Escape LA: A Multi-Modal Pilgrimage into the Absurd

Photos by Gregg Dunham and Luis Sanchez

There’s something about fall that gets my brain spinning on big ideas. Ambitious routes, harebrained schemes, and excuses to wander in new places. This year’s grand plan was a multi-modal trip to the West Coast with one main objective: toe the line at Escape LA, a delightfully deranged race stitched together by my friend Gregg Dunham and co-creator Jason Shafer. They’ve been organizing this thing for a few years, and I’d been itching to finally give it a go.

But first, there were some logistics to sort. I needed to get myself to California and line up a dog sitter for my pup, Luna. Thankfully, my brother, his wife, and my dad all live in the Seattle area, which made it an easy excuse to visit family and let Luna run the household for a couple of weeks. With that settled, the rest of the itinerary started taking shape. I loaded up my 4Runner (newly outfitted with a homemade sleeping platform) and hit the road west. The sleep setup worked like a charm. My Whoop gave me some of the highest sleep scores it’s logged in months.

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The drive west turned into a reunion tour. I visited college friends in Denver, crashed in Bend with my Tour Divide buddy Mateo and his partner Olivia, and eventually rolled into Washington feeling surprisingly rested for someone who’d been living out of a trunk. After a week of family time, I was ready to head south for the real adventure.

I convinced my Arkansas roommate, Tom, and an SF-based friend, Benny, to join for part of the journey. The plan: I’d hop on an Amtrak to Sacramento, Tom would fly to San Francisco the same day, and we’d link up at Benny’s place before bikepacking all the way to Santa Barbara. It was a tour disguised as a race warm-up.

The tour was an instant vibe. My friend from SLO, Taylor, had put together a gorgeous coastal route, and the weather played along. Benny peeled off after two days, catching a train north, and then it was just me and Tom cruising through small towns, coastal bluffs, and the occasional trail system toward Santa Barbara. Tom, on his longest tour yet, kept hitting Strava PRs for “biggest climb of his career” three days in a row. He was equal parts surprised and stoked every time. All-time sunsets and sunrises were the theme of the ride. It turned into the kind of easy, sunburned joy you hope for from a warm-up tour.

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Eventually, Tom caught his flight home, and I continued solo toward LA. My first day alone coincided with International Singlespeed Day, which felt cosmically appropriate. I celebrated by spinning 70 miles on flat coastal pavement at 30×20 gearing, basically turning my legs into egg beaters for hours. It was ridiculous and perfect.

Once I connected with the official Escape LA route, the first climb, straight from the coast up toward the Backbone Trail, gave me a tiny, spicy preview of what I’d be dealing with during the race. Just a taste. Enough to make the stomach flutter.

A few days of hotel rest in LA felt luxurious. I slept long and ate real food. Touring to the race start was unintentionally brilliant. I’d already gotten all the meandering, photo-taking energy out of my system. Race day was for business.

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Pre-Race Vibes: Beer, Banter, and Big Sleep

The night before the race, Gregg hosted a little hangout so riders could drink a beer, shake out nerves, and talk themselves into believing the route wouldn’t be that bad. It’s always comforting to be surrounded by fellow weirdos who look at 300 miles of mixed terrain and think, “Yeah, sounds like a nice weekend.”

I ducked out early and aimed for a solid 10+ hours of sleep. Two nights of that back-to-back is the closest thing to doping I’ll ever experience. Highly recommend.

Race Morning: Sun, Smoke, and the Santa Monica Pier

Race morning came quickly. I started the day with a yerba mate, a little pre-race herbal encouragement, and a FaceTime with my lovely mother. She always knows exactly what to say to calm me down and hype me up.

By 8 a.m., the Santa Monica Pier was buzzing with loaded bikes and smiles. Gregg and Jason kept their pre-race speech short and sweet, and then we rolled out as a pack along the beach before cutting into the neighborhoods above Santa Monica. I somehow found myself at the front early. I was worried I’d taken a wrong turn and found myself checking the GPS every 30 seconds out of paranoia, until Kyle and Geoff (the other singlespeeder) caught me right before the first dirt section on Sullivan Ridge. Relief arrived.

