My Weekend at the Death Valley Century

Several months ago, Zwift Co-Founder Jon Mayfield and I were talking about training for upcoming events, and he mentioned the Death Valley Century. This was a ride Jon had done several times already, and he was signed up to do it in November. Would I be interested in coming along?

After giving it some thought, I decided to pull the trigger. Why not? It was a place I’d never ridden before, plus I needed to plan an event or two to inspire my training.

I signed up, then mentioned it while chatting on Discord during my Thursday Pizza Burner 100km ride. Two ride regulars, Casey Tucker and Justin “Wagz” Wagner, both said the ride sounded interesting. Then texted me within a few days to say they’d signed up!

And just like that, there were four of us heading to Death Valley National Park for an epic century.

At least, that was the plan…

The Prologue

In the weeks leading up to the ride, I’d been messaging Jon to find out what he was planning, while also chatting back and forth in a text group with Wagz and Casey.

Jon was going to bring his telescope and camera, because he dabbles in astrophotography and Death Valley is a Gold Tier designated dark sky area, meaning, “On clear, moonless nights, the Milky Way casts visible shadows, and thousands of stars typically washed out by light pollution become readily apparent.” Epic stargazing? I’m in.

Wagz was driving in from Salt Lake City, Casey from Bend, OR, and I from NorCal, meaning we were all driving 8 or more hours to arrive in Death Valley on Friday, for the ride on Saturday. We decided to stay Saturday night as well, and maybe get a ride in on Sunday before heading out. Casey started researching alternative rides, and found an epic 25-mile climb up to a lookout called Dante’s View. That was Sunday’s ride sorted.

Things began to unravel in September, though. A big storm came through, dumping 1.5″ of rain in a day. (This may not sound like much, but Death Valley averages 2.2″ of rain annually. If a good portion of that arrives in a short time, chaos ensues: flash floods, washed-out roads, etc. This will be important later on…)

Then the government shutdown began on October 1, meaning Planet Ultra could hardly even find anyone to talk to since Death Valley is a national park and those employees were off work until further notice. As the shutdown dragged on (43 days, the longest in history), we were notified that the route had been changed, then notified of further changes. By the time the shutdown ended, just a few days before the ride, Planet Ultra had settled on a metric century route for us to ride, with the option of removing our ride numbers and finishing out the full imperial century however we chose once we crossed the line.

So that was our Saturday ride plan.

But within a few days of the ride, the weather forecast, which had looked good for weeks, began changing. First it was rain on Sunday. Then a bit of rain on Saturday. We realized there would be no stargazing, as clouds would fill the sky all weekend. And by mid-day Friday, as we were all making our way to Death Valley, it showed 1″ of rain on Saturday.

An email arrived from Planet Ultra. Subject line: URGENT!!! Death Valley Ride: CANCELLED.

A flurry of texts and phone calls followed between the four of us, as we all received the notice while driving to Death Valley. The consensus was clear: we weren’t cancelling. The hotel was booked, we’d been granted our “Husband Passes,” and we were going to figure out a way to do something epic.

Even if it killed us.

Which was actually a distinct possibility.

Act 1: Night Riders

We were all targeting a 4pm Friday arrival, since that was the hotel’s check-in time. But Wagz and Casey arrived before I did, and decided we needed to do a shakeout ride. Knowing we didn’t have a lot of daylight, I kitted up in my car, pulled the bike out of the back, and headed out with Wagz and Casey.

It’s funny: I hadn’t yet met these two in real life. But we’ve spent so many hours riding together virtually while chatting on Discord that when I arrived, no introductions were necessary. We had just ridden 100km in Watopia the day before, so the inside jokes picked up right where we’d left them.

We headed out from Furnace Creek (Death Valley towns have great names) toward Badwater at 4:12pm. Casey and Wagz both had headlights, but I hadn’t brought one. Figuring we had about an hour of daylight, we decided we’d ride out around 15-20km, then turn around and come back.

15km out, Casey suggested we take a left and ride the Artist’s Drive road instead of just flipping a U-turn. “It’s a nice little loop,” he said. (It was closed to automobiles due to recent floods, but his research said there was just a bit of gravel washed across the road here and there.) We rode around the barrier, crossed the first bit of gravel, and decided to give it a go.

And that’s when our shakeout ride turned spicy.

