Well I'm home once again safe and sound. After some initial miscommunication with my pick up rendezvous, Kate found me out in the desert standing next to that Utah Line pillar. We drove back yesterday stopping in Palisade for lunch. When all is said and done my trip amounted to about 522 miles ridden in just under 41 hours spread over 9 days. Of course these are high level estimates, but should be pretty close. Either way you slice it that's a fair amount of work when you think about it.
So I'm cleaned up once again and well rested. Seven nights of sleeping on the ground, even with a nice Thermarest Pad tends to wear you down after a point. I got all my gear aired out and packed away; the nice thing about a bike trip is that there's not much gear to clean up and put away, so it took all of 15 min. I think Kate will still be finding Kebler mud on her panniers for some time. I'm not going to wash mine off, kind of like a badge of honor...or stupidity. My knees feel pretty good; glad to not be pedaling this morning. Its Sunday, the day of rest, and then back to the salt mines tomorrow. Fun times. Thanks to everyone for following along on my little journey. I'm glad to have been able to share it all with you. Keep checking in on the SpokedInTheEye blog from time to time for more exciting cycling updates or the usual griping and complaining about Denver motorists. Or check in with me at JasonEtc, also on blogspot--link to the right, for more of my rambling thoughts on all kinds of things.
Until next time...I'm thinking Montana...that should be fun...2-3 weeks...600-750 or so miles of wide open big sky country...maybe some bears...black flies...glaciers...prairie...cool mountain microbrews...man that could be cool...
Showing posts with label Long Haul Trucker. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Long Haul Trucker. Show all posts
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Day 9: CO Monument to Utah Line
Miles traveled: 27.6
Ride Time: 1:36
Avg Speed: 17mph
The Utah and Colorado border along highway 6 lies out in the middle of nowhere marked only by a stone pillar and a cattle guard. The pillar, in true American fashion, has been vandalized by spray paint and shotgun shells. Little is sacred for us these days. But to me this past week has been somewhat of a sacred event, an exploration of physical, mental and emotional limits. No I didn’t climb Everest, and no I didn’t ride across the country, but I did venture out in a spirit of discovery and find new places, meet new people and learn a bit more about myself and my home state.
One gains an intimate appreciation for the landscape traveling by bike. When not racing by at 75mph on an interstate one can appreciate both the largeness and smallness of our more remote places. While many of the little communities along my route are in decline if not outright extinguished, there is a life to these places and a history still vivid in the structures and faces that call them home. I think we take these small places for granted in our rush to convenience and ease, sealing ourselves up inside our small, perfect neighborhoods. A hard scrabble folk still make their living from the land in our country and others, closely tied to this existence, support them by running and maintaining stores and restaurants, shops and services. These small communities are ones of a quaint interconnectedness. People who still say good morning and wave as they drive by, who know each other by name and have a general concern, if not direct dependency, on each other’s well being. There’s a lack of anonymity in these smaller communities, which makes it harder to hide as well as harder to avoid the interpersonal contact one has with everyone else in the town. That person you snub or cut off on the road may very well be the person teaching your child or ringing up your groceries. Its harder to just brush off the casual stranger as someone you will never meet again, and in that sense an accepting welcome greets those who would take the time to head out of their way and venture into these rural locales. For those who drop the pretense and sense of expectation, one can find a more rewarding destination in a small community than in some 5 star hotel or resort. And yet for all the smallness of the back corners of this state there are great vast expanses to behold as well.
The enormity of our great mountain ranges, the vastness of our plains really only sinks in when physically confronted by them. The landscape of Colorado is formidable and at times hostile, yet it offers a rich and diverse range of scenes and climates for everyone to explore. I started on the plains, traveled through great wide, dry hills to stony mountains cut by roaring streams. I climbed high peaks and saw the ferocity of the high plateaus and windswept valleys and have now descended down to red rock desert vistas and sweeping prairie of tumbleweed and junipers. I saw all these things and soaked them in over a single week of pedaling my bike.
I don’t know all that I have gained from this experience on a personal level. There is a tremendous amount of physical accomplishment and understanding at what all I can endure and persevere. But there’s also a point at which the noise and distraction in my head finally shut off and quieted itself. I don’t know at what point this occurred, perhaps when being baked by the sun on the plains near La Junta, or battered by the winds in canyons and valleys towards Gunnison or maybe it was the cold and wet of Kebler that wrung it out; in any case it eventually stopped. And this noise, this incessant chatter which continually provides the background track for my thoughts left in its absence a calmness. Last night sitting out under the stars in the cool wind of Colorado Monument my head and my thoughts were clear and simple. No anxiety for the future, no questioning of decisions in the past. Just a cool wind and wide open sky. I know that as soon as I delve back into the ‘real’ world of obligations, expectations, anticipations and stress my thoughts will again cloud over with self-conscious chatter and obsession; my compulsiveness fed by an unsettled state of being. And yet perhaps when this starts to happen I’ll think back to that night on the red rock with all on earth at that moment exposed and opened wide to the star filled heavens. And I will contemplate the lone serenity of that cool, desert night and I will remember. With the impressions of this trip so richly felt and intimately experienced, in truth I believe it will be difficult to forget.
Ride Time: 1:36
Avg Speed: 17mph
The Utah and Colorado border along highway 6 lies out in the middle of nowhere marked only by a stone pillar and a cattle guard. The pillar, in true American fashion, has been vandalized by spray paint and shotgun shells. Little is sacred for us these days. But to me this past week has been somewhat of a sacred event, an exploration of physical, mental and emotional limits. No I didn’t climb Everest, and no I didn’t ride across the country, but I did venture out in a spirit of discovery and find new places, meet new people and learn a bit more about myself and my home state.
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| My cyclist flag and manifesto to motorists. |
Day 8: Hotchkiss to Grand Junction, Colorado National Monument
Miles Traveled: 77.5
Ride Time: 6:24
Avg Speed: 12
Along the North Gunnison River valley the temperature plummeted last night. I woke to not only a heavy layer of condensation on everything, but to temperatures easily in the low 40’s. Needless to say I packed camp quickly and got on the road in a hurry to generate some heat. Once atop Roger’s Mesa the highway finishes its tour of small farms and orchards before dropping down almost instantaneously into the dry arid landscape of the western slope. Not even reminiscent of the eastern plains, this landscape more closely rivals the moon for its unnatural barrenness.
I came through Delta but didn’t stop, I kept moving, now northward, and again along HWY 50. A wind blew out of the north west making my progress a bit slower but I kept going over one rolling hill after another. Outside of Whitewater I came across a couple shooting documentary style footage of bike touring of all things. I’m not sure of the intended format or distribution method, however my beloved Surly makes a grand appearance in their footage as a deluxe touring rig. Scott and Dina (might be spelling that wrong) caught me a couple times along my route and actually stopped me in Grand Junction to introduce themselves and look at the bike more closely. As I left Grand Junction and made my way up through Redlands they bumped into me again and kindly gave me a bottle of water. It was sorely needed at that point in my ride, so many thanks to them for happening past. And who knows this trip might make me famous.
I stopped in Grand Junction for lunch and requisite daily updates to the blog from yesterday’s journey. It felt good to stop though I remained up in the air about where to go next. One option was to shoot for Highline State Park out by Loma, which would add nearly another 20-25 miles into the same headwind as the morning‘s ride, or try and head out towards Colorado National Monument and camp there. Again joyful headwind but a considerably shorter route, by about half, however including a hefty bit of climbing akin to Lookout at home: about 1100 feet of gain in 4 miles--ouch. As you all know my exploits on Lookout (recall the 12 days of Lookout…) I certainly wouldn’t back down from pillar to post style riding even if with 65 more pounds of gear than usual. After wandering down the Main Street area of Grand Junction, and topping off my tires at Brown’s Cycles on Main, I began heading west again. Without making much of a conscious decision about it I got onto Route 340 and pointed the Surly towards the Monument. In truth I could have bailed and kept on going to Fruita and out to Loma, but after checking with the national park guard about the availability of sites and water at the top decided to go ahead and do it. This was the right choice. I’m sure Highline is nice, but the Monument is AHA-SOME.
The climb up wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. I went slow, stopped to take some pictures and generally took it easy. My knees at this point don’t do hammer anymore…particularly on the hills…so easy was my destined speed by default. I got to the top and found one of the few remaining exterior sites (on the outside loop of the campground area) and pitched my tent still wet from the morning Gunnison dew in a wonderfully western slope sunny spot. I wandered around, first behind my campsite, which leads right to the cliff wall, and again around the campground to the Book Shelf Cliffs and overlook. The landscape of the monument reminded me of Moab…like a slice of Moab slick rock right in the middle of the grand valley. You could almost expect Wile E Coyote to come screaming by with a rocket car or something. I went up to the Visitor Center and watched a movie about the geology of the area. It amazes me how much people have been able to figure out about the landscape and unique features around us, especially given all of the natural phenomenon which conspired to create such forms and monoliths.
Tonight I ate cheesy noodle surprise…the surprise is that it tastes freaking AWFUL… Fortunately I still pocketed some snacks and Starbursts to help eradicate the lingering taste of foul. I sat out late to watch the stars….well as late as I could stand to be out in the wind and cold with the clothing I packed with me (pretty much everything on at once). The rangers at the visitor center think it will get down to at least 40 tonight if not colder…brrrr. At least I have good eastern exposure for when the sun pops over the Grand Mesa in the morning. Tomorrow I head down through Fruita and out along HWY6 to the border. Should be about 25-ish miles I think and then that will be the end of my journey. Seems very odd to have started a week ago and now finally be here, nearing the end. I’m sure I’ll have more cogent reflections on this whole experience in the morning. At this point I’m tired and still surprised to be here.
Ride Time: 6:24
Avg Speed: 12
Along the North Gunnison River valley the temperature plummeted last night. I woke to not only a heavy layer of condensation on everything, but to temperatures easily in the low 40’s. Needless to say I packed camp quickly and got on the road in a hurry to generate some heat. Once atop Roger’s Mesa the highway finishes its tour of small farms and orchards before dropping down almost instantaneously into the dry arid landscape of the western slope. Not even reminiscent of the eastern plains, this landscape more closely rivals the moon for its unnatural barrenness.
I stopped in Grand Junction for lunch and requisite daily updates to the blog from yesterday’s journey. It felt good to stop though I remained up in the air about where to go next. One option was to shoot for Highline State Park out by Loma, which would add nearly another 20-25 miles into the same headwind as the morning‘s ride, or try and head out towards Colorado National Monument and camp there. Again joyful headwind but a considerably shorter route, by about half, however including a hefty bit of climbing akin to Lookout at home: about 1100 feet of gain in 4 miles--ouch. As you all know my exploits on Lookout (recall the 12 days of Lookout…) I certainly wouldn’t back down from pillar to post style riding even if with 65 more pounds of gear than usual. After wandering down the Main Street area of Grand Junction, and topping off my tires at Brown’s Cycles on Main, I began heading west again. Without making much of a conscious decision about it I got onto Route 340 and pointed the Surly towards the Monument. In truth I could have bailed and kept on going to Fruita and out to Loma, but after checking with the national park guard about the availability of sites and water at the top decided to go ahead and do it. This was the right choice. I’m sure Highline is nice, but the Monument is AHA-SOME.
