Things got progressively weirder as the Utah mountain bike race, known as the 24 Hours of Moab, continued. It was an event where riders, in teams ranging in size from single individuals to 8, rode as many laps as possible within 24 hours. I was doing it solo, which, among other things, created some intriguing late-night moments. At some point in the middle of the night, two tandem bikes with riders dressed as frogs rode in from a direction that had nothing to do with the racecourse. During the previous lap, I’d been concerned when another racer didn’t correctly yield the trail on a long climb. But by the time the frog thing happened, things like that were no longer bothering me. I was just pleased to see the frogs stopped and waiting off to the side of the trail for me to pass before continuing. From that moment on, as I rode up toward the crest of that hill each lap, I kept looking for the frog riders and continued to be concerned they might be riding the same section of trail as I was. I could only hope that if so, they’d at least be going in the same counterclockwise direction as everyone else.
In my riding stupor, I reasoned that if they were indeed riding on the trail but behind me, they’d have my back, for whatever that was worth. And while that thought, concept, or whatever it was shouldn’t have provided any comfort, it did. As I visualized the frogs riding behind me each time, I felt a strange rush of power come into my legs, and riding the remainder of the 12-mile course was pleasant, at least for the most part.
But I never saw the four pseudo-amphibians again. Still, today, more than ten years later, I find myself wondering from time to time how many laps they made or if they even made any. The thought that they might not have completed even one initially leaves me feeling empty. But that emptiness is inevitably filled with a kind of energizing positivity, as I recount the sight of them during that chilly race night in Utah.
After the first hill, the trail dropped sharply down into a dry creek, crossed it, and climbed steeply up on the far side before beginning another descent. Thankfully, body fatigue and a strong self-preservation instinct kept me from trying to ride across the creek bottom, with its big, awkward rocks, ruts, and drop-offs on every lap. But the downhill after the climb was different.
On previous laps, I successfully rode down that long, sandy, four-wheel-drive backroad, which the riders ultimately came to know as the “sandy descent after the gully.” But on each successive one, as the mix of foot-deep sand and bowling ball-sized rocks got more stirred up, it became trickier to negotiate. Most likely, had I been thinking clearly in the middle of the night, on the fifth lap, I would’ve made the rational decision to “walk it.” But instead, I sped up and tried to ride it even faster than before. Neither the late hour, fatigue, realization of how lucky I’d been on my previous descents, nor the significant drop-off along the edge entered my decision to “go for it.”
Earlier that afternoon, spectators were scattered along the descent at various locations, some likely waiting to see a little carnage. But, with the cold and remoteness that came with the late hour, I was alone as I started down. The first twenty feet went as expected. I was not in complete control, but it was manageable. But then, a big rock blocked my line, forcing me to somehow swerve to the uphill side. Unfortunately, I over-corrected after the near-miss and felt the deep sand grab my front wheel. For a moment, all was well. But suddenly, it wasn’t, as my downhill progress abruptly stopped, thanks to another big rock completely buried and out of sight.
That rock acted like a brake, and my bike came to an instant stop, although I did not. Luckily, my feet came unclipped from the pedals, allowing me to hit the sand without being attached to the bike. The last thing I needed as I rolled off the drop-off side of the trail was anything else connected to the system. Things were out of my control. Strangely, my prevailing thought as it was happening was a sort of strange guilt.
I’m not all that sure how the crash episode unfolded. I did fall off the edge, that’s a fact. But thankfully, it occurred at a non-lethal steep spot covered with all sorts of small trees and bushes. Ultimately, a dead cedar tree came to my rescue and completely stopped my fall before it could get any more out of hand.
Once stopped, I just lay there a moment. I kept thinking about the frog riders, somewhere back behind and headed my way, and the thought gave me confidence that all was okay. And then I looked more intently at my surroundings. A bright moon illuminated the high desert, and I saw various parts of my bike sticking up above the sand on the trail above. My bike light was still shining, illuminating a scrub cedar tree just above the crash site. I was sure there was blood or that I was injured somehow. But I felt nothing, physically or mentally, except for the need to get up and get going. And so, without any pondering or speculation, that’s what I did.
Amazingly, all was well with my bike and body as I rode on. The rest of the sandy descent went without incident, and once down, I rode onto a hard-packed backroad. I knew from previous laps that the road wound its way for several miles through the area known as Behind the Rocks before looping through the start/finish area. Eventually, I increased my speed, this time for a logical reason. The road was stable, wide, mostly downhill, and had no significant drop-offs. But the combination of speed, cold night air, and my sweat-soaked body made me increasingly chilled.
The cold finally became overwhelming, and I stopped to put on the rest of the warm clothes I had with me. As I stood there, digging through my pack for anything that might provide additional insulation, I began to shiver uncontrollably. I hurried to get back on my bike and start riding again, even though I knew the road continued downhill and riding it would only make me colder. Being cold soon went beyond simple shivering, and my hands began to lose feeling. I was beginning to speculate about alternatives to the situation when I came over a rise and saw the temporary city of lights at the start/finish area a few miles in the distance.
Just as the sight came into view, the numbness faded, my hands regained full feeling, and I stopped shivering. It was inexplicable and downright strange. While I’d become accustomed to the unexpected, the sudden lack of cold confounded me. Was the heat from the campfires somehow rising out of the valley? Was the big heater blowing in the start/finish tent heating up more than just the tent? Did the moon give off heat? I had questions, but I never reached any conclusions. I just rode on down, feeling warmer as I rode into the spectacle of fire, light, people, and at least some degree of sanity.
Within minutes, I rode out of the staging area and began riding up the long hill at the start as I began another lap. At first, the chill returned, and I welcomed the climb and body heat it would create. And then, I started anxiously anticipating the frog riders, the return of the high desert moonglow, and whatever else awaited. During that interesting 24 hours, I came to realize that motivation and confidence often come in unexpected forms and from unimagined places.
