Spencer Wright of Traffic Cycle Design and Goat are creating a monster.

 

Contrary to popular belief in the Flagstaff community, we are actually not planning on becoming permanent residents (just yet). We have, however, had an incredible time riding and spending time with one of the most solid bike communities we have ever encountered. Steve Garro and folks from Team Hobo taught us how to “shred” on our mountain bikes. The Pay-N-Take has done wonders to quench our thirst for fine ales and good people and the epic trails offered plenty for us to do. If there was any place to be sent to by the Feds, Flagstaff would be the town of choice.

After leaving Flagstaff, we began to realize how incredibly trashed our bikes have become and were forced to make some serious adjustments to some of the bikes. I switched from an old titanium Litespeed frame with whacky mid 90’s racer geometry to a stout Surly Instigator with plenty of crotch clearance and more comfortable slack geometry. It is about 3 times as heavy as my old frame, but I can depend on it lasting the rest of the trip and can weld it if necessary.

Steve Garro of Coconino Cycles added some custom braze-ons to run complete cable housing and attach 4 footman’s loops to secure my Dromedary Bag in the front triangle more securely. I got to hang around his shop for a day while we drank Tecates and listened to one of the best punk rock collections I’ve ever encountered. He was recently awarded the Frame Builder of the Year accolade at the National American Handmade Bicycle Show. After watching him work for a few hours it became very clear why. His ability to manipulate metal is super human. I watched him fit-up a headtube joint with such precision, that the pieces fit together so well they were watertight, BEFORE he brazed it. He put a lot of thought and effort into his frames and was proud to know how many frames he built that are being ridden around the globe. He is an incredible guy who makes incredible bikes…it is worth your time to check out his website.

 

We were lucky enough to receive custom Xtracycles more tailored and reinforced for extreme mountain bike-touring. Additionally, the folks at Xtracycles hooked us up with tons of spare parts to get us ready for the barren northern Mexico section we are approaching. The folks at Xtracycles have been awesome to us throughout our journey. We couldn’t have chosen a better a product/company/community to help us out on our trip.

Goat helped Nate fix up his bike and get him ready for the bike tour. Spencer Wright of Traffic Cycle Design custom bike fabrication put together an extra burley touring frame. Nate is going to try the new Titec H-Bars with Paul Thumbie Friction Shifters.

 

 

In other exciting developments, Surly has offered to let us test out the Big Dummy when they come out in a few months. After Sean destroyed his DEAN titanium frame at the 24hrs in Old Pueblo, we decided to let him have at the innovative dedicated Xtracycle frame offered by Surly in the near future.

 

Spencer Wright of Traffic Cycle Design  is also helping Goat create one monster of a bike. It is basically a hybrid Pugsley and Big Dummy and is impossible to describe at the moment. But we will be sure to post a thorough article about this creature when it comes to life.

 

 

We are getting ready to continue on our way again. We have taken advantage of this momentary lapse in progress to fix up our bikes a bit and earn some money. We expect to continue on our way in about two weeks.

Our good friend Nate, from Santa Cruz, has officially joined our tour and will be riding an Xtracycle with a Traffic Cycle Design frame. More to come on that.

It was twelve noon, start of the mega-pain race; Old Pueblo twenty four hours in the desert. In front of a towering white circus tent hundreds of jersey clad gladiators were fine tuning their steeds of war as spectators cheered and the power-gel hawkers hurled miniature sample packets at people passing by. Everyone had the look of just having disembarked a shuttle to an enchanting lunar playground; faces conveyed childish delight as hands made feeble attempts to steady glasses of beer heaping with foam. The racers more fanatically determined to belt out hour-flat laps could be spotted by their indecently tight spandex shorts and brightly colored water bottle concoctions fizzing like tonics in a mad-chemist’s laboratory.

Goat, Jacob, and I stood at the sidelines watching the event gather momentum, not without a bit of longing to be out shredding trails. A young couple approached Goat and inquired about the xtracycles.

“We’re freelance writers covering the race,” said the man, “We thought there might be an interesting story behind your long bikes.”
“Yeah, we’re traveling from the top of Alaska to the bottom of South America.” Sez Goat.

“Really, well, are all of you here? Could we perhaps get a picture?”

Naturally we bit the bait, unable to resist the lure of small time celebrity status. We posed for a picture, and then I tried to discretely follow a lead to less significant business leaving Jacob to explain the details of our trip. I failed to get very far. Jacob called for me to come back; “One more picture”. After forced smiles and a flash the girl let her camera fall by its strap to her waist, opened up some manila folders and leafed through her portable file cabinet.

“Jacob Thompson!” Cried the girl handing Jacob a stack of papers stapled together. “Sean Monterastelli!’”. I was obliged to receive a similar stack. “David Yost…”. Quite suddenly we were wisked away from that dreamy desert playground; transferred incongruously to boot camp detail assignment. “These are summons for each of you to appear in Court in Flagstaff on Thursday, regarding a criminal case.” The full force of the intruding terror still hadn’t set in; I took a sip of my beer hoping my head would clear.

“We’re federal marshals assigned to serve you summons for a court hearing.” The female officer elucidated. “Here, take a look at our badges.” Both former reporters pulled out leather bound gold plated badges confirming their identity as federal Marshals.

I tried to look disinterested, yet my mind was working itself into a panic; these ‘reporters’ have gone to great lengths to set up this rather unamusing hoax. No, the badges were too authentic, the official documents headed with the words ‘The United States of America Vs. Sean Monterastelli, David Yost, Jacob Thompson’ too lamentable not to be taken seriously. I set my beer down behind a rock and flipped through the fifteen pages of federal charges and the supporting evidence.

The charges went as follows: (The riding the spine crew) conspired to Camp in an undesignated area on the North Kaibab Trail… camped without a valid backcountry permit… provided false information to a Federal Ranger… used bicycles on the North Kaibab Trail. Especially frightening was the invocation of a section of the Federal Code of Regulations (F.C.R) usually reserved for terrorists; the language itself was terrifying enough to sink my heart into a state of permanent despondency: “…did conspire to…defraud the government (!)”.

