RTR Day 1: Durango to Cortez

June 15 — Durango to Cortez

47 miles

3:21 ride time

4:00 elapsed

Started at 7:20 am

I didn’t sleep too badly, in spite of being tired and wound-up, and when the alarm went off at 5:00 we were both ready to see what was going to happen next. We caught the shuttle bus back to the high school without incident, got our bag loaded on the baggage truck, and sat down to breakfast in the high school cafeteria. There was hardly any line — the only time THAT happened all week, let me tell ya. I had such a knot in my stomach I could hardly eat. We hung around until the opening ceremonies were finished and then joined the river of two-wheeled humanity flowing out onto the road.

I was just a mess. I was so nervous — and I hadn’t gotten my seat height set right when we put the bikes together the day before — and the angle of my handlebars was wrong, too. I was tight all over and nothing felt “right.” I stopped us twice on the way out of town to adjust my seat; I was snappish and cranky and it’s a wonder Carol didn’t tell me to just get over myself. I had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. The day’s ride was short — under 50 miles — but the route profile made the climb up Hesperus Hill look very ominous. (As the week wore on we got better at interpreting how these profiles actually translated into real life — sometimes more accurately than others!).

RTR 2008 Day 1, Durango to Cortez

It was really different to be riding with soooo many other people. As was the case the whole week, about 2/3 of the riders were very good about warning you with “on your left!” as they passed. Then there were the others … mostly it was just a point of good manners, but there would be times when someone would come hammerin’ right past you, right off your wheel, and just about startle the hell out of you.

The climbing started pretty much right out of town, as we wound up a lovely canyon. It was a bit of a slog, but not the monster it had looked on the profile. Some people were bailing out and walking, but I ground on up in my very low-gear grindy way and found Carol waiting for me at the first aid station.

The first aid station! Success. Maybe this WAS gonna be okay.

And what a gorgeous morning! Durango — all of southwest Colorado — is a treasure trove of mountains, valleys, and wide-opens; shading a bit into what looks like the canyon country of Utah, but still with that lovely high-mountain freshness of Colorado. From the top of Hesperus Hill we could see back into the valley of Durango and the San Juan Mountains to the east and north, and toward the drier country of Cortez to the west.

By now I was loosening up and enjoying the ride. Before I knew it we were to the second aid station, at Mancos. This was the drill: get pulled off the road without running over anyone else, or getting run over yourself by one of the other dozens of cyclists coming or going; find a place to lay the bike down, or prop the two of them together (a delicate art form of balance which we perfected as the week went on); put on your cleat covers, re-apply sunscreen, get water bottles and clomp on up to where the Gatorade barrels were located; hit the porta-potties as necessary; re-apply the Chamois Butt’r; clomp on back to the bikes, remove cleat covers, re-mount and continue.

Aid stations are the best thing ever. During the course of a multi-hour ride, you need to consume a steady stream of carbohydrates, mostly in the form of sugar — stuff that can get into your muscles fast, with a minimum of processing — in order to avoid the dreaded “bonk.” Optimally, this means at least a full bottle of Gatorade, Accelerade, Cytomax, whatever, per hour. RTR obviously has a deal with Gatorade, which was okay, but as the week wore on Carol in particular found that it didn’t work as well for her as some of the other stuff we’ve used. But I digress. Aid stations at RTR were spaced at just about 1-hour intervals, which was a perfect time to top off the bottles and even get another little snack, if needed. Carol and I both carried a supply of Fig Newtons for extra carbs (”Pig” Newtons, as they came to be called), and let me tell you, having never been really all that fond of them anyway, I am REALLY over them now. But they give you a good little pop as you’re riding along.

(On a short ride like this one, on Day 1, we didn’t need to eat anything else while we were riding. But later in the week, after being out for six or seven or more hours, you have to eat as well as drink.)

The rest of the ride into Cortez was nice, uneventful, and fast. We passed by the entrance to Mesa Verde National Park and were then on a mostly flat, hot and dry stretch for the last few miles into town. Into a west headwind, of course. We hooked up with another woman rider who was going at our pace and took turns “pulling” for each other in a mini pace line. The person in front “pulls” and the others draft, of course, or more accurately “suck.” Pulling and sucking. I had many, many, many hours to contemplate their dual natures over the week. Maaaaannnnnnyyyyy.

Carol is a natural puller, being the strong cyclist she is. I’m a natural sucker. What can I say? Anyway, the three of us made short work of the last bit into Cortez, and soon enough we were at the high school.

So: first day’s ride under our belts (or I should say, sweaty waistbands), and now to figure out the REST of the drill.

First: leave bikes at secure lockup area. Check. But remember to take sunscreen out of the seat bag, leave helmet, take water bottles.

Second: where are the baggage trucks? As was the case every day, in every town, the baggage trucks are parked at the farthest possible point from the camping area (usually the football field).

Third: how do we get these two horrible behemoth bags from the trucks to the football field? Today we’re lucky: enterprising kids are offering wagons, wheelbarrows, and the muscles to move them and our bags, all for tips. Hell, kid — you got it.

Sweet! There’s a great spot right inside the fence. We’re set up in pretty quick fashion and pleased with ourselves. It becomes obvious, however, that this “prime spot” was still available because it was right next to the phalanx of porta-potties that follow RTR everywhere. It’s not that they smell — it’s that, starting at about 4:00 in the morning, there’s a steady stream (pardon the pun) of people slamming in and out of them. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Okay. We learned fast.

The next adventure was … The Shower Truck! I’ve never seen such a thing. It’s a semi-trailer, divided in two sections, each with five or six shower stalls. One for the guys, one for the women. Completely cramped quarters, naked happy cyclist bodies of all shapes, sizes, and ages; chatting and laughing, and glorious running water. It was wonderful! The line outside the guys’ side was long, and they looked pretty glum standing out in the hot sun. For one thing, there are a lot more men doing RTR than women, so there’s just a numbers issue there. But one of the women was laughing anyway, saying the guys were too shy to all pile in there like we women did … they were going one at a time.

Dang! Did the ride! Set up the tent! Showered! Clean clothes! A lovely lunch of baked potato with all the fixin’s! We were pretty pleased with ourselves. And since it was baking hot outside, we brought our two Thermarest mattresses into the high school, put them down in the hallway, and sacked out for a couple of hours. All this and a nap, too. Life is goooooood …

After our little snooze, we were ready for more fun. We jumped on a shuttle bus that took us to the Cortez Cultural Center, location of the beer garden and evening’s entertainment. We lounged in the shade, enjoyed our Fat Tires, and started to really settle into the RTR experience. Which is to say … who’s got it better’n us? Ain’t NOBODY got it better’n us!

Carbo loading, Ride the Rockies-style