#asundayinhell

This Valentines Day, I decided to forgo the usual romantic antics, and celebrated in a different sort of way in honor of Arizona’s birthday as a state. A few weeks earlier, I planned this epic lake-to-lake, AZ-wilderness-explorin’ gravel-grindin' life-hatin' doozy of a bike ride with some friends from the Phoenix bike scene. Despite some 5 or 6 tentative rsvps, only one other was up for it when it came down to the wire (aka 7am morning of). Shout out to Ben, aka the Mangleur, for hanging in!

The morning began with a 75 minute drive out on the AZ two-oh-two freeway through a town called Apache Junction and a twisty "Tōge" through the superstitions before reaching our staging area at the Canyon Lake Marina (parking suggestion courtesy of local Internet bike stranger, next time I'll park where the dirt actually starts TYVM). A relaxed twisty road climb from there to End of Pavement (EOP) was a pleasant but superfluous touch to the ride.

My bike of choice was a Salsa Vaya outfitted with 2x10 cross country gearing, a perfect rig for this outing. Ben’s bike was one of his several bianchis (all in celeste of course): a 26” rigid steel mountain bike with 1x7 gearing. He groaned a bit on the paved portion, but was happy for the big tires once we hit the dirt.

The dirt portion began with a nice long gradual climb up to the first mountain pass of the day, called Fish Creek Hill. The descent was a ripping one, and rather narrow (for a fire road) complete with era-appropriate wooden side rails. At the bottom we were greeted with one of the most magnificent sights this side of the Grand Canyon, an ominous look straight up at a large rock formation and a crevasse with a trickle flow of water (fish creek). I imagine it's all the better after winter rains.

The next few hours entailed riding over a few more smaller passes, up and down, up and down (slight emphasis on down, not accounting for the pavement at the beginning, this was a net loss in elevation, RIP legs). A few chili mangoes and pee stops later, we made it to Apache Lake, sort of a now or never, point of no return. We decided to push through, cuz the haterz and quitterz got nothing on us.

Before long we had our first casualty of the day. Bens vintage “Cannondale house” lunchtote handlebar bag found itself jettisoned from its bracket by way of too much dang washboard. Oh well, naught to do but push forward. The last portion before Theodore Roosevelt Dam (pedal softly and carry a big frame pump) followed the Salt River up and down along a ridge line, with one too many U-bends ('I'm sure it's just around this corner!').  

Three rising corners later, and about 4 hours from start time, we made it to the dam tourist destination. Receiving several ogles and such, from people informing us that we were "chuckleheads for putting ourselves through such misery." Yes ma'am no need to remind us. Another such chucklehead aka triathlete-turned-gravel-grinder on a carbon fiber low travel full suspension xc mountain bike swiftly pulled up and proceeded to climb all the way up to the top of the actual dam (and conceivably all the way to the lakeshore). Yeah no thanks.

Ben had a short nap, claiming stomach troubles potentially borne by aforementioned chili mangoes or tortas from south Scottsdale’s own Burrito Fiesta gone awry. Fortunately for us both, some stretching and powdered Chokis aka Mexican Chips Ahoy seemed to alleviate the pangs. Appropriate touristy photos were taken and the reality of our return trip set in.

The climbing out from Roosevelt was no joke. Even the short downhill sections did little to lessen the pain. My disadvantage as a borderline Clydesdale became apparent as Ben pulled away from me on most climbs. The fierce Phoenix 2pm February sun beaming down didn't help (barring that, the weather was perfect). Before long full-squish triathlete man shamed us again casually spinning up some climb with nary a second thought.

Afternoon car traffic had picked up quite a bit (you don't get this stuff on Tucsons dirt roads) which meant that in addition to words and blood and sweat and powdered Chokis we could also count dry Apache Traildust among our sustenance.

An eternity in the 5th ring of bike hell later (6th is an indoor trainer without AC in July, and I'll let you fill in the blank for #7), and we made it to the bottom of Fish Creek Hill. This was it, the last real dirt climb of the day. We were both effectively out of food and water, but up we went. It was not the steepest climb we had seen all day, but it certainly outstripped the rest with respect to length and duration. Near the top we stopped for a well-deserved break and a family in a red pickup pulled up to ask if we were ok.

Speaking in all honesty, we proclaimed our lack of water, and they offered us out of the goodness of their hearts a liter of red-flavored Powerade zero, which we happily received. Ben transferred half its contents into his State Bicycles Dixie-cup-inspired bidon (not bottles, btw) and I downed the rest. Like nectar from the Circle K gods, its saccharin- (actually sucralose) infused electrolytes brought us back from the desert's parched grasp. The kind strangers' offer to shuttle us back to civilization was met with a reluctant decline; we had come this far, and to quit now was to admit defeat.

Thankfully a short climb brought us to the crest of that foe, Fish Creek Hill. From there we had an admittedly raucous ribboning dirt road descent which somehow validated all our efforts (doesn't it always?). The sight of EOP was met with glee; the riding on asphalt was a cakewalk (cakeride?) in comparison, every turn of the pedal watts easier than on dirt. Indeed, the road took us downhill all the way to Tortilla Flat, where we indulged in off-brand soft drinks (but for real, RC will always be my cola of choice). One easy uphill push over a last paved hill was the last thing between our tired broken bodies and the loving embrace of the mazda's perforated leather bosom. And there it was, motorized transport with no boot or parking ticket.