Taking the stage

My earliest memories of Southern California include a glass tank full of dolphins, evenly spaced palm trees dividing the street from the gleaming walls of glass skyscrapers, and a homeless man sleeping in a pile of dirty clothing on a manicured lawn. Now, some 25 years later, I admit this is what I see when I think of Southern Cali, and I still can't comprehend how mountains, forests, and vast tracts of desert could exist beside the urban finality of my memories.

When I signed on to ride the Stagecoach 400, it's because I saw an opportunity to immerse myself in part of California that I otherwise would likely never see. I could appreciate the big forests and open space of the north, the Sierras of the east, the cliff-lined coast, and my own comfortable perch between the Santa Cruz Mountains and the San Francisco Bay. But Southern California, in my mind, was the domain of glass buildings, bland deserts and marine life in tanks. And because I despise biases even when they're my own, I thought a 400-mile mountain bike tour would be a perfect exercise in shattering expectations.

The Stagecoach 400 route was the brainchild of Idyllwild frame-builder and bike-shop owner Brendan Collier and his wife, Mary. Mary finished the Tour Divide one year before me, in 2008, but now the two are parents and business owners and don't have as much time for extensive bike tours. Brendan wanted to create a route that he could get excited about, and I presume recruited friends and others in the region to add their own input. The result is a diverse range of landscapes and trails strung together so compactly that it would be difficult to believe they all exist in the same region if you weren't the one linking them up yourself. As fellow rider Katherine put it, "It's like having a local take you on a tour of all their favorite trails, for 400 miles." The Stagecoach 400 really is a cool route ... even if it turned out to be considerably more strenuous than I expected. But that's what you get, when you set out for an adventure purposefully ignorant of what's in store.

Thanks to my perceived lapse in fitness, I went into this race with few expectations. Because of this, I didn't feel my usual nervousness as I plowed through my pre-race routine in Idyllwild. I met up with Sharon and Michael, two cyclists from Anchorage who I know through the Alaska snow biking scene (Sharon won the Susitna 100 earlier this year.) I also had the opportunity to spend some time with Eszter Horanyi, who I really admire because she has the kind of talent I'd kill to have, and yet just quietly goes about her awesome mountain bike feats with humility and perspective. This was perhaps my favorite aspect of the Stagecoach 400 — all of the amazing women who lined up, including Mary, two-time Nome finisher Tracey Petervary, and Katherine, a good-humored Kiwi who was also conducting a shakedown for this year's Tour Divide. There were other women whose names I've forgotten, but the number was notable as what is likely the largest percentage of females to participate in a multiday bikepacking race.

The race started two and a half hours late because of last-minute delivery issues with the SPOT trackers, which Brendan managed well, given the stated lack of central organization in this race. (The Stagecoach was conducted in the usual self-supported style, meaning you look out for yourself and don't expect any support from the people who simply designed the route and set a date for a group ride.) There was another early snag when a landowner blocked most of the group from a gated road after the leaders went through. Brendan turned the rest of the peloton around and led us down a nearby singletrack trail. I always try to ride off the back at the beginning of these long races because I like to stop when I want to stop, but I don't want to impede others. However, too many stops early in the Stagecoach 400 resulted in a wrong turn that nearly separated me from the pack for good. Brendan was nice enough to wait up for us stragglers and point us in the direction of the original route. From then on, we were truly on our own.

I settled into a good rhythm, watching my little blue arrow creep along the purple line of my GPS. GPS has become my lifeline in endurance racing, to the point when I find it difficult to function without its trusty map images. This is actually one of my difficulties in ultrarunning races, which favor signed courses over electronic gizmos. I can navigate hundreds or even thousands of miles of unmarked trails just fine with my GPS, but put me on a course with a bunch of ribbons and I'm likely to wander around in bewildered circles.

We quickly descended out of the mountains and into the depths of the Anza Borrego desert. Every large dip in elevation increased the temperature noticeably. The day started in the low 70s at 6,000 feet in Idyllwild, and soon rose to the 90s in the exposed desert. I have another anti-strategic habit of carrying way, way too much water — but I was grateful for it on the first day. As long as I have plenty of liquid on my back, I feel calm about setting out toward these barren expanses — landscapes that otherwise intimidate me immensely.

The route followed the sandy bottom of a wash, which proved to be quite a technical obstacle thanks to soft piles of sand, breakable crust and boulders. I was feeling playful and tried to ride as much as I could, even though spinning out through the loose sand often proved to be slower than walking and at least twice as hard. I could see where most of the leaders had gotten through on the crust, and churned it up for the rest of us. My fault for starting off the back — not that I'd be able to hold anybody's wheel for long given all of the technical riding that was already scattered across the course. Still, I was excited just to be out for a long bike ride in new-to-me country. I could worry about how hard I was working when the time came, later.

The wash snaked through the wide canyon and suddenly dropped into a veritable jungle, a natural springs area known as Middle Willows. The transition was startling — from sun-baked rocks to a deep green oasis. The trail wound tightly through the willows and crashed through tall blades of grass beneath Sasquatch-like palm trees. Truly another world. I loved it — not because the riding was fun, although it was — but because I was fully immersed in this alien world, and it was nothing like the Southern California of my imagination.

