Issue #12: The Need for Speed

Bikepacking the Bay

By Zachary Morvant

San Francisco, Thursday, 8am; 48 hours until departure

I’m kneeling on the cold tile floor of my bathroom, dry heaving. In a visceral reminder that children truly are a gift that keep on giving, my 3 year-old son brought home a brutally efficient stomach bug that had swiftly leveled half of his preschool.

The thought of standing up — let alone riding a bike for 24 hours or more in one go — is a nauseatingly abstract concept that exists far beyond both my comprehension and constitution. This event may be scratched into the books for me as a DNS (Did Not Start) because I CNS (Could Not Stand). (OK, I may have made up that last acronym.)

Riders on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. Photo: Zachary Morvant / @zmorvant

Ultra obsession and bikepacking the bay

Over the past year or so, I’ve become obsessed with ultracycling, and self-supported bikepacking races in particular.

Unfortunately, despite the San Francisco Bay Area’s sprawling and diverse cycling scene, we have no local ultras to speak of. So when I learned of the new Bikepack The Bay event via Instagram, I penciled it into my calendar, despite it being a mere two weeks after the Stagecoach 400. I wanted this event to gain traction. I envisioned it inspiring others to create similar routes and events. (Selfishly, this would also mean less travel time for me to do these sorts of exercises which for me walk a fine line between masochism and meditation.)

The route

Beginning and ending at the Marin Museum of Bicycling, the 265-mile Bikepack The Bay Route drunkenly lassoes the San Francisco Bay with a mix of technical singletrack, gravel roads, and pavement, with over 27,000 feet of elevation gain. Crossing 3 bridges (in order: Richmond-San Rafael, Dumbarton, and the Golden Gate) and 6 counties (Marin, Contra Costa, Alameda, Santa Clara, San Mateo, and San Francisco before returning to Marin) it’s something of a “greatest hits” of Bay Area trails and connecting roads.

Preparations

To me, the foundation of a successful ultracycling or bikepack racing endeavor lies in shoring up my energy reserves. This eschews the old school notion of carb loading (stuffing oneself with pasta to the point of nausea the night before the event) in favor of a more conscious effort to fully fuel the body throughout the 48 hours leading up to the start. What does this look like? Well-rounded, nutrient-dense meals at regular intervals — with a focus on carbohydrates — with healthy snacks between. Reportedly the human body can store about 600g of carbohydrate when fully loaded, so we’re aiming to hit that number.

Stomach bugs, as it turns out, are not conducive to this type of behavior. With no appetite and little ability to keep anything down in the days leading to Bikepack The Bay, it looked like I’d be toeing the start line under-fueled, underweight, and generally feeling like a half-chewed chunk of jerky. Nevertheless, on Friday night I readied my big-tired gravel bike, packed my bags, mixed my bottles, and did all the other rituals that signal intent for a strong performance, even if the doubt goblins gnawed at me.

I estimate being able to complete the route somewhere in the neighborhood of 24 hours. I pack very light — food, tools, extra layers — no bivy or sleeping pad, because I do not plan to sleep. I believe I can finish first.

Photo: Flickr user asmartalec, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Marin Museum of Bicycling, Saturday, 7:30am

The sun shining, the wind barely whispering, I whip into Fairfax just in time to find parking and use the museum bathroom. With the drive from my house taking less than 30 minutes, I’d already changed into my superhero costume to avoid the hopping awkwardness of a surfer-style parking lot change. I’d woken up feeling the best I had in days, so I’d kissed my wife goodbye, thanked her in advance for watching our son, and told her I’d be home for Easter brunch.

My tight arrival time doesn’t leave much room for small talk before the group of 60 or so rolls out. Spirits are high as we weave through multi-use paths and dirt trails. By the time we reach the Richmond San-Rafael bridge — only mile 11 — a dozen of us, the proverbial business end of this mullet-style event, distance ourselves from the party in the back. The sky is gray, the wind has awakened. The unspoken sizing up that takes place between racers is in full effect, clumsily disguised by small talk. I know only a couple of these riders. Sean and Fergus are my friends, strong and experienced, but the others are mysteries.

Wildcat Creek Trail, 9:30am

We hit the first substantial dirt climbs in the East Bay hills, rolling in and out of patchy fog. The group has whittled down to a half dozen or so of us: me, Sean, Fergus, Mark, David, and Bryan. At one point a friend of Mark and David’s joins us, clarifying that he isn’t part of the race, just wanting to roll with his friends for a bit. Mark and David talk about stopping for water near Sibley — I’m carrying plenty and not planning to stop for another 20 to 30 miles. I’ve learned that minimizing stoppage is one key to success in these silly adventures.

I roll through as they pull over, and suddenly I’m alone. Surely it can’t be this easy, I think, and I’m right: minutes later, Mark, David, and Bryan fly by me. Whatever, I tell the doubt goblin that’s popped its head up. It’s early yet.

