It’s only day 1 and I’m already broken.
Technically speaking, it should have been day 2. The Ultraknuckle has always started on Thursday at 5:30 PM leaving from the Mooseknuckler Cycling Alliance Lounge. Then “racers” have 72 hours to complete the course to be able to say they finished. That might seem like a lot of rules for the Alliance and what you need to understand is that those rules are loose and subject to change based on consensus.
But this year was different. For starters, there was no course. Instead, Johnny T Digger drew quads on a map of Washington County. He then numbered those quads. Those numbers were put into a chart and randomized to have 12 possible areas to ride to. A roll of the 12-sided die would then determine where we were headed that day. Whomever was lucky enough to be rolling the decided die would also determine the route with the requirement that they had to prioritize singletrack over dirt roads, and dirt roads over pavement. Every rider was given a die. Each chose a number before rolling and whomever was closest to their number got to roll to determine the route. Yea, we were embracing chaos at its finest.
Or so we thought.
The days also got a little screwy. I was slaving in Cedar on Thursday. I left with enough buffer to ensure that I would be at the Lounge in time for the start. Pretty much as soon as I was on I-15, text messages started to pop in. The group was getting a little worried about the weather. I had checked before embarking and it looked iffy, but more positive than negative. I could also see, as I was dropping down the Black Ridge that the weather was sporadic and any moisture would be short lived. There were no big, ominous clouds, just small ones scattered throughout the area. Seeing that I was driving, I was unable to convey that information and the group decided to postpone the start till Friday morning. Cuz, why not?
So at the time of being broken, it was Friday, Day One and we were crossing from St. George through Werner Valley heading toward Smith Mesa. Kenny had rolled the decisive die. There was a lot of giggling, random questions being thrown out, and the observation that most of us had shown up expecting a good time with little to no idea exactly how this thing was supposed to work. This, in despite of the fact that JTD had sent the details, the map, and the randomized numbers to us with plenty of time to check it out, but in typical Alliance fashion, it was kind of a “Fuck it. We’ll figure it out when we get there” type of situation.
We had all agreed upon a route. It seemed pretty straight forward, but then I missed a turn and no one said a goddamn thing. There seems to be an assumption that if I randomly go the wrong direction that I have some sort of sneaky secret route that I want to take and haven’t told anyone. I can see why this could be assumed, but unfortunately, in this instance, I just missed a fucking turn. Never saw it. Which changed our route a little and we ended up getting to Warner Valley by the way of Long Valley.
The morning was crisp, calm, and pleasant The green of downtown St. George glowed in the morning light. As we headed out from the Lounge, it felt like the day was going to be perfect. The stoke was high and everyone seemed to be in a good mood.
That good mood continued until we hit Warner Valley. It was at this point that the wind decided to become our first serious obstacle. It picked up and ripped through the valley. Any forward motion had to be made through the feeling of being pushed backward. Kenny pulled away and soon the group was scattered on the road. Each one of us dealing with the obstacle in our own way. I kept my head down, only looking up to see how much farther ahead Kenny was, then back down cranking on the pedals.
The wind did not get any better once we hit pavement. For me, the dirt at least keeps my mind occupied. Once on pavement, the only thing I had to think about was how dumb the wind was. That and making sure that the pedals kept turning over and over.
Eventually Kenny stopped and I caught back up to him. We loosely made a plan to get to the Main Street Cafe for lunch and then regroup. At this point, I would have been happy to abandon the whole endeavor.
The crew assembled at the restaurant where Kenny had procured a table on the back patio. We ate our weight in calories and even downed some sodas. Seeing that the wind was still ripping and there was no indication that it would stop. To the contrary, the forecast showed it blowing through the night, we pivoted. Kenny said the yurts were more or less empty and we could make our way up there as to avoid fighting the wind and cold for the night after battling it all day. This seemed more than acceptable to everyone. There was a little debate on how to get there, but we ended on riding/pushing our way up Three Falls, making our way through the JEM complex and doing one last push up to the mesa via the Mondo Zag. We would regret that last one, but that was our future selves’ problem.
Our current problem was water. We all needed to top off. We headed to the shop and did just that. There was talk of just waiting out the wind in the back corner sleeping on the repair area floor or having beers out front until someone could come pick us up, but instead we headed up the Three Falls Trail to make our way toward the yurts.
Most people have never heard of, let alone ridden, the Mondo Zag. Hell, a lot of people have stood at the top of it looking out at Smith Mesa and the Zion Sky Line and had no idea there was a “trail” at their feet. And for good reason.
The Mondo Zag is an old road/cattle trail that goes straight up the side of the mesa. Every few years some kids get the idea that it’s going to be the next Flying Monkey and start riding and cleaning it up. That tends to last a few weeks and they give up. It’s loose, steep, and at the border of being anything at all. It gets its name from the giant zag it does as it goes up the side of the mesa. For those who ride it, it’s definitely a downhill affair where dragging your brakes and doing your best to just have some semblance of traction and control are the only skills needed.
We were planning to go up it.