Others had told me there was an awesome place to stop for burritos in Borrego Springs. But by the time I reached town, I was feeling ill from the heat and not in the mood for solid food. I stopped at a small store in the clubhouse of a ritzy golf course and bought an ice cream sandwich, two bottles of Gatorade and another gallon of water. The woman at the counter told me a story of one Stagecoach competitor who had already come in well-cooked and delirious, saying he had been out of water for "hours." "Tough way to start a race," I thought, and wondered how much farther he'd make it down this course. The sharp edge of the afternoon heat made me glad for my slower pace and water-hoarding ways.

The next section brought more interminable sand, which, like the technical riding in the wash, took away any of the ease or speed of losing elevation. I mashed my low gears and pined for my fat bike, hoping the combination of desert, beach, and rock-garden riding wouldn't make me wish I had brought the Fatback all along. I do love the Moots though; it's so comfortable it's almost like not even having a bicycle underneath me, and it was much lighter and easier to drag up the interminable hike-a-bikes to come.

Darkness descended as I turned away from the day's long drop and began the sandy climb up Fish Creek Wash. In the faint starlight I could see towering black shadows of canyon walls and realized that this must be a stunning place in the daytime. I considered stopping low in the canyon so I could view it better in daylight, but Friday's heat had already been stifling and it was supposed to be hotter on Saturday. I knew I needed to gain as much elevation as I could manage in the relative cool of night. I motored through the sand, wishing the miles could go by faster but glad I didn't feel worse than I did. I drifted into a pleasant daze until I saw a house-sized boulder that looked like a homey place to stop for the night. It was nearly 1 a.m., which shocked me, as I had little sense of time passing since the sun set. I had traveled 102 miles and, despite the rapid loss in elevation, still managed to climb 6,150 feet over the long day. It was a good target, but I originally expected to be further along after 14 hours on the trail. I rolled out my sleeping gear and laid on my back for seeming hours, gazing at stars. It didn't feel like I was ever fully unconscious during the fitful night. But I hoped I had managed sleep at some point, because I still wasn't certain I had the wherewithal to handle three more days of this.

Endless climb: Stagecoach 400 intro

My water tasted like weak, rancid coffee, and was nearing throat-searing temperatures. I collected it from a hose at a fire station, where it probably sat for days absorbing heat and minerals. I had better water in a reserve bladder, but I was too paranoid about dying to dump out the fire hose water. If I sipped it slowly enough I could deceive my gag reflex into accepting it as hydration, but only barely. The unavoidable sun had already stifled my willingness to eat. I felt dizzy and strange.

I wanted to walk, take a break, take a nap, but I couldn't let myself do any of these things. The numbers weren't in my favor. I was down to three fig bars, two cookies, and some sunflower seeds. If I didn't make it to the Sunshine RV park before the market closed, I was going to either have to ride the last 25 mostly uphill miles after the RV park with no food, or I would have to pedal six miles off course to the town of Anza. I expected to take the second option, but neither was ideal. The reason I was so low on food again is because when I restocked at the last gas station at 10 p.m. the night before, I expected to pedal through here many hours earlier, and eat considerably less in the process. I should have known that the Stagecoach 400 wasn't going to give away any easy miles. Instead of pedaling up a wide valley on pavement, I had to cross these sandy mountains first.

I did the math. If I wanted to hit Sunshine Market by the reported 6 p.m. closing time, I would have to average a little over six miles per hour — which was, sadly, faster than my average had been all day. I had no idea how much climbing lay between me and the market, but I figured I might as well plan on "a lot" and give everything my depleted, sun-cooked muscles had to give to those climbs. My heart pounded into my throat, and the only thing I could do to ignore its desperate thumping was sing in my head — a Modest Mouse song I sometimes chant because it has a calming effect as well as a good cadence for three-mile-per-hour granny-gear pedal mashing.

A nice heart and a white suit and a baby blue sedan,
And I am doing the best that I can ...


I was doing the best that I could. I was giving everything I had to give, even if I believed that everything I had to give wasn't all that much. From the moment I cracked on Cache Mountain Divide in the White Mountains 100 a month ago, I've been struggling. I knew that going into the Stagecoach 400, knew that more rest or at least more mindful training might be the better option for long-term health and performance. Part of me really does care about all that, but another side — I might call it my more primal, instinctive side — needed to face the struggle head-on. "Oh, you need a little nap after your two-hour ride, do you? I'll show you."

Sad song, last dance, and no one knew who the band was,
And Henry, you danced like a wooden Indian ...

