I can still remember my first mountain bike race. I was 13 years old. The race was the Dragon’s Breath mountain bike race in Middleburg, Virginia. 1996. I can sort of remember the course. It was an 5ish mile loop (3 laps) at the Notre Dame Academy composed entirely of East Coast single track. Rocks, roots, loam and climbs were in abundance. I can’t remember how I finished, and the internet doesn’t seem to remember 1996 either. But I do remember the feeling, a sense of accomplishment and an overwhelming euphoria. I’ve been hooked ever since.

Fast forward 13 years. Yesterday I had my first mountain bike race, at least it felt that way. I woke up at 5 am, grabbed a quick shower, and went to load the car up. It was 25 degrees when I got outside. As I drove to my friend and fellow single speeder Andrew’s house I tried to pump myself up. 4 hours of driving, a race and 4 more hours of driving were in front of me. We got on the road pretty fast and we were making good time to the race, that is, until we hit the snow. It must have dumped 5 inches in central Utah, and it looked as though a plow hadn’t seen most of the roads in days. An overwhelming sense of dread overcame us, what if it had snowed in St. George? We’d be driving 8 hours for nothing. But as we descended out of the mountains into the red rock desert we saw that our fears were unfounded. The temperature warmed to a cool 45 degrees and there wasn’t a snow flake to be seen.

The size of the event was impressive. I’ve been to some big bike races, and I honestly expected the first race of the series to have a low turnout. As we crested the ridge onto BLM land we saw the sea of cars and tents sprawled across the desert floor. This was going to be a good time.

They don’t call it the “Red Rock Desert Rampage” for nothing.