Ride the Rockies - June 1992

Live fast, die young, have a beautiful corpse. (motto of James Dean)

My participation in this ride started about half a year ago when Robert, Rick, Jim and I egged each other into signing up for it. Showing a nonchalant and macho attitude in our electronic mail exchanges was easy. We promised ourselves to train a lot, to ride 150 miles a week (at least) and do all kinds of endurance building exercises. Well..., I commuted to work, drank too much beer (because it was good) and spent too many Saturdays at work (because I had to). My last hope was in the lottery system. But when I got a call from the organizers with a question about the size of my jersey, I knew that I had to start packing.

Lay out all your clothes and all your money. Then, take half the clothes and twice the money. (Susan Butler Anderson)

Beware of undertaking too much at the start. Be content with quite a little. Allow for accidents. Allow for human nature, especially your own. (Arnold Bennet)

After some confusion and standing in the wrong lines to the wrong tables, wrong trucks and wrong buses, we deposit our stuff in the right places and we deposit ourselves in a bus. We leave around 9 o'clock in a caravan of buses. The ride is long but after we head west from Walzenburg it becomes scenic and interesting. Mt. Blanca, Sangre de Cristo Mountains and the Great Sand Dunes. Sagebrush and sun. A sign by the road says: "psychiatry kills".

I discreetly glance at the "foreigners" on the bus (they came from the East and West coasts, but also from Italy, England, Switzerland). The wild desert surrounds us. Massive peaks surround the desert. Nature looks and is, serious here. Serious faces around me show that they got the nature's message.

Fog on the east side of the mountains gives way to sun when we cross onto the west side and arrive in Alamosa. A quick lunch and we continue to Durango. We arrive there in mid afternoon. Mad dash for the camping field. We pitch our tents and then, a bit more relaxed, we reassemble our bicycles. Miraculously, we manage to put them together and they appear to be working. We also get our registration packets which include: a so-called fanny pack (but not by Englishmen and mad dogs), matching tags for my "wurst", for my bicycle and for me, a water bottle (marked Coors Light - pee of the Rockies...), and a map of the tour. The map contains crosscuts of all the peaks and passes awaiting us. They resemble Hanna's drawing on my bicycle box.

Some people take their bicycles for a spin and they ride up and down the main street showing off muscles, gleaming smiles and shiny "grouppos". We decide that we will have enough riding pretty soon. No sense burning out on the first night. We walk a few blocks to the tavern which serves local beer.

First do it, then say it. (Sergei Bubka, Russian pole-vaulter)

Robert joins us at 7:30 and at 8 we start our first ride. There are hundreds of riders before us and hundreds behind. We ride off as a foursome, but soon Robert and I form one pair, and Jim teams up with Rick for the other. It will stay like this for the rest of the ride.

The first 15 miles provide an easy ride through some rolling hills and mixed forest. I have time to look around. There are people on fancy bikes, and on cheap bikes, on mountain bikes (fancy and not), and on tandems, people with funny shirts, funny hats, and some stuffed animals on the back racks. Some groups obviously prepared for this big event. They ride together, dressed alike in custom made jerseys which say: "P.H.A.R.T.S", "Gang of Seven", "Hell Riders"...

Robert and I are settling into a good pacing and drafting pattern. Soon we come to the first big switchback. From this point, the road only goes up. It is also the site of the first aid station (6,700 ft). There must be at least five hundred bicyclists here. We slowly negotiate our way through this prancing and loud crowd and we begin the climb. Low gear, crank fast, swig of water, crank...Surrounded by hundreds of people; alone in a huge crowd.

The second aid station is at Purgatory (8,800 ft). Water, bananas; and TV-personality Larry Green behind me, waiting patiently in a long line to the porta-johns. There are no big groups riding together anymore. It is a single and lonely struggle now.

In the next 17 miles we climb to top of Coal Bank Pass (10,600 ft). It is a relentless climb, and unlike the previous fifteen miles (to Purgatory), the altitude makes a big difference on this stretch. I start noticing fancy bikes and equally fancy looking riders resting on the roadside. Their eyes show that they finally understand the meaning of the old West phrase - "seeing the elephant".

It is a perfect riding day. No wind. Sunny but not too hot (mostly because of the high altitude). We crawl. Our speeds differ by a fraction of a mile. Still I get to the pass alone. More water, more bananas, and I get ready to drop a thousand feet only to ascend it back again to the crest of Molas Divide (10,800).

On Molas Divide I find Robert and we pair up again for the very fast and curvy descent to Silverton. Ve-e-e-ry fast -- speeds up to 50 mph. That evening we learn from Jim, who has volunteered to be one of 35 medics during the ride, that someone fell on that descent and skinned himself pretty badly. Brrr..

