Call-oh-rad-doh

As much as I loathe using my car for everyday activities, and as much as I try to ignore it and marginalize it, it really is an amazing piece of technology. And yes, I know, 1996 Chevy Corsicas are amazing in and of themselves. But the idea that you can hop in a car, at your own whim, and zoom hundreds of miles away, is very powerful one, to me.

Maybe it’s all the bikepacking, covering the breadth of whole states, or the whole country. Maybe it’s my mormon pioneer roots, crossing the plains and rockies in covered wagons, or (usually) on foot. It really gives me an appreciation for what it means to cross long distances, and all the ‘hardships’ that comes with.

We have it so easy now, and it’s usually taken for granted. But, anyway…

I started bouncing emails around amongst some friends, friends who live in cooler and higher places than Tucson, AZ. Places like, oh, Colorado. I formed a rough plan and could hardly contain my excitement for what I knew was going to be an incredible, and very tiring, week+ in one of my favorite states. The only thing that was missing was Paula. She spent a week with me in Salt Lake City, but with her hip injury and school looming, she decided to fly back to AZ rather than join me. She’ll get all healed up, I know it, but for now she’s doing more indoor things than outdoor. Being confined to indoor stuff while bouncing around some of the coolest spots in Colorado did sound like a bit of a bummer.

First stop was Grand Junction. I found Mike amidst the chaos of moving, wheel orders up to his eyeballs and many trips. That didn’t stop him from taking time to catch up and brew a batch of his famous ice cream.

It didn’t stop him from riding either. We met Skippy for an all morning Lunch Loop extravaganza. Mike and Skippy were riding like they owned the place, and they pretty much did.

I took a few calculated risks, but pretty much played spectator as they hit lines I can only dream of. Mike set me up on a Lenz Lunchbox (6″ travel 29er) and the differences to my forlorn Behemoth, sitting upside down in a hot room in Tucson, were fun to note.

There was one climbing turn/ledge/move that I just couldn’t get. I can try to blame it on Mike’s mile wide handlebars (the move involved scratching bar to rock as you turn), but it was just a new maneuver, one I didn’t have in my bag of tricks. After a dozen or more tries, I finally got it.

After crack burgers, a nap and hours and hours of wrenching (I finally called it at midnight, Mike kept working until 2am), we were up before 5am, hitting the road for Winter Park.

The lifts were running, and Mike had a spare PBJ (7″ travel Lenz 29er) with my name on it. This was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. First time riding lifts for me, first time on a DH bike, first time on these kind of trails. Yeah, let’s try something new!

You might notice that Mike and Skippy are almost in full on storm trooper mode. So was just about everyone else riding that day. I felt pretty naked with my XC gear, and I will admit that my heart was running higher than normal as we were whisked up the mountain the first time.

photo by Mike Curiak

Getting used to the bike, with it’s crazy geometry, wide bars, ridiculously low seat and bongo deep travel was step #1. Trying to convince myself that I wasn’t going to die on these trails was step #2. Fortunately almost everything has ‘wimp out’ lines (i.e. you can roll it) so you can still ride everything and gradually ramp up the speed and confidence.

That happened pretty quickly for me. I thought I’d eventually have to let Mike and Alan go, thought that I’d be holding them back. (Besides being better riders and having protective gear, they have also done this before… at Whistler even!) I was surprised to be able to ‘hang’ (as the expression goes), though I was definitely trailing them at times, and definitely trailing in air time and overall smoothness.

Trailing them was a great way to learn. I eventually got enough confidence to hammer and match their speed through the table tops… and suddenly I was hitting the transitions… and it felt so indescribably GOOD. The taste of smooth adrenaline. More please!

The lift kept running; we never had to wait. I felt like a kid in Disneyland. Really? I get to go up and do that again? It was easy to forget that we were ‘cheating.’ I never really thought about it (and I thought I would). I was getting so worked over by the trail, trying to stay with the guys and learning to be smooth. Plus, these bikes wouldn’t go up the service road even if I were fresh and stupidly dedicated to it. (They are geared too high).

We spent a second day at Winter Park (had planned on Sol Vista, but it wasn’t open). I was able to hit a few new moves the second day, and nail a number that gave me a bunch of trouble on day 1. The second day was cut a little short, due to rain and, well, my complete and utter exhaustion. My last three runs were curious from an experimental mountain bike fatigue point of view, and I’m quite certain they weren’t that much fun. I tried my best to stay loose, easy and comfortable to minimize fatigue and stay alive. But my arms, and even legs to some extent, were cooked. Off the top of the lift, the first 5 minutes of low grade bumps were positively crippling. “This is not even close to fun.” Fortunately by the time I got to the best part of any run (the table tops at the bottom) my arms has loosened up enough (or maybe lost all feeling?) and I could pop them almost as if fresh. But by the top again it was torture to absorb even the smallest impacts.