The course was harder than I imagined. I must have said it to Beat at least a half dozen times in grumpy 10 p.m. dinner-time phone calls. "This is really hard." He tried to reassure me that I was still moving okay, that I was in fifteenth position in the starting field of 42, that it must be hard for everyone. In those grumpy times, the idea that there were other people out here doing this ridiculous thing made me feel angry. Were they riding, struggling, and hike-a-biking for 18 hours a day just to make a hundred or so miles? Were they sleeping only three or four fitful hours even though they found beautiful campsites under the stars in the vast quiet of the desert? Were they still wearing the same chamois after three days until even regular wet wipe baths weren't enough to quell the revulsion of crawling into a clammy sleeping bag? Of course these questions were pointless because everyone was in the same pain cave. The leaders weren't sleeping at all, some riders had succumbed to dehydration and heat exhaustion, and one unfortunate guy was hit by a car (he's fine, but it ended his race.) Lots of people had major aches and minor injuries. I was lucky to get away with just being a little tired.

Except this one mattered and I felt it had a spirit
And I shot the story because I didn't hear it that way ...

I thought at the top of the climb I'd catch a glimpse of the Anza Valley and the distant San Jacinto Mountains, my final destination. But I was wrong. The crest only brought a view of another narrow valley, and beyond that, a steep ridge scarred by this same sandy road. I coasted to the tree-lined bottom of the Chihuahua Valley and began my Modest Mouse chant anew. Dizziness had abated, replaced with a strange out-of-body sensation, as though my head and torso were detached from my sweat-soaked limbs. A drunken buzz replaced the desperation in my pounding heart, and I welcomed this surge of heat-intoxicated energy. I believed I was climbing better than I had in all of the last 350 miles. Maybe I was finally over this hump, finally out of the slump — until I reached the next crest only to see ... another dip into a bowl, and beyond that, more climbing.

And it's hard to be a human being
And it's harder as anything else ...

Reality soaked in that this rolling terrain could go on for a while. I let the dream of the Sunshine Market slip away, and expected to find frustration in its place. Surprisingly, I didn't feel angry or discouraged. Those feelings had faded behind a primal fascination with the boulder-studded mountains surrounding me, and bemusement about the thing I was becoming. It was the kind of thing that wandered around convenience stores in a daze until instinct took over, and I found myself devouring Hostess cupcakes and frozen burritos without understanding why I chose those particular foods ... the kind of thing that sometimes gasped happily while pushing up 45-percent grades and other times threw silent temper tantrums on the same terrain, for no discernible reason. My face was permanently caked in dust and sunscreen paste, my lips were cracked and bleeding, and a broken rubber band was tied around the crusty knot that was once my hair. Last night, I screeched at a kangaroo mouse that darted in and out of my path — no words, just screeching. In the morning, I woke up to a spider crawling across my face and I didn't even care. I no longer felt like a human being and had a distinct sense that I was experiencing the rare sensation of what it was like to be anything else. It was hard — really hard — and yet, somehow, desirable.

I finished the Stagecoach 400 four days ago, and ever since haven't had the mental energy to piece together enough of the experience to write anything about it. There are of course more stories and photos and I'll add those in the coming days. But I thought I'd start with my favorite moment of the Stagecoach 400: The moment I raced alone on the California Riding and Hiking Trail in the intense heat of the afternoon, surrounded on both sides by rugged wilderness, and realized the thing I was racing — closing time at the Sunshine market — was probably futile. All I could see were a seemingly endless series of climbs, making the finish line seem impossibly far away. I was overheated, exhausted ... and really, truly happy. Go figure.

Here goes nothing

Right now it's 38 degrees and clear in Idyllwild, California. I arrived in town this afternoon after visiting my sister in Huntington Beach. Less than two hours of driving through traffic-choked Orange County sprawl and into the mountains landed me in this awesome little mountain town at 6,000 feet, with wisps of new-fallen snow on the ridgeline just above our heads. By Saturday afternoon it's supposed to be close to 100 degrees in the low-lying desert just a few miles south.

I spent the evening with my friends Sharon and Michael, who flew all the way out here from Anchorage to escape Alaska breakup and soak up a little Cali sunshine. I'm splitting a hotel room with Eszter, the supa-fast mountain bike goddess who is gearing up to crush my Tour Divide record this summer. The Stagecoach is just another training ride for her. Interestingly, we spent most of the evening talking about Alaska.

I head into this ride with an open mind and a lot of food (really, I have a lot this time. I checked.) My hope is to put as many miles across the brutal desert tomorrow before the heat really returns, and then see how my body holds up for the following days. The race is starting a bit late because of tracking issues, around 10 a.m., which is fine with me. Now I have time for one more meal with Sharon and Michael. I was fretting about my perceived physical state earlier, but I've mostly let those fears fade into the background. This is bikepacking, after all. After the first day, it all hurts the same.

You can follow my progress on the Stagecoach 400 tracking page, http://trackleaders.com/stagecoach400. I'll probably be plodding up a mountain, or dripping sweat on the soft sand of a desert wash, lecturing my legs to stop hurting and singing catchy pop music to myself like AWOLNATION:

I say ya kill your heroes 
and fly, fly, baby don't cry. 
No need to worry cuz everybody will die. 
Every day we just go, go, baby don't go.
Don't you worry we love you more than you know.