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| Balanced Rock, Colorado National Monument |
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| Looking down on the road coming up to the top of the mesa. |
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| Camp Colorado Monument |
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| On the edge, Colorado Monument |
Friday, September 10, 2010
Day 7: Paonia to Hotchkiss
Miles traveled: 12 Ride time: A while
Average speed: Slow
Today I took a break. In theory this trip constitutes ’vacation time.’ And not wanting to be one of those people who come back from a trip and exclaim, “I need a vacation from my vacation” I decided to take a day off from riding around. I still ended up riding around, when traveling by bicycle you don’t get much of an alternative unless you want to push your bike, but for my part I didn’t ride hard and I certainly didn’t ride a considerable distance.
Today in the North Fork Valley the weather was gorgeous. The wind was really howling from the west, good thing I wasn’t riding, so it made for a blustery afternoon but all in all a nice change of pace from the rain. I took a back route into Hotchkiss which is a smaller town than Paonia situated along highway 92 and 133. Saying it is a smaller town is much like comparing microscopic to infinitesimal, at a point you’re splitting hairs. There is a City Market and a Family Dollar, I presume more fixtures of the proximity to highway, and thus highway travelers, but there aren’t really many other noteworthy establishments. I did go by The Creamery, which is a really well renovated milk creamery building turned local artist co-op. The gallery spans two large floors and boasts a pretty diverse collection of art from local and regional artists as well as kids who participate in the Art After School program. Quite the standout in what is otherwise a typical, small Colorado town like many that I’ve ridden through recently. What really stood out more than the ‘city center’ was the surrounding landscape of farms, orchards and gardens. The river valley spans a wide distance at this point between mesas on both the north and south sides. The resulting plains in between must be quite fertile and productive to support so much agriculture. While Paonia sat closer to the West Elk Wilderness and Mt. Lamborn the land around Hotchkiss is more open and expansive leading west towards Delta or south towards Crawford and the Black Canyon.
So I made my way to town, wandered around the sites to see in the city. I got my first flat, which is surprising given the miles traveled and crap ridden through in the past week. Other than those events I spent the majority of the afternoon in a park reading and loafing about the place. While capable of taking time to ‘do nothing’ I don’t frequently do it. Even this trip somewhat conspired against that agenda with its day to day itinerary of key mileage points and destinations. Yet it felt good to make time to simply let it pass by and be for a moment in the moment. While I’m sure my knees haven’t recovered enough to not scream at me yet again tomorrow when I get back on the bike I do feel refreshed and relaxed. My spot here tucked back behind the Delta County Fairgrounds towards the river is secluded enough to be quite peaceful given my proximity to the surrounding hub-bub of Hotchkiss. Which is really a round about way of saying this is a pretty quiet spot in an already quiet little town.
Tomorrow I leave the small town valley behind and head towards the ‘big city’ of Grand Junction drawing towards the end of my trip. It will be a pretty long day so hopefully the winds don’t return.
Average speed: Slow
Today I took a break. In theory this trip constitutes ’vacation time.’ And not wanting to be one of those people who come back from a trip and exclaim, “I need a vacation from my vacation” I decided to take a day off from riding around. I still ended up riding around, when traveling by bicycle you don’t get much of an alternative unless you want to push your bike, but for my part I didn’t ride hard and I certainly didn’t ride a considerable distance.
Today in the North Fork Valley the weather was gorgeous. The wind was really howling from the west, good thing I wasn’t riding, so it made for a blustery afternoon but all in all a nice change of pace from the rain. I took a back route into Hotchkiss which is a smaller town than Paonia situated along highway 92 and 133. Saying it is a smaller town is much like comparing microscopic to infinitesimal, at a point you’re splitting hairs. There is a City Market and a Family Dollar, I presume more fixtures of the proximity to highway, and thus highway travelers, but there aren’t really many other noteworthy establishments. I did go by The Creamery, which is a really well renovated milk creamery building turned local artist co-op. The gallery spans two large floors and boasts a pretty diverse collection of art from local and regional artists as well as kids who participate in the Art After School program. Quite the standout in what is otherwise a typical, small Colorado town like many that I’ve ridden through recently. What really stood out more than the ‘city center’ was the surrounding landscape of farms, orchards and gardens. The river valley spans a wide distance at this point between mesas on both the north and south sides. The resulting plains in between must be quite fertile and productive to support so much agriculture. While Paonia sat closer to the West Elk Wilderness and Mt. Lamborn the land around Hotchkiss is more open and expansive leading west towards Delta or south towards Crawford and the Black Canyon.
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| Looking east towrds Paonia and Mt. Lamborn |
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| Apples, ripe for the pickin' |
Tomorrow I leave the small town valley behind and head towards the ‘big city’ of Grand Junction drawing towards the end of my trip. It will be a pretty long day so hopefully the winds don’t return.
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| At camp in Hotchkiss |
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Day 6: Kebler Pass to Paonia
Miles Traveled: 47 with some tooling around town dodging raindrops
Ride time: I don't really even know. It didn't take long
Avg Speed: 16 on the descent and now I'm just chillin' out.
Many thanks to Overgaard Bicycle Repair, John Eckert proprietor and bike doctor, for getting my Surly re-lubed, tuned and ready for more on the road adventure. Now you may be saying to yourself, “Golly gee Jason, why did you have to have the fine folks (really its just one guy but I like to be dramatic) at Overgaard Bicycle Repair work on your Surly Long Haul Trucker?” That is a fine, astute question and it definitely warrants the telling of the tale.
Dear readers recall last night I left the friendly and accommodating confines of Crested Butte to dine on freeze dried Mexican Spicy Chicken and Rice atop Kebler Pass. It was delicious like the apple in Eden, yummy, yummy and then it hits your tummy and you're blasted out of paradise and on your own. Ok it wasn't that bad, it was better than the Honey Chicken BBQ...in a bag. But I digress, you will note my harrowing stories of dodging construction implements, eating dust and breathing the grit of passing moto-tourists. If you caught all of the details of that story (posted earlier today as my Day 5 recap) you’ll remember that I went on a wonderful hike in the woods, saw some birds, could not photograph them because of the bad lighting of impending meteorological doom and made it back to camp just before it started raining.
So guess what happens to 24 miles of dirt/gravel National Forest road after an ENTIRE night of light to moderate rainfall? Well it goes straight to hell my friends, it goes straight to hell. Was I expecting such a fate? Well I must admit to you, or I’d be a liar, that I feared exactly such circumstance. It was such fear that drove me to concoct my back up plan of heading west through Sapinero and up to Hotchkiss on 92. It was a call best made from Gunnison and not Crested Butte, and as it was sunny and clear when I made the game day decision to head to Crested Butte, and sunny and even more clear (its higher up in elevation so I think it could actually be more clear) when I got there, I can't really second guess myself too much. But as I lollygagged and loafed around town clouds did indeed form on the horizon. They did look like rain clouds. And I did see them and knowingly ride up the hill anyway not really thinking that it would rain. Well my friends, I was wrong.
It actually rained pretty much all night and even all day today at various intervals and forms: mist, drops, big fat rain, and even rain that seems to come straight up from the ground...Gump. But it definitely rained last night and left the roads in a really sorry state for my descent down to the actual blacktop 24 miles below my camp. My Surly looked like it lost a pudding fight. I had mud on everything…the bike, my bags, my gears, my legs, my face…just about everything. So needless to say I arrived in Paonia early today in somewhat a sour disposition. I had to wash my bike at a car wash…not advised but I didn’t have a choice. I had to spray my bags, hang up my tent, dry my sleeping pad, clean mud out of my ears, try and get mud stink out of my clothing. Its been real swell. Needless to say after all my cleansing and rinsing my bike was sorely lacking in lubrication and had suffered much in terms of grime and grit that it sounded like angry hamsters from hell running around in large steel wheels kind of like something out of American Gladiator or Mad Max and the Thunderdome. Fortunately John was around and gladly took care of my bike with his tools of cleansitudeness and now the Surly sounds and shifts like the day I got it. He did as much for little to no payment and couldn’t even be gratuitized with beer. So this is my way of thanking him in terms of the good karma of cyberspace. If you are ever in or near Paonia and needing a bike anything, please stop by Overgaard Cycles on Box Elder Ave and pay John a visit. He’s good people.
So the long story short is I’m in Paonia. I’m caught up on my tale of woe and adventure and I’m feeling better about things…being both dry and clean. Paonia is a pretty cool little place. Small town, lots of gardens and fruit growing just about everywhere. Kind of an odd mix of old guard farmer/rancher and eclectic, young odd folk. I hope that the weather improves a bit so I can tool around and enjoy the scene in this town and Hotchkiss down the road.
Ride time: I don't really even know. It didn't take long
Avg Speed: 16 on the descent and now I'm just chillin' out.
Many thanks to Overgaard Bicycle Repair, John Eckert proprietor and bike doctor, for getting my Surly re-lubed, tuned and ready for more on the road adventure. Now you may be saying to yourself, “Golly gee Jason, why did you have to have the fine folks (really its just one guy but I like to be dramatic) at Overgaard Bicycle Repair work on your Surly Long Haul Trucker?” That is a fine, astute question and it definitely warrants the telling of the tale.
Dear readers recall last night I left the friendly and accommodating confines of Crested Butte to dine on freeze dried Mexican Spicy Chicken and Rice atop Kebler Pass. It was delicious like the apple in Eden, yummy, yummy and then it hits your tummy and you're blasted out of paradise and on your own. Ok it wasn't that bad, it was better than the Honey Chicken BBQ...in a bag. But I digress, you will note my harrowing stories of dodging construction implements, eating dust and breathing the grit of passing moto-tourists. If you caught all of the details of that story (posted earlier today as my Day 5 recap) you’ll remember that I went on a wonderful hike in the woods, saw some birds, could not photograph them because of the bad lighting of impending meteorological doom and made it back to camp just before it started raining.
So guess what happens to 24 miles of dirt/gravel National Forest road after an ENTIRE night of light to moderate rainfall? Well it goes straight to hell my friends, it goes straight to hell. Was I expecting such a fate? Well I must admit to you, or I’d be a liar, that I feared exactly such circumstance. It was such fear that drove me to concoct my back up plan of heading west through Sapinero and up to Hotchkiss on 92. It was a call best made from Gunnison and not Crested Butte, and as it was sunny and clear when I made the game day decision to head to Crested Butte, and sunny and even more clear (its higher up in elevation so I think it could actually be more clear) when I got there, I can't really second guess myself too much. But as I lollygagged and loafed around town clouds did indeed form on the horizon. They did look like rain clouds. And I did see them and knowingly ride up the hill anyway not really thinking that it would rain. Well my friends, I was wrong.