Have you ever climbed with another cyclist, where neither of you talks about how you don’t want to let the other guy beat you? You know: the silent race. (Or better yet, the “Try to speak casually like you’re not on the limit” race.) That’s what this was. And none of us knew the climb well enough to know when it would end.

After 4.5km and 325 vertical meters of hidden heavy breathing, we finished the main portion of the climb. And we realized we had a problem. Or more accurately: I had a problem. It was dark. I had no light. And we were nowhere near home.

We began the main descent of Artist’s Drive, with me trying to stay sandwiched between Casey and Wagz so I could see the road. Our team plan worked well enough, which was good, because this wasn’t just any road: it was an unfamiliar, twisty, and steep descent. Made all the more interesting by random gravel patches deposited from recent flooding!

We were operating just on the edge of crazy, which is a rather fun place to be, when you get there on purpose. We only had to hike the bikes once, thanks to a particular deep gravel section. But apart from that, we made our way down, teasing Casey for his route suggestion and laughing at the irony of my gravel bike sitting at home in the garage, headlight and all.

By the time we returned to the main road it was pitch dark, and we still had 10km to go. We turned off all our lights for just a minute, to take in the total darkness of the place. Wow. Have you ever experienced that? It’s disorienting. Like you’re floating in space.

Turning the lights back on, we made our way to the hotel. When we arrived, we checked the stats: our 1-hour ride had turned into a 100-minute ride covering 40km and 747m of climbing. And although nobody said it, I think we all were thinking the same thing: I went too hard, and I’m going to pay for it tomorrow.

See this ride on Strava >

Intermission: Dinner Plans

Jon, Casey, Wagz, and I sat around the dinner table Friday night, looking at weather apps and roadmaps to plan our new Saturday route. We decided to start in the morning with an out-and-back to Badwater Basin, since it’s a key tourist attraction, being the lowest point in North America (282′ below sea level). That would give us 55km.

Then we could refill bottles and restock snacks upon our return to the hotel, and decide if we wanted to continue with the second leg of the ride: heading north for a 75km loop that included a nice little 11km climb.

Jon planned to join us for the first leg, but left the second leg up in the air depending on how he was feeling. He has always ridden this event as a solo TT, so he wasn’t sure if he would want to ride part of it solo, or even make it a shorter day so he had the legs to take on Dante’s View the following day.

Act 2: The Big Day

The four of us rode out from the hotel the next morning. Temps were in the low 60s, with light rain. We watched a handful of riders leave and head north, but we went south, hoping to finish up in low-elevation Badwater before things got too wet.

The road to Badwater Basin is rolling and smooth, and we quickly settled into an easy, albeit muddy, rhythm. Nobody wanted to push hard this early in the day, and it felt to me like the cancellation of the official event had given the whole affair a sort of casual feel. Which was nice.

Alkaline mud was washing across the road’s low spots, and that mud quickly coated our shoes, socks, and backsides. It smelled distinctly like fresh, wet cement and left a slimy layer on bikes and clothes after rain washed most of it away.

Badwater Basin was something to behold: a 200-square-mile salt flat with a sign on the nearby cliff marking sea level, 282′ above us. We looked around a bit, watched people walk out to the salt flats via the broad boardwalk, snapped a few photos, and then headed back to the hotel.

At the hotel, Jon decided to hit the shower, change clothes, then head out on the second leg solo. Wagz, Casey, and I decided to restock provisions and head out together. The rain was still light, the temperature just right, and the northern roads didn’t seem likely to flood even if it rained as forecasted.

We started on HWY 190, churning through almost 30 flat kilometers. The best way to see the world is from a bicycle, especially if you’re not in race mode. The distant craggy mountains, the tumbleweeds, the sand dunes, the multicolored soils, the feel of the wind and rain, the unique smell of the place… everything mixed into a singular feast for the senses.

Eventually we turned left and onto the day’s big climb: Mud Canyon Road. 11km long and averaging 5.5%, this steady grade wasn’t bad apart from two things:

1. None of us could figure out how long the climb was. You would think we would have learned our lesson the previous night, but here we were, not sure if the climb was 6 or 12 miles long.
2. Casey tried to suck down a Honey Stinger mid-climb, but managed instead to inhale most of it into his windpipe. Between coughing fits, he said (and I quote): “It feels like there’s a porcupine in my throat,” and, “I don’t think I’ve ever had my throat hurt this bad.” Turns out, those Honey Stingers live up to their name if you ingest them just right. (Of course, Wagz and I considered attacking at this point, but decided against it.)

