The Rapha YOMP Rally
The Rapha YOMP Rally
The Rapha YOMP Rally looked intimidating on paper - 388 miles, 42K feet of elevation, 35% dirt, self-supported and completed in fewer than five days.
The route started in Santa Barbara, looped through the Los Padres National Forest and returned to Santa Barbara before continuing on to Santa Monica. Brandon Camrada, the organizer and Rapha’s Head of Marketing had a knack for choosing the tougher, steeper, and more beautiful options the entire way down the coast. We often left the pavement for ridiculous dirt climbs, just to return to the pavement a few hours later, realizing yet again this route prioritized the journey and not the destination.
The Rapha team opened applications and let in 100 folks to the ride. Lael Wilcox laughed with us over croissants and took off, finishing the route in a mere 2.5 days. At the same time, other riders had never slept outside and had packed every one of their fears onto the heavily loaded bikes.
The YOMP Rally brought together folks across the spectrum of bikepacking, tossing us all into a nearly unfathomable route. It was a rally and not a race, and this sentiment challenged the idea of bikepacking. We were simply in it together and learned quickly that we had to care for one another along the way.
The inaugural YOMP Rally! Fox/Easton riders Emily Schaldach and Johanne Albrigtsen in black and brown, riding Firefly bikes with the Tapercast 40mm forks. Photo: Gretchen Powers
It was raining and we were about to ascend an infamous 5K doozy of a climb right out of the gate in Santa Barbara. Folks adjusted bags and cycling computers dinged as we yelled “right turn!” I chatted with legends and cyclists I’d met before at other seemingly absurd events. We climbed and climbed away from the comforts of town.
Photo: Gretchen Powers
We ate snacks in the dirt, watching the grasses wave along, something I know is good for my deep-down-self. We saw stars emerge and squeezed in around a dusty table, sharing dehydrated food and reminding each other to hydrate ourselves as well as our mashed potatoes. One day in and we had ridden 8.5 hours that day and climbed 12K in 70 miles.
Johanne Albrigtsen and Avra Saslow, admiring lupines for hours each day. Photo: Gretchen Powers
100 people had prepared for this ride. Countless others had helped in the process, from late night brake bleeds to route planning. We’d applied and trained and purchased tiny items and schlepped our way to Santa Barbara, each juggling logistics and injuries, relationships and pet care. This first night, ten of us shared a campground. We introduced ourselves only after sharing Corn Nuts and recovery mix.
Louis, who found us lying on the side of the road at mile 70, (just resting!), told us he had cooked 12 days of food for his wife before leaving because she hated cooking and was under the weather. Kate told us about her dog named Hot Dish and nearly shed a tear with love. Beija explained her day job of selling jewelry and perfume for thousands of dollars to people who couldn’t care about the price. We laughed and stretched our tired legs, passed around Reese cups, and discussed the benefits of a bivy sack. Mostly I (we?) felt seen. I felt community and joy and the palpable ridiculousness of this whole event. I felt the fear of what was ahead of us and the pride that we all held after making it through day one. I saw sunburned faces who were relieved to have found people who just kind of got it.
Families in huge 10’x10’ tents pulled out lanterns and speakers and slammed car doors. Alongside my two long time friends, Johanne and Avra, I laid out a ground pad in the dirt and set an alarm for 6, sleeping next to our aired out shoes and pile of bike bags, another big day on the schedule as soon as the sun came up. Campsite 19 was filled with sleepy folks who were one step closer to pals, nestled in and thankful for every minute of sleep ahead of us.
Three tired kids with fig bars and chips strapped to our bikes. Photo: Gretchen Powers
On Day 2 our morning started with a wicked descent, into the inverted clouds, ripping through rippling grasses and grinning. We landed at a tiny market, complete with a pug named Nugget and barely enough candy to support all of us. I glanced at Sarah Swallow checking out, noting her massive pile of snacks. I grabbed a few more PayDay bars and bags of pickles. We were headed into the Los Padres today and there was nothing more than “Road Closed to Vehicles” signs ahead of us.
Nugget! Photo: Emily Schaldach
At 8 pm, the sun finally set and we pulled over for another night of sleeping in the dirt, this time deep in the Los Padres mountains. We rounded out a 78 mile day with 8.6K feet of climbing.
Dusty miles featuring the Easton EC90 AX wheels and 47mm Teravail Washburns. Photo: Gretchen Powers
On Day 3 we woke up at 6 am to our alarm and stayed put, ignoring snooze as the sun dried our dew-soaked sleeping bags. Avra’s pad had deflated at least five times during the night and we groaned a bit at the thought of squeezing into a damp chamois. Rider’s started to pass our camp, yelling “YOMP!” and waving as we flapped our damp clothes around in the still morning air.
