 Tour Divide, a whole group of racers drafted each other from Banff to Mexico. All of these were clear violations of specific rules--and yet violators often begged for leniency and exceptions. Race organizers were inconsistent with their responses, with the majority refusing to mete out disqualifications or relegations.

Yet those are just a few of the most blatant examples of major rule infractions. There are many other instances of racers dabbling in gray areas. All it takes is a glance through race-report blogs to find examples if riders sharing gear and food. Even “trail magic,” a term once reserved to describe serendipitous moments such as finding an unopened candy bar on a tough climb, is now regularly invoked to justify begging for water and dinner from other trail users. Bystanders have even gotten into the act, handing out goodies to their friends and stashing coolers full of snacks in remote locations.

As the boundaries that define the spirit of ultra-racing are trampled and distorted through ignorance and entitlement, the sport is quickly becoming a free-for-all, where the final results justify the means. One racer even tried to argue that, since ultra-racing isn’t sanctioned, there aren’t really any rules anyway.

But there are rules, and there always have been. When John Stamstad initiated the ultra-racing genre with his pioneering individual time trial of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route in 1999, he established a simple set of principles, predicated on the concepts of self-sufficiency, self-discipline, and equal-opportunity. Racing utterly alone against the clock, Stamstad rode a defined route exclusively under his own power, and without any sort of support. He ate and resupplied only at commercial establishments, and never bummed goodies from other riders. And in doing so, he brought the essence of other self-supported races such as the Vendee Globe sailboat race to bicycle racing. In other words, he defined, by example, the spirit of ultra-racing. While I don’t personally know Stamstad, this quotation from him says so much: “…angst is quickly replaced with the adrenalin rush of knowing you are facing the trail, the elements, and yourself and nothing else—the world is simplified.”

Those who have followed in Stamstad’s tracks have attempted to recreate his original accomplishments and vision. In so doing, the “first” organized ultra-race, the Divide Race, codified Stamstad’s vision: “The overriding principle is simply do to it yourself. All of the pedaling, pushing, bike wrenching, food buying (and eating…), water filtering, suffering, and all logistical figuring.” Simple enough, it would seem, both in concept and execution.

But the devil is always in the details. While race organizers have tried to keep the rules simple, with the idea that a few basic principles will be properly interpreted to address a myriad of unforeseen situations, more specific directives have often been added for clarification. Indeed, the Tour Divide and Colorado Trail Race have a growing list of rules, and many pages of FAQs, addressing such issues as visitation, cell phone usage, alternative routes, etc.

So, why can more ultra-racers be cutting corners, when the rules are getting more complicated and specific? That's a hard question to answer. My best guess is that, as more people are drawn to the ultra-racing format, incompatible preconceptions are brought with them. For an experienced cross-country racer who’s accustomed to fully-stocked feeding stations, bumming some food from a fellow racer may not seem like a big deal. Further, the competitive landscape changes the picture drastically. While Stamstad always focused on the “adventure,” many racers now focus on winning. It isn’t that Stamstad wasn’t competitive (he was!), but rather that the rules of the event became a huge part of the competition: instead of beating everyone at their game, he made a new game that was stricter and far more committing. The behavior of too many racers today seems to be about bringing the race to their level, rather than pushing themselves to new heights.

Ironically, in order to move ultra-racing forward, we need to look backward. Not to replicate the past, but to recapture the passion that drove the sport to discover new boundaries in the first place. We need to rekindle the adventure of exploration, to put ourselves in uncomfortable positions--to rediscover what it’s like to depend only on our own skill, strength, planning, and independence.

The following is a proposed set of ideas, principles, thoughts, and rules that I believe will re-focus the spirit of ultra-racing so that it can continue to advance. It’s by no means an original work, but rather a fresh compilation of existing ideas. A resurrection perhaps. Nor is complete and comprehensive, but rather something that I’ve been thinking and reading a lot about--and that I intend to keep working on. If nothing else, it will define how I ride and race.

First, some principles:

1. Self supported racing is just that—self supported. Do. It. Yourself.
2. Organized events are exactly that: organized. If you join a race, accept the rules. If you're an anarchist, then go do your own thing. 
3. Don't bring the race down to your level. If you find yourself unable to adhere to a rule, then quit honorably (or self-relegate from the race and start touring). Try again later, when you’re smarter, better, etc. After all, who truly deserves more respect: the guy who quit honorably, or the guy who cheated but kept going?
4. First, racing is a personal commitment to yourself and to every other rider out there that you will act honorably and with integrity. Secondly, it's to see who can go faster.
5. It’s OK to set higher standards for yourself, if you think that the race is too soft. Just don’t expect everyone else to follow your lead—although some will.
6. Ride in a way that doesn't jeopardize someone's ability to follow in your track. For example, don't do things give land managers and/or land owners reason to dislike racers.
7. A race means that you should try to ride fast and push yourself. If speed is totally unimportant, then tour the route instead.

