Email this article

Ride In A Day The White Rim Trail - Doctor's Order!

Mountain biking this 82-mile trail in a day has a rep for being only for the insane. Now make way for the possessed.

By Jan Nesset

Found in: | Biking | Mountain Biking | Road Biking |

" It is our business to go as we are impelled."

- D. H. Lawrence

FEELING FREE AS A BIRD while soaring big air on a mountain bike can risk addiction to flight! Should the high flier botch a landing, like I did, resulting in a busted pelvis, the bird goes instantly cold sober. Bird down. That's life!

Six weeks on crutches and pain killers, months of taking it easy, moving onto a prescription of "don't push it beyond what feels good" to strengthen my, by then, soft body, which at some far-along point never felt good enough to push. And then, I arrived at a moment more frightening than the injury itself. Now What? A pelvis injury - criminy, who breaks a pelvis? I had no mentor.

From youth, I had enjoyed "pushing" an activity a notch beyond the norm for the sake of adventure. Backcountry athletes familiar with the benefits of climbing Mt. Rainier in a day, for example, or circumnavigating Mt. St. Helens' 31 miles in a day, can understand.

But were hard joys like those forever opportunities of the past? Were my trips of the future, soloing my list of highpoints, over? Were my trips worth repeating, such as gritty bike routes in the Andes and jungle paddling in the Amazon, stanzas of my swan song?

Finally, the shards in my shattered hip had welded solidly if haphazardly in place, so it was time for a full test of the machine. Scary as it would be, rigor could help determine whether my body could handle a future of hardy adventures or whether it was time for me to examine the alternatives! I had no idea if "hell no!" was an honest answer. With my confidence reduced to meltwater, was I facing up to the facts? After months of living with the fear of having to severely limit my physical choices so early in my life I had devolved into a physical and mental weakling. I was going nuts! I needed a test.

The White Rim prescription

The White Rim Trail in Canyonlands National Park is Utah's best-known multi-day bike tour. The rough 4x4 dirt road winds through a rugged desert landscape of sand and stone carved by the Colorado and Green rivers and sculpted by wind and rain. It is an oasis for desert flora and fauna. Depending on who you talk to, the Trail is defined by either an 82-mile horseshoe loop around the southern end of Island in the Sky District of Canyonlands National Park or a 103-mile continuous loop, tying the balance of miles with asphalt and graded dirt road.

To my mind, the 82-mile loop was a good test. But for the must-do looper - may the circle be unbroken - that's his trip.

Some people, I'd read, reduce the 82 miles, commonly accomplished in three to four days, to one. In one report, in this publication, in fact, cited, "For more of a challenge, the ride is done in two or three days, with the one-day trip reserved for the insane."

For the insane? Me? Was I really going nuts!? My test, maybe, a one-way ticket to a more confident self. Until I proved worthy of trips "reserved for the insane," however, I'd be hooked on the White Rim-in-a-day as a man possessed.

True adventures require unknown outcomes, including risk to life. But from what I understood, riding the Trail in a day would be of a friendly nature, mixing physical hardship, scenic beauty, a "cool factor" and a way out there ending point. The adventure would be not in surviving the ride but in accomplishing it.

For moral support and for his shared love of the insane, I recruited Jared Coburn, a friend from Fort Collins, Colo., whom I had met nearly 15 years ago in Bolivia. He, like me, had doubts about his ability to finish a ride of such epic proportions but was comfortable with accepting a lift in the sag wagon if he ran out of gas. I, on the other hand, had to finish. This was, after all, my test.

The commitment

There's nothing like putting down money to commit to a trip. So we put our money on a spring Saturday in April well before the long, hot days of summer. And we tagged that money to Magpie Adventures, a new guiding business in Moab built on the guiding experience of Maggie Wilson and Mike Holme. Our $200 covered the shuttle ride from our vehicle parked on top of the Horsethief Road switchbacks (our finish line), to the start on Shafer Road. It included lunch, snacks and beverages, and mechanical and moral support the entire distance. In addition, Mike would accompany the client riders, four in all, for the first half of the ride to our lunch stop at Murphy's Hogback, and Maggie would join us for the second half with the sag wagon following us to the finish in case we lost heart deep in the desert.

April 23 allowed for six weeks to prepare. For starters, I wasn't even prepared to prepare. I had learned through infirmity to procrastinate, and found reasons to not get my ass into gear. I let a week slip by in guilty inactivity before I straddled my mountain bike, clipped into the pedals and started cranking. For the next five weeks, I rode either my mountain or road bike, and ran some trails, every day with rare exceptions.

I quickly encountered "the" problem: a spouse/parent has little free time. So, I trained during lunch breaks and occasionally after work. Even at that, I was able to train, on average, only 30 to 75 minutes a day. With the blessings of my wife I put in three longer weekend days of riding two, three and four hours. Was I fit to ride 10 to 12 hours a day - the average time needed to ride the 82 miles of the White Rim Trail? I felt fit but had lasted only four hours - and just once. Worrisome.