A water stop at Painted Caves, clearly an important spot for the Chumash people with its open views, spring, and shaded caves. Photo: Lawrence Siu
We rounded the corner to a water refill spot, where a dozen other YOMPers were carrying dusty bottles and filters down to an old cabin with a spicket, each filled with stories and worries for what was ahead of us. More often than any of us liked to admit, we’d looked down to realize we were moving along at 3 or 4 mph, plodding through cow tracked dirt or up steep slippery climbs. The Los Padres wanted us to stick around - no one was making it out quickly today.
We started to climb, again, and found snow, heaving our 50 lb bikes through icy patches and then over fallen trees, wondering how many more landslides there could be. We came across riders simply laying down, looking at the clouds, shedding a tear, and wondering if they were going to keep moving. It was a rally not a race, and this sentiment fed into each of us. We stopped to sit with folks, offering snacks, maybe some KT tape, and a group to follow if they wanted. A rider named Kit showed us their incredibly inflamed achilles tendon as we all looked around, noting how little we had and how little there was here to help in any capacity.
Kit rode with us for an hour or so, rattling along and contemplating the bail out options. We slowly pulled ahead, passing folks who asked if we had seen Kit, and how were they doing? It was clear as we rode over ridge after ridge, we had to take care of each other out here.
Shortly after, we found Josie who was playing The California Honeydrops on repeat, jamming and happy to share the music as we rode behind her.
At the top of the climb, we crawled over a massive pile of rocks and debris. Some folks filled up water and others sat, checking their bike computers again - was it really still 35 miles and 3K feet of climbing to get back to Santa Barbara?
On course! Photo: Johanne Albrigtsen
The descent out of these mountains took Brandon 40 minutes when he had ridden this route last year. The fastest riders this year took 4 hours. The record breaking precipitation had obliterated the course as walls of rock sheared off or creeks rerouted to take over the road. We carried our bikes, we hopped over ditches, and in between we flew around shale corners. 42k feet of climbing also meant 42k feet of descending and in one fell swoop we would move through 7k of it.
The sun set and Avra said, “I’ve always wanted to night ride. I was kind of hoping this would happen.” So at hour 7, we tossed on head lamps and continued to rally down towards the river campground, yelling about ditches and about stopping, hopping off our bikes to climb over rocks or look for the road ahead in the overgrown yellow flowers.
Also, on course! Photo: Emily Schaldach
We finished Day 3 at 63 miles with 7k feet of climbing and 8 hours ride time. Ending the day by realizing we had camped in a place rife with spiders. Wahoooo bikepacking! This felt intense until a group of ten folks clambered under the gate next to our camp at 1 AM, taking a full eight hours, primarily in the dark to weasel their way through the descent.
By Day 4 our bodies were tired and we were behind schedule - we had 107 miles and 10K of climbing to go. Two hours in, all we had done was crossed a huge river and climbed a few slow miles up steep dirt. The day plodded by as we snacked, yelled for the sake of it, and laughed at the absurdity of still needing to ride 80 miles before dark. At hour 9, we took a slight wrong turn, realizing too late that we needed to either go back down the hill or cross another river. Why not round out the day with more damp feet? It had to be forward so I hoisted my bike up again, wading through a knee deep river, my carbon shoes and the tumbling river rocks skittering along. Our shoes dripped and we watched the sun set, bike computers alerting us that we were back on course as we turned on headlamps and continued thrashing through the overgrown grasses.
Johanne on her Firefly - deeply pleased with the Tapercast fork to make the descent drastically more fun. The difference between 0mm and 40mm felt particularly notable this week :) Photo: Gretchen Powers.
Day 5 started with a sense of lightness. We met up with four women who had as many stories as we did. We only had 69 miles and 6.2K feet to climb. This normally huge day felt like a breeze. We ripped through campgrounds, tossing gummy candy to one another and laughing as we crossed ten creeks in two miles. We emerged at the ocean, happily hopping on the famous Highway 1 for a brief moment of a quicker pace. Our group grew as we climbed Mulholand, finding a YOMPer who lived down the hills and took us to his favorite coffee shops, farms and lakes. We veered in and out of the route and our group grew.
After five days, we arrived at the Rapha store three minutes after the official post-ride celebration started. Lasagnas arrived and we dusted off our faces, sharing stories and clambering around with tired legs. I left with a new definition and understanding of bikepacking. Instead of a bikepacking race or a solo bikepacking trip, we all rode with the knowledge that 100 other folks had also climbed over this log and made it up this hill. There was momentum and community. We redefined care and left feeling absolutely depleted and ready to return if this inaugural event could possibly happen again. To all who YOMPed, well done, that was epic.