Some specifics:

Move only under your own power

1. Don't get in a car or other contraption. Ever. Not even if you return to the same place that you started. It’s a bike race.
2. No drafting. Push the wind out of the way yourself.
3. No pacers or cooperative tactics. This isn't a team sport.
4. No devices devised to specifically capture wind energy.
5. Areobars, fairings, and other devices and strategies to reduce wind drag are acceptable.
6. No e-bikes, motors, etc. That would be a motorcycle race, because motors...

Follow the route (even when/if the route changes)

1. No shortcuts. Follow the published route. If you miss part of the trail by accident (even a mile!), go back and ride it--or DQ/relegate yourself.
2. No longcuts. If it’s not the route, it’s not the route.
3. Missing ten miles, and then adding ten miles elsewhere doesn't count.
4. If you're going to take credit for a ride, be prepared to provide proof that you rode it (GPS, Spot). Yes, people trust you. But they trust you more with proof.
5. If the route changes mid-race (fire closure, trail crew closure, road construction, washed-out bridge, etc.), take a legal detour that gets you back on track as soon as possible. Let the organizer decide whether it counted or not.

Ride unsupported

1. Nobody can bring you anything, anywhere, any time.
2. Don't beg/buy/steal/swap food, gear, water, advice from other riders, or from bystanders. “Do it yourself” applies to bringing the stuff you need, and the knowledge to use it.
3. There’s no difference between “inside” and “outside” support. All support is support.
4. There’s no difference between “unplanned” and “planned” support. All support is support.
5. Trail magic is unnecessary, and there are too many gray areas. Just keep it clean and decline. Trade words and memories, not Kit Kats.
6. No caches, drops, etc.
7. Traditional trail angels are OK, as long as they are available to all other racers and trail users. No race-specific angels. Don't accept food, showers, supplies, or lodging from strangers.
8. Fix your own bike (unless at a bike shop). If you can’t fix it, then push, pull, or drag it to a bike shop.
9. No mailing stuff ahead to anything other than an official post office. Once you are racing, nobody can mail you anything--although bike shops can order replacement parts if necessary to repair your bike.

You can’t ban bystanders, fans, etc.

1. If someone wants to meet you on the route, fine. You can’t control where other people are allowed to go. But don't encourage them, and remind them that you are supposed to be doing it yourself.
2. Bystanders can’t assist you in any way whatsoever, so you must refuse their offers of water, food, parts, and other supplies.
3. Pre-planned camera crews for "famous" riders are banned from many races for good reason. For a sport that's all about a solo challenge, having a crew following along will always change the dynamics. If in doubt, contact the organizer. Personally, I'm not a fan of crews--regardless of how careful they are.

It’s OK to buy stuff in towns, and at commercial establishments

1. Don't call ahead for services, hotel reservations, etc.
2. OK to buy food and supplies.
3. Eating in restaurants is fine. No trailside deliveries though, so don't call Dominos.
4. Having your bike fixed in town is fine.
5. Sleeping in hotels is fine, although camping is better style.
6. It’s OK to trade stuff in towns with other riders to avoid waste--but only if exactly the same stuff can be acquired in that same town.

Pre-race planning is good

1. Before the race starts, it's OK to read trip reports, borrow gear lists, create cue sheets, analyze GPX data, swap strategy secrets, etc.
2. Once the race starts, you're on your own.

Casual information-exchange acceptable, up to a point

1. If you’re riding an organized race with other riders, it’s OK to casually chat about the route and trade experiences--but mostly because it’s probably impossible to avoid it.
2. Following tire tracks is fine--just be aware that they might go off-route, leading to a disqualification. 
3. No "team" navigation. If you don't know where you’re going, read your own maps, GPS, etc.
4. No "team" tactics. While riding with someone who matches your speed is acceptable, it's not OK to form a team (either before or during the race) that cooperatively shares tactics, strategies, etc.

Gadgets are fine

1. This isn't the Tour de France--don't call friends or family for race-related information or advice.
2. Taking and making phone calls (or e-mail) is fine, as long the purpose is not to arrange for support, locate other racers, or otherwise seek a strategic advantage. In other words, it’s OK to talk to your boss or tell your kid at bedtime that you love him, or even tell your spouse that you saw a moose. 
3. Don't log into BlueDot.mobi, TrackLeaders.com, or other race-tracking sites. Not in towns or with smartphones. Need to find out who’s in front of you? Ride faster! Worried about someone catching you? Ride faster!

Don't break the law

1. If racers break the law, races get banned. We are often racing below the radar, and the minute we give land-use agencies reason to stress, they will shut us down. It’s already happened once, and the Kokopelli Trail Race was shut down for good.
2. Follow all NFS, BLM and other land-use agency’s regulations, restrictions, rules, laws, etc.
3. Obey trail closures, re-routes, etc. If the route changes mid-race (fire closure, trail crew closure, flood, etc.), take a detour that gets you back on track as soon as possible—with missing as little of the original as possible.

