With the towering red and cream neopolitan spires of Zion National Park as its eastern backdrop and boundless views to the west, Virgin, UT, is a stunning, albeit desolate and sparsely populated, high desert town.The Harris red wagon left St. George early, a crispy, light frost on the ground, so Dave could show off some of the best singletrack that Southwestern Utah has to offer.

There’s not much of a town to speak of in Virgin, UT. A post office, trailer park, cafe, and scattered houses constitute the entirety of this desert hideaway, but who cares when you have the vast network of trails that spiral off in all directions that they do. We parked at a new housing development and rolled over a bridge spanning the muddy, chai colored Virgin River.

We started our ride, once again consulting our Golden Compass/GPS, unlatched a cow fence and pedaled out a red dirt fire road that rolled through numerous sandy washes.

After the short warm up loop we arrived at the Hurricane Trail, which traces the contours of the canyon’s edge that towers above the Virgin River. We navigated the undulating, slabby rocky tract of dirt , which runs precipitously close to the edge at times, while heading west towards an overlook that peered down on the town of Hurricane.

Dave claims that he hasn’t flatted in years, which may be true, but today he had two punctures while crushing his single speed. It was his third in our four days of riding, so I think he got them out of his system since mechanical mishaps seem to come in threes, or maybe he just needs to pony up for a new set of tires!

We eventually connected with Gould’s Rim Tr. which took us to the best roller coaster section of desert singletrack I’ve ridden in years, the Jem Tr. After a big ring tear down this serpentined jewel of a trail, we spit out on the main road for an asphalt spin back to the car.

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The Dave Harris wagon train rolled south today. Loaded up the truck for the first time this week and headed to Arizona for some exploratory riding in terrain that was straight out of an Eastwood spaghetti western. Although we didn’t run into any whiskey drinking, burro riding banditos, we did see plenty of Bud Light bottles strewn across portions of the desert, quads, 4×4s and people exercising their right to bare and shot firearms-Dave swears he heard the whizzing of bullets towards the end of our ride.

Our first stop of the day was at Little Black Mountain Petroglyph Site-the glyphs have been dated as far back as 5,000 years and are thought to be part of Native American religious ceremonies and calendar observations- where Dave and I wandered around and marveled at the ancient artwork.

We saddled up and spun out towards Dutchman Draw, a craggy canyon that had patches of snow in the more shaded spots, where we began our first major climb of the day, Joe Blake Hill. It was at this point that we were overtaken by a bundled and masked group of quaders, who rumbled past us obnoxiously spewing exhaust, dust and snow.

At the top we were treated to some epic views before we rolled out the Sunshine Trail through Yellow Horse Flat, which sits at 4,000 ft. and still had small patches of snow as far as the eye could see.

We rode East towards Hurricane Cliffs and eventually hooked up with the Temple Trail, a route that wagon trains used to haul logs from Mt. Trumbull, AZ, to St. George, UT, to build temples.

Black Rock Canyon sits at the base of the Hurricane Cliffs and gets its name from the high density of volcanic rock that is scattered about. It was at this point that Dave, the GPS Tonto of our ride, said, “Where the f@#% am I, I’ve never seen this before?!!” I was startled by his admission being that his navigational skills had been spot on up until this point and became nervous because we were already over two hours in and this was supposedly the half way point. Just as Tonto never let the Lone Ranger down, Dave, with the help of his GPS, figured out our route and, after a quick bushwack, we were on our way out of the canyon.

After leaving Black Rock Canyon we came across an oasis in the form of Coyote Springs, which once may have helped settlers make the long haul on Temple Trail now made it possible to water the cattle that roam the desolate desert BLM land we had been riding through. Dave has an iron gullet and decided to drink the crystal, clear spring water, while I chose to to play it safe and continued drinking from my ERGON pack.

We finished our desert journey with some long stretches of open fire road that followed the hulking, metal power towers that stretched indefinitely into the horizon.

