Mettle Cycling at The Stagecoach 400 by Mateo Paez
This spring, Mettle rider Matthew Paez headed to Idyllwild, CA to compete in this year’s Stage Coach 400. Putting a lot of vision quest miles down already, Matt had targeted this race to open up what will be a significant 2022 campaign of ultras. Matt wrote a bit about his experience below:
You think you know what you’re getting yourself into? Are you out of your comfort zone yet? If you aren’t anxious maybe you aren’t taking a big enough bite… Can you chew it up and swallow it? Or are you going to spit it out?
You should definitely not spit it out… you’re gonna need the calories.
A few weeks after taking that first bite, I can finally say the nearly inedible route that is the Stage Coach 400, California’s longest mountain bike route, was chewed, enjoyed, and is finally digested. Like a dog and his favorite bone. Just like that bone it starts with tail-wagging excitement; Give it to me now.
10 minutes later, it’s being dragged outside.
One hour later, and it’s being buried beneath dirt and dust, left for another time. But The Stagecoach 400 wasn’t a snausage… it is too difficult a route to just bite off and chew. It must be gnawed.
Matt on a training ride outside Bend, OR.
The S.C. 400 is a self-supported ultra MTB race starting and ending in Idyllwild, CA., a small mountain community resting at 5,413 feet above sea level. Down below in the valley, 8 lane freeways to the north and south funnel humans to work and back. Idyllwild sits high on its perch. The perfect location for a “non-event” like this to take place.
It is difficult to think back to the beginning. After 36 hours of stress (The airline delivered me but not my bike), David Greif and I drove together from Reno, NV to Banning, CA. We rock up to a real high end Travelodge Motel, right next to one of those 8 lane freeways in valley. I ate a cold bean & cheese burrito for dinner and re-packed my bags for the 5th time. David is on the phone with his coach and I call my mom. Die Hard with a Vengeance plays on the motel television.
RACE DAY
Map by @wyattspalding
4:45 a.m. - We wake up and drive an hour to Idyllwild. We didn’t feel the need to talk too much other than about “how cool this mountain pass would be to ride.” Sunrise. It’s beautiful at 5,000 ft. above the SoCal Riverside smog. I remember thinking, “I get two more sunrises this weekend.” Priorities, Mateo. Keep them simple. Mind is right.
6:05 a.m. - Arrive in Idyllwild for an early breakfast feast at Higher Grounds Coffee. The S.C. 400 is highly regarded around here, even the barista has toured the route 4 times! Locals pour in just like any other day. The barista already knows their coffee of choice. They plug in their computers and start working, ignoring the hoards of bike packers lining up for coffee and speaking in bike jargon.
The energy is absolutely electric. Priorities, Mateo! My brain is already moving a million miles an hour, eavesdropping on 3 different conversations about the route. Is it even a bike race if the line for the bathroom isn’t fun?! Meeting friends like Herb Bool and Jeremy Tullo. Adult men, giddy, stoked, and acting like children waiting in line for the playground swings, that’s what we’re calling the pre-race bathroom now. The Swings.
Priorities. Eat as much as possible. Take some bacon to go. Ride the swings, just one more time.
7:45 a.m. - Just riders and their rigs trying to stay warm as the sun finally peaks itself over Suicide Rock. Meg Knobel, S.C. 400 organizer and resident San Diego badass, is lined up and racing the route this year. The sweet smell of burning marijuana fills the air. The realistic quality that defines this as a proper ultra-bike packing race.
8 a.m. - No countdown. Garmin on. Course loading. Grand depart starts now.
Honestly, this isn’t much of a race report because I don’t know what I’m doing here. I have never done anything like this and this really isn’t even a race. It’s actually much more than a bike race. It’s a thoughtfully curated route that would be much more enjoyable if you didn’t choose to ride it like this. Here is what I remember.
Descend pavement. Turn right onto dirt road. It goes up. Large group of 20.
Quickly, Im riding with David Greif, Xavier Chiriboga and Bryan E. for the first 35 miles. Trading off. Punchy. Laughing with Xavier and the stoke sharing was in full swing. Some small talk here and there, mostly shakas and the occasional, “amigo!, this is sick!!!” Up and over a ripping double track road with hot pockets of loose sand. It was just warming up. The high for the day was close to 90 degrees. I haven’t ridden in bibs and a jersey since October. I needed to pace myself. Priorities, Mateo. I let them ride away as we passed Anza. Glimpses of desert started to show on the route and I needed to start fueling. The initial adrenaline of a race start had worn off. Priorities. Stop to pee in a ditch and pop a gel. Settle in and get comfortable. Eat more. Start gnawing, you’re gonna need those calories.