“You guys should read over the summons carefully and ask us every question you can think of,” Instructed the marshals. “Cause you know that as soon as we leave, your going to think of many things you would like to have clarified”.

Looking over the expansive ‘evidence’ section, I noticed that the entire case was based on information provided on our website. They had us quoted several times as admitting the knowledge that our activities in the Grand Canyon were illegal. The prospect of us coming out of this trial unscathed was slim.

Jacob wanted to get a sense of the severity of penalties that could be imposed on each count.

“I’m pretty sure that all of these charges are petty offenses/misdemeanors. I don’t think you’re being charged with any felonies. Each of the charges will probably carry a maximum fine of two thousand dollars, and some jail time.” The Marshals informed us. “However, I don’t think it’s likely that a prison sentence would be imposed in this circumstance.”

The two marshals continued to discuss an issue that they wanted to see resolved before departing.

“So, we’ve done a lot of research on each of you and your trip, we went through your website and discovered that you would be at this race. We also understand that you intend to leave the country very soon, and with the Mexican border being so close we have to impress upon you the urgency of making it to this court date as well as get an idea of how you’ll secure transportation to Flagstaff”.

“We realize that you’re all limited in mobility by the pace of your bicycling, so we can offer a place to secure your bikes in Tucson, along with ride to the Greyhound bus station”.

We assured the marshals that such arrangements would not be necessary, that we knew plenty of Flagstaff folk attending the race who could give us rides. A few other mundane details were discussed, all three of us desired to be set free from this official meeting to dwell in each his own anguished thoughts.

“Well, now that we’re all on friendly terms,” began the male marshal, face brightening up, “We’d like to express our admiration for the trip –I’m a mountain bike enthusiast myself-, and hope we haven’t ruined the race experience for you.”

Of course at this point a tempestuous sandstorm assaulting the desert plain with nuclear fallout would have considerably brightened my disconsolate mood. We parted ways with the Feds, dragged our feet back to ‘Camp Flagstaff’ and stuck our heads under the nozzle of the Pay-N-Take wagon keg.

News of our criminal status spread like wildfire throughout bike city. Most people held the belief that not much would come of the trial –despite the absurd amount of time and money already spent by the government in dealing with our case. One person offered to give us a ride to the Mexican border; another vowed to organize a critical mass bike rally that would disrupt all courthouse activity. Consulting the legal council of Dave Bednar proved to be the best piece of advice offered by Flaggies. Dave was something of a local hero to those having to deal with bike legal issues.

We left the race on a Monday, all taking separate rides of to Flagstaff. Goat rode in the pickup truck of our good friend Ryan, whose house we would end up settling into for indefinite residency. Ryan and Goat spent an unpleasant four hours stuck in a snowstorm just a few miles south of Flagstaff. Having the only shovel on the highway, Ryan was obliged to dig out the snow in front of several cars stranded before him. It was disheartening for all of us to witness our previous southward momentum visibly diminishing with the onset of winterland all over again.

On Tuesday morning we realized that we had a mere forty eight hours to prepare our defense. After calling several attorneys we came to the understanding that hiring a lawyer would be an expensive but necessary undertaking. Since most of the evidence supplied by our website was told through one voice there was a ‘conflict of interest’ among the three of us. We were advised that if we were to take the case to trial it would be advantageous for each of us to hire our own lawyer so that two of us could testify that what the third wrote was simply an embellishment of the actual story and didn’t reflect the real nature of our Grand Canyon activities. But really it would be in our best interests to strike an early bargain with the prosecuting attorney and be over with the whole ordeal as quickly as possible. Luckily we eventually came into contact with the miracle worker Dave Bednar, who took it upon himself to deal with the federal prosecutor free of charge. The night before the preliminary trial Dave worked out a plea bargain for us to consider. The conditions to our bargain were as follows: To delete from our website all journals and media presentations relating our activities in the Grand Canyon; to post (on our website) an apology to the Park Services as well as a list of rules restricting bike use in the Canyon; to serve forty-eight hours in the Coconino county jail; to (each of us) pay a five-hundred dollar donation to the Grand Canyon Search and Rescue team; to endure five years of unsupervised probation during which we would be forbidden from entering any National Parks, and would be barred from profiting off the telling of our Grand Canyon story. Even if we each forked over twenty five hundred dollars to hire personal lawyers, there was little hope of us acquiring a better deal; grudgingly we accepted the plea bargain.

While waiting for admittance into the courtroom, we surveyed some of the fine pieces of art decorating the lobby. A long haired man of rippling muscles squatted on a pedestal bending a long piece of iron into the shape of a bow. The caption written under the sculpture read: ‘Strength of the Maker’. There were also the usual blindfolded ladies of justice holding their scales that are supposed to be on level with each other to represent unbiased judgment. Mysteriously one of the ladies had had one of her scales pillaged, leaving but a dangling chain on one side of the counter –an ominous sign that sent us all reeling with anxiety.

Judge Aspey stated that he was willing to accept the plea bargain granted with a few minor modifications. We would have to post a photograph of us standing before the courthouse on the website to further inculcate our guilt to those who cared. Unfortunately, the façade of the courthouse offered little in impressing the image of a house of judicial matter -a shot of us marching in shackles behind federal marshals on our way to jail would have been much more compelling. In substantiating his addition to our sentence, the judge brought up a federal case in San Francisco in which a man was ordered to wear a sandwich board bearing the words “I have stolen mail, this is my punishment” for one hundred hours in front of a post office. The judge seemed to admire the creativity inherent in this sentence of public shame. I tried to imagine the dismal outcome of a dragged out court case in which this judge served as both jury and arbiter.