Respect the trail and other users

1. It's not a closed course. This isn’t the 24-Hours of Awesomeness. You are not any better than any other trail user, so respect the trail and other users.
2. Yield to uphill riders, horses, hikers, and other non-motorized users.
3. If you come across trash that you can easily carry, pick it up and earn style points.
4. Don't cut switchbacks, lock up the back wheel, etc. Trails are delicate, and racing doesn’t give you a license to trash them.
5. Close gates, if they are closed. Leave them open if they are open.
6. Don't hog resources that other trail users need. For example, don't sleep in outhouses unless you're truly in danger of freezing to death (yes, someone may actually need to use it for its intended purpose).

Follow leave-no-trace principles

1. No littering or abandoning gear. If you don’t need something, throw it in a trash can. If there’s no trash can, ride until you find one.
2. Poop in a hole. Racer-crap is nasty, so bury it properly.
3. Respect wildlife and livestock. They don’t care that you’re an epic racer; they were there first.

Don’t take performance-enhancing drugs

1. Race on your own merits, not the merits of a pharmaceutical company’s latest concoction.

Don't risk a life (yours or someone else's).

1. Don't become someone else's liability--plan for adversity, and self-rescue when possible.
2. Help anyone who might need it. Golden rule, right?

Don't be a jerk

1. Be kind to other racers, hikers, equestrians, etc. If people hate us, we’ll get banned from public trails.
2. It won’t disqualify you to give other racers something (food, gear, etc.) But it’ll disqualify them if they accept it.
3. Don't intentionally mislead other racers (navigation, resupply, etc.)

If you can't ride it now without breaking the rules, figure out what needs changing and try again

1. Be honorable and accept personal responsibility for your actions and decisions.
2. If you break the rules, disqualify yourself--don't wait or ask someone to do it for you.
3. If you break a rule, it OK to finish the course. Just disqualify yourself first.
4. A disqualification or relegation isn't that big of a deal in the grand scope of things, so take it like a grown-up. Just think of how good it’ll feel when you try again and succeed!

Support the route

1. Trails don't build and maintain themselves. Support whatever organization(s) maintains the trail that you're racing by sending them some money, volunteering for some trail work, etc. OK, this isn't really a rule--but it's good karma!

Conclusion

OK, that’s a whole lot of stuff. Based on previous rules discussions, I’ve probably pissed some people off, and inspired others. It is worth noting that MOST people still race with great ethics--but that more and more people aren't. Please feel free to add constructive comments below.

Colorado Trail Race: GPS/GPX Tracks and Waypoints

Edit: February 27, 2021

Jefe is now the official race organizer for the Colorado Trail Race, and he is now providing the GPX file directly at jwookieone.com.

Working on this over the many years was a joy. Best of all was the opportunity to give something back (or pay something forward?) to an event that meant so much to me. So long, and thanks for all the memories!

Cheers,

Toby

Gas or GU?

Does it cost more to commute to work by car, or by bike?

Seems like the answer would be rather obvious. Gas is expensive and cars are inefficient and heavy--while bikes are cheap, light, and efficient. Surely, then, riding a bike much be cheaper!

But fancy energy foods like GU and Powerbars aren't cheap. One packet of GU (100 calories) costs about $1.35 at REI. How many GU packets do I need to pedal my bike to work?

Time for a spreadsheet. According to my Garmin bike computer, I burn about 1700 calories on my 34-mile ride to and from work (I ride fast, since I'm training for the CTR). That translates into 17 GU packets, for a total cost of $22.95.Yikes!

OK, but what about driving. Between my Honda Element and Honda Fit, I get about 28 miles/gallon. Therefore, I burn about 1.2 gallons of gas getting to work and back. At today's gas prices, that's about $3.95.

So, it looks like riding is WAY more expensive than driving. Even adding in the cost of wear and tear on the car, maintenance, etc., I'd have a hard time stretching $3.95 anywhere close to $22.95.

But I don't eat GU packets for breakfast--or for lunch. How about if I power my bike commute with Cheerios and skim milk (the breakfast of Cat 6 champions)? That comes out to $3.62. Much better!

Lots of college students ride their bikes to work, and they're not exactly flush with money to buy GU. When I was in college, I ate a lot of Ramen noodles. My spreadsheet reports that commuting on Ramen only costs 76 cents. Yeah, WAY cheaper than driving! Maybe I should eat more Ramen.

Now that I've got my nifty spreadsheet, I'm going to plug in some more foods. Steaks, pinto beans, etc...