It actually rained pretty much all night and even all day today at various intervals and forms: mist, drops, big fat rain, and even rain that seems to come straight up from the ground...Gump. But it definitely rained last night and left the roads in a really sorry state for my descent down to the actual blacktop 24 miles below my camp. My Surly looked like it lost a pudding fight. I had mud on everything…the bike, my bags, my gears, my legs, my face…just about everything. So needless to say I arrived in Paonia early today in somewhat a sour disposition. I had to wash my bike at a car wash…not advised but I didn’t have a choice. I had to spray my bags, hang up my tent, dry my sleeping pad, clean mud out of my ears, try and get mud stink out of my clothing. Its been real swell. Needless to say after all my cleansing and rinsing my bike was sorely lacking in lubrication and had suffered much in terms of grime and grit that it sounded like angry hamsters from hell running around in large steel wheels kind of like something out of American Gladiator or Mad Max and the Thunderdome. Fortunately John was around and gladly took care of my bike with his tools of cleansitudeness and now the Surly sounds and shifts like the day I got it. He did as much for little to no payment and couldn’t even be gratuitized with beer. So this is my way of thanking him in terms of the good karma of cyberspace. If you are ever in or near Paonia and needing a bike anything, please stop by Overgaard Cycles on Box Elder Ave and pay John a visit. He’s good people.
So the long story short is I’m in Paonia. I’m caught up on my tale of woe and adventure and I’m feeling better about things…being both dry and clean. Paonia is a pretty cool little place. Small town, lots of gardens and fruit growing just about everywhere. Kind of an odd mix of old guard farmer/rancher and eclectic, young odd folk. I hope that the weather improves a bit so I can tool around and enjoy the scene in this town and Hotchkiss down the road.
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| That headbadge should say "S" for Surly. Instead it says "Brown" for covered in sh*t. |
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| A traveling side show of sorts...note the unwrapped tent, it supposedly aides in drying...so my theory goes...didn't really work in practice like so many brilliant theories. |
Day 5: Gunnison to Crested Butte to Kebler Pass
Miles traveled: 28 to CB and another 7 to top of Kebler Pass
Ride time: 1:59 to CB and about :54 to Kebler
Average speed: 14.1
I got out of bed at 7:30, a comparatively late start for me. It took me a while to get my gear in order and carefully packed into the panniers. Today I found myself blessed with more leisure than I have thus far allowed. After talking with Amy and Caroline for a little while I left the hostel and rode towards Main Street in Gunnison: the road to Crested Butte. I found a helpful guy at a second hand outdoor gear store who let me use some chain lube; silencing the hamsters if but temporarily. I stopped back by The Bean for breakfast and blog updates. For the sake of diversity I probably should have gone somewhere else, but this repetition proved fortuitous for me. As I left the store and walked my bike north towards the street I passed another outdoor store and I suddenly realized that I could get another backpack meal for tonight’s camping near Crested Butte. I ate the ‘emergency’ meal I packed with me for dinner on Monarch so passing the store gave me an opportunity to replenish; Spicy Mexican Chicken and Rice is on the menu.
First I will say there was no wind. There might have been a bit of a tail wind at times, but really no wind or other atmospheric disturbance to speak of the entire ride up to Crested Butte. I enjoyed the reprieve immensely. Winding its way north along the river and through shallow canyons of rocky outcrops, the highway climbs gently towards the mountains. There are several large ranches along the route, each boasting a fresh cutting of hay now rolled into large round bales and stacked in massive piles in the fields. Caroline told me that the Gunnison area had experienced a wetter than average summer this year, the bounty of which clearly showed in the piles of hay, lushness of the grass and still green leaves on aspens and cottonwoods. The trees betray a faint hint of fall with a spattering of gold colored leaves. With the cool morning air and clear blue sky above it stands to be a rich season for aspen viewing in the Gunnison valley.
When I got to Crested Butte I quickly found the Visitor Center, changed clothes and sought the advice of the guy attending the office. He provided useful information about my intended route up Kebler Pass as well as advice on what to do in Crested Butte for 3 or 4 hours. He stopped short of suggesting mountain biking, given my obvious bike-ed-ness, but before I left did tell me where mountain bikes could be rented if I found myself interested. Apparently you don’t bike to Crested Butte, you come to Crested Butte (in the summer at least) to bike.
The main street in Crested Butte is home to many shops, eateries, bars and whatnot. There were people everywhere, and it was very difficult to discern local from tourist. Everyone seemed to know each other, and everyone was also very interested in talking. I don’t know if I’ve ever been to a friendlier place. In fact here are some general rules of thumb on Crested Butte-ers:
I wasn’t sure what to expect in planning this option for my route across the state but was quite glad I decided to do it. Although most of the road is dirt, the road really is well cared for and compacted enough to almost feel paved at times. I was warned by the fellow at the Visitor Center about the dust…which proved to be an accurate warning. He indicated that tourists and more importantly construction workers would be the worst: he was dead right in his foreshadowing of my ride. I was passed by a couple construction or commercial vehicles who must have thought it their mission to choke me to death with dust. I also got some rude passes by obvious out of towners. I could tell the Crested Butters, they would always slow WAY down and wave.
I got up to the top of the pass quickly. One guy told me that it would be about an hours trip he figured giving the heft of my rig: he was right. The road never really climbed steeply, aside from the first half mile, so I made great time, and as was suggested found a nice camp spot near the road just along the top of the pass. I set up camp quickly, changed clothes and went for a quick hike. At this point the clouds were thick and promising rain. I hiked around the remains of the Irwin mining cemetery up here near the top of the pass and saw a number of different birds. They seemed to be everywhere, but with the absence of light I couldn’t get any decent pictures of them. I turned around and headed back to camp just in time for the first drops to start falling. I’ve more or less been in my tent relaxing and reading ever since. Now that I’ve run out of ambient light I’ve turned on the pc and plan to end my night with this post. Good night. Its on to Paonia in the morning.
Ride time: 1:59 to CB and about :54 to Kebler
Average speed: 14.1
I got out of bed at 7:30, a comparatively late start for me. It took me a while to get my gear in order and carefully packed into the panniers. Today I found myself blessed with more leisure than I have thus far allowed. After talking with Amy and Caroline for a little while I left the hostel and rode towards Main Street in Gunnison: the road to Crested Butte. I found a helpful guy at a second hand outdoor gear store who let me use some chain lube; silencing the hamsters if but temporarily. I stopped back by The Bean for breakfast and blog updates. For the sake of diversity I probably should have gone somewhere else, but this repetition proved fortuitous for me. As I left the store and walked my bike north towards the street I passed another outdoor store and I suddenly realized that I could get another backpack meal for tonight’s camping near Crested Butte. I ate the ‘emergency’ meal I packed with me for dinner on Monarch so passing the store gave me an opportunity to replenish; Spicy Mexican Chicken and Rice is on the menu.
First I will say there was no wind. There might have been a bit of a tail wind at times, but really no wind or other atmospheric disturbance to speak of the entire ride up to Crested Butte. I enjoyed the reprieve immensely. Winding its way north along the river and through shallow canyons of rocky outcrops, the highway climbs gently towards the mountains. There are several large ranches along the route, each boasting a fresh cutting of hay now rolled into large round bales and stacked in massive piles in the fields. Caroline told me that the Gunnison area had experienced a wetter than average summer this year, the bounty of which clearly showed in the piles of hay, lushness of the grass and still green leaves on aspens and cottonwoods. The trees betray a faint hint of fall with a spattering of gold colored leaves. With the cool morning air and clear blue sky above it stands to be a rich season for aspen viewing in the Gunnison valley.
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| The Gunnison River valley looking towards Crested Butte |
- A Crested Butte-er can generally be seen riding a bicycle around town. They seem to prefer cruisers adorned with plastic flowers or other such decoration, though I imagine many of them also keep a spare MTB or three for different occasions.
- Crested Butte-ers will generally say “hi” to you and make eye contact.
- Crested Butte-ers apparently like bike tourists. Some have a bad sense of geography as one thought the Kansas border was “like 800 miles away or something.”
- A Crested Butte-er likes its beer. They can be found drinking them quite early in the afternoon.
- I have a feeling many Crested Butter-ers work two or three jobs to allow them to live in Crested Butte. Seems to go with the territory.
- Crested Butte-ers will pass a cyclist on a dirt road very slowly and will generally wave. This goes for Subaru driving, mountain bike toting Butter-ers or ATV hauling, Republican bumper sticker toting ones.
- Crested Butter-ers are friendly folks, two construction guys held up 4 other cars traveling Kebler Pass just to let one bike rider through. There’s a lot to be said for whatever’s in the water up here. If only there were enough to go around.
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| Jail turned theater in Crested Butte |
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| The whiteboard next to the tinfoil covered bike reads, "We know you love our bikes, so do we. Please don't ride them." I was tempted. |
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| Mt. Crested Butte, resort is on the backside |
I got up to the top of the pass quickly. One guy told me that it would be about an hours trip he figured giving the heft of my rig: he was right. The road never really climbed steeply, aside from the first half mile, so I made great time, and as was suggested found a nice camp spot near the road just along the top of the pass. I set up camp quickly, changed clothes and went for a quick hike. At this point the clouds were thick and promising rain. I hiked around the remains of the Irwin mining cemetery up here near the top of the pass and saw a number of different birds. They seemed to be everywhere, but with the absence of light I couldn’t get any decent pictures of them. I turned around and headed back to camp just in time for the first drops to start falling. I’ve more or less been in my tent relaxing and reading ever since. Now that I’ve run out of ambient light I’ve turned on the pc and plan to end my night with this post. Good night. Its on to Paonia in the morning.
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| Top of Kebler Pass looking towards CB...ominous rain clouds. |
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| Road down from Kebler Pass towards Paonia |
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| Monument at Irwin Cemetary at the top of Kebler Pass |
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Day 4: Monarch to Gunnison
Miles traveled: 54
Ride time: 5:14
Average speed: 9.48
When you spend several hours fighting a headwind with panniers acting as sandbags weighing you down, you can’t help but begin to think you brought too much stuff. That thought crossed my mind more than a dozen times over the course of the day yesterday. Why did I bring all this stuff? Why did I pack this, why that? Many of the things I second guessed yesterday as superfluous junk got called into action Sunday night. So while I might begrudge the weight I suppose it’s a necessary evil.
I went to bed early Sunday night and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Promptly at midnight I heard the tell tale tapping of heavy drops on nylon canvas: damn. As with the previous nights I didn’t put my rain cover on the tent. I also left all my bags out, whereas previously I stored them under a tent or picnic table. For a tired bike rider I moved pretty quickly to pull out the rain fly for the tent, assemble it and move all of my bags to its dry confines. I also got out the ‘superfluous’ tarp to cover my bike to keep its gears and chain dry; its already squeaking like a pet store worth of hamster wheels so I thought drier would be better. All that extra weight now called to duty, like the army reserves of miscellaneous gear. Shortly after I got everything properly stowed away the rain stopped…go figure. Thankfully (only thankfully because I like being right) it started raining again, this time with earnest, about 1:00am.
