Komoot Women's Arizona Rally 2024, Part 1

When life gives you Mt. Lemmons, make Mt. Lemmonade because you are probably dehydrated

Group photo, copyright Ashley Gruber

Just a few days after my hike through the woods with my faithful Fargo, he was packed up in a cardboard box and padded with my sleeping bag, tarp, and long johns. We hopped on a plane together to Tucson, Arizona, for our first extensive bike trip together since the Alaska Golden Circle in 2022, and we were both showing and feeling our age. The Fargo has been my winter bike, my commuter, my backup bike. We've done a weekend tour across Yellowstone and a few days pushing to the Rattlesnake boundary with Bruce, plus plenty of burritopacking overnights in Montana and one in New Mexico, but that's it. Ireland was with the Soma, Idaho and the Missions were with the Wilde. So here I was with Mr. Fargo, curious how this would all go together on the Komoot Women's Arizona Rally 2024 (KWAR2024). I hoped we still had the unbreakable bond we established over the Great Divide.

I met my friend Melinda at the hotel she'd thankfully booked for us and we reassembled our bikes. In Missoula, I had an interesting exchange with the United check-in person, which led to me leaving a note on my box to please tape it once it passed security. At the bottom of the box was the note, with a message written on the back:

Alongside our hotel roommate Hann, we walked our clunky boxes and bags to the home of photojournalist and cyclist Rue Kaladyte and her wife Lael Wilcox, the Guinness-World-Record holder for fastest self-supported circumnavigation by bicycle. They invited us all to store our bike bags and carry-ons in their house if needed. They hosted a pizza party in their garden to kick off the rally. All the attendees got to mingle and make awkward small talk about flights and homelands. Komoot's staff introduced themselves and talked a bit about the ride we were about to embark on; we signed waivers and made sure our trackers were working properly.

first day portrait, copyright Ashley Gruber

We met back up with everyone promptly at 7am to take photos and start the rally. It took the group a long time to leave, due to last minute tracker failures so we didn't head out until 9am, setting us back significantly in our ride planning. I got distracted at the first convenience store stop and didn't realize the peloton was heading out until it was trailing out of site, solidifying my placement in the back with the other snackers.

new friends chat at the first snack stop; copyright Ashley Gruber

From there, the road turned to dirt and kicked up the first of many tough climbs. We were prepped that the first two days were the toughest on the route, and some cyclists walked a good chunk of this first major climb, preserving their legs and gear. As I rode along, I came across Sarah A., who was having bag rubbing issues. I've ruined enough gear to understand the frustration when a tested setup doesn't work after miles of rocks and washboard roads. We did some troubleshooting and rode together, eventually gathering a small posse from around the world.

That first day was infinite. One of our riders, Sarah J., only got two hours sleep due to her bike being momentarily lost by the airline. She spent the night building and packing while the rest of us slept; exhaustion replaced the sunlight. I had menstrual cramps and all that comes with them, despite my period briefly visiting the week prior while disoriented on the mountain.

We reached the momentary end of the dirt road, and my posse stopped to regroup. We had a choice. We had ridden 50 miles so far and there is still some daylight left, we can grab a good camp spot on BLM land while we can see it. The next stop was San Manuel in ten miles, where there were amenities but no camping; the next camp area was about 5 miles past that, once the road turned back to dirt, where the challenging Arizona Trail crossed; after that, there was another campground in another 5 or so miles but they looked steep and it would be dark. After some deliberation, the consensus was to push on to the AZT campsite, mainly because people craved french fries and Coca Cola.

