65.13 miles. 9,974 feet of climbing. An entire day connecting some of Lake Tahoe’s best mountain bike trails from Tahoe Meadows to Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. After spending all spring and summer training for Rose to Toads, I thought I understood just how hard it would be. I didn’t.
The 2026 route made an already brutal ride even more interesting. Because of the Marlette Lake Dam reconstruction, Rose to Toads skipped the traditional Flume section and instead went up and over Snow Valley Peak before eventually reaching Spooner Summit. On Trailforks it looked difficult but manageable. In reality, that was just the opening round of what felt like a 15 round title fight.
I’ve had plenty of humbling moments in my life. I’ve been embarrassed on the biggest stage as my high school’s No. 1 singles tennis player. I’ve failed at things I thought I was good at and had days that made me seriously question what I was doing.
Rose to Toads somehow topped all of them.
It ended up being one of the most demoralizing and humbling experiences I’ve ever had, not just on a mountain bike. Yet somehow, by the time I crossed the finish line, it had also become one of the most meaningful.
What Is Rose to Toads?
Rose to Toads is TAMBA’s massive point to point mountain bike ride connecting Tahoe Meadows on the North Shore with Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride on the South Shore. It isn’t a race, and that distinction becomes increasingly important the longer you’re out there.
The official 2026 route covered about 63.5 miles with more than 9,100 feet of climbing and 11,300 feet of descending, stitching together huge portions of the Tahoe Rim Trail and some of the same terrain we feature in our Lake Tahoe Mountain Biking Guide. My Strava recorded 65.13 miles and 9,974 feet of climbing by the time I finished.
It looks intimidating on a map. The map doesn’t do it justice.
Two Weeks Before Rose to Toads, My Back Revolted
Before I even made it to the starting line, my body decided it had had enough of training. Two weeks before Rose to Toads, I was unloading the dishwasher when my back suddenly revolted. Within moments I was practically in the fetal position. Perfect timing of course.
Luckily, I had an incredible group of people helping put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Darin Haworth of Summit to Shore worked his magic. Jason Owings at Mountain Strength Lab helped get my body moving correctly again. Jenay Aiksnoras at Lake Tahoe Yoga helped with mobility and getting everything calmed down.
Slowly, my body bounced back. Physically, I was going to make it, but mentally that was another story. To say I had pre ride jitters would be an understatement. The last time I remember having this much anxiety was the night before my first day of high school. There had been rumors that seniors threw pennies at freshmen as they walked into school, and my stomach was in knots. Was it true? No. Did that stop teenage me from worrying about it? Absolutely not.
Rose to Toads was giving me exactly the same feeling, except this time the scary thing was actually real.
Starting Rose to Toads at 4:30 in the Morning
Our strategy was simple: start early. Not just early. Practically the day before early.
I wanted enough daylight to finish, which meant my alarm went off at 2 a.m. I barely got five hours of sleep, and it wasn’t five good hours. It was the tossing, turning and staring at the clock kind. I got up, ate, stretched, and tried not to think too much about what I was about to do.
By the time we reached Tahoe Meadows, it was about 4:30 a.m. Pulling into the parking lot, I figured there was no chance anyone else would be there yet.
Wrong. There was already another car, and riders were heading out into the darkness.
At more than 8,700 feet, the wind was howling across Tahoe Meadows. It was blowing hard enough to make my spokes sing while I pedaled, which isn’t exactly the comforting soundtrack you want when you’re beginning a 65 mile mountain bike ride alone in total darkness.
For the first few hours, I barely saw another person. It was me, my headlight and the wind. And honestly? I felt pretty damn good.
The Tahoe Meadows section is relatively mellow. You’re moving quickly and efficiently, and with fresh legs it’s easy to start thinking dangerous thoughts: This isn’t THAT bad. Maybe I’ll be done way earlier than expected.
Then you turn toward Snow Valley Peak.
Snow Valley Peak Was the First Warning
For the 2026 Rose to Toads route, the Marlette Lake Dam reconstruction meant riders were sent up toward Snow Valley Peak, thanks to the Tahoe Rim Trail Association allowing us to ride this beautiful section of the TRT. On Trailforks it looked tough, but not that tough.
Boy was I wrong.
I tried to keep my effort mellow on the climb, but early in a huge ride you’re excited. Your legs are fresh, your heart rate feels manageable and everything still works. As I climbed higher, dawn finally began breaking over the Virginia Range. Washoe Lake appeared below, Carson City came into view and Reno was still twinkling in the distance.