Despite my midnight revelries I was up promptly at 6:30. I wanted to be up and on the road to the top of Monarch before the Labor Day traffic crush started. I’m glad I made this decision, I enjoyed relatively free streets for my slow spinning and wobbling up to 11,000+ft. It took me 2 hours to go 10 miles up to the top of the pass, but I made it by god. I was thrilled when I reached the little parking lot at the top. I took some pictures, put on some more clothes and then started my descent. The first thing that hit me on the way down was the cold: bone chilling cold even with a jersey, arm warmers and jacket. The second thing was the wind: damned infernal wind. Despite the lack of physical comforts on my descent, I didn’t pedal once for 7 or 8 miles, with the exception of shifting my down-pedal leg for the turns. The Surly under duress handled the curves and steep grades with ease. I stopped briefly at Sargents to dance around in a circle for warmth and then set out on the road to Gunnison. It took 3 hours to cover 24-ish miles. I’d crest hills and have to stand up and sprint to keep the wind from shutting me down altogether.
When I finally got to Gunnison I came across a couple from Czechoslovakia who were riding from Denver to San Francisco. They were well outfitted with nice gear and lightweight aluminum bikes, but still were quite finished with the wind about as much as I was. I talked to them for a while about their trip, gear selection, weight of bikes etc. We then parted ways as they were heading onward out 50 west and I was planning on heading north to Crested Butte. They were the second group of bike tourists that I’ve seen. On Sunday heading up Bighorn Canyon to Salida I saw three riders heading the other direction. We exchanged quick hellos and that was it. The nice lady at the Gunnison Visitor’s Center gave me some information on national park camp grounds which were several miles away (no), the KOA out west past town (no thanks), and a hostel in town (bingo). I opted for a bed, warm shower and proximity to dinner.
The Wanderlust Hostel in Gunnison was quiet with no other guests, so I chose the dorm room option but ended up with the equivalent of a private room. The price was less than my cheesy Royal Gorge campsite, and while the scenery wasn’t quite as nice the comforts of home weren’t far away. The eclectic décor, hot showers, movie cabinet, wi-fi and stocked pantry made the Wanderlust an ideal destination for my halfway point. It was a great place to relax (sitting in the hammock in the yard) and recharge a bit. Amy, the owner of the hostel, and her mother Caroline run a really nice retreat for the weary traveler. I spent my afternoon in Gunnison lounging around, went out for pizza and a beer at Marios and then returned to a warm spot on the couch with Cole the dog as my attendee.
So now I’m in somewhat of a chill out mode of my trip. At 321-ish miles I’m more than halfway through and yet have a number of days to finish out my tour. My goal at the onset was to really push to get out to this part of the state and spend some time taking in the Gunnison area, Crested Butte and Paonia. At this point I don’t have to hurry and with the exception of one day (the push to Grand Junction) I shouldn’t have any day totaling more than 50 miles unless I get a wild hair. So as I finish this post, and sip my coffee, I’m contemplating all the options yet to come: wandering through Crested Butte, camping out near Kebbler Pass, perhaps a hike…its going to be a good week.
Ride time: 5:14
Average speed: 9.48
When you spend several hours fighting a headwind with panniers acting as sandbags weighing you down, you can’t help but begin to think you brought too much stuff. That thought crossed my mind more than a dozen times over the course of the day yesterday. Why did I bring all this stuff? Why did I pack this, why that? Many of the things I second guessed yesterday as superfluous junk got called into action Sunday night. So while I might begrudge the weight I suppose it’s a necessary evil.
I went to bed early Sunday night and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Promptly at midnight I heard the tell tale tapping of heavy drops on nylon canvas: damn. As with the previous nights I didn’t put my rain cover on the tent. I also left all my bags out, whereas previously I stored them under a tent or picnic table. For a tired bike rider I moved pretty quickly to pull out the rain fly for the tent, assemble it and move all of my bags to its dry confines. I also got out the ‘superfluous’ tarp to cover my bike to keep its gears and chain dry; its already squeaking like a pet store worth of hamster wheels so I thought drier would be better. All that extra weight now called to duty, like the army reserves of miscellaneous gear. Shortly after I got everything properly stowed away the rain stopped…go figure. Thankfully (only thankfully because I like being right) it started raining again, this time with earnest, about 1:00am.
Despite my midnight revelries I was up promptly at 6:30. I wanted to be up and on the road to the top of Monarch before the Labor Day traffic crush started. I’m glad I made this decision, I enjoyed relatively free streets for my slow spinning and wobbling up to 11,000+ft. It took me 2 hours to go 10 miles up to the top of the pass, but I made it by god. I was thrilled when I reached the little parking lot at the top. I took some pictures, put on some more clothes and then started my descent. The first thing that hit me on the way down was the cold: bone chilling cold even with a jersey, arm warmers and jacket. The second thing was the wind: damned infernal wind. Despite the lack of physical comforts on my descent, I didn’t pedal once for 7 or 8 miles, with the exception of shifting my down-pedal leg for the turns. The Surly under duress handled the curves and steep grades with ease. I stopped briefly at Sargents to dance around in a circle for warmth and then set out on the road to Gunnison. It took 3 hours to cover 24-ish miles. I’d crest hills and have to stand up and sprint to keep the wind from shutting me down altogether.
When I finally got to Gunnison I came across a couple from Czechoslovakia who were riding from Denver to San Francisco. They were well outfitted with nice gear and lightweight aluminum bikes, but still were quite finished with the wind about as much as I was. I talked to them for a while about their trip, gear selection, weight of bikes etc. We then parted ways as they were heading onward out 50 west and I was planning on heading north to Crested Butte. They were the second group of bike tourists that I’ve seen. On Sunday heading up Bighorn Canyon to Salida I saw three riders heading the other direction. We exchanged quick hellos and that was it. The nice lady at the Gunnison Visitor’s Center gave me some information on national park camp grounds which were several miles away (no), the KOA out west past town (no thanks), and a hostel in town (bingo). I opted for a bed, warm shower and proximity to dinner.
The Wanderlust Hostel in Gunnison was quiet with no other guests, so I chose the dorm room option but ended up with the equivalent of a private room. The price was less than my cheesy Royal Gorge campsite, and while the scenery wasn’t quite as nice the comforts of home weren’t far away. The eclectic décor, hot showers, movie cabinet, wi-fi and stocked pantry made the Wanderlust an ideal destination for my halfway point. It was a great place to relax (sitting in the hammock in the yard) and recharge a bit. Amy, the owner of the hostel, and her mother Caroline run a really nice retreat for the weary traveler. I spent my afternoon in Gunnison lounging around, went out for pizza and a beer at Marios and then returned to a warm spot on the couch with Cole the dog as my attendee.
So now I’m in somewhat of a chill out mode of my trip. At 321-ish miles I’m more than halfway through and yet have a number of days to finish out my tour. My goal at the onset was to really push to get out to this part of the state and spend some time taking in the Gunnison area, Crested Butte and Paonia. At this point I don’t have to hurry and with the exception of one day (the push to Grand Junction) I shouldn’t have any day totaling more than 50 miles unless I get a wild hair. So as I finish this post, and sip my coffee, I’m contemplating all the options yet to come: wandering through Crested Butte, camping out near Kebbler Pass, perhaps a hike…its going to be a good week.
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| The long and winding road...looking back down the canyon. |
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| The little pink signs in the background warn cyclists about parking their bikes on the walkway. As if that's the only thing to worry about at the top of a mountain pass...geesh. |
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| Top of Monarch Pass and the Continental Divide! |
Monday, September 6, 2010
Day 3: Royal Gorge to Monarch
Distance Traveled: 62 miles
Ride Time: 6:17
Average Speed: 9.89 mph
At this moment I’m sitting next to a stream at the base of Monarch Pass. I am tired. My trepidation about what lies in store for me tomorrow on the slopes of the pass however has dissipated. It may be hard but I know I’ll get over it. I’m just in that frame of mind now after today’s effort. Today was supposed to be an easy day. A casual ride up the canyon to Salida, about 47 miles total; a piece of cake. In fact the day started out according to plan. From the camp ground high up near Royal Gorge the highway took a screaming 6% grade descent down to the Arkansas river. It was 2 miles of downhill. I loved every minute of it.
From there I pedaled up canyon following the river through some of the most scenic terrain of my trip. Bighorn Canyon winds along the roaring Arkansas as a channel of granite and conglomerate stones. It reminded me of the area around Buffalo Creek and Deckers; in fact it should have because I was heading through the same general region of the front range. I felt like an actual bike tourist for the first time in my trip. No agenda, no real purpose or mission just pedaling and taking in the scenery at my leisure. I found scenic places to take pictures. I read information signs. I epitomized aimlessness in all its glory. Still enjoying my trek, I stopped at Texas Creek, about 20 miles up road from where I started and had breakfast. From my table in the café I could see the trees outside begin to lean and shake in the wind. I looked away for a bit back towards my pancakes and coffee and then a cloud of dust blew down the canyon and caught my eye. I looked up and saw a small dervish of wind and dust spinning past.
For the next 32 miles I’d be plowing into some of the strongest winds I think I’ve ever ridden against. The bulk and heft of the bike with its 4 pannier sails on each side pushed and fought the wind with each surging gust. I couldn’t help myself but at times I just found myself yelling. Yelling at whom exactly I can’t say, but yelling and imploring the winds to cease. At times it was an effort to make 6 mph. At other times the winds would subside and I’d push hard to make up ground before the next blast hit. I started playing little games with myself, bartering breaks and stops at key mileage points. I passed Cotopaxi but stopped at the store in Howard to grab some cold water and a popsicle (one of my deals with myself.) The lady behind the counter commented on the wind and informed me that it is frequently blustery in the Bighorn. Why it was just the other day that “some guy came through on his way from Pueblo and said, ’I’ve fought a headwind since Pueblo. I can’t go anymore.’” Not wanting to be another one of those anecdotes I said my thanks and got moving again.
Eventually I neared Salida and was immediately uplifted. I rode into the downtown area and stopped at an outdoor store to inquire about options for camping in town. “Well you can go to Big Bear, just a couple miles east of here on 50.” No, I informed him, east wouldn’t do. What about west? “Well there’s not much until you get to Monarch.” He showed me on the map where a couple campgrounds were, all located miles off of 50 about 10 miles west of town. At that point I don’t know what it was but I just got on my bike and started riding again. It was still relatively warm; still windy as ever. I stopped at a gas station to get water for my bottles, ate a bar and some fruit leathers and kept going. It was early enough in the afternoon (around 3:00) that I guess I just decided I could keep riding. My plan was to head up towards the pass and find a spot where I could. I packed some freeze dried food for just such an occasion and with a pit stop in Poncha Springs for water and some breakfast items I pointed the Surly uphill.
