The Hardest Race I’ve Never Raced

The AZT300

It’s currently 11:15 p.m., and I’m still setting up my bike. In just four hours, I’ll be heading to the start line for the 2025 edition of the Arizona Trail Race. Two years ago, in 2022, I was registered to do this race but never made it to the start. At the time, I wrote this article as a reflection on that missed opportunity. Tonight, on the eve of finally taking it on, I’m sharing this story again—this time as I prepare to roll out at sunrise. Reception willing, I’ll be sharing what I see along the way.

SPOILER ALERT! I had everything in place, but I didn’t do the race.

Arizona is home to one of the most amazing trails in the world: the Arizona National Scenic Trail. Traversing our stunning landscapes for 800 miles, from the US-Mexico border through the Grand Canyon to the Arizona-Utah state line, the Arizona Trail (AZT) connects our communities and inspires dreams. For Tucson locals, it offers endless recreational opportunities, starting at the Gabe Zimmerman Trailhead on Marsh Station Road and ending in Oracle.

In 2006, a bikepacking race—like backpacking, only on mountain bikes—on the AZT was born. The Golden Rule of bikepacking races is that riders are self-supported. You can neither ask for nor accept any assistance, including emotional, that isn’t commercially available to every racer. You carry with you everything you may need. This creates a race that is a true test of mental and physical abilities—it tests navigation skills, bike maintenance skills, fueling and hydration, the ability to survive harsh conditions, as well as bike handling and endurance.

I ride my bike a lot. Twelve-plus-hour days in the saddle are my norm. I’ve done more than a few 48-hour rides just for fun. Yet I have never done a single night of supported bikepacking, let alone a multi-day self-supported bikepacking race. To be honest, I haven’t even camped unless it was car camping.

Living here—where the race cuts through the eastern side of Tucson and climbs over the Catalina Mountains—and knowing many riders who have not completed it, the AZT300 (the shorter version) has been on my radar for years. I’ve had good reasons not to do it before: work, lack of funds for gear, spending time with my kids. But this year, the excuses disappeared.

Three months ago I decided, “Let’s get this done!” One thing I know about my body is that there’s never been a point in my life when I couldn’t make my feet take one more pedal or one more step. As long as my feet are moving, I’m moving. So even though I made this decision with less-than-ideal starting fitness, I felt two months would be enough to prepare.

I’m not a fearful person, and I know people with fears who have conquered this event—fears of being alone in the dark, of wild animals, of suffering a serious crash. I’m comfortable taking calculated risks. I don’t think I ever do anything truly crazy or beyond my abilities. For me, attempting a race like this without any experience beyond riding my bike for long hours is a calculated risk. Still, I knew I had no business attempting the AZT300. I have no mechanical skills. I don’t sleep well outside. Technical terrain is a challenge. My training window was short. I didn’t have any equipment beyond my bike, let alone experience using it. Yet once I made the decision, I never questioned my ability to finish. With eight weeks to go before rolling north from the border, I started building—from riding 50 miles a week on The Loop on my road bike to nearly 300 miles in Colorado the week before the race.

Assembling my gear turned out to be one of the hardest challenges. For one, a bike is completely different to ride when it’s loaded. It’s still a bike, but having a 65-pound bike rolling under you (or being pushed up hills by you) is very different from flying along the trails on your 18-pound unloaded bike. Second, I didn’t have time to dial in my gear through trial and error. I didn’t know what I needed or didn’t need—whether something was overkill or would keep me alive on the trail. Still, as the date approached, I was riding features I’d never ridden before and felt good about my fitness for the long, hard days ahead.

Just over two weeks before the race, I took a trip to Grand Junction, Colorado to work out the glitches in my all-new system. The first day on the Kokopelli Trail, I discovered the saddlebag I had wasn’t practical for my bike. I had to find another one. I learned that one of the most important pieces of gear is extra zip ties. I experienced the fear of crashing over a short cliff in the middle of the night and having only myself to rely on to make it back safely. I gained a new understanding of how fatigue can become a real problem. At least my sleeping system worked well, keeping me comfortably warm the one night I camped—in a backyard.

I returned from Colorado ten days before the event with a list of last-minute modifications to make, a renewed sense of determination, and COVID. Still, I was positive I’d recover quickly, test negative by the start, and be on my way to fulfilling a goal 15 years in the making.

SPOILER ALERT: I didn’t. I wasn’t. I continue to dream.

So, what’s the purpose of my story? I wanted to share the journey of going from someone who dreams of doing an event to someone who has done it, even though I haven’t done it yet. Perhaps it’s a cautionary tale about proper preparation. Still, it would have been interesting to see what would’ve happened without COVID, because I definitely would’ve lined up for the race.

For some readers, you may now be dreaming of lining up at the US-Mexico border next fall for the AZT300—or even the 800, which includes carrying your bike and gear across the Grand Canyon. My advice: go for it. For others, maybe you’re dreaming of day hiking parts of the AZT near Tucson. My advice: go for it. We are surrounded by incredible outdoor opportunities that offer challenges for every level. Find your challenge—but perhaps be a bit more prepared than I was.

For me, stay tuned. There’s always next year—or rather, there’s always tomorrow morning.