Enough! I yield. Bested by two days of descending 25,000+ feet, and maybe 200′ of up. Awesome.

I drove over a couple passes to Leadville, intent on resting up at Lee’s cabin.

We did take one day easy (Lee was fresh off a successful summit of the Crestone Needle), cruising the mineral belt around town.

I was worried I’d killed the rest of my Colorado trip. It might be a week before I’d be able to ride w/o deadly sore arms. It didn’t look good as we rode a tiny bit of singletrack on our way back.

But Lee’s house has a commanding view of Mt. Elbert. I can’t ignore it, the call of the big mountains. I had long ago decided I wasn’t doing the Colorado Trail Race, so I had no reason to hold back. Let’s go mountain climbing! Lee wasn’t interested in repeating our Elbert ride, but he was easily talked into attempting Mt. Princeton.

So we hit it early and knocked off the first 3000′ of climbing on dirt roads, transitioning to singletrack that was golden sweet rideable. Oh yeah, this is going to be good.

photo by Lee Blackwell

Or not. MyTopo showed that the route was a 4×4 road to within a mile of the summit. If this was ever a road it has since had so many rock slides on it that it’s now barely a route.

I kept the faith, though, hoping I’d be able to find rideable sections here or there. Lee ditched his bike right before the boulders and when he passed me, footloose and fancy free, he says, “Scott Morris, when they made you they broke the mold.”

They made me stupid, I guess. It was really slow going, but for some reason I thought I could see platforms offering hope of rideability ahead. Finally Lee came back, expressing that it didn’t get any better and he didn’t like how his bike clips were sliding on the rocks. I put my bike down and tried sliding around on the rocks with my clips. It was sure nice not to have my bike, but the bike was also providing stability. I didn’t like it much either.

So we flipped it.

As a consolation we pedaled further up the road to a nice viewpoint and rock wall cabin. High above the Chalk Cliffs I could survey much of Colorado Trail “land”, thinking of both the CTR and the Vapor Trail.

I must not have been paying attention on the way up. The downhill on the road was anything but dull….. the recently bermed-in drainage diversions were the perfect XC bike table tops! Holy freaking cow. I was getting my DH ‘fix’ all over again. Catching big air, hitting perfect transitions, and missing them too. It went on and on and on, longer than any of the runs at Winter Park.

It was there, right in front of us, so we went north on the Colorado Trail, and boy was it ever sweet. Lee was really eating it up, having never ridden this stretch. I offered to turn around so he could ride it out to Buena Vista, and I’d meet him at Poncho’s with the car.

The next day Lee was calling a ‘rest day’, but it was anything but. I was keen to do some trail work, as I always try to do a day outside of Tucson during the summer. So we joined Sterling and crew, building new trail on county land close to Leadville.

I was blown away by how fun the trail was turning out, and how they worked side rock lines and jumps into it. I had my bike, but no clips or helmet, so I did not partake, but I did lust.

By the time we rode out there, chopped bench for the morning and rode back, we were good and tired. But I was in COLORADO and big mountains were calling me. I quickly hatched a plan to try for Mt. Antero, another 14er, just across the creek from Mt. Princeton where we had failed the day before. Lee was a little wishy washy about joining at first, and admittedly my research was pretty limited. I couldn’t find any info about people riding either of the trails I had traced out on TopoFusion. But in the end it proved to be an adventure that Lee could not resist. We left early.

Browns creek trail starts as a nasty hike-a-bike. The horses have really done a number on the lower pieces. We rode briefly on the Colorado Trail, then continued on Browns Creek #1429, paralleling a creek at a pleasant grade.

It wasn’t all so easy. Actually it was quite the classroom in techy climbing. I pulled out some unlikely moves, and it seemed like whenever I needed a break, there was one. And of course, we walked some too. But it was never so bad.

We emerged at treeline and Browns Lake. The next 1,000′ of gain were on a road, with big views all around.

photo by Lee Blackwell

We followed an old 2-track that was closed to motos, but open to bikes/feet, taking us to a quaint meadow situated perfectly at the base of Mt. Antero. We had our high altitude picnic here, at 12,800 feet. This was a strategic point, an opportune vantage for the climb ahead. We weren’t committed to it, with fatigue and time commitments as they were. But as soon as the conversation started, I knew there was little either of us could do to stop it from its eventual conclusion: we were going for the top.