So at this point I’m down a small off shoot of 50, a gravel road that leads to an old hydro electric station, now just a reservoir for fishing and place where people have obviously camped before me. I think I’m about a half mile from Monarch itself, with about 7 miles or so to go of climbing before the pass. I’m ahead of the game for tomorrow and which is good because I’m banking on wind yet again on the plains before Gunnison. I guess I deal with that when I get there, but in any case I think I’ll manage.
Ride Time: 6:17
Average Speed: 9.89 mph
At this moment I’m sitting next to a stream at the base of Monarch Pass. I am tired. My trepidation about what lies in store for me tomorrow on the slopes of the pass however has dissipated. It may be hard but I know I’ll get over it. I’m just in that frame of mind now after today’s effort. Today was supposed to be an easy day. A casual ride up the canyon to Salida, about 47 miles total; a piece of cake. In fact the day started out according to plan. From the camp ground high up near Royal Gorge the highway took a screaming 6% grade descent down to the Arkansas river. It was 2 miles of downhill. I loved every minute of it.
From there I pedaled up canyon following the river through some of the most scenic terrain of my trip. Bighorn Canyon winds along the roaring Arkansas as a channel of granite and conglomerate stones. It reminded me of the area around Buffalo Creek and Deckers; in fact it should have because I was heading through the same general region of the front range. I felt like an actual bike tourist for the first time in my trip. No agenda, no real purpose or mission just pedaling and taking in the scenery at my leisure. I found scenic places to take pictures. I read information signs. I epitomized aimlessness in all its glory. Still enjoying my trek, I stopped at Texas Creek, about 20 miles up road from where I started and had breakfast. From my table in the café I could see the trees outside begin to lean and shake in the wind. I looked away for a bit back towards my pancakes and coffee and then a cloud of dust blew down the canyon and caught my eye. I looked up and saw a small dervish of wind and dust spinning past.
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| Enjoying some pre-wind bike touring |
Eventually I neared Salida and was immediately uplifted. I rode into the downtown area and stopped at an outdoor store to inquire about options for camping in town. “Well you can go to Big Bear, just a couple miles east of here on 50.” No, I informed him, east wouldn’t do. What about west? “Well there’s not much until you get to Monarch.” He showed me on the map where a couple campgrounds were, all located miles off of 50 about 10 miles west of town. At that point I don’t know what it was but I just got on my bike and started riding again. It was still relatively warm; still windy as ever. I stopped at a gas station to get water for my bottles, ate a bar and some fruit leathers and kept going. It was early enough in the afternoon (around 3:00) that I guess I just decided I could keep riding. My plan was to head up towards the pass and find a spot where I could. I packed some freeze dried food for just such an occasion and with a pit stop in Poncha Springs for water and some breakfast items I pointed the Surly uphill.
So at this point I’m down a small off shoot of 50, a gravel road that leads to an old hydro electric station, now just a reservoir for fishing and place where people have obviously camped before me. I think I’m about a half mile from Monarch itself, with about 7 miles or so to go of climbing before the pass. I’m ahead of the game for tomorrow and which is good because I’m banking on wind yet again on the plains before Gunnison. I guess I deal with that when I get there, but in any case I think I’ll manage.
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| Monarch campsite...despite appearances a happy camper |
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Day 2 Fowler to Royal Gorge
Distance Traveled: 88 miles
Ride Time: 7:15
Average Speed: 12mph
Honey moon is over. I got Chuck Norris ninja kicked to my head piece today. Everything started out pretty well. I rolled out of Fowler around 8:00 and stopped at a restaurant on the west side of town for breakfast. The food tasted great and after a few minutes of scarfing I was full and ready to go. The road between Fowler and Pueblo rolls slightly before hitting a very long, high plateau. It reminded me of the stretch of highway between 93 and Indiana (HWY 73?) north of Arvada…but 15 miles long. I came across a section of highway which for all intents and purposes could have been two lanes but was only one. So while the motorized traffic dutifully kept to their side of the rumble strip, I could ramble onward with my own private lane. I didn’t understand exactly why they would do this until I came across this road sign.
Heading into Pueblo I got turned around a bit and lost my bearings. I found a coffee shop with advertised free Wi-Fi so I could update my blog and check on directions. Well the free Wi-Fi was hit or miss and required a manual setup of the network, and a password and a bunch of other hoops. After I got it configured it kicked me out, so I left thereafter a bit annoyed. I decided to head north and after a fortuitous series of random turns hit HWY 50 on the west side of town. I poached some Wi-Fi from a Starbucks and finished my post and checked the details on the next bit of highway. It didn’t look great but I felt good. I made it to a Safeway and stopped for lunch.
At this point the ride started to slide downhill (while beginning to climb up hills.) The temperature had to be near 90 with no shade to speak of for miles. At this point HWY 50 just rolls west towards the foothills in a series of long undulating humps. If that weren’t bad enough my good-fortune-tailwind from yesterday left me by the wayside. I slogged the 33-ish miles to Canon City into a nice front range wind. I was near 75 miles by the time I hit Canon City and exhausted from the heat (94 at this point according to a bank thermometer) and from battling the wind at a whopping 10mph. I missed the hours at the visitor center but checked in with a bike store and sporting goods store across the street. The friendly guy working the small shop told me that most of the camping in the area is about 7 miles up ‘the hill’ towards Royal Gorge. With few other options I stopped at the Safeway to stock up and again turned the Surly west. The road rolled gradually for the first couple miles before turning left and becoming a series of mile long ramps. At this point I was just spent. My legs seemed to go but my head was throbbing and my mouth was completely dry. I tried to drink but my water was warm and disgusting to me; the Gatorade was worse. I checked the odometer, 2.5 miles to go, stopped to choke down a gel and some piss warm drink and slogged onward yet again. When I came around a bend unbeknownst to me I was at the top of the ramps and faced a long descent into the Royal Gorge tourist area. My spirits immediately lifted.
Supposedly there were roads where one could tuck away and camp for free but I either didn’t see them or wasn’t in the frame of mind to. Instead it was touristy RV campgrounds and other kitsch. So when in Rome… I checked in to a cheesy, somewhat overpriced, campground (with really nice tent spots) and set my tent up quickly. Settled into camp I made a beeline to the shower and stood under the cold water for 15 minutes or so. Leaving the shower I again felt refreshed and optimistic. The folks camped around me, Tim and Sheila, and big Aaron from Texas are all really friendly. Having faced the last of my plains riding I now turn my sights towards the hills and high mountain valleys all the way to Delta. Tomorrow’s ride is short…really short in comparison to the last two days (a very welcome short day) as I wind up the canyon to Salida. From there it’s the day which weighs most heavily on my thoughts: Salida to Gunnison, 64 ish miles with the long, steep climb over Monarch Pass sandwiched in the middle for good measure. As much as the climb intimidates me I find it hard to think it will offer more of a challenge than the efforts of today. Tonight’s sleep is well earned.
Ride Time: 7:15
Average Speed: 12mph
Honey moon is over. I got Chuck Norris ninja kicked to my head piece today. Everything started out pretty well. I rolled out of Fowler around 8:00 and stopped at a restaurant on the west side of town for breakfast. The food tasted great and after a few minutes of scarfing I was full and ready to go. The road between Fowler and Pueblo rolls slightly before hitting a very long, high plateau. It reminded me of the stretch of highway between 93 and Indiana (HWY 73?) north of Arvada…but 15 miles long. I came across a section of highway which for all intents and purposes could have been two lanes but was only one. So while the motorized traffic dutifully kept to their side of the rumble strip, I could ramble onward with my own private lane. I didn’t understand exactly why they would do this until I came across this road sign.
At this point the ride started to slide downhill (while beginning to climb up hills.) The temperature had to be near 90 with no shade to speak of for miles. At this point HWY 50 just rolls west towards the foothills in a series of long undulating humps. If that weren’t bad enough my good-fortune-tailwind from yesterday left me by the wayside. I slogged the 33-ish miles to Canon City into a nice front range wind. I was near 75 miles by the time I hit Canon City and exhausted from the heat (94 at this point according to a bank thermometer) and from battling the wind at a whopping 10mph. I missed the hours at the visitor center but checked in with a bike store and sporting goods store across the street. The friendly guy working the small shop told me that most of the camping in the area is about 7 miles up ‘the hill’ towards Royal Gorge. With few other options I stopped at the Safeway to stock up and again turned the Surly west. The road rolled gradually for the first couple miles before turning left and becoming a series of mile long ramps. At this point I was just spent. My legs seemed to go but my head was throbbing and my mouth was completely dry. I tried to drink but my water was warm and disgusting to me; the Gatorade was worse. I checked the odometer, 2.5 miles to go, stopped to choke down a gel and some piss warm drink and slogged onward yet again. When I came around a bend unbeknownst to me I was at the top of the ramps and faced a long descent into the Royal Gorge tourist area. My spirits immediately lifted.
Supposedly there were roads where one could tuck away and camp for free but I either didn’t see them or wasn’t in the frame of mind to. Instead it was touristy RV campgrounds and other kitsch. So when in Rome… I checked in to a cheesy, somewhat overpriced, campground (with really nice tent spots) and set my tent up quickly. Settled into camp I made a beeline to the shower and stood under the cold water for 15 minutes or so. Leaving the shower I again felt refreshed and optimistic. The folks camped around me, Tim and Sheila, and big Aaron from Texas are all really friendly. Having faced the last of my plains riding I now turn my sights towards the hills and high mountain valleys all the way to Delta. Tomorrow’s ride is short…really short in comparison to the last two days (a very welcome short day) as I wind up the canyon to Salida. From there it’s the day which weighs most heavily on my thoughts: Salida to Gunnison, 64 ish miles with the long, steep climb over Monarch Pass sandwiched in the middle for good measure. As much as the climb intimidates me I find it hard to think it will offer more of a challenge than the efforts of today. Tonight’s sleep is well earned.
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| A picture of a happy camper...well sort of |
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| Looking South Towards Royal Gorge |
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Day 1: Kansas Colorado Border to Fowler
Miles traveled: 117 (+3 miles of tooling around Fowler and such)
Ride Time: around 7:25 (I rode around Fowler for a bit and forgot to check the time)
Average speed: 15.25 (I guess, see above)
The crowd of morning “regulars” at J.R.’s in Holly barely noticed the couple walk into the store; guy dressed in a bike jersey wearing socks and sandals (very German of him) and his female counterpart dressed in a blue merino wool sweater and jeans smartly rolled to Capri length. A pair of thumbs couldn’t get more sore unless you hit them with a hammer. The morning’s conversation carried on; so-and-so got a new Guernsey someone was wrestling with a dry patch in his hay, another discussing his winter wheat which is already coming up. I imagine outsiders typically come in, make their purchases and then leave sleepy Holly, Colorado in their dust. The couple today however sat down in an empty booth, and it didn’t take long for one of the regulars, an older fellow in a camo ball cap and flannel shirt, who’s contribution to conversation earlier centered on dove hunting, inquired about the words on the young man’s jersey.
