Modern Bicyclists Retrace an 1897 Route

Day Day One starts at Bif's One Bagels in Flagstaff with sandwiches, introduc-

tions and discussion of our diverse athletic interests. The guides include our mechanic, the ever-patient Jason Dwyer, a motocross rider and current mountain-bike racer; and Paul Beakley, another mountain-bike racer and author of Mountain Bike America: Arizona. Tour leader Bruce Leadbetter is a former mountain-bike racer (and, we'll discover, a phenomenal camp cook).

Peter Noebels, joining us as the Arizona Highways contributing photographer, is a climber and runner.

The women include Melissa Branta, who is a fitness instructor and bodybuilding competitor. Simona Nicholson, an aesthetist (beauty therapist), is a former competitive speed skater and current rollerblade marathoner.

At 52, I'm by far the oldest and the least fit, despite 20 years of long-distance horseback riding and sporadic running. I remind myself, Any good amateur rider can make the ride in from 10 to 12 hours.

The starting point is Forest Service Road 151, an uphill grade just north of town. At 7,500 feet, the elevation is already approximately 5,000 feet higher than Tucson, my home base. Soon after we begin pedaling, breathing becomes a challenge, and I wonder briefly: Just how ignominious is it to "sag" in the first mile of the trip? I drop to the almost lowest gear and reach the top several minutes after the others.

surface improves, and my wheels roll easily through gently sloping grasslands, past dark islands of ponderosa pine trees and Utah junipers. The clouds thicken, and behind us, snowcapped Humphreys Peak blends mistily into the quilted sky. Soon we're back in piñon juniper forest and on the Arizona Trail, an 800-plus-mile-long route-not quite completed-stretching from the border with Utah in the north to the border with Mexico. My tires slither in and out of ruts first dug in 1892 by the Flagstaff-Grand Canyon Stage Route. The coach ran three times a week, pulled by four to six horses and dragging a trailer behind. The $20 ride took about 12 hours The descent through aspen trees with the wind in my ears is well worth the uphill gasps. Brilliant green flashes by, mixed with streaks of black and white trunks. This section, described in 1897 as "a fine forest of pine," was hit by the 1996 Coconino Fire that burned 19,000 acres. Now, aspen seed-lings push through the sandy red dirt, tell-ing the story of succession, while elk tracks crisscross every gap between charred stumps and fallen logs. Blackened trunks stab toward a surprisingly soft gray sky. We abandon the road for a rutted double-track and keep descending until suddenly the landscape opens into Kendrick Park, a wide valley where the van awaits with cold drinks and cookies.

This corner of Arizona is home to more than 600 volcanoes, and we pedal, bumpily, atop their legacy-sharp, loose rocks. The and members of the 1897 Coconino Cycling Club must have hollered in delight when they beat the stage.

We begin a gradual, pulse-raising ascent toward the first night's camp. Just as the conversation turns toward cold beverages, we crest the hill at the Babbitt Ranch and the welcome sight of chairs, coolers and Leadbetter chopping red and green pep-pers for chicken fajitas. We all pitch in to set up tents, then set-tle around the campfire before the sun-set glow fades from the western sky. The smell of burning juniper fills the air, along with laughter and appreciative groans of pleasure at the apple crumb pie.

I revel in the space, light, joviality and knowledge that I've just ridden my bike -off-pavement-for 27.6 miles. Camp is quiet long before 10 P.M.

Day Two

Low clouds turn Day Two's sunrise into a teaser, brilliant streaks fizzling into a gray smear. Leadbetter's dog, Bandito, joins me on a ramble down an old ranch road, perhaps once used by the five Babbitt brothers who came out from Cincinnati to establish the CO Bar Ranch in 1886. Smart businessmen, they diversified into many other enterprises as well, including a mortuary, car dealership and opera house.

A light drizzle falls, and Bandito and I climb the ridge behind the tents. What a bonus-thousands of evening primroses, still open in the mist, carpet the ground, their delicate broad petals a contrast to the dark, spiky basalt rocks.