Let's go!

On the Friday drive to Moab, with the countdown to our sunrise start tick, tick, ticking in my head, I scoured my mind for a familiar on-the-ground measure of 82 miles. North out of Monticello, Utah, a sign indicated it was 84 miles to Interstate 70, a major east-west route. Having driven this stretch to I-70 many times, this was a good sign, a tangible measure that somehow helped to ease my doubt. I began to believe.

Early Saturday morning, gulping cold caffeinated beverages and greasy donuts on the pre-dawn drive from Moab to the shuttle start, Jared and I discerned a pain in our guts. Gastric overgrease? Maybe. Butterflies? Probably. I opened a window, taking hits of chilly breeze.

The evening before, we had met Mike and Maggie at Poison Spider Bicycles in Moab to discuss our plan. We'd begin with an abrupt plunge to 4,500 feet elevation, landing on a wide continuous "bench" 1,000 feet above the Colorado River, and to a midway point on the ride's elevation grid. From here we'd follow a steady rhythm of elevation rises and falls until we reached the trail's west end and its lowpoint, 3,950 feet, on the east bank of the Green River.

If we could make it that far, the final push goes into a steady ascent of switchbacks to 5,000 feet and to our vehicle. Going the distance was our goal and, for me, a priority. For bonus points, it would be nice to finish in under 12 hours.

According to plan we were prepared for the shuttle (6:30 a.m.), and straddling our bikes at the starting point on Shafer Road (7 a.m.).

As we unloaded our bikes at the junction of Highway 313, thin clouds sketched the sky, teasing the prospect of overcast for cool riding conditions. A sun break occasionally warmed the desert's morning chill at 5,600 feet but I remained zipped tight in a light jacket. Straddling my Marin Rift Zone mountain bike - back in the saddle of the same horse that shared my fateful fall - the moment "reserved for the insane" had arrived. Into the day I plunged, anxiety in tow.

And fast. A sharp and twisting drop on a road with tight corners is an exhilarating way to start any day on a bike. Brake to control speed and maneuver to avoid sandstone blocks and it's a contest. Minutes later, 1,100 feet lower, it ended in a draw.

The jacket came off.

Ride, ride, ride ... and ride

The first half of the distance breezed by. We tallied long straightaways through blooming desert, skirted steep rock drop-offs while rounding the ends of canyons, gripped handlebars through short but tricky romps on hardscrabble and enjoyed spinning off miles behind the power of mostly high gears. And miles ticked away, almost unnoticed except for the inimitable views.

To stave off bonking - physically running out of drive - we stopped every hour to refuel and rehydrate, although our hydration packs enabled us to drink and ride.

One by one the named overlooks and campsites filed by: Musselman Arch (where reckless fun is both tempting and dangerous), Lathrop Trail, Airport campgrounds, Buck Canyon, Gooseberry Campground.

Three miles past Gooseberry, at 10:41 a.m., Jared's bike computer indicates that we had managed 28.8 miles, averaged 11.6 miles per hour with a maximum speed of 25.7 miles per hour. With refueling stops factored in, not too bad.

At 11:27 a.m., I emptied my hydration bag near Junction Pass and popped the first of two water bottles. An incessant rubbing of my front brake mandated an extended break while Mike silenced the rub with a nifty trick using a business card.

My pelvis was taking the load without as much as a tingle.

Just clear sailing, although by midday both of us - can't speak for Mike other than to say it appeared his sweat glands were unnecessary - were tiring.

But relief was in sight.

Murphy's Hogback

Looming large was Murphy's Hogback - mile 40, our halfway point - a high rough-hewn hillock with one ambitious-looking long and steep ascent cut into the side near its top. Eyeing it from afar, Jared and I were not optimistic about riding to its top. It appeared too steep, especially the final 100 yards or so. Yet Jared launched into the effort, making about 100 feet up the trickiest, most broken, section before dropping his feet. Dragging his bike to the side and leaning over to catch his breath, he opened a path. "Go for it!"

O-Kayyyyy. I was tired. Climbing to the top would be a hard win and likely sap a lot of strength, possibly jeopardizing the final 42 miles. Yet I clipped a foot in, thinking that I'd see how I felt when and if I made it to Jared before deciding whether to go for it.

"Looking good, go!" I recall Jared saying as I passed him. Da-aamn! Fu-fu-fu-fu-kuh! Lungs, gassed. Legs-gassed. Top, top, top ... t-ahhh-p!

"Yah-hoo! Good job!" Maggie greeted me from where she stood in the road. She cheered us all in, snapping photos.

Done dead?

I was dead. Dead tired.