After some months of jail time, we would be obliged to ride freak bikes around the south rim of the Grand Canyon for a hundred days. Mounted upon the front of the bikes would be a large battery powered T.V. screen airing a media presentation of careless mountain bikers mowing down innocent pedestrians, spooking mule trains, ending in a dramatic slow motion pan of a baby’s stroller barrel rolling down a two thousand foot precipice. Naturally we’d be towing a chariot of two rangers apiece in spotless attire; both armed to the teeth and wielding horse whips. Each day some ten thousand tourists would step out of their R.V. or S.U.V., wipe their sweaty brow in confusion at the bewildering sight before them, and then curse us and our delinquent ways for spoiling the majesty of a once in a lifetime attraction. Memory cards of Five million digi-cams would become depleted with mug shots of the criminal bicyclists as millions of pissed off tourists vowed to have our heads mounted to their truck grills.

After the judge confirmed our criminal status we had about an hour of freedom before we were required to surrender ourselves to Federal Marshals. Two-thirds of this time was spent dealing with paperwork at the probation office, which proceeded awkwardly considering none of us had any legal residence, telephone number, mailing address, or any recent history of having such. The federal marshals were generally pleasant folk; they welcomed us with a full body frisk, gave us shiny handcuffs attached to chains that were tightened around the waist, and ankle shackles that made us walk like amputee victims. While taking down my information, they informed me that we’d all be beaten up in prison judging by how bad we smelled. Then we were loaded into a paddy-wagon and transported through the snowy streets of Flagstaff to the local detention center. A community park with a brand new jungle gym bordered the edge of the prison yard’s razor-wire fence, but the swing sets and merry-go-rounds were still and none of the city youths dared to climb about or holler their cares –God had turned his back on this day.

Our personal federal security guards transferred us into the custody of regular run-of-the-mill coppers. As the leg shackles and waists chains were taken off the Marshals advised the cops on the proper means of handling us.

“You got to be real careful with these guys”, the one marshal started, “These boys are criminal bikers; got caught bicycling down the Grand Canyon. They’re considered dangerous… check that… extremely dangerous.”

“Criminal bikers”, a deputy looked up from his paperwork with annoyance, “are you kidding me? What a waist of our time’”.

It was somewhat shocking that such trained professionals weren’t acknowledging the deserved severity of our crimes. The deputy asked us each if we intended to hurt ourselves in anyway.

“Wait a minute,” the Marshal interrupted. “The fact that they biked into the Grand Canyon during winter time should automatically qualify them for suicide watch.”

“That’s a good point.” Admitted the deputy with sincere concern.

Piece by piece, our entire hand was captured by the print machine and uploaded permanently into ‘Big Brother’s criminal records. Then we were thrown into the Drunk Tank; a concrete cell with a steel toilet/water faucet, lined with two tinted windows. For the first three hours only five other people resided in the cell besides the bike criminals. The most talkative of the bunch was a man who called himself ‘New York’, who spoke with a long island accent, always hand one of his hands down the front of his pants, and fancied that he knew the prison/legal ropes as though they had bordered his childhood playpen.

“You know if I were going to go looking for a lawyer, ‘know what I’d ask him first?” Mr. New York pauses to affect his rhetorical question. “Whether he’s spent any time in jail! That’s how you know you’ve got a good lawyer, if he’s got any experience as a criminal”.

A Mexican man with a long curly mullet was attempting to grill New York on his knowledge of parole violations. Unfortunately the man’s English wasn’t so coherent; New York would shine a perplexed grin around the room directed at anyone who might have a try at translation.

A large Navajo man, arms covered with ancient tattoos of worn colors would sit up from his lackadaisical sprawl across cold concrete and relate his tragic tale.

“Man I’d just been paid t’other day, and handed my wife the check; the full check. I only take out like twenty dollars for myself, and she looks at me, takes the twenty an’ hands me a ten. So I buy a Steel Reserve 22… and man I ended up hooking up the blueberriest weed you’ve ever seen.” The Navajo man’s eyes roll into the back of his head as he conjures the heavenly image. “I just had a tiny bit…” He makes a small ‘O’ shape with his index finger and thumb. “…and I had stuck it in my pocket before fallen asleep. Then I was woken up by the man.” It took three or four accounts of the story before I discovered that his parole officer had burst unannounced into his house, immediately frisked him, and discovered his stash of heavenly blue.

“That’s why I’m always telling my son; you don’t keep your weed on you… you hide that stuff far from your body when you’re about lying and crashing.” His advice for the rest of us held less appealing wisdom. “You know what though… G (glass) is much better than smoking weed any day. It don’t have any smell, and it’s easy to hide in your arse and eat in prison.”

If a lady were dragged into one of the holding cells across the hallway, New York would holler, predict a free strip tease and say something crude like; “why is it that only white broads get suicidal in prison”. Curly mullet man, determined to charm the ladies, would stand up and fix his collar (he, like us, still had on his civilian clothes). Most everyone else plastered their faces against the tinted windows till one of the deputies shouted to decease. At some point we were forced to evacuate the cell whereupon some inmates washed down the concrete floors and crammed in fourteen hard plastic porta-cots, leaving not a pinch of space to walk. Most of us threw our thin sheets over our heads and tried to ignore the blaring phosphorescent lights; New York stayed up late, placing a call every two and a half minutes to his ‘old lady’ –whose telephone, he had informed us before, wouldn’t except collect calls anyway. I heard New York whisper the same pathetic pleas into the phone piece some thousand plus times: “it’s me baby, please pick up”. Finally, when the inevitable Friday night drunken crew began filing in New York had better conversation to occupy his time. A truck driver from Texas was describing a rather fascist system of justice in a tiny town of Morton, where the Sherriff assumes the role of judge and mayor.

An obese man stood over the steel toilet clutching what he could of his enormous belly. He moaned low, gasped for breath and eventually demanded emergency attention form the night watchman.

“That guy had his act dialed”, speculated New York, “He’s gonna get whatever he want’s to eat down in the infirmary. He pulled that off well”.

