SAUER: Sonoran Ultra Endurance Ride - Day 1 - Snowstorm in the Sonoran Desert
Date: March 7, 2025
53.5 Miles
4,137 Feet of Gain
Tucson, AZ to Sleeping Dog RV Ranch outside Sonoita, AZ
As 2025 rolled around a year ago, I set a goal that had been twinkling in my mind for some time: I signed up for a bikepacking ultra. I'm no racer when it comes to bikepacking by any means, but there was something to the promise of a shared group experience along with sure physical challenge that stuck with me. Plus, Janna and I were having a baby in early June which would change the calculus of our free time as late-term pregnancy and newborn responsibilities surged. The goal became to try one out, preferably locally, and lined up with my time off. Right around winter break 2024, I spied an Instagram post by Dexter Kopas about the SonorAn Ultra Endurance Ride (SAUER) that he and Henley Philips planned on co-hosting mid-March. I cross-checked the dates and it landed smack on day one of my spring break - it couldn't be better timing. And the route traveled on majority dirt roads around southern Arizona - one of my favorite places in the spring and my style of riding. I signed up immediately when the 320 mile event registration opened. The date was set, and now I had a real push to get into cycling shape by March.
What proceeded meteorologically from that point on was one of the driest winters across Arizona as a La Nina system settled over the Southwest. I kept my eyes on the weather hoping for a wet winter that would ensure filled water sources across the route but none came. That was, until a week before the event when a massive winter storm threatened the entire state. Up north at the South Rim, I began receiving almost daily warnings of the impending storm which promised many inches of snow and significant highway delays. Down in the desert, the storm beckoned snow in the Sonoran with copious rain beginning on day one of the SAUER. In fact, there were several warnings about intense snowstorms at higher desert peaks and flooding in washes. Dex sent out an email speaking to the fact that the entire season's winter weather was going to pour on day one of this event. Given the warmth and dryness the day before SAUER, I almost couldn't believe that a storm was going to sweep the Southwest. But I diligently brought warmer and waterproof clothing than originally planned.
The school week finishes, Spring Break arrives, so Janna and I drive south right as school ends. I drop Janna off at her friend's house in Phoenix because she has a flight to Ohio the next day. This Spring Break is tightly planned: I'll begin SAUER tomorrow and need to finish by Tuesday in order to catch a flight to Ohio mid-week to attend my baby shower our families were throwing down in Dayton. As I drive down to Tucson in the dark hours up to midnight, I run through the list of goals I have for the race: (1) Have fun and be in beauty amid the Sonoran Desert in spring, (2) No injuries (no broken pelvis again!), and (3) Finish with time to make the flight. I arrive to my hotel just south of Marana after midnight. I check in, bring my bike inside, and pass out for a few hours before an early rise to make the race.
I sleep hard but too short after a busy school quarter. I wake up before dawn, pack all my gear for quick application, and head out the door to drive to the city. I pull into Centro Garage in downtown Tucson where I had previously confirmed I could pay to safely park my car overnight (which worked out perfectly because it was only a 5 minute ride from the event start). I pack my bikepacking bags in the sulfur glow of parking garage lights as I watch the night transition to morning. And lo, a suffuse and thorough cloud cover smother the Tucson sky while the slow-burning orange of a sunrise sifts through. The storm is brewing; this is the antecedent for what is to come. Nothing to do but ride into beauty amid uncooperative weather and trust my layering holds true.
I ride out of the parking garage and take a few side streets before shortly arriving at Presta Coffee - the official start and end point for SAUER. Already a smattering of riders have assembled with bikepacking rigs leaned against everything. I was unable to make the pre-race meetup last night so I take task to check-in with Dex. I find him surrounded by several cyclists passing out breakfast burritos. I eagerly grab one and greet him heartedly, thankful for this opportunity to ride. I also want to give a shout out to both him and Henley for designing a truly stellar course - a veritable dream tour of all biomes southern Arizona has to offer. In addition, they were super supportive of knowing that I was going to ride race-pace for me but touring-mode compared to the other 15 registered riders. I walk over to my rig and change out my layers, taking stock of other people's rides. It is blatantly apparent that I have a touring setup with my level of gear - I laugh knowing it looks like a lot for a race, but I know my gear reliably, and it will keep me comfortable in the conditions to come. I walk around the group and start making introductions with people - learning names, goals, and backgrounds. I love it.