Resting in the shade of a scrub tree, I slumped like a rag. Clearly, I'd overdone it. Standing was a chore, so I stayed seated. I was certain I had screwed my finish. I hid my misery and disappointment during lunch behind the mother of all roast-beef sandwiches. I had zero appetite. The effort of Murphy's Hogback, while immensely gratifying, had sapped me physically. Desperate, I tried to raise some belief in miracles. I needed one. Without a rally of strength, I couldn't imagine riding again the distance we'd already come. Inflating my doubts was the promise of another steep hill climb and the notorious final switchbacks.

When Jared and I got back on our bicycles, I was feeling better but still drained. And I said so. Onward we rode anyway, hard-braking the amazingly steep drop-off on the north side of the Hogback. We headed into the second half of our journey, toward some kind of ending.

We fell into a rhythm, just riding, more apart than before, without much conversation. An hour into it, Jared raised his first concerns about cramping legs, a problem that he knew from experience could stop him from continuing the ride - for good.

At lunch Maggie mounted her bike and said she'd meet us down the trail. It was Mike's turn to drive the support vehicle. Up ahead at the crook of a sandstone rim, we could see a group of riders pushing on. Approaching their departure point, near the Wilhite Trail, Maggie stood, waving a hand. "Hi guys! There's a really cool slot canyon here. Ya gotta see it!" Was she kidding? With the ability of our legs to pedal another 35 miles in question, relying on them in a slot canyon was insanity. Umm!

"It'll take about a half hour, only," she said, persuasively. Jared had hiked his bike up the Hogback, reserving strength. But for the twinges in his legs, he had yet to elicit any pain or show the weariness I had. In the slot canyon, he artfully climbed a sandstone crack in a canyon wall - for fun!

Maggie was right. For levity alone, the detour into the canyon was worth it. But, for the finish we still had a long way to go. Worse, Hardscrabble Hill awaited us.

Hardscrabble Hill

Hardscrabble Hill stands in the home stretch like a waterfall to salmon. Spawn or die, there's no getting around it. It starts where a pleasant ride along the Green River ends, at about mile 64. The road wends up a steep grade for a distance greater, but overall not steeper, than that of the Hogback. Psychologically and physically, Hardscrabble couldn't exist in a more unwanted place in a one-day ride. It has a short section that rivals the steepest of the Hogback and, on our day, included a loose, sandy crux that none of us could ride successfully. Getting to Hardscrabble's top - rather, putting it behind - heightens anticipation of the finish, just 22 miles ahead.

Digging deep

On other adventures, I have seen fearless idiots win humility by boasting a finish before it is one. Things were looking good by getting up Hardscrabble, but I still held some fear that a dark cloud hid behind the afternoon sun, following either me or Jared. I was mostly just tired, really tired, so tired I could find sleep on a pile of snakes. My worries about my pelvis were over. My legs, though, they were beginning to feel like wood.

Jared, however, was in a delicate position. His legs were showing signs of imminent cramping. Sodium, water, food - he diligently filled up with these cramp-delaying remedies and stretched, but it was a balancing act just waiting on an onslaught of knives to enter his legs.

From Hardscrabble we traversed high above the Green River and descended again to it.

Along the river, the final climb out featured prominently in mind - the end to this dream. I dug for and caught a rhythm that would pull me ahead of Jared and Maggie. Fending for myself, I was no longer interested in water or food. Throughout the ride, we'd been good about reminding each other to fuel up. Now I didn't want to hear it. Maggie caught up to me to strike up a conversation, but I had to let her know that I was digging deep. She courteously fell back, giving me the head space I needed to fight for these last few miles. I had no energy to spare on conversation.

Far from a cake walk

I recognized immediately Horsethief Road from a Labyrinith Canyon paddling trip, two years prior, on the Green River. I knew exactly where I was and what it meant. From here the road can be seen hitting the top waaaay up there on the canyon rim. All day, Jared had been referring to downhills as "free mileage." Now down was done. This was it, the last of it, four switchbacks from the top, our finish - and a cake walk nowhere in sight.

With my fat front tire sniffing side to side up the gravel road, I stole a look back and noticed Jared and Maggie standing at the junction, talking, resting. I once spent two weeks in the Sahara Desert with a nomad and a camel. Rabh, the camel, was never in a hurry until we were about a mile from returning to its home corral. Then it ran. Seeing my team below, I smelled home. My legs grabbed to power a higher gear, my teeth clenched to ignite reserves. Sorry, no gas - all fumes. There would be no power finish to this ride.

Pulling over at the final switchback, I scanned the road below. Spying ants, I saw Jared pushing his bike while Maggie rode alongside. Too bound by cramps to pedal, Jared would go on to push his bike up every switchback, accepting no ride.

Shy of 11 1/2 hours from the start, Jared stopped pushing before crossing the de facto finish line, a cattle guard. He lifted a leg over his bike, stood on his pedals and coasted across into the parking area where I stood, cheering the universe.

Soon after riding the White Rim Trail, Editor Jan Nesset finished two adventure races, 4th and 2nd, respectively, as a solo racer. Always looking for something to complain about, he's still in pursuit.