A twenty mile loop

Four and a half miles from my house, at the end of a faux plat that begins when I turn left at my mail box, the road turns south and begins snaking up.  It begins as innocuous 26th Street.  Bott Park, sometimes Butt Park if someone has dark green paint for the sign, passes on the left amid the fringe of century old ranch homes, last vestige of Old Colorado City.  A white horse fence on the right and, behind it, the looming red rock formations of Section 16. 

The rider’s eyes are pulled  towards the hairpin ahead.  The grade of the road stiffened to 10 percent past Bott Park, but has eased to 6% here.  After the hairpin is a false flat and then a ramp to the crest of 10 percent. 

Cheyenne Mountain takes over the view at the crest of the hill.  Dull green with juniper and pinon, it sets a clean, falling line to the horizon.  The road ahead dives into Bear Creek Park, but the rider turns right onto Upper Gold Camp Road.  He doesn’t want to pay for descending right now; the road continues up past Bear Creek and he clings to the side of the rock and continues the climb. 

Some wealthy people have built too-large homes overlooking Colorado Springs, driveways poke into both sides of the road before it breaks free and squeezes between two rocks.  Now there is just the occasional run-away descending cyclist or distracted motorist looking down at the Broadmoor.  Twice I’ve seen the small black ribbon tied to a juniper, marking the spot where Ed Burke, a published author on cycling health and local rider in the Springs, died of heart attack while riding his bike back in 2002. 

The paved road ends and usually the rider turns here and speeds back down.  Today he decides to continue on the dirt and descend past Helen Hunt Falls.  He hasn’t done this before, there was always a good reason not to ride on the dirt and he doesn’t know how far the road continues.  Riding an unpaved road isn’t so difficult, unless the road climbs past ten percent; he doesn’t know if it does or not.

A mile into the dirt section, the first of two tunnels.  The other end is visible and there’s just a car going by raising the dust a bit.  The road becomes soft inside, sheltered from rain, almost powder.  The second tunnel is much the same, rough and old like the first, and the cool air inside contrasts with the hot Colorado air outside.

At three miles past the pavement there is a parking lot, a sign telling visitors to respect the p lace and each other and the top of the paved road coming up from Cheyenne Canyon.  Tall ponderosa pines, rough red rock, the pleasant tinge of sun-warmed juniper and, soon, the rush of water from Helen Hunt Falls.  Just a few miles from the city, but I roll down the hill in an elemental wonder land.

Up the road

‘The first thing about racing is actually being there at the end.  Then you can worry about your intervals.’

And there in lies the rub.  Four days of racing at the Steamboat Springs stage race, three days of watching the group ride away from me on a hill and four days of struggling with the pollen in the air.  Frustrating, but motivating.

The road race will be like a training ride.  That was true last year and true for the guys heading out at 8am, but by noon the wind had whipped up to thirty miles an hour and the team with the leader thought it would be cool to bury themselves on the two mile climb leading out to the course.  I stayed in the midst of the pack, visualizing a flat road, focusing on the little Assos label on the butt in front of me, thinking of how difficult it would be on my own… funny how time can slow down, until each moment stretched into a prolonged painful series of gasps, each filament of muscle on fire.  I look up and the road is turning to reveal another mile of the climb.  I push and slide back a wheel.  I push and I’m on the end of the group.  Soon I’m off and staring at three lengths to the back.  Five lengths.  I feel the wind full on now and panic a bit, standing up to try to bring back the group.  It’s strung out, guys are falling off in ones and twos and the wheel van is just behind me.  I glance at the odometer; I’m only four miles into a fifty five mile race. 

Riding alone into a headwind for twenty five miles can be a cleansing experience.  Any pretense at ability is washed away.  At fifteen miles I pass the turn in the road.  An ambulance and course marshal yell encouragement.  I nod weakly.  I can’t hear anything, just the constant rush of wind eliminates thought, just white noise to go with the high desert.  Around the turn is a lone rider, thin and bobbing in the wind.  I’m ok, despite the effort, and slowly bring him back.  It takes three miles, but it gives me something to think about.  I can’t see myself, but I see the pain in his eyes and read that he’s giving up.  Somehow it makes me feel better.  When I come up to him, I give him a little relief from the wind; at last someone more helpless than me.

We ride towards the cone, the spot where the course turn back on itself.  Three miles from the spot, the road turns and offers a respite from the wind.  I hit forty miles an hour for a while down a hill and realize my mate has drifted off the back.  Going downhill is my only super power right now.  Before the turn around, groups of twos and threes from the pack head past, about a mile in front of me.  This makes me feel better.  The first few are actually racing, the rest have various blank looks in their eyes.  Just before the cone, one of my teammates is fading fast and I roll up from behind.  His eyes are completely vacant, streams of dried salt and saliva streak his face.  I shelter him in the crosswind, but he struggles to go slow as we hit the cone. 

I soft pedal through the feedzone, grab and drink a bottle and grab another for the pocket.  I glance back and my teamie is not there.  He must have stopped.

Solo now into the wind for a few miles.  Wind and climbs are de rigueur now.  The countryside is a blur of pain, grunting into a wind and pushing on the pedals.  The turn comes and suddenly the wind is a gift and I’m sailing alone and brightly into the sage and pinon.  I know I’ll finish, because now there is no other choice. 

Steamboat Springs

I'm watching my boys now, in the rental condo pool. They keep competing measuring themselves against each other: who can hold their breath the longest; who can sit on the bottom the longest; who can jump the highest out of the water.

By those kinds of measures, I'm not doing so hot right now. It seems that nearly every rider does something better than me: climbing.

Today's circuit race was 30 miles, 4.5 miles at a time at the Maribou Ranch north of town, two miles up, two and a half down. Our first time up the sharp climb to the finish, the group accelerated hard and my lungs started to spasm. Likely a combination of forty degree air, pollen and twenty pounds too much of me. Today's goal was to survive and conserve, same for tomorrow's road race. Monday is a flat, four corner crit, something suited to me.

The kids splash and play. The sun is shining and I feel good, alive.