By the time we got to the bottom of the mesa, it was late afternoon. We were all a bit worked and cranky. It quickly became apparent that his push would be one done on personal terms and so we began.
With my head down and my legs worked, I started pushing. The start is a steep, rutted road. I think Kenny and John may have ridden some of it, but it didn’t seem worth the effort and I just pushed my way up. The grade is more or less maintained until you hit the crux which is a 2-3 foot rock ledge that you have to go up. This took a solid 30-45 minutes of pushing, cursing, slipping, and more pushing. Once at the crux, getting a loaded bike up a rock ledge that sits on a bench on the edge of a mesa is no easy feat. I started by lifting the front wheel onto the left side and then squirming my way to getting the rear wheel on the right side. The bike was technically up, but that left me still not. I pushed, cursed, and pulled my way up. Once on top, all I could do was laugh. I was done with the climb, but it was so ridiculous that laughing was the only appropriate response.
At this point, the trail mellows out. I think I even pedaled a little bit of it before the last switch back up to the top. After all the pushing and cursing, we were essentially at our abode for the night, the Gooseberry Yurts.
We were all pretty damned tired. The inside of the yurt turned into a yard sale as we began changing our clothes and figuring out how the night was going to look. One BP was staying there and graciously offered water and beer for our troubles. We were all thankful for the offer and took what we needed.
With the wind ripping outside, we were all ecstatic to have a place of refuge. John quickly took on the duty of fire builder and Kenny provided the entertainment for the night with the ukulele he had carried all day long. The typical conversations were had.
And then we all checked out happy to have Day 1 or 2 depending on how you look at it, behind us.
Waking up in the yurts was dreamy.
It was cold and still a little breezy outside, but we were cozy. Seeing that our plans were not to have a plan, we took our time getting out of bed enjoying a slow rise for coffee and breakfast.
And of course, we had to roll the dice to see where we were headed. The dice dropped us onto Little Creek Mesa or at least the area. Pete and Elliot were of the mind to spend some more time “getting ready” at the yurts while the rest of us were jonesin’ for some mesa riding. John, Kenny, and I took off with the idea to ride Goose proper and pedal down to the Apple Valley station for some grub before ripping a lap on Little Creek.
Riding Goose is a unique experience. The slickrock is short and punchy. Add onto that uniqueness a fully loaded bike and you have yourself a pretty special experience. With that said, this was not our first rodeo. We ripped around the mesa with our bags bouncing around and our spirits high. High fives were definitely earned if not given after the lap and we dropped down to Apple Valley for some lunch.
We all expected Pete and Elliot to be there, but their taking a little extra time at the yurts took longer than our ripping a lap on the mesa. They rolled up a bit after us as we were lounging in the sun enjoying the “food” that we had procured.
Seeing that the die had dictated Little Creek as our destination, Goose was just the way to get there from the yurts.
After our calories were consumed, we made our way down the highway and up the dirt road to a spot we had camped many times. We unloaded our bags, had some snacks, and then headed out on the trail.
A few months back, the Alliance went on a walkabout tracing the edge of the mesa by foot. We spent two solid days just walking and seeing what we could see. Said journey had resulted in the “discovery” of missing and mythical trail. Our ambition was to now ride some of that before camping for the night. I won’t divulge what exactly we rode, but will say that we completely blew Kenny’s mind with how almost obvious the trail is and nobody ever notices that it’s there.
More high fives weren’t given and we made our way back to our gear.
Tradition dictates that at some point we end up with a beer and food drop on the Ultraknuckle. Mama Bear and Shalena T Digger showed up just in time with the goods.
Our plan had been to ride the Crick and then drop off the backside of the mesa to join up with Pete and Elliot once again. Kenny, JTD, and I called an audible after riding the mesa in favor of just camping where we were. It was easy for the ladies to find us and it meant we didn’t have to ride anymore. Instead, we built a Digger sized fire, drank beer, and ate take out with the girls.
OMG, I won!
Sunday broke with a cool, crisp morning. We slowly emerged from our cocoons and began to ready for our last push. Seeing that it was the last day, we knew we just had to get back to town, the route was pretty much set out of necessity, but we had to roll anyway. Luck was on my side, I rolled a 4 which had been my chosen number since Day 1 making me the winner of the Ultraknuckle.
We dropped off the backside of Little Creek, made our way to the Honey Moon drop and then cruised back through Werner Valley. Our final destination was the newly opened Straptank Brewery. We hit the bike path and beelined it for their front door. The doors were open, but only for tours… WTF!
Luckily, we’re a resilient bunch and 100% able to pivot. We got back on our bikes and pedaled over to the Hyve. They were open and happy to see us.
It was an experiment that ended just fine. We didn’t ride as much as we would have had we had an actual route set and our starting time hadn’t been sabotaged by the weather and us, but we got ‘er done. Not sure we’ll do the dice thing ever again, but who knows. Time tends to distort memories and in a couple of months, we might all think it was the best idea ever and jump back on board for a jaunt through the desert dictated by a 12-sided die.
Embrace Chaos. Seek Discomfort.
