Tim Wild packs a bike and his sense of adventure and takes part in the Sedona Mountain Bike Festival in Arizona.
Words Tim Wild Photography as credited
I’ve watched too much YouTube and now I’m going to die. The cliff face – a 400ft plunge into Sedona’s Oak Tree Canyon – is an inch from my front wheel. I’m breathing harder than an Olympic weightlifter and I’ve already fallen off three times. Fear, adrenaline and heat have turned my brain to boiling mush. If I don’t get myself together, this ride might be my last.
I’m on the Hangover Trail, high above Sedona in the Arizona desert, one of America’s most challenging trails. I’m scared, I’m hurt, I’m alone and I’m thousands of miles from my loving family. How on earth did I end up here?
We need to rewind to a laptop screen, West Sussex, winter of 2020…
Fantasy Holiday Manager
Pandemic homeworking has made my riding feet… itchy. When – or maybe if – all this is over, where will my dream riding holiday be? The loam and roots of Squamish? The skittery rock chutes of the Los Angeles Basin? The groomed and convenient jump trails of Bentonville, Arkansas? As the potential lifting of the US travel ban grows imminent, my dreams become possibilities, and the rock trails of Sedona rise from a whisper to a shout that drowns out all other options. I book a flight to Phoenix, and pray Covid-19 doesn’t mess things up.
There are some practical reasons for choosing Sedona. Squamish is in British Columbia, which is too wet and cold in November, and most of Colorado and Utah’s trail destinations are gearing up for snow. But Sedona’s in the Arizona desert. It’s warm, dry, and Phoenix airport is just two hours’ drive.
It’s also one of the world’s best riding destinations. Sedona’s incredible natural rock formations are the stuff of cinematic and new-age legend, and there are dozens of hand-built mountain bike trails in every direction. All the major trailheads are close to town, tempting riders with 400 miles of challenging natural terrain that takes them through biblical scenery, grippy trail conditions and the scrubby trees of the Coconino National Forest. Remember where they kept Airwolf? It’s a bit like that…
Yes, We Are All Individuals
Imagine 3 days, 5,000 riders, 85 vendors, 10,000 beers, hundreds of demo bikes, 51 different trails and 6 shuttle buses running all day.
Sedona Mountain Bike Festival is part Burning Man, part TweedLove, and part steroidal demo day. Over 21 brands have brought demo bikes, a fleet of shuttle vans wait to transport riders to nearby trails, and there are miles of riding straight from the event. All in blazing sunshine, surrounded by jaw-dropping landscapes, and among like-minded folks. It’s love at first sight.
Here’s the deal: $150 buys you three days of as many demo bikes and shuttle runs as you can manage. The opening-day queue at Posse Grounds Park, a tourist viewpoint and visitor centre high above town, is quite a sight. Several hundred people are already waiting outside the barriers, framed by the distinctive red silhouettes of Thunder Mountain, Coffee Pot Rock and Airport Mesa, already shimmering in 21°C sunlight. It’s only 8.40am but they’re a-whoopin’ and a-hollerin’ as if Oprah is giving cars away. When the gates open, the first few sprint towards their hoped-for demo models like Black Friday shoppers hunting a $1 Xbox.
Want to bring your own bike, ride without shuttles and soak up the vibes? That’s fine too – and free. Over 3,000 more riders do just that, and on day one the site is humming with sales chat, reunions, bikes and riders of all shapes and sizes.
It’s a circus. The nutters from Pit Viper sunglasses mix margaritas with a bike-powered blender. A local artist hand-paints a vintage Cannondale like a mountain bike version of a lathe-turning display. Famous faces abound too – trials legend Jeff Lenosky, racer-turned-dirt-jumper Eric Porter, YouTube stars Mo and Hannah, godfather of trials Hans Rey, and a bunch of other familiar faces wander from handshake to selfie all day long. It’s literally the most mountain-bikey thing that’s ever happened to me, and I get a bit giddy, babbling away about why I’m here to any poor schmuck who’ll listen.
Space in the Shuttle
After a couple of hours hamming up the Englishman abroad angle, shaking hands and seeing how much swag I can get, I remember that I’ve got five days left and about 50 trails to try. Overwhelmed with suggestions about where to ride, I take the first shuttle bus going, intending to just collar some people and ride whatever comes up.