A man from Las Vegas staggered into the cell, tripping over the first porta-cot immediately. He was unable make any unassisted movement without falling to the floor. My instinctual response toward the chaos posed by these fetid bodies was to bolt upright on my cot so as to be ready to brace myself for collision with the teetering drunk –and to be in better position to dodge any projectile vomit.

In the morning the cots were taken out but more people were crammed in to the already congested cell. Our tiny concrete room housed twenty four people for at least five hours; all the ‘pods’ –boot camp like dorm rooms- were at full capacity. Finally, after twenty six hours in that chamber of incessant boredom we were issued prison cloths, wrist band identification and whisked away to a luxurious pod. One could gaze stupidly at a T.V. set all day, or read a slim selection of Christian literature; one could even shower –although after noticing revolting cases of foot fungus on some of the drunk-tank regulars I decided against it. We were served some chewy mystery cutlets for dinner –chicken fried butcher’s discards rolled in bread crumbs. I had fasted for the time in the drunk-tank but was feeling dizzy, I ate the weird meat –it’s still with me after a week.

Our Pod was largely inhabited by Navajo men which made me feel slightly uneasy when I observed a group of five, eyes glued to the television, watching Kevin Costner Indian convert in Dances With Wolves. The American Movie Classic channel was kept on till ten –when the lights were shut off- and oddly, every movie included some ridiculous prison scene -Keanu Reves and professional football cohorts sing Gloria Ganor’s ‘I Will Survive’, and perform an amusing line dance behind bars.

We were able to sleep well in the pods, because they actually turned the lights out –even though they were put back on full force at five in the morning. Our legal savior Dave Bednar picked us up when we were finally released, and drove us to our Flagstaff home.

Upon reentering the real world as free men I’ve noticed a few changes in the appearance and behaviors of myself and my former bike crew. I find myself out of breath after performing even the most mundane of tasks –like walking from couch to toilet- and borderline the obese. Goat has a jarring tone of apathy in his voice while discussing any matters of future plans, his waistline is much like an ancient dam ready to collapse and gush forth a wave of doom for all that lies in its path. Jacob’s eyes are bloodshot and vacuous. He’s really only fit to sit on cushions and stare at the blue glow of a computer screen. I fear he’s in the throes of Internet addiction. Often I wake up in the middle of the night in cold sweat and involuntarily cry the words: “they’ve got us”. Luckily we’ve been consoled (more times than we can count) by local wisdom the saying: “it’s all down hill from here”. Every single instance of this advice before has turned out to be bogus, yet the law of averages dictates that the tide will turn… it must!

24 hours in Old Pueblo pops up in the desert near Oracle and operates as a Mecca for bicycle enthusiasts all over.  Within a period of 24 hours, the desert landscape blossoms with RV’s of every size and shape.  In this temporary bicycle utopia, people do not walk, that is unless their bike has a flat tire.  People know you by your bike more than by your name.  When you meet somebody, you try to subtly check out their bike, looking it up and down as you talk to them.  In short, it is a bicycle party.

We wandered around from campsite to RV supersite and hung out with folks from all over.  Some people were there to seriously compete, but most of the people were there really just to have a good time, ride some laps and meet good people.  Our home was at Hobo camp with the eccentric crowd from

Flagstaff, right above the town’s Pay-N-Take trailer where coffee and brew flowed freely. 

We were hoping to snag a spot in the race, and ride legitimately on the trails.  But had no luck.  We spent a good amount of our time volunteering to help get the race in order.  Dug holes, put up fences, constructed tents, etc.  They gave us lots of free food, but the race director, Todd would not let us into the race. 

Since we had gotten there 3-4 days before the race, there was plenty of time to ride the trails without having to share with hundreds of other racers.  The trail was very smooth and flowy, without any serious technical sections, except for one drop at the end of the 15 mile loop.  A steep rock face with a small drop at the end, then multiple boulders to dodge on the flats below.  Easy enough in the daytime with plenty of sleep, but potentially difficult at night or after 24 hours of riding.

Sean was riding some laps a day before the race, and went down the rock face smoothly enough, until he hit one of the boulders.  He would have probably just pedaled right over it but his head tube completely snapped off and sent him rolling across the ground in front of hundreds of onlookers.  His Dean Titanium frame saw its last mile.

Within a matter of minutes, Scooby, from Fetish cycles hooked Sean up with a Fetish frame for only 50 bucks and the Fetish mechanic was building it up from the broken Dean.  In about two hours Sean was back on his bike riding again.

We really couldn’t have been having a better time at the race, unless we got a spot in the race.  We watched the chaos of the lemonds start with a couple hundred bikers running to get their bikes.   Our friend Fuzzy, who won the Single Swizzle in an absurdly inhuman time frame, was won of the first guys out.  Bryce from AZ bikes out of

Flagstaff calmly walked towards a beautiful Coconino Cycles cruiser that is proudly displayed in the Pay-N-Take.  With a great big smile he got on and pedaled his way toward the single-track horizon.

And then I noticed Goat chattin’ up with a couple who claimed they were freelance journalists there to cover the race.  They were regular pedestrians without bikes, which should have given us concern, with hindsight.  However, we were just so elated to be at this huge bike party, we didn’t think twice.

 “We are here to cover the race, and saw your bikes, thought there must be a good story,” Todd, the “journalist” said.  His hair was cut short and he was wearing trendy department store clothes.. 

Goat entertained his comment with a brief summary of our trip, “We rode them all the way from

Alaska.”

 “Can I get a picture of the three of you?” He asked, looking around for the Sean. 

“I’m just a freelance journalist, don’t work for any specific newspaper, but would shop around and find a good paper.”

Sean came over for the quick photo and was about to walk away, against the wishes of our “benevolent” media source.  He wanted another photo.

Somewhat paranoid about the media folks writing inaccurate and misleading articles, I wanted to know a little more about his intentions, “Who are you thinking about sending….”

