Hana’s Fool’s Loop Adventure
The only word I could use to describe the sky was violent. Like a film set changing scenes, the wind picked up, the sky darkened, and the mood shifted. Only 10 miles from our intended camp my body filled with a deep sense of anxiety. As we rode away from Horseshoe Lake the hot sun quickly disappeared as the wind began blowing so loudly I could barely hear. Today was day two of riding the Fool’s Loop trail in Arizona. I was just starting to feel more confident about the trip, but with almost comedic timing the storm sent me into a panic. We pulled over and set up the tent, somehow already drenched from just a couple minutes of rain. Once the wet tent was up, I climbed inside and waited for the storm to pass.
This trip was a lot of firsts for me. It was the longest bike packing trip I had been on and an exceptionally logistically challenging one. My partner and I had flown into Phoenix with our bikes three days earlier, assembled the bikes at the airport and rode from there to the trail head. On top of figuring out the logistics of flying with a bike, I’d never done an overnight in the desert and had to be prepared to ride with extremely limited water re-supplies. It felt like a large rat was running around my body wreaking havoc on my nervous system for the 48 hours leading up to our trip. But finally, I was out on the open road. No cars or city noise. I was ready to ride.
Unfortunately, I was now sitting in the tent listening to the sound of pounding rain. After a short while the clouds and my emotions leveled. I guess desert storms are just brief. As fast as the storm passed, so did my anxiety. We contemplated packing the tent back up and continuing to ride but it was already 5 pm, and by the time we would have packed everything up again we wouldn’t have much sunlight left. We set up camp just off the gravel road with a view of Horseshoe Lake, surrounded by huge saguaro cactus. A familiar feeling washed over me as I watched the sunset; I was overwhelmed with the fear that I was in way over my head. But why? I’ve done far harder trips. I’ve completed four different month-long backpacking trips, carried a 60 pound pack up a glacier, canyoned through the entire span of the Florida Everglades, and ran my college's outdoor program. I have always had a high level of anxiety, but I was disappointed that this trip was causing me so much doubt and stress. After about an hour in the tent the rain stopped, and the sun poked back out just before it set behind the desert mountains.
I woke up the next morning feeling more assured and excited for the day ahead. We packed up camp, drank our morning coffee and then jumped on the bikes. Today was going to be the hardest day. We had a 20 mile climb and had to be prepared to camp without a water source. I was carrying 6 liters of water and my bike felt heavy. We rode the first 6 miles fast, passing a pack of javelinas and listening to the sounds of desert birds. It was wildly beautiful as we rode up to the Verde River. Until now we hadn’t really seen many trees, but down by the river it was so lush and green, with a 1940’s replica sheep’s bridge across the river. As we filled up water, we talked to the ATV campers who were always impressed that we were just on our bicycles. After spending some time on the red rocks below the bridge we got prepared for our hardest and longest climb.
The sun was hot, and the roads were chunky and washed out. At times it was completely unrideable. In my head I was steeling myself and reminding myself I was strong and a good biker. I could definitely do this. Cars would pass, asking if the road kept getting worse and then say to my partner, “You’re a better man than me!”. I wondered, what was that supposed to mean, and why did they never say anything like that to me? If he’s a better man than you for biking up the hill, then I must be a better man, too.
I’ve always struggled with imposter syndrome when it came to the bike industry. When I first started training to be a mechanic I was working at a shop with only cis men, and I constantly felt like I had to prove that I was good enough to be there. Until stumbling into Free Range a couple years ago, I had never met any mechanics that looked like me. Sometimes I wonder if I spent so much time fighting for my place that I’m unable to recognize that I do not have to prove anything. As I pushed my bike up the hill, knowing that the sun was going to set in a couple hours, I couldn’t shake this feeling that I was a disappointment as I realized we were not going to make it to our intended camp for the second day in a row. My mind continued to circle and spiral around the idea that I was not good enough, while my partner seemed to not be struggling at all. I mean, what was I doing out there in the first place? I’m a slow biker. I had no business thinking I could do such a long bike packing trip. My eyes started to well up as I kept switching between pedaling slowly uphill and walking my bike. All of the sudden it was 5pm and I was sobbing uncontrollably. I was tired and hungry, and it looked like it was about to rain again. My partner tried to encourage me, but I just couldn’t stop crying for the next hour until we stopped and picked a flat spot off the gravel to camp. We walked off the road into the juniper trees and pushed away some cow poop so we could lay down our tent. I was so embarrassed and disappointed that I had let my emotions get the better of me. How demoralizing that I would have to wake up and continue climbing the hill. Just as we set up the tent it started to rain again. An unsettling dread set over me as I listened to the rain all night.
