RTR Day 2: Cortez to Telluride

June 16 — Cortez to Telluride

77 miles

5:57 ride time

8:45 elapsed time

Started at 7:15

Okay. Kid stuff is over. Now comes the first real ride — 77 miles to Telluride, over Lizard Head Pass. My longest training ride had been 62 miles, and today we’d go over 10,000 feet to boot.

Got some sleep the night before — being tired sure helps. We have a dandy system of sleeping bags, foam pads, and Thermarest mattresses that, coupled with with the soft ground of the football field, make a pretty darn comfy bed. Ear plugs are essential as well — we are crammed together like a Bombay suburb and tent walls don’t give you a whole lot of privacy. It’s an interesting experience.

But now it’s time for up and at ‘em, wiggle into our Lycra (I’m wearing my Mizzou jersey today, to fly the colors atop our first pass), and pack up our camp. We join the many other hundreds of our tribe in the long, long line for breakfast — ahhh, breakfast. There was just no way around it. You have to eat. And so does everyone else. We tried several different ways of timing our arrival during the week, but nothing worked. There was always a line. A loooooooooooooooong line. A slow line. And I’m none too happy to be even be up at 5:00 in the morning, to begin with. And you want to get going, get on the road. But instead — you wait.

This morning was funny because the man collecting money (the morning’s breakfast supported the local public radio station) got all lit up over my Mizzou jersey. “Hey, did you see the guy in the KU sweatshirt?” he asked me, and I said, Yeah, I did. “Should have charged him extra,” he said. All during the day people were hollering at me, Hey, Mizzou! And Go, Tigers! Carol would just grin and shake her head. And I would just puff up like crazy.

But we’re just dilly-dallying here, aren’t we? We finally got ourselves fed and collected and clipped into our pedals at around 7:15. The route profile showed a sharp climb out of Cortez toward Dolores, and our first aid station of the day.

RTR 2008 Day 2, Cortez to Telluride

It was hard getting started; it takes some miles before the joints feel lubricated and some kind of rhythm comes back. We pedaled along back roads out of Cortez and then had just a bit of a climb to Dolores, not bad. That was a little over an hour of riding and a good warm-up. For the next few hours the road wound up along the Dolores River, through an absolutely beautiful green, lush, cool valley. The grade was so gently uphill that it was hardly noticeable.

These miles rolled very easily by and the morning was just delightful. As we went higher, we started seeing more aspen and sharper hills ahead. We took a good long break at the aid station in Rico, an old mining town; the grade was definitely beginning to pick up, and would continue to steepen as we approached Lizard Head Pass, 18 miles ahead.

Hills. Climbing. My Achilles’ Heel. My first pass, my first test. It’s not so bad for the first 8 or 10 miles out of Rico. Uphill, but manageable. I pulled over once to take a couple of pictures — hey, it’s not a race! Stop and smell the roses. And catch your breath.

All of a sudden, the hill gets serious, and my heart sinks. Well, here we go. Pain and suffering. It is a sharp little pitch and I set my sights on a target farther up the road — the end of a guardrail along a pull-out — and take another rest break. Yeesh. It’s gonna be a long haul to the top.

But then I’m back on and the grade flattens out — ! I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m getting up above tree line now, but the road is just wandering placidly along. It seems to have gotten the nastiness out of its system. Sure enough, a mile or two of this and I can see the summit ahead. You can tell the summit of any pass along the RTR route, because it’s a giant party. Hundreds of people, music playing, huge traffic jam, and more boatloads of freakin’ nutty cyclists arriving by the minute. There is a sizable contingent of Colorado State Highway Patrol with us all week, motorcycle cops, and they do their level best to keep us from getting run over in our giddy excitement as we jump off our bikes and start hugging everyone around us.

It’s nuts.

Pass bagging: Lizard Head Pass, 10,222'

There are bunches of photos from Lizard Head on my Flickr page; check them out.

