A tim e trialarou nd the W hite R im has becom e a rather enjoyable annu al tradition. A rite of passag e. T he official and inau g u ral sacram ent to the new spring and season. A w elcom e shift from snow and daw n patrol and qu ietly looking forw ard to the next rou nd ofw intery assau lt.It is that ever present yardstick ofspring fitness,and fu elfor fu tu re delu sions of g randeu r.A nd fitting ly so. T he canyons and tow ers of the W hite R im and its su rrou nding s seem to be carved from som e divine delu sion,as if G od him self w anted to experim ent w ith sand and rock,w ater and w ind,for no other reason than to “see w hat happens.” T he resu lt is u nrivaled. Su btle,bu t breathtaking .O ne cou ld stand and stare into the abyss for a lifetim e, and never fu lly com prehend or appreciate its m ag nitu de or varied m ag nificence. L ike the park rang ers lim p, u ndelivered lectu re, the density and nu ance of the canyon cou ntry are m eant to be u nheard. O r rather, dig ested slow ly, w hispered,discovered— line u pon line. B u t those m ore philosophicalthou g hts w ere far from m y m ind as I rode m y bike u nderneath the eons of w asted earth and stone.I had one sim ple objective staring m e in the face and repeating itself over and over and over:pedaldam m it.A nd that is the g reat and obviou s secret to finishing the W hite R im in one day.In fact, it is the solu tion to every race or ride or au daciou s tw o-w heeled am bition anyone has ever dream t into reality.A nd as su ch,there leaves little tim e to g aw k and w onder and m onolog u e,even w hen in the vast expanse of the sacred and intrig u ing confines of the G reen and C olorado’s collaborative offspring . A nd never w ere those w ords m ore relevant, yet m ore difficu lt to achieve than w hen looking u p at the incom prehensible vertical w onderm ent that are the Shafer sw itchbacks. Pedal? D am m it! L ater,I sat u nder the nig ht sky and the ju niper trees and reveled in the open silence. T he fire crackled softly. T he m oon hu ng lazily, a lu m inou s ring su rrou nding its bu lbou s center. I rested easy, know ing that m y pedaling — for the tim e being — w as done. M y belly w as fu ll of beer-boiled brats. M y leg s ached and tw itched. T he w ind su ng softly. I g rinned w ith satisfying indu lg ence w hile a panoram a of w ide ang led brilliance still cou rsed throu g h m y m ind.R ock and sand passing qu ickly u nder ru bber tires,qu ietly rolling throu g h a land m ore su ited for slow , laboriou s,savorm ent.I slept easy that nig ht.T he next m orning I am fam ished. D u ll and g rog g y. D u st and g rim e are ling ering in the corners of m y eyes. I yaw n ferociou sly, craw l ou t of m y sleeping bag and into the brilliant desert m orning . R iders are preparing for the long day ahead of them — lu bing chains, packing packs, filling bottles. A nervou s energ y is zipping throu g hou t the crow d.For a brief m om ent I consider su iting u p and follow ing them back into the void,bu t the fit passes qu ickly as I becom e reacqu ainted w ith the ache and pain from the previou s day. Instead, I w atch in silence as the long chain of m ou ntain bikes fades into the horizon. “I need a bu rg er.” R ay’s Tavern is em pty. V irg is behind the cou nter prepping for the day. It’s 11 A .M . I’m hu ng ry. A nd had been thinking abou t the m assive bacon cheesebu rg er and steak fries that w ere abou t to be placed in front of m e since som ew here near B u ck C anyon— som e 60 m iles into the previou s day’s W hite R im tim e trial.I sit in the w ooded booth and m arvel at the u nnu m bered t-shirts fram ed on the w alls: W hite W ater R apids E xpeditions, G reen R iver,U T.B ig horn R iver Trips,G rand Ju nction,C O .A nd m any, m any m ore. B ehind the bar are neon sig ns advertising variou s brands of beer. A n old television is playing the latest sports
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hig hlig hts.In the back of the room a dorm ant,softly g low ing ju ke box rests from a nig ht of heavy u se. T he g rill sizzles. M elting cheese over g rou nd beef.T he sm ellofbacon w afts throu g h the air.A sig n above the tillreads “PB & J and Fries:$75.00.” I drift back to the circu m navig ating w asteland of the C anyonlands and revisit the dirt and the blackbru sh. T he horizon, littered w ith natu ral w atchtow ers, the H enry m ou ntains pu rple in the haze. T he A bajo’s obscu red, only barely there. B y m idday the su n had retreated behind the dark g loom of an approaching storm .It cam e from behind,steadily g aining g rou nd as I pedaled fu riou sly, hoping in vain to ou tru n the natu ralpu rsu it.A m ong the distant box canyons and m esas I cou ld see the m isty rain sw irling like w atercolor paint throu g h the air. B u t it never rained particu larly hard. A thin, refreshing m ist slow ly soaked the cracked desert floor.D roplets of w ater pattered off the brim of m y cap and dripped onto m y face. T he w ind, not overbearing , tu g g ed at the sleeves of m y rain coat. I pedaled onw ard. Passing an u ntold nu m ber ofriders,su pport vehicles and scou t troops.I had never XXCMAG.COM