I stop in Warner Springs to refuel. I buy some sunscreen, water, and a sack of spicy pickles. Jesse and I roll in together, having time for a chat.
“My back hurts. How’re you feeling, Mateo?”
“My legs are already cramping.”
Cue pickles.
Abdullah rips straight past the refuel in Warner Springs, fingers up.
“Fuck yoooooooooooou!”
Jesse laughs and admits to knowing Abdullah, well enough to warrant that behavior. It stokes the competitive fire within.
Scotti Lechuga rolls up. Jesse leaves without saying anything.
Priorities, Mateo.
After checking in with myself, I was able to put the cramping legs to sleep.
Throughout this type of event, I find myself alone with good sensations. Tempo. Consistency. The hours go by like nothing.
Approaching the 100 mile marker, I finally have service. Phone on. Messages flood into my inbox. “Why isn’t your InReach updating?!”
“Are you ok?!”
“Call me”.
On course, I call my girlfriend Olivia, simultaneously checking my tracker. Frozen at mile 43. Instantly, it’s panic mode. Does this mean I’ll be DQ’d? I’m wasting energy being frustrated with my technologies. Good thing I brought my phone.
I check my cue sheet and see that refuel #2 is close.
I’m ecstatic to find David Greif lying in the grass, gatorades everywhere. Salt sticking to his face, smile hidden. I sit down in the shaded grass behind a gas station in Ramona, CA and get the beta on how to reset my InReach. Plug in to power source. Off. On. Working. Reset. Priorities, Mateo.
We are behind “schedule” and thats ok. This is a long ride. Despite an FKT attempt, I am finishing this route. It’s going to be hard and it’s going to make you want to quit. We get ourselves together and agree that In’n’Out will be our next stop. 50 more miles. Sun setting, Lake Hodges single track is a treat. We catch Jesse and Scotti at Switchback City.
Personally, going into this, I felt comfortable trying to move faster at night. No external brain processing. Just follow the line. 50 miles of coast goes by quickly, so does the epic single track around Sweetwater Reservoir.
3:30 a.m. - 204 miles in. I need some shut eye. Knowing the feeling of onset sleep deprivation is a crucial skill. I knew that If I wanted to be able to push through the desert the following day, I needed something. This is the spot.
Pull off the road, literally. A foot from the road. Unpack my bivvy and fresh bibs.Change as fast as you can in the dark. Sticky jersey left out to breathe. Puffy on. Leg warmers over dusty legs. Lay down, brush your teeth and rinse with gatorade. 2 hour timer set. It’s a race to fall asleep. Lights out!
I get an hour before my body says “hello, I am still here.” Blessing me with bubble guts. I know how this goes. Find headlamp. Bibs off. Scurry down the hill and “ride the swings.” Writing this down now, its kind of like a nightmare.
Back to sleep.
Alarm startles. All the while, ignore the coyotes yapping in the wee hours. You’re in their backyard.
5:30 a.m. - Hour 22 and a cold descent to Alpine. Refuel by 6 a.m. A “brand new day” sunrise as we climb towards Descanso. Second sunset was better than the first. Breakfast for the road, 2 chocolate milks and a Clif bar.
8:30 a.m. - (Day 2) Veronica’s Kitchen. We made it 5 minutes after opening. We need to stop. Real food. It feels like my metabolism is running on jet fuel. David and I stumble in, smelly and wired at 8 a.m. We just descended the smoothest piece of tarmac yet. Tight corners lined with avocado farms. Cars non-existent.
Machaca burrito to go!
This is where it gets murky. The timeline is skewed and hard sections of the course get harder. Testing. Champagne Pass lurks.
David and I are leap frogging. David pulls away. Once again, I am left with my own thoughts. Priorities, Mateo.
The lowest lows are wrapped up like a present and then tied off with a beautiful ribbon of perfect single track. Descend to Pioneer Mail.
David pulls the plug with an injury to his knee, only finding out later that his cleat had shifted.
29 Hours into the S.C. 400, heading East, 3 thousand feet down Oriflamme Canyon and straight into the Anza Borrego Wilderness.
My memory of this gets bleak. I can’t drink enough water. The stretch between Mesquite Oasis and Ocotillo Wells is a sandy beach. Sun baked, moving slow and fighting washboard to hold my line. Rolling close enough to the ancient mud walls to avoid the sun for a couple seconds.
I am moving slow, so slow I was getting tired. I didn’t even question whether or not I needed to take a break. I hadn’t seen anyone for what seemed like hours. Find shade, stop. Set alarm for 20 minutes. Out. Visions of the wind behind closed eyes.