For a moment, I stopped. It was absolutely beautiful. Then Robert Frost started bouncing around in my head:
But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.
A LOT of miles.
So I kept moving. The problem was that Snow Valley Peak wasn’t really the punch I thought it was. Marlette Peak was waiting.
After a descent that went by far too quickly, I was climbing again. This time it was steep, ugly and relentless. WAY too relentless this early in the ride, and I was already getting angry.
That was my first real wakeup call. Rose to Toads wasn’t going to be one giant endurance ride. It was going to spend the entire day punching me in the face or challenging me to be my best… that really depends if you’re a water bottle half-full or empty kind of person.
Marlette Peak to Spooner Summit
Finally, I reached Marlette Peak and convinced myself the worst had to be over. I stopped long enough to take in Lake Tahoe and Marlette Lake before continuing south.
What followed was something my buddy perfectly describes as:
“You’re climbing down.”
You descend, then climb. Descend, then climb. Again and again. None of the climbs seem catastrophic on their own, but it’s the accumulation that starts screwing with your head. Even the descending doesn’t always give you the relief you want. Sections are choppy and chunky enough that you’re still working when you desperately want gravity to give you a free ride.
About four hours in, I finally reached Spooner Summit. I was a little disheartened, but overall I was still doing fine. Jaime was there smiling, so I fueled up, refilled my water and headed toward Kingsbury.
And just like that, Rose to Toads became fun again. The riding flowed better, I was moving fast, and the miles started clicking away. Kingsbury came surprisingly quickly.
Around seven hours in, I remember thinking:
YOU GOT THIS.
Then Rose to Toads Started Swinging Back
Leaving Kingsbury, I felt good. Great, even. I was roughly 39 miles in, more than halfway, and I started doing dangerous endurance math in my head. Pshaw. Maybe I could still knock this thing out in 12 or 13 hours.
Then the climbing started. Body blow after body blow. Steep pitches. Hike a bike. Short descents followed by another climb, and another, and another. For every bit of elevation I seemed to lose, Rose to Toads demanded four times as much back.
Then people started passing me. Again and again. People who had started HOURS after me were suddenly floating up the trail while I was struggling.
That’s where the wheels started coming off mentally. I’d spent two YEARS working toward becoming a stronger mountain biker. I’d trained all summer specifically for this ride, and I was getting my ass kicked.
By the time I crested Monument Pass and sat down next to one of my favorite tamaracks, I was contemplating everything. Why the hell was I doing this? These people seemed genetically designed for endurance mountain biking. They were flying past me uphill while I was fighting for every pedal stroke.
Put us on bar stools with a few beers and I KNOW I’ll have them walking out sideways. Put us on a climb and I’m toast.
I felt completely out of my element. Monument Pass offered an incredibly tantalizing escape route. I could simply go down and be done.
Then my phone started buzzing with texts from friends, family and people I didn’t even realize knew I was doing Rose to Toads. Different versions of the same message kept appearing:
You got this.
It was just enough. I got back on the bike.
When Pride Goes Out the Window
I tried finding a rhythm again, but then I’d hear somebody coming up behind me.
“Excuse me.”
Zoom.
Another one. And then another.
Eventually one rider caught me at exactly the wrong moment. I got so discombobulated that I somehow managed to fall over while going approximately 2 mph on an almost flat section of trail.
I lost it and threw my bike down the mountain. Not my finest moment. But an honest and raw one.
I sat there angry for what felt like forever. Then I took my shoes off, dumped out all the rocks and dirt that had accumulated inside them and stewed. Eventually the anger became useful.
Keep moving.
It wasn’t pretty anymore. I was walking. A LOT. My pride was gone and my soul was getting bashed around, but there was only one objective left. Whenever I stopped, that was the phrase running through my head. Keep moving. Today isn’t the day to quit. You put in all this time. Feel sorry for yourself when you’re done.
I finally passed Star Lake, a place I normally think of as one of my favorite summer mountain bike rides in Tahoe, and watched the mileage click over 50. On this day I couldn’t have cared less how beautiful it was. The previous 10 miles had somehow felt as long as the first 40, and I still had a LONG way to go.
Ugh.
Because Apparently We Still Needed Freel Pass
Next came Freel Pass, another kick in the balls climb. The kind that leaves your ears ringing and your vision blurry. Because apparently thousands upon thousands of feet of climbing weren’t enough.