The road to San Manuel was paved, but the sun set quickly and energy was sucked away from a good number of us. Three of us rode ahead while two others walked up the long, silent hill. They bonked, and unfortunately there was no choice except forward. I was hungry, grumpy, and wanted to ride. I wanted to cook my food and not keep spending money when I had a huge bag of meals with me. But the group was right, we needed to stop. And really, I liked them. Between the choices — ride alone toward an arbitrary goal set as a group with with the cheap demon inside me who wanted to spend nothing OR sit down for a spell to charge my phone, eat some french fries, and rest my legs with four friends who were keeping me company despite being hangry — obviously the choice was to hang out in San Manuel until everyone was feeling better, even if I had a strong feeling that no one would be feeling better enough to ride. It's hard to come back from a bonk, and fried food in the dark is a strong signal to our bodies that the day is finally, thankfully, over.

Sarah J and Celeste at Mel's Diner, San Manuel, AZ. Photo by Ashley Gruber.

Sarah A. asked one of the waitstaff of Mel's Diner if possibly, potentially, hypothetically could we theoretically camp behind their restaurant.

"How many of you are there?"

"Five," Sarah said after a quick headcount.

"Oh! Last year we had a bunch of ladies roll through and we told them they could camp here but it ended up being about twenty of them. Our owner came to work the next morning and almost had a heart attack. She's 91 and had no idea what was going on. But we like having you all, you're nice and you buy stuff and this thing you do sounds really cool. Just five of you? No problem."

Just then, two more riders showed up. They'd been delayed leaving Tucson due to mechanical issues and had a late start. They asked us if we had plans for the night. "Do you think there's anyone else behind you?" Makayla laughed and said no, they were definitely the last. The Komoot women were also hanging out there, uploading some photos and checking in on the riders' trackers. They agreed this was a solid option last year, but by this point our minds were already made up and our bikes were heading into the dark field. I jetted out first, as I wanted to set up, clean myself up, and cook some real dinner. The bathroom at Mel's wasn't working so I booked it down to the Dollar General next door. Their bathroom was also out of order, but I must have looked forlorn because the woman gave me the key anyway, with a bit of a warning in her eye not to make things worse.

The morning grew hot fast. Sarah A. had an early-morning mishap with her stove, which was a great opportunity to explain that the odd smell from mine was from doing the exact same thing. It has nothing to do with experience or being worthy of being in the outdoors. It's only a problem of the order of things, and the impossibility of making coffee before one has coffee. You're likely going to melt the clear plastic cup holding your pot if your eyes can't yet see it and your hands can't yet feel it. We took off in search, without success, for a single working bathroom in San Manuel. We ultimately pushed on to the campground 10 miles up the road, where many of the other cyclists had camped the night before. We were thankful we didn't push that far on the first day and allowed our bodies to acclimate and rest, as the climb to the campground was a grueling end to a long day (it was 60 miles for us and would have been over 70 to make it to the campground, with dirt and climbing, to a campground full of RV campers and a bitter, wet chill held in by the trees).

Little by little, our group peeled apart as we fought our own battles with gravity and willpower. I had a feeling bad cramps were on their way — I wanted to get as far as possible before they hit and I, in turn, hit a wall. It was hot and dusty, with babyhead rocks and loose sand guiding my wheels through the large rocks and deep ruts of the road. Sit-by-sits tooted past while pickups edged safely and slowly by, cheering me on and letting me know I was almost at the top. (Other cyclists later shared this same experience.)

I peeled off the road and dunked my head in a creek. I rinsed my menstrual cup and my undercarriage. I felt good. It was late afternoon and the light in the sky was just starting to shift. I went a bit nuts at Trader Joe's in Tucson while Melinda and I were taking care of last-minute errands. While the extra weight was foolish for a 15-mile, 10,000-foot elevation gain climb, the fat and salt of a cheese stick and some peanut butter pretzels hit the spot. I popped an electrolyte tablet in my bottle and carried on, knowing the hours were no longer on my side, even if my mood was steady. Makayla and Frida, who camped with us behind Mel's leapfrogged me for a while, and I caught up with some other riders once we got to the hike-a-bike sections. It was nice to be alone, and it was nice to have the shared experience even for only a few minutes at a time before we slipped back into our own whirliing universes.