Not sure if this cow, which was alongside four other beheaded, eviscerated carcasses, was someone’s idea of target practice, but it was a shocking reminder of what can happen out in the lawless wild.

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Although St. George, UT, is full of Mormon wards and churches, it was the copious amounts of desert trails that drew me here to worship the Temple of The Bike.

With temps in the mid 30s and a stout, arctic wind blowing from the north, today’s desert sojourn was all about keeping the legs moving to ward off the cold that bit any exposed skin. My Capo Forma Roubaix winter bibs, coupled with matching leg and arm warmers, did the trick, with the added bonus of looking like the man in black himself, Johnny Cash(Although I could be referring to both Rasmussen and Vinokourov who are alleged to have trained in unmarked, black kits to avoid the dope patrol). My shiny new 08′ Marin Mt. Vision, fully decked out in Syncros and WTB products, was the perfect rig for the loop that my guide had concocted. My Carlos Castenada for my four day training trip is newly relocated, endurance specialist Dave Harris, who has converted from Colorado dirt to the red stuff that can be accessed from his front door here in Southwestern, UT.

Bear Claw Poppy Trail innocuously starts at the edge of one of the many new housing developments and wound us north of town on undulating, ice/mud crusted fire road with occasional snow patches dotting the frigid desert landscape. The vastness of the terrain masked the climbing that we were doing, while the breathtaking views took my mind of the lung searing cold that entered my chest with every panting breath I took while chasing Dave. After a ripping roller coaster descent, we entered a neighborhood for a quick spin on some pavement which took us to a Zen slickrock-like garden section of trail. From there we switchbacked our way to the top of another precipitous mesa with 360 degree views. A frosty, technical descent, which wove through overhanging outcroppings, brought us back to the edge of town and Dave’s house, which conveniently sits at the end of the bike path.

After today’s ride, which just scratched the surface of trail possibilities, I don’t need Joseph Smith to convince me that the dirt here in Utah is holly land worth settling two tires on.

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Global Warming is leaving its ugly footprint stamped on the Sierra Nevada Mountains in the form of a thin, white crust of snow that barely covers the obstacles that litter some of the slopes-thankfully I was on rentals, so I could be a little more reckless in my attempt to emulate Stein Erikson while schussing the slopes of Alpine Meadows with my wife and her(my) wonderful family.

The five of us bagged the best day of skiing(That’s not really saying much considering the snow conditions and the fact that it rained on the day before Christmas) on Sunday, following the lead of our fearless flying-recently retired-leader, DTD, who donned his hip, Giro ski helmet, Berghaus parka and pointed his tips downhill.

On Monday we hiked hallowed ground at Donner Summit, the general area of the icy pioneer tragedy, post holing our way to the top of a peak just east of Mt. Judah, at Sugar Bowl, where we enjoyed sandwiches and the epic 360 degree views! Grapes of Wrath brought his snowboard and artfully carved a few mine field, fresh turns along the shoulder of what we had scaled. He even found some elusive Tahoe Fluff along a wind blown cornice.

An evening at the Peifer House, a traditional German restaurant that has been a Tahoe City classic for over 50 years, was the perfect way to conclude a another amazing family trip. I stuffed myself with Jagerschnietzle, one of about 30 varieties in their schnietzle lineup, and stumbled home after a traditional apple struddle sufficiently topped off my tanks- I had begun my preeating process in preparation for my four day adventure, with non other than Dave Harris( Endurance cycling guru who provided guidance for me two years ago on my first 24 attempt), into the Southwestern deserts of Utah. Hopefully my coach, Karl Etzel, isn’t reading this because he would disapprove my dietary indulgences.

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Meet Shane. When fully loaded, his bike, which he built himself, weighs over 90lbs. I ran into him out on Pt. Reyes/Petaluma Hill Rd. the other day at the conclusion of, what I thought, was a pretty decent four hour road ride.
When he told me that he had just spent the past four weeks riding from Boulder, CO, to Pt. Reyes, CA, and was continuing on to some town in the Sierra foothills that I had never heard of, I wasn’t so impressed with myself and the puny ride I was finishing up. Adding to his “hard man”, self supported status was the fact that, after visiting his friends in the Sierras, he was going to pedal to Baja for some warm winter weather. And, as if that wasn’t enough riding- a lifetime of pedaling for most mere mortals-he informed me that he was going to cross South America next summer because he’d never seen the Andes!