We ride through the only paved street into Silverton and I feel good. I like this town. It is simple, but it has a lot of character. It has never lost the atmosphere of a small, proud town; it is not yet spoiled or "cutified" by the sickly sweet pinks and purples that mar Breckenridge and a few other old mining towns. Perhaps the huge, majestic mountains that surround the town on all sides, with active avalanche chutes clearly visible from the main street, provide a daily reminder about what's important and what's not.

With Robert's help, I succeed in locating my bag after a considerable search. Then we find three roughly even spots in a tent village at the north end of town and we pitch our tents. We crave a shower, but give up when we are confronted with the prospect of a long queue to a cold shower. I decide that the same quality of ablution is offered by the brown stream, swollen from melting snows, that runs nearby. I dive into it.

Silverton is swarming with bikers. It is a small town and bikers are everywhere. Local restaurants go out of their way to accommodate this strange, once in a year crowd, and advertise opening times of 4 and 5 am. We eat some Mexican food and drink lots of beer. We can't finish the last pitcher and give it away to some guys at the next table. We get funnel cakes - a local delicacy.

The sun is setting behind the mountains and it's getting cold very quickly. A small dog's barking wakes me up twice during the night. Perhaps the dog finds all these tents and snoring people to be a rather unusual sight. I think he's right. I decide to convert my Coors Light water bottle into a pee-bottle. Quite appropriate, I think, and I fall into a comfortable sleep again.

The night is very cold and when I peek out of my tent at five, I see lots of shivering bodies standing around in fancy biking clothes trying to pack their frozen tents. It is still fairly dark. The sun does not reach this deep valley until about 7 am.

Be absolutely determined to enjoy what you do. (Gerry Sikorski)

At 7:30, we ride off, muffled in hats, gloves, and sweatpants. We push hard to get warm. At ten thousand feet, the slopes are awash in warm sunlight; we scramble to undress.

Another gorgeous day. Clear sky, no wind. The police block the northbound lane for us, and shuttle cars from this point. This is necessary to make the passage through Red Mountain Pass and the descent to Ouray safe for everyone. On the other side of Red Mountain Pass, there are many places where the road runs on a shelf cut from an almost vertical slope. We pass through a tunnel and a snow shed, which is designed to carry avalanches over the highway and into the abyss on the left. The canyon is deep and murky at the bottom. From the top of the pass (11,100 ft) we drop over three thousand feet in a distance of barely 13 miles.

We coast through Ouray and then ride rolling terrain down towards Montrose which is 35 miles away. Feeling good, we skip the aid station in Ridgeway and continue along the Uncompahgre River. The road is perfectly suited for our style of riding and working together. I pull uphill and then tuck behind Robert who barrels down; as he loses momentum, I jump forward and the cycle repeats. On average we move much faster than single riders and we are passed only by groups that ride in the same style as ours. These are mostly skinny Italian boys named Guido and Marco, and tenacious American dames who with powerful leg strokes prove their superiority over us (huffing, middle aged men). Guidos and Thelmas. They are fun to watch (but not to follow).

The road is rather busy with all the bikers and fairly heavy car traffic. We do not stop at Colona (the third aid station) and enter the final, eleven-mile stretch of the road. Suddenly we are slowed down by a traffic jam. Slowly inching forward, we come upon the ambulance into which a badly injured rider is being loaded at that moment. Robert is in front of me, and I notice that after that spot he rides slower than before. I don't have to ask why.

We get to Montrose a few minutes before noon. It is hot. After the ritual of searching for our bags, leaving a cryptic map for Rick and Jim, and pitching the tents on a big open field of the local high school, we hop onto a special school bus and ride to the municipal swimming pool. The pool is cool, and the showers are hot. A hot shower after three days feels really good. This facility has a unique way of controlling the usage of lockers. It is based on a simple exchange: a shoe for a key. The locker room is full of stripe-tanned men hobbling around in one shoe.

Rick and Jim join us for a dinner of plentiful Mexican food and three pitchers of marger-r-ritas, in a joint that has no ambiance whatsoever. When we get back to our tents, the campground is subdued with anxiety over tomorrow's ride - a long and hot climb up Blue Mesa.

The East Wind, and interloper in the dominions of Westerly Weather, is an impassive-faced tyrant with a sharp poniard held behind his back for a treacherous stab. (Joseph Conrad, The Mirror of the Sea)

We drop a thousand feet from Cerro Summit and after a stop at the Pleasant Valley we continue up Blue Mesa. The wind is no more, and it gets hotter. But we reach the Blue Mesa Summit in better shape than we expected. Twelve more miles and we get to the west end of Blue Mesa Reservoir. Having covered 40 miles up to this point we deserve a break.

The aid station in Sapinero is set up in the parking lot of an old fashioned lodge. Locals are more than ready for the hungry bikers' business. The parking lot turns into a festive picnic ground. Bikes and sweaty and sunburned muscles attract reserved stares from local cowpokes. Especially svelte females in "de rigeur" skimpy black tops arouse visible interest in those fellas. Their eyes show a mixture of disapproval and lust -- a dangerous combination. Time to leave.