What an amazing feeling, to be on top of the first pass! It was just huge. Just that one bad little hump, and the rest was no big deal. Incredible boost to my confidence! And a flat-out gorgeous, beautiful place to be. We grinned; we giggled; we hugged and mugged for the camera. Wow.

And 3/4 of the way to Telluride! Just 13 more miles, mostly downhill! Baby! Let’s get the party started!

Did I mention something already about the difficulty in interpreting the route profile maps? Well, the map shows this one leetle hill between us and Telluride, at the Ophir Loop Junction. And it just about killed me. It just went on … and on … and on. I passed a man on a hand bike (used by paraplegics; you pedal it with your arms) and we were both coming up around a curve to find that there was still MORE hill ahead. I can’t repeat what he said, but it went double for me. @#$%. It was just endless.

Mixed in with that were downhills that were frighteningly steep on a road that was amply cracked and potholed. Each morning, in the wee wee hours, the intrepid RTR road marking crew went out before us with their cans of orange spray paint to mark road hazards. They must’ve gone through a few cans on that descent into Telluride; and to top it all off, there was a crosswind. So for yours truly, who is still quite nervous about the consequences of something going wrong when you’re screaming down a mountain pass at over 30 mph … it was white-knuckle time, for sure. Plus, if you white-knuckle it for long enough, you start to get cramps in your hands from squeezing the brake levers.

It was good to finally get down the hill.

We then had a lovely (not) several mile ride on Telluride’s terrible bike trail — so rough I was surprised to have any fillings left in my teeth when we finally arrived at the school. Not nice. We were getting a little frayed around the edges. Add to this that it was 4:00, and we had massages scheduled at 5:00. Mad scramble to find the baggage, claim one little patch of ground on the football field, and line up for the shower truck — but running out of time. There was a rumor of indoor showers in the girl’s locker room, and since the massage team was set up inside the high school, at least we’d be going in the right direction.

Can you remember your last ice-cold shower? I don’t even want to talk about it.

But the massages were quite wonderful and very much needed. We felt a little better-adjusted and sanguine about life, up until we realized that it was now well after 6:00 and we hadn’t had anything substantial to eat since lunch. Yes. We crashed. It was horrible. I thought I was going to keel over. It kept getting worse: instead of the community feed being anywhere near the school, it was literally over the other side of the mountain, reachable by bus and gondola. When we finally staggered off the gondola, we found that all but one of the food vendors had run out of food. The last one had a line a mile and half long. We found a restaurant but their kitchen was backed up an hour and they’d run out of food too. It was a nightmare.

We finally got back to the other side of town and found a nice little Mexican restaurant and sat down to eat at 8:30. I have never tasted such fabulous chips and salsa. We drank a gallon of ice water. We cursed the very name of Telluride to the heavens, so that it will be known for all time as “Helluride.”

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

Ride the Rockies: In the Beginning

June 14 … finally on the road. The week leading up to this day has been really tough — so much to get done, at work, at home, getting everything ready. All the packing, including Carol cleaning and breaking down the bikes to pack in their travel boxes. Trying to get the yard watered, mowed, weeded, writing all the great long complicated instructions for the house sitter. Yikes. I don’t think I was this nervous before our wedding ceremony last summer!

So it was almost a relief when the alarm went off at 4:30; we could get in the truck and point ourselves up into the hills. We got to Breckenridge around 9:00, unloaded the bike boxes onto the transport semi, and got ourselves loaded onto the second bus leaving for Durango.

Ride the Rockies transport semi

Coach USA bus to Durango

It was a long ride and we didn’t arrive until mid-afternoon. Along the way I watched the scenery out the window, snoozed a little, read the Velo News Tour de France special issue, chatted with some folks sitting next to us. I tried not to notice the road too much; the first part of the trip, from Breck to Buena Vista, we’d be re-tracing in a week, only this time on our bikes — and I really didn’t want to see how steep it was.

