RTR Day 7, Buena Vista to Breckenridge

June 21 — Buena Vista to Breckenridge

69 miles

5:31 ride time

8:00 elapsed time

Max. elevation 11,542′

Started at 6:50

It feels strange to be doing everything for the last time: tearing down camp, getting the bikes, loading the luggage, pulling all our gear on and rolling out. Last day of Ride the Rockies 2008.

All spring, every time I told someone I was doing Ride the Rockies, they’d want to know where it was going this year, and I would dutifully reply “Starts in Durango, ends in Breckenridge” and eyes would widen appreciatively. I just kept saying it again and again, wondering if repetition would make it seem more possible. It never really did. I just couldn’t really imagine what it would be like to ride 435 miles across the state. And here, at the end of this day, we’ll be in Breckenridge. So I guess I’ll know.

The morning is cool and hazy, and starts right off climbing out of town toward Trout Creek Pass, the first of two passes for the day:

And surely I can be forgiven for thinking, hey, I climbed Cottonwood Pass yesterday … whassa big deal?

Yes, the afterglow of Cottonwood was still with me. For about half an hour. That climb up to Trout Creek was a big, fat grinder, and first crack out of the bag, to boot. It now occurs that it’s the end of a long week of many miles and much climbing, and suddenly my legs are feeling like mush. Grrrrr. The road ain’t great either, a lot of traffic, and narrow. By the first really humpy part of the climb people are already bailing and walking. Could be … a long day.

And indeed, just getting to the first aid station of the day, only 15 miles into the ride at the summit of Trout Creek Pass, is a real effort. It was a grind.

And the mood is different this morning, too, it seems. We’re all realizing that we’re tired, and the high of Cottonwood is slowly being replaced by the spectre of Hoosier Pass, which, although it’s many miles down the road, stands between us and the big damn party in Breckenridge.

The day is still a bit strange and hazy, cool, almost clammy. The sun is out but I keep my arm warmers and knee warmers on as we push off for the downhill side of the pass. We will spend the next few hours and 30 miles or so skirting the west edge of South Park, the wide basin between the Front Range of the Rockies to the east and the Collegiate Peaks and Arkansas River valley we just left. Very different countryside than what we’ve been in; open, exposed, and a whole lot of it. And I hate to say it, but without any climbing, it gets a little monotonous.

The Hartsel aid station comes 14 miles from Trout Creek, and we disembark for our usual bottle filling and breakfast burrito. We’re both feeling silly and, I think, ready to be done and yet reluctant to have this amazing experience end.

But we still have a lot of miles ahead of us.

The next stretch, from Hartsel to Fairplay (about 20 miles) seems flat but is actually relentlessly uphill. The pack is really spread out today and Carol and I ride together most of the time, just the two of us. I’m just feeling tired today, and flat, and by the time we’re getting closer to Fairplay I start to seriously fall off her pace. I’ve been trying to keep fueled this morning but either I haven’t gotten the timing right, or I’ve just gotten worn down. By the time I get to the Fairplay aid station I’m really feeling low, cranky, and tired.

We all know that the climb to Hoosier begins immediately after this aid station, but as if to emphasize the point, the road just past the aid station visibly rears up. It’s not a nice sight. I feel terrible, really wobbly and wrung out, and I’m completely dreading this last climb. I’m testy and snappy with Carol. It’s still cool, and when the sun goes under a cloud the wind comes up and it’s almost chilly.

I get something to eat; I also treat myself to a fruit smoothie. When asked if I want any supplements in it (protein, etc.) yes, I do ask for steroids. No luck.

The sag wagons are busy, busy. We hear an RTR official announcing that there’s now a waiting list for sag; a lot of people are tired, and the vision of the road cranking up just past the aid station is having a definite effect. I’m reluctant, to say the least, but at some point we’re gonna have to go. And so we finally do.

It is indeed an ugly hump from the aid station, but then we’re in a series of rollers for the next few miles. I know this climb to the pass will be bad, but it will end; end every mile that slips under our wheels now is that many fewer to go.

We come into the tiny town of Alma, the highest-elevation town in the country. Who knew? There’s not much here, some old, old buildings, a going mine, a saloon. I ask for a short rest break and we pull over on the sidewalk for a few minutes. Riders keep trickling through — I guess we didn’t all sag!

Past Alma, we’re finally on the nowhere-to-go-but-up part of the climb. The climb starts from a pretty high altitude so there are no switchbacks, just pretty much a straight shot up to the top. One big, loooooooong ramp. We all settle into our little individual cocoons of concentration, going deep, going slow, but going, and going. Carol has dropped me; we’ll see each other again at the top.

I climb a good long way and finally give in to a short rest break. The break is good; the break is bad. I gain a little relief, but I lose my rhythm. I’m not feeling the altitude too badly, my wind is hanging in there, but my legs are so shot. I rest three or four minutes and then clip back in.

