Full write-up and images over at Black Diamond Experience.

In Flight

Day 1: Sheep Creek Trail/Shark Lake

Day 2: Mt. Roberts Tram Run/Gastineau Peak 

Day 3: Point Bridget State Park – Mendenhall Glacier

Day 4: Juneau Ridge 

Day 5: Wetlands and channel crossing

Eagles and Ice

I ease up 7th street, a casual jog – no watch, no phone, no camera, just running shoes, shorts and a long sleeve shirt. I’m slightly underdressed for late December, but like the feeling of freedom, reminiscent of summer. The flatirons come into sight, jagged tips above the large mansions that line the street. The sun peeks over the summit of the First Flatiron casting long, pyramidal rays across the meadow below- a stunning sight. For a split second, I’m disappointed that I have nothing, but my memory to capture the image. Yet, the feeling of lightness and momentary detachment from the electronic world far exceeds any desire to create a digital impression. My senses are touched with the right stuff- sunshine and fresh air. A warm burn runs down my legs as they propel me up the hill.

We live in a world of distractions. Running is so simple, so elemental, that it is often easy to forget how nourishing and freeing it can be. The trail is laced with bulletproof ice. Many people are out, sliding around, hiking off a weekend of celebration, eating and drinking. I dart off the main path, drop my hands to my knees and push with intent up the climb. Every part of my body is engaged. I focus on my breath- labored, shallow. In contrast, my mind is serene. It’s good to move. It’s good to run.  

On July 26th 1981, my grandfather, Robert L. Payton, ran a marathon on a cinder track in Garden City, New York. He was a great storyteller and told me this particular one many times. Initially, he had been planning to run the Chicago marathon in the fall with a couple of friends but work and other commitments got in the way so he decided to challenge himself to the distance, alone. 105 laps with no support other than a brief stop half way when grandma, wondering what he was up to, came over to the track to bring him some water.

After his passing several years ago, we decided as a family to declare July 26, family sports day as a small tribute to him.

This Tuesday, July 26 will mark the beginning for me of a month long adventure, the Tour de 14ers – a solo, self-supported and self-powered link up of all the Colorado 14ers, by bicycle and on foot. Inspired by Justin Simoni’s successful completion of this trip last year, I will take on this challenge in similar style via a slightly different route starting and finishing at my home in Gold Hill, Colorado.

Adhering to the “do it yourself” bikepacking racing ethic, I will receive no outside assistance, relying only on small towns for resupply. I will employ light and fast tactics and carry a minimal amount of gear. The objective of the trip is to inspire people to pursue local adventures under their own power.

I will try as best as I can to provide regular updates via Instagram and twitter and you can also follow my progress on Trackleaders. Big thanks to Scott Morris for setting this up. 

I would like to thank my wife, family and friends for the immense amount of support and help I have received before leaving.

Thank you also to Reeb Cycles, Oskar Blues Brewery, Hotbox Roasters, Oveja Negra Threadworks for all the bike related gear and support. Special thanks to Tim Moore at Cylhops Bike CANtina for getting the rig perfectly dialed and to Monty Wilson for the custom bags from Oveja Negra.

Thank you also to good folks at SCARPA, BUFF, Patagonia, Tailwind Nutrition, Point6 , Zen Nutrition and Paago Works for the awesome gear and generous help throughout all of my preparation.

Finally, shout out and big thanks to Dean Leslie of Wandering Fever and Fred Marmsater for their outstanding contributions to the artistic dimension of the project. (I should note that Fred will be meeting me at a few locations on the route to shoot photos and collect some of my video footage, but will not provide me with any further assistance beyond the exchange of data.)

Photo:Fred Marmsater

Prior to Ultra-Trail Mt. Fuji in 2014, I did a fun run for BUFF at Lake Saiko in Japan. During the run, I met Yuichi Shibui director of Mountain Martial Arts (MMA), a trail running and lifestyle brand. He was wearing a pair of print denim running shorts and I commented on how much I liked them.

Later that year at UTMB, Yuichi gave me a pair of the shorts along with a custom MMA Buff. Yuichi told me that the concept behind MMA was to produce stylish clothing for everyday use on and off the trail, meshing lifestyle with performance.  

Earlier this year, we started discussing the idea of collaborating on a small clothing line for fall 2016. The driving concept behind the collaboration for both design and utility was to create clothing that connects town to nature from the streets of Tokyo to the mountains of Colorado.

All the designs and patterns are unique and created by Yuichi. All the clothes are made in Japan.

MMAW Logo Tee

Front view and rear detail (brown tee).