We all rolled off the bus at Durango High School to a scene of hundreds of people, bags, bikes everywhere. Carol and I took turns getting our registration packets while the other waited in the shade with the duffel bags; the whole process was amazingly organized and streamlined. We each got our numbered wristband, matching numbered sticker for our bike, route and profile map book, jersey, and general instructions. After registering, our next (very important!) stop was to sign up for massages for later in the week — per our RTR veteran Jill’s very good advice. We figured massages after day 2 and on our rest day in Crested Butte would be well-timed.

Registering at Ride the Rockies

The beastly duffels

Not too long after, the semi with all our bikes arrived. A massive bucket brigade formed up behind the truck and people started passing boxes along down to the parking lot. We found our boxes and got the bikes put back together again in about 20 minutes; then we wheeled them down to the “lock up” on the Durango High School tennis courts.

All that was left now was to get our bags squared away for the trip to the hotel. We hauled two big duffels with us: one packed with our camping gear (tent, pads, sleeping bags, pillows, chairs) and one with all our clothes. They were both beasts. We left the camping gear duffel on the baggage truck, and hauled the other duffel with us to the shuttle bus.

During the week, at each host town, a cadre of big Coach USA tour buses served as a shuttle service taking people from the day’s staging area to the local hotels, community events, beer garden, and so forth. The trick was finding the right bus going to the right place, and making sure the driver understood where you wanted to go. We got ourselves and our bag onto a bus for the drive to the Durango Lodge, but ended up getting dropped off about five blocks away — a very long way to carry a 60-pound duffel bag at the end of a long day.

But we got there, got ourselves settled, showered, and walked back downtown to find the beer garden and dinner. The host community for each day’s ride had dinner and entertainment arranged for us, and of course, our very good friends from New Belgium Brewery, right here in Fort Collins, is a major sponsor of RTR, and looking forward to that cold Fat Tire at the end of the day was a major incentive to get the miles under my tires! In the smaller towns, like Montrose and Buena Vista, a single community organization like the Optimists would put on a dinner; in places like Durango and Telluride, several local vendors were out selling burgers, brats, and so on.

But it had been a long day and we called it quits pretty early, and after a brief visit to the Durango-Silverton narrow gauge railroad depot we went back to our room, got our gear sorted out for the morning, and hit the sack — alarm set for 5:00. This was NOT a vacation to sleep in!

View from the top

The world looks very different from the top of the hill, or, Part II of the Estes Park ride story.

We hung out at the top of the hill for 15 or 20 minutes, reveling in the view, chatting with other cyclists passing through. Coming up the hill immediately behind me were two guys; one a fairly gnarly older guy with beef jerky legs, who seemed to barely be breathing hard. Turns out he’d be riding this area, and this hill, for 30 years. Makes a difference! There were also other riders coming up the road from Estes who had ridden up Highway 34 and were doing the loop back down through Glen Haven.

I was SOOOO happy that we were spending the night in Estes!

Soon we were rolling along that sweet, delicious, delightful downhill into town. What a difference! What a pure joy. Suddenly the day was beautiful again, the incredible wall of mountains to the south shining in the sun. We merged with the crazy tourist traffic down in town and rode another half mile or so west until we arrived at the American Wilderness Lodge (1).

Our room was on the second floor (good thing our bikes don’t weigh much), a funky, skunky haven with all the essentials: soft bed, hot shower, and hottub! (2, 3). And also a narrow little balcony looking out over the river. We peeled out of our sweat-soaked togs, showered, dressed in some nice dry civvies, and walked back into town with a voracious appetite. After a salad bar and pizza slice we wandered up and down the main drag and did some window shopping. There was no temptation to buy anything, since it would have to be transported home on our backs! We wandered over to the Estes Park Brewery and sat out on the patio with a beer (carbo loading). Then to another restaurant for dinner. Then “home” to the hottub (4).

Had a good night’s sleep, coffee on the balcony (5), and a lovely breakfast of pecan pancakes at my all-time favorite breakfast spot, the Bighorn Cafe (right next to the hotel). We pulled on the Lycra and hit the road around 9:30 (6) and yes, Virginia, it was downhill all the way. Now THAT’S a beautiful thing! A brief stop in Drake to take off the arm and leg warmers, then on down the canyon (7, 8). We came home through Loveland (I just couldn’t face going over the hills at Horsetooth) and rolled up the driveway at 12:00.