From the top of the climb we bombed the descent of Beatty Cutoff Road, then headed back to the hotel via HWY 190. It began to rain in earnest in these final kilometers, which was actually rather nice, as it washed away some of the mud caked onto our bikes and clothes.

After Casey took a long pull on the front, I went forward and upped the watts, figuring it would be fun to “make it interesting” as we hit the small rise heading into Furnace Creek. But Casey, feeling his monster pull, fell off the back. Then Wagz attacked in the gutter, forcing me to chase his wheel for shelter! I figured he would drop me like he often does near the end of Pizza Burner rides, but quickly saw he had gone too early, with legs that were too tired. I managed to chase back onto his wheel, then sprint to glory across the invisible townline.

131km and 1,321m of elevation on the day. Not bad for a cancelled ride.

See this ride on Strava >

Intermission: A Flood (of Excuses)

Returning to the hotel, it was cleanup time. We hopped into our showers fully kitted up, rinsing the remaining mud from our bodies and clothes. Casey and I even hauled our bikes into the showers, which worked quite nicely. (Although we found the next morning that the water had left some rust spots on our chains and cassettes, probably due to the chemical makeup of the local water and/or soil.)

We reconvened with Jon for dinner at the all-you-can-eat buffet and shared stories of our rides. (Jon had ridden the same route as us, but the second portion was solo, on his Zwifty Pinarello with TT bars.) Soon enough, the conversation turned to the next day: what was our ride plan? Were we climbing to Dante’s View?

Wagz stated definitively what he’d been hinting at all day long: he needed to leave early to get back to his family. Jon felt like his legs were too cooked to take it on (he had been training for a half-marathon in the months leading up to this, and didn’t feel his cycling fitness was up to snuff.) And Casey chimed in with unexpected news: his parents, who had made the trip with him, wanted to head back early. He wouldn’t be riding the next day either.

But I’d had my heart set on attempting that epic climb, and my travel plans allowed me to stick around and do it. I let them know I was still going to go for it, even if they were only joining me in spirit!

As we wound down the conversation, our waiter came over to inform us that it was “Really coming down outside. You might want to head back to your rooms soon.” We left the restaurant to discover both main roads into the hotel were now flowing rivers, which was particularly irksome given we had our hearts set on ice cream.

That ice cream, it turned out, was served at a shop on the other side of the hotel grounds, requiring us to ford two newly-created driveway rivers. After spending some time trying to find a way across while staying dry, we made the decision to sacrifice one shoe/sock, stepping into the water and leaping the remaining distance across the road. It was a small sacrifice for ice cream.

Act 3: Solo, So High

The next morning I bid farewell to Wagz and Casey, and began the 40km ride from Furnace Creek (-190′) up to Dante’s View (5,475′). Blue sky was visible through the clouds for the first time since our arrival, along with fresh snow on the highest peaks. The air was crisp, with a stiff breeze blowing up from the south.

Knowing this was a long climb and that the steepest pitches were at the end, I kept my power squarely in the comfort zone, chugging along in zone 2 at around 210 watts.

70 minutes in, I hit the halfway point (in terms of distance) to the top, and turned right off of HWY 190 onto the road to Dante’s View. I was feeling good, taking in the views while making slow but steady progress. The crosswind I’d been climbing with became a quartering headwind as the road shifted southward, but it was all doable, and I smiled and waved as the first cyclist I’d seen that day zoomed past on his way down from Dante’s View.

Traffic was sparse, and when my Varia radar indicated a car coming up behind, I scooted over to give it room. But this car slowed and pulled up alongside me. It was Jon! I had wondered that morning if I’d see him on the road, since he had said he’d never been up to Dante’s View. He asked if I needed anything – water? Clothes? A donut? I took a donut, then continued on as he zoomed up the road.

Three ominous signs on the way to Dante’s View…

31km in, everything changed. The road made a hard right, the landscape changed from a canyon to a wide-open prairie, and the wind, now a straight headwind, became stronger. And to my left, across the prairie, I saw the mist of rain marching toward me.