MMAW Panel Tee

MMAW Jogger Pants

 

Khaki Camo detail:

MMAW Denim Run Shorts

Rear pocket detail:

Original buff®

Mt. Hiei is home to the Tendai Buddhist monks, also known as the marathon monks, since they incorporate running as part of their spiritual practice. The monks are very supportive of the race, leading a prayer at the start, and welcoming runners at the finish.

The place has a very unique, calm atmosphere inspired by the beauty of the land, the shrines and temples runners pass by and the palpable serenity the monks emanate.

I was fortunate to take part in the 2016 race and am ever so thankful to Hisao Takenaka and Tsuyoshi Kaburaki for this opportunity and their immense generosity.

The following is a selection of photos from the race by Shimpei Koseki that I find perfectly capture the feel of the event. If you are considering a trip to Japan, I would highly recommend adding the Mt. Hiei 50k to your list.

Oahu – Honolulu, North Shore, Manana and Lanipo Ridge, Nu’uanu Pali. 

Kauai – Kapaa, Kauapea Beach, Na Pali Coast, Hanakapiai Falls, Waimea Canyon, Awa’awapuhi trail.

I have about 70 more miles of riding to the Grand Canyon on what should be mostly a mix of fast, dirt roads, and trails. After yesterday’s stop in Flagstaff, I am fully energized.
I start the morning pedaling with intention, surprised at how good I am feeling. The small shift in mindset the previous night has allowed me to tap into resources I did not think I had. I begin to think of possible finishing time scenarios. Breaking 7 days is pretty much impossible, but if I pull an all nighter and go as hard as can maybe I can still pull it off. I have 26 hours to ride 140 miles and hike 24 miles across the Canyon carrying my bike. It is completely delusional to think I can do this in that timeframe, but just the thought provides enough fodder to keep me digging deeper. It is also incredibly empowering to demand something so great of your body and actually witness it respond.

Just as I am getting a little too carried away with heroic thoughts, I hear pfff! pffff! as sealant spews out of my front tire. I hit a bunch of goat heads all at once, some creating big enough holes that I am losing air. I stop and patch a few of the holes as they are not self-sealing as fast as I would like. I add a little air to the tire and keep going. It is remarkable that my tires have made it this far without issue. I had preventatively patched a few spots on the side walls that got scuffed up on the 2nd or 3rd day, but since then nothing.
A short while after, I feel a strange wobble under my left foot. As I slow down, my crank falls off! As I place the bike on the ground, the whole drivetrain comes apart. Oh no! This is really not good. I immediately think of how bad walking the last 120 miles would be. It actually sounds inconceivable. Thankfully, the crank was simply loose and I just had not noticed it.
I put it back together and keep pedaling albeit with a little less gusto. I stop every now and again to check the crank, but it seems to be holding up ok.
My bicycle is my companion. We work together and keep each other moving. I laugh at myself as I tell her not to worry, that we will make it together and I will push or carry her if need be.
Just as I think we are back on track I hear some rubbing on my back wheel. The zip tie holding the Rohloff shifter cables is broken and the cables are now hanging loose rubbing the tire. I zip tie it back and put a strip of duct tape over it for good measure.
I notice my wheel is a little out of true, which probably caused the rubbing. One spoke is very loose, so I tighten it, make a few adjustments to the other spokes, then keep going.
I drop down into a wash and a large rock flicks up impacting my rim. In the process, it breaks one of my spokes and heavily dents the rim. Fuck. As I sit there, changing the spoke, I can feel the accumulation of fatigue creep back over me. The heat is oppressive and sweat stings my eyes. My elated morning buzz has now dissolved into the sandy wash.
The wheel is slightly bent and out of true and my adjustments do little to improve rotation. I now have significant drag from the lack of proper alignment and wonder if I will in fact have to walk the final miles to the finish. With all these little mishaps the approach to the Canyon takes significantly more time.