Saturday’s stats: 45 miles, 3:15 saddle time, 5:30 total elapsed time

Sunday’s stats: 41 miles, 2:15 saddle time, 2:30 total elapsed time

Oh, yeah. Downhill is good.

But what an amazing experience! In spite of how difficult the hill at Glen Haven was, the fact is that I did it. I made it. There we were in Estes Park, without a car! Got there on our own two legs! What an incredible feeling. I could never have done it without Carol — she was so patient and so supportive, always encouraging, always relaxed and positive. And good looking! Riding with someone who has so much experience just really helps the psyche. We were giddy as kids Saturday in Estes — it was wonderful to see her so happy, so soft, all of our “in-town” tensions forgotten. Not thinking about work. Not thinking about mowing the yard. Not thinking about a million little things that are always demanding attention. Just being — and being together. I love you so much, my Carol. What an adventure we had!

Dad was right.

You may well be wondering if I survived my weekend adventure to Estes Park. The jury is still out. Thank god the human brain has a huge capacity for forgetting pain, is all I’ve got to say.

We rolled off the driveway at 8:30 Saturday morning (you can check out the photos that go along with the story on my Flickr page). The weather was cool and crystal clear — just another day in Paradise. Heading south on Overland, we were soon swinging west (photo 1) and heading for our first climb up to Horsetooth Reservoir (2). We’ve been up these hills a lot since we began training in March, so I’ve come to know every inch of them, it seems like. Soon enough we were on the backside and rolling downhill into Masonville (3).

Another short couple of miles and we were at the intersection of Highway 34, where we took a brief break and swapped out our fuel bottles (4). The couple miles from the Masonville turnoff to the entrance of Big Thompson Canyon are not great — very little shoulder, and drivers are just whipping through there. But once in the canyon, the shoulder is nice and wide, and the traffic is much slower (5, 6, 7).

It’s incredible riding through that canyon. You get to experience it in a much different way than riding in a car. The sound of the water crashing down that narrow gorge is wild music and your eyes are drawn upward, unimpeded by windows, to the high cliffs that surround you.

It’s also quite wonderful because the grade at the bottom of the canyon is relatively gentle.

Once out of the narrow portion of the canyon, it’s a bit of a slog up to Drake. There was quite a bit of traffic, but I must say that everyone was pretty well behaved. We saw a lot of cyclists, too. The grade starts to pick up, though, and there’s a lot of it.

Plus, I was just having a devilish time trying to get my delicate female parts arranged on the saddle. Sometimes it works just right, other times you just can’t get yourself settled in. It was really bothersome and quite distracting. Especially with the stress of a long climb, it’s hard not to focus on every little discomfort.

We took a very welcome break in Drake (8) where we refilled our water bottles and mixed up a fresh batch of Cytomax in them. We were at 2:15 of saddle time, which I thought was pretty good. Mileage-wise, we were about 2/3 of the way; but the worst of the climbing, by far, was ahead.

At Drake we took a right turn onto Devil’s Gulch road, which leads to Glen Haven. The first couple of miles were wonderful, pretty flat or just gently uphill, with the traffic of Highway 34 left behind (9). The road winds along the Little Thompson River, with cattle grazing in the open fields, and I finally got my female parts settled in. Over all too soon, unfortunately. The road begins to climb in earnest, long, winding segments with little to no rest to be had anywhere. It’s tough when there’s no opportunity to rest or to coast, just grind, grind, grind. I finally bailed on one stretch and dismounted for a few minutes, which helped.

We stopped again at the National Forest picnic area just before Glen Haven. I was having to rest more and more frequently; my legs were really getting dogged. It’s amazing how much even a little rest can help, though. But I couldn’t help but fret about the monster hill waiting for us after Glen Haven.