A dusty bike and tired legs at the finish in Santa Monica! Photo: Gretchen Powers
-Emily Schaldach
The Rapha YOMP Rally looked intimidating on paper - 388 miles, 42K feet of elevation, 35% dirt, self-supported and completed in fewer than five days.
The route started in Santa Barbara, looped through the Los Padres National Forest and returned to Santa Barbara before continuing on to Santa Monica. Brandon Camrada, the organizer and Rapha’s Head of Marketing had a knack for choosing the tougher, steeper, and more beautiful options the entire way down the coast. We often left the pavement for ridiculous dirt climbs, just to return to the pavement a few hours later, realizing yet again this route prioritized the journey and not the destination.
The Rapha team opened applications and let in 100 folks to the ride. Lael Wilcox laughed with us over croissants and took off, finishing the route in a mere 2.5 days. At the same time, other riders had never slept outside and had packed every one of their fears onto the heavily loaded bikes.
The YOMP Rally brought together folks across the spectrum of bikepacking, tossing us all into a nearly unfathomable route. It was a rally and not a race, and this sentiment challenged the idea of bikepacking. We were simply in it together and learned quickly that we had to care for one another along the way.
The inaugural YOMP Rally! Fox/Easton riders Emily Schaldach and Johanne Albrigtsen in black and brown, riding Firefly bikes with the Tapercast 40mm forks. Photo: Gretchen Powers
It was raining and we were about to ascend an infamous 5K doozy of a climb right out of the gate in Santa Barbara. Folks adjusted bags and cycling computers dinged as we yelled “right turn!” I chatted with legends and cyclists I’d met before at other seemingly absurd events. We climbed and climbed away from the comforts of town.
Photo: Gretchen Powers
We ate snacks in the dirt, watching the grasses wave along, something I know is good for my deep-down-self. We saw stars emerge and squeezed in around a dusty table, sharing dehydrated food and reminding each other to hydrate ourselves as well as our mashed potatoes. One day in and we had ridden 8.5 hours that day and climbed 12K in 70 miles.
Johanne Albrigtsen and Avra Saslow, admiring lupines for hours each day. Photo: Gretchen Powers
100 people had prepared for this ride. Countless others had helped in the process, from late night brake bleeds to route planning. We’d applied and trained and purchased tiny items and schlepped our way to Santa Barbara, each juggling logistics and injuries, relationships and pet care. This first night, ten of us shared a campground. We introduced ourselves only after sharing Corn Nuts and recovery mix.
Louis, who found us lying on the side of the road at mile 70, (just resting!), told us he had cooked 12 days of food for his wife before leaving because she hated cooking and was under the weather. Kate told us about her dog named Hot Dish and nearly shed a tear with love. Beija explained her day job of selling jewelry and perfume for thousands of dollars to people who couldn’t care about the price. We laughed and stretched our tired legs, passed around Reese cups, and discussed the benefits of a bivy sack. Mostly I (we?) felt seen. I felt community and joy and the palpable ridiculousness of this whole event. I felt the fear of what was ahead of us and the pride that we all held after making it through day one. I saw sunburned faces who were relieved to have found people who just kind of got it.
Families in huge 10’x10’ tents pulled out lanterns and speakers and slammed car doors. Alongside my two long time friends, Johanne and Avra, I laid out a ground pad in the dirt and set an alarm for 6, sleeping next to our aired out shoes and pile of bike bags, another big day on the schedule as soon as the sun came up. Campsite 19 was filled with sleepy folks who were one step closer to pals, nestled in and thankful for every minute of sleep ahead of us.
Three tired kids with fig bars and chips strapped to our bikes. Photo: Gretchen Powers
On Day 2 our morning started with a wicked descent, into the inverted clouds, ripping through rippling grasses and grinning. We landed at a tiny market, complete with a pug named Nugget and barely enough candy to support all of us. I glanced at Sarah Swallow checking out, noting her massive pile of snacks. I grabbed a few more PayDay bars and bags of pickles. We were headed into the Los Padres today and there was nothing more than “Road Closed to Vehicles” signs ahead of us.
Nugget! Photo: Emily Schaldach
At 8 pm, the sun finally set and we pulled over for another night of sleeping in the dirt, this time deep in the Los Padres mountains. We rounded out a 78 mile day with 8.6K feet of climbing.
Dusty miles featuring the Easton EC90 AX wheels and 47mm Teravail Washburns. Photo: Gretchen Powers
On Day 3 we woke up at 6 am to our alarm and stayed put, ignoring snooze as the sun dried our dew-soaked sleeping bags. Avra’s pad had deflated at least five times during the night and we groaned a bit at the thought of squeezing into a damp chamois. Rider’s started to pass our camp, yelling “YOMP!” and waving as we flapped our damp clothes around in the still morning air.