20 minutes. Rested.
Earbuds in. Cue Metallica. Kill em All. Ride the Lightning.
The washboard became enjoyable. The fighting headwinds eased up. More Jeeps. The weekend warriors hoarding campsites, burning fuel, drinking seltzers. I laughed. They have no idea what the fuck I was doing out here in lycra, killing brain cells and bonking myself into oblivion every few hours. Sort of like a hangover but better.
Mile 300- Ocotillo Wells, CA
Saturday night. Iron Door Saloon. A dusty, off-road dune buggy type watering hole. I needed to make this as quick as possible. I ask for 2 pitchers of water and anything to eat.
“I got a burger.”
“I’ll take that to go.”
He offered me some house pizza. House pizza at the Iron Door Saloon turns out to be in fact, house pizza. Digiorno. Tony’s. I don’t know, the frozen house kind.
I ask the bartender to close out my tab.
3 slices of “house pizza”, a foil wrapped double patty-dry burger with extra pickles and a slice of birthday cake.
$6 dollars. Deal! I could have just stayed and chugged cold beers all night but I had somewhere to be.
Thanks, Iron Door Saloon.
Refueled and relieved to be out of the sand, I was riding on a dangerous stretch of Highway 78. Somewhere in the deserted distance, dune buggies and trucks are racing up a sandy hill climb. Mad Max competition. Macho stuff.
The internal fight through darkness and headwind was relentless and all I could think about were drunk dudes speeding down that highway.
Borrego Springs. A little before midnight. The last refuel before the finish. I was happy to be off the highway albeit back in the Anza Borrego sand.
Washboard. 2% grade, sandy double track. Unclip. Walk until sand compacts again. Swing a leg over. Repeat. This process goes on and on. Throw in a walkable stream crossing. Washboard roads turn themselves into tight double track lined with blooming Ocotillo cactus. Sticks start to look like rattlesnakes. Shadows get longer. The line you follow gets thinner. Strung out.
Water crossing. Shoes off. Feet wet. Warm wind. I take the opportunity to put my fresh wool socks on.
Further up Coyote Canyon, I find Scotti Lechuga and Jesse. I try to help Jesse with his tubeless tire but need to continue moving. Priorities. Give him my bottle of sealant and continue. Scotti follows me into the Willows.
I had decided to forget about this section until I literally walked into it. Fresh warm socks on. Shin deep in running water. The mile and a half long stretch is a creek bed over run with reeds, shrubs, sticks, rocks and loose sand. In and out of the drainage. Taking my bike for walk. Wrong turns, backtracking. Reflections beaming.
I finally find myself and back on track. Barely rolling, forced off my bike by more loose sand and challenging rock gardens, some rideable, many not. Pushing.
This went on for hours. Bleak delusions. Shadows. Silence. Move forward no matter what.
Blisters forming and overheating in the wee hours. Working hard to get my bike up this rocky pass. Thankful for the expansive darkness, I couldn’t see how much further I had to go up this canyon. Once I made it to the road, time froze. I can’t recall any passing of time. I knew I was close to Idyllwild and the sun was barely rising for the 3rd time.
From this point on, pavement to the finish. I hadn’t seen anyone for at least 6 hours. The morning traffic was beginning to trickle up and into the San Jacinto Wilderness.
46 Hours into the Stagecoach 400
Rolling pavement through Lake Hemet. The sun is barely peaking out. A couple of dot watchers pull up next to me in their SUV. “You need anything?”
“No, I am just happy to see someone.” We exchange some laughs, small talk and before they pull off the road they tell me that I am in 3rd place.
Re-motivated, I choke down my last gel. Time is moving slower than ever. Pavement climbs dragging on. Final turn, past Mountain Center. Familiarities.
Approaching Idyllwild and emotions are pouring, uncontrollably. I reminisce about the last 48 hours while simultaneously brushing my teeth and climbing this mountain, Suicide Rock in plain view. Tears of joy, laughter. Undeniably thanking myself for what I’ve been able to push through. SISU. Thankful for my support system, my second family in Bend. I turn into Idyllwild, relief. Finally, silence in my head.
Rolling up I see a group of dot watchers, some familiar faces but mostly unknown. Race supporters and friends are there, Xavier Chiriboga is the first to give me a high five. My mom, Carissa, surprised me at the finish. Hugs of relief and pure happiness. She has Olivia connected on FaceTime, my people.
“Where is the book?!”
48 Hours and 47 Minutes. I sign.
