Four riders, two weeks and two thousand miles across the States on a magical mountain bike tour.
First published: April 2001
As we met for a breakfast of omelettes smothered in green chile sauce, Jo and Russell told us about how they’d been up early and seen the Uranium trucks rumbling through Moab at 5am (presumably while they thought no one was watching). Around us, past the checked shirts of the locals and Patagonia fleeces of the tourists were views out of the window of the sunlit, red rock canyon walls that surround Moab. Two days ago, we’d been in England, looking out at the incessant rain, yet here we were, having breakfast in view of some of the best rides on Earth and talking about where to ride that day.
The trip had made sense at the time. We wanted to have a holiday in the States and do a ton of riding. But there’s so much riding in the US that it was hard to choose where. I was the only one who’d spent much time over here and I couldn’t decide on one place to go to. If we spent two weeks in Moab, we’d miss the great riding in Sedona and Flagstaff. If we went to Marin or Santa Cruz, we’d miss Moab and so on. So we decided to make a road trip of it. With the aid of a map of the States and some tracing paper, I mapped out all the honeypots of riding and just drew on the neatest line between them. We missed a few (like the whole of the East Coast, Oregon, Vancouver and Montana) but I thought that the route we had pretty much covered a wide selection of riding in America.
The four of us – Jo, Russell, Ash and I – arrived in Denver on a Sunday evening in November. We found a cheap motel, ate and drank until we were cross-eyed with jetlag and retired. One of the benefits of jetlag in the States is that you can get up silly early. Jo and Russell were up around 5am and even I got up by 7. We soon found a good place for breakfast and were on our way to Moab – with a quick trip through Vail, site of the ‘94 Worlds.
Moab
We crossed the whole of the Rocky Mountain range, its peaks tipped with the first of November’s snow. Everywhere else was basking in late-Autumn sun. We took the ‘secret’ short cut to Moab via the ghost town of Cisco – site of some of Thelma and Louise.
It’s one of those long short cuts, but it does lead you in to Moab along the spectacular banks of the Colorado River. We stopped a few times for pictures and then headed to Moab in time to catch a ride before sunset.
Contrary to what you might have seen, there’s a whole lot more to Moab than just Slickrock. There’s a lot of it, sure, but there’s sweet singletrack, nadgery rocky descents – and 800 foot drops to the Colorado River to focus the mind. There’s a good four or five bike shops in town and plenty of places to eat and drink – though Utah law limits beer to around 2.5% strength (bring your own from Colorado). We were seeing the town at its best, away from the prime summer tourist months (it’s too hot then anyway – 110-degree days aren’t uncommon). We got booked into a motel and put the bikes together.
Though it was late in the day, we still managed a twilight ride around the practice loop of the roller coaster like Slickrock Trail.
Ride the Slickrock trail once when you go to Moab, just to say you have. It’s fun, and it’s way harder than it looks.
We ate (lots) and went to bed early. And that just about brings us to the Moab Diner scenario at the beginning. We decided to ride the must-see Porcupine Rim trail – possibly the best singletrack ride in the World. We opted for the full 30-mile ride- from-town experience. The first ten miles of the ride are on dirt roads. It’s no chore though, as the scenery just doesn’t stop growing around you.
We got to the ride proper and climbed in the morning sunshine. At the top of the climb is a view over Castle Valley and like all Moab views, pictures and words don’t do it justice. It’s really big, OK? The 10 mile descent of Porcupine Rim starts with fast fire road that’s been ridden enough to become de-facto singletrack as the line is worn between the rocks. And then the exposure begins. The trail nears the canyon worn by the Colorado about the same time it turns into sweet, narrow singletrack. It’s still downhill, though now more technical and with the thought of a thousand foot drop to the river if you get it too wrong. It didn’t stop us from ripping down the trail, in our own personal zones and with the widest grins in Utah. Despite ‘only’ being 30 miles once we’d made it back to town, we were knackered.
We stopped by Rim Cyclery, one of the best known bike shops in the world where the owner Bill is an old acquaintance of mine. He insisted on serving us single malt whiskey in chipped china mugs while we all told our own versions of the ride. We ate in the Moab Smokehouse and despite our best efforts, were in bed asleep by 9pm.The next day in Moab was also our last, as we had to be in Durango that night. As we sat in the Moab Diner again, we debated the different rides – Amasa Back, Top of the World, Hurrah Pass – all classics and they’d all have to wait as we settle on the equally epic Poison Spider Mesa. A great ride enhanced by the truly terrifying exposed Portal Trail that passes within inches of an 800foot drop (check out the pedal dings on the edge…). And once you’ve got that over, the next half-hour is a downhill trials course. It’s great for technique…We had dinner in the Moab Brewery and then a relatively short 170mile journey to the old Wild West mountain town of Durango, the sometime home to Ned Overend, Yeti, Tomac, Herbold, Missy and just about everybody really.
Durango
We were up at eight for our breakfast in the Durango diner. ‘Where the pro’s meet to eat’ read the sign next to pictures of Ned and jerseys from Furtado and Tomac – that kind of thing. But they’d never met pro eaters like Jo before though and he got applause from the waitress for finishing some mattress-sized pancakes AND a full omelette.
