Thank you Pinyons, but I’ve got a date with the Pines
“Clean. Carry. Roll. Curse. Repeat. I spent 3.5 hours battling 2.5 miles in this fashion. Around 9am, the mud got dry enough to roll, then firm enough to ride. I stood on my right pedal. It went all the way to the to the ground. With great finality, the mighty Badger had been reduced to an awkward 50 pound scooter.”
I could see the doom building from the north as I descended out of the Bradshaw Mountains, nearly 200 miles into the 524-mile inaugural Pinyons & Pines long-course. I was trying my best to beat the rain to the little town of Mayer, but the death rattle emanating from Badger’s drive side crank arm was dampening the effort and eroding my confidence.
I rolled into Mayer with the leading edge of the storm. There should have been time to avoid a full soaking, but I made a wrong turn and got completely disoriented. The heavy drops took control of the touch screen on my Garmin while moisture rendered my iPhone useless. After ten minutes of riding around aimlessly – getting completely soaked in the process – I finally found the awning of the Circle K. I looked at my phone. There was a mission critical text from organizer Dana Ernst:
“Matt, Dana here. Miles 215-256 are likely approaching death mud. This is just an educated guess based on radar. You can go check it out and assess mud. If it’s bad, you can ride on the shoulder of the interstate and then get off at the exit for Hwy 169 and easily regain route. It might be bad at that point too…”
This news flattened me like a flying elbow drop from the top rope. I reeled amongst the discarded cigarette butts and trampled chewing gum. Thor thundered in smug self-approval.
I had a decision to make. On one hand, I was cold and wet with a broken bike and the closest possible fix 65 miles ahead in Camp Verde. Add to that this knowledge that 40 miles of death mud may lie directly ahead. On the other hand, my wife Susan and our kids made a major sacrifice for me to be here. They’d see my choice – whether quit, fight, or something in-between – and we’d ALL have to live with it.
It was that last thought that convinced me to wheel my raging dumpster fire back into the storm.
Rolling out of Mayer was like being shot out of a water cannon throttled by a 40mph tailwind and quarter sized rain drops. The gravel roads were fully saturated. The rooster tails were all-time.
Impact came eight miles later at the left turn onto Bloody Basin Rd. The sprite driven tailwind was replaced by ghoulishly spongy uphills, most of which I now had to walk. My drive-side crank arm was steadily wiggling off its post like a dime-store crown installed by a shoddy dentist. I began to pedal only on the left for fear of losing a place to stand on the right.
Mile 215 came and went without the feared death mud. A sporadic version of it appeared at mile 230. It was a slow and wet slog. Somewhere along the way I leaned Badger up against a cat-claw bush and slept for three hours on a spider infested weed patch. It was the most comfortable part of that night.
The DEATH MUD went full-caps just past Little Sycamore Creek. One revolution of the wheels meant twenty pounds of weight added to the bike. Another half revolution meant twenty more and complete immobility. The only means forward were by carrying the bike or pushing it through the patchy tall grass, cactus, and cat-claw along the road edge. Riding was impossible.
Clean. Carry. Roll. Curse. Repeat. I spent 3.5 hours battling 2.5 miles in this fashion. Around 9am, the mud got dry enough to roll, then firm enough to ride. I stood on my right pedal. It went all the way to the to the ground. With great finality, the mighty Badger had been reduced to an awkward 50 pound scooter.
Things looked a bit grim in that moment. Camp Verde was 21 miles away through sun exposed low country riddled with hidden mud traps. It was mid-morning and already quite hot. I took stock of my remaining water. Two liters. Not enough. I resigned myself to small sips and no food until my water shortage was resolved. I dipped a bottle of puddle sludge just in case.
The next ten miles were almost all uphill – pushing the bike. Seth passed early on. Dylan caught me about half-way through. He was navigating a crisis of his own. We decided to stick together for a bit – our life-bond forged during that survival march out of the Agua Fria mud wallows.
Heat and dehydration finally caught up with me on the long descent into Camp Verde. My scootering got wobbly. My arms and legs began to cramp. It wasn’t far now. I decided not to flinch. I didn’t drink the puddle sludge.
Instead, I beelined it for the Maverick station where I guzzled 64 oz of root beer, and for the first time, began to consider a future past Camp Verde. It was 3pm. I hadn’t truly pedaled in over 24 hours and my ponies were itching to get back to what we came for. I committed to do whatever it took to fix the bike and keep going.
I called Camp Verde Bicycle, the one bike shop in town – “no cranksets in stock.” Strike one. I called all the mobile bike repair shops on the Google. They were all located near urban centers (which Camp Verde is not) and their lack of interest in my predicament was palpable. Strikes two, three, and four…
The moment called for a miracle maker. I thought of Greg at Verde Valley Bicycle Company in Cottonwood. I’d met him on the first day of the ride. He struck me as person who could make unusual things happen. I called. He asked for a few minutes to problem solve. Ninety seconds later he called back with a plan that was already in motion. His wife Kelly would drive a crankset from Cottonwood down to Camp Verde, then James, Eric, and 9-year-old Allen “the Wrench” at Camp Verde Bicycle would install it. He told me to scoot their way. I did. Two hours later I left Camp Verde Bicycle with a fully functional steed. LEGENDS ALL!
I spoke to Susan and the kids. “Our hero.”
My shred sister Karin texted. She was just sitting down at La Casita, one block away. We shared a warrior’s feast in the twilight.
I rolled into the night with a full heart, a full belly, and both legs on full blast.
Thank you Pinyons, but I’ve got a date with the Pines.
The morning after. A clean and fully functional Badger - back in the pines.
Publication
A version of this story was published by Bikepacking.com on May 31, 2023.
Podcast
The week after the race, I did an interview with Quinn Travis of Stoke Podcast. We discussed my 2023 Pinyons & Pines experience, a life-altering encounter during my 2022 Colorado Trail Race, and the sometimes challenging recovery from multi-day sleep-deprived adventures.
Watch on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aSr5XsobXEg
Listen on Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/stoke-podcast/id1662417875?i=1000615367177
Video
Dylan Turner (aka The Seasoned Bikepacker), made an excellent video of his experience during the race. Dylan was one of the event organizers and my long course competitor. We shared some incredible moments out on the trail. Watch Dylan’s video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=airVHQlue7I
Appreciations
I had an incredible experience during the 2023 Pinyons & Pines Bikepacking Ride. I appreciate, and would like to recognize, everyone who helped make it that way. In the tradition of my people, I respectful submit this Love Dump.