On the van ride to Yavapai Vista trailhead, about 15 mins drive south of town, Kenny hears my English accent and introduces himself immediately. (It’s a pattern that repeats all week – they love a Brit here.) He’s heavily tattooed, with long grey hair and a black headband – a mountain bike Willie Nelson. He and his pals drove for two days across Colorado and Arizona to be here. As soon as I say I’m travelling solo, they invite me to join them on a trail called Slim Shady. But a snapped derailleur on the first pedal puts a crimp in their plans, so I start my Sedona experience with Brian, a former enduro racer and proud son of neighbouring Utah, who recommends we do Hiline, one of the most celebrated trails here.
It’s a gut-punch of a climb, right out of the gate. Sharp, awkward hoiks over jagged rocks, slick with fine red dust. Cacti and snapped branches lurk at every corner to spike the unwary, and at first, I struggle to find my rhythm. After some swearing and a short internal pep talk, I realise it’s easier to stop fighting every feature and start enjoying the challenge. The rocks have enough grip to let the 29in wheels work like a remote control car, slowly eating up the bumps, and it’s a revelation. Not to mention a break for my heaving lungs.
“Like, wow, man.”
The views on these trails are heart-stoppingly beautiful. It’s a truly epic landscape, the kind of grand natural phenomenon that strips your vocabulary of every word except ‘wow’. Huge, rust-red buttes [say ‘bewts’ – Accent Ed], imposing cliffs, and countless shapely mesas dominate the horizon in all directions. The sun shines through clear blue sky, a perfect full moon hangs above, and the desert floor below teems with scrub and cacti. It’s humbling, profoundly cinematic and exactly why I came.
In minutes, Brian and I climb high enough to make the trucks at the trailhead glitter like a handful of change, and we’re soon at the top, gathering nerves, chatting and marvelling at the desert valley beneath.
It’s instantly one of the scariest descents I’ve ever done. Twitchy, stuttering rock staircases demand full commitment out of nowhere. Without Brian towing me in, I might bottle it, but there’s nothing like the fear of looking foolish in front of a stranger, so I match his pace, hit what he hits, and it’s magic. Stepdowns lead to rollers, lead to exposed switchbacks, in a relentless barrage and we’re both whooping like kids at every success. It’s right on the edge of what I can ride, that delicious spot where you feel like everything you know and a few things you’re just learning come together at once, and luck and skill become the same thing. It’s day one, ride one, and I’m already happier than I ever hoped for. The Hiline loop takes less than 90 minutes, but it’s worth the price of the trip alone. We shuttle back to the festival site in gibberingly high spirits.
A Broad Church
At a time when questions about culture, representation and self-awareness abound, this festival is eye-openingly positive. Over three days, I meet more female riders, more riders of colour and more riders over 60 than I’ve ever seen. Like Debbie. From the neck up, she’s a Sunday School teacher – short white hair, deep smile lines, unfailingly polite. But the rest of her is clad in matching Yeti gear, and there’s a high-spec 29er on her truck. She’s 74, she’s been riding for nearly 20 years and she cleaned Hiline yesterday, first try. If you need proof that anyone and everyone can get joy from mountain biking, Debbie’s your woman.
There are dozens of free group rides on offer, all promising ‘no drop’. I mistake this to mean you won’t have to ride any, you know, drops, but it actually means they have sweeper riders so no one gets left behind.
I’m a big fan of trials hero Jeff Lenosky’s YouTube and try to join his ride, but miss it by minutes. I’m also interested in what kind of riding, coaching and atmosphere can be found on one of the many women’s group rides, but I’m politely discouraged from tagging along.
So I join a ride with Rocky Mountain bikes, described as ‘beginner’ ride with some coaching thrown in. It’s led by Molly Joyce, a coach and advocate for mountain bike inclusivity. The riders are gratifyingly mixed and include my new friend Debbie, along with a retired couple with their grandkids and more young female riders than I’ve ever seen on a single ride. Any smug thoughts that it’s below my pay grade are quickly dispelled on Teacup’s many technical features – demanding climbs, hefty exposure and rapid elevation changes have us all huffing and gasping within minutes.