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LA’s Wild Urban Traverse

The opening third of the route was chaotic in exactly the way I hoped it would be: shortcuts through alleyways, dirt paths strewn with broken glass, flood channels straight out of an action movie, and pedestrian walkways alongside the interstate. It was messy, surreal, and absolutely hilarious. Sierra Madre marked the last real resupply for 100 miles, so I filled everything to the brim, chatted briefly with a fellow racer, Brian (who was already having Garmin problems), and pointed myself toward the mountains.

Into the San Gabriels: Where Riding Stops and Hiking Begins

Santa Anita Canyon Road served up the first big climb, and the views were instantly worth it. Once I hit dirt, the hike-a-bike began in earnest. The terrain wasn’t crazy steep, but loose, off-camber singletrack with drops to the side is enough to humble anyone. After riding the Colorado Trail this summer, my hiking confidence is pretty dialed, so I leaned in. The push up toward Mt. Wilson Observatory blurred into a long rhythm of clunky footsteps, headlamp glow, and steady elevation gain.

A couple of hours into the night, I heard someone behind me. “Who goes there!?” is my standard nocturnal greeting, and a response came from Brian. His Garmin had fully shit the bed, and he took a detour off-route to snag a brand new one from REI. Somehow, he was already catching me again. The dude was flying. We filtered water together at Tujunga Creek, started the beastly climb up Condor Peak, and then he floated away like a mountain goat. I assumed that was the last I’d see of him until the finish.

Mechanical Meltdown at Dawn

Around 4:30 a.m., as I was pushing my bike up another loose pitch, I noticed my rear tire losing air. No puncture. No visible sealant leak. When I listened closely, the hiss was coming from the valve. My brilliant brain said, “Superglue might fix that!” Spoiler: it did not. A few minutes later, I realized air was also leaking through the spoke holes. Rim tape failure. And now the valve was glued in. GENIUS.

I spent 90 frustrating minutes trying to troubleshoot it before calling my mechanic buddy in Arkansas. He very kindly (and accurately) called me an idiot. His suggestion: stuff the tire with grass. I’d seen it online. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Twenty minutes of grass-gathering and wrestling later, the tire was back on. Right then, David (another racer) hiked up looking fresh from a three-hour nap. He offered help, I shooed him on, and then he disappeared into the sky like a polite ghost. He kindly asked if I was going to be fine before he skedaddled.

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At the time, I assumed I’d have to scratch. But when I finally crested the climb and rolled downhill, the grass-stuffed tire held at nearly 20 miles per hour. I couldn’t believe it. Suddenly, the race was back on.

My new mission was to reach a fire station 20 miles ahead so I could get my hands on some tools and attempt to un-glue the valve. When I finally rolled in, bleary-eyed, a firefighter handed me pliers and got fully invested in the project. When the pliers failed, he suggested bolt cutters. Hell yeah. One clean snip later, the valve was gone, the tube was in, and my wheel was functional again. Absolute hero. He even offered to fill my bottles with ice.

Reset and Reload in Santa Clarita

The ride from the fire station to Santa Clarita felt euphoric. Perfect timing to have a fully functioning bike again. The 10-mile stretch to Santa Clarita was predominantly trail, and it turned out to be some of the most fun descending of the whole race. At the shop, the mechanic immediately cleared his bike stand, retaped my rim, and set me up tubeless once again. He mentioned another rider had just been in for a destroyed chainring. Later, I learned it was Brian. Apparently going so hard that he smacked a rock and took teeth off his ring. Unreal.

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I grabbed a big bag of powdered calories from the shop, inhaled dumplings at the restaurant next door, caught up briefly with Brian, and then headed back out. I had a train to catch after this race, and the timing was tight. I aimed for consistency: around five miles per hour on average to stay on schedule. This pace would allow for a 10 to 12-hour buffer between finishing and hopping on the train for 36 hours.

Evening Miles and Strange Obstacles

As the sun dipped, I settled into a steady rhythm. The trails toward Thousand Oaks were an absolute treat. Flowy, engaging, and broken up with just enough resupply opportunities to keep morale up. Then came the swampy drainage ditch section, a hilarious slip-and-slide of muck and overgrown bushes that felt like a sick obstacle course. I laughed out loud once I was clear of it.

