Heart of Arizona Bike Ride

Yarnell Hill

This ride starts in Congress, Arizona. The website describes the location as “37 miles Southwest of Nowhere, AZ; 39 miles Southeast of Nothing, AZ; 89 miles East of Somewhere, AZ and 69 miles Beyond Hope, AZ.” They would be right. I have never had occasion to visit Congress, AZ. I doubt most people have. It’s an old ghost mining town that now has retirees and is a bedroom community–meaning no one works there or couldn’t even if they wanted to. The location is remote; northwest of Wickenburg and off the main highway to Las Vegas.

The climate is also in between desert and woodlands, and is a sparse, arid grassland. The landscape is one that I pass on the highway on the way to somewhere else and admire the valleys plunging through the mountains.

When I considered this ride, I briefly thought of riding the 104 mile version with 6,000 feet of climbing. Then I thought about training long miles in the summer heat and wisely reconsidered. The forty-four mile route has 3,100 feet of climbing, which seemed plausible, though probably a little painful. Bullshifters, the bike club that ran this ride, has sag stops throughout and lunch afterwards. Food is a bonus of an organized ride and is the whole point of participating.

The starting point in Congress is the Sierra Vista Motel. It claims to be the smallest motel in Arizona, because it only has four rooms. Somehow, I was expecting a larger structure. It had a wooden fence in front, with a garden patio behind it, but not much area to park. A few riders were milling about, but nobody was lined up for the start, so I just began the ride after signing in.

Fish Rock

The empty road briefly descended, then the ascent began. I saw the mountain in front of me in the distance. It’s named Yarnell Hill, but I failed to see the “hill” aspect. This sucker was tall. I wondered if the road went through a pass or up the whole thing. I passed a rock painted as a green fish on the side of the highway. This place was just weird. I felt out of breath already.

The wind blew the opposite direction that I was headed. The route headed sharply upward and wound around the side of the mountain. Wind and a climb. I thought that this might get ugly. I noted my time as I passed the mile markers–ten minutes. I was going a blazing six miles per hour. Technically, I could run that fast, but not on this incline. Hopefully, the whole twenty-two miles to the turn around isn’t like this.

The view from the road was stunning, with miles of the desert plain visible 1000-1500 feet below. A small white grid was Congress, with mountains south of the town. I stopped to take photos.

Oddly, I was passing people, including one person wearing a tri kit from a triathlon club known for its speedy members. Take that, Mr. Hot Stuff! Not that I cared how fast I was going. This was a ride, not a race, which suited me fine. I had no delusions that I was going to ride forty-four miles with 3,100 feet of climbing in any thing other than a snail’s pace. 

Some bigger bike events in Phoenix and Tucson are races, which is a turn off. Some don’t allow tri bikes, which is offensive because the organizers assume that the people riding them can’t do it without crashing. If I crash, it’s a driver’s fault or the road’s. They also assume slow riders are inexperienced or out of shape. I have worked hard for a long time to go nowhere fast.

This event was laid back, so far. I didn’t run into the century and 125 mile people the whole ride. Presumably, they were serious about what they were doing, or just crazy. The first seven miles were difficult for me. I couldn’t imagine 104 or more.

Just when I thought the turn around was hours more to get to, I reached Yarnell and the road flattened out. I saw police cars and orange cones and thought all this wasn’t for the ride, because they probably didn’t know about it or care. Then, in the middle of the road was an antique car show. No one stopped me as I rode through. People were mindlessly walking across the road as if they didn’t see me, so I slowed down. More weirdness, that I hadn’t expected.

Yarnell is the site of a fire that killed 19 fire fighters. I saw little evidence of this, other than some sign medallions and a museum, but I didn’t know what the town looked like before. A sign on a side road said “No access to incident site.” The rugged terrain looked like it would be a bad place for a fire, with the open grassy plains and stunted trees. It was sad to think about.

I moved quickly through the tiny town and finally picked up speed, past vast ranch land. The trees were taller, though sparse. The descent meant I had to climb it on the way back, but it was a nice break.

Reaching the sag station was a relief. A cheerful volunteer asked me if I wanted soup, hot chocolate or a root beer float. My befuddled mind was dazed at the range of choice, so I opted for soup. The float might have been better, but I wasn’t very hungry from the exertion and it was a bit chilly with the wind once I stopped. Most people seemed tired and not in a hurry to move.  

I dragged myself out of the aid station. Going back required climbing the hill that I had descended. I took some pictures of the cottonwood trees that I saw. I was now really tired. I wasn’t hungry, but ate anyway to keep my energy up. It was warmer by this time. 

I passed through Yarnell again with the auto show still going on. I noticed a life-sized metal elephant on the roadside. A white elephant was also painted on a rocky hill. This town has a thing for these animals. Finally, I  hit the descent of the Yarnell Hill. I kept feathering my brakes because of the steepness and curves. I saw an overlook and stopped and took some pictures. The severity of the descent eased off as I got closer to town. When I was finished, I ate a grilled hamburger

The ride from Nowhere, Arizona to Nothing, Arizona had been fun. I appreciated the quirkiness of the small, rural towns. They were much more “western” than Scottsdale, which claims to be the most western, but bulldozes any evidence of character in the name of development. 

Maybe next year I will go to Beyond Hope.

Tempe Tri Race Report

 Photo courtesy of  Bob Pane, One Multisport

I normally go out of my way to avoid the Tempe Tri race, even to the point of leaving the country. It’s hot and not wetsuit legal. The air temperature can climb into the nineties. September may be mild in other parts of the country, but in the desert, it makes a mockery of fall. Fall doesn’t exist here anyway. Summer heat loses its intensity, but still awaits to punish the unwary.