I was interrupted by Todd and his lady friend pulling out their necklace badges.   They started reading out our names, including our middle names, and handing us a 20 page pamphlet of paper titled, “The United States of America vs. Jacob Thompson”

We stood there dumbly as he explained that we were given a summons to show up in federal court in 4 days.  And he wanted to know if we had any questions.

 “Wow. So is this usual for you guys to go undercover and track people down for riding their bikes?”  I asked incredulously.

 “Eh.. well. No.. not really.  We usually only deal with felony cases.”  He replied, as he looked over at his female co-worker who seemed un-amused by our humor.         

 They wanted to make sure we would make it to Flagstaff, “We can store your bikes and give you a ride to the greyhound station.”

My field of vision seemed temporarily shattered, like the sky had cracked and tumbled into pieces.  All I could see were these two federal narks standing in front of me with the rest of the world blurring away.  I tried to reserve my frustrations, “These bikes are everything we own, you could probably understand that you’re about the last person on earth right now that I would trust with my bike.  Hmm.  Why don’t you give us a ride up to Flagstaff?”

 “That’s not part of my jurisdiction.  I am only supposed to deliver the summons, offer to take you to the greyhound station and store your bikes.” He said in a robotic tone as if he had pressed play on a government tape.

 “Wow.  That’s swell.   So you want us to bike back a couple hundred miles up hill to

Flagstaff?”  I asked.

 “Yep.  If that’s what it takes.” He replied.

 “Well it was real swell meeting you.  I hope you have a real nice day.” I said while clenching my teeth “you gonna stick around to enjoy the race?”

Mission accomplished.  Our secret agent friends vanished into the crowds.    

We got a ride back to Phoenix, got our bikes and gear back in touring shape, and continued our way along the Arizona Trail. I had yet to get used to the trials of the desert trails, and managed to get at least one flat every day for a period of two weeks. And yes, I tried putting Stan’s in my tubes, but can’t afford to replace my tubes every time Stan’s inevitably fails. So I spent a lot of time with just my wheel sets and hand pump, laboriously airing up the tires with a minimum of 150 pumps

During our travels, we have become accustomed to following directions which are sketchy at best, sometimes. Thru-biking the AZT by Andrea Lankford seemed like an easy path to follow. But we had our difficulties. It’s possible our odometers were all incorrect and inconsistent, because we repeatedly had to stop and look around for a road/turn that didn’t exist. For the most part, however, the guide was really easy to follow and an amazing blessing on a route so new and often unwelcoming to fully loaded touring bikes. She does a good job of keeping us off paved roads and moving south. But, it sure sucks to get lost in the middle of the desert with just the cactus and little water.

There is something disturbing about a cactus that apparently jumps out onto the middle of your bike trail. The jumping cholla constantly terrorized our path with their natural caltrop buds strewn about the desert landscape. No matter which way they land, there is a spike directed straight up and into your tire. Even easy trails became rather technical in order to avoid the cactus.

The other challenge inherent with crossing 100’s of miles of desert is all the sand, which can quickly reduce you to pushing your bike. However, I would say that the AZT does a pretty good job keeping you on your bike. Some of the other off-road routes we’ve blazed have kept us pushing for up to five miles at a go.

The Arizona Trail is a remarkable phenomenon, 800 or so miles of incredible trails winding its way through some of the most beautiful and surreal scenery imaginable. Unfortunately, we have not gotten to experience it in its entirety. North of the Grand Canyon was super snowy, and barely ride-able even on the highways. South of the canyon we had two broken bike frame extensions and were unable to ride the trails. It wasn’t until past Flagstaff when we were able to actually begin the trail and we were able to take it all the way to Tucson.

A day or so south of Phoenix we were hit by a thunderstorm late in the night. Prior to that, we had mistakenly believed that it doesn’t really rain in the Arizona desert and had opted for open skies rather than the claustrophobia of our tent. When I felt a light sprinkle and a swift gust of wind in the middle of the night, I calmly and confidently assumed it was temporary. The rain swiveled on and off, like the windmill we were sleeping under. Until a crash of thunder signaled the sky to dump itself onto us. Instantly all three of us jumped up and grabbed our soggy sleeping bags and began the struggle to set up the tent. It was too late by the time it was up and everything that needed to be dry was completely wet.

The sky continued to pout the next morning and kept everything soggy and lowered morale. We didn’t get going until about 2 in the afternoon. We only covered about 15-20 miles that day, but got to ride a nice downhill section through a beautiful box canyon where the rocks seemed to change colors at every turn. I lost my favorite brown fleece hoodie and rode miles back to look for it, and found nothing.

Camped at the Gila River and began a gradual ascent towards a town of Oracle. From there we had another day’s worth of climbing over
Mt. Lemon and figured we would descend from there down to the 24 hour race. The day was getting late and Oracle began lighting up in the distance. It was going to be a really late night, the dirt road would spill us out onto a highway just after sundown and we would have a good 8 miles of road riding into the town. But there was a pizza place in town, and we were not going to miss out on that.

Then I saw a sign that said “Bicycle event in progress” just before a quick-up tent filled with race info pamphlets.

“The race coordinators are just down that road about a mile away. You should go check it out.”

I was a ways ahead of the others and went to check out the scene. The party had already begun, with the tent/RV city taking shape. I rounded up Goat & Sean and we set up camp.

            Waking up in front of the gates at Agua Caliente park, nestled at the outskirts of Tucson actually made me want to puke. With 3 hours of restless sleep, I was not prepared to jump on my bike and seek masochistic Zen with 50 other riders. In between dry heaves, trucks with bikes strapped to their roof, or crammed into their camper shell passed through the gates eager to find the camaraderie of the pre-race parking lot scene. Some waved at the bedraggled few, pathetically lounging next to their oddly long bicycles and makeshift campsite. Others merely stared, and missed the turn, only to come back and stare a bit more as they entered the Single Swizzle Race.

