My legs hurt. I think it was the Elbert climb on Wednesday. My quads
and my calves are cooked. Yesterday, I could barely walk, and today
isn't much better. Oddly, I can still ride fine. Maybe a nice easy
little run will work the kinks out. I head up to Snowmass. I take the
car. I'm in no mood for the climb up Owl Creek Road today. I just want
a smooth, fun ride.
The Rim Trail starts with a switchback climb on smooth singletrack up
from Snowmass Village. The first time I met JD was riding this trail
four years ago. He thinks this is a nice singlespeed trail. I'm in my
granny. But the climb is not too hard, the switchbacks are not too
tight, and I cruise steadily up the climb, feeling the knots in my
quads loosen with the effort. I think about riding in the Rockies the
past few weeks. Tolstoy's first sentence in Anna Karenina is "All happy
families are alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." I
think this is certainly true of riding. All happy rides are the same.
I spin up the smooth switchbacks, switching in and out of the middle
ring.
My wife and I met Craig Brossman when we first showed in Durango. Alas,
Craig has some job or something silly like that to attend to, and he
wasn't available to ride during our time there. He did, however, very
generously offer to give us a shuttle up to the top of Hermosa Creek.
Turns out we met a couple of riders where we were camped and set up a
shuttle with them, so we didn't need to put Craig out of his way (but
we appreciate the hospitality anyway, man!) We rode three days in
Durango. The first day was a warmup ride, eleven miles or so on the
Colorado Trail from just outside Durango. The second was the classic
19-mile downhill on Hermosa, a ride I first did nine years ago on a
rigid seven-speed, the bike which is now my singlespeed. They were both
beautiful rides, and J. was grinning from ear-to-ear.
The switchbacks top out in a grove of aspens, with a marvelous view of
the high peaks in the wilderness beyond the ski area. I stop and take a
leak. The morning tired is lifting. I feel good.
The riding in Durango was good. But [censored] happens. J. came down with a
cold, nothing too bad, but enough to prevent her from riding. Being the
sensitive and supportive guy I am, I left her alone in camp and went
for a ride. This ride was supposed to be the warmup for doing Monarch
Crest with MattB. Monarch Crest never happened, and I found myself
driving up for the warmup ride the high country alone. Damn.
The Rim Trail weaves through the Aspens along the top of the ridge
above Snowmass. The well-worn Paragon has seen some hard riding, but is
still performing well. I wag my hips through the twisty singletrack,
smiling.
Molas Pass. The Colorado Trail from Molas Pass starts at just shy of
eleven thousand feet and the singletrack climbs gradually from there,
almost all of it in the tundra above treeline. What to say about the
Molas Pass ride? Imagine you are spending the evening with the most
beautiful girl in the world, whoever that might be for you. For me,
maybe Scarlett Johansson. You dine on the balcony, escargot to start,
and then steak frites and asparagus with a perfect Hollandaise sauce.
The aged tenderloin is perfect. You share a bottle of Moet, maybe two.
She laughs at all your jokes. After the meal, over espresso, she moves
behind your chair, strokes your neck. She tells you she has a special
surprise for you. She steps inside, and you lean back and close your
eyes and think that maybe you have never been so happy as you are right
this moment. Then she gives you a savage beating with a lead pipe.
I got a late start on Molas, which is a rare thing for me. I am a
fanatic about doing above-treeline stuff in the early morning, before
the thunderstorms build. The weather in the high country is totally
unpredictable, yet utterly monotonous. Once the clouds build, there's
no way to tell what is going to happen or when, but if you're out
early, it's blue sky all the way. But I felt good. No, I felt great. I
was climbing in the middle ring, smooth, out of the saddle over short
steep sections. The view was spectacular, high peaks on all sides. The
wildflowers were so thick that the trail was nearly impossible to
follow through the chest-high thickets of purple and yellow and red.
The trail followed a long traverse through the high valley, climbing
gently and crossing small streams along the way. I was euphoric in the
thin air. I passed some joggers coming down the trail, three very buff
women, and then climbed through a group of hikers. "At least you have
the decency to be breathing hard," said one of the hikers. "Love those
Durango chicks," I replied, and he smiled and patted me on the shoulder
as I labored past. I rode in about seven and a half miles, far past the
hikers. I was all by myself. I felt like I could ride all day. It was
amazing, intoxicating.
Then, like a bolt from the blue, I bonked. My head spun and my vision
went fuzzy and I could suddenly barely keep the bike up. I had
forgotten the cardinal rule: eat before you're hungry, drink before
you're thirsty. I had eaten nothing the whole ride. I had a pack full
of power bars and Gu and fantastic Nambe Pueblo beef jerky we had
bought from a nice young man with a 9mm on the roadside in New Mexico.
I was flush with food. I think it was part altitude and part calories
and part three days of hard riding, but whatever it was, I stumbled off
the bike and began eating. My balance was gone, my energy was gone, and
I could tell my judgement was completely shot. I downed a couple of
packs of Gu, an Odwalla Bar, and a couple of handsful of jerky. But you
know how it is when you bonk, you're just never the same, even with
calories.
It was time to turn around. I picked up the bike and pushed it forward
along the trail, but somehow I managed to slam my knee hard into one of
the pedals. My head went light again in a rush of pain and fear and
nausea, and I nearly fell over and started bawling. I was in trouble.
But I got it together and started to push my bike along the trail. Just
then, a couple of German guys ride by, packing full panniers. Good God.
I mounted the bike and wobbled back the way I came. The ride out was a
death march. But I took it slow and easy, ate more, and made my way
gradually down. I walked the bike a whole lot.
I begin the descent on the Rim Trail. The singletrack is impossibly
buff, and I rail it, grinning.
CC
Some pictures from Molas:
http://www.angelfire.com/ab6/corvuscorvax/Molas/DSC00020.jpg
http://www.angelfire.com/ab6/corvuscorvax/Molas/DSC00024.jpg
http://www.angelfire.com/ab6/corvuscorvax/Molas/DSC00027.jpg
http://www.angelfire.com/ab6/corvuscorvax/Molas/DSC00034.jpg