“Trail magic” is a real thing in bikepacking events. If you haven’t heard of it, this is where folks (dubbed “trail angels”) who are virtually spectating the race via our satellite trackers (which broadcast our locations to one of many sites like Trackleaders.com) position themselves on the course, offering snacks, drinks, or other aid to racers. My spirit is buoyed by my friends Chas and JDR suddenly appearing on the side of the trail, handing me a miniature can of Coke and hollering words of encouragement. I suck down the sugary goodness as I pedal toward a perfectly placed recycling bin. The chase continues.

The lead pack hits the East Bay hills. Photo: Zachary Morvant / @zmorvant

Chabot Regional Park, 11:15am

A minty, earthy aroma fills my nostrils as I roll through a clearing of freshly cut eucalyptus trees. Past the excavators and feller bunchers I spy a water spigot by two tree stumps: as good a spot as any for a lunch break and water refill, even if a bit earlier than planned, and certainly faster than going into a store or cafe. I slip off my hydration pack, slap on more sunscreen, and fill my bottles with water and high carb drink mix while eating a snack. Fergus catches up to me, says a quick hello, and keeps going. 12 minutes later I’m moving again.

The rest of the journey through the East Bay hills is all new to me; I’ve never ridden this far south on its trails. The Five Canyons Open Space is rustic ranchland, cow-printed, beautiful, bumpy. I catch back up with Fergus. By my estimation we’re currently in 4th and 5th place. I’m grateful for my big tires and suspension fork but am still taking a beating on some of the rougher descents. It reminds me of the northern part of Bolinas Ridge, which if all goes according to plan, I’ll get to relive later.

Coyote Hills Regional Park, 3:00pm

The Bay looks back at us through brilliant bursts of wild mustard, lupine, and poppies. The rainbow of spring wildflowers against the backdrop of the water boosts my morale after the slog through Union City’s bike paths and side streets. The three race leaders are still somewhere far ahead, but right now I couldn’t care less. This is beautiful. This is what it’s all about. Couples pose to take pictures in front of the blooms on a bluebird afternoon.

We make our way from the windblown beauty of the Shoreline Trail to the car-choked Dumbarton Bridge. Navigation gets tricky around East Palo Alto; I lose Fergus in a maze of tiny paths. He had been saying something earlier about not feeling up to finishing this ride. I recall feeling the same way when we started, and realize my resolution and constitution have grown stronger than before. I wonder if the doubt goblins are feasting on Fergus now.

Cupertino, 5:00pm

Dinnertime. I stop at a gas station for a big resupply, knowing it will likely be the last opportunity to get real food before the 24 hour Quik Stop in Pacifica — over 70 mostly off-road miles and several thousand feet of climbing away. According to my research, every other store on the course will be closed by the time I reach it. I load the Trackleaders site on my phone to see how far ahead David and Mark are: about 12 miles. A seemingly unconquerable distance. With the brisk pace they’ve set, I’m not sure I’ll see them again.

I fill my pockets with portable snacks and top off my bottles while washing down a big bag of corn chips with a Red Bull. Less than 20 minutes later, I’m rolling again, bound for Montebello, a stout climb that rises 2,000 feet over 5 miles. It’s an after-dinner digestif with a rudeness that rivals a shot of Fernet Branca.

A mile of grunting and grinding and I spy a rider on the side of the road, standing beside his bike with a pained expression. It’s Bryan.

“You okay?” I inquire as I approach.

“Cramps! Mark and David are beasts.”

I agree that they have indeed set a hell of a pace, and keep climbing. I’m now in 3rd place.

I summit Montebello, the sun dips low in the sky, and I am treated to dessert: delightfully easy-going open space preserve trails, flowing with golden hour goodness.

I want to believe. Photo: Zachary Morvant / @zmorvant

El Corte de Madera Creek Open Space Preserve, 8:00pm

Fog and darkness have enveloped the ridge. I’m in unfamiliar territory now, praying my tires maintain grip as I pick my way downhill. Slick mossy roots, low-hanging tree limbs, tight turns become my world. My headlamp’s beam bounces off the fog and shoots back into my eyeballs. I turn it off, running only my handlebar-mounted light on its lowest setting, limiting my speed to a limp. I try to remind myself that nothing lasts forever, but this part can’t be over soon enough.

Eventually I punch through the fogline, drifting down to Half Moon Bay, where serenity awaits on calm, sandy coastal trails, the smell of bonfires carried on a gentle breeze. Somewhere nearby regular people are doing regular Saturday night things. Sounds nice.

Rancho Corral de Tierra, Sunday, 1:45am

I’ve only covered 8 miles in the past 2 hours.

I’ve been on some truly miserable hike-a-bikes. You come to expect at least one during a bikepacking race, maybe two if it’s long enough. But this is a whole other level of suck.

This nightmare started north of Princeton-by-the-Sea and doesn’t look like it will stop til Pacifica. I’ve been bushwhacking through trails that faded in and out of existence, pushing my bike up grades exceeding 20% (by my beleaguered estimation), my shoes barely getting traction. The best part? The descent is equally nasty, so I spend a fair amount of time holding my bike while walk/running downhill, at times unconsciously grabbing the brakes as things get squirrely. I’m not sure if this reflex helps or hurts. I wonder how the hell people who are actually planning to camp on this route, their bikes loaded with extra gear, will feel at this point. Hopefully fresh from a good night’s sleep at least.