            Single speeders are a proud niche of the de-evolution of bicycles. Out with the fancy advancements of gear shifting technology. In with the simplicity of “One F-in Speed” as a bumper sticker put it so eloquently. Some bikes go another step back in time to a fixed gear, where the wheels turn simultaneously with the cranks, AND they do this on technical single-track. These die-hard riders, unburdened by the distractions and complications of shifting gears have found a whole community of cyclists who strive to reach back down Darwin’s step-ladder and come up riding just as hard as geared bikes.

            Exactly what the hell we were doing there was anybody’s guess (including ours). I looked over at my bike with its rear cog set mutilated with only 1 only one proud cog left. My derailleur was stretched to its limit to keep the chain tension tight enough for the chain to stay in place. Sean had shortened his bike and it looked more appropriate for a single speed race. Goat’s rig however, was the anomaly. A fixed gear Xtracycle that left most everybody shaking their head in disbelief. We did not look like we there to race. Which made sense, because we weren’t.

For the most part, bicycle tourists are not extremely fast cyclists. Their day consists almost entirely of riding, but when you’re carrying 100 pounds of gear, the temptation to flip into the highest gear possible and mash up a hill is largely ignored. You get used to taking it easy while touring on a bike, taking in the scenery. It’s a different kind of riding, it’s not competitive race training. I experience enough “burn” in my legs on a daily basis, and was not inclined to melt them on such a fine day. We had traveled about 5,500 miles on our bikes and had pedaled with just a handful of folks and we were really just stoked to have the opportunity to ride with 50 other people.

            After signing in and feeling bad that I didn’t have money to donate to the organizers for all their effort, we were rolling out of the park. A couple miles of neutral riding before the ride really began. Hanging somewhat precariously out the backside of a SUV was a guy videotaping the event. His camera was pointed at the mass of cyclists who had taken over the road, and forced the cars to yield to the riders. It was a beautiful sight. After countless miles of “sharing” the road with those 4 wheeled bike killers, it was nice to be a visible mass of riders. Most laws state that they need to leave anywhere from 3-5 feet in between cyclists, and anybody who has ever dared pedal their bikes on the roads knows that law does not exist in reality.

We reached the starting point and get a glimpse of our fearless leader, Dejay, the race coordinator, as he explained the course. He attempted an impossible feat: to give us directions and then claimed we were responsible for knowing the course, but, all I really heard was, “This race will surely test your mind, body, and spirit.” I was pretty sure that the trinity he spoke of was wholly consumed with not puking.

            The race begun uphill, and remained that way for a long time. A quick check in with Goat, verified that he shared my same passion for keeping the breakfast where it belongs, inside our stomachs and not on the ground. I slowly meandered my way up the hill, and was mildly taunted by the camera at various sections of the mountain road. Eventually, I realized, “These single-speeders are freaking nuts,” and wondered, “Just what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.” With only gear they would just stand up as if they were on a fancy road bike and grind their way up the hill. Compensating the lack of gears with pure pain and a bit of insanity. They were fast. I was slow.

            The top of the hill offered a temporary oasis of water and beer. Just watching the riders down the fizzy, foamy beer made my stomach turn. Through the gates was an hour of single-track marked by pink ribbons. A few turns of incredible trails settled my stomach as I pedaled with my only pathetic gear through half a dozen different types of cactus, ever mindful of the torture they can cause to both me and my tires. Within 5 minutes I stopped to see if a rider needed help patching a flat. 15 minutes later, everybody was stopping to see if I needed help patching my flat. “Oh No.” I told them. Seemed easy enough; simple pinch flat. Each patch I checked would inevitably fail, since my tube was filled with Stan’s, the flat-healing liquid would leak through the hole and penetrate the patch. I thought I would just need to put on another patch. Nope that failed. Then I tried ripping them all off and starting over. Failed again. Two complete patch kits later and about 20 or so people I waved by, I knew I was screwed. I was pretty sure all possible help had been flagged by. Fortunately, I was actually not the last person.

            Two guys arrived and were able to give me a replacement tube. After about 300 pumps from my pathetic little bike pump, I was back on the trail, but my morale was low. The trail was incredibly fun. Then it went into a wash that switched from thick sand or endless boulders, that proved difficult (if not impossible at times) with the long Xtracycle frame. I was struggling towards the end of the loop trying to get traction on tiny but steep climbs. Having to push more than I would were I to have all my gear on the back. Eventually, I caught up with other riders and was able to enjoy the solidarity of this challenging event. I rode with one of the guys from Surly for a bit, and discovered that he had helped design the Pugsley, a bike I dream about every night and at various points throughout the day. “Whoah.. So you created the Pugsley..” I stammered while catching my breathe, “so….basically…you are my hero.”

            “You guys are my hero,” he said, “you came all the way from Alaska, huh?”

            I was too star struck to respond, “so is it true? Can you really ride on the snow??”

 

            “Yeah. In about 8 inches of snow you can turn a nice figure eight.”

            I got a few more flats.. and then…there was Milagrosa. A trail that could easily demolish your spirit, and possibly your bike. Endlessly steep rocky outcroppings smashed together into a tight single-track of drops, turns and impossibly narrow passages. A few dozen switchbacks into it I smashed my pedal on a rock as I careened down, lacking the control/skill to operate smoothly. All that remained of my left pedal was a 1⁄4” shaft of metal. The rest of the trail I spent trying to keep my feet from bouncing off the pathetic remnant of pedal, which at one point painfully found its way into my shin. The Xtracycle worked well enough for most of it, though because of the long wheel base, it would high-center on some rocks and I forgot to take off the kickstand leaving it to snag snag on rocks and stop my momentum instantly. Even with the broken pedal, I only had to dismount/walk less than tenth of the trail, which was quite an accomplishment in my book.

        I rode in with Beer Brad who waited around for me after he heard my agonizing scream during the altercation between my shin/pedal shaft. He was riding solo in the 24 hour race next weekend and was asking if we were going to be there. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I told him.