As I get into cell service, I wonder if the Grand Canyon Village might have a bike shop that could help make some adjustments to my wheel. My google search yields one result, the Bright Angel Bicycles & Mather Point Cafe. That sounds ideal. I call them and a woman picks up the phone.
“I’m riding the AZT and was wondering if you guys would be able to true a wheel this evening.” I ask, in a scratchy, nearly completely lost voice.
“We can, but we close at 5 and the mechanic usually leaves at 4:30. Let me check if he can stay until 5.” she answers. “Ok, yes he can. Where are you?”
“According to google maps I’m 5.5 miles away. Please don’t leave, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I tell her in a very desperate tone.
“Well, if you’re here by 5, we’ll help you out, otherwise you’re outta luck.”
It is 4:15 and I start sprinting with absolutely everything that I have. 680 miles of riding, 12 hours of sleep, a wonky wheel and here I am, stomping on the pedals in a complete frenzy on the paved, uphill road. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, I repeat over and over. And, somehow, miraculously I pull up to the shop just before 5.
The mechanic is in the back and greets me with a smile. I hand over the bike, tell him the wheels fucked and mumble something about riding for days and needing to hike the canyon tonight.
“Oh wow! That’s cool man! I thought you were gonna be some tourist gumby, who broke a rental pedaling around the rim road.”
The atmosphere is surreal. I am this lunatic, vagabond who just popped out of the woods into Disneyland. The owner of the shop comes out to say hi and as I catch my breath I start to share a few stories from the trail. Everyone is really nice and I feel a huge sense of relief knowing that my bike will get some attention and should carry me to the finish (or we will carry each other I should say).
My wheel cannot really be fixed, but the truing helps and I get a few extra spokes in case I break more on the last section. I grab some food at the cafe, and restock the bike, keeping my supplies pretty lean as I want to minimize the extra weight I carry across the Canyon.  

I reach the South Kaibab trailhead on the South Rim at sunset. I had hoped to reach this point exactly at this time, to hike the Canyon at night and avoid all the people and mules that use the corridor trails.
The rules dictate that you are allowed to have a bicycle in the Canyon as long as the wheels do not roll on the ground, hence the need to carry the bike across.
I have 2 backpack straps that I brought with me from the start, a double length climbing sling, two carabiners and 2 ski ties to rig up my carrying system. I had played around with this in my yard and concluded that I could lock off the wheels with the ski ties, wrap the sling around the frame and attach it to the straps with the carabiners without needing to disassemble anything. The only rearranging I do is place my handlebar bag in the middle of my frame for better weight distribution.
“Alright, this is it,” I exclaim out loud. I shoulder the bike, take a deep breath and drop in.
After about 10 minutes, I realize that my system absolutely sucks. My tires catch on the sidewalls of the narrow trail, making the whole process exceedingly awkward.
I make it down about 3.5 miles to Skeleton Point, where I choose to reconfigure my setup. I remove the front wheel, flip the bike vertically, and attach it to my pack, in conjunction with the extra backpack straps for a bit more comfort.
The load is better balanced and I can now somewhat unweight the bike by lifting it from the fork and bottom bracket. The problem with choosing such a light system is that it is guaranteed to be uncomfortable, due to poor weight distribution and all sorts of pointy bike parts jabbing me in the back. Hiking with an awkward 45 pound load in bike shoes is not that pleasant.

Conceptually, hiking the Grand Canyon, carrying a bicycle after 680 miles of riding is one of the most spectacular finales you could imagine. In practice though, halfway down to the Colorado River, it is physically about as miserable as it gets. I try to feed off the beauty of the night, hiking under the full moon and really appreciate how incredibly magnificent and powerful this experience is. But, shiiiiit! It is soooo bloody hard. I am getting absolutely crushed and beginning to wonder how on earth I will make it up the other side.

It takes me about 4 hours to reach Phantom Ranch. I stop at the first spigot and take long, quenching sips of water. I carried very little water with me from rim as I did not want to weigh myself down anymore- a stupid move of course as I am now severely parched.
Despite the late hour, a guy is out with a blue lamp looking for scorpions. He asks me if I am camping here tonight.
“Nah, I’m hiking to the North Rim.” I tell him with evident false confidence. He wishes me luck as I stumble out of camp, trying to convince myself I can still reach the other side before dawn.
A few miles later, I am confronted to the reality of my situation; I am simply too physically exhausted to keep going. I put the bike down, and sit propping myself up against a trailside boulder. Since I do not have an overnight permit, I am not allowed to camp. But, I reason that sitting in the dirt at 2am, in my bike shorts, without a bivy on the side of the trail does not really qualify as camping.

Two hours later, I wake up in the same position, stiff, cold and still horrendously worked. I pick up the bike and resume a very slow, stumble north.
I could wax poetic about the contrast between pain and beauty, but truthfully I am barely holding on and all of my energy is entirely devoted to simply putting one foot in front of the other. I pass a few trail crews, struggle in the heat, and eventually reach the top of the North Rim.
Eszter Horanyi and her friend are there and snap a few pics, along with a few other folks running the Rim to Rim to Rim. Eszter is Scott Morris’s partner. Scott created the Trackleaders website, which allows people to follow these events with the Spot tracker we carry. Speaking of my Spot, my batteries died and for some reason my spare are also dead, so I am sure people are wondering what I am doing still stuck down in the Canyon.

