Jill brought her Revelate bikepacking gear which we affixed to a rented fat-tire bike. After much stuffing and smashing and cramming (an everyday process), we managed to get everything packed. We had met a young guy named Jim Walmsley who worked at a local bike shop, and he allowed us to park the rental car at his house. He also agreed to give Jill a ride back to Flagstaff after we reached the Grand Canyon. She later tried to pay him but he refused. He is a long-distance runner and runs down the canyon once a week. He competes around the country doing such madness.
We cruised out of Flagstaff on the road for a few miles and then turned onto a dirt road that led to the Arizona Trail. The views of Humphrey's Peak were spectacular as we pedaled along a well-graded forest road. Eventually we turned north and headed down out of the San Francisco hills into sparse cattle country. At one point I must have pedaled through a thick patch of catclaw acacia, otherwise known as "goatheads".
These little spiny things are the bane of cyclists, and I got clobbered with them. There were at least fifty, probably more, in each of my tires. Although the tires are self-sealing, there's no way they could seal this many holes. I patched them up best I could, and kept pedaling. Soon I was flat again. This process repeated itself for a few hours. The sun was now getting low and we were nowhere near our destination. Yet another flat... and another. Coyotes were howling around us as I struggled to fix another flat in the dark. We tried to ride on in the dark but the rocky, muddy trail was too much. We ended up finding a relatively flat spot amidst cow pies and rocks, and gave up for the night.
The following day my tires held up for awhile but I was soon getting flats again. I had used up all of my patches and sealant and slime tubes and CO2. So I would go a couple of miles and then use the hand pump. Repeat. We were hoping to make it to the backcountry office at the Grand Canyon to get a lottery number for a last minute permit to hike, but it was terribly slow going. We decided it would be best if I rode as fast as possible between pumping stops so as to maximize efficiency. So I would stop and use the hand pump until my arms were tired, then pedal as fast as I could until my front tire was flat again. Repeat.
At some point the Slime tube in the front tire began to seal itself and hold air. We were now rolling without having to stop. We decided to sprint for the South Rim so we could get in the lottery for a walk-up backcountry permit.
We pedaled and pedaled and finally made it to the town of Tusyan. We had about 45 minutes before the backcountry office closed. But it was yet seven miles away. I volunteered to ride my bike there. I didn't think I would make it, but I halfheartedly vowed to try.
The fee booth had a long line of vehicles waiting to get into the park, and I was on my bicycle in between RVs. Finally I got to the window and the attendant told me that canyon campground permits were impossible to get, that they had been reserved for months (information information already knew), and that I would never make it to the backcountry office before it closed. He was a real jerk about it. But I figured I'd try anyway.
Sprinting down the maze of roads in the park, my legs were like rubber. Finally I pulled in front of the office where the lady was locking the door. Summoning the correct submissive tone to persuade a bureaucrat, I asked if I could possibly have a lottery number. To my surprise, she was very nice and agreed to go back inside to get me one. It was a great victory and I was terribly relieved. But the real test would be at 8 am the next morning when the drawing took place.
The next morning, Jill and I called a taxi at 7:15 am to get us to the backcountry office. He showed up almost 45 minutes later. Apparently he was new and was waiting at the wrong hotel. Heartbroken and frustrated, we went to see if the lottery had taken place yet.
The backcountry office was crowded with backpacker types all anxiously waiting. As soon as we entered, the people in back imperceptibly crowded together so as to make sure we couldn't get in front of them. Luckily, due to the prior night's efforts, I already had a number. The clerk called "Number Five!". I looked in my hand and we had number seven. Rejoicing (and gloating), I waited for my turn. Number Six didn't show up, so we were next. When we were called, the lady said she indeed had a site available for the following night. We were giddy. The girl at the adjacent counter was not so lucky and was pleading her case. But we were the last ones. The whole journey to get a permit was almost thwarted at every turn, and we got one.