SWIM ANXIETY IN TEMPE TOWN MOAT AND IT’S NOT THE STUFF THAT FLOATS IN IT

To swim in Tempe Town lake even with a wetsuit, is not fun. Things float in it that I don’t want to know about. Not that floating objects could be seen, because the water is so murky, I never even see my hands. Occasionally, a body is found in it. The surface is well below the walls that contain it, like a castle moat filled with  monsters. Massive bridges loom overhead, blocking the sun. Lack of a wetsuit makes it exponentially more unpleasant.

But I wanted to race and was too cheap and lazy to go elsewhere. The swim would be a challenge to take on. It was a mere 750 meters or 810 yards, but that can seem forever with the possibility of death. Even in a nice lake, swimming away from shore without a wetsuit makes me panicky. Physically, I can swim the distance, but mentally is much more difficult. Fear is a strong opponent, resistant to change. The brain gets in a rut, spewing out over and over that I won’t make it to shore.

The moat

Mine tells me I am in danger in deep water, making me tense, then tired, then more fearful. A fish I am not. Convincing my thoughts to go in a positive direction takes some effort. I tried a self-administered aversion therapy by swimming in open water prior to the race with some success. I stayed near the shore, where I felt comfortable, then ventured short distances farther away. I told myself constantly that I would be okay. 

I couldn’t totally avoid fear. Swimming along calmly, I would suddenly encounter a swell or a wind created chop and my composure would break down. My retreat was to swim back to shore or to a rock I could stand on. If shore wasn’t close, I flipped to my back.

The other problem was lack of speed, being much slower than if I had a wetsuit. The buoyancy of a wetsuit lifted my legs, which was less drag. I could go faster when I wasn’t worried about sinking. The combination of uncomfortable and slower was a real curse.

Another worry I had about this race was the anxiety-inducing washing machine effect of moving bodies churning up the water in Tempe Town Lake. But since I was in some of the last waves, the water might be smoother. I already had the baggage of some really bad swims in that lake over the years. But I had somehow gotten through them, cursing and moaning.

Despite the thought of all these unpleasantness, the swim was something to conquer. I hoped to fight the fear in spite of myself. It is frustrating to be controlled by anxiety.

RACE DAY INFERNO OR WHY THE F@#K IS SEPTEMBER STILL SO HOT?

Race day dawned hot in the eighties and “humid”. Nervous and sweaty, I wondered why I was even doing this race. I must be out of my mind.

Waiting around for the start was the worse part. I had nothing to do but dread what might happen. I tried to block out the thoughts of doom and envision calm. 

I jumped in the water when it was my turn and swam to the start line.  I wasn’t quite there when the wave started. So far, I was unafraid. I kept moving and when I felt out of breath, turned on my back. Luckily, there weren’t a lot of people to run into me. People swimming over me is not restful.

I felt thirsty the whole swim. Maybe it was because the water was so hot; about 84 degrees. To drink the green lake water would be deadly, a prescription for illness. I was not having fun. I wasn’t very fast, but my fear was under control. With nothing to rest my feet on, and nothing to stop me from going to the bottom, it was just under the surface, ready to rise again. 

The water was choppy with all the swimmers that preceded me. It didn’t bother me too much, though I wasn’t happy about it. I didn’t sight as much as with a wetsuit to save energy. Lifting my head made my legs sink, which made me tired.  Sinking legs are bad, a precursor to panic.  Panic leads to flailing arms and legs, going nowhere, not getting enough air and more fatigue. I finally reached the first turn buoy. People were hanging onto the kayak, so I got past them in order to rest. Losers. Hanging onto kayaks is to be avoided as it’s an act of desperation.

I preceded to the next one and turned back. I could see the last turn buoy in the distance, through the bridges. The end of the ordeal drew near. So far, no panic with the swim more than halfway done. I was going to live.

I was relieved to reach the last turn buoy, only 100 yards to the exit steps. I was going to make it. Few people were in my way. Undoubtedly, I was probably one of the last people out of the water, a testament to my swimming ability.

Total swim time was more than I thought it would be, and a very slow time for the rest of the world, but I didn’t care. The ordeal was over and wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be. 

DIDN’T DROWN, NOW HEAT EXHAUSTION?

I got on the bike and immediately felt hot. Instead of drowning, now I had to worry about heat exhaustion. I wish they had an aid station so that I could throw water on myself. The course was crowded with newbies, but that didn’t faze me. They were a target to pass. Their determination was admirable, with their gym shoes and mountain bikes. The course didn’t have any real hills.  My heart rate started climbing, though, as I rode, due to heat and dehydration. The  Olympic, was much worse, with two tedious loops. Twelve miles was not too taxing, but not as fast as if it had been cooler. 

I felt good starting the 5k run, but the air was a nasty blast furnace. By the second mile, I was ready to be done. The Tempe Town heat bowl cooked the cement path. I didn’t expect a fast time and didn’t get it, being overheated and dehydrated.  Why the hell do they put on this event in September, the month that pretends to be fall, but isn’t? I couldn’t imagine running the 10k. It was brutal.

I look like I feel--wasted. Photo courtesy
Camelback Coaching 

I got done, felt ill and immediately went for any ice I could find to cool off. A volunteer felt sorry for me and scooped some ice to put in my cap. It took a while for me to be hungry.

I STILL HATE SWIMMING WITHOUT A WETSUIT

I accomplished what I set out to do–get through the swim without losing my mind. Fear is still waiting out there in the water, but is a little less persistent. Now instead of saying to myself “I can’t do a non-wetsuit” swim, it will be “I can do a non-wetsuit swim, but I don’t want to.”