The Long Way Round: Bikepack the Bay 2025

Photos by Mark Hansen and David Reynolds

White’s Hill Fire Road, 10 a.m.

Mark is lying on his back in the bushes like a bug waiting for the boot. His bike is jack-knifed across the trail, a helpful indicator of which line not to take. As I pass, I hear him groaning “I don’t… why would you….” I try to remember the signs of a concussion, but my memory isn’t working at the moment. I manage a weak “You good?” and hear a sullen “Yeah.” This is hour 26. We have 20 miles to go. Threading my wheel between chunks of serpentine, I catch myself wondering, “Why are we here?” To find a story.

Instagram, mid-March

When Mark sent me Christian’s Bikepack the Bay route, I thought, “That looks like fun!” It’s 260 miles with 27,000 feet of climbing; apparently, this is our idea of a good time. It’ll make for a fun couple of days, I think. Ride around the bay, sniffing the wildflowers. But Mark said what we both already knew, the only (un)reasonable conclusion: a single push, fast and light, do or die. Strip away all the comforts, pare it back to sinew and bone, find out what’s left after we empty ourselves out. Maybe there’s a tale worth telling under all of that.

I want this badly for Mark and believe in his chances to win. Fatigued from overtraining, I decide the week before rollout to keep Mark company as he rides through our home turf of the East Bay “until it stops being fun.” Mark remains committed. He needs to be back in Fairfax by noon on Sunday for his family’s Easter brunch. This is where the madness truly takes hold.

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Marin Museum of Bicycling, 8 a.m.

It’s a silver morning in Fairfax. I am on my gravel bike carrying a kilo of homemade carb mix, eight gels, 20 dates, two bottles, a power bank, headlight and headlamp, plus four batteries, a down vest, tights, a first aid kit, and an emergency blanket. Mark has handed me a bag of spaghetti with one meatball, which is tucked into the webbing of my camelbak.

Spirits are high at the starting line: wry jokes about what’s to come, idle banter about set-ups. How do you like those tires? What’s up with those bar extensions? There is a clear division between those who are planning to sleep and those who have committed themselves wholly to the bit. This energy pushes the horizon of my story back. I still plan to stick with Mark, but now I think, “Just how far can I go?” The plot stretches into irresolution.

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East bay dirt, 9:30 a.m.

A clear pack of tryhards has separated itself from those who feel assured of their intrinsic value. We are not racing per se, but no one is letting themselves get dropped, either. We introduce ourselves while climbing Skyline Trail. Bryan is high on fitness from Atlas Mountain Race. Fergus is riding a pink bike with the quiet sophistication of a connoisseur. Sean’s flowing blond hair and flame-printed kit make the rest of us look like country mice. Zach, the USA ultra champ with his aero bars and helmet, is affable but quiet, his mind clearly on the task ahead. He seems to know something we do not.

Mark and I stop for water at Sibley and find ourselves off the back. Suddenly, we are losing the thing that’s not a race. Thinking we have been dropped, we charge down East Ridge Trail. I realize how badly I want this, but I wonder idly if mile 20 is too early to be sinking our teeth in this deep. We fly past Zach as if he’s standing still. I wonder again what he knows that we don’t.

Five Canyons Open Space, 11 a.m.

Mark and I have passed everyone, picking up Bryan along the way. The three of us are making purposeful progress, occasional snippets of conversation punctuating the click of gears. The wildflowers are popping purple and orange and blue. I don’t stop to smell them. The banter is flowing like blood through our thighs: hot and salty.

We are in the lead! The exhilaration of this fact is belied by the realization that I may now have to ride the whole route. No way can I abandon when I’m out in front. The story has potentially just gotten a lot longer. Hitting the final East Bay peak at Stonebrae, our descent begins. The only thing that breaks our stride is a pair of teen boys on minibikes terrorizing the levee roads of the shoreline. Rangers are chasing them in a golf cart, shouting ineffectually for them to stop. “These jackoffs,” I think to myself. I am not quite prepared to admit the similarities between us.

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Monte Bello Road, 2 p.m.

The six-mile peninsula climb, salted with pitchy switchbacks, unearths a familiar ache in my legs. This is nothing new; what’s new is that ache announcing itself a third of the way through a ride. Still, Mark is pedaling strongly; his cadence sprightly. He truly is the winner between us. I try not to let this discourage me. I am eating my dates one after the other, draining both of my bottles. “Is there water at the peak?” I ask him. He assures me that there is.

There is no water at the peak. I am not happy with Mark at this moment, but I lack the saliva necessary to lubricate his well-deserved tongue lashing. We ask a passing hiker if she knows of any water. “Not potable,” she replies, “Where did y’all start from?”

“Fairfax”

“Where’s that?”

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Corte de Madera Open Space Preserve, 6 p.m.

We are embraced again by forest, our raw spirits licked by the trails’ healing tongue. Narrow, sinuously curvy, and bedded with redwood duff, they are a welcome break from the talc-like trails of Fremont and the tuner car parade of Skyline Boulevard. We make quick work of these trails. The parts of this journey that are the most enjoyable are over the quickest. It’s the torturous parts that seem to stretch time to frayed cords. With the fog creeping in from the Pacific, I can feel the maw of the night opening. Moss-strung stumps jut from the sides of the trail: the crooked teeth of the land ready to swallow us whole. So begins the long dark.

Half Moon Bay, 10 p.m.

I check TrackLeaders: Zach is still behind us, holding the gap steady. What’s carrying me through this early darkness is the promise of 7-Eleven, that bounty of salt and carbs. But all that’s left open is a single brewery sopping up the dregs of Saturday night. The bartender sells us each a bag of chips and a root beer, expressing no more interest in our breathless tale than she might another patron’s about unclogging a septic tank. For as thrilling and kewl as cycling is when you’re doing it, no one gives a damn. If you’re not doing it, you just don’t get it.

