Kyle Klain offers a prosaic recalling of the 2026 Singlespeed Arizona event, which took place at the start of the year in Tumacacori, AZ. Under the watchful eye of a weather balloon, the chaotic SSAZ26 unfolds peacefully and shows a glimpse of a joyful alternate universe that refuses to be tracked, monetized, or derailleured. Turn on, tune in, and drop out...
We gathered at an old adobe-built watering hole called Abe’s Old Tumacacori Bar. It’s still there, despite every good reason not to be. In some ways, it’s like stepping back in time. The family still runs it, the ceilings are covered with some sort of thatched grass, the old river rock and cement fireplace has decades of creosote. The bar once hosted Pancho Villa, according to the kind of story that survives because nobody ever bothers to disprove it. It’s 20 miles up the interstate from the border crossing of Nogales. It sits on the old Highway 89.
Inside, the jukebox rotated through old country classics, bellowing from the far corner that slow-wailing song of heartache, hard work, and dusted Americana. Outside, in the shadow of the interstate, some poorly recorded garage metal blared loudly from an underpowered speaker. If you stood in the right spot, both sounds coexisted, beautifully, somehow. Sun-worn men in Carhartt shirts and worn-out boots chalked their pool cues in no hurry, sipped on their longnecks, and asked the bartender what the hell was going on outdoors.
Barrels full of mesquite burned to stave off the cool desert night, while their embers lifted effortlessly into the sky. Overhead, high above, something white floated ominously.
A surveillance balloon. Or, in a less lethal-sounding name, an aerostat, floated above the mountains, above the interstate. It stayed put with its tethers, observing, even when nothing of note was worth recording. A white eye, high above, bored and unblinking. No one talked about it much.
People arrived in clapped-out sedans, rented U-Hauls, and built-out adventure rigs. Some felt more autobiographical than practical. Border Patrol vehicles whizzed by above on the interstate at 75 miles per hour.
The instructions that night were murky: tomorrow, the route is stupid, it’s backcountry, difficult, and long. Don’t be an asshole. Don’t fuck with the law. Ride your bikes.
Against the noise in our heads, revisiting images from Minneapolis and protests erupting nationally, we reluctantly agreed. The desert needed no more bodies.
Piling up against the old cottonwood trees, one by one, were bicycles of all vintages and absurdities. In a world that spits urgency at you, these singlespeeds offer few shortcuts. One gear that forced its own pace. One gear, one decision, one that was made long before the riding ever starts. A form of cycling that rejects optimization that makes sure nothing ever feels too hard for too long.
That night the constant roar of the interstate could not be escaped. People were in a hurry to go nowhere fast. Nearby, a bonfire glowed with laughter and cheers.
Day two. Some more motivated riders were already on their bikes by the time we finished our coffee and revisited the map. The crude explanation, hand-painted signs, and suggested stopping points meant little at the moment. Just pedal and see where it goes.
The BLM road out of town was littered with bullet casings. 9MM Luger here, 308 Winchester. A few trucks rolled by with men in camouflage and mustaches giving us the two-finger wave. They would stop and stare at the hillside with their binoculars. Off in the distance, the occasional echo of a rifle pierced the desert air.
Water caches were hidden in these hills. Not for us. For people whose movement does not come with a margin for error.
12 miles in, and we were staring out over a vista of a green valley surrounded by broken mountains. Music is playing from a vehicle, someone is dancing badly, and everyone has a cheap beer in their hands. Bikes are lying in every direction. The balloon is still there. The sun is directly above.
Further up, legs were beginning to resist the motion. No heart monitors were beeping or watches nudging their owners. No one talked about VO₂ max. Candy and drugs were consumed. Bicycles and their unkempt riders continued up the mountain. At the top, the sound of distant drums. We arrived at our type of checkpoint. Margaritas were served. A 12-year-old beat his drumset solo out in the heights of the desert alone.
Way off in the distance, the white shade covering of the border patrol could be seen. The hum of the traffic continued. Somewhere, further out in the distance, cities burned with rage.
The people gathered without permission, behaved unpredictably, celebrated without purchasing anything, chose difficulty that cannot be resold, and produced nothing that slots neatly into an economic model. No tickets scanned. No user data harvested. No growth curve. No increase in the GDP. Just a community burning hot for a weekend and then dispersing, harder to track than a roughed-in route invented last week.
The machine has no language for this.
Mile 25. Riders moved through the landscape in loose formations, sometimes together, sometimes alone, often pushing bikes that refused to cooperate. Tools appeared when needed. Water was shared. Waiting happened without negotiation. Nobody unaccounted for.
The hierarchy is now flattened. No one was better or worse than any other. Back at the bar, we felt the ache of the ride universally, bleeding scrapes from the desert distributed equitably. The band was on stage, and the music was played too loudly. Local cattle wranglers offered up flank steak, beans and rice. The Saturday night crowd arrived at the bar and eyed the spectacle. The white balloon hovered with little to report.
By the end of the night, the route was already forgotten. The bikes leaned against horse trailers and old adobe walls, covered in dust, salt, and sweat. The interstate never stopped. Foolery was encouraged, and friendships reemerged. Somewhere else, the machine kept grinding, cataloging, optimizing, demanding compliance.
Here, people hugged. They laughed.
This was not a bicycle race.
It was a brief failure of the system to account for human behavior. A ritual that happens annually, refusing to behave correctly. The music played on. The bar poured drinks. We poured ourselves into the desert, and a part of us still remains there.