Dex summons everyone to gather in a circle and calls each of us forward to bestow on us a small cabbage necklace, emblematic of sauerkraut, to anoint us out on our journey of the SAUER. "What a cool freaking idea," I think as I dramatically take a knee like a knight before him (my humorous choice). He circles everyone up after and commends us for the ride ahead. I glance up at the gathering gray of cloud that blots out the blue. A sharp wind picks up so I quickly put on a wind layer. All the racers line up in a semicircle in front of the coffee shop where Dexter takes a group photo.
The clock turns 8 am. Dex urges us off with a shout. I roll out with everyone heading west and south through the Barrio Viejo neighborhood of downtown Tucson. Everyone is in a pack at first coursing through the mostly empty streets, then funneling into bike lanes past historic homes and large business complexes. Right before leaving, I check the weather app once more and watch a soon-to-hit band of storms come racing east across the city. Our initial ride west reveals dramatically darkened skies with light hitting foregrounds. For the first 15-20 minutes, I am able to keep pace with everyone, but I steady into my sustainable speed and watch as the pack of riders peel far ahead of me until I am alone riding along the pavement of The Loop. I have prepared to ride most of the route alone given I'll be essentially touring the Grand Depart, so I settle in to enjoy the views along Tucson's famous circular bike path that carries me farther and farther south.
I pedal with a personally steadfast cadence. I keep whipping my head behind me and to the west to watch a cold front of clouds darken into a midnight blue so striking against the bright desert city around me. My goal is to quickly get through several sections of The Loop that I know cross washes and drainages lest water come rushing and force me to detour. Suddenly, on the very edge of suburbia where industrial zones fall way to spaced desert creosote, a massive downflow of air heralding the arrival of the storm hits me. The gust is powerful enough to waver my upright stance. I find a wall to cut the wind in order to preemptively throw on all my rain gear for both wetness and warmth as the temperatures suddenly drop precipitously. I jump back on the bike just to hit a wall of air that kicks me sideways. A glance in my helmet mirror which affords a glimpse of a desert rain curtain sweeping my way. I pump my legs harder to get further. I swing my hand up to take a photo behind me to memorialize the advancing precipitation flap. Suddenly, I'm propelled forward by a tailwind surging from the storm mass as the first drops come whipping down. Right then, the route leads under an overpass and I squeal my brakes to a halt just as a lash of true rain comes hammering down. I note how crazy far the rain advances from the wind under the overpass. The temperature drops even more - it's freezing. I'm bundled in my complete kit of mid-layers and rain gear yet I can still feel the cold. I wait 10 minutes for the worst to pass and then plunge into the steady rainfall.
The Loop follows Julian Wash before I take a right on S. Wilmot Road. The next ten or more miles carry me along the shoulder of a road directly south to the Santa Ritas. The rain is coming down in sheets as the temperature hovers in the low 40s and upper 30s. I pedal hard to maintain my metabolic warmth but know my finger strength is waning as my digits grow cold. I pull off at a Chevron where I see several other bikes propped outside. The cold has filled my bladder from shivering, and I'm bursting to use the restroom. The short break warms my body but I'm quick to get back on the bike. I head south again and see that I've caught and passed several riders waiting out the rain. Knowing I've caught some racers puts speed in my step, and I pedal back through sheets of rain southwards. The sky blankets the Earth from foot to floor in grays and whites. And then suddenly, the atmosphere clears and I see all the desert peaks in the distance are coated in white. It's snowing where we're heading.
Memories of past weather events on a bike flood my brain, distracting me from the chill setting in. They're all good reminders of how I can push through. Some hours later the straight-shot pavement suddenly becomes dirt as I enter the Santa Rita Experimental Range. I gaze about as chollas, ocotillos, and creosote crowd the Earth. But I can't catch a glimpse of any defining horizon-feature. My mind is tricked into thinking I'm gazing across a gentle slope of topographically-featureless desert plain when past experience knows there are massive mountains out there. It's just that all the peaks are shrouded in a monotonous sheen of snow and cloud. A rider named Nick catches up to me about this time as I stop to eat some snacks and fill up on water. We talk for a bit before he heads into the range. As he pedals a away, the snow clouds split and I snap a photo of him biking towards the frosted mountains we're going to climb .
