A part of me knew what I was in for as Chuck, Estzer, and I drove to Moab Friday afternoon and stared at a giant dark cloud covering most of what we were hoping to ride that night. "It'll clear" we all said. "It'll be fine", it doesn't matter that it's pouring down rain at 10 pm, by the time we leave, it'll be fine. After a quick assessment of rain gear and warm clothes we were out the door just before midnight and even though the rain had passed, on some level, we knew what we were in for.
The first climb out of town was fine. The road was a bit sticky but not bad. Maybe this would be fine after-all? Near the top, just below the loop road, things started to hit the fan. The mud got so sticky that wheels stopped turning, chains stopped moving, and original goals got thrown out the window.
The next few hours consisted of being soaked inside and out by rain/sweat, surfing on some snot slick mud, chains that wouldn't move, wheels that wouldn't turn, and fog that at times limited visibility to 10 feet which can be a tad sketchy when descending at 30 on a rutted out muddy road.
Sometime just before sunrise, as hints of light were poking through the clouds, I was having fun finally. The shivering and cold hands didn't matter, I was right where I wanted to be. Those few hours of complete bliss amidst the suffering are what I chase all year.
As things started to warm up a bit and I dried out we kept plodding along. We both had come to the same conclusion that riding within a few minutes of each other was by far better than suffering along in the muck. I had a fresh set of tunes on my Ipod, however I chose the silence of the canyons and the crunching of my chain as the soundtrack to my suffering.