Hoodoo 500 Voyager

The weeks leading up to this race were weird. About a month before, I’d done a self supported double century with a fair amount of climbing, and while 200 mi is a lot less than the race’s 530, I felt well prepared enough. Then I planned to take a little time off riding to Paul after his shoulder surgery. That turned into a lot of time off, as I had some allergic reaction to something yet to be identified that covered me in hives, and I didn’t want to do long rides covered in hives. They finally subsided in the week leading up to the race, but that 200 mi one a month previously turned out to be my last ride before the race.

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Paul and I got to St George the day before the race. I’d double checked all my gear to ensure I didn’t have a repeat of last year where I’d forgotten my shoes for the 508. It was hot. The outside temperature read 110, and my phone alerted about an extreme heat advisory. It wasn’t smoky, though, and, aside from the heat, there was no rain or other particularly challenging weather forecast.

The race starts at around 2500 ft, at 5am, then climbs from there. So I expected the heat to be somewhat less during the race, either due to time of day or elevation.

As I checked in, the race organizers and staff were excited to see me and remembered the race 2 years ago when I was the only finisher. This year, the only other person signed up to race Voyager (500 miles without support) had dropped out last minute. So I would be the only one in that field. I would be starting with the Nomad racers (300 miles unsupported) and we shared the first 130 miles of the course, so there would be a few others out there with me.

We started at 5am. Last time, I’d started in a wind jacket, but no other warm gear. This time I was in short sleeves and dressed for hotter weather. It had cooled off to the high 70s by then, which might be good as we dipped into a few cooler valleys that should hopefully be less chilly. But it might be an indicator of just how hot the upcoming weather would be.

The little group of Nomads and I stuck together for the first several miles of the race, gradually spreading out and losing sight of each other by the time we got to Hurricane. One of them had raced the 300 before with support, and the others were asking him how cold it really got on the last mountain, descending from over 10,000 ft up. I remembered it not being too bad - it only got into the low 40s. A bit chilly, but nothing that arm warmers and a wind jacket wouldn’t repel. The other racer replied that it got cold - really cold - last year. He said that it even dropped into the 50s for a little while. I guess we’re used to different things.

The temperatures dipped and rose in the rolling hills before sunrise. Never quite dipping to the point of uncomfortable, and rising towards but never quite hitting hot. By the time I got to Hurricane, I was alone, with 2 riders in front of me and one behind. The sun was starting to hit the course, and I started the first real climb on the race.

This climb doesn’t really stop. It just slowly peters out from a 6% grade, to 3%, to a continual rise at 1-2% over an additional 30 miles. Somewhere along the way, I stopped and put sunscreen on my arms and legs, which I had somehow forgotten to do when I applied it to my face that morning. The first time I’d raced Hoodoo, there had been a hiccough with my bags at Bicknell (my drop bag didn’t actually make it to the time station), resulting in my not having sunscreen on the second day. I know how much sunburn plus the heat can make a day exhausting, so I’d ridden much of the second day in my arm warmers and leg warmers, with a neck gaiter covering my face. Not the best clothing for hot desert riding. So this time I carried sunscreen with me, just in case. Apparently just in case I forgot to apply it in advance.

On some parts of these rides, there’s beautiful scenery to look at. On some parts, there’s nothing to look at but the numbers on the GPS.

The newer Garmin Edge computers have a screen that identifies climbs on your routes, tells you how far you are from them, and shows the elevation profile as you’re climbing. It’s never perfect, but it seemed to have a particularly hard time identifying information about climbs from this route. It was built to tell you about a 4 mile climb, varying from 3% to 10%, with a clear summit. Not a 50 mile climb that slowly peters out into nothing. So it told me that there was a 2 mile climb at the beginning, and alerted me that I’d hit the summit, while I continued to climb. I gained 1500 ft in elevation without it identifying any additional climbs, but it then did identify a climb of a few miles at an average grade of 2%. The supposed apex of that one did not accompany any identifiable change in the grade of the road, nor anything else.