Plans for 2012

Here's what I've got planned for 2012:

Horsetooth Time Trial Series (April)
Yep, road racing. Since most of my rides and training already take place on roads and bike paths (I commute from Windsor to Fort Collins, about 34 miles round-trip), I figure that it will be fun to take my "Cat 6 racing experience" to the next level. Rather than endanger other riders by attempting to compete in a group race, I hope that entering a few time trials will safely assuage my competitive spirit. If nothing else, riding that hard is bound to be a good training! Thanks to Alan Shenkel, the husband of my wife's good friend Jamie, for the inspiration.

Kokopelli's Trail (May)
I really enjoyed riding Koko with a couple of buddies last year, so we're going to do it again. I originally planned on organizing an officially-sanctioned race for 2012, but instead I'm looking forward to just getting out there and riding the trail with a handful of friends. We are definitely not racing each other, rather just riding hard and hoping to make it the entire way in good style.

Colorado Trail Race (August)
Although I finished the CTR in 2010, last year's attempt didn't end so well. Still, I learned a lot, and I'm excited to get out there again. No time limits in 2012--just a good solid effort to finish quickly and safely. Now that I have more experience, I don't need to obsess over planning so much this time around, although I am looking forward to refining my gear and getting as much stuff into bike bags as possible. No more panniers, and hopefully not too much weight on my back.

Running
I run a fair bit for cross-training. So I'm also thinking that it might be fun to run a marathon or something in 2012. But I don't have anything planned yet. If I manage to run a rnough through the winter, this is more likely to become a reality.

No Offical Kokopelli Trail Race

Several people have asked me why I've decided not to continue my efforts to establish a legal Kokopelli Trail Race. While I originally stated that I didn’t want to discuss this issue publicly, people keep asking--and it appears that there are some misconceptions out there that need to be cleared up.

In a nutshell, I have decided that I don’t want to be in a position where I have to enforce or argue racing rules. I concluded this after the 2011 Colorado Trail Race, when it became apparent that a small (but significantly vocal) minority of racers simply do not share my respect for land-use regulations or racing rules. By organized an official race, I would be exposed to the legal liability of these people’s behavior, not to mention their vitriol and attacks should I need to make a call not to their liking. Since I like riding substantially more than fighting over rules and ethics, I have chosen to focus on what I love--which is time pushing my pedals, not time spent arguing on web forums.

Resurrecting the KTR undoubtedly would have been fun and rewarding. But at this point, I’m a lot happier being just a guy on a bike. If someone else feels like breathing life back into the KTR, you have my blessing!

Happy trails,
Toby

Failure!

This year’s Colorado Trail Race attempt ended in failure.

Here’s the short version:

Just before hitting the Gold Hills section, my chain snapped on a short uphill section. I launched myself off the trail into a pile of logs, banging up both knees. By the time I got to the start of the Ten Mile Range climb, my knees were still killing me, and there was no way that I was going to be able to finish the race in the necessary seven days. So, I bailed in Frisco (thanks Alix & Max).

Here’s the long version:

This year’s CTR attempt was very different than last year’s successful race, even before I started packing up my gear. Perhaps most critically, I had to finish the race within seven days. Last year, I had no serious time constraints—I simply hoped to finish the race, and I really didn’t care how long it took or how I placed. And I rode accordingly, even taking six hours in Silverton to clean up my infected hands by taking a shower and washing & bleaching my clothes at a Laundromat.

This year, I had an important business meeting scheduled immediately after the race, necessitating a seven-day finish—and leaving no surplus time for dealing with setbacks. Along with the external pressure of needing to finish in in time for my meeting, I also faced some internal pressure to ride faster than last year. With a better bike, and stronger legs, I figured that upping the ante a bit by knocking off a day or so was a reasonable goal.

A bit of the mystique of the ride was also gone. Last year, I really didn’t know what to expect—and launching into the unknown was a huge part of the attraction. I even went so far as to state that, “I wouldn't be attempting this ride if I knew that I could do it”

So, last year was more the adventure than the competition. Yes, the CTR was a race for me in 2010, but I really approached it as a race against myself—not as a race against the clock or my fellow riders. My focus on was on the “adventure”—a wonderful word encompassing a whole myriad of meanings, and the “race” part of the CTR was simply some added incentive, not the ultimate objective.

But this year, I was there to race. With so much pressure on racing the clock, my head was in a very different space at the starting line. Unfortunately, I broke my chain within the first three miles. I was slow to fix the broken link and adjust my derailleur, only to realize after I got back on my bike that had another twisted link to fix as well. Unpacked the tools, replaced the link, repacked the tools. By this time, I had probably lost almost an hour. Staring down the barrel of a seven-day deadline, and already falling to the back of the pack, wasn’t a greatest way to start, especially when I was putting so much emphasis on racing.