Photo: Eszter Horanyi

Thankfully, the water at the North Rim is turned on and I will not need to make a 3 mile detour to the visitor center to refill. I do not linger long, only taking the time to reassemble my bike and use the bathroom.
Since there is snow on the rim, the track takes a more direct line to Jacob Lake, which is 41 miles away, mostly downhill on a paved road. This kind of easy terrain is deceiving in that I think that I should (or rather would like), to just immediately be there. But, 41 miles is still 41 miles. With any slight uphill or headwind I am on the verge of completely losing it.
I am so depleted, out of food and struggling to stay awake. I play this little game, allowing myself to close my eyes as I count to 2 in my head- a minute amount of relief, followed by a jolt of adrenaline as I swerve trying to not come off the road. Thankfully, the road is still closed to traffic, so it is just me, alone, snaking my way down the pavement.
I roll into the Inn at Jacob Lake, riding some sort of transcendent wave of delirium.
I buy a twix, a can of pringles, 8 homemade cookies, a BLT sandwich and fries, a coke, iced coffee, a hot coffee and proceed to eat everything at once, sitting at the bar. The waitress looks at me with a mix of shock and fascination. She reminds me that my coffee is getting cold, so I down it between mouthfulls of cookies and fries and ask for a refill. Gone are my inhibitions. I feel as if I am in an alternate reality, certainly the closest I have been to actually being wild.
I hurry out the door, 20 or 30 more miles to go, I do not know exactly. Nothing matters anymore. I pedal as hard as when I was racing to the bike shop yesterday evening. I am so close.

I am blasting north, up and down a few more washes, through the sagebrush, until finally I crest the last hill. Down below, I can see the campground which marks the end of line. The sun is setting, the fiery tint only enhancing the glory of Utah’s red rock. I cannot really express the feeling of these last 3 miles- extraordinary, sensational, no superlatives could do it justice.

My buddy Nico is waiting for me at the bottom with his dog Sol. He has set up his camp stove, and brought steak and beer to celebrate. I am moved beyond words at his generosity and could not imagine a better way to finish this trip.

Photo: Nico Barraza

Photo: Nico Barraza

I learned a lot on this ride, but perhaps the most important lesson for me was exemplified here at the finish. While I spent most of the week alone, I realize that this time of solitary reflection, did not turn me further inwards, but rather pushed my expression outwards to relate more deeply to the people and environment around me. I find that in these moments of vulnerability, our tendency is to repress our emotions, particularly as men, and to only value the physical accomplishment. Yet, the real transformation is one of the mind and how we choose to use what we have learned to grow, to thrive and to be better as people. I hope that as the acuity of the experience wears off, I will still be able to channel that feeling and remain grateful for how wonderful our time on this earth can be.

Drifting in and out of semi-consciousness, I try to make sense of the gentle chimes ringing through my ears. Is this it? Am I dying? No. Of course I am not. The sound is just my alarm, set to the “ripples” tone, nudging my weathered body to get up and going. I tap the screen to snooze and wait another 10 minutes. Damn. This is actually worse than yesterday waking up in the ditch.
I can philosophize all day about how this is an elective endeavor, and how privileged I am to be able to take on these adventures. The truth though is that at 4am, freezing and exhausted, confronted to myself, I do not feel that serene. This is just plain fucking hard.
Slowly, I get moving again. The sun rises (thank god for the sun!) and I begin to ease into the day. Within a few hours, I wonder why I was holding on to all that angst.
Most of us have a self-preservation mechanism that allows us to forget difficult moments, or at least the intensity of those feelings, and only remember the positives. That is one of the main reasons I am able to keep doing long, trying events as I simply erase the bad thoughts from my mind and only hold on to the positive highlights.
Typically though, this process takes at at least a few weeks, not a few hours! Maybe my highs and lows are just synced to the rhythm of the desert, with the ups and downs as extreme as the contrasts in environment and weather.
The track transitions away from the dirt road and back onto tight, overgrown singletrack. I am moving slowly, but no longer frustrated. Knowing the Highline trail is up ahead, and how choppy it is, I need to prepare myself for a long slog to the Mogollon Rim.
I arrive in Pine and stop at the first gas station. I microwave two hot pockets and sip a cup of weak coffee while waiting for them to cook. I take a bite and am immediately reminded of Jim Gaffigan’s stand up routine. “Will it burn my mouth? It’ll destroy your mouth.” Lava hot on the outside, still frozen on the inside. Great. As a precaution, I restock on toilet paper before leaving the store.
The Highline, while much improved and a great running trail is pretty brutal on a bike. I push a lot, even on some of the downhills. I attempt to ride a more technical section only to go flying over the handlebars. In the process, I break the compression adjustment cap on my fork and my headlight. The fork is now locked rigid which is not great for my worsening wrist. I have been hooking my forearm under my saddle to lift the bike up steep sections as it is painful to grip and lift as I normally would.