"Today's an easy ride to the old Moqui Stage Stop-mostly flat ranch roads," Beakley tells us over eggs frittata and hash browns, and we pack the tents and fill water bottles in a leisurely way."The succeeding twenty-five miles leads through a rolling prairie region," reads the Land of Sunshine description. Probably not much has changed since 1897 in the vast open vistas of gray-green sage and occasional herds of well-fed Herefords. One bunch trots across the road in front of us, and we pedal through their dust like twowheeled cowhands. Later, a real cowboy passes by in a pickup, hauling a stock trailer. He looks skeptically at our neon shirts, helmets and shiny bike shorts, then drives on, heading south where Humphreys Peak, smaller now, hangs in the background.

Beakley is correct-the riding is easy. Even with stops to poke around abandoned buildings, we arrive at Moqui by midday, ready for yet another meal.

While the others chat and nap, I explore what few foundations remain of the Moqui rest stop. Perhaps those 1890s passengers also grabbed a quick snooze under the twisted, weathered junipers, enjoying the respite from the dust and jolting wagon while fresh horses were harnessed for the next section of the trip. In 1901, the stagecoach was discontinued when the Grand Canyon Railroad reached Williams.

It seems too early to camp, and we all vote to tackle the singletrack trail to Russell Tank. Ten minutes later, I want a recount.

A single-track is no more than a narrow hiking trail, and negotiating it on two wheels is hard work. Loose dirt and scattered rocks confound my ability to find the right gear at the right time, and I resort to pushing the bike up several hills.

Then the trail surface hardens, the topography eases and I encounter brief, triumphant moments of gear mastery. As usual, Branta and Nicholson are far in front with one guide. I bring up the rear with the other guide, while Noebels, laden down with a waist pack, one camera body, two lenses and five rolls of film, rides easily between the two groups to get pictures.

We arrive at the Russell Tank campground after riding 22.3 miles and select a lovely spot nestled among ponderosa pine trees where elk have left tracks in every section of loose dirt. Campers must pick a site a least a quarter mile away, by law.

The grilled chicken with vegetables tastes fabulous, and sparks from the campfire mingle with the stars and brilliant moon, one night shy of full. The clouds have cleared enough to risk sleeping outside, and again, everyone retires early.

Although the temperature sinks to 40 degrees, I sleep soundly. I wake only once-to the snuffling sound of a large animal very nearby.

Bandito is curled up, snoring, against my knees.

Day Three

I'm awake soon after dawn. An amble along Russell Wash loosens stiff muscles as the early morning sun lights up the cinnamon-colored bark of the pine trees and shoots glowing shafts through the open woods.

During breakfast, Beakley warns, "Today's ride will be short in miles, around 16, but the 16 miles of single-track will feel twice as long." We'll actually cover 20.4 miles.

I'm gratified to find I'm not the only one digging through my bag for pain medica-tion. The others may be younger, fitter and faster than I am, but saddle soreness is an equal-opportunity ailment. Now I know why bikes like mine with no rear suspen-sion are called "hard-tails," and I feel for those 1890s cyclists who lacked gel seat covers and padded shorts.

The trail is challenging, at least for this amateur rider: Logs, rocks, loose gravel and even pinecones all seem determined to sabotage me. Twists and turns keep me guessing (Change front gear? Or back? Weight forward, or off the handlebars?) until I find the feel of picking my route, then going loose over the bumps. Mountain biking is a counterintuitive choreography: A higher speed is often safer as the bike skitters lightly over the tops of the rocks instead of plunging and balking in between. My confidence soars, encouraged by cheers from Beakley.

Then, too cocky, I take an easy turn too fast. The spill, quite spectacular, dumps me on the handlebars. No harm done, though the bruise on my thigh provides bragging rights for a week.

We ride on, and I realize I'm mentally tired from the constant concentration. I have new respect for mountain bikers in general-and even more for the Coconino Cycling Club of the 1890s.