I also think about quitting. A lot.

I think about how much this sucks. How awful my body feels pushing this dumb bike up and down these stupid hills. How I might still be sick and this was a terrible idea.

I think about how much my toes hurt from the 400 plus mile mountain bike ultra I did just two weeks ago, leaving four of my nail beds the color of overripe eggplants.

I think about how the route passes within 10 minutes of my home in San Francisco. And how I deliberately left my house key in my car in Fairfax, so I would have to wake up Bridget. And she might not have the key to the bike storage handy, so I might have to leave my bike somewhere questionable. And then I would have to pick up the car the next day. Obviously this would be a huge inconvenience for all involved, so it’s easier for me to keep riding. I just need to get to the Quik Stop and eat something. Then I’ll reassess.

Highway 1 from San Pedro Mountain. Photo: Zachary Morvant / @zmorvant

Pacifica Quik Stop, 3:00am

I don’t remember the last time I was so happy to see a convenience store. Probably the last time I did one of these idiotic races. (Read: too soon.)

The shopkeeper is a kind man who doesn’t seem to speak much English but lets me hang out indoors with my bike while I eat food and mix bottles, using one of the lowboy ice cream coolers as a makeshift table. More snacks in my pockets, more chips and Red Bull in my face. As I chew I check Trackleaders to see everyone’s positions.

Hope lights up my face from my phone screen. Mark and David, who have been holding a sizeable lead all day, are now only a few miles away. I have 80 miles left to close the gap. Something that seemed a silly thought hours ago now seems possible.

I finish resupplying, take care to clean the crumbs I’ve dropped on the cooler, say thank you to the shopkeeper, and head back into the night, a whole new animal.

San Francisco, Great Highway, 4:30am

I see a taillight.

I wasn’t sure before, but I am now. Less than a mile ahead I see at least one rider climbing past the Cliff House. I’m doing it. I’m shutting it down.

They disappear around the corner and I lose sight. Just need to keep going. Past the Legion of Honor, up Lincoln, to the Golden Gate Bridge, where I catch sight again. It’s clear now: two riders together. To pass one will be to pass both. No competitors will remain in front of me, only trails and trials.

Marin Headlands, Miwok Trail, 5:47am

Climbing briskly up a 13% grade in the predawn gloom. I’m a few feet behind Mark and David. I could pass them now — but something tells me not to. I stop.

I pull over. They pull away from view. I pee. Shuffle some items from my bags to my pockets for easy reach. I don’t want to stop again until this is over.

I hope I didn’t overplay my hand.

Tennessee Valley, Coastal Fire Road, 6:09am

I catch them in earnest now, saying good morning as early rays of sun begin to brighten the sky. I pedal with them for a moment, mentioning that I wasn’t sure I’d see them again. (Certainly not until Pacifica.) We commiserate about taking our bikes for extended walks. Remark on previously stated Easter brunch plans. And then I hit the gas, pushing hard up Coyote Ridge. My goal is to get so far out of sight so swiftly that it demoralizes them to the point of breaking. My fear is that I will blow myself up doing so.

For now, I am in the lead.

Bolinas Ridge, 8:30am

Trails and trials. Bolinas Ridge is a bog of greasy mud punctuated by wet roots. Despite the downward trend the going is slow; I’m tired and don’t want to crash so close to the end, so I pilot my ship with extreme caution. At one point I dab and stick my foot completely into a mud puddle. Ugh. At least there’s only 20 miles to go.

Where the mud ends, the hoofprints begin. Soft splashing becomes harsh bumping. A right turn. Jewell goes from overgrown to rocky. The Marin Cross Trail is a welcome reprieve.

San Geronimo Ridge, 9:49am

Only 10 miles to go. How bad could it be?

Dear reader, I believe you know the answer.

My fear has come true: I have blown myself up. In the warming light of day my enfeebled body has nowhere to hide. I am forced to walk up some of the trail’s steeper pitches, my shoes wobbling on chunky rocks. The whole-body strength required to surmount these climbs, weaving my wheels through the proper line, has long left me. Progress is painfully sluggish, and a quick glance at Trackleaders confirms my once-sizeable lead is slowly shrinking.

Camp Tamarancho is the final boss segment, buzzing with fresh-looking mountain bikers on full-suspension sleds, smoothly carving downhill. By contrast I’m a reeking corpse on a strange machine, hacking my way through the trail system with all the grace of a butter knife through an overcooked steak, bumbling down berms and occasionally dismounting to move aside for the folks who have not been racing their bikes for 27 hours.

We end where we began. Photo: Zachary Morvant / @zmorvant

Marin Museum of Bicycling, Easter Sunday, 11:47am

It’s over. I’m right back where I started less than 28 hours ago. There is exactly one person at the finish line, a rider who had scratched earlier in the event. He kindly offers any help he can. My only request is a picture.

I take a moment to collect myself on the pavement before changing into regular clothes, finally pouring myself into my car. I text Bridget to let her know I’ll be home soon for brunch. A resurrection by food and family snuggles awaits.