Alas my stomach starts acting up and I have to "nupe it". It sort of works, and for the next five or so miles I coast behind Robert. There are still 26 miles to go. Then I feel better, ready to resume my duties in our pattern of drafting and pulling. Soon two good riders catch up with us. Their contribution makes the end of this long ride pleasant and almost easy. We arrive at the Western State College in Gunnison a little bit after 2 o'clock.

The campus feels homey, even though the architecture is a queer mixture of bauhaus and Spanish "casa". The campground is set up on a big grassy field next to the football stadium. Plenty of space and plenty of view. Tents pitched and we leave for downtown in search of food and beer.

After some scouting, we end up in Mario's Pizza, a hot and busy place which is fully prepared for the onslaught "them hungry bikers". Hooting and yelling, clinking and clanking of pots fill the air; college age waitresses with Mad-Hatter's grins scamper around on quick, tanned legs.

We eat more than we can; and drink lots of beer. A half full pitcher of beer is left for us by some guys who couldn't finish it. I guess that it's only fair. We left half a pitcher in Silverton; now we get it back.

I decide that the best part of the ride is over (for me at least). I call to arrange a pickup in Salida. I sort of planned it this way; now I decide to go ahead with this plan.

All four of us leave Mario's feeling like stuffed turkeys. We walk back downtown and we find a local band playing at the intersection. A girl with a husky voice, on an acoustic guitar and two scrawny, long-haired dudes, who despite their young age have already mastered all the licks, moves and tricks of all the Claptons, Townsends and Slashes of the world. They also have an excellent drummer. Her proficiency clearly shows what a difference a good drummer makes in a rock'n'roll band. They are a true blue rock'n'roll band, and they roar like wildfire, without stopping -- from sixties to eighties, to country, to blues.

Soon small clusters of dancers appear. Girls first, as usual. Then on the right, a young man in a wheel chair (he rides this tour in a hand powered tricycle). Soon he is surrounded by five ladies, all swooning and turning around him. A sweet Iowa lady asks me to dance. Robert and I miss the last shuttle. As walk back to the campground, Robert is fixing the metal plates which cover shallow water channels running along the streets.

Bite on the bullet, old man, and don't let them think you're afraid. (Rudyard Kipling)

We lumber laboriously onto our bikes around 7:30, falling into the now familiar pattern of pacing, drafting and leading. We still manage to cover the first, relatively easy, 32 miles at a decent pace. We talk very little. By now we have developed a system of gestures which allows us to work together for long stretches of time without saying much. The only words come in the form of mantra-like repetition: "on your left...on your left....left.....leeeft". Sargents aid station is at 8,500 feet. We take time to drink, eat oranges and to find strength for the torturous climb to Monarch Pass. Three thousand feet in ten miles. Steady grade, steady grind.

Again, youthful, sprite boys and girls, with visions of "Le'Huez" and LeMond in their serious eyes, pass by with a frustrating effortlessness. I just watch the road and the clouds, and the tanned backs of those girls, and I crank. Slowly. Then I hear a voice. Someone is singing in front of me. Curiosity makes me ride faster. I catch up with a lady who rides slow and sings slow blues. I can barely get enough air to go forward, and she sings!

Robert stops and then I stop to get a picture of him. I don't catch up with him until the pass, where he apologetically confides that he broke one of our rules, and followed one of those tanned and fast girls.

I arrive at the pass about quarter to noon. It is sunny but cool because of the altitude (11,300 ft). Hundreds of cyclists and bikes. Sandwiches, bananas, tanned bodies, water, oranges - all mixed together. It takes us about half an hour to find each other, and another half to get going. Clouds are building up, so we start moving a bit quicker. As we clear the first corner we catch sight of big, dark ominous clouds over the valley into which we are about to descend. Suddenly there is a real incentive to move fast.

It's 23 miles down to Salida. I do not dare to follow Robert as he plummets down the curves, but I still reach almost 50 mph. Then rain and hail hit. My feet are soaked and cold, but the rest of my body gets hot and steamy under the parka and overmittens. I concentrate on the road. Water spray from under the front wheel almost blinds me.

I pass Robert and in his concentration to stay on the road he does not even notice me. A few miles later he catches up, and we ride hard and fast to Salida. It stops raining and gets warm. Dark clouds hang above. I sweat inside my raingear as I try to follow Robert who seems hell-bent on catching up with one of the wiry Italian boys who hammers down with no rain protection at all.

Salida, the promised land. The well-rehearsed ritual of finding our bags. The hurried shower and tasty potato salad. My buddies arrive and help me pack my stuff into my Jeep.

I feel relieved that I won't have to cope with the rain, lines and bad nights, but I also feel somewhat bad leaving Rick, Jim and Robert behind. 285 miles and 15 thousand feet of climbing is enough for me. I feel content. It's time to go home.

"Wine is only sweet to happy men." "Letters to Fanny Brawne" (1819) John Keats.