By this point everybody still out there looked cooked. Absolutely crushed. The faces had changed. Earlier in the day riders smiled and chatted. Now everybody had that thousand yard stare that said, Why did I decide to do this?
Nobody needed to explain. We were all just grinding.
Eventually I reached the top and started ripping downhill. Then I heard it.
THUNK.
The kind of sound that immediately produces an Uh oh.
I stopped and inspected the bike but couldn’t see anything obvious. Then I spotted the culprit, a massive chunk of granite that had slammed into the rear wheel and derailleur area. Everything seemed functional, so I kept going.
Eventually the shifting became randomly chaotic and a strange metallic ting started appearing. At the Armstrong aid station, I took a closer look.
Broken spoke. Of course.
I cut the loose section away, taped everything together with duct tape and kept going. Because what else are you going to do?
Racing Daylight Toward Mr. Toad’s
As I started climbing toward Tucker Meadow, the sun was dropping. The mountain fell into deep shade and suddenly everything felt different. Eerie.
There were a few riders scattered around, but much of the time I was alone again. Now daylight mattered, and shame started creeping back in. I’d started hours before most of the field. Surely everybody else was already finished. I felt embarrassed.
Eventually I got close to the beginning of the final descent and came across another rider. Both of us looked destroyed.
“How you doin’?” he asked.
“I’m beat, man.”
“Me too! I’ve been beat 30 miles ago!”
We both laughed. Not because anything was particularly funny. We were just happy to find somebody else dying at roughly the same rate.
Then he asked, “Have you done Toads?”
I nodded.
“Any chance I could follow your wheel down?”
Absolutely.
The Compliment I Needed After 60 Miles
Having a partner for the final descent changed everything. We rode Mr. Toad’s together and walked sections neither of us wanted anything to do with. Nobody cared.
I’ve ridden Mr. Toad’s enough to know exactly how demanding it can be even with fresh legs. After more than 60 miles, it was a completely different animal.
At one point we passed two guys who complimented our descending. I almost couldn’t believe it.
Me?
All my riding buddies crush descents. In my regular group, I’m usually the worst mountain biker. Here I was after spending the entire day watching people blow past me, and somebody was complimenting my riding.
It was exactly what I needed.
That’s when something finally clicked. I’d spent most of Rose to Toads measuring myself against everyone else. Who was faster. Who started later. Who passed me. How slowly I was moving. How many hours I’d trained. Whether I belonged there.
None of that was actually the point.
What Rose to Toads Is Really About
Sure, you could connect many of these trails yourself on another day, but that wouldn’t be Rose to Toads.
The event isn’t really about finishing fast. It isn’t even about how much it hurts. And although Rose to Toads certainly qualifies as a personal misogi, that’s not what makes it special either.
Rose to Toads is a celebration of Tahoe’s mountain bike community.
You feel it all the way around the lake. Volunteers give up their day to support hundreds of riders attempting something ridiculous. The Tahoe Rim Trail Association brought energy and encouragement to Spooner Summit. Heavenly Ski Patrol spent the day supporting riders. Shoreline of Tahoe turned Kingsbury into exactly the kind of oasis you need after hours on the bike, complete with food, encouragement and emergency bike fixes.
People physically carried gallons of water miles into the mountains on Armstrong Pass so exhausted strangers would have something to drink. Friends sent texts. Families waited. Riders who had never met encouraged each other. Two completely beaten strangers teamed up for the final descent simply because neither one wanted to finish alone.
Then there’s the finish line. Cowbells. People cheering. Friends waiting. Riders collapsing into chairs or onto the ground.
After spending most of the day feeling like Rose to Toads had dismantled me piece by piece, crossing that line hit differently than I expected. It took everything I had not to cry.
I’d spent hours believing I was failing because other people were faster than me. At the finish line, I couldn’t have cared less.
We’d all been through something together.
That’s Rose to Toads.
Would I Do Rose to Toads Again?
Ask me somewhere around Monument Pass and my answer would’ve been simple:
Absolutely not.
One and done. Never again.
A little time has passed now, and my brain has already started doing that stupid endurance athlete thing: Well… maybe after a few years off… I could probably come back and try to break 12 hours.
Apparently I learned nothing.
For now, though, I’m perfectly happy basking in the glow of simply finishing Rose to Toads, then crumpling to the ground at the finish like an empty beer can. And knowing that when Rose to Toads tried to convince me I didn’t belong out there, I kept moving anyway.