Piles of pizza awaited us among a cheering crowd of racers who were happy to see that the Xtracycle made it back. Everybody headed to Dejay’s house for the post-race awards ceremony and slideshow. The event was sponsored by Fat Tire Brewing company and nobody was left thirsty. The awards ceremony was unique, with shwag being passed out based on criteria that had very little to do with anybodies performance in the race, “who got hit by a car the most recently?” or “who drank the most during the race?”

 

A critical mass of single speeders developed at the house and rode through the city to the Surly Wench for an after-race party. Riding through a town with 40 other bikers was a highlight of my week. The evening did not wind down until after 3 AM, far past my bedtime, and I was practically falling asleep waiting for the mob of bikers to crash out back at Dejays.

 

The guys from Minneapolis (Surly folks, and Hurl from Cars-R-Coffins) stayed up listening to punk rock and attending their drinks until the wee morning hours. Single Swizzle 07 was an event you would hate to miss. It was the first time I’d even pedaled a single speed bike, and would happily do it again just to hang out and participate in such a cool ride.

We are riding to help support Friends of the Lafitte Corridor (http://www.folc-nola.org) to create a bikeway through New Orleans neighborhoods ravaged by Katrina’s floodwaters. It states this very clearly on our home page, and it does not say anywhere that we are “environmentalists riding for environmentalism.” Unfortunately, Dennis Wagner of the Arizona Republic cared more about getting a rise out of the readers than accurate journalism.

New Orleans is still working to restore their city and needs nationwide support and encouragement. This public bikeway will help build community and restore hope. It will play an important role in assuring that kids can walk to school safely and that people can get around without cars. Please check out their website and see how you can help out. (http://www.folc-nola.org

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Additionally,

The San Francisco Chronicle article, wrongly states that we created the “Extracycle”(the paper didn’t even spell it correctly). We have proudly pedaled the bicycle frame extensions more accurately known as Xtracycles, (http://www.xtracycle.com) that we bought from the company out of a small bike community in North San Juan, CA. The article was written without speaking to us, and all the quotes were pulled directly from our blog.

Xtracycles (http://www.xtracycle.com) have changed the way that people ride their bikes. THEY DO IT MORE with a long bike. A revolutionary design that allows you to use your bike for just about whatever you would use a car for. More biking + less driving = happier people.

Check out their website (http://www.xtracycle.com) and learn more about this exciting attachment you can add to your bicycle.

Ten miles southeast of Camp Verde –known in recollection only as a gas depot off a major highway- we hit mud. The clay in the ground had the patience of a potter shaping a ceramic disk around our wheels. For two hours we toiled up a gradual hill, and then began a gradual descent as chunks of mud hit teeth, tiny pebbles or sharp stones bombard chest all the way to the flats. And the Flats ride as though you were still climbing, and eventually I catch up to Jacob who is standing his bike up with one hand and thrusting his fingers at the large accumulation of mud between his brake mounts and rims. His tire won’t move at all, and he ceases work momentarily to vent his frustrations. Just as I’m about to leave on account of his heavy complaints he gestures to a car completely stuck in the mud, ditched by its owner on the wayside. The sun was near about finishing up its work with this chunk of horizon, usually we find camp by dark yet I had an unusual ambition to reach a most intriguing destination. It was also the first instance in nearly three and a half months of the temperature not plummeting exponentially with each minute past sundown; it was a pleasant motivation factor driving us to be a little more audacious in night riding. In another six miles we were supposed to hit the Verde River hot springs, where one could rub shoulders with the ghost of a most notorious gangster. Al Capone, and perhaps a whole entourage of depression era hipsters, used to hang out and bathe at a resort built around the Verde River hot springs. As always, going was much tougher than then mileage would have us predict; a real ‘workout’ of a climb for three miles culminating in a near vertical drop of some fifteen hundred feet. All the while spinning out of control down the descent in pitch darkness I couldn’t help but dread the insanely steep climb in store for me in the morning. Toward the end of hill I caught sight of a sign with my headlamp: ‘Absolutely no Nudity’. Then I saw lights, heard faint music emanating from the bottom of the river valley; the possibility that someone down there might actually take that posted rule seriously nearly eclipsed my dreams of having a soothing evening in the mineral baths.

In front of an ancient hydro-electric power station we set up camp, and ferociously ate a pot of oatmeal. Some campers nearby informed us that the springs were a bit difficult to find, especially at night, and that it would be better to wait for another camper –who was planning on making the trip shortly- to lead the way. The man and his frisky dog arrived at our camp and immediately began wearing our ears down to stubble with his rants. He must have been infatuated with the sound of his own voice because he rarely paused long enough to imply a desire for a response. A brief river crossing was required to make it to the hot springs. Our guide carried his dog across the cold water –a soggy dog would be an unpleasant cuddle buddy in a small tent. Of course it was a futile effort, as soon as we arrived at the pools the dog jumped right into the water; a fine layer of dog hair floated on the surface of the lukewarm pool (98 degrees). The second pool was a blissful hundred and five degrees plus. Unfortunately the hot pool was blocked off from view of the moon rising above the mountains by walls covered with graffiti. Concrete foundations of the old resort still commanded walkways around the pools, and two towering palm trees imparted their malady of tropical invasiveness. Long after everyone else had made the trek back to camp, I remained soaking my bones, hypnotized by the pale moon light that had finally ascended above the reach of the graffiti covered walls. Luckily I refrained from passing out right there in the pool, although it was a most tempting crash pad.

We were trying to shoot for the town of Payson the next day, some fifty miles away. In just two days time we had an appointment to meet a friend from Flagstaff at the trailhead leading to Four Peaks –some hundred and twenty miles away. In parting, our guide from the night before informed us that it was all uphill to the town of Strawberry. It was encouraging news considering the dirt trails were still soggy with mud. We climbed the steep switchbacks that we had breezed down the night before. Then there was a short flat section where we might as well have been climbing with the resistance of the mud. Then there was a fifteen mile hill where one could see the switchbacks wind up nearly four thousand feet above… an infinite maze of cuts angled into the mountain side. Around mile eight I set into my lowest gear and spun my legs just fast enough to keep my speedometer from falling asleep. I had been biking the entire day without any shirt or socks, but when I crested the summit of the hill the sun was already dropping low, the temperature fell with it, and the road (once again) returned to snow pack. Already I missed the warm weather spell.

