White-knuckling on
the famed 100-mile
White Rim Trail
As someone who trips over single blades of grass and regularly falls—not only down stairs but up them, I always figured mountain biking was something I should avoid.
Sure, I partake in other modes of inherently risky outdoor fun: Road biking, bouldering, skiing, backpacking—each of which involve some combination of jagged rocks, steep grades and high speeds. But mountain biking combines all three. My aversion was based on the odds of increased risk.
I must have been in a special mood when I agreed to bike Moab’s famous 100-mile White Rim Trail, which follows the White Rim on the edge of Island in the Sky Mesa in Canyonlands National Park. At the time, my friend Curtis was a junior high school teacher with entire summers free to take up adventuresome hobbies and then guide his friends down the path to a blissful reward. He’d recently embraced long-distance bike touring.
I decided to go for three reasons: For one, during the planning stage, Curtis kept referring to the group ride as a “bike pelican” (a twist on bike peloton, the core group of cyclists in a race). This lighthearted mockery of serious cycling culture reduced the intimidation factor and made me feel like I was joining a bike gang of scruffy neighborhood kids. Secondly, the southern Utah desert is a curiosity-sparking, soul-replenishing wonderland. I’d probably have gone if the bike pelican were comprised solely of unicycles. Thirdly, a few people would be doing the ride on touring bikes, so I figured it wouldn’t be overly technical or adrenaline-fueled. I borrowed a friend’s front-suspension 29er and we were off.
The worst part of the 100-mile ride was the 7-mile approach to the trail. Riding the heavy bike into a headwind along the skinny highway shoulder, periodically stopping to adjust the seat as my body and bike became geometrically acquainted, I couldn’t help but long for my road bike: nimble, light, familiar.
But turning onto the mesa was like awakening in Oz. The labyrinthine red-rock landscape unfurled before us, and I dropped into the Shafer switchbacks feeling ridiculously giddy. Within the first 15 miles, the trail delivered and then some—deep, complex views to the left and Bighorn sheep to the right.
We pedaled and pedaled and pedaled. The terrain varied—hard-packed jeep roads disappearing into rosy horizons; vertigo-inducing traverses clinging to cliffsides; free-flowing slickrock sections; short, steep, wild descents and climbs. And sand. I developed a Zen-like coolness with the act of pedaling practically in place through long stretches of sand.
I found that, for a newb, I was pretty good at bombing down hills. I swallowed my pride and pushed the bike up a few ascents. I learned that red grapes and salty sheets of seaweed are the best snacks when toiling in the desert. And I discovered that after burning a heroic level of calories and sweating like a sow, you can drink 1 metric ton of beer, and then get up at sunrise without a trace of a hangover.
I used to edit stories for an outdoor publication, and 80 percent of them concluded with some slight variation of the phrase, “Incredible scenery, incredible skiing and incredible people. It really was an incredible trip.” It became a cliché to me. But it’s tough to fight the impulse to describe my first time mountain biking as anything but incredible.
Trying something new, discovering some-place new, and meeting someone new all at once is transcendent and surreal, like having one of those profound dreams that lodges in your psyche, and knowing that someone else dreamed the exact same thing. The shape of the experience remains imprinted in your mind, and in theirs, the same way a formative childhood experience forever binds you to the neighborhood kids with whom you shared it.
I rode the White Rim Trail with only one crash, which I executed with the grace of a circus clown. I was probably underprepared, and the ride was undoubtedly difficult at times. But it was a goddamned blast.
And, while we’re on the topic of transcendence: If you’re seeking a spirit animal to oversee your first time doing a mountain-bike trip or biking in general—or a totem to signify your scruffy gang of explorers—I recommend the bike pelican.