The next section went reasonably well. I rode perhaps harder than I should have; my heart rate pegging the dreaded no-zone for longer periods than I knew was good. But I made up some time by the time I got to Bailey. And, despite the extra effort, I managed to eat and head over Kenosha Pass reasonably quickly.

At the base of Georgia Pass, it became apparent that I probably wasn’t going to make it over to the other side unless I rode until midnight or later. I was just about an hour short, and I didn’t want to sleep too high, especially on my first night. I also considered the descent on the other side of Georgia, and my memory of it was that it was rough—not something that I wanted to face at midnight after having ridden for 80+ miles on the first day. So I bivied early, planning on waking up at around 2:00 in the morning.

I slept horribly. Despite my best efforts to tune it out, the seven-day pressure kept intruding into every brief dream. Restless stewing ensued. Frustratingly, worrying about time actually cost me more time, as I ended up starting out at around 4:00—with very little sleep to show for it.

The climb up Georgia Pass went by easily, and I topped out at sunrise. The descent turned out to be far easier than I remembered—mostly fast and smooth, with a very short rocky section at the bottom that my new bike soaked up with ease.

Shortly before the Gold Hills section, my chain broke a second time. I was standing up on a short climb, and the chain popped under my full weight. Somehow I ended up launching off the downhill side of the trail into a pile of freshly-cut logs. I remember thinking, “tuck and roll!” And then thinking, “and how the hell is that going to help me survive flying into a log pile?!”

Yep, it hurt. But after sitting for a few moments, waiting for the knocks to dissipate enough to figure out what really hurt and what only sort of hurt, I was pleased to discover that nothing seemed broken or severely smashed. After hobbling back up to the trail, things seemed pretty good. Even my bike, aside from the broken chain, seemed OK.

After fixing my chain and getting back on my bike, my knees weren’t happy. Especially the right one. But I figured that I just needed to slow down for an hour or so to let them recover—although I wasn’t looking forward to Gold Hills climb. But much to my surprise, the Colorado Trail was closed due to the same tree-cutting operations (pine beetle remediation) which had provided my earlier landing zone. The reroute took me down a smooth gravel road, giving my knees a nice break.

Regaining the Colorado Trial at the base of the Ten Mile Range climb, I started having some real worries. My knees were feeling worse, not better. And the seven-day window seemed impossible if I couldn’t maintain a reasonable pace. Nevertheless, I started up anyway, hoping that my knees would loosen and feel better.

At the top of the first climb, my knees were still killing me. Every pedal stroke hurt, and walking wasn’t much better. I stopped for a couple of hours, called my wife, ate, and chilled in the sun. When I stood up, my knees were even stiffer and sorer, probably from the swelling. While I could tell that nothing serious was wrong with them, and that I could likely keep on riding, I wouldn’t be able to move quickly for a day or two. As such, there was no way that I was going to get over Ten Mile and Kokomo by bedtime—which meant that I wasn’t going to be able to finish in seven days.

Race over.

As a relative newbie, with only ultra-endurance rides under my belt (CTR 2010, Kokopelli’s Trail 2011), I have been lucky to succeed both times. But, as they saying goes, one learns more from failure than from success. So, rather than let this failure get me down, I’ve actually been enjoying thinking about what happened out there, and why. Here are the main points that I’ve come up with so far:

1. Had I not been forced to complete the race in seven days, I expect that I would still be out there. Instead of quitting, I likely would have headed into Frisco for some ice, and taken the remainder of the day to reduce the swelling and get my head back in the game. But an eight-day finish simply wasn’t an option. I don't want to start another race with a time limit.
2. Needing to complete the race in seven days wasn’t good for my head, even before I crashed. With so much energy diverted to hitting an arbitrary time target, I found myself missing out on many of the pleasurable parts of the race—the mountains, the people, the adventure, etc. In truth, a little extra time to enjoy the ride wouldn’t have slowed me down much, but the pressure of finishing in time was simply overwhelming. Every setback, no matter how small, seemed to put completion in jeopardy, making me increasingly negative. Not without reason, it turned out.
3. Adventure trumps competition as a motivator, at least for me. Last year, I really didn’t care how I placed, as long as I survived and finished. I just wanted to push hard and enjoy the trip, which was wonderful and soul-enriching. In contrast, embracing the “race” this year made me to single-minded and obsessive. Not that competition is bad (it is the Colorado Trail RACE, after all), but I think it’s better as an incentive, not as the objective. I might feel differently if I were in a position to win the CTR, but that's not going to happen!
4. Panniers on full-suspension bikes suck. Really. While panniers worked very well with my old hard-tail Cannondale last year, they caused the rear triangle of my full-suspension Cannondale to wag, shimmy, and jiggle like a bowl full of Jell-O. I kept wondering if something was going to break—which might have eventually happened if I had ridden for more days. If I’m going to ride a full-suspension bike, I need a new gear setup.
5.  Full-suspension bikes are awesome on the CTR. I was able to ride faster and far more safely this year. Blazing down rough sections of the trail on my Cannondale RZ 120 was simply a blast! For that matter, climbing over roots and rocks was easier as well.
6. Gear matters. Last year, I had one mechanical: I dropped my chain at the start (weirdly, at almost the same place that I broke it the first time this year). I'm still trying to figure out why my chain broke twice this year, but I sure would have had a better time if it hadn't.
7. High-intensity training was great for power, but some longer training days are important too. I didn’t get many long days in this year, so I tried to compensate with more intervals and greater intensity. I suspect that this led to some minor digestive issues, as I had a harder time eating than I expected. I’ll definitely try to add more 2+ hour rides in the future. But I did have a lot of power compared to last year, so I’m not abandoning intervals anytime soon!