“Share the road? Don’t you get scared with all them cars on the road. I know how people drive.” And with that the thread of conversation for the regulars, conversant on topics pertaining to weather, agriculture, field sport and other rural affairs, turned instead to cycling. “If I were to want to ride more than the next block I’d have to get into shape. Round is a shape, but its not the kind that’s going to help me anywhere,” chimed a younger fellow who soon left to tend to other business. Another offered insight on distances, the man in the camouflage hat an anecdote about a new story about bikes. Apparently a high value bike relates well to the cost of a high value shotgun. No one entreated a dismissive remark. No one suggested cyclists should get off the road, or that cyclists don’t pay taxes. They were interested and welcoming.
When I told folks about my plans to ride across Colorado many offered missives about the eastern plains; about how flat it is, how boring it would be. Well I fancy myself of a pseudo agrarian at heart (or at least a wannabe) so the trip through farms, fields and rural landscapes was actually quite an enjoyable one for me. I’ve walked into what has to be several dozen eateries in the Denver area and probably could count on one hand the number of times anyone has struck up a conversation with me. Perhaps I give off an air of distance or aloofness…or perhaps there’s something to say about old-fashioned courtesy.
I certainly appreciated the slower pace of life, and driving, out here on the eastern plains. I could tell an out of state plate coming up behind me just based on the sound of the gunning engine (that excludes some of the local grain trucks…my idyllic pastoral scene really took a turn for the negative choking down the dust of passing grain harvest for miles.) On my way west today I met a number of very friendly and interesting individuals who stopped to chat about my ride. Everyone I spoke to about my trip wished me well and a safe journey. Its nice to have complete strangers be empathetic and concerned about your well being. I talked to some folks at the visitor center in Lamar, which is a beautifully restored train depot. I talked to a fellow and his daughter outside a convenience store in Las Animas. He too assured me he couldn’t ride even a block, and when I suggested practicing, he said he couldn’t practice either. But he was more than intrigued with my bike, the gear shift leavers on the bar ends, the number of speeds, the speedometer and my clipless pedals. I met a biker (motor that is) outside of another convenience store in La Junta. He was extremely interested in my plans, practically down to the mileage of each day. When traveling by bike one can’t help but be slow, especially when laden with over 50lbs of gear. So the going is slow. But it seems that many of the people I met today weren’t in a hurry either. They wanted to stop, take a moment from their day and spend it chatting with me. They were almost moving at bike speed too, even though not on bikes themselves.
Ok, shifting gears to some of the specifics of the day. We got up at 5:00 and quickly showered, loaded the car and got on the road for the 30 mile trek to the border. We stopped in Holly to eat and then were quickly on the state line and prepping for the ride. It was hard to see Kate and Bean leave both because I know I will miss them and that their departure signified the solitude in which I now find myself in on the road. I made pretty good time with a bit of headwind into Lamar. I stopped, fueled up, visited the visitor center and then was on the road and enjoying a nice cross to tail wind. I made much better time at this point and enjoyed the scenery more than the beginning. I felt really good until I got close to Las Animas. The heat was really on at this point and I was getting a bit fatigued and hungry. I stopped for lunch and fluids. This helped get me going again and I felt strong for a while in route to La Junta. About 8 miles out of La Junta the shoulder all but disappeared. This unnerved me and I pushed the pace to be done with it. Pushed to the point of exhaustion I rolled into La Junta and took another break. Now facing the 29 mile home stretch I got going. I did well but had to stop in the shade of some trees just outside Manzanola to cool down and hydrate. The last 9 miles to Fowler I was in ’the zone’. Not the stupendous, performance zone: the tired and beyond caring about much zone. The last 9 miles kind of flew by thankfully and my spirits lifted when I found the Fowler city limits and a Loaf and Jug to get ice water. I’m now camped in Fowler at kind of a crazy place. Its an RV campground with a tent area, run by a crazy old codger and his wife. Very nice folks but kind of in their own world…which includes two semi shaved Pekinese and a lot of old, disassembled farm implements. I got a cold shower (by choice) ate a hearty and very manly dinner (convenience store Dinty Moore) and then went over to the Fowler High School for some Friday night lights. I sat on the bench and cheered the good plays, texted Kate and watched the crowd root for the home team. I rooted for Fowler too, my temporary home for tonight. Starting to yawn I’m now back at camp, typing this update before hopefully what will be a nice, well deserved rest.
Day 1, ’The Long Day’, in the books.
Ride Time: around 7:25 (I rode around Fowler for a bit and forgot to check the time)
Average speed: 15.25 (I guess, see above)
The crowd of morning “regulars” at J.R.’s in Holly barely noticed the couple walk into the store; guy dressed in a bike jersey wearing socks and sandals (very German of him) and his female counterpart dressed in a blue merino wool sweater and jeans smartly rolled to Capri length. A pair of thumbs couldn’t get more sore unless you hit them with a hammer. The morning’s conversation carried on; so-and-so got a new Guernsey someone was wrestling with a dry patch in his hay, another discussing his winter wheat which is already coming up. I imagine outsiders typically come in, make their purchases and then leave sleepy Holly, Colorado in their dust. The couple today however sat down in an empty booth, and it didn’t take long for one of the regulars, an older fellow in a camo ball cap and flannel shirt, who’s contribution to conversation earlier centered on dove hunting, inquired about the words on the young man’s jersey.
“Share the road? Don’t you get scared with all them cars on the road. I know how people drive.” And with that the thread of conversation for the regulars, conversant on topics pertaining to weather, agriculture, field sport and other rural affairs, turned instead to cycling. “If I were to want to ride more than the next block I’d have to get into shape. Round is a shape, but its not the kind that’s going to help me anywhere,” chimed a younger fellow who soon left to tend to other business. Another offered insight on distances, the man in the camouflage hat an anecdote about a new story about bikes. Apparently a high value bike relates well to the cost of a high value shotgun. No one entreated a dismissive remark. No one suggested cyclists should get off the road, or that cyclists don’t pay taxes. They were interested and welcoming.
When I told folks about my plans to ride across Colorado many offered missives about the eastern plains; about how flat it is, how boring it would be. Well I fancy myself of a pseudo agrarian at heart (or at least a wannabe) so the trip through farms, fields and rural landscapes was actually quite an enjoyable one for me. I’ve walked into what has to be several dozen eateries in the Denver area and probably could count on one hand the number of times anyone has struck up a conversation with me. Perhaps I give off an air of distance or aloofness…or perhaps there’s something to say about old-fashioned courtesy.
I certainly appreciated the slower pace of life, and driving, out here on the eastern plains. I could tell an out of state plate coming up behind me just based on the sound of the gunning engine (that excludes some of the local grain trucks…my idyllic pastoral scene really took a turn for the negative choking down the dust of passing grain harvest for miles.) On my way west today I met a number of very friendly and interesting individuals who stopped to chat about my ride. Everyone I spoke to about my trip wished me well and a safe journey. Its nice to have complete strangers be empathetic and concerned about your well being. I talked to some folks at the visitor center in Lamar, which is a beautifully restored train depot. I talked to a fellow and his daughter outside a convenience store in Las Animas. He too assured me he couldn’t ride even a block, and when I suggested practicing, he said he couldn’t practice either. But he was more than intrigued with my bike, the gear shift leavers on the bar ends, the number of speeds, the speedometer and my clipless pedals. I met a biker (motor that is) outside of another convenience store in La Junta. He was extremely interested in my plans, practically down to the mileage of each day. When traveling by bike one can’t help but be slow, especially when laden with over 50lbs of gear. So the going is slow. But it seems that many of the people I met today weren’t in a hurry either. They wanted to stop, take a moment from their day and spend it chatting with me. They were almost moving at bike speed too, even though not on bikes themselves.
Ok, shifting gears to some of the specifics of the day. We got up at 5:00 and quickly showered, loaded the car and got on the road for the 30 mile trek to the border. We stopped in Holly to eat and then were quickly on the state line and prepping for the ride. It was hard to see Kate and Bean leave both because I know I will miss them and that their departure signified the solitude in which I now find myself in on the road. I made pretty good time with a bit of headwind into Lamar. I stopped, fueled up, visited the visitor center and then was on the road and enjoying a nice cross to tail wind. I made much better time at this point and enjoyed the scenery more than the beginning. I felt really good until I got close to Las Animas. The heat was really on at this point and I was getting a bit fatigued and hungry. I stopped for lunch and fluids. This helped get me going again and I felt strong for a while in route to La Junta. About 8 miles out of La Junta the shoulder all but disappeared. This unnerved me and I pushed the pace to be done with it. Pushed to the point of exhaustion I rolled into La Junta and took another break. Now facing the 29 mile home stretch I got going. I did well but had to stop in the shade of some trees just outside Manzanola to cool down and hydrate. The last 9 miles to Fowler I was in ’the zone’. Not the stupendous, performance zone: the tired and beyond caring about much zone. The last 9 miles kind of flew by thankfully and my spirits lifted when I found the Fowler city limits and a Loaf and Jug to get ice water. I’m now camped in Fowler at kind of a crazy place. Its an RV campground with a tent area, run by a crazy old codger and his wife. Very nice folks but kind of in their own world…which includes two semi shaved Pekinese and a lot of old, disassembled farm implements. I got a cold shower (by choice) ate a hearty and very manly dinner (convenience store Dinty Moore) and then went over to the Fowler High School for some Friday night lights. I sat on the bench and cheered the good plays, texted Kate and watched the crowd root for the home team. I rooted for Fowler too, my temporary home for tonight. Starting to yawn I’m now back at camp, typing this update before hopefully what will be a nice, well deserved rest.
Day 1, ’The Long Day’, in the books.
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| At the border: The Grand Depart |
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| A very welcome sign |
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| Visitor's Center in Lamar, CO |
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| Fowler at last |
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| Fireworks at the Fowler HS football game |
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Cow Palace Here I Am
The scene at the Cow Palace Best Western here in Lamar, CO is one of anticipation...and gear. For the second night in a row I've amassed my pile of gear and now stare at it contemplating all of the options, considerations and hopes that everything that needs to be here is finally here and not sitting at home on the dinning room table. I don't know if the magnitude of what lies before me has fully set in yet, but amidst my stack of stuff and an odd smelling hotel room its starting to hit me. Tomorrow I'm going to be dropped off in the middle of no where along the border of Colorado and Kansas and I'm going to ride west: wow. I guess I should get packing. Tomorrow I'll let you know how the massive 100+ mile day one goes...maybe the scene in Fowler will be different.
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| Chillin' at the Cow Palace, Kate, Bean and Bike |
Monday, August 30, 2010
Solo Bike Colorado 2010
With my bike adventure across Colorado coming up at the end of the week it seemed an appropriate time to get my plans in order for this little trek. I've bought myself 9 full days of riding with a combination of vacation days, holiday and a mandated furlough. So with plenty of time, I should be able to do this right...or at least as right as I'm able. I sat down with my Delorme's Colorado Gazetter, Google Maps and Map My Ride and figured out what route to take. The map below, which should link to a larger map, details the high level outline of my trip.