We stop several times for photo opportunities and stunning vistas that now include the Grand Canyon. The Painted Desert lurks to the east in the distant haze, while Vishnu Temple to our north points toward the sky.

Three more hours, and now 70.3 miles from Flagstaff, we arrive triumphantly at Grandview Lookout Tower. The cycling club would spend three days here before pedaling back to Flagstaff, but we celebrate the finish by climbing the 105 steps of the tower. In the far distance to the south is Humphreys Peak, still barely visible.

I stare at all those miles between-and glow with pride.

No sagging for this fifty-something. Al

{highway to humor)}

I have fished most of Arizona's lakes, but my favorite is one where they have dumped some old car bodies to improve the fish habitat. One morning while out on my boat, I had no sooner put my bait over the side when I felt a strong pull on my line, and I knew had a good fish on the other end. However, he had other ideas about coming up. I would reel in

A FISHY TALE { early day arizona

Patience: “What is the cheapest thing you ever saw at a bargain counter?”

Patrice: “A husband waiting for his wife.”

a few feet of line, and he would take them back. This went on for about 15 minutes before I noticed a group of swimmers about 75 yards away. I motioned them over and told them my problem.

One offered to dive down to see if he could help. He stayed about 5 minutes, surfaced and told me I had a gigantic catfish on the line, but he was in one of the car bodies. I asked him why he didn't reach in and pull him out.

He replied, “I tried, but each time I got near him, he rolled the window up on me.”

WILLOUGHBY'S WEST

UNUSUAL PERSPECTIVE

The roadrunner feeds on lizards, snakes, insects and other birds. No wonder it's always running. It's probably looking for a steak and fries.-Linda Perret

A HIKING EXPERIENCE

Our hiking group was in the Seven Springs area when we encountered a group hiking with two llamas. One of the beasts had a couple of aluminum folding chairs strapped to his back, provoking one of our members to dub it the “lawn chair” llama. Another hiker rejoined that the one carrying the lunch had to be the “deli” llama.

LET THERE BE LIGHT

My grandson and I enjoy camping in the hinterlands of Arizona. On one occasion, we happened to pick a rare spot with equally rare climate conditions that were perfect for mosquitoes. They were ferocious. We took refuge early in the tent. After dusk, some fireflies appeared. After a brief respite, my grandson observed: “Look Grandpa, they went back for their flashlights.”

LONELY SPOT

After driving several hours in an extremely desolate section of Arizona, we stopped at the service station at a crossroads.

My wife studied the bleak surroundings and asked the station attendant, “What do you folks do around here for excitement?” “Lady,” he drawled, “around here we don't get excited.”

BUSINESS HITCH

Recently I took my mother to an Indian casino. After losing some money, she remarked to the dealer, “This seems to be a pretty good business. How can I get a casino?” The dealer looked up, grinning. “It's not impossible, but you need a reservation.”

SUNSET JOKES

We asked readers to send us sunset jokes, and here's a sampling of what we received: As a beginning artist, I was looking forward to painting at Sunset Point. I decided to get a head start by mixing my reds, yellows and oranges on my palette, when a fellow tourist told me, “You'll never paint the sunset that way.” Irritated, I snapped back at him, “Do you know a better way?” “You might want to try facing west,” he replied.

The sun sets in the West. My uncle sets wherever there's a free meal.

Years ago my family rented a Winnebago to travel from Ohio to Arizona. All the way there, we told our children of the new and wonderful things they would see: the desert, saguaro cacti, the Grand Canyon and, of course, spectacular Arizona sunsets!

The unencumbered beauty of a sunset was something we rarely saw in our little Ohio town, with trees, power lines and buildings in the way. The children were properly impressed by several sunsets with pink, purple and red colors swirling and blending in the sky, but we didn't know just how impressed until after our return home a few weeks later.

Our 3-year-old ran into the house one evening, breathless with excitement, his eyes wide. “Mom!” he yelled. “Come here, quick!” Outside he pointed to the sky and a rather mild version of a sunset. “Look! That pink stuff we saw in Arizona. It followed us home!”