So, there it is. Toby 1, CTR 1. I don’t know if I’ll try again next year, since prepping for the CTR is such a time-consuming and absorbing effort. But a shot at redemption would be nice, not to mention the opportunity to apply some new lessons to the game.

CTR Starts on August 1, 2011

The Colorado Trail Race starts on August 1, 2011, at 6:30 AM. If you want to learn more about the race, or to follow it in real time, here are some resources:

Trackleaders.com: This is the "official" tracking site that will show the locations of all riders. Almost every rider carries a Spot, which transmits his or her location to a satellite, which then sends it to Trackleaders. Please note that sometimes not every tracking message gets through, usually due to heavy tree coverage, failing to reset the Spot, etc.

MTBCast.com: From time to time, riders will be calling in to report their progress, etc. You can listen here. Cell phone coverage is pretty thin on the CTR, so riders only call in periodically.

Twitter: I'll be sending text messages to Twitter, and you can follow me. I've also set up Twitter to forward tweets to this blog (see block to the right), and to my Facebook page.

Colorado Trail Race website: The "official" CTR site. Probably not any live updates, but complete information about the race.

Colorado Trail Foundation: Information about the Colorado Trail. Not race-specific. Note that the CTR doesn't use the same wilderness bypasses that the Foundation recommends; we race a harder route.

Some links to related blog postings:
Colorado Trail Race profile and map
Why ride the CTR--again? (2011 pre-race musings)


Most of my blog is about the CTR, so take a look at older posts for more ruminations.

Why ride the CTR--again?

The Colorado Trail Race is about to start, just days from now, on August 1. Looking through my old blog entries before last year’s successful race have been interesting, especially the one where I asked “Why ride the CTR?” While most of the reasons from last year still very much apply, one of the answers that I gave, “I wouldn’t be attempting this ride if I knew that I could do it,” is now obsolete. I know that I can do it, because I’ve done it—so why do it again?

The honest truth is that I don’t know that I can do it again. The CTR is incredibly difficult, and many things might stop me cold. A broken bike. A broken body. A broken spirit. But perhaps the biggest new variable is speed. Last year, I really didn’t care how quickly I finished, as long as I put in an honest effort and actually made it to Durango. This year, I want to go faster. No, I’m still not going to be fast compared to the leaders, but I’m hoping to knock a day off of my previous time. And by stretching the wire a little thinner, I’m increasing the odds that I won’t finish. I’m feeding the demons to keep things interesting.

There are some new challenges too.

Last year, ignorance was bliss. Starting up a climb, I didn't know how steep it would become or how thin the air would be at the top--so I didn't worry about it. Setting a goal for the day by drawing a dot on the map was abstract and easy, but I had no idea what riding 80 miles to get there would feel like--so I didn't worry about it. Having no idea if I could actually haul my carcass to Durango, I simply figured that I'd better just keep rolling--and I didn't worry about it.

This year, I'm stronger, more experienced, and better equipped. But I also know just how horribly steep the hills are, how thin the air will get, and how long the days will be. I may not fear the unknown so much this time around, but I now know what to fear. Thus, I still feel like a newbie in so many ways, struggling with my doubts and anxieties. But I'm happy with that, as it means that I still have much to learn and new boundaries to explore.

Learning is good, and is the one item that I left out of last year’s blog entry. Being open to looking at problems in new ways is liberating. Figuring out how my mind works—when faced with binding sleet, sleep deprivation and loneliness—is enlightening. Learning to face the existential fear of defeat is humbling. The primal joy of pressing hard into the unknown nourishes my soul.

I am ready for the CTR, and whatever it may bring. Last year, my mind warped cairns into monsters; visions of lions and rabid rabbits blocked my path—and I howled with laughter into the void. What will greet me this year?

Kokopelli Success!

Seventeen years ago, when my wife and I lived in Grand Junction, I never would have imagined that people would someday ride Kokopelli’s Trail in a single push. Fast forward to today, and people are regularly doing exactly that—with a few super-humans finishing the entire 140 miles and 15,000 vertical feet in less than thirteen hours.