I get on my bike and ascend the Santa Rita Experimental Range. A fence delineates this University of Arizona research area, and the dirt road quickly dissolves into doubletrack beautifully weaving through Sonoran vegetation. Now the clouds really begin to lift and the full snow covered peaks of the Santa Ritas stand starkly. I warm with the climb and shed some layers. The dirt track narrows as yuccas and chollas crowd the corridor. Blue sky spits overhead. It's simply gorgeous and lights me up.
Rapidly now the clouds lift. The hours of rain and snow cease. The air is cold, marked by the fall of water. But the southwestern sun kisses brilliantly. I decide to stop and really shed some layers. I prop my bike in the middle of a sandy climb, take some photos of the peaks, and eat some snacks to fuel myself up in the growing warmth. Right around then I see a rider coming up behind me. I turn and greet who turns out to be Josh Chapple - a Tucson local and friend of the previous rider, Nick. I yell out a greeting, and Josh pulls over to join me in admiring the impressive views. We end up talking for a good bit in the sun before deciding to ride together up towards Box Canyon. I keep thinking he's going to dust me any moment and hammer up the climb to the main road, but he seems content to ride my speed and partake in the conversation. I'm grateful.
The Santa Ritas just ripen in the sunshine. Snow melts quickly off their bases. Only the tips bear witness to the storms just a few hours ago. It kind of boggles my mind how quickly the scenery transitioned from hulking snowstorm to baking desert. Josh and I keep talking. The conversation riffs between realizing we are both sporting Joly Gear sun hoodies to our experiences biking in the area. As time rolls on, I begin to realize I may have found a riding partner in this race - someone to enjoy camaraderie and shared speed. Josh must be thinking the same because he later remarks how fortunate he feels to be biking with someone who has the same pace and planned rest intervals. Touring match for the win.
As we round another corner of mesquite thickets we see a car parked up ahead on the sandy doubletrack. A person is standing in the road. We're both a little unsure of what to make of what's happening up ahead - a flat tire, target shooting, something else? We ride up and see the person pull out a camera to take photos of us. Now we're super confused. Closer still and the person comes walking towards us wearing a large leopard print jacket with a jaguar paper-mache mask. It dawns on me what is happening as the race director, Dex, pulls his head out of the jaguar outfit. I burst our laughing as Josh and I throw on our brakes and lay down our bikes. He snaps a few more photos of us and then reveals cookies, water, and Rice Krispie treats in the back of his car. Turns out he drove out here to have a surprise snack supply for all riders as they were coming through. I gratefully accept water and food as we get to talking about the snow and conditions ahead. Race frontrunner Jeff Kerlove had apparently ridden through Box Canyon when the snowstorm was still pummeling well - reports are that snow litters the ground but is quickly melting. Josh and I wrap up talking to Dex as mid-afternoon properly arrives. We push off and quickly to intersect with the wide and well-maintained Box Canyon Road.
The last time I had ridden this road uphill was five years ago on a complete loop of the Sky Islands Odyssey right before the COVID-19 shutdowns happened. At the time, a massive storm had brewed over the Santa Ritas and my ascent was difficult - marked by a constant crippling headwind that made pushing the bike faster than pedaling. Ever since, I've ridden this road downhill only. I think back to that bikepacking trip as we pedal up to the mouth of the canyon entrance. I lock in and pedal under gray-hewn skies. The climb goes relatively quickly and I relax, surprised and chuckling to myself about how not-intimidating it actually is compared to my memories. I snap photos at all my favorite spots. I see the cottonwoods and sycamores in the wash are neon green with spring leaf growth - that electrifies me. It feels like a tailwind is actually carrying us up. I'm alive with it all.
As we round a corner a truck comes squealing to a stop. A guy leans out and warns us that a mountain lion just crossed the road up ahead. I'm stoked. Josh emphatically tells him we'll be okay. We pedal forward and I'm swiveling to catch a hopeful glimpse of it. Once out of earshot of the truck, Josh tells me he actually thinks the guy was trying to mess with us. I laugh because if that guy was, he probably unintentionally caused me to be thrilled as opposed to nervous.