I was forced to increase my efforts substantially just to make meaningful progress. Not only was the wind stouter, but the road was steeper. (I didn’t realize this at the time, because Death Valley road pitches are oddly confusing. Sometimes it’s hard to know if you’re going up or down, or how steep the road really is!) Minutes before, I’d been climbing at 18kph while holding 210W, and now I was working at 250-275W to move forward at just 10kph. I shot a quick video to record the ridiculousness of it all:

Near the middle of the prairie, I saw Jon’s Tesla coming down the mountain. We pulled over and stopped, both smiling and shaking our heads as the wind howled around us.

“Do you want some warm clothes? I’ve got a wind jacket, some arm warmers…” Jon offered.

“No, I brought a vest, I think it’ll do the job,” I said, realizing it was probably time to put that vest on, as I’d worn just a jersey and bibs thus far, and the temperature was definitely dropping. I pulled out my vest and put it on, and even that took some doing, given how hard the wind was blowing!

We talked a bit more about conditions at the top: “It’s really windy and cold up there,” Jon said. He refilled my bottles with water, and I grabbed a handful of sour gummy worms. “Are you sure you don’t want more clothes?”

I took the arm warmers. And as I pulled them on, I could feel rain starting to fall. At the last minute, I took the wind/rain jacket he offered, because cyclists know it’s OK to ride in the cold, and also OK to ride in the wet. But wet and cold? Not OK.

Bidding Jon farewell, I continued the push across the prairie. It was getting colder. (Looking at my head unit’s data after the ride, the temperature dropped 15°F from the start to the end of the prairie.) I pulled over again and put on the wind jacket. Much better!

I gritted my teeth, counting down the kilometers.

7 to go… 6 to go… just keep pushing…

I found myself alternatively yelling into the wind, yelling at myself to keep pushing, and laughing whenever a particularly hard gust came up. It felt wild and crazy, but I also felt alive. It was man vs nature, me vs the mountain. I wasn’t giving up.

The interminable prairie section transitioned to a canyon road with 5km to go, and I began to longingly look around each corner, hoping the end would be in sight. The wind was howling down the canyon, my hands were growing numb, but I couldn’t stop now, not when I was so close!

After what felt like an endless number of blind curves with no end in sight, I rounded a corner to see the finish. But I groaned out loud when I saw it: the road pitch was unreal! Cars were driving up and down the final stretch, and it looked like they were climbing straight up into the sky.

“There’s no way I can climb that without stopping or walking the bike,” I thought to myself. But I gritted my teeth and began to hammer as the road pitched up to 15%. I used every trick in the book, swinging wide on the corners to flatten them out, alternating standing and sitting to recruit every muscle possible.

A cyclist came down from the top, the second one I’d seen on the day, and ominously yelled as he came past, “It’s worse coming down!”

I kept pushing, and soon came to a startling realization: I was going to make it. I wouldn’t need to stop and rest.

Despite the temperature now being squarely at 32°F, it was like the clouds parted and the sun came out. Hallelujah! I was at the top!

I stuck around for perhaps 10 minutes, drinking in the view while taking lots of pictures. It was a dizzying sight to look over the steep ledge and see Badwater Basin 5757′ feet below.

But the wind was howling, and my hands weren’t regaining feeling. Neither were my wet toes. I needed to get off that mountain before a deeper chill set in.

So I saddled up and began the tricky descent down the wet, steep switchbacks. The wind was howling in my ears, and I realized that rider was correct: it was worse coming down!

I figured the wind would subside as I made my way down, but it kept blowing hard, a crosswind hitting my front wheel and forcing me to constantly lean left to avoid being blown off the road. It was sketchy, and I was riding my brakes just to stay in control. I stopped twice to shake out my hands, to regain feeling. And as I left the prairie, I could feel the temperature warming.

I thought I’d descend the 40km home in well under an hour, but it actually took me 70 minutes due to constant braking in hard crosswinds. I can honestly say I enjoyed the climb more than the descent… and that’s saying something!

But don’t get me wrong. If I had to do it all over again, I’d do it all over again. This was one of those epic rides that builds confidence and reminds you of what cycling is all about. If you ever get a chance to ride to Dante’s View, do it.

Just bring warm clothes.

See this ride on Strava >

Epilogue (and Your Suggestions)

This was one of those rare adventure weekends that all true cyclists love. It had the key elements: riding with friends, battling the weather, admiring new landscapes, and even conquering an epic climb. That kind of stuff is good for the soul, making memories while building physical and mental toughness.

While we were forced to change our initial plans, I’m happy we were able to repurpose those lemons into fine lemonade. Now I have to decide: where next? I’m open to suggestions…