2013 Tour Divide race report: New Mexico

     New Mexico. The end. The last of five states and two countries. I couldn't believe I had finally crossed my last state line of the Tour Divide and was barreling towards Mexico. I was elated, but my riding partners didn't have the same enthusiasm, and I knew at that moment that my time riding with Markley was over. He was muttering about taking a nap in his bivy to escape the looming storm, and all I wanted was to outrun it. As I had learned, storms seemed to move in the same direction and at the same speed as a Divide racer, so if you slow enough to get caught in a storm's grips, you will remain there for quite some time. I didn't want to get rained on any longer, so I decided to run like hell from it and in the process, chase down the Swiss, who I knew were only about an hour ahead. The  forest road I was on was lonely and wind-whipped, and had two distinct tire tracks running along its lengths. I followed those tracks, knowing they belonged to the Swiss, and then there was a lone set of footprints. "Who could these prints belong to?," I thought to myself. Here I was, in the middle of nowhere and there seemed to be a hiker in my midst. I soon came across a lone hiker, true to the ultralight discipline. He was, as it turned out, on mile 3,000 of a hiking odyssey. I was utterly impressed by the magnitude of his undertaking and once again gained valuable perspective of the struggle I was engaged in. I shared one of my fresh made Amish fruit pies with the hiker and charged after the Swiss, who, according to the hiker, were merely 20 minutes ahead.
     I raced. I hammered. I took risks on descents and I generally pushed myself harder than I had at any other time during the Divide in an effort to pull back the Swiss and regain a 7th place position. As night came upon me at the base of Burnt Mountain, I could taste the dust in the air that the Swiss were stirring up during their descents. I pushed until exhaustion got the better of me and I stopped to peacefully slumber in the warm, cocoon-like embrace of a campground pit toilet outhouse. Before I laid down to sleep for four hours, I had a quick dig in the campground trash cans for a little midnight snack, and came up victorious with a Ziploc bag full of Lays potato chips. This behavior was made easy for me by the fact that I had spent a number of my teenage years homeless, and was no stranger to a trashcan meal plan. With my belly full, I slept soundly until I was startled awake at 4 am by someone trying to get into the outhouse. I sternly stated that I was trying to sleep, and then heard a voice with a thick Swiss accent say, "Oh sorry, sorry, it is Saemi." SAEMI! I thought to myself. I had chased the Swiss for hours the previous day, seemingly in vain, and as it turned out, they were sleeping right next to me in the campground. The race was on! They ran and I chased. And chased. And chased. I chased their elusive tire tracks over Burnt Mountain, and past the vicious Vallecitos dogs, and straight into Abiquiu, where I finally made contact with them and learned of our fire re-routes. I stopped to restock and they ran towards Cuba. They ran and I chased.
     It was a long, paved road to Cuba. I think it would have been a nice ride if it wasn't for the ominous storm that was chasing and gaining on me despite my fastest riding yet. As I rode into Cuba, the storm intensified and I decided to pull into McDonalds for a break and an attempt to get a game plan together. As I pulled up, I saw the Swiss' bikes against the wall and knew I was going to have to push on to Grants to create a gap. The Swiss had decided to get a motel room and rest a couple of hours, so now was the time to dig deep. I pushed hard. I had arrived in Cuba at 5 pm and I arrived in Grants at 3 am after spending 23 hours and 250 miles in the saddle. A motel room never felt so nice!
      The next day found me heading to Pie Town and now running from the Swiss, instead of chasing them. It felt good to be a rabbit for a change, it gave me motivation to ride a little harder and stop a little less. A quick pie break and I was on my way towards the big Gila re-route, which was going to prove to be way more difficult than I could have ever anticipated.
     I made the mistake to think that I was solidly in the desert for the remainder of the ride, but as night came upon me, I found myself climbing back into the mountains, engulfed in a storm, surrounded by lightning and followed by eyes. Low, stealthy eyes that would not part ways no matter what I tried. I finally jumped off of my bike and charged into the darkness after the eyes that had followed me for close to a mile. They would not retreat, but they finally gave up the chase. Once again, I rode steadily up, up and up until exhaustion took over. The great limiter in the Tour Divide is not the willingness to continue, it's the inability to stay awake. That inability is what finally decides where one will slumber for the night. As it turned out, I slept in a makeshift log phone booth at the turnoff for the Gila Hotshots fire base (just a quick note on the subject of fire stations; Firemen love water, which should be no surprise, and I have never been let down looking for a water spigot at a fire station. The Gila Hotshots station was no exception). Before I laid down to sleep, I drew a line across the dirt road with a stick so I would know if the Swiss passed me in the night. Three hours later I awoke, packed and checked my line, which remained uncrossed. I was still in 7th place and I intended to keep it that way.
       My summary of the rest of my ride to Silver City would come down to one word: BRUTAL! I clawed, and bit, and scratched, and fought with every bit of my being to get to Silver City. Now I know why the Tour Of the Gila Road Race is known for being so gnarly. If the hills don't kill you, the heat and wind are sure to put you in your grave. I arrived in Silver City during the late afternoon, and decided to get a motel room for a few hours to patch up my saddle sores, which at this point were unbearable, and to sleep for two hours. I think a detailed description of this affliction is in order. I had developed two saddle sores, one on each sit bone, that defied my understanding of a typical saddle sore. These were more like pressure ulcers that were two inches across and about half an inch raised and split wide open. These sores had to be covered with padded bandages to be even remotely tolerable, and of course, they required no less than 1200 mg of Advil a day to keep me from succumbing to the intense pain.
     I awoke at 11 pm, packed up and hit the road for Antelope Wells. I had 120 miles left, and I was raring to go. As I rode out of town into the darkness, I was in awe of the apocalyptic lighting storms that were all around me. Soon, I came to my turn for Separ Road and I decided to up my pace and ride this section as hard as I could. Separ Road is a 30 mile stretch of sand/dirt road that leads to I-10. I highly recommend riding this road at night, full tilt, so one can enjoy the thrill of hitting a patch of deep sand at 25 mph while half asleep. There's nothing quite like it. As dawn broke, I crossed I-10 and began heading south on the paved road to Antelope Wells. Trying to reach Antelope Wells, the finish of the Tour Divide, was much like watching a pot of water, waiting for it to boil: you know the end result is coming, but it seems like an eternity before it actually happens. I knew at this point that I was going to finish, even if my bike disintegrated beneath me and I had to walk. Soon, I was only ten miles from the finish, and that is when my wife came across me on her way to the border to pick me up. I was so happy to see her, I thought I would burst. We just looked at each other, unable to stop smiling and then she drove ahead to let me finish alone. I rode as hard as I could to get to her. The entire race behind me like a vast ocean of pain, bliss, joy and sorrow. And then the end, and an embrace from my wife and a priceless treasure of memories secured. That is the Tour Divide, a priceless treasure of memories.

