There. I made it. Three days to ride the Kokopelli Trail. On a singlespeed, mind you. It was hard, but not as hard as the first time. Or the second, really. The first, I was out of shape, and out of my element. On the second trip, I was definitely in shape physically. Mentally, I think the trail still had me. It didn't help my friend got knocked out on the first morning - we'd trained together for 5 months for this. I was a little disoriented without him. Plus, I was worried
about getting home - he was my ride after all.

I think I went into this trip with very little in the way of preconceived notions - how I would ride, who I would meet. I just wanted to ride, and get it over with. If fact, I was a little impatient. I was
ready. Beyond ready. All the rides on Falcon Trail. The rides up Rampart Range Road (I still need to get to the end of that ride). The really crappy winter I rode through. Driving all the way from the Springs to Fruita to stand in a mud pit to hear "The ride is canceled". Coming back the very next week, juggling my work schedule and home life.

It was time.

The weather on the second trip was as close to perfect as I could imagine. As bad as the week prior was, this was completely opposite. It was cool - perfect riding weather. The sky was a perfect robin's-egg blue, and there was even a tail wind! The trails at the beginning of the Kokopelli are amazing. The most technical part of the trail, it is arguably the most beautiful. I spent a lot of time behind people who had never ridden singletrack (at least judging by the rider who went down most hills Fred-Flintstone style - feet out to the side). Not that I'm some great technical singletrack guru. I wouldn't have a clue how to be a roadie in a peleton...

Coming out of the lunch SAG, we had a pretty severe headwind. Enough to make me want to quit. I suppose I could have. It would have been a tailwind back to the truck. But I'm a stubborn S.O.B, and eventually the trail turned and the head wind became a tailwind. I didn't even try
to ride the hill into camp. That wasn't happening on my singlespeed, anyway.

The night in camp was windy, cold, and I crawled into my tent shortly after dusk to go to sleep. Again with the wind. I had visions of this lasting all trip. My tent was flapping , as were all the other tents. And then, it stopped. The morning dawned crisp and still. We ate breakfast, packed up camp and I was the first one down the hill. Of course, the racer boys on their full-squish machines quickly passed me up. It was all good. I was out to ride the Kokopelli for me.

The second day of this trip is the big mileage day. By the time you roll into camp, most people have 50 miles in their legs. If you take the Yellowjacket Canyon option (or as I like to call it,
the 3rd level of hell), you add about another 10 miles. The morning, though, screams by. Mostly flat, two-track. After several miles of paved road, you ride more jeep-track towards the Colorado River. Several hike-a-bike sections, and a cool run by the river, and you climb out of the river valley toward the lunch SAG.

It was during this section I saw something I still can't figure out. As you climb onto the bluffs overlooking the Colorado River, you hit some hills, on a gravel ranch road. As I recall, there is one farm / ranch you ride through, then on to highway 128. As I crested one of the last hills, I hear the sound of a semi-truck engine running. I look off to my right, and a refrigerated semi-truck has run off the road. If you can imagine (or if I can describe it properly), the road swoops down to the right. On the right side, a hill continues down another 25-50 feet. The truck looked as though the driver had tried to short cut the curve, opting to cut the apex of the curve. The tractor part had started up the far side of the hill, and only one of the axles of the trailer was still on the ground. The rest were dangling in the air, quite useless as support to the trailer. I didn't see the driver, and the engine was running. I can't imagine that conversation.
"Hey boss, I, uh, can you send a tow truck. Where?, Uh, well..."

Anyway, I made it to the lunch SAG at the bridge formerly known as Dewey. I was one of the first 15 or 20 in. I had lunch, refilled my water bag and bottles, and restocked my Clif Bars and gels. I decided to SAG the first five or so miles of Entrada Bluffs. The first year I did this ride, this part got rained out. The entire group was SAGGED around, and we rode up Onion Creek Road into the camp in Fisher Valley. The second time, my knee hurt so bad by the time I got into SAG, I caught a ride into camp, foregoing any attempt to ride this portion.

This is really the only part of the ride I hadn't done. And, as a point of order, it's still a part I haven't ridden. I mean, I pushed my bike up it, but I haven't really RIDDEN it. Had I been smart, I would have put my 21t cog on at SAG. But I wasn't. To be fair, I rode from Top of the World trail to the next junction. To be fair, the road surface is really difficult for a singlespeeder. It's all loose dirt and thumb to fist-sized rocks. To stand on the pedals and put some effort into it meant spinning out. So I pushed my bike. I think it was 5 miles, but I don't really know. It was a long, LONG way. Once I got to the top, the trail conditions didn't get any better. Steep, loose,
rocky, steps, and that was all in the first 50 feet. I kept going, letting gravity find my line. I stopped when I should have, and rode most of what I could. On past trips, I had heard people talking about Rose Garden Hill, and how it was un-ridable. I seemed to be doing pretty good. It definitely wasn't flowing, but I was making it down.

Then I got to the actual portion of the trail called Rose Garden Hill.

Once I carefully walked down the steep, loose, rocky portion of the trail, it was another couple of miles up, then all downhill into Fisher Valley Camp. I struggled against gravity, pushing my bike for what seemed the hundredth mile (in reality, I was 45 miles into the day). As I crested
another hill, I looked up and saw Frank sitting on a rock, giving me a thumbs-up.

I thought I was hallucinating.

Frank is the unofficial, senior staff member of this trip. He's seventy-something years old, had just had knee surgery, and could probably ride circles around most everyone he meets. "Not too much further",he called out. "About a 1/4 mile, then it's mostly downhill into camp". I thanked him, and made some hilarious (at least in my dust-addled brain) comment. I kept pushing, riding, pushing, riding. I turned around when I heard the sound of someone clipping in. It was Frank, peddling up the hill I had just struggled up. Gathering up my last shred of whatever I had left, I got on and started pedaling too. Just as he caught up to me, we crested another hill, and I swore I heard angels.

Actually, it was the wind whistling through my helmet.

Frank escorted me into camp, and as I rounded the corner, he let me pull ahead. I was greeted with cowbells and cheering from the other riders. I had a beer, some chips and I set up my tent.

The rest of the trip was cake. I opted to ride down Onion Creek Road to Highway 128 into Moab. I'd had enough weather drama the previous year. I averaged about 12.5 MPH over the 33.3 miles. It felt so good to end the trip on such a high note. I was the third one into the campground - I even beat the staff in. When the trucks showed up, I grabbed my bag and headed for the shower. Setting up my tent, I reflected on the two previous times I had done
this trip. Before, I had survived. I made it despite the weather, the pain, the inexperience. This time, I made it because I was strong, and I knew what to expect. It had taken three tries, but I did it. I didn't conquer the Kokopelli, but I did conquer myself.

I originally posted this on my blog .