My counting game is not working on this climb, because each time I get to 100 my mind is thinking, okay, maybe I can stop. I don’t even want to let that into my mind, no wavering, no stopping. Gotta just keep going. I start in on a mantra, I … can … do … this … I … can … do … this. It’s getting really hard and I’m starting to feel it in my lungs. Then I’m just repeating I … I … I … the road is still rising ahead of me and now I’m gasping with each breath, agghh, agghh, agghh. But I’m not … gonna … stop.

Finally, I see cars up ahead, on the side of the road. Thank you jesus, it’s the top. A few hundred yards more and it’s over. I coast to a stop, unclip, and walk slowly across the road to find Carol. She repaid the favor from Cottonwood Pass yesterday and shot this video of me coming up:

And here’s a beautiful, beautiful thing:

Carol and Terry on Hoosier Pass

Now it’s 10 miles to Breckenridge and the finish line. To quote Lyle Lovett:

     I’ve had an excellent time, so far
     There’s only one thing that I fear
     I’ve been up so long on this lucky star
     It could be all downhill from here …

That song has been stuck in my head all week, and now, whizzing down the other side of Hoosier Pass, I’m singing it at the top of my lungs.

Yeeeaaaahhhhhhh.

The descent is fun, twisty, giddy, and we’re all going faster than traffic so we’re taking up the whole lane. Carol and I know this stretch of road from when we vacationed in Breck last winter, so we feel like we’re getting on to home turf. We’re flying and life is so good. Ten miles later, we’re on the outskirts of town; our faithful, faceless orange spray paint pavement markers have been busy and there are messages of encouragement and celebration (I just loved one of messages spray painted on the climb up to Hoosier: DEATH BEFORE SAG). A couple of blocks later there’s a sharp left turn; I call up to Carol, who’s just ahead of me, and she slows down so we pass under the Finish banner hand-in-hand.

And then it’s over: 435 miles, four passes, two summits, and one divide. A lot of Pig Newtons and only one flat tire. Gallons of Gatorade, a couple of cold showers, and a lot of Porta-Potties. Highs and lows and one awful damn big grin. Awful damn big. We did it.

Can’t WAIT ’til next year!

 

 

 

 

 

RTR Day 6, Crested Butte to Buena Vista

June 20 — Crested Butte to Buena Vista

76 miles

5:43 ride time

9:00 elapsed time

Max. elevation 12,126′

Started at 6:45

It’s incredible what one day of rest will do for both your body and your attitude! We were both up early and ready to go this morning, nervous and excited about Cottonwood Pass. It had been my singular point of worry all through training, but I’ve felt so strong this week, and getting stronger … I’m ready to take a swing at it.

A beautiful morning in Crested Butte.

Full moon over Crested Butte

We caught the shuttle bus down into Crested Butte town and stationed our duffel in the parking lot next to the transport trucks. We have a system now:

1. Leave our regular shoes on, drop off the duffel near the trucks.
2. Walk the requisite 19 miles to where the bike lock-up is located (always at the maximum distance from the trucks).
3. Get bikes and walk them back to trucks.
4. Change into our cycling shoes, stow our regular shoes in the duffel, and load duffel onto truck.

Walking in cycling shoes is a pain and it ain’t too good for the cleats, either. But now that we’re almost through the week, we’ve figured it out!

But something strange is going on this morning — why has someone spray painted all the bikes white? The cool mountain air has pooled down in the valley overnight, and there’s a heavy frost. The air is frigid. The poor people who camped out at the school last night are struggling to pack up tents stiff with frost. We chatted with one guy later in the day who said the temperature in his tent was 32 degrees this morning! We picked a darn good time not to be camping.

So it was a chilly, chilly start to the day. That tortuous uphill that we had struggled through late Wednesday afternoon into Crested Butte was now a fantastic 17-mile downhill to the turn-off and first aid station of the day at Almont. Although it was cold, the day was crystal clear; alongside the road were brilliant green pastures of cattle, and frogs singing from the ponds. Almost too incredible to believe.

RTR Day 6, Crested Butte to Buena Vista

And it was absolutely delicious “gravity biking,” which is what I’ve decided to call the phenomenon whereby all you have to do is pull your leg up and let the weight of it carry through the rest of the pedaling cycle; gravity does the rest. This happens on long stretches like these that are slightly downhill. You build up a most wonderful momentum, and while you’re still pedaling, it seems almost effortless and you can easily roll along at 20 mph. Sweeeeeeeeeet.

So we made short work of it to Almont, where we left the main road and turned east toward the pass. Yes, it was open. I was not going to be denied the chance to face down my demon.

The mood out on the road and at the aid station is high and excited. It seems the rest day did us all good, and another beautiful morning is unfolding around us. We’ve all been on our bikes enough hours and across enough miles since we began, way back in Durango, that we’re feeling strong and confident. So much effort has already been put out … so many turns of the cranks. And now this big, big climb.

Leaving Almont, the road winds up along the Taylor River through yet more incredible Colorado scenery. For those of us who live on the Front Range, cozied up against the mountains but spending most of our time on the hot, dry flats, being in the rural high country day after day is such a treat. What a truly fantastic way to see the state.