View Larger Map
I picked the route westward along highway 50 for a couple reasons. It is a relatively scenic route. It generally travels through towns and 'cities' at regular intervals, but shouldn't be too busy. I've driven it a couple times to know that it is not excessively busy during the week. It has a wide shoulder and is a quasi direct route across the state. My plan is to take 50 west, perhaps using some local bypass routes at convenient locations and then when I hit Gunnison make a decision about heading north to Crested Butte or west to Sapinero. I really want to head up through Paonia and Hotchkiss because it will be harvest season for the orchards and vineyards there which should make for a nice day of cruising around (plus I've never been out that way before and I have to see something new!) So my Crested Butte option, if I'm feeling saucy, will take me up over Kebbler pass; supposedly a very flat, passable dirt road. Or my escape plan is out to Sapinero and then up 92 near the Black Canyon. Probably still a tough jaunt but not like climbing another mountain pass.
Here's the tentative breakdown of the day by day:
With this plan I should have 2 days built in for resting, dodging bad weather or doing other things. This will also help buffer any of my ambition if I find that I'm biting off more mileage per day than I can handle. As you can tell, I front load the eastern part of the trip (the flat stuff) with some big mileage days. That helps me get through the less scenic parts of the trip, as well as maximize my freshness on the ride with the flats to cut into the big distance I have to cover. It all sounds very well planned out, but I assure you I'm only two steps away from making this stuff up as I go. Should be fun!
View Larger Map
I picked the route westward along highway 50 for a couple reasons. It is a relatively scenic route. It generally travels through towns and 'cities' at regular intervals, but shouldn't be too busy. I've driven it a couple times to know that it is not excessively busy during the week. It has a wide shoulder and is a quasi direct route across the state. My plan is to take 50 west, perhaps using some local bypass routes at convenient locations and then when I hit Gunnison make a decision about heading north to Crested Butte or west to Sapinero. I really want to head up through Paonia and Hotchkiss because it will be harvest season for the orchards and vineyards there which should make for a nice day of cruising around (plus I've never been out that way before and I have to see something new!) So my Crested Butte option, if I'm feeling saucy, will take me up over Kebbler pass; supposedly a very flat, passable dirt road. Or my escape plan is out to Sapinero and then up 92 near the Black Canyon. Probably still a tough jaunt but not like climbing another mountain pass.
Here's the tentative breakdown of the day by day:
| Day | From | To | Mileage |
|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | E. Border | Fowler | ~115 |
| 2 | Fowler | Canon City | ~73 |
| 3 | Canon City | Salida | ~58 |
| 4 | Salida | Gunnison | ~64 |
| 5 | Gunnison | Hotchkiss | ~70 |
| 6 | Hotchkiss | Grand Junction | ~60 |
| 7 | Grand Junction | W Border | ~30 |
With this plan I should have 2 days built in for resting, dodging bad weather or doing other things. This will also help buffer any of my ambition if I find that I'm biting off more mileage per day than I can handle. As you can tell, I front load the eastern part of the trip (the flat stuff) with some big mileage days. That helps me get through the less scenic parts of the trip, as well as maximize my freshness on the ride with the flats to cut into the big distance I have to cover. It all sounds very well planned out, but I assure you I'm only two steps away from making this stuff up as I go. Should be fun!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Rumors and Hearsay
Spoked has definitely been offline for much of the summer. And with any hiatus or departure from the public eye, gossip begins to spread and rumors grow. So in the interest of rekindling my intimate relationship with all you wonderful bike loving, blog reading folk I thought I’d enter the confessional booth and say my Hail Mary’s and Hello Dolly‘s. I’ll try to address all of the speculation and rampant rumor mongering to cut off many of these ill-truths and falsehoods at the head.
Do you even still ride a bike any more? I heard you quit.
Well don’t believe everything that you hear. Of course I ride my bike…all the time. I still get around town on my trusty Surly and have racked up over 3,500 miles on it since Feb. (Don’t pay attention to that there odometer to the right just yet, I’ve not sorted it out.) I’ve enjoyed riding to work around the 2 dozen detours and construction projects which have made my commute an exercise in backtracking and circumlocution.
Well do you race? I heard you quit.
Well don’t believe everything that you hear….ok this one is more or less true. I did: I raced. I raced this season (like 4-5 times) and that was that. I don’t train. I don’t measure my food, weigh myself in the morning each day, and check my resting heart rate when I get up before I pee and then weigh myself again. I don’t name my days of the week: interval, hill repeat, recovery, active recovery, LSD, race-day. They’re back to Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday etc. I just couldn’t find the mojo to get it working for racing this year. While I miss hanging out with my team I don’t miss the second job…amateur bike racing. I now enjoy my bike and when I want to park it, I enjoy parking it.
Have you secretly been using your bike as a tool to invoke a communist, UN led revolution here in Colorado?
Sort of…that’s about all I’ll say. You can thank Dan Maes for ruining that one though: if it weren’t for that pesky kook-pot, tin-foil hat republican, and his dog too (reread that last bit and think about Scooby Doo…it makes this quasi true story much, much better.)
What happened to the Dick?
Well the Dick finally got caught. Alas I was not the one to catch him, but I did hear all about the tale and will be updating you all on that fantastic sea-yarn very shortly. It involves a harpoon, a stakeout, and the Wheatridge PO.
What about the trip across CO?
Oh yeah baby what about it? Its happenin’…next weekend. I’ve actually been training for this event over the past month or so with several preparation rides and other bouts of prolonged suffering on my heavy bike with bags full of heavy stuff. I’m heading out to the eastern border Thursday night and then I’m going to guide my Surly LHT westward to the CO border near Fruita. While I’m out there I might just mountain bike my Surly with all its pannier weight on some sweet Fruita single track…or I might just drink some wine and pass out instead. Who knows? I’m gearing up for this ride so I’ll be posting all my ride details, experiences and in’s and out’s on this here blog. Just stay posted.
Did Elin hit you with a golf club too when you told her all about Tiger?
No, she was pretty grateful to find out about her DB husband. I won’t see any of that cash though which is a bummer, I thought we had something real special…like a connection or something.
So what’s new in bikes?
Nothing. It is still a simple, gear driven, human propelled machine. It’s the most efficient method of human conveyance. I think they make them out of aluminum now though which is pretty cool.
Any funny commuter stories?
Well I was riding home from work the other day and I got passed by this racer, all kitted up for his weekday afternoon glory. He passed me at the light at Pierce heading up the hill before Wadsworth and then made a big acceleration up to the light. But he stalled! He kind of looked back and then down at his bike. His SRAM doubletap failed him and he dropped his heavy, sponsor laden chain like a CAT 4 amateur in a Pink Floyd jersey. I smoked him after that, laughing all the way to Paris…oh wait. Did that really happen? Now who’s spreading rumors?
Well I think that covers it for now. And you know what? I feel much better. Don’t you?
Do you even still ride a bike any more? I heard you quit.
Well don’t believe everything that you hear. Of course I ride my bike…all the time. I still get around town on my trusty Surly and have racked up over 3,500 miles on it since Feb. (Don’t pay attention to that there odometer to the right just yet, I’ve not sorted it out.) I’ve enjoyed riding to work around the 2 dozen detours and construction projects which have made my commute an exercise in backtracking and circumlocution.
Well do you race? I heard you quit.
Well don’t believe everything that you hear….ok this one is more or less true. I did: I raced. I raced this season (like 4-5 times) and that was that. I don’t train. I don’t measure my food, weigh myself in the morning each day, and check my resting heart rate when I get up before I pee and then weigh myself again. I don’t name my days of the week: interval, hill repeat, recovery, active recovery, LSD, race-day. They’re back to Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday etc. I just couldn’t find the mojo to get it working for racing this year. While I miss hanging out with my team I don’t miss the second job…amateur bike racing. I now enjoy my bike and when I want to park it, I enjoy parking it.
Have you secretly been using your bike as a tool to invoke a communist, UN led revolution here in Colorado?
Sort of…that’s about all I’ll say. You can thank Dan Maes for ruining that one though: if it weren’t for that pesky kook-pot, tin-foil hat republican, and his dog too (reread that last bit and think about Scooby Doo…it makes this quasi true story much, much better.)
What happened to the Dick?
Well the Dick finally got caught. Alas I was not the one to catch him, but I did hear all about the tale and will be updating you all on that fantastic sea-yarn very shortly. It involves a harpoon, a stakeout, and the Wheatridge PO.
What about the trip across CO?
Oh yeah baby what about it? Its happenin’…next weekend. I’ve actually been training for this event over the past month or so with several preparation rides and other bouts of prolonged suffering on my heavy bike with bags full of heavy stuff. I’m heading out to the eastern border Thursday night and then I’m going to guide my Surly LHT westward to the CO border near Fruita. While I’m out there I might just mountain bike my Surly with all its pannier weight on some sweet Fruita single track…or I might just drink some wine and pass out instead. Who knows? I’m gearing up for this ride so I’ll be posting all my ride details, experiences and in’s and out’s on this here blog. Just stay posted.
Did Elin hit you with a golf club too when you told her all about Tiger?
No, she was pretty grateful to find out about her DB husband. I won’t see any of that cash though which is a bummer, I thought we had something real special…like a connection or something.
So what’s new in bikes?
Nothing. It is still a simple, gear driven, human propelled machine. It’s the most efficient method of human conveyance. I think they make them out of aluminum now though which is pretty cool.
Any funny commuter stories?
Well I was riding home from work the other day and I got passed by this racer, all kitted up for his weekday afternoon glory. He passed me at the light at Pierce heading up the hill before Wadsworth and then made a big acceleration up to the light. But he stalled! He kind of looked back and then down at his bike. His SRAM doubletap failed him and he dropped his heavy, sponsor laden chain like a CAT 4 amateur in a Pink Floyd jersey. I smoked him after that, laughing all the way to Paris…oh wait. Did that really happen? Now who’s spreading rumors?
Well I think that covers it for now. And you know what? I feel much better. Don’t you?
Saturday, May 8, 2010
What I did today
Today I left home at 8:00am for my ride up to Fort Collins. I met my friend Aaron at Indiana and 64th about 8 miles into my ride. We went up Indiana and then took McCaslin Rd into Louisville. From there the route varied from what I initially set out to do. Aaron's from that area so he took me on some roads which proved more bike-friendly and scenic. I felt great despite the 80+lbs of bike and gear I was pushing around. My pace up the initial tough climbing was pretty slow but once I got onto the flats (with small rollers) I was comfortable cruising around 15-20mph. With my route deviation I found myself close to Carter Lake, so I through the plan aside and took the road as it came, working my way northward to Fort Collins. It proved pretty fortunate as I ended up on a road with a wide shoulder and bike lane all the way from Loveland to Fort Collins. It also happened to be the road I wanted to head north towards Poudre Canyon. Happy twist of fate. Tomorrow I'm going to go try and work my way up the canyon to get some pics of Kate in the midst of her suffering. Why anyone would want to run 26 miles is beyond me.
