Biting Off More Than We Could Chew

Flagstaff, Arizona, became famous because it rhymed with the “don’t forget Winona” refrain of the popular Route 66 song. We began our long drive to Flagstaff from Vegas after 18 holes at Aliante, a final dip in the pool at Maggie’s and a quick pre-road snack. We reached Hoover Dam (which I still prefer to call Boulder Dam because that’s what my Dad called it when we used to hit the road long ago), the sun was winking at us from behind the hills. Lake Mead was shrouded in shadow. Wackenhut security guards had set up shop on both ends of the dam, shaking down people who looked funny. I wondered if the Wackenhut contract called for enhanced payments for each drug arrest prompted from a stop at the check point. I say this because the vehicle in front of us got the third degree, obviously just because the Wackenhut guy didn’t like the looks of the driver, who was sporting a goatee, several tatoos, wraparound sunglasses and a vehicle emblazoned with skull stickers. We waited as Mr. Wackenhut shook down this modern-day pirate. My short hair and middle aged paunch ensured our passage through the new “Homeland Security” gestapo station without a second look.

At 10 p.m. I was struggling along the last 50 miles into Flagstaff. With the windows rolled down, the music blaring and a lively conversation with myself, I hoped I could stay awake. Caroline was fast asleep. Each time she’d snore, she’d snap her head forward and ask, “Are you okay?” She had mistaken her own sounds of slumber for mine and she was convinced that we were certain to careen off the road. Had it not been for Green Day’s American Idiot cranked at full volume, we probably would have.

If you stay in Flagstaff, Arizona (Don’t forget Winona!), we recommend the Day’s Inn on old Route 66. The rooms were huge and the prices were ridiculously low. The full continental carbohydrate breakfast was a real crowd-pleaser, too. We had read about a great 19-mile singletrack trail that circumnavigated Mt. Eldon and Little Eldon mountain and we were hell bent on riding it. The guide book warned that the trip would take five hours, but did we believe it? Nooooo. We’re strong bikers, we reasoned, and we beat all those time estimates on our hikes through Zion, so we figured a five-hour ride for everyone else would be a three-hour ride for us. We foolishly set off on the trail at 2:30 p.m., trusting that the guide book was accurate in its description of the trail.

Of course it wasn’t, and about 15 miles into the ride we realized that the guide book was a full two miles off in its mileage and that our 19-mile ride was going to be at least a 21-mile ride. I looked up at the sky and the setting sun and realized that 45 minutes of remaining daylight was going to be just barely adequate to finish the ride, even under the best of conditions. We had run into a snag earlier on the trail when my back tire flatted on a harsh (but extremely fun) rocky section of trail. Not only had we lost a tube, the tire itself had been savaged and riddled with cuts and holes. We figured another punctured tube could occur at any time. Moreover, the extremely bumpy single track had blown out a seal on my front shock and it was hemorrhaging hydraulic oil at an alarming rate.

Caroline’s legs were toast and I didn’t have much left in mine, so we stopped briefly to hork down a sandwich in hopes that we’d get an extra burst of energy to make the last few miles of singletrack at a decent speed.

The stupid guide book had been so wrong about so many things, that we had a sudden frightening realization that we could find ourselves on a harsh expert-level descent in the dark if we couldn’t find the bail-out point to the road that had been described in the book. The pines turned to dark silhouettes and every rock and obstacle became invisible as the light began to drop off quickly. Even the lights of Las Vegas would have been a welcome sight now, because, according to trail signs, we still had a half mile on the agonizing singletrack before we would hit the possible bail-out point. But an ambiguous sign a mile earlier also indicated a possible route to the fabled bail-out point. I began to worry that Caroline and I were in for a cold night in the Flagstaff wilderness, or, worse yet, we’d become one of those stories that you read about—you know, the ones about the active visitors who hadn’t prepared adequately and went missing for days in the wilderness, only to be found eight months later during the spring thaw ...

Grimly we continued on the trail. When our odometers reached the mark where the trail sign indicated the bail-out point should be, we hung our heads in despair: there was nothing but more trees ahead in dimmest of twilight. We decided to continue just for a moment farther, reasoning that we still might have enough light to go back the mile and a half to the ambiguous marking if this route didn't pan out. Suddenly, the road appeared. We survived. And it took us exactly five hours. So much for being above average. Once again I was thankful that Caroline hadn't used up all her chits with The Man Upstairs.

In the wake of our heart-thumping adventer, I find myself penning this memo to self: New Rule! No long rides on unfamiliar trails after noon in the fall. I suggest you all adopt it, too.

See you on down the road (in the daylight).