These false climb descriptions started to get disappointing. It also failed to identify segments that seemed like clear climbs to me, rising at 4-5% for at least a half a mile. The “climbs” it identified felt rather random and unrelated to the route

Paul passed me in his car with another race staff, and they stopped briefly to take pictures. Ahead, one of the Nomad racers stopped with a flat. I gave them a questioning thumbs up, and they said they were ok, so I kept riding.

I passed the border into Arizona and Colorado City, then a couple left turns took the route back into Utah and kept climbing at 1%. The longest false flat.

Finally there was a real summit. Or maybe just a descent. But from there, I coasted down the highway and turned to Orderville, the first time station. It was hot, and I’d been in the sun for a while, but nothing unreasonable. The increase in altitude just barely compensated for the increased heat from the sun.

By the first time station, I could tell by how my legs felt that I hadn’t ridden in a while. But I could also tell that if I didn’t try to go too fast, I would be fine.

I mostly refilled my pockets with food and bottles with water. I had some extra clothes in my drop bag, but it didn’t seem to me like I needed to change into a new kit, and I didn’t want to waste too much time there. I had an extra battery in there too, because of the mixup with bags last year, but didn’t need it. I was making alright time given the heat, and at this pace could easily beat my time from last year of nearly 48 hours. I hoped to get in under 40, which would be possible if I kept this pace, but I was unsure whether or not that would be possible with the growing heat later in the day, and the two largest climbs later in the course.

The section from here until Escalante is the most beautiful. It goes near Bryce Canyon, Grand Staircase Escalante, and a host of smaller displays of grandeur. Deep red rocks, towering formations, and breathtaking skylines. And sun. This part was hot. Up into the 100s hot, though, not 110s. There’s a gas station part way through this section that is one of the time stations, and a good place to get water, so I wasn’t worried too much about the heat and hydration. I just had to get to Escalante, then it would cool off.

This section is long and hot, but to me it’s one of the easier sections to ride. Having constantly changing and interesting scenery makes it easy to look forward to the next thing that will be just around the corner. This section had several climbs, many of which Garmin did not correctly identify, but I wasn’t watching the screen. The towers near Bryce led to more red rocks before we switched to riding on a bike path next to the road, with a (likely artificial) arch decorating a path on the other side of the road. This was a bumpy path, but not too long until we got to the gas station to refill water, then a long and gentle descent to the climb into Grand Staircase Escalante.

I wondered as I was going through it - what is the staircase? Previously I’d assumed it was a single rock formation, but maybe it was the layered mesas or plateaus that came one after another, going off into the distance.

Last year I’d gotten to Escalante by the afternoon, and left just as it was getting dark. But last year it wasn’t so hot. As I began the last climb before Escalante, I noted that I couldn’t possibly get there in the afternoon, but I had enough extra time that it would be fine. The sun started to sink towards the horizon, but the air held its heat. Twilight hit just over the crest of the climb.

The rest of the way to Escalante was all downhill. I coasted, rather slower than if I’d been pedaling, because it was still hot and I didn’t think the couple minutes I could save would be worth it. Suddenly the air turned cold, and I started thinking about how long I’d be able to ride in cold weather before I got chilled, if I didn’t put on a jacket. If I had 20 minutes left and I would get chilled in 10, I should stop. But it wasn’t that cold yet. Maybe it would stop getting colder. Maybe it would get really cold and I should stop. I stopped and put on a jacket. It got hot again.

Putting on and taking off a jacket is rather an ordeal, because I’m also wearing a camelbak and a reflective vest. So I can awkwardly put the jacket over everything, and lose the benefit of the reflective vest (though my jacket also has some reflective material in it), or take off the camelbak and vest, put on the jacket, then put it all back on again. If I do the latter, it’s more comfortable to ride in, but it’s much more difficult to take off again.