Our local guide, Steve Kurowski from Yeti met us and took us on a ride through the bare, white trunked Aspens. We climbed from 8000 feet to over 10,000 – the altitude showing whenever we tried anything more strenuous than hopping a twig. But six-mile singletrack descents need earning and we were more than happy to pay the price. Our 26-mile ride left us drained – and more than a little hungry. Something that was easily solved at the Durango Brewery.
Flagstaff
Friday dawned, and after another hearty breakfast, we took the tour of the Yeti factory, bid goodbye to Steve and headed for Flagstaff, Arizona, taking in Monument Valley and the must-see of the Grand Canyon at sunset. We rolled into Flagstaff and our friend Cosmic Ray’s house. As honoured guests, Jo and Russell got Ray’s Airstream trailer ‘spare room’. Not that it mattered, we could now sleep anywhere. Flagstaff too is around 7,000 feet up in the air and the riding is similar to Durango – gorgeous singletrack, big climbs and amazing views over the wooded valleys. In the winter, Flagstaff is often under a blanket of snow while neighbouring Sedona, an hour south, is T-shirt weather. In the summer, while Sedona sizzles, Flagstaff has cool, mountain air.
Sedona
We were off to Sedona the following day to see just how different the two places are. We headed down the mountain to Sedona – about 40 miles and 4,000 ft lower down from Flagstaff. Like Moab, it is a red rock playground, though as a ‘psychic’ centre for the States, it shares more with Glastonbury, with its crystal shops and palm readers. Where the similarity ends, though, is that Sedona has great, scenic riding – kind of like Moab with trees. There is the same range of gorgeous riding though. Hard, technical climbs, big drop- offs, sketchy descents, smooth rock, pointy boulders and that same huge scenery. Our guide Ray pointed out and named the massive wind-worn rock formations – Submarine Rock, Snoopy Rock, the three Nuns and er, Blowjob Rock…
Last time I rode in Sedona, our ride finished with some super fast, technical and swoopy riding that finished literally in the car park. In its place now were the makings of an eight-foot wide, flat, tarmac path from the car park. Built with State money, it would allow fat Americans to waddle from their cars and see the impressive countryside without actually having to come into contact with it. Progress eh? And talking of man made monstrosities, we had a long drive ahead of us to the biggest one of all…
Las Vegas.
There’s not too much between Arizona and California. Or rather, there’s a lot of nothing, so we decided to break the journey with a stop in Vegas (baby…) We drove. And the sun set. And we drove some more. We drove through a time zone (and over the Hoover Dam, the reason for Vegas in the first place). And 120 miles from Las Vegas, we saw the glow of the rising moon – except it wasn’t the moon, it was millions of Watts of Las Vegas glitz, lighting up the sky. And the moment we finally crested the last hill and were greeted with it in all its ugly glory, we were passed by a truck full of palm trees. And it all made sense. We checked into Caesar’s Palace because – well, it’s Caesar’s Palace… The bellhops weren’t sure what to make of four scruffy, trail burnt people and their huge luggage (and small tips).
Las Vegas was more fun than we expected. As long as you don’t take it seriously, you can have fun watching the people who do. (But try not to see too much of it in daylight). There is actually good riding 30 minutes drive out of town, but we skipped it and played Roulette instead. (Put it all on 17 Black… trust me)
Back on track for our cross country epic, and slightly tired of the blue rinse and velvet collared fortune winners, we jumped in the car ready for another 500 mile day, through Death Valley and roughly in the direction of Northern California and the legendary birthplace of the sport that we all owed our jobs to.
And the road went on. And on. Just before Death Valley, the road doesn’t turn for ten miles, and then there’s a corner. And then it’s straight again for another ten miles. Wooh. Jo wanted to play Frisbee in Death Valley, fortunately we didn’t have one. And from one extreme to the next, we climbed out of the searing heat of the Valley, some 80 foot below sea level and climbed up to Lake Tahoe, and the way through the Sierra Mountains. It snowed so much on the way up that the signs told us not to proceed unless we had snow chains. We didn’t need chains though, we were in a hire car…
I drove through the night as Ash and Russell slept. Jo was only awake because he didn’t want me falling asleep at the wheel. And we’d played all our compilation tapes at least twice. We finally came to rest ten hours after leaving Vegas in a tiny town called Placerville. Its claim to fame was that it was eight miles from where the gold was discovered that caused the Gold Rush, though we were more interested in the breakfast in the Waffle Hut.
After the Waffle Hut, we made the short drive to Sonoma County, the next one up from Marin. Firstly to Petaluma, where we wandered in (as you do) to see Ross Shafer. We got some lunch and saw his new house (complete with dusty ‘58 Chevy in the garage – a garage that is now home to Soulcraft bikes – made by ex-Salsa employees).
Time was passing and we wanted to get more riding in, so we bade farewell to the chili pepper crew and made our way down the road to their friendly competitors, Ibis.