Molly’s exactly the kind of coach we need. She’s clear, funny, kind, and really knows what she’s doing. I technically know to keep a central position, and use the front brake, but when it’s my turn for a steep, dropping left-hander in front of everyone, I’m grateful for the refresher.
Ready-Made Family
My basement Airbnb is a room in a larger house, which has been booked by a crew from Rim Tours, who organise multi-day riding trips in Moab. (Look up owner Matt Hebberd – he’s part of the sport’s history, and should have his face carved into a mountain bike Mount Rushmore.) They’re here to help with festival shuttling, and as soon as I say ‘hello’ I’m adopted. They feed me, pour cocktails into me, make endless gags about my accent, and take me riding with them.
Our first group ride takes us up the Broken Arrow trail. It’s a lung-burner, packed with lumpy step-ups and power climbs that would be impossible if the rock weren’t so grippy. The air is hot and thin, and the trail goes up and down like a game of snakes and ladders. We’re never out of the granny gear for more than a few seconds, hopping up and down switchbacks and artful rock piles. The surface grips like sandpaper one second, then slithers with fine sand the next. The idea that people did this without dropper posts is… unthinkable.
I get awarded ‘move of the day’ when I overcorrect a turn into a steep chute, slide sideways across it, then trackstand, hop back into position and roll out. It’s heart-in-mouth stuff all the way, and seriously exhausting, but we finish like a professional trail crew, with ice-cold van beers and a dozen ‘did you see?’ conversations flying around. I’m in heaven.
Death from Above
The first post-festival day brings reality back with a thump. My rental truck battery dies, and a sudden work call means I can’t join my new buddies on their last group ride. They’re experts on the local trails though, so I set off later with precise instructions for finding them.
Riding alone out here is thrilling, but scary too. I keep imagining future hikers walking past my bleached skeleton. Thankfully, I’m retracing steps from the previous day on Broken Arrow, and like any trail you ride twice in a row, it feels infinitely easier the second time.
Broken Arrow takes me all the way up to Chicken Point lookout, then down the other side on Little Horse trail. It’s a gem – faster and flowier than anything I’ve ridden so far, with plenty of shaded singletrack for cool breezes and collecting breath. Every few yards a spicy rock garden lowers me closer to the river wash at the bottom, and I even get a round of applause from some passing hikers as I hit a drop.
I meet up with the Moab crew, and we rally our way back up Little Horse to just underneath White Line trail. Tyson, a Moab trail builder and seriously impressive rider, power-drives up a 25ft rock climb without a single pause or slip, leaving a sea of open mouths behind him.
A Word on the White Line
Put ‘Sedona trails’ into YouTube and you’ll find ‘White Line’. Riders have to hike several hundred feet up a rock face, ride along a narrow exposed ledge, take a steep, creeping 180 down that rock face and ride back again. It’s hundreds of feet up and there’s nothing to break your fall. Get it wrong, you’re dead.
One of our crew, a gifted rider named Paul, starts climbing up the steep hikeabike rock face towards the White Line, and the emotional temperature plummets. I’m freaked out – I think it’s too dangerous; I don’t want to watch a guy I just met die and, if I’m being honest, I don’t want my trip tainted by an avoidable tragedy. A couple of the crew ride away rather than watch, and others can’t look, but by the time I’ve wrestled with my conscience, he’s started. I pray he’s going to pass, but he pedals the first few feet, stops, turns back, and to my horror, tries again. Everyone’s hearts are thumping and there’s total silence for a full minute… before Paul shakes his head, waves and starts coming back down. The cheers echo round the valley, everyone claps him on the back and my sphincter slowly returns to normal. After that, everything else – the grippy, drop-filled Hogs trails, the sweeping rock rolls back down Broken Arrow – feels like a cakewalk.
The day ends with burgers, cocktails and horror stories from the Moab guides. Like the one about the jeep tour driver who stepped back to take a photo and fell to his death – car keys still in his pocket. I count my blessings, fingers and toes, and fall instantly asleep.
Hungover on Hangover
Sedona’s Hangover trail – scene of my opening horror story – is legendary. It’s on top ten trail lists everywhere, and if you’ve heard of Sedona it’s probably the first trail mentioned.