I rode through a couple more pockets of cold air, then into the heat again for the final few minutes into Escalante. I met the people staffing the time station - they were in t-shirts and shorts, and I was wearing a jacket in the hot night air.

They let me into the hotel room - this time only for me, since no other Voyagers were there to share it with. It was solidly night outside, and I knew I had to rest a little before the next section, following a long and dark climb through the night.

Tomorrow was also supposed to be hot. Maybe hotter? The first time I’d raced this, the second day was much worse for heat. I don’t think it was actually hotter, it was just completely exposed and very tedious, with less access to water. I knew I had enough water this time, but the long slog through the flat, straight, unchanging desert still felt ominous.

I wanted to knock as much of the ride out at night as possible. Then maybe the long flat straight section would be partially in cooler morning weather.

I took a quick shower to wash off the salt and some of the sunscreen. I laid down for a quick nap. Half an hour on the timer. Other times I’d stopped and slept for closer to an hour, but the night time was limited and the sun was unforgiving once it rose. I responded to a couple messages from friends watching the race.

My alarm went off. I put on a clean kit and refilled my pockets and bags with food. I put on my leg warmers and a jacket, but left my arm warmers in my pocket - it didn’t seem that cold yet. I stepped out of the room. It was hot.

A few miles out of the town, the climb started. There were a few other racers with support crews on the road, but most of the racers had already passed me. Garmin did actually identify this climb, going from just over 5000 ft to about 9500 over 28 miles. A few miles into the climb, I was overheating and tired. Unzipping my jacket only kind of helped. I resigned myself to climb slowly, because I still had time, and no matter what, I’d eventually get to the top.

It was dark. It was hot. And I was starting to feel sleepy. I had meant to put gels with caffeine in them in my drop bags (which is a bit hit or miss for me - sometimes caffeine helps, sometimes it doesn’t), but couldn’t find them as I was packing.

Biking while sleepy is like driving while sleepy. You really shouldn’t, because you might crash if you let your eyes close. So I pulled over into a turnout and sat on the side of the turnout for a few minutes to try to clear the sleepiness. Then I got back on the bike and kept going. And started to feel sleepy again.

I looked for another turnout, and one eventually appeared. It felt further than it actually was, as I’d only gotten a few miles from where I last pulled over. It would probably help more to actually close my eyes for a little bit instead of just sitting on the side of the road trying to not be sleepy. I lay my bike down, and took of my camelbak and used it as a pillow as I lay down on the side of the turnout. The camelbak made for a surprisingly comfortable pillow.

It was dark and starry. I set an alarm on my phone for 10 minutes and fell asleep instantly. And the alarm went off.

My eyes didn’t feel heavy anymore, so I got back on my bike and continued on until I started to feel sleepy again. How long had it been? It hadn’t been that long. But there also weren’t any more turnouts here. I figured I’d push myself a little longer to try to find a turnout if possible, and if it got to the point where I needed to stop, I’d just step off to the side of the road.

There were no turnouts. But the side of the road was grassy, and I could set my bike down and lie there to take a break. I wasn’t actually physically tired (though I was still too hot), I was just sleepy.

Time for 10 minutes. Snooze for 5 more minutes. Back on the bike.

I don’t know how many times I repeated this. It can’t have been that many, but I certainly wasn’t keeping count. I did note, though, that I was losing 10-30 minutes every mile or few miles to needing to stop, and it was killing my time. I just needed to get to the top, then coast down the other side of the mountain into Bicknell.

The grass on the side of the road gave way to sagebrush. You can’t lie down on sagebrush. And finally, around 4am, it started to cool off. I looked for somewhere to pull over to rest again, and there was nothing. I think I found one last turnout to sit in, and finally cooled off and started to get a little chilly while resting there. I realized at that point that if it got any colder and I stopped again, I would get too cold. So I would have to keep riding.