Another rest stop at the foot of the switchbacks that lay between Glen Haven and Estes Park. What are you going to do? You know intellectually that it’s really going to suck. I had a faint glimmer of hope that they might not be any worse than the switchbacks going up to the top of Rist Canyon. But we hadn’t already been climbing for over 40 miles when we did Rist.

Carol took off, and, animal that she is, she made the climb in one shot. Incredible. The climb itself is only a little over a mile, with a 700′ elevation gain. It took me over half an hour to get up that one mile, and four stops (10). Getting back into the pedals on that steep of a hill is a real adventure! The second gooseneck of each switchback is super-steep; maybe around 15% (11).

(A note about the last two pictures: after riding all the way to the top of the hill, Carol came back down the second switchback so she could take pictures of me coming up. That’s true love, folks.)

It was unbelievably hard and unbelievably painful. If I’ve ever done anything that hurt more, I sure can’t think of what it was. The situation did not improve when I realized that I was gasping uncontrollably — I hadn’t even thought about the elevation (the climb tops out at around 8000 feet). Finally I got around the second switchback. I could SEE the top. I wanted to be ON the top so bad — so, one more push — but what had looked like the top was not actually the top. There was just a little bit more, maybe another 150 yards, but I couldn’t make it. I stopped again and was so frustrated, so mad, so exhausted, that I just screamed. I put my head down on my saddle and sweat sprinkled out of the top of my helmet like I was a watering can. I could see Carol at the top but I truly wondered if I could ever get myself up to her.

But with one more push, I was up. I rode the whole hill — didn’t walk one step of it. If I never have to climb that hill again, it will be too soon.

I felt like I was finishing L’Alpe d’Huez at the Tour de France (okay, that’s 21 switchbacks, but still …). Carol caught me before I fell over and I just collapsed on the ground. We had a nice, long break (12, 13), chatted with some other cyclists, and contemplated the Payoff — five miles, all downhill, into Estes (14).

More later.

Spin cycle

I’m sitting in my Dazbog office, where I do all my best thinking, tapping along on my Powerbook. It’s especially fun to hang out in coffee shops when you have a cool Mac.

My new media/social networking/plan for world domination journey continues to carry me along. I’m three years behind the curve and trying to catch up in three weeks. I’m devouring everything I can find. And my head is spinning.

The (information) omnivore’s dilemma: it’s hard to stop exploring and start putting things together. The overwhelm can easily go from exhilarating to discouraging.

Looking forward to a different kind of spinning this weekend; Carol and I are biking up to Estes Park Saturday, via Glen Haven (yes, the dreaded switchbacks). We’ll come back Sunday. We’ve got a room in EP, with a jacuzzi (thank god). I’m looking forward to it; it will be an adventure. In pain. But Ride the Rockies is looming ever larger, and even though yesterday I turned 700 miles in my training (since March), that 93-mile day from Montrose to Crested Butte is visiting me in my dreams. 

Bugs (a cautionary tale)

I just got home from an absolutely beautiful bike commute from the TWP office. I rode up Mason, hopped on the Poudre River bike trail, and rode it all the way to Laporte. I had never ridden the new section between Taft Hill and Overland, and it was very cool. Towards the end, there’s a long, meandering bridge that crosses the Poudre, with the river below and enormous cottonwoods draped all around.

Riding my bike is such a joy. I feel strong and the bike leaps under me when I put the hammer down. I love everything I can see and experience in the open air and the smooth feeling of my legs driving the pedals around and around. It’s calming and exhilarating. But you have to be careful about grinning too big as the bugs are hatching out, especially around the river, and you fly through clouds of them as you go.

Sensory inventory: heard peepers (three different places) and red-winged blackbirds; smelled the sweet aroma of the cottonwoods and the fresh green-water scent of the river (which is starting its rise; the warm temps this week are sending the snowpack downstream in a big hurry); felt the alternating cool of the shade amongst the trees and warmth of the sun out in the open; saw a tiny snake slithering off the bike path and into the tall grass; and tasted the salt on my upper lip (but didn’t taste any bugs; they’re too small).