Strawberry has but one attraction: a small inn/restraint that sits betwixt two highways. While waiting for my touring buddies to arrive I sat outside and shivered, trying to savor –what I mistakenly believed to be- the last of our cold weather. It was all you can eat Fish Fry night at the Strawberry Inn, much to our delight. Two different fires were blazing in the restaurant, yet the room was still in the frigid grip of Al Capone’s flesh deprived spirit fist. We ordered hot coffee and all you can eat fish plates. After plate number three was set down, the waitress’s pace reduced to that of a gang-banger suffering a minor flesh wound, slowly losing consciousness. At plate number six, the waitress non-apologetically told us she was clean out of fish. Well this information did not go over well at all. Starving and emaciated, we were in right mood to cause riot over the indecency of the situation. Luckily some nice folks from a town even smaller than Strawberry invited us to spend the night at there home. The lady of the house expressed unreserved enthusiasm, while the husband requested a peep at Jacob’s driver’s license (not without a sense of humor). We made poor mileage that day, yet we managed to climb well over four thousand feet in twenty five miles. Our rendezvous at the Four Peaks would just have to wait.

The next day we breezed through Payson and arrived in the town of Rye just in time for happy hour. Rye consisted mainly of an unattractive bar, yet there was a wonderfully back woods creep heap of a junkyard piled high with all kinds of weird pedal bikes and motor bikes. It was a museum as much as a junkyard, and had on display Big wheel tall bikes, two wheel drive dirt bikes, a tandem fixed gear, exercise bikes from the 60’s, tricycles, an antique rickshaw, a shiny recumbent with a CD Radio among all kinds of bright front and rear lights and running lights along the frame among thousands more mesmerizing contraptions. Jacob was looking a little too closely at a cruiser bike with stick-shift like gear throttle when the owner of the place emerged from a rusty pile of steel and nearly wrung his neck limp.

“Don’t you be touchin any of that” says an older man with a long mane of graying hair blending into a flowing white beard.
“I was just looking”. Jacob defends himself.

“Well if you were just looking, than there’d be no need for your hands to moseying so close to the bike.” He fumes out his agitation, and seems like he’ll be quick in cooling down a bit, but suddenly he burst out in fumes once more. “Some guy was over here two days ago and broke the accelerator to one of my motorcycles. He wouldn’t take any responsibility for his actions and I was about ready to break his fingers.”

A good majority of the stuff in his yard looked decrepit and ready to shatter at the shrill cry of a baby, but we weren’t ready to argue with the man. He calmed down once we started asking him questions on the origins of his collection. The man had been collecting parts and buying up whole bike stores for many years; he most likely had a monopoly on the trade for miles around. He offered Goat a job doing handy mechanic work; I was a bit relieved when Goat just laughed off the suggestion, it seemed he had very likely leaped right off the last peak of purgatory with excitement over the endless possibilities of freak bike production.

We lay about and napped a bit in front of Rye’s bar, and by and by some old jolly man, shaped like St. Nick came and grilled us about our bikes. He was accompanied by a much skinnier man wearing glasses and sporting mutton shops of very sparse but very long hair. Our new acquaintance let it be known that his name was ‘Bear’, and that he was into collecting, shaping and selling gem stones. I could tell that his skinny friend John was eyeing my Gun case with interest. I cracked open the case and brought out my guitar much to his delight –it was good for the rest of us as well because Bear wouldn’t stop jabbering away about various disconnected thoughts like our trip, the merciless landscape, about the recent loss of his driver’s license. John picked up the guitar and picked away at some blues standards. He tried teaching me some different tunings; showed me what was proper for slide guitar, and told me about some new folk musicians to check out. I must have been spacing out on account of the good music because suddenly some thin old lady was standing right next to me making small talk with John.

“That wouldn’t be rock music you’re playing there.” She looked disgusted at having had to pronounce the word ‘rock’. “Ain’t none of that is worth listening to, its all just noise, plain and simple.”

John just kept on strumming and said real calm, “Well I admit most of what’s being played on radio and what’s mainstream isn’t even decent, but you can easily pick out some good stuff”.

“No it’s all bad. You can’t even dance to that noise.” She turns to me and asks: “Can you actually admit to feeling like dancing to that rock and roll?”

“Well, I…” didn’t know exactly how not to offend her but still keep her engaged on this eccentric rant. “Yeah, I can easily dance to Rock, and do so on a regular basis.”

“Yeah, and what do you do… the chicken hobble.” She brought her wrists to her breast and waved her arms like a chicken, trying to make me feel the absurdity of Rock dancing. “The only music worth dancing to is good ole’ country music. But not the country music you hear on the radio. Boy, whenever I find myself in a place where there’s music I don’t care to hear, I stick plugs in my ear; I carry them around with me wherever I go.”

I tried to get her to explain what style of country she listened to, but received no satisfying answer. She had a face that exuded a character like out of a Mark twain novel; I signaled to Goat to get my camera out’a my bag on the sly. Right as I was about to take a candid shot, the old lady started to take off.

“Wait, I would really like to have just a photograph of this moment.” I tried coaxing her to stay. “My memory’s horrid, and I just think this a moment’s something special.”

“Sorry sonny, I don’t do photos.” She patted my shoulder and looked all too scared that I might snap a shot on the sly. “Might have the F.B.I after me for all I know.” She was off already down the dirt road.

The big man ‘Bear’ bestowed upon each of us a smoky quartz necklace before we took off. Apparently they were stones possessing special powers dealing with friendships and the like. That night we climbed the snowy slopes of the Four Peaks with Ryan, our Flagstaff friend, and slept out in view of the sprawling mass of Phoenix, glowing with its eerie urban energy.