I still have a good headlamp strapped to my helmet, but the loss of the handlebar light will slow me down at night and make it harder to stay alert. Since neither issue directly affects me in the moment, I do not dwell on them and keep hiking.
I run into a couple of elder women on horseback. Before passing them, we exchange greetings and comment on the beautiful day. About 10 minutes later, they catch up to me and one of the women says, “C’mon! Shouldn’t you be riding!”
“I’m trying,” is all I can respond, but I think to myself “my steed doesn’t ride itself!”

At Washington Park, the track diverts from the Highline and climbs up to the Mogollon Rim. I had thought this would be more challenging, but the climb is consistent, not super long and mainly in the trees. It reminds me of trails back home in Colorado- direct, steep, making it easier to apply myself compared to the last 20 bumbly miles.

The slow bumble fest resumes pretty rapidly though. I stupidly decide to skip stopping at Mormon Lake in favor of a campground on the trail that supposedly has reliable water. When I reach the campground, I am nearly dry. The small creek running through camp has a weird grey coloration. I notice a forest service truck and a man working maintenance on what seems to be the water supply system. I ask him where the spigot is to refill my water. “It’s out of order and I’m cleaning the system so I wouldn’t recommend drinking from the creek. Sorry.”
Well, shit. That is unfortunate. I have around 30 more miles to go to Flagstaff, on slow terrain. My food supply is also nearly depleted. I had not anticipated the Highline trail taking me so long and underestimated what I would need. I have one Picky Bar, named “Lauren’s Mega Nuts,” which seems appropriate as I will be needing all the help I can get to make it to Flagstaff. I also have some gum. I chew a piece with a tiny bit of water in mouth, a trick to stay faux-hydrated. Adding to the challenge, there seems to be an ever increasing amount of gates to open and close. Gates are a highlight of the AZT. There are literally hundreds of them to open and close along the way. It is fascinating to see all the different styles of gates and closures, some with chains, others with barbed wire, and some with heavy iron deadbolts. Right now, my interest in the gates has given way to frustration as they only further interrupt the already choppy cadence.

About 14 miles from Flagstaff, I can see the San Francisco Peaks. I am a little delirious at this point. My water is gone, as are the mega nuts. I am running on fumes, fueled only by the wonderful comforting thought of all the amenities I am about to encounter.
With 2 miles to go, I run into Nico (taking photos) accompanied by my friend Paul Hamilton. It is so good to see them, although following the rules of the event, we only exchange a few words before they ride off ahead out of sight, sipping their water and smelling like Axe deodorant.
Finally, I reach Flagstaff and head straight to Whole Foods. I spend an unreasonable amount of money on food. It is fresh though – rice, chicken, fruits and veggies. I gorge myself in the parking lot until feeling uncomfortable, and then methodically refill the bike only with high quality foods.
I spend over an hour replenishing my body and gradually start to feel better. Mentally, Flagstaff is a big milestone for me.
Fed and rehydrated, I am now heading into the high country amidst the cool air and pines. My attitude is transformed and I pedal out of town at sunset completely reinvigorated. I am getting there. I am getting there!

Photo: Nico Barraza 

Photo: Nico Barraza

I can feel a renewed sense of purpose as I pedal up the hill towards the Arizona Snowbowl ski area. My plan is to climb to the highpoint of the trail, which I think is just shy of 9,000ft, then drop down to the valley to bivy in a lower and warmer location.
This section again feels like home and I am so much more comfortable in this environment than the desert. The top of the trail comes faster than I thought. I had heard that the backside heading into the valley is amazing, fast, flowing singletrack. Indeed, the trail is incredible, albeit with a few downed trees and some snow on the upper sections. It is freezing, but I am not nearly as bothered with the cold as the previous night. This is partly due to being better fueled, but also a shift in perspective. There is not much that could upset how content and happy I feel in this moment.
I make it down to the valley and find a near perfect bivy spot on a soft bed of pine needles. It is 2:30am and with 2 hours of sleep I will be getting back on the bike just as the sun is rising. Small details make such a big difference and I now cannot wait to make it to the Grand Canyon tomorrow.