My new best pals headed back to Moab in a flurry of packing, hugs and tempting talk of a bike tour in BC, so after a little cry, I set off for Hangover. Alone.
I’m not a superstitious man. But I lose an elbow pad, then my rear wheel suddenly requires two hours of truing. When I arrive at the trailhead, I’ve left my parking pass behind, and a new bladder has leaked empty. As I testily re-park an hour later, Spotify plays Valley of Death by Townes Van Zandt.
This is nonsense. I’ll be fine.
The Lone Danger
It’s not that Hangover is technically beyond my skills. It’s that the margin of error is so terrifyingly small. The opening section is no wider than a set of bars – sometimes less – with the left side exposed to a fatal drop. Gnarled roots clutch at your feet and pedals and turn after turn reveals head-height rock shelves, so you’re forced to ride centimetres from the exposed canyon or take a ledge to the face.
After a couple of sketchy washouts on dusty rocks, my adrenaline levels are soaring, I’m breathing too hard and I’m scared – which leads to a proper crash. An exposed root grabs my left foot and I’m over the bars, followed by a butt-puckering slide down the cliff, before being snagged by a tree and pinned by the bike. I just lie there and breathe, too scared to move. There’s no damage except a dislodged brake lever, but I’m angry. This trail wants to kill me, and I’m stuffed if I’m going to let it.
I think furious thoughts, swear a blue streak into the echoing valley, then try to calm down. When my heart rate drops below cardiac arrest and I’ve eaten some sugar, I make my determined start on the descent. It’s basically one giant rock roll several hundred feet long, but the grip is unbelievable. I can stop halfway down a 45° roll, think things over and choose another line. The grins begin – I’m not leaving this trail without some fun.
By the time I’m back at the truck I’m buzzing. Hangover’s definitely worth it, but I’m taking a local next time.
Re-adopted
My Airbnb host Jimmy is a genial, fast-talking housebuilder from Colorado. He and his buddy Shaun are keen riders and they’re determined I’ll join them. They’re ten years older. I’ve been riding for five days straight. This’ll be easy.
Within minutes, it’s clear they intend to push every trail in Sedona up my bum, one pointy rock at a time. The pace is brutal. There’s so many punchy up-and-downs that Jimmy and Shaun just keep the saddle down, stay in granny gear, and pedal standing up. ALL THE TIME. While they’re chatting about building regs, I’m trying to stop my lungs coming out of my eyes.
This is easily the most epic ride of the trip. 40km of spiky technical trails in 75°F heat, with almost no stops. Teacup. Adobe Jack. Little Horse. Tiny Llama. Templeton. Hiline. Little Ridge. Sketch. We cover more trails than the last five days put together. It’s non-stop, just drop after climb after rock roll after step-up, and I can’t let my guard down.
We do Hiline again and I remember every turn, anticipate every drop, see the lines down every 50ft rock. It’s a great feeling. My elation at doing one of the rides of my life is only tempered by Jimmy treating it like we’ve popped out for some milk. As I limp delightedly back to base for a beer and a shower I make a vow… When I grow up, I want to be like Jimmy.
Never Enough.
After six days of riding, meeting, talking, drinking, laughing and waking with jet lag at 4am every day, I’m a babbling loon – it’s all I can do to buy souvenirs and pack the bike before driving to the airport. I don’t want to go – I could stay here forever – but it’s been the trip of a lifetime, with riding, people and moments I’ll remember forever.
Riding in the US is another world, and there’s enough room there for everybody. See you on the next one.
Fantastic as I hope I’ve made it seem, this kind of trip is easier – and cheaper – than you might expect:
- Return flight to Phoenix: £550
- Bike Transport: £130
- 7 nights self-catering Airbnb: £700
- 7 days truck rental: £300
- Total spend: £1,680
That’s not peanuts. But if you go with friends, car hire and accommodation get exponentially cheaper. And the Sedona trails – like those of Fruita, or Moab or Bentonville – are generally so well-marked that you don’t really need a guide. Trailforks, a paper map and a bit of local help would be enough. Compare that to a week in Morzine at peak season and it feels like a good deal. I’ll even come with you.
