Az Trail Race, part 2
Az Trail Race, part 2
by Damion Alexander
I believed I knew the Arizona Trail before I started the AZT300 Trail Race. I had spent endless hours riding and hiking sections of it over the years, but I only knew some of the pieces. I did not understand how the trail unfolded mile after mile until I lived with it for days. And even then I only now truly know the first 300 miles.
If you read last month’s article, I left you on the patio of Beyond Bread in Summerhaven, mid race. I am writing this three weeks after arriving at Picket Post, the finish of the AZT300. The results show me finishing in 13th place, second to last. Almost half of the riders who started with me scratched, taken out by the trail itself. Only two riders, the woman’s winner, Nicolette Jones, and myself, chose to follow the trails up Mt. Lemmon on the Lemmon Push, rather than riding up the highway. Slow, challenging, but to me that choice was the real route.
With my brief return to civilization in Summerhaven, I slept at the Mt. Lemmon Lodge, in what felt like the best bed ever made. I woke around 7, wrote last month’s article, loaded up on calories at Beyond Bread, and rolled back onto the trail feeling freshly charged in every way.
It was warm for fall and the aspens were still glowing yellow. The sky stretched forever. Dropping down Red Ridge, the loaded bike was heavy and the brakes were working hard. My body was not fully awake and when the bike abruptly stopped faster than I did, I flew off like Superman. The landing cleared my fog instantly and left a black and blue mark that stayed with me for weeks.
Anyone who has ever hit the ground knows how adrenaline works. At first it gives you power. I climbed hard, convinced the crash was already behind me. But when the terrain became technical, everything felt slightly off. I was making small mistakes, dismounting more than I should, still feeling the fatigue from the Lemmon Push. When I finally reached the American Flag trailhead after dark, it felt like I had crossed a finish line. If the ride had ended there, I would have been satisfied. But the AZT300 had other plans.
At some point one of my bottle cages snapped off, taking a noticeable amount of water with it. With only three bottles left, I diverted into Oracle for replacements and a proper meal at the Ore House. A hamburger, tater tots, wings to go, two beers, and a Red Bull and Coke to fuel the night. At 9 in the evening I headed back out.
Some say night riding is harder, but for me it is where things settle in. With no moon there were no distractions, just the sliver of light in front of me. I knew the early sections well and felt steady, hydrated, and fueled. Wash crossings and rock outcrops flickered past, landmarks with whom I was well acquainted.
Dawn saw the sun rising over a familiar sight, the Sonoran Desert. Even though I had never ridden that exact section, it felt like home territory. The trail stretched long and flat. But I had made an avoidable mistake. With only a few days of preparation, I had not studied the water caches. At Freeman Road the cistern held water, but my purifier was broken and I forgot entirely about the purification tablets in my pack. Four bottles sat untouched. In the desert you always top off. I rode dry for hours before reaching Kearny.
After being awake for thirty hours, not enough sleep deprivation for hallucinations, I passed a cluster of rocks and saw what looked like an eight foot owl perched above me. I assumed it was my imagination, but a photograph later confirmed that I really had seen it.
The desert does not always whisper gently.
The day was beautiful and I let myself enjoy it. I explored side features, soaked in the views, and took my time. Yes it was a race, but it was also a place worth experiencing. That mindset carried me through Ripsey Mine, which instantly became my favorite stretch of the whole trail. I called Matt Nelson, the executive director of the AZT at that time. He was so stoked I loved it, but said the land had been sold to Asarco and the section was slated for reroute. It felt like a gift and a loss in the same breath.
I reached Kearny after dark. My light mounts had broken, so I descended while holding my torch in one hand and steering with the other. Old Time Pizza delivers to the trail and had left my order on a table next to a lonely ADOT post with a pizza, wings, a Rocky Road milkshake, and a two liter cherry Pepsi with my name on it. A water spigot waited beside it. A perfect resupply.
The next section is rumored to be one of the hardest. But when all you can see is what your light allows, difficulty becomes simpler. Around four in the morning the rear wheel began rubbing against the frame, making it impossible to pedal. The rain started falling. I had been awake forty-five hours. I lay down on the ground in my raincoat and slept instantly. It was not the Mt. Lemmon Lodge, but I would have slept anywhere with equal gratitude. I set a forty-five minute alarm, but slept for ninety.
Somehow, before napping, I figured out the wheel issue and minutes after waking was able to continue on.
The plans I had made for after the finish fell through and I needed to reach the Grand Canyon for Run Tucson’s marathon where I was a sponsor and photographer, so I messaged Randy Accetta, who was driving that direction. Coordinating this while exhausted, with limited cell reception, and asking someone to go out of their way to meet me in the middle of nowhere was the only real stress I felt the entire race, but it also fueled me on at a much faster pace.
The final thirty miles are some of the most visually stunning on the whole route and also some of the most technical. Jagged rock outcroppings and verdant rolling hills. In my tired imagination I had pictured an easy, flowing descent to the finish, but the AZT is not built for wishful thinking. If you want a gentle trail, go ride McDowell Preserve in Scottsdale.
I pushed hard to avoid making Randy wait. I reached Picket Post in six days, six hours, and thirty five minutes, but continued on the highway towards Phoenix to meet Randy. The official route is 304 miles, but my total was 380 with nearly 40,000 feet of climbing. The final push from the top of Mt. Lemmon was 53 hours with a ninety minute nap.
It was my first real bikepacking adventure. It will not be my last. I am already thinking about the Triple Crown, almost four thousand miles on the Continental Divide Trail, the Colorado Trail, and the Arizona Trail next summer.
This ride opened something in me. I am not ready to close it.