According to our RTR training schedule, this is a rest week, with just a couple of easy rides, no hills. But I had to do Bingham anyway. Riding with my backpack wasn’t as annoying as I thought it might be, but I noticed that it put me down a rung in the hierarchy. When we’re out cycling, we lift a casual three fingers off the handlebars to acknowledge cyclists passing in the other direction. But only other road bikers — we don’t wave at mountain bikers, and vice versa. But if you’re a road biker who’s commuting (backpack), the cyclists who are out purely for a training ride don’t wave to you either.

The other note I feel compelled to log is that Chamois Butt’r is a must, even on short rides. Nuff said.

Oh, one other thing — if I ever do a blog that’s just about cycling, I’ve decided to call it “Weird Tan Lines.”

All uphill.

Ride the Rockies is three and a half weeks away and Carol and I are training our asses off. Maybe literally. The route profiles were published on the RTR website recently, as if I wasn’t motivated enough.

Last Sunday (5-11) we rode to the top of Rist Canyon and back, 36 miles roundtrip, with an altitude gain of around 2800 feet. The last part of the road to the top is a 12% grade, after 13 miles of relentless uphill. It was just killer. But just being able to get to the top was such a huge confidence booster for me — working through this little mental problem I have with the hill climbing has been the biggest part of my training. Rist was a major breakthrough.

Yesterday we rode the Community Classic Bike Tour, put on by McKee Medical Center in Loveland to benefit their foundation. Carol has ridden the CCBT since the late 90s, and it was so cool to ride it with her this year. Except the part about having to get up at 5:00. On a Sunday. After working all day the previous day at the Indian Market. Whatever. I saw this as a good dress rehearsal for RTR, as we opted to do the metric century (100km, or 62 miles) route up and over Carter Lake then up and over Horsetooth and back to Loveland.

It was an incredibly beautiful morning and day, and on the drive down to Loveland we saw a group of mule deer along Taft Hill south of town, and then a half mile later saw a coyote out for a morning prowl. The first part of the ride wound through Loveland along their bike trail system, which was just gorgeous. The meadowlarks were practically shouting, and everything is a perfect, fresh green. An hour into the ride we were peeling out of our vests and arm warmers and heading up the road to Carter Lake. This was the only part of the ride I had any concerns about, but in my slow, steady way, I got myself up the switchbacks to the lake with no problem at all. I met Carol at the top and said, Was that big, bad Carter? I had it built up in my mind as a monster, and it was a breeze. It’s the Rist Effect.

The ride along the reservoir was brilliant, and it was just great fun to be riding with so many other people. It really adds an atmosphere and energy to the ride that pulls you along. Plus the aid stations are a good excuse to stop, get the go juice topped off, get some circulation back in your ass. Continuing down from Carter, we were back on roads that I’ve ridden a lot this spring, so it was all a known quantity. The only unknown was handling the distance — our longest training ride to date had been 51 miles, a month ago, and I had struggled after the 3-hour mark on that ride. But yesterday, my legs felt so fresh and so good, and by the time we were heading up towards the hills over Horsetooth, I realized that I wasn’t feeling hammered at all. I even had the pleasure of passing quite a few people going up the hills. It’s particularly fun to pass the guys, especially the ones that had blown by me earlier in the day.

The last part of the ride was a bit of grind, once we got down from Horsetooth and had to make our way back to Loveland along Shields. There was a bit of a SE headwind and a lot of traffic, just a very exposed and not particularly lovely stretch of road, especially compared to where we had just been. But the last couple of miles were back on the Loveland bike trail, and they were very, very beautiful, smooth, quiet, no traffic. And then at the 4:15 mark (saddle time, our total time was 5 hours) we rolled together under the Finish line banner and got right to the important business of the pancake breakfast.

We were just dead the rest of the day, but I’m feeling pretty good today, energy-wise, and relatively limber. I handled the distance just fine, and the hills; we did really well keeping fueled during the ride so that neither of us had any bonks. Just wondering now what it will be like to then get back on the bike the next day and do it all over again …