I grabbed a one-hour nap near Simi Valley. It was light and restless but enough to keep the wheels turning. An In-N-Out appeared at midnight, glowing like a beacon, but the drive-through line was monstrous. Gregg had warned me about that trap. He wasted an hour at this exact one last year waiting for a giant crowd of teens. I pedaled on. A 24-hour gas station blessed me with burritos, liquids, and Nerds Gummy Clusters (legit gas). Fuel for the final night!

Sunrise Salvation and Coastal Fog

The sunrise near the top of Los Robles Trail was soul-restoring. Sunrises during races always hit different. Suddenly, the pedals felt lighter, the air felt fresher, and finishing this absurd race felt like it could actually happen.

Descending toward the coast dropped me into a massive fog bank/inversion. Temps cooled dramatically, and the trail riding was easy peasy. A paved bike path gave my brain a break before the route slingshotted me into Hidden Pond Trail, which was basically a briar patch pretending to be a trail. A good bushwhack keeps you honest. Thanks, Gregg and Jason.

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Highway 1 reminded me that California drivers are not the friendliest toward cyclists. I realized on the tour south that while it seems safer to try and take an entire lane, you never know when someone is fully oblivious to what is happening on the road. I’d rather not get struck by a vehicle. I happily detoured onto dirt shoulders whenever possible.

Neptune’s Nest appeared like a greasy mirage. The beer-battered fish and chips were divine. Hot and salty, my first real food since the dumpling feast. Perfect.

The Final 50: Heat, Hike-a-Bike, and a Whole Lot of Heart

Yerba Buena Road carried me from the coast back into the mountains, and as soon as I climbed above the fog, the heat flipped on like a switch. At least I was back in familiar territory; this was the section I had ridden near the end of my tour to LA. The Backbone Trail became a furnace, forcing me to ration water and crawl from shade patch to shade patch. The riding was shockingly hard compared to my pre-race tour. Maybe the lack of sleep, heat, and fatigue finally caught up to me, turning everything into work.

Around one particularly sleepy stretch, I zoned out so completely I’m still not sure if I hiked for minutes with my eyes closed. That’s when I knew it was time for a proper MJ nap. Twenty-three minutes under a couple of bushes transformed me back into a human. With fewer than 50 miles to go, I decided to go all in.

The Backbone terrain reminded me of Arkansas riding—relentless long climbs and descents, just technical enough to force a singlespeeder into hike-a-bike purgatory. But still, I loved it.

Closing Miles: Fog, Brakes, and City Lights

By the time I reached Malibu Creek State Park, adrenaline was kicking hard. Twenty hours earlier, I thought I’d scratched. Now I was closing in on the first singlespeed finish on the route and second place overall. Unreal.

I charged past water stops, climbed Calabasas Peak Motorway, descended Red Rock Road, and punched up the final climb through Tippet Ranch up to Eagle Rock (the final high point of the route). At the top, I could practically smell Santa Monica.

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Mulholland Drive delivered the first real glimpse of city lights, glowing through the night haze. Then the route dropped me onto Sullivan Fire Road, which was the same dirt road we’d climbed some 290 miles earlier—a full-circle moment. I’d been looking forward to this descent all day.

But the universe had some tricks to play on me still. As soon as I started descending, mist rolled in. Glasses plus mist equals blackout mode. I could barely see. I ended up descending with my eyes darting between my GPS and the sliver of dirt road I could make out, feathering my last millimeters of brake pad and praying to every bike deity I know. It was messy and slow but safe.

The neighborhood lights appeared like a promise. I coasted through quiet streets, dropped onto the beach path, and soaked in the final miles of reflection.

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Finish Line Magic

I expected to finish alone, but there was David, the winner, and his partner, waiting with beers, big smiles, and good vibes. They even offered me a place to stay before my marathon train ride north to Seattle the next morning.

The best part? After I showered, they unveiled an assortment of ice creams for me to choose from. The ultimate post-race luxury. Also, David casually turned out to be a multi-time TCR finisher and podium-getter. No big deal.

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Would I Do It Again?

Normally, after a race this hard, I say “never again” with dramatic flair. But Escape LA left a different imprint. The chaos, the beauty, the mechanical madness, the moonlit hike-a-bikes, the people. It all stitched together into something I’m still thinking about.

So yeah. I’ll probably be back. Maybe slower, maybe sleepier, maybe with friends in tow. YOLO, folks.

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