It was on a Sunday night in early June when three of us — Cullen Barker, Gary Dye, and myself — departed Grand Junction around 10:30 pm en route to Kokopelli's Trail, marking the start of this 400-mile backcountry bike race through the mountains, canyons, and desert of western Colorado and eastern Utah.

We rode a 20-mile untimed prologue comprised mostly of flat, paved road, spinning to get to the trailhead. We began the actual racing at midnight on Mary's Loop. Dye set a hard early pace, building a lead through the technical singletrack of Lion's Loop and Troybuilt Trail. A crash and resulting flat tire forced him to relinquish the lead, briefly, to me as I rode through Salt Creek and into Rabbit Valley.

As Dye and I portaged our bikes up the moonlit trail, the question on both of our minds was "Where is Cullen?" Throughout the prologue Barker had been unusually quiet, and once the race began in earnest he quickly fell off the pace. With so many miles to race and so much strategic detail to be figured out, it isn't at all uncommon for someone to be quiet as the racing begins. In fact, usually it's a good sign that that the racer is trying to find the right mindset.

Cresting the ridge just ahead of Dye, I came face to face with Barker--sitting in the front seat of his truck. Surprisingly, Barker had withdrawn just a few hours into the racing. He explained that, "Physically I feel great, but mentally... ...I... ...I'm just not where I need to be." I tried to get him to reconsider, but Barker would not be swayed.

Throughout the early morning hours Gary increased his lead as I fought to hang on. He was really pushing the pace. I'd crest a ridge and start to descend into the next valley, and by the moonlight I could see him closing on the next ridge. I didn't want to lose touch with him so early, but I needed to maintain a reasonable pace so that I could stay consistent through the entire race.

At Dewey Bridge, the 70-mile mark, Gary crossed the Colorado River 13 minutes ahead of me. Climbing into Fisher Valley and onto Beaver Mesa, he worked to increase his lead as the afternoon heated up. Both of us were slowed by stiff headwinds and a trail that Gary described as "Shandy." It was deep, shitty sand, the worst I've ever seen on that section, and making forward progress meant walking. Of the 13 miles of climbing onto Beaver Mesa, I walked about 10 of them.

We both stopped at Fisher Creek to refill our water containers, and although we were still separated by mere minutes, Gary's experience in this area would soon come into play. Simply put, there is a maze of old logging roads and trails in this area, near the intersection of the Kokopelli and Paradox Trails. Gary has been through here several times and knows the way, but I don't. I have good maps with me and I'm a fair navigator, but the trails are poorly marked on the ground and on the maps. I'd hit a junction every mile or so, and there were few clues as to which was the right way. Sometimes I'd get lucky and I could see Gary's tracks in the dirt, so I'd just follow them.

Following the rollercoaster trail through Redd Ranch around sunset, both of us were treated to spectacular high-alpine scenery and dozens of wildlife sightings from mule deer to rabbit, coyote, and fox. Gary was fortunate enough to see a mama bear and two cubs. "I stopped to let 'em cross, but then they spooked and ran as I rode past," he said.

Three miles of switchbacks dropped us off of Carpenter Ridge and into the Paradox Valley as the sun dipped behind the La Sal Mountains. Gary arrived at the Bedrock Store (open daily 8am to 7pm) 15 minutes after closing. He had been pushing the pace all day in an effort to get there before the store closed, as it's the only place to resupply on the entire 400-mile route. He had sat on the front step, reorganized his gear, stretched his legs, and ate some food when I came rolling up. I had also planned to get to the store before 7pm. I was almost out of food, and although I wanted to ride well into the night, I had no choice but to stop and wait for the store to reopen.

We both took full advantage of the night, rolling out bivy gear under the protection of clustered juniper trees on the southwest slope of the Paradox Valley. At sunrise we were awake, repacking gear, lubing chains, truing wheels, and getting ready for the day. After resupplying at the store, we followed the remains of the hanging flume along the Dolores and San Miguel Rivers toward Uravan, and then began climbing onto Spring Creek Mesa. Gaining the rim of the Mesa, the Uncompahgre Plateau spread out ahead of us, reminding us that although half of the mileage for the race was behind us, the hardest part of the race lay ahead.

Climbing toward the 10,000' high point, I kept joking with Gary that I could "see the top, it's right there!" and he would shake his head and accuse me of "dreaming." In previous circumnavigations of this loop, Gary had acquired a wealth of experience about the numerous trails and their overall lack of markings.

"There's an area near Criswell Creek that I call the 'Criswell Triangle,' Gary said. "I've spent hours there scratching my head and wondering how the trail disappeared. So many trails converge there and I'd like to think I've ridden all of them by now. I guess I'll know for sure tomorrow."

The morning bled into a hot afternoon as we climbed away from Spring Creek Mesa, crossed Shavano Creek and descended towards Tabeguache Creek. After passing through two gates, the track opened up onto a high speed free for all. Gary made a comment as we descended, basically telling me that this was the third time he and his bike (a Moots YBB) would have completed the entire Grand Loop. I jokingly told him that 3 was an unlucky number, but he was unfazed, replying "No way man, the third time is the charm."