Inspired by the fast guys, I decided to give Kokopelli’s Trail a go last weekend, May 21st. Based on my performance on the Colorado Trail in 2011 (where I rode about half the speed of the fastest guys), I figured that I could through-ride Koko in about 24 hours.

Andy Farish, who I met on the CTR last year, and Peter Scholz, another aspiring ultra rider from Fort Collins joined me for the start. Andy and Peter decided to carry minimal bivy gear to catch some sleep along the way, but I hoped to ride straight through so I only carried enough stuff to stay warm and dry.

After catching a shuttle with Coyote Shuttle (good guys, highly recommended!) from Loma to the Slickrock trailhead in Moab, we started riding at 11:15 AM. While most racers generally start at night, we figured that it would be nice to ride through the chilly La Sals in the daytime warmth, and then hit the lower desert at night to avoid the heat.

I climbed reasonably quickly up Sand Flats Road, while carefully watching my heart rate. With so much excitement that I was finally on the trail, it was hard to hold back—especially when so much of my training these days is focused on high-intensity intervals. But going fast for twenty miles wasn’t going to help me survive the next hundred, so every time my heart rate climbed into the red zone, I reluctantly throttled back a notch. The snowy-bright La Sals, rising out of the red desert into the blue sky, kept me smiling all way to the up.

The last little stretch before hitting the Mountain Loop Road was a bentonite nightmare. Although there had been a lot of rain leading up to the weekend, most of the trail had dried out reasonably well—except for this one short section. My bike quickly became encased in the most amazing sticky clay. It was like dirty peanut butter. Thanks to my Cannondale Lefty, my front wheel would roll even when encased in clay. But the back wheel just skidded uselessly along as I pushed, pulled, and carried my bike to the top. Fortunately, the mucky stretch wasn’t too long, and I found a nice big puddle where I spent a good twenty minutes cleaning up the mess. The remaining glop spun off my wheel in the screaming downhill.

The next big climb up Castleton Road was easier than I anticipated. Riding pavement can often be a bit boring on a mountain bike, but the view made the time go by quickly. Before I knew it, I was at my first water stop, Fischer Creek. I refilled my 100oz hydration bladder and two water bottles, and enjoyed a bit to eat while the Aqua Mira drops did their work.

The decent down to Fisher Valley was an absolute blast, which helped put me in a good mindset for the arduous climb back up to Sevemile Mesa. On some of the rough climbs, the amount of tire rubber that 4-wheelers have scraped off is astonishing. It must take those guys hours to move a hundred yards!

After putting on my headlamp and trading out the lenses in my sunglasses, I enjoyed the last bit of daylight as I zipped from Cottonwood Canyon to Dewey. The GPS track that I was following headed out across the void that used to be the Dewey Bridge, but I regained the path after crossing the river on the new highway bridge. Maybe someday there will be money to rebuild the old Dewey suspension bridge; I hope so.

One of the reasons that most people who race Kokopelli’s choose to start at night became readily apparent: for maximum speed, it makes a lot more sense to ride the smooth slow climbs and roads at night, and then to get some daylight for the jeep roads that come later. With only my not-so-bright lights, it was hard to find the clean and fast lines that would have been very obvious during the day. Having more nighttime riding experience would have obviously helped too.

As the disorientation of darkness, exhaustion, and sleep deprivation settled in, and I tried to turn on my autopilot and focus on simply riding. But it was a struggle to keep going. Robbed of the visual beauty of the desert, I felt like I was wobbling around in ever-tightening spirals in my little pool of light, dirt, and churning legs. At one point, I turned off my lights and looked toward the stars—which were as thick and bright as I remember them as a child. Time became so distorted that I sometimes thought that 20 minutes must have passed, but when I looked at my GPS I had only traveled a tenth of a mile.

Later, as I stopped to unwrap a Powerbar, I noticed a pair of electric blue spots looking back at me. My first thought was that they came from a small mammal, perhaps a mouse, as their eyes often return flashes of light from a headlamp. But as I crept up, I discovered that it was a spider, its eyes like little blue LEDs. For the rest of the night, I saw dozens, perhaps hundreds, of them along the trail--sometimes popping out of the darkness like little sparks, sometimes glaring at me as I skipped toward them through the gravel and dust. How can such little eyes reflect so much light?

Between the spiders and the stars, I finally found the beauty and mystery necessary to lift me out of my funk. My nose picked up the unfamiliar scents of the desert, some bright and fresh like the odor of unseen springs, and some sulfurous and fierce like scorched minerals.

At about 3:00 in the morning, I found myself at the junction to the Westwater Ranger Station, my second and final water stop. I had read that there was a spigot there, which would save me the trouble of dealing with silty water from the Colorado River. Although it was a perfectly legitimate and legal source of water, I felt like a thief skulking through the sleeping compound in search of a forbidden elixir.