Here’s to the spirit of adventure and going BIG. The “Go West” attitude and manifest destiny that inspired thousands to set off for new places when our country was first founded(taken from the Native peoples) still lives today. His name is Shane and he likes to ride his bike.

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So there’s this jewel of a trail nestled in the hills of Marin. It is one of those iconic trails like Repack or Paradigm, trails that have defined mountain biking in Norcal, a right of passage that takes you back to the days when there weren’t as many restrictions on where you could ride your bike. I was introduced to it over 13 years ago by a friend who had been shown by a friend, the hallowed and secretive nature of this twisty sylvan playground was not lost on me so I’ve sparingly shown it off in the years since. This trail has entertained many a hiker and biker over the years- the dirt there doesn’t discriminate between the two forms of outdoor enjoyment.

In an attempt to emulate Edward Abbey, possibly the perpetrator(s) had just read the famous eco terrorist bible, The Monkey Wrench Gang, and felt that their act of trail destruction (branches had been dragged or felled every six to eight feet, some of them live, and all the ramps over the logs had been dismantled) was somehow justified because the evils of the two wheeled set using and maintaining this “illegal” trail far outweighed their senseless act of ruining the trail for ALL users.

Funny how easy it is to become what you despise. So, in the spirit of Edward Abbey, we cleared the trail, collectively raising our middle fingers in the air, daring those self righteous “trail protectors” to come back and enjoy the fruits of our labor.

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Despite some of the worst stop motion animation dinosaur miniatures and special effects in the history of tv, even if it was the early 70s, I was fascinated by the make believe world depicted in “Land of the Lost” and looked forward to watching it with my bowl of Cheerios. Looking back now it’s obvious that the menacing cliffs, intricate cave scenes and steamy jungle sets were made of styrofoam and that the creatures where basically plastic toys;however, the beauty of the show wasn’t its set design but how its story lines took my imagination and transported me to a different time and place, much like the Marshall family who had accidentally entered a dimensional portal and ended up in the eclectic alien world inhabited by dinosaurs, chimpanzee-like cavemen called Pakuni, and aggressive, humanoid creatures called Sleestak. On Sunday, accompanied by a band of intrepid explores that included Grapes of Wrath, Shaolin Shane, Grand Master Funk Hope, and the Redneck, armed with our imaginations and two wheeled steeds, I entered such a mythical place hidden in the verdant, damp hills of Marin County.

Step off the fireroad and you will find this hidden ribbon of prehistoric single track which weaves its way off of a ridge and drops precipitously down through lush ferns, prickly berry bushes and sprawling oaks. Tacky rain soaked piney,earth was the perfect texture for our WTB Exi Wolves to grip and allowed us, in some loamy sections, to carve turns like we were skiing fresh powder. BC style logs provide an occasional bump in the flow, as did low slung branches and menacing off camber singletrack turns. If you ever discover this mythical land I CAN promise you won’t find Cha-Ka, the chimpanzee-like caveman that befriended the Marshall Family, but you WILL be transported, with a grin, to other worldly riding that was once thought to have gone the way of the dinosaur.