The morning chill is finally easing and a few miles up the road from Almont people are beginning to pull over to shed their layers. Lush pastureland borders the river along this quiet road, smoke drifts from the chimney of a ranch house tucked back in against the hills. The road is climbing, but gently, and soon we’re at the second aid station.

The station is back from the road in the shade of the pine trees. Carol and I are both feeling good, good, good and we take the time for some breakfast burritos and to enjoy the gorgeous morning. Another ten miles of climbing, including one sharp, short uphill to Taylor Park and the reservoir. The landscape opens up around the reservoir and we can now see the snowy ridge of the Continental Divide ahead of us, to the north and east. Folks are down on the reservoir, in their boats fishing; what must they think of this endless train of cyclists coming through?

(“They gotta be nuts …”)

We top off our bottles at the Taylor Park aid station, then pedal a few miles further around the reservoir until we reach the turn-off for Cottonwood Pass. Here the pavement ends; we’ll see it again in fourteen miles, at the summit of the pass.

Riding skinny-tire road bikes on a dirt road? I truly wondered about this idea. But RTR has gone over Cottonwood several times before, so I had to imagine they knew what they were doing. And it turns out that the dirt road is amazingly good — very smooth, wide, and hard-packed. There were definitely areas with sandy potholes (not fun; they’d suck your wheels every which way), some washboards, some gravelly patches. But almost always you could steer yourself around the hazards and keep to the hard pack. It got trickier as we ascended and people began to get tired; it required some serious concentration to pick out a good line while moving in and out around the other riders.

So now it was just time to shift it down, down, down and just chug. We hit aid station 4 about half-way up the climb and took a good long rest. The road climbed first through open scrub land, and then into the cool of the pine forest. And it climbed. And it climbed. Chug. Chug. Chug.

I started playing my counting games to keep my mind occupied, to distract myself from the tiredness in my legs. This is something Carol taught me when we were first training and I was trying to overcome my psychological distress with hill climbing, and it has really worked well for me. I either count breaths or pedal strokes, work my way up to fifty, and then start over. On the short hills around Fort Collins I never get past 150; here climbing towards Cottonwood I would do sets of one hundred with this carrot held out to myself: every time you get to 500, you can stop and take a little breather.

Now the road was beginning to come up out of the trees, and soon it began to switch back, back again, corkscrew its way up to the pass. Coming out of the trees was great because it meant the top was getting closer; but not so great, because now you could see where the road was going. And it was still going up.

But my legs were feeling great and I wasn’t having to stop. I … was … climbing … Cottonwood … Pass. I kept going by people and I kept feeling good. I came up to a sharp switchback where the photo people were stationed and I was feeling so ferocious that I flashed ‘em a bicep on my way past. Now I was climbing between massive snowbanks — the great, overhanging drift below the pass that had kept the road closed until just a week ago. People who had passed earlier had carved GO RTR! in big letters into cold walls, brilliant in the sun. I came up the last long ramp to the pass, crossed over onto pavement, and was there.

I didn’t know where Carol was; I had passed her a mile or two below and knew she’d be right behind me. I put my bike down quickly, dug out my camera, and ran back down the road to catch her coming up:

That’s Carol (fifth rider coming up) topping out Cottonwood Pass. Yeah, baby. That’s what I’m talkin’ about!

The wind was whipping fiercely at the summit, but the sun was warm, the day clear as a sounding bell. This is early afternoon on a summer day at high altitude in Colorado — not usually a good time to be on top of a mountain. But the charmed weather we’ve been having all week is holding again today and it’s time to party on Cottonwood.

I hugged Carol and we laughed; I was so overcome with emotion that I cried, too. It was an indescribable sensation — of accomplishment, pride, strength, and pure joy. I was in the most beautiful place in the whole world, with my partner, best friend, and dearest love, and we’d gotten there, together, on our own two wheels. All the hours and miles of training, all the hills I had battled my way up, all the while thinking, I don’t know if I can do this … so hard … so tired … and yet, here I am. I didn’t just climb this hill. I crushed it.

It was such a powerful experience, neither one of us wanted to leave. The poor Highway Patrol officer who was directing traffic at the crest of the pass was having a time of it — all these completely insane and giddy cyclists running around in the road, taking pictures, just being nuts — and the people in their cars wondering if the bus from the asylum had crashed and all the inmates escaped. It was truly a scene.

And ya know what’s next? Nineteen transcendental miles downhill to Buena Vista, a classic rip-snortin’ descent, and you want to talk about being high on life? You know you’re having an experience you’ll never forget.

Carol blew me up going downhill (although I think I cracked 40 mph for the first time) and we caught up with each other again just a couple miles outside of BV. “Bueny” (pronounced “Byoony”) has hosted RTR many times and is another one of those wonderful communities, like Montrose, that really has its act together. Getting set up at the high school was a breeze, and we were soon on the shuttle bus to the town park for a fantastic dinner and live music, at the end of one of the most memorable days of my life.