The next day I woke up and struggled to get out of my sleeping bag. Everything was wet and I had slept terribly. But I forced myself to get up, and now that we were close to the highest elevation of the trip I discovered that we were in a vastly different terrain. It was almost like a desert prairie with rolling green hills, juniper trees, and red dirt roads that made me feel like a character in a Wes Anderson film. I knew the riding could have an extra level of difficulty due to the rain. The ground had become peanut butter-like mud. But to my surprise, the 6 miles up the pass wasn’t so bad. Walking and riding, listening to my favorite podcast “Heavy Weights”, we slowly but surely reached the high point.
Now was my time to shine. In the dense and wet fog all I could see was a muddy steep road ahead of me but surprisingly, I was so excited. My partner, who is usually faster than me, could not keep up! With an unmatched sense of freedom I started going as fast as I could down the steep gravel roads, dodging large boulders, potholes, and ruts in the road. I forgot all of the hardship that came before. I was feeling great, when all of the sudden the road turned into a soft, slippery mud. I tried to slow down but my front wheel slipped and I was down. I lay on the ground for a second and then examined my knee. It was gushing blood, but I was all smiles. I felt pretty badass and for the first time on the trip I felt like a real biker. I was tough, and now I had the blood to prove it.
This was by far the hardest day physically, but I wasn’t getting overwhelmed by my emotions. Just like the environment around me I was ebbing and flowing. We eventually made it to the entrance of the national forest which had a pit toilet with a small, covered section. At this point it was raining very hard and we were covered in mud. We hid under the toilet awning section for about an hour, eating the last of our food and putting on warmer clothes. We were close to a small town and off the muddy road, so I worked up the courage to get back on the bike and start riding.
This finally began to feel like an emotional turning point. The ride was hard and I was struggling, but I wasn’t falling into the thought pattern that I wasn’t good enough to be out there. I rode my bike, struggling and accepting that there were more hills to climb, both physically and emotionally. That night we stocked up on food at a small market and made our way to a motel cabin off the freeway near the Black Canyon trail head. We had a huge feast of Beyond Burgers and fries. It felt like a massive accomplishment. If we had decided to stop and ride nothing more, I would have felt satisfied.
We took the next day to rest as we planned how to finish the route. We had about 100 miles left with 60 miles of single track. It was going to be hard. We had already decided to cut out a bonus 40-mile loop of single track. After some planning we settled on taking two days to ride the rest of the single track and pick up a U-Haul to get us back to Phoenix so that we had a day to get our bikes packed up and ready to fly. While part of me was disappointed we weren’t going to “officially” complete the route, I felt a sense of relief knowing that we had more practical goals set for each day.
The next day we woke up early and headed out for the Black Canyon trail. At the trailhead we ran into the first group of other bikers we had seen. There was one guy on a full suspension bike, and a couple on hardtails. The couple had attempted the whole loop but bailed because of the rain. My partner and I were both riding rigid bikes. His, an old Rivendell and mine, a Black Mountain Cycles La Cabra. Our loaded down rigid bikes felt pretty badass next to this collection of suspension mountain bikes. I felt really accomplished that we had not given up and persevered through the rain. It finally sunk in–Maybe I am strong, and just maybe I am a mountain biker. We spent that day battling through mud until we reached an incredible span of exposed rocky single track. All of this began to feel so worth it. Finally, the fun part. We traversed down trails scraped into the sides of the valley. With cactus on either side and the vast desert landscape bathed in sun, I felt so content.
I realize that I can’t change or take away the feeling that I don’t belong in the world of bike packing, but I can sit with the feeling and move through it. I can keep getting on my bike and showing up, continuing to add representation to the cycling world. I can show people that it's ok to cry uncontrollably on my bike. I don’t have to measure myself to what other people expect a “strong” cyclist to be. For me, strength isn’t being fast or sucking up my emotions. It's showing up and being my whole self. Expressing my emotions and continuing on. I mean, I rode over 200 miles through an unforgiving landscape carrying all my water, food, and camping supplies. I am a bike packer.
-Hana