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| Off of McCaslin Road in Louisville. This was supposed to be a great shot of my "high water" mark for the day's climbing...with Longs Peak in the background all dressed in snowy whiteness. Instead its really just a bike and a pole. |
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| Mile 60, heading into Fort Collins. |
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| The Surly at rest, Poudre Canyon. |
Have Bike, Will Travel
Although we moved around a couple times growing up, I consider Kirkwood, MO to be my childhood home. A quiet suburb of St. Louis, Kirkwood offers all of the charms and comforts of small community living with the connectedness to the broader St. Louis area which makes it so desirable. Good schools, parks, shopping, and a rich local history all combine to make Kirkwood a highly sought after place to live. As is typical in such locations, small neighborhood homes occupying spacious lots often find themselves purchased cheaply and then razed to make room for McMansions and other tacky displays of ostentation. If you were to go by our old home at 602 Pamela Lane you’d see this sign of progress in action. The small, blue 1950’s ranch with black shutters and basketball hoop no longer occupies center stage of the large lot framed by twin silver maples, there’s a monstrosity in its place now. I even think the maples are gone.
So with this new suburban trash moving in and devastating the character of the neighborhood to make room for their garage-mahals, I cannot speak to the quality of the community today. I can say that the cul-de-sac community of families, working folks and seniors made for an ideal place to grow up a couple decades ago. One of three long, deadend lanes, Pamela sat on the boarder of Kirkwood and an even more exclusive west county community. Yet for all the wealth and splendor of the blocks surrounding it, the cluster of homes on these three streets were all more or less the same; simple mid-century ranches with spacious lawns and healthy mature trees. The ‘black path’, so named for its crumbling asphalt, spanned the back side of the three streets and led to the elementary school not a mile or so away. Given our proximity to school and the relative safety of our neighborhood we grew up first as walkers. We walked to school each morning at 8:00 and when the bell rang at 3:00 we walked home. I think we walked from 1st grade, shepherded by the 5th grade crossing guards and an occasional parent. The Pott’s kids, Matt Plank, Jimmy Humphreys and several others usually accompanied my brother and I as we made our daily trek home from Westchester Elementary, backpacks and lunchboxes flopping around as we went. On weekends and during the summer though our walking turned to riding. As cliché as it may be to say it, in our small neighborhood a bike was your passport.
I can remember my first bike. It was a red and white Huffy. It had a red foam top tube and handlebar pad. It was a gift from Santa Clause, and probably the best he ever came up with. I can picture myself flailing away on that little bike, trying to keep up with the bigger kids in the neighborhood, Danny Plank and the two Albers boys all three of which were several years older than I. Our street climbed the entire length from Geyer Road at the bottom to the circle at the top. We rode up and down it, perhaps a half mile in length, often racing each way. Sometimes we rode down through everyone’s backyards; few had fences and since most of the homes had kids it seemed ok to race down the hills and over the roots of trees without too much concern for property or privacy. The Albers boys were eventually replaced by the Tomasinos who had two girls, but we rode through their back yard still anyway. You could generally always tell where everyone was on a given afternoon by the pile of bikes at the end of the driveway. It was not uncommon on a good football or baseball day to see a half dozen or so ten speeds and bmx bikes in a pile on someone’s lawn. I think it made us easy to find when we happened to be out later than curfew.
The highlight of growing up had to be 3rd grade when they let you ride your bike to school. Westchester had a bike storage area adjacent to the gym by the ‘big kids‘ playground. Generally filled on a nice autumn or spring day, everyone in the surrounding neighborhoods could access a quiet residential street or back alley path to get to school. Once I got older this interconnected web of paths and streets presented an opportunity to wander even farther from home. I’d love to go back in time and add up the miles of neighborhood streets I traveled. I knew every street and path from our home all the way to Ballas Road easily a couple miles away. I don’t know if my parents even realized how far we went at times. Since we avoided any major streets it seemed safe enough and certainly not worth illustrating in any revealing detail.
My first road bike was a black Murray 10 speed. I got a Domino’s pizza cycling hat from a Cub Scout event and wore it for an entire summer until the brim eventually came off of it. This was the era of Lemond and I’d seen his narrow time trial victory on Wide World of Sports and I thought bike racing was fantastic. I could race my bike too. The surrounding hills became Alps and every ride was a sprint and charge through each turn. Heading home one drizzly afternoon while in middle school I charged through a turn a little too pro-style and ended up in the emergency room with a broken wrist. Certainly not my first bike crash (and definitely not my last) my knees and shins still bare the scars from cycling antics gone awry: going over the handlebars after hitting my brother’s wheel while trying to scare him by riding right at him--he moved, or hitting a manhole in the field by the middle school with Jack Kramer--he got the worst of it when one of his spokes went into his leg. Bike riding in those carefree, helmet-less days certainly was hazardous, but we could have been doing worse things I suppose.
While I can remember several fascinating and rewarding aspects of Boy Scouts, one of the highlights has to be the bicycling merit badge activities. I took a trip with the troop and my dad and we went out to Defiance and rode the Katy trail to St. Charles and back: very ironic that my family would later move out to that picturesque area. It was a 50 mile day and at the time my longest ride to date. We climbed some real hills, and as a scrawny boy saw the true advantage of my lightweight physique. I could never be a linebacker but I could climb a hill on a bike like nobody’s business. We also did a ride from Westchester Elementary down to Forest Park in St. Louis. I can clearly recall the moment where I realized that all the places I’d been in a car could easily be connected up and reached by bike. I’d been to Forest Park dozens of times but as a 12 or 13 year old, never under my own power. We could climb the tree at the Plank’s house and see the skyscrapers around Clayton on a clear fall day. After that bike trip, I’d climb the tree just to see how far I’d ridden.
And today I sit on bench at a campground northwest of Fort Collins, Colorado at the mouth of Poudre Canyon. As I type I look up at the blue Surly Long Haul Trucker resting against a fence across from me. My bike is still my passport. Today it brought me safely north over hills and country roads, more than 75 miles from my home. And tomorrow when I wake up I’ll climb back on the saddle and it will take me somewhere else. I’ve come a long way from the days of red Huffys, but that same excitement still remains; have bike, will travel.
So with this new suburban trash moving in and devastating the character of the neighborhood to make room for their garage-mahals, I cannot speak to the quality of the community today. I can say that the cul-de-sac community of families, working folks and seniors made for an ideal place to grow up a couple decades ago. One of three long, deadend lanes, Pamela sat on the boarder of Kirkwood and an even more exclusive west county community. Yet for all the wealth and splendor of the blocks surrounding it, the cluster of homes on these three streets were all more or less the same; simple mid-century ranches with spacious lawns and healthy mature trees. The ‘black path’, so named for its crumbling asphalt, spanned the back side of the three streets and led to the elementary school not a mile or so away. Given our proximity to school and the relative safety of our neighborhood we grew up first as walkers. We walked to school each morning at 8:00 and when the bell rang at 3:00 we walked home. I think we walked from 1st grade, shepherded by the 5th grade crossing guards and an occasional parent. The Pott’s kids, Matt Plank, Jimmy Humphreys and several others usually accompanied my brother and I as we made our daily trek home from Westchester Elementary, backpacks and lunchboxes flopping around as we went. On weekends and during the summer though our walking turned to riding. As cliché as it may be to say it, in our small neighborhood a bike was your passport.
I can remember my first bike. It was a red and white Huffy. It had a red foam top tube and handlebar pad. It was a gift from Santa Clause, and probably the best he ever came up with. I can picture myself flailing away on that little bike, trying to keep up with the bigger kids in the neighborhood, Danny Plank and the two Albers boys all three of which were several years older than I. Our street climbed the entire length from Geyer Road at the bottom to the circle at the top. We rode up and down it, perhaps a half mile in length, often racing each way. Sometimes we rode down through everyone’s backyards; few had fences and since most of the homes had kids it seemed ok to race down the hills and over the roots of trees without too much concern for property or privacy. The Albers boys were eventually replaced by the Tomasinos who had two girls, but we rode through their back yard still anyway. You could generally always tell where everyone was on a given afternoon by the pile of bikes at the end of the driveway. It was not uncommon on a good football or baseball day to see a half dozen or so ten speeds and bmx bikes in a pile on someone’s lawn. I think it made us easy to find when we happened to be out later than curfew.
The highlight of growing up had to be 3rd grade when they let you ride your bike to school. Westchester had a bike storage area adjacent to the gym by the ‘big kids‘ playground. Generally filled on a nice autumn or spring day, everyone in the surrounding neighborhoods could access a quiet residential street or back alley path to get to school. Once I got older this interconnected web of paths and streets presented an opportunity to wander even farther from home. I’d love to go back in time and add up the miles of neighborhood streets I traveled. I knew every street and path from our home all the way to Ballas Road easily a couple miles away. I don’t know if my parents even realized how far we went at times. Since we avoided any major streets it seemed safe enough and certainly not worth illustrating in any revealing detail.
My first road bike was a black Murray 10 speed. I got a Domino’s pizza cycling hat from a Cub Scout event and wore it for an entire summer until the brim eventually came off of it. This was the era of Lemond and I’d seen his narrow time trial victory on Wide World of Sports and I thought bike racing was fantastic. I could race my bike too. The surrounding hills became Alps and every ride was a sprint and charge through each turn. Heading home one drizzly afternoon while in middle school I charged through a turn a little too pro-style and ended up in the emergency room with a broken wrist. Certainly not my first bike crash (and definitely not my last) my knees and shins still bare the scars from cycling antics gone awry: going over the handlebars after hitting my brother’s wheel while trying to scare him by riding right at him--he moved, or hitting a manhole in the field by the middle school with Jack Kramer--he got the worst of it when one of his spokes went into his leg. Bike riding in those carefree, helmet-less days certainly was hazardous, but we could have been doing worse things I suppose.
While I can remember several fascinating and rewarding aspects of Boy Scouts, one of the highlights has to be the bicycling merit badge activities. I took a trip with the troop and my dad and we went out to Defiance and rode the Katy trail to St. Charles and back: very ironic that my family would later move out to that picturesque area. It was a 50 mile day and at the time my longest ride to date. We climbed some real hills, and as a scrawny boy saw the true advantage of my lightweight physique. I could never be a linebacker but I could climb a hill on a bike like nobody’s business. We also did a ride from Westchester Elementary down to Forest Park in St. Louis. I can clearly recall the moment where I realized that all the places I’d been in a car could easily be connected up and reached by bike. I’d been to Forest Park dozens of times but as a 12 or 13 year old, never under my own power. We could climb the tree at the Plank’s house and see the skyscrapers around Clayton on a clear fall day. After that bike trip, I’d climb the tree just to see how far I’d ridden.
And today I sit on bench at a campground northwest of Fort Collins, Colorado at the mouth of Poudre Canyon. As I type I look up at the blue Surly Long Haul Trucker resting against a fence across from me. My bike is still my passport. Today it brought me safely north over hills and country roads, more than 75 miles from my home. And tomorrow when I wake up I’ll climb back on the saddle and it will take me somewhere else. I’ve come a long way from the days of red Huffys, but that same excitement still remains; have bike, will travel.
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