I should have stopped for longer earlier. Really, I should have just stayed in the hotel another half hour. If I had a support car, I could stop here and take a longer nap. Leaving a half hour earlier did not get me a half hour ahead on the course.

Slowly, I crept up the rest of the mountain. When I hit the summit it was dark, so there was nothing to see. I’ve only ever been there in the dark, but another racer told me that even in the light there’s nothing to see. Just the small summit sign. So I began the descent, and the sun started to feel its way over the horizon.

The air was decidedly chilly here. Not quite cold, but you don’t want to ride through it too fast, because it will strip your body heat right off you. I coasted down the road and stopped a few times to warm up. It got lighter.

As I was descending, I encountered a temporary stoplight, with a sign next to it, saying all traffic must stop there and wait for a vehicle to lead them. I stopped. It was just after 5am, and there was no one else on the road. The road curved to the left, and I couldn’t see any construction up ahead, but the sign did say to wait. Actually, up ahead, I could see some cows. That was the only other thing on the road. I stood there for a while. Maybe I didn’t have to wait because it was early in the morning and no one was doing road work yet? But I didn’t want it to turn to a single lane and have traffic going the other way. Maybe this decision was only difficult because I was tired. Maybe I should just go.

A truck honked its horn. I was just about to continue past the stoplight, and a truck honked again. The cows looked up without interest. It honked again and the cows unhurriedly wandered off the road, clearing the way. The woman driving the truck pulled aside, and another vehicle drove past her. She rolled down the window and thanked me for waiting, and told me to follow her, and that there probably weren’t any construction vehicles on the road yet, but there might be towards the end of the section under construction.

I followed her down part of the mountain. There didn’t appear to be construction anywhere, though there were a few vehicles off to the side. We reached the end of that section, and she pulled over and waved me on. We were in daylight.

It had warmed up enough again that I wasn’t concerned about getting cold if I stopped. I pulled over and walked off the side of the road to some rocks that looked the right size to sit on. The climb up the mountain had taken way too much time. When I left Escalante, I was pretty sure I could make it in about 40 hrs, if I kept up a reasonable, not even fast, pace. Now, if I averaged 13 mph, including stops, I’d barely make it by the cutoff at 50 hrs. I can ride faster than that, but I knew I’d need to stop at Bicknell and Panguitch for a while, and that would make keeping that average pace pretty difficult.

Well. At least it was pretty here. That climb had been agonizingly slow, but there was nothing I could do about it. I may or may not be able to make it by the cutoff at this point. Maybe I should just enjoy as much of the rest of the ride as I can, and not worry about the cutoff, and not worry about making it to any specific point. The reason I was here was because I wanted to ride here, not because I needed to get a specific finish time, right?

I texted Paul that I was probably going to DNF at Bicknell, the next time station. Not because it was anywhere near the cutoff time, but because it seemed possible that I would be leaving there at a time that made it impossible to make the cutoff at the finish line. He responded to hang in there. And that maybe the sun would help. The unforgiving sun.

I rolled into Bicknell much later than I’d hoped. The first time I did Hoodoo, I got to Bicknell in the middle of the night, and left before dawn. Now, it was after 9 when I rolled in. I met the time station staff, and went into the hotel room. I didn’t see any point in rushing - either I’d have enough time to make it, or I wouldn’t. 15 minutes either way wouldn’t make the difference in that. I took a shower and a nap. I took off my warm clothes, which were already much too warm to be riding in. I repacked everything. I got back on the road by 11am. Cutoff at 7am at the finish line. 260 more miles, and 1 really big climb left. That seemed unlikely at best.

There’s a little climb out of Bicknell, then a little descent, then it gets flat. Very flat. You ride for 25 miles on one straight, long road through stunted sage brush, dry tufts of grass, and sand. There is no shade, there are no turns, there is no shoulder. There’s nowhere to step off the side of the road, and nothing to distinguish this mile from the previous mile or the next mile. There is no landmark ahead that you are approaching, and there is no scenery on either side to pass. It is hot and empty. The land is as wide as the sky, and there is no hint of any distinguishing feature to justify this spot being reasonable to stop at.

Somehow these 25 miles are worse than 25 miles up a mountain. I went through one water bottle. I ate some sweet things and some salty things. I went through a substantial amount of water in my camelbak. I kept looking for a place to pull over to stop for a minute, but there was none. The road went on.

It’s impossible to tell distance or time on this road if you aren’t watching your computer. This road has been going on forever and will go on forever. The grass here is the same grass you just passed. The sun still beats on you and makes everything take a little extra effort, and drains a little extra motivation. There are no cars. Just sand and grass and sagebrush.

This section seemed longer than the climb up the mountain before Bicknell. I suspect it was substantially shorter, though, and I just remember it better. The tedium and the heat leave an impression. Eventually, the road tees into another one that you follow to the right, which tees into a highway that you follow to the left. The monotony does end, once you’ve lost all sense of how far you’ve journeyed into it.

Finally, at the highway, there are other things. There are cars. There are occasional trees. There might even be hints of shade. I pulled out my phone and looked at what was on the map ahead. There was the small town of Circleville, then nothing, then Panguitch. I realized I’d done this last year, looking for water, when I was worried about running low.

Circleville has nothing. Or, well, it does have buildings, but none of them appear to be open on Sundays. No gas stations, no convenience stores, nowhere that I could get cold water or a popsicle. I slowed down as I went by the storefronts, but they were all closed on Sundays. Oh well. It was hot. I should keep going.

I rode on. I was not going fast. It was too hot to go fast. Maybe if it was cooler I could go fast. Maybe if I stopped and cooled off I could go a little faster?

I stopped by the side of the road in a paved area that looked like it had something to do with construction, or a road that didn’t go anywhere, or a road that had been closed off and destroyed. I wasn’t that far from Panguitch. But I’d have to maintain a pace over 13 mph to make the cutoff, which would be pretty difficult if not impossible with the huge climb after Panguitch. I’ve done a double century at a faster pace than that, and had a little under 200 miles left, but that double didn’t have a giant mountain in the middle of it. I could probably do a double century with a giant mountain at that pace, assuming it weren’t hot and I wasn’t tired. But here we are. It almost certainly wouldn’t make sense to go past Panguitch. I texted Paul again, saying that I was going to DNF at Panguitch. My phone didn’t have signal, so the text wouldn’t send. Oh well. I could sit there for a long while and try to get a ride back with the time station staff. Or I could ride back from there and just not make the time cutoff. I wasn’t actually all that tired, I was just really hot. If it were less hot, I’d probably have been riding faster and be more tired. But the heat was the limiting factor. I stared at the little things on the ground.

The rest of the way to Panguitch was relatively uneventful. It was dark by the time I got there. The two women staffing the time station were happy to see me, and while I’m sure they would have been encouraging if I’d wanted to go on, they agreed with my choice to DNF there.

Paul also showed up at the timestation. He hadn’t gotten my text (it had never managed to send), but he figured he’d check in with me and see how everything was going. We stayed there a little while. I took a quick shower and washed most of the salt and some of the sunscreen off my skin. There was a Subway across the street, and a froyo place. It wasn’t too late at night, and the signs were still lit up, so I wanted to check them out. I changed into a clean kit, since I had no normal clothes there, and we walked over. I put on a mask as we were walking up to the store, and the man staffing it told me, “We don’t need none of those dang things here.” None too pleased about my mask. We walked into the store, and it was a convenience store with a Subway counter (closed) and a froyo counter (also closed) inside. I wasn’t interested in any of the other gas station type food they had there, so we left.

Back at the timestation, we moved all of my bags into his car and loaded my bike on the rack. We grabbed some food on the way back, and were glad to get to the hotel at the end. The next morning, we stayed for the awards breakfast, then took off towards Colorado.