As the descent unfolded before us, broken sporadically by short, steep climbs, I noticed an odd clunk coming from the rear end of my bike. At first I thought that a pack or the rack had come loose and started rattling around, so I stopped and checked things out, but everything looked okay. I checked the seat post, and that wasn't it, so I leaned real hard on the rear end and noticed that the elastomeric shock was bottoming out way too easily. I got back on the bike and bunny hopped it once or twice, and sure enough, that was it.

I wondered why an elastomer would fail, and started to mentally sift through all of the things I had with me that might be able to replace the shock absorbing elastomer. The only thing I had that would work in a pinch was some Twizzlers licorice. I had just bought some at the Bedrock Store and I figured that when we stopped at Tabeguache Creek I'd attempt to replace the stock elastomer with licorice.

Shortly after we arrived at the crossing for Tabeguache Creek, and while Gary waded into the cold water to get some relief for his sore knees, I set to work disassembling the rear shock. With a bag of licorice at my side, I removed the rear wheel, and before I even got the cap off of the shock something else caught my eye. That something else was a crack on the weld of each chainstay, and as I bent to take a closer look I realized that the cracks had traveled all the way around and were within one millimeter of separating completely.

	The End

It was immediately clear to me that my race was over. I got out my map and found the most direct route to the nearest town, Nucla. I left Gary with some Naproxen Sodium for his knees, and then started walking the 10 miles to Nucla. From there I hitchhiked. While lifting my bike into the back of a pickup truck, the rear end separated, dangling by the cables and chain. Eight hitched rides and many hours later I made it back home.

Gary continued the race solo, working his way up the Uncompahgre Plateau as the afternoon wore on. "There were a few places where the trail just vanished," he said. "I would turn off of a well-used track, head out into a meadow and the trail would just disappear. I'd been here before and I knew the way, but I still had problems staying on course. Then there was one stretch where I knew I was on the right trail but I wished that I wasn't. It was just miles and miles of shandy cobblestones that were barely rideable on the level. It seemed like I pushed my bike forever there."

Gary gained the top of the Uncompahgre Plateau in time to watch the sunset over the La Sal Mountains as the full moon rose over the Grand Mesa. He filled his water and rolled out bivy gear to sleep at the Antone Springs campground. At daybreak he borrowed the flames from a neighboring camper's fire to push back the chilly night air, then did a bit of wrenching on his bike before hitting the trail.

"I felt great and I was motivated to get the race done (that day). As I descended into the ravines and then slogged back out of them, I was mentally calculating how long it would take to get to a certain point, then the next point, and the next. And whenever I got to one of those places, I'd start recalculating the times for the next few points ahead." Gary made great time in temperatures much more moderate than the previous day's. "At eight to nine thousand feet on the Uncompahgre, the temps in the heat of the day were pretty darn nice."

After crossing Unaweep Canyon shortly after dark, Gary's concentration was focused on making it through Rough and Bangs Canyons and back into Grand Junction by midnight.

"I had two things motivating me to get there before the stroke of 12:00, a three-day race and a Scram Slam at Denny's." A strong rider with fresh legs can do this stretch of trail in about three hours, but Gary's legs were far from that condition. After walking seven of the 10 miles to the top of the climb, he lay down on a sheet of sandstone to take a brief break.

"I was out of energy. I had a few Clif Bars left, but my body wanted scrambled eggs and hash browns. I knew that I didn't want to sleep, I wanted to finish, and I was able to draw some energy while laying down on the rock, so I got up and finished the race."

He rolled into the northern end of the Tabeguache trail at 3:03am on Thursday morning, for an official finish time of 3 days, 3 hours, and 3 minutes. "I headed for Mike's house to hotwire his truck so I could go to Denny's, but he wasn't home so I called the local taxi and asked how much they wanted for a ride. Their $12 one-way asking price was twice what I planned to spend on breakfast, so I raided Mike's fridge for some eggs and salsa, then I passed out in the front yard on the trampoline."

Gary's finish time was about twice as fast as anyone had done this route previously. Before the start, I had predicted that the route could be ridden in 48 to 60 hours, but by someone who enjoys sleep deprivation more than I do. Prior to breaking my frame, I had been shooting for a three-day race. A few hours after finishing, lying stiff, swollen, and sore on the trampoline in my front yard, Gary admitted little interest in doing the race again, "At least until someone breaks my record."

— Mike Curiak, MountainZone.com Correspondent

Mike Curiak's accomplishments include being the first to single-speed the Leadville 100 (he held the course record for two years), numerous 12- and 24-hour race wins, and setting a World Record on the 1100-mile Iditasport Impossible winter race across Alaska. Even more impressive, on a bet he once consumed four pints of Ben & Jerry's in 40 minutes. Between races he enjoys sleeping. And eating.