The trees changed and changed again as the road crept into different ecosystems in the changing altitude. At dusk, I reached the secret aid station near the top of the mountain. The evening brought with it a frost, and there was snow at the top of Mt. Lemmon. The other option being to camp alone in the snow, I pushed up and over to find Melinda, who was camped near the base of the mountain with a large group of other riders. The ride down was a thrill, cold but warming as I reentered the desert. The sun set on me, on the road, on Tucson. The city's lights blinked awake and the remaining few vehicles on Lemmon's paved south side were tucked into viewing spots to bear witness.

I had my earbuds in now, despite one of the devices being broken and sending feedback into my bad ear. I listened to the playlist I made for my sweetie this summer — songs about love and trust and freedom, yearning and exploration. I took him on a date to the top of a mountain, around the top of the year when the days stretch almost into the next, the sun never wanting to set. Finicky baby. Like me. I made Banh Mis and a chocolate raspberry torte based on a camping cookbook recipe. I passed an envelope containing a domestic partnership agreement. When a poet loves a software engineer, a big act of love is to think the feelings, to map them like a blueprint. A Scorpio and a Taurus both need a lot of alone time and privacy, but for (seemingly) opposite reasons. The push/pull exists nonetheless, the need to be in community and be alone, to feel and to think, to be free and unencumbered and also to share a love and life together.

Sometimes it's like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dullAnd cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my skullSometimes it's like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dullAnd cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my skull

I sang, and felt and thought, and did a lot of whooping and yelling on my way to the bottom. Hikers walking on nearby singletrack to catch better views of the twinkling city flashed their headlights to the road in surprise as I rode past belting Bruce Springsteen's I'm On Fire into the wind at 38 miles per hour.

Near the bottom of the mountain, I followed the signs for the campsite, removed my earbuds, and listened for the laughter of women. I heard it. Clustered and distant at first, broken apart by tents and RVs, then gathered in a cacophony. The women from the aid station were there with the remaining water and snacks. "You made it! We passed you and you looked so serious on your way down." My face is a jungle. It is a free and wild beast unto herself and I cannot control what she does. But that she was serious was a surprise. In my head, I danced. In my voice, I sang and laughed. My face, it must be, is what paid attention to the turns of the road, the street signs, the few but fast vehicles that neared me on the black road illuminated by our respective lamps.

I'd spent the past three or four hours, maybe more, alone. Now I was here in a campground with around 40 women giddy with adrenaline, exhausted from the day, finishing their dinners. I assembled my tarp and hydrated one of my meals, scarfing down whatever snacks I could manage as my water boiled. In my research for the Food issue of Adventure Cyclist, I acquired a variety of professionally-packaged dehydrated meals and made a number of my own. I have no idea what I ate that night. I do remember, because I had the rest for breakfast, the chocolate "cheesecake" from Backpacker's Pantry that was the most delicious thing I could imagine eating in the moment. I was finally full.

I knew, logically, that it wasn't true but the ache persisted that I was crashing a party (it was a bit past 7 p.m. but the sun had been set for over an hour). Still, the group's kindness overwhelmed my shyness with the help of Melinda's introductions. We swapped stories and bonded over the shared and singular experience we had of two days on rough terrain with former strangers-turned-friends.

I hustled to get caught up with cooking, eating, cleaning, changing, to stop making noise around the tired bodies scattered around me, tents aglow in headlights that turned off one by one. I stashed my food in the bear bin, stepped over a few squirming bivies to my tarp, and finally changed out of my bike shorts and into my sleeping bag. I made it. I was here. With the group. Back in (almost) Tucson. To safety and warmth. But if I were to stick my pin to a map, it would be the spot between solitude and camaraderie, freedom and isolation. Companionship and self-doubt. Slow and strong. It is a tight, warm spot, the shape of water bottle filled with hot water and cradled in my chest. My most comfortable location.

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