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cold wet rain soaks trails
inner child seeks mud puddle
tacky earth grit smile

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The fifth edition of the Tour de Trash pedaled out of Petaluma this Saturday in search of roadside refuse along one of the most popular stretches of bucolic back roads that gently rolls to the 101. This section of country road not only provides commuters with a respite from the traffic but, more importantly, gives, a select few of them, the opportunity to throw back a brew, chuff a grit, and inhale a pack of gum before they get home-I base this assessment on the treasures that we found littering the side of the road. Our group of 19, the largest we have ever had, ranged from the Bigattini Clan, Eric and Sawyer, to Devin, Katie and Cole, three Casa Grande High bike club/race team members. Sawyer, a local third grader who made sure I knew that she had just turned eight and was no longer the youngest student in her class, was super stoked to be on her first trash ride with her father Eric, a history teacher at Casa Grande High. She found a few items that she was going to bring to school so that she could share her environmentally friendly and community benefiting experience with her classmates. It was great to see many first time trash riders like Down Town Dave, Katie, Cole, Sean and Lainie to name a few, who were excited to be out on such a glorious Fall day taking part in the I St. cleaning.

The past two Tours de Trash we’ve gotten more “hands on” in our effort to efficiently clean both sides of the road, donning surgical gloves and using a bike trailer to haul trash bags that we fill, tag with a Tour de Trash sticker, GPS, and leave for Waste Management to come and pick up later. A dilapidated trailer, harvest trimmings, and oil change remnants were some of the jewels that we discovered on our treasure hunt. First timers, Katie and Cole, enthusiastically embraced the clean up, getting the dirtiest in the process of scavenging the roadside. Redneck discovered two vacuums that had been tossed into a field and did his best “happy homemaker” impression by pretending to suck up the cow chips that littered the grass. We received many waves and honks of encouragement from motorists, many of whom were locals, as our crew scoured and cleared trash from this three mile stretch of road.

After three hours of picking, bagging, tagging and marking, we had thoroughly cleaned I St. for the second time this year, indoctrinating many first time trash riders and, hopefully, setting the example to all the motorists and cyclists that passed us that we can make a difference when we work together for a common cause.

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“ You boys got a death wish or something?!”

My hollow, sunken death stare must have concerned the two men driving the 4×4 as they approached the two shivering figures standing on the side of a snow covered fireroad in the middle of the wilderness, prompting them to stop and roll down the window of their well heated vehicle. With Sierra temperatures in the low 30s and four to six inches of fresh snow on the ground, this was the last place you would expect to see some lycra clad cyclists standing numbly on the side of a fireroad.

Like the confident and hopeful Donner Party that had waited too long before navigating the shorter but more dangerous Donner Summit route west, our colorful group of two wheeled adventurers who had gathered in front of the Royal Gorge Ski Resort at the request of Jim Northey, was watching our winter weather window come closing down in the form of a driving, cold rain. Our Band of Brothers and Sisters was armed with layers of clothing a lucky few, courtesy of Sean McDevitt, were sporting some super tech Mountain Hardware custom designed pieces. Our posse of Shaolin Shane, White Line Roger, Sean McDevitt, Redneck, and Chris “I turn the pedals fast like James” Brown, waited anxiously for our journey into the wild. When Jim’s son finished giving ride directions to the huddled riders taking shelter under the front awning, the rain turned to hail which, if I had my choice, I’d prefer to ride in.

As the 28 of us soggily rolled out of the lot, I couldn’t help but think of those poor souls who had followed Jim Jones to Ghana to what they thought would be a utopian lifestyle, only to have things tragically end for many of them with a drink from a Dixie cup of Koolaid. The devouted cycling mass that was embarking on its own Trail of Tears through the Sierra wilderness was here to sample Jim’s “secret” stash of trails and roads that would comprise a 100 mile race to be part of the ’08 Ultra Endurance Series. Unlike those who went to Ghana we hoped to return to civilization, we were just unaware of the physical and mental toll that this ride would exact by day’s end.