Peninsula, 11:30pm

At sunset, they might call it God’s Trail for the terrific pastel views of the Pacific. But it is 11:30 p.m., and I can’t see shit. With every vertical meter, the trail cedes more civility to the encroaching wilderness until we are pushing our bikes through the stale scent of coyote brush. All I hear are the snapping of twigs, the crumble of scree, and curses, some of them my own. At least there’s no poison oak.

Near the top, we see a sign that says “WARNING: Alien Abductions Reported in this Area.” There are sun-dried bones tied to the post with barbed wire. I blink. The sign does not disappear. Neither Mark nor I acknowledge its existence. A blood moon rises, looming huge against the ridgeline.

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From here, the only place to go is down, scrambling with the bikes on our shoulders. At the bottom lie the tunnels of Devil’s Slide. But of course, we are not going through the tunnels. Instead, we ascend over the ridge, clinging to the cliffside, the void of the night beckoning mere inches away. Mark is determined as ever, showing no signs of flagging as I dismount more frequently to push my bike up the steepest pitches. I consider how I could simply curl up with my emergency blanket under a bush. Instead, I open the TrackLeaders app. Zach’s dot seems stalled on God’s Trail. Under the haze of fatigue glows the golden light of victory; we’re still winning this thing. Funny how a monologue can transmute delusion to truth.

7-Eleven, time unknown

The roller dogs turn slowly, glistening under the buzzing fluorescent lights. An attendant is watching raga videos on his phone when two wraiths appear out of the night. Their eyes are unblinking pits. Clad in Lycra, they move silently through the aisles, reaving a bizarre cornucopia of fuel: Red Bull, beef jerky, Snickers, Italian hoagie, hot chocolate, jugs of water, granola bars. They check out, breathing noisily around mouthfuls of fat and sugar. Then they are gone, back into the fog. The dogs roll inexorably through the night.

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Sunset Dunes, 5 a.m.

Zach’s gaining on us. TrackLeaders, unreliable as always, shows Zach’s dot between Mark and me. I look around, expecting him to be there. In the distance, I see a pair of stacked beams and know it can be only one person, one man crazed enough to be out here at the same grave hour. This must be what it’s like for those teenagers in slasher films, knowing no matter how fast you run he’s still coming. His pace deadly in its deliberate intent.

Miwok Trail, 7 a.m.

Zach’s headlights have been slowly gaining for hours, piercing the night’s blackness as the first hints of blue tint the sky. I tell Mark he should go on without me, save himself while he can. But the pact is made: we began together, and we will meet our end together, whether at the finish line or in a ditch. Now, Zach is close enough for us to hear his breathing.

Zach pulls alongside us, the night’s specter now flesh again. “Wasn’t sure I’d see you guys again,” he says, as though remarking on a sweater returned by an ex. We chat a few minutes about the night’s trevails before he pulls ahead. Then five feet becomes 50 yards becomes the gap between god and men. I have some inkling now of what Zach knew all along.

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Bolinas Ridge, 9 a.m.

Our story has become mud. Thick, slick, gritty, and everywhere. Nevertheless, I am descending quickly. Not out of confidence or even competitive vigor. I am shooting down the slopes because I want so badly for this to be over. We have passed the last chance to bail to Fairfax and are now riding on a northerly loop away from Mark’s family, away from soft lawns and deviled eggs.

We pass through a gate into cattle pasture. What’s worse than mud? Manure. On the trail, in my cleats, on my arms. I close my mouth and do my best to breathe through my nose. The cattle turn their deep black eyes to wonder at us, as uncomprehending as the hikers, bartenders, and cashiers along the course. Their hardened hoof prints rattle my bones, my wrists aching with every jolt. The trail is merely a suggestion, so I ride in the grass. It is better, until my front wheel slides out and I’m thrown sidelong within inches of a particularly voluminous patty.

White’s Hill Fire Road, 10:30 a.m.

We’re back to where we started. Almost. The jagged rocks thrust like brass knuckle from the cracked earth. We are both losing dexterity, wobbling both uphill and down. I suck down the last of my water, thinking at least I’m lighter now. The blazing sun dries us to a crust of salt. At this point we have gnawed away the flesh of adventure. There’s nothing left but raw gristle clinging to the bones of our will.

We are so gripped that even Mark’s crash can’t stop us. We don’t have the energy left even for self-pity. I have worn all the way through my rear brake pad, my rotors venting the raw animal shriek of metal on metal. Mark could leave me here, and I almost wish he would. But he stays, waiting for me as I hobble down the bankings and over the logs of Tamorancho, high school mountain bikers swooping past. Every freewheel makes my heart race, knowing that other racers are still behind us.

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Fairfax, 11:30 a.m.

We wait patiently at the stoplight on Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, the Marin Museum of Bicycling mere yards away. A couple with a stroller and a pair of iced coffees saunter by, their skin clear and smiles wide. When the light changes, we roll into the same parking lot we left from nearly 29 hours ago. No one is there to greet us. No finish line tape, no judges’ table, no podium. We share a gingerly hug, bow-legged and shaking. In the end, it is just us and our story.

Grandma’s house, 1 p.m.

I am sitting in a deck chair, freshly showered, sipping a Coke, eating honey ham and egg bites. Mark’s family laughs every time we stand or sit, mimicking the glacial groans elicited by even the smallest movement. His mother reminds her 33-year-old son that they’ve hidden plenty of Easter eggs, not seeming to comprehend that bending at the waist to collect them would be a task so heroic as to break us. They listen in amusement to our story, understanding its contours without appreciating its depth.

See more from the event via the Bikepack the Bay Instagram account.

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