The 2022 Rock Cobbler in Bakersfield made headlines because one of the riders thought he could take on a bull.  Most normal people looked at that and said, “Stupid cyclist.”  I looked at it and said, “That looks like fun.  I have to try it, even though it’s in Bakersfield.”  So I signed up for the 2023 edition.

The event started the evening prior to the race with packet pickup and dinner.  Though the event is described as a ride, not a race, there was the usual dick measuring between riders.  The competition was stiff, so while others were comparing their junk, I was looking at gears.  The ride is known for extremely steep climbs, and the rider guide said “Gearing of STUPID LOW or some really low gearing is recommended.”  My rear cogs were looking kind of small in comparison to what I saw on other bikes.  I was feeling inadequate.  Would I measure up?  Would I have the endurance?  Could I last more than 4 hours without calling a doctor?  Nothing I could do now.  No more contemplating mechanical dysfunction.  I was committed.  Thankfully I was doing the short course AKA The Pebbler, only 52 miles and 5300 feet of climbing compared to 78 miles and 8000 feet of climbing for the full Cobbler.

Though beer was free (if Coors can be considered beer), I figured it was best not to drink before the big day.  There will be time for that after the ride.  I grabbed my dinner and headed over to watch the bike barrel racing.  A handful of locals and a guy in a bull costume gave it a go before the big guns came out, one a pro rider and the other the current mountain bike world champion.  The pro won the $100 prize, but spoiler alert, the mountain biker would get his revenge the next day.

A little leg for the ladies.

Saturday morning.  At last the big day was here.  I got to the venue early, assembled my bike, filled my pockets with what I would need through the day, and headed to the staging area.  It was cold so I hung out by the fire.  There was a moment of silence for last year’s female winner, who made headlines not for tangling with a bull and its horns, but for tangling with a woman scorned and armed.  We were ready to roll.  We started in waves, the first for the heavy hitters on the long course.  Those of us on the short course would have to wait for the last wave.

Finally at 8:30 we were off.  The first 5 miles were on a bike path next to the Kern River.  It was fast as people were trying to stay in the bunch to take advantage of the draft.  Then a sharp right turn onto the first climb, which spread out the group.  The next several miles were uneventful mostly on dirt through the rolling hills east of Bakersfield. A few steep pitches where those with even the biggest cogs had to get off and walk putting my mind at ease about my gearing.  I probably could have ridden these pitches, but why burn the matches?  At mile 12 the group came to a halt.  A 10 year old kid was handing out shots of booze to the riders, which was unexpected, but what came next was even stranger.  The course turned left into someone’s backyard, past the pool, through the living room and out the front door.  Who the hell lets 1000 cyclists ride through their living room?  That’s kind of gross.  Bakersfield, man.  Or maybe Bakersfield Man.  Actually, it was Tacoman.


About mile 25 we started the longest climb of the day, about 3.5 miles and 1000+ feet vertical.  This would be a good time to grab a gel for some calories at the start of the climb.  I feel my pockets, and realize I forgot to bring them.  Dumbass.  Most of the climb was pretty gradual, but the higher we got, the muddier it became.  They say a rolling stone gathers no moss, but a rolling bike tire gathers plenty of mass in the form of mud and cow pies making the uphill more difficult.  About 100 yards from the apparent end of the climb, the mud got ankle deep, the pitch hit about 20%, and so much mud accumulated that the wheels stopped rotating.  Time for some hike-a-bike.  We reached a plateau and it was time to pull out the tongue depressors they gave us to scrape off the mud to get the wheels rotating freely.  Aw crap, I forgot those too.  Idiot.  I had to use my fingers and not think about what was mixed in with mud.  Alas, it was a case of premature immaculation, because there was about 100 more yards of trudging through sticky mud before we hit the crest of the hill.  

I get to the top, clean the tires and frame again and start downhill.  The road is still muddy, and I’m sliding every which way.  I try the grass off to the side, because grass is grip.  But that’s muddy too thanks to the hundreds of riders that came before and climate change.  When loosened by cattle and bikes, the grass becomes the matrix in the epoxy of mud.  My people call it adobe.  I start slipping and sliding sideways and down the hill as it gets ever steeper.  I manage to stop and walk down to where it’s not so steep.  Finally I get to a different geological layer that’s more sand than mud and remount for the descent.  Never thought I’d be glad to see sand. 

Down safely, the course veered off onto some single track.  According to my GPS, there’s one more climb before we hit The Cow Trail of Death.  I reach the top of the hill and head on in.  Yay, though I ride the Cow Trail of Death, I shall not fall.  Unless I’m thrown off by deep hoof prints or by the grooves left by hundreds of cyclists.  There’s a sharp switchback where two hills come together like a buttcrack.  Slow down, bump, wobble, swerve, panic, unclip, unclench, whew, came out alive.  Much like an evening with Winston’s Mom.

From there it was a bumpy descent toward the Kern River, around some orange groves, some asphalt and flat dirt, until we made a sharp left to The Runup, a section so steep even the best riders have to walk.  The organizer touts a 30% runup on the website.  This was more like 50%.  There was no running, just up.  Using the steps created by previous riders I crabwalk up the hill.  It was a slow grind up the slope, but in a way it was nice to be using different muscles.  The last hard climb of the day out of the way, it was time to descend to Toads.  


Toads is a deep gully that veers left and right with steep banks on either side with a bottom of sand and baby heads.  The key is to keep your speed and use the banks like race car drivers do.  This is not my forte.  I manage to navigate some of the initial turns but get sloppier with each subsequent bend.  Brush the edge with my shoulder, recover, make a couple more turns, then my front wheel slides out and I’m down.  No scrapes, no bruises, just a little dirty, and my confidence shaken.  I remount and start riding more cautiously.  About 100 yards down the trail a rider has fallen and can’t get up.  He is screaming in pain, but he’s getting first aid from a couple others.  I’m not a doctor, so I don’t know if he broke his leg or sprained his ankle, but it was swollen pretty seriously and appeared to be twisted in a way it shouldn’t be.  Help was on its way, and there was not much the growing crowd of riders could do.  With the aid of one of the people staying behind, we climbed around the injured rider, careful so as not to slide down onto him.  At the exit of Toads a race photographer was snapping shots, but riding tentatively, I deprived him of a heroic action shot as I nursed my bike out of the gully.


From Toads we make our way onto the asphalt for the last small climb of the day, then back on to some dirt and through a water obstacle in front of a roadhouse where the patrons cheered us on.  Should I stop for a beer?  It’s tempting, but I’ve got four beer tickets in my pocket (I remembered those), and I was only a few miles from the finish.

Onto a bike path for the run to the finish.  I missed a turn that took the course to the dirt path on the far side of a canal, but I decided not to retrace my steps.  The true course didn’t add any distance or elevation, just a little more hard packed dirt.  I won’t tell, if you don’t.  Finally into the venue with a last bit over some grass, through a volleyball pit and on to the finish, where we collected our prize, a shovel suitable for slinging bullshit with fellow riders after the race or for digging a shallow grave.  BBQ and beer was waiting.  A good time was had by most.

Would I do it again?  Hell yeah.  I might even try the longer course if I get easier gearing.  Should you do it?  If you like riding, are looking for some tomfoolery, and need a reason to go to Bakersfield, absolutely.  Or you can amuse yourself watching the video of the cyclist getting taken down by the bull.  Stupid cyclist.