By the time I flagged down the flanneled hunters who were out scouting the best places to kill some large game, our group had gone through many weather extremes which were beginning to physically shatter the most hardened of our crew.The hail that we had started in quickly turned to cold rain as we descended, penetrating gloves and shoes. Making things worse was the fact the the temperature was still hovering in the low 30s which meant that the faster we went down, the colder we got. By the time we hit the first serious climb of the day, our feet and hands were numb, but we were hopeful that climbing would help warm us up. After about 15 minutes of climbing I noticed that the rain drops were beginning to change shape into flakes and that the rivulets of water on the trail were becoming white-it was snowing! At the top of the climb, about 17 miles into our journey, the trail was covered in two to three inches of snow. Extra layers, if you had them, were hastily thrown on under the cover of pine trees, and there were some grumblings about making it to the first rest stop at mile 19 and pulling the plug before any of us had to drink the Koolaid or eat a leg bone to survive. By the time we had reached the supposed site of the rest stop our rear clusters looked more like dirty snowcones, limiting our shifting to a few clear cogs and forcing us to stop periodically to clear the snow and piney grit. Mile 19 came and went and with no rest stop to speak of. I had seen water bottles stashed in the forest but didn’t want to say anything, for fear of disappointing those who had been holding out hope of an early rescue, about the fact that Jim, our saviour, was not there (fortunately he had been there for the four brave souls who had set out at 6:30 a.m. to do the WHOLE loop and was able to ferry them back to the warmth and safety of the resort, but this meant that we had no reserve chute, we had to finish). It took me a few moments to recalibrate my brain for the 25 miles of snowy suffering that lay ahead and, more importantly, how I was going to keep positive and moving forward in an effort to ward off the cold that was now an icy ache that hurt my whole body.

The approaching Ford was my binkie, my safety blanket and I was hopeful that we could, at least, seek solace in front of their truck heater for a moment or get an emergency ride out of the snowy wilderness, but the news that came from the warm truck cab and awe struck hunters was not good. Turn around and return with them and we would be about 40 miles from where we needed to be, or continue for another 20 miles through this winter wonderland back to our origin at Royal Gorge. At this point Shaolin Shane was in a deep world of hurt, worse than I had ever seen him before (I’ve seen him break his collar bone twice with little more than a wince, so he knows pain!). His hands and feet were so cold that he had lost feeling in them about an hour previously. In fact, his hands had turned an odd pinkish, white fleshy color, kind of like crab claws, which is how we had been holding onto the bars for the past two hours-lock the thumb underneath and hope that the rest of your frozen fingers/claws didn’t slip off the bars. I think the hunters could sense my disappointment and in an effort to avoid having to tell Search and Rescue that “Yes, we did see those two frozen, lycra wearing bicyclists but couldn’t help them”, they gave us a cigarette burned pair of Thinsulate wool gloves. I mumbled an icy thank you through my frozen lips and they continued on their way looking for the best spot to ambush Bambi.

I was surprised at the primal scream that Shaolin let out as I fumbled my way through pulling his icy, wet gloves off. In one of those “this is gonna hurt before it feels good” moments, I peeled off his icy mitts and crab clawed getting the new, dry wool ones on. Dry gloves meant a new lease on “relative comfort” for Shaolin, so as soon as they were on I made sure that we started pedaling up the fireroad to shake out the cold from having stood there for ten minutes while I’d panhandled the gloves. We continued through the snow with me doing most of the talking, trying to take Shaolin’s mind off of his hands and feet, and keep us moving towards our salvation, our house at Sugar Bowl. Our Band of Brothers would regroup occasionally on the long climb out, give a quick pep talk, eat something, and move on. At this point the reserves started showing up in 4×4s-Jim, Roger and others had returned to extract the cold and weary. Our final act of bravado was shunning a ride out, which left us with a sloshy fireroad climb home.

By the time we reached the warmth of our house we had been out for almost six hours, had climbed around 6,000 ft. and had covered about 50 miles. Our muddied, frozen group retreated to the showers to thaw out our crab claw hands and icy feet. I was thankful that everyone-even Sean Mc Devitt of Mountain Hardware who had taken a wrong turn and ended up doing about ten extra miles- had made it out without having to kill an animal and climb inside its warm carcass like Luke did in the Empire Strikes Back or resort to cannibalism, even though Chris “I pedal fast like James” Brown’s calves were starting to resemble white meat KFC drumsticks by the time we reached Sugar Bowl.

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