Most of what remains of the night is crumbling memories of fighting sleep. Rubbing salt crystals from my cheeks. Watching the little black line on my GPS. The constant mental reminders to eat and drink. The cries of rebellion from my stomach. The inability to divide 142 miles by anything, in vain attempts to calculate my time and distance. Little blue eyes. A yellow moon rising late and illuminating little.

At dawn, I found myself riding down toward Rabbit Valley. At the awkward hour when the sun isn’t yet bright enough to fully illuminate the trail, but my headlamp seems too dim, I had my one and only crash. I simply didn’t see the rut; but fortunately I was riding slowly and cautiously, so I only skinned my elbow. My calf briefly cramped, but it passed quickly with a little stretching.

When the sky brightened with the colors of the sunrise, I stopped in utter confusion, as the sun seemed to be rising in the west. Slowly and awkwardly, I unwound the twists of the night, forcing my mind to accept that the sun was in the right place, and it was my internal geometry that needed correction. Finally able to see clearly, and with blue skies above, I accelerated through Rabbit Valley to the singletrack above Salt Creek.

My apologies to those who actually like Troy Built, but I personally think that it’s one of the more horribly-designed and pathetically-maintained trails in Colorado. Fortunately, Kurt R. had advised me to bring some extra gels just for the last twenty miles, and I had saved some chocolate GU packets. Yum, pure energy that my stomach didn’t have time to question before it was already in the tank. Thanking Kurt, and cursing Troy, I skittered, walked, and wobbled my way to Lion’s Loop.

A rush of familiarity hit me as I turned one corner on the trail. I hadn’t ridden Lion’s Loop since I lived in Grand Junction, perhaps fifteen years ago, but it was one of my favorite trails back then. Even after so many years, I rode through technical sections on muscle memory alone, like magic.

As Lion’s Loop merged with Mary’s Loop, I realized that I was close to my goal of riding Kokopelli’s Trail in 24 hours. A little too close—I needed to pick it up if I was going to make it under the wire. No longer needing to reserve the little strength that remained in my legs, I found myself standing up on the last remaining climbs, and railing down on the descents, a stupid grin on my face.

And then, I was done. Standing next to my car in the parking lot at 11:11, surrounded by hoards of day riders primping to the beats of their car stereos, I felt like a dirty and desiccated alien with my awkward headlamp and salt-stained jersey. Dazed in my elation, I tried to organize my thoughts enough to find my car keys.

Andy showed up out of nowhere as I was digging through my pack. Although he had unfortunately bailed out and hitchhiked back to the trailhead, his big smile and booming voice revealed none of his own disappointment--just unabashed excitement that I had managed to finish. Damn, that’s a true friend. Thanks Andy!

Later that evening, Andy and I drove out to pick up Peter from Rabbit Valley, just as the skies released enough rain to hydroplane Andy’s truck down I-70. Back together again, the three of us spent the evening sharing memories of fun and crazy moment with each other over beer, brats, vodka and tequila--with a great old friend in Grand Junction (thanks Kirk!). For Peter, it had been two days of so many “firsts,” that it was hard to keep count—his first bivy, his first time riding at night, his first long ride... Although he didn’t make all the way to Loma, it was clear that he was a winner—and primed for the next adventure.

As I finished writing this, I got an e-mail from Andy. He thinks that he might like to try again in October. Peter, are you in?

Kokopelli's Trail in 24 Hours?

This coming Saturday, I'll be embarking on a new adventure. I'm setting out to ride the entire length of Kokopelli's Trail from Moab to Loma. About 140 miles and 16,000 feet of climbing, hopefully in less than 24 hours.

I've never done anything like this before. The closest that I've come is the Colorado Trail Race (CTR) last year, which was a multi-day bikepacking race. While I put in some long days on the CTR, I've never even come close to riding a mountain bike for the 140-mile distance of Kokopelli's Trail in a single push. Dozens of other riders have completed it successfully, so I know that it's possible. One guy, Dave Harris, set a record of 12:41 hours a few years ago (but I'm not sure that Dave is human). I'm pretty damn human, so I don't know if it's possible for me--which is a big part of the excitement.

Joining me will be Andy and Peter, a couple of solid riders and all-around good guys. While Andy and I finished the CTR last year, this will be Peter's first long-distance mountain bike adventure. Andy and Pete are bringing sleeping gear, while I am hoping to ride through the night without stopping.

Setting out for a new adventure is a great feeling. There's only one first time, and I'm looking forward to giving it my best effort!

I'll have my Spot tracker with me, so you can see how I'm doing. The page will give an error until I actually turn on the Spot and start riding, so keep checking on Saturday.

http://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=0x0oU5WCr6X6GBVgjLeRSH6BFD3SqyF3E

Click the map to see a larger version, and then use the magnifier to make it even larger: