Coatimundis, Cougars, and Lizzo on the AZT
By Emma Millar
It’s early- too early- and somewhere nearby, a coatimundi is waddling away, its belly swollen with food it scavenged off my bike. I had a lot of food packed- hopefully enough to get me to the first resupply- and the cheeky camp robber had stolen as much as it could, leaving me whatever it couldn’t stuff in its mouth.
It’s the end of October and the start of the Arizona Trail Race 300, and I’m under-trained, under-prepared, and now, thanks to the thieving rodent, under-caloried. My goal is to ride the Arizona Trail (AZT) from the Parker Canyon Lake trailhead to Picketpost Mountain trailhead, 300ish miles north.
The first morning, I anxiously mill around with the other riders before we’re rounded up for a brief talk. I have no idea what’s said- I’m so nervous I can’t think. Before I’m ready, the race starts, we roll out and... I’m off the back.
I joke that it takes me three days to warm up, which is why I’m so sluggish on short bike rides. It’s a joke, but for real. I occasionally get passed by people in jeans. And not, like, fast people ironically wearing jorts (Sarah Sturm). I’d like to pretend that getting immediately dropped by the whole group is part of some plan but really, everyone is just faster than me. Still, I’m prepared for this! I have no illusions about my speed, so I know the group will start ahead- I just hope I’ll pass someone eventually.
It’s a scorching day and I walk every hill in an attempt not to overheat, but I fail. Nine ibuprofens make no dent in my massive headache, so late that night I find a sandy wash to rest my poor, pounding head.
The next morning, my alarm wakes me up to a beautiful, pre-dawn morning. My headache is gone, and a new day is dawning, and... oh, shit- is that a cougar?
It is not. I knew I would do this. I vacillate between elation- “I love riding at night!”- and fear- “I’m gonna get eaten by a lion!” In fact, I only end up seeing birds, the occasional cow, and a deer, all of which scare the crap out of me.
True to form, 36 hours in, I’m finally warmed up! I feel amazing- I’ve never ridden stronger or faster! I can do anything! I ride this high to the base of the Molino climb, where the headlamps from the folks in front of me are so high above me that I mistake them for stars. It’s a grind, dragging my loaded bike up this vertical wall, but I’m still glowing from finally hitting my stride.
The next day I climb Mount Lemmon. Slowly. Earlier mistakes catch up to me- blisters form on my toes, my bike is heavy with too much water, and my hands and wrists are throbbing in pain. Plus, I’ve left the trail and am on the road. Road riding... ugh. I’m passed by everyone and it’s like they’re shot from a rocket while I’m stuck in the mud. Eons later, the road climb is over and I’m back on the AZT. The trail only improves from the top and I ride late into the night, trying to shake off the tedium of the road climb.
I wake up on the side of a dirt road on the morning of the final day energized from my brief rest. My hands and wrists are numb and so painful that I can only sleep on my back, with my hands folded across my chest like a vampire in a coffin. Even then, when I twitch, my hands throb and wake me up.
But this is it! Hand pain or not, I’m going to make it today! It’s only... some number of miles left! Math is elusive, but I’m close! All I have to do is ride over a mountain! I’ll be done by dinner!
18 hours later, the sun has set and I’m still climbing this fucking mountain. Earlier, my bike computer registered 117 °F. I’m out of food and water and this trail is going in circles. Every time I look at the elevation profile, the climbs ahead get bigger. I’m cracked, but without snacks or sleep, I can’t get it together. Another racer’s lights are visible behind me and it’s all that’s keeping me going- I don’t want anyone to see me like this. I sit down to take stock. I’ve got one bite of jerky, no water, but enough battery to start rocking out. Soon, Lizzo and I are harmonizing as we cruise the unending miles to the trailhead. Every little uphill feels monstrous, but I’ll make it.
Three days, 16 hours, and 31 minutes after starting the race, I roll into the parking lot at Picketpost, where my dad greets me with sandwiches. He’s a hero. I eat sandwiches and keep him awake with stories that are only interesting to me.
My hands and wrists were so sore that for the next few nights, I woke up moaning in pain, and my legs and feet swelled so much I didn’t have ankles anymore. Would I do it again? As soon as the numbness in my fingers goes away.