2013 Tour Divide race report: Colorado

     Crossing the Wyoming/Colorado line was a bit like seeing an old friend for me. I had lived in the Sangre De Cristo Mountains of southern Colorado during my late teens and early twenties, and that made this the first familiar state I had been in since my start in Banff. The elation of entering Colorado was soon replaced by pure, hard riding because the road quickly kicks upward on the way to Steamboat Springs. Along this road however, is a Tour Divide staple, The Brush Mountain Lodge, which is a fantastic place to stock up on food, get hydrated and even ice aching joints!
     I entered Steamboat Springs at night, which meant I rode right on past the Post Office that was holding a general delivery package containing my various re-supply items, good thing I didn't need them. Steamboat is known as a bit of a Tour Divide time suck, so I was happy to slip past unnoticed in the nighttime hours, and sleep along the roadside near Lake Catamount.
      Waking at dawn, I was presented with a glorious Colorado sunrise, and I knew it was going to be a good morning. One of my first human sightings of the day was a roadie descending full bore down a dirt forest road on a Cervelo R5 carbon road bike; I guess Colorado produces a hardier breed of cyclist than I am used to seeing. It was nice to be around recreational cyclists again, it made me feel a little less lonely for some reason. The rest of the ride was a beast. The climbs were very difficult, and the heat and wind worked in conjunction with my growing saddle sores to try and bring me to my knees. The pain made the rest of the day a bit of a blur, but I endured and found myself in a Silverthorne motel cleaning up, eating pizza and patching saddle sores.
     Perspective is important, especially in undertakings as intense as the Tour Divide. For me, riding the bike path from Silverthorne to Breckenridge was a moment of great perspective. It was a brilliantly sunny morning, and I was surrounded by bike commuters on their way to work. There I was, feeling a bit sorry for myself due to my ailments, and then I realized that most of the cyclists passing me on their way to work were probably envious of my adventure and I am sure every one of them would have traded their short, daily commute for an epic life-changing adventure. The day found me waking in a Silverthorne motel, having a profound perspective change entering Breckenridge, climbing majestic Boreas pass, descending a flowing Gold Dust flume trail, getting a bike tune at Absolute bikes in Salida, climbing huge Marshall Pass at midnight and sleeping in a warm little roadside cottage in Sergeants. Not too shabby for a humble day's work.
     The section between Sergeants and Del Norte was just hard work that found 5 of the top 11 riders playing leap frog all day, which for me added a bit of pressure to ride hard and rest little to maintain my constant top ten position. We rode through diverse terrain with big, hot climbs and long, windy sections. My favorite moment of the day was sitting along a dirt forest road at the base of Carnero Pass, completely out of water and trying desperately to convince myself not to drink the brown stream water running through a cow pasture. "In the abundance of water, the fool is thirsty"( This was the Bob Marley lyric that ran through my head). I opted to fill my bottles with the Giardia laden water and at least use it to cool myself during the long climb upwards. Unluckily for me, the anticpated water pump at the StormKing Campground was missing its handle, which meant another 15 miles of dehydrated riding until the small La Garita store where my life was surely saved by Gatorade and ice cream. After sufficient re-hydration, I headed on to Del Norte, which upon arrival was completely choked by smoke from the forest fires afflicting the surrounding mountains. After a dinner in a local cafe with Markley and the Swiss, Markley and I headed out of town and part way up Indiana Pass, where we decided to sleep in a roadside ditch to try to get below the smoke. Apparentley, sleeping low in a ditch is a great tactic when confronted with thick smoke, as we woke the following morning fresh with lungs intact.
     The last stretch of Colorado found Markley and me riding through rain and lightning on severely washboarded roads from Platoro to Horca until the last climb of the state, which was a paved beast called La Manga pass. I knew we were getting ready to cross into New Mexico, and I also knew our time riding together was coming to an end. Markley was an incredible riding partner, and I will be forever grateful for his guidance during the race.
    Farewell Colorado, hello imperceptible New Mexico state line!