Scot Nicol aka Chuck Ibis was there to meet us, give us the two minute tour and take us straight out for a ride. We rode from his house in Santa Rosa and up to Annadell State Park. We rode the rocky, dusty trails of the park. The whole first part of which seemed to go up. At least it was near sea level for once. Scot showed the way up and up, with a fair turn of speed for an old mountain bike pioneer type geezer. And about when we’d reached the highest part of the park, the sun set. Quickly. So we descended in the rapidly deepening gloom, feeling our way with the front tyre over rocks and down chutes we wouldn’t dare ride in the day. A night ride without lights. But it was warm, we were riding in T-shirts and it was November… We made good time too, because we knew there was beer at the end of the ride. Starved of a good brew in Utah, tired of the endless Buds of Vegas, we’d promised ourselves some of the classic, young microbrews that now populate California. And fortunately, Chuck has endless credit at the Sonoma Brewery. Strangely, the owner has an Ibis Ti Mojo… Hmm.
Santa Cruz
It was a slightly fragile drive down to Santa Cruz, via Mill Valley and San Francisco. Well, not exactly via… we were bike industry schmoozers on a mission, so our route took in the proper morning tour of Ibis, coffee at Peet’s in Mill Valley, a visit to Wilderness Trail Bikes and lunch with legendary Swobo proprietor Tim Parr. Keeping on the clothing theme, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco and met up with the guys from Zoic. We drifted into Santa Cruz and found fellow bike journo Mike Ferrentino’s house. We let ourselves in and unpacked – like the imposers that we were. Mike came home and we rode an assortment of bike journo bikes (Cannondale 24in cruiser, Merlin Newsboy, Ritchey ‘cross bike) to dinner.
Marin
Otis Guy was the one mountain bike pioneer who didn’t start a big company with his name on. Sure, he makes frames, but tens, rather than thousands and you’ll find them under the mountain biking cognoscenti of Northern California. He’s still riding and he’s a talented savage on the bike. On the way up his driveway we bumped into John Castellano (as you do) the guy behind the Sweet Spot URT and things like that. Waiting at the house, already changed and raring to go was Otis and Joe Breeze. Not a bad pair to show you Marin and the Repack…Joe and Otis took us on a tour of most of the legal singletrack in Marin – there’s a lot and it’s incredible. It’s a pity my vision was so full of stars from oxygen deprivation to appreciate it too much. Russell thought that his months’ of riding were paying off as he started winding in Joe Breeze on a climb. As he drew level, Joe said “Shame I’ve had this puncture since the bottom, seemed quicker just to ride with it”.
Russell’s self-esteem disappeared with the next pedal stroke.
We rested atop a deserted mountaintop to fix Joe’s puncture and then turned our bikes back downhill and tried to keep with the rapidly receding figures of the old boys, Joe and Otis. We shot out of a singletrack and onto a fast fire road, winding it up on the straights and hanging it out in the corners. It was only at the bottom that we realised we’d been riding the legendary Repack. We decided to quit while we were ahead and still in awe, of the country, the scenery and the riders we’d met. As we unwound in Otis’ hot tub, with its view over the San Francisco Bay, we figured that we’d found Mountain Bike Heaven – trouble is, it’s a whole damn country. There’s so much to ride; so many great people to ride with and so much that you’ll never get time to see. And so, after 2,600 miles of driving, a mere 158 miles of riding and two weeks of absolute smile cracking fun, we had to call it a day. For the time being at least.
Details.
We flew in to Denver, direct from Heathrow. Book your hire car from the UK, it’ll work out cheaper that way. You can get a one way car hire, but you’ll have to pay a hefty surcharge. Two of us elected instead to stay an extra week and drive the car back to Denver, by which time it had snowed and we could snowboard. It worked out about the same as paying the one way surcharge. If you do look at a round trip, you can swing north and take in places like Tahoe, Salt Lake City and Boulder.
Motels are plentiful and cheap. In places like Moab, they’re used to mountain bikers. Room charges aren’t bad, especially out of season – a king size bedded room with jacuzzi in Caesars Palace was about $60 a night. Most motels are around $40 too and they charge by the room, not the number of people in it. If you’re pally, you could economise lots here… If you want to get a copy of Cosmic Ray’s Trails and Tales – the primo guide to riding in Arizona, you can buy it on Amazon.com or email him at cosray@aol.com. US bike shops are way more switched on that UK shops – they often have printed maps of trails, organised rides and often, good coffee… Feel free to impose – they usually enjoy showing out-of-towners some good riding.
Route planning – as a rule of thumb, if you’ve heard of it, then it’s going to have epic riding. Head for ski areas in Utah and Colorado if you want the ski lift thing, otherwise, you’ve got a huge choice – Denver, Boulder, Purgatory, Fruita, Napa, Marin, Downieville – just anywhere you’ve heard of will have great riding and usually, great riders…Weather – we were lucky, but not exceptional in that we had one bad day out of 14 and it was usually T-shirt weather. And we had no snow. The beauty of the States, though, is that you can just keep driving until the weather gets better. If you’re unlucky, some of the best trails at high altitude places like Durango will be snowed in by October, but play it by ear and listen to the locals.
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