A water stop at Painted Caves, clearly an important spot for the Chumash people with its open views, spring, and shaded caves. Photo: Lawrence Siu
We rounded the corner to a water refill spot, where a dozen other YOMPers were carrying dusty bottles and filters down to an old cabin with a spicket, each filled with stories and worries for what was ahead of us. More often than any of us liked to admit, we’d looked down to realize we were moving along at 3 or 4 mph, plodding through cow tracked dirt or up steep slippery climbs. The Los Padres wanted us to stick around - no one was making it out quickly today.
We started to climb, again, and found snow, heaving our 50 lb bikes through icy patches and then over fallen trees, wondering how many more landslides there could be. We came across riders simply laying down, looking at the clouds, shedding a tear, and wondering if they were going to keep moving. It was a rally not a race, and this sentiment fed into each of us. We stopped to sit with folks, offering snacks, maybe some KT tape, and a group to follow if they wanted. A rider named Kit showed us their incredibly inflamed achilles tendon as we all looked around, noting how little we had and how little there was here to help in any capacity.
Kit rode with us for an hour or so, rattling along and contemplating the bail out options. We slowly pulled ahead, passing folks who asked if we had seen Kit, and how were they doing? It was clear as we rode over ridge after ridge, we had to take care of each other out here.
Shortly after, we found Josie who was playing The California Honeydrops on repeat, jamming and happy to share the music as we rode behind her.
At the top of the climb, we crawled over a massive pile of rocks and debris. Some folks filled up water and others sat, checking their bike computers again - was it really still 35 miles and 3K feet of climbing to get back to Santa Barbara?
On course! Photo: Johanne Albrigtsen
The descent out of these mountains took Brandon 40 minutes when he had ridden this route last year. The fastest riders this year took 4 hours. The record breaking precipitation had obliterated the course as walls of rock sheared off or creeks rerouted to take over the road. We carried our bikes, we hopped over ditches, and in between we flew around shale corners. 42k feet of climbing also meant 42k feet of descending and in one fell swoop we would move through 7k of it.
The sun set and Avra said, “I’ve always wanted to night ride. I was kind of hoping this would happen.” So at hour 7, we tossed on head lamps and continued to rally down towards the river campground, yelling about ditches and about stopping, hopping off our bikes to climb over rocks or look for the road ahead in the overgrown yellow flowers.
Also, on course! Photo: Emily Schaldach
We finished Day 3 at 63 miles with 7k feet of climbing and 8 hours ride time. Ending the day by realizing we had camped in a place rife with spiders. Wahoooo bikepacking! This felt intense until a group of ten folks clambered under the gate next to our camp at 1 AM, taking a full eight hours, primarily in the dark to weasel their way through the descent.
By Day 4 our bodies were tired and we were behind schedule - we had 107 miles and 10K of climbing to go. Two hours in, all we had done was crossed a huge river and climbed a few slow miles up steep dirt. The day plodded by as we snacked, yelled for the sake of it, and laughed at the absurdity of still needing to ride 80 miles before dark. At hour 9, we took a slight wrong turn, realizing too late that we needed to either go back down the hill or cross another river. Why not round out the day with more damp feet? It had to be forward so I hoisted my bike up again, wading through a knee deep river, my carbon shoes and the tumbling river rocks skittering along. Our shoes dripped and we watched the sun set, bike computers alerting us that we were back on course as we turned on headlamps and continued thrashing through the overgrown grasses.
Johanne on her Firefly - deeply pleased with the Tapercast fork to make the descent drastically more fun. The difference between 0mm and 40mm felt particularly notable this week :) Photo: Gretchen Powers.
Day 5 started with a sense of lightness. We met up with four women who had as many stories as we did. We only had 69 miles and 6.2K feet to climb. This normally huge day felt like a breeze. We ripped through campgrounds, tossing gummy candy to one another and laughing as we crossed ten creeks in two miles. We emerged at the ocean, happily hopping on the famous Highway 1 for a brief moment of a quicker pace. Our group grew as we climbed Mulholand, finding a YOMPer who lived down the hills and took us to his favorite coffee shops, farms and lakes. We veered in and out of the route and our group grew.
After five days, we arrived at the Rapha store three minutes after the official post-ride celebration started. Lasagnas arrived and we dusted off our faces, sharing stories and clambering around with tired legs. I left with a new definition and understanding of bikepacking. Instead of a bikepacking race or a solo bikepacking trip, we all rode with the knowledge that 100 other folks had also climbed over this log and made it up this hill. There was momentum and community. We redefined care and left feeling absolutely depleted and ready to return if this inaugural event could possibly happen again. To all who YOMPed, well done, that was epic.
A dusty bike and tired legs at the finish in Santa Monica! Photo: Gretchen Powers
-Emily Schaldach