We summit out in the high desert grasslands as late afternoon starts to touch golden hour. The slant of sun and the darkened storm clouds lead to dramatic, unbelievable plays of light and shadow across the savannas. Josh and I just stand at the top of Greaterville Road taking in the sweep of land crawling out from the snowstorm. My breath hitches when I turn and see soft-rounded hills spotlighted amid a foreground of dim. The temperature drops. We put on gloves. Josh and I bike downhill just to stop again and take in the views. It's spectacular how weather makes the scene. On the maps ahead I see Sleeping Dog RV Ranch right off the route. I ask Josh what his plans are for the evening as we pedal along rutted doubletrack through stands of barren mesquite. Cold makes our breath crystalize and pause mid-air. I tell him I plan on stopping at the RV park to camp; he says he's going to push ahead to share a motel room with Nick in Sonoita.
I roll down the dirt road spur to the ranch. Darkness gathers in the cold as I pass several RVs in a flat basin of grassland hedged by rolling hills. I pull up to the main registration building wherein the camp host comes out to meet me. He's absolutely bobbing up and down with excitement to see me on a bike and brings me inside the shared community space. I'm hit with strong warmth from a well-fed fireplace. Couches line the walls along with a large supplied kitchen and a central dining table. The host checks me in and says I can totally sleep inside tonight from the cold on the couches. I also have free reign to use the kitchen, hang at the dining table, and use the showers and restroom in the building. I'm floored - a dream escape from the wintery conditions outside. I agree to make use of the space to escape from the cold for dinner but turn down the offer to sleep on the couches. Really, I'm looking forward to a night in my shelter outside. After a stressful, and long third quarter of teaching, I'm looking forward to curling up in my down quilt in the cold with the sound of the grasslands around me. That sort of sleeping always is my deepest. He laughs at my response and says if I change my mind to just come in.
We walk over in the twilight to where I can throw up my tent and stash my bike. I kick debris away, set up my X-mid, and throw on every warm layer I have. I then head into the main house to make use of the stove in the kitchen. Inside, the host approaches me again and asks if I want to catch a ride to Sonoita in his truck to grab some food. I tell him the offer would need to be for all bikepackers in the event, not just me, so I decline. He laughs and says he takes bikepackers and Arizona Trail thru-hikers to town all the time in his truck - the offer is open to anyone. That news opens up possibilities; I grab my wallet and jump into his truck. He rattles down the dirt doubletrack and speeds to town at a breakneck pace all while telling me the stories of the births of each of his children. He takes me to the Dollar General where I grab several cans of chicken noodle soup. Hot liquid on a wintery night sounds perfect. I pay up, jump back in his truck, and we fly down the highway back to camp. As he's driving, I keep hearing glass rattling in the back of the pickup. As I ponder the noise, he reaches down and cracks up a bottle of a beer, while driving, and starts taking long drinks while talking further about his life. My eyes are wide at the brazen drinking and driving (and my safety) as he cracks open another and offers the glass container to me. I decline politely, hoping to god no accident follows. He shrugs in the dark and starts drinking that one. But the drive is thankfully eventless as we pull into camp.
I head into the common house to heat up my soup as the host says he's heading to bed. I heat up the chicken noodle soup and settle in at the main table just as a few other campers come in. One beelines it right for the table and sits down next to me. The older gentleman looks right at me and starts in, unprompted, on his life story. I smile, bringing sips of steaming soup to my mouth, as I just listen to his colorful stories that revolve around moving to Mexico, selling houses, insane sexual encounters, raising family, and finding a sense of place in the world. Honestly, this is why I love human-powered adventure both by bike and on foot. You become a magnet for the world to commune tales of lives lived so different from your own. And hospitality more often than not just seeps from the passerby. I eat my soup slowly to allow him the time he wants to tell me his life. But as the clock ticks later, I feel the a school-year's fatigue in my body. I wrap up the conversation and head out to the 20 degree temperatures outside. Frost is already studded on everything. I crawl into the X-mid, snuggle deep in the down, and listen to the wind crisply shake the branches of surrounding mesquite trees.
