Singletrack/MTB
Gravel/All-road
Dirt-road Touring
Fat-bike
Is it careless to bring your 13-year-old son on the Arizona Trail Race? Richard Rothwell and his son James finished the 800-mile event this year and were the unofficial unsung heroes. Find a post-race reflection and photos by Richard here…
Words and photos by Richard Rothwell
Coming from the north of England, the environment of Arizona could not have been more alien. At home, we desperately try to avoid and deal with excess water. In Arizona, finding water becomes a preoccupation. In my home in Northumberland, staying warm is often an essential aspect of being able to move forward. In the desert, overheating is a risk you frequently counter, except when you are on the verge of hypothermia, of course.
What surprised us the most about the Arizona Trail Race 800 was the contrasts we faced, and often, our challenge was dealing with them. I say us because I recently completed the AZT800 with my 13-year-old son, James. Being responsible for another person in such a hostile environment is incredibly rewarding, and dealing with the extremes of Arizona was something we enjoyed facing head-on together. However, it also brought its challenges. The unknown can be intimidating and exciting, resulting in some internal struggles that are sometimes overwhelming. On a number of occasions, I asked myself whether this was over the line of responsible parenting.
We have completed several hard mountain bike routes together, including the Highland Trail 550 when James was 11, the Lakeland 200, and others. He showed resilience, skill, and determination beyond his years. While we’ve had our moments on these rides, I could quickly calm any anxiety because I have intimate knowledge of these routes. Resupply and shelter were always a known quantity. The AZT was different. In many ways, it was a big step into the void. Perhaps naively, this realization only truly hit me when we were on the trail.
The UK summer was particularly cold and wet this year. The heat hit hard when we arrived in Phoenix, as did the jet lag. Our first few days were spent dozing in dark motel rooms, eating, resting, and tinkering with bikes. Once the dawn chill left the air and the race was underway, the heat of the Canelo Hills quickly revealed its intensity. The arid environment hits your body completely differently from places with higher humidity. I experienced this in Colorado several years ago, and I was ready for it this time. Forget the weight; fill everything with water. James had proven his ability to deal with desert-like conditions on the Turkish Cappadocia Delight bikepacking route this summer, but the isolation of Arizona gave a distinctive dimension.
Coming from England, I know that the distances and remoteness in America require a different mindset. Compounded by the often very slow and rough ground of the AZT, my perceptions of progress became skewed. Calculations were constantly being recalculated. And there were so many unknowns. How could you know when you would be anywhere if you didn’t know what the trail would put in your way?
There is only so much desk research that you can do before you undertake a route of this length. There are the local nuances: This resupply or that? What are the opening times? Have I identified the key places? On two occasions, we rode for three days without resupplying. Some shops kept fairly limited opening hours, and, more than once, we felt the sinking feeling of facing straight-up peanut butter for dinner. James never complained. He kept me honest.
We also learned on the trail. Previously unaware of Jake’s Corner, we happened upon the roadhouse late afternoon, having resigned ourselves to another meal of peanut butter and fig rolls before bed. The bar could not have been more accommodating, and as we devoured a burger, we felt like we were winning. It was chance.
We were running on chance and random encounters. While sometimes unnerving, this, for me, is the magic of bikepacking unknown routes. AZT is this magnified, and my son and I loved the rollercoaster ride. In my experience, the lack of shelter is a key difference between America, the UK, and Europe. At home, we are spoilt with derelict buildings, refuges, and, of course, the amazing bothy network. There is always somewhere to hide if the weather turns bad. In Arizona, not so.
Chance nearly undid us on the approach to Mormon Lake. Out of the warm south, the weather had turned, and the winter was quickly gathering momentum. As the afternoon wore on, the tell-tale milky sky of a weather front was building. The thickening cloud eventually blew up within a few miles of the town. The rain was monsoon-like and freezing, and the ground quickly flooded. We got extremely cold and wet, and it happened very quickly. This was more Scottish than Scotland. Unlike Scotland, though, there was nowhere to hide. We were lucky to be within striking distance of the town.
Sometimes, the responsible parent in me was questioning the alter-ego; the bikepacking adult who occasionally roles the dice when only in charge of themselves. But we were here, now, enjoying the adventure of a lifetime together. If I even hinted to James that completion was questionable, I’d get short thrift back. This single-mindedness often caught me off guard. Maybe he’s tougher than me?
The contrasts in the route couldn’t be starker now. The late afternoon air felt icy, and the nighttime temperatures demanded respect. The great expanse between Flagstaff and Tusayan was not possible in one go, so sleeping in the open, in the plummeting temperatures, was unavoidable. At 14°F, it was well beyond the comfort limit of our kit and was one of the most uncomfortable nights we’ve ever endured. We were both stretched to our limits, but nothing surprised us any longer.
Only the Grand Canyon remained as a major obstacle. Overwhelming in its majesty, it was intimidating as a massive physical challenge that stretched out in front of us. We knew it would hurt, and it did. Once again, my responsible parenting line was nudged up against. It was down to him. I could not help. I could not carry his bike, and we were both at our physical limits. To my amazement and relief, he kept inching forward.
We crawled out the north rim, stunned by what we had experienced and endured. Little stood between us and the Utah state line. Snow fell in a calming silence. The adrenaline was subsiding. We began processing what we had seen and done. The end came, as it does on these rides, in a wonderfully quiet and anticlimactic fashion. Even now, weeks later, we are still remembering incredible moments and feelings that had been buried in the depth of the experience.
Was James ready for this at 13? Yes, he was. He did it. He loved it, the highs and the lows. I don’t think anyone finishes the AZT800 and says, “That was easy. I knew I’d get through.” Did I still feel like the parent looking after my child? Of course. But the sliding scale from passenger to decision-maker and driving force was shifting. When can he do these things on his own? With this kind of exposure from an early age, I don’t think it will be long. The AZT800 is a journey of personal growth and accelerated learning for any age.
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