The weather was too good. We were too close. The siren song of the 14er was too alluring. We just couldn’t resist.

I knew I might be hosing myself for tomorrow’s planned epic with Lynda Wallenfels, in Crested Butte. But like I said, here we were, and we just couldn’t resist. We are weak and the mountain’s pull is too strong.

Road switchbacks in a very unlikely place — they took us all the way to 13,750′. I’m a sucker when it comes to climbing at high elevation, and I simply couldn’t resist putting everything I had into burning around the switchbacks. A good investment of energy? Maybe… it depends on your definition of good. It sure was FUN.

We ditched the bikes at the end of the road (but first I inspected the trail and concluded it would be just as stupid as Princeton to proceed with bikes) and got to climbing. I haven’t hiked much (at all?) since injuring my ankle, so this was a treat. I was definitely using my hands a bunch and it was very engaging, dynamic.

I actually felt the elevation at about 14k, but perhaps due only to my lack of ability to pace myself on foot. Either that or because Lee was kicking my butt. He was floating up pretty effortlessly, about to rack up his third 14er in as many weeks.

Oh YEAH! So very worth it… we lingered for a bit, ate some snacks and then headed back for the bikes. I couldn’t wait to get back to them, burn down the road and then proceed to the next adventure — getting down.

The Little Browns Creek trail (#1430) did not exist at the top. I knew this, per TopoFusion’s aerials. So we took the parallel road, following GPX, then dove off in search of alpine skinny.

Boy did we ever find some!

Challenge descent extraordinaire! Similar to Browns Creek (our climb) the trail would punish us with steep technical drops, then mellow out to meadow or star wars cruising. We were pleasantly surprised, and the 4000′ singletrack descent seemed to never end. That was definitely a good thing.

I think this was the best ride of the summer (so far anyway).

We regrouped in Poncha Springs, where we picked up brisket sandwiches from the roadside vendor set up right at the junction. I made it over to Crested Butte just before dark, and proceeded to chat the evening away with Dave and Lynda. They had quite a nice setup in Crested Butte for the month, and it was great to hear all about their adventures and Dave’s prep for CTR.

Lynda had planned a 10-12 hour ride, over Pearl and Star passes, from Crested Butte, with a bunch of singletrack thrown in. I had my doubts as I went to sleep, feeling empty. But the goal was to bury myself enough that resting in the heat and low elevation of AZ seemed a good option.

Doubts increased as I woke in the middle of the night with an unsettled stomach. Roadside brisket sandwich = bad idea. Prelude of things to come.

Lynda and I rolled out in the foggy damp morning, squinting to find the lines on Upper Upper and Whetstone. It was really fun, but somewhere in the mix my camera dropped out of my pouch, onto the trail. I didn’t realize for several miles up Brush Creek. After deliberating a while and feeling bad for not only showing up tired and stomach weak, but now turning back to search for a camera. I was already ‘that guy’ on the ride, and then some.

I pedaled hard, found the camera, then flipped it and began the chase. I had Lynda’s GPX track, but little idea of where it was going. Brush Creek was deep. I jumped off my bike and dunked my feet, hoping Lynda had stopped to take shoes off or otherwise delay.

She was waiting at a ‘Pearl Pass’ sign, where the actual route to the pass diverged from her GPS track. Oops. I followed lines around on the GPS basemap, and we determined we should stick with the sign and the route some jeeps had taken.

Climbing went well for a while. Just like yesterday on Antero, I couldn’t resist anything challenging to ride. But I could tell something was off. Lynda disappeared. I was walking, struggling, then barely moving. No sign of Lynda, I kept pushing hoping I could find her. 10-12 hours was out of the question today. I’d suffered enough with a lame stomach in the Wasatch 100 and had no interest in doing it again so soon.

I pushed and pushed as my body shut down. Suddenly I had to stop and find a big rock to overturn… NOW.

I felt a little better, but totally spent. I laid down next to my bike, done. I can think of worse locations to die slowly. (pic above)

I yelled ahead to a couple of hikers, “if you see my friend, tell her I am turning around, I’m done!” They heard me somehow, and I drifted off into fleeting bouts of unconsciousness.

Maybe a half hour later, Lynda came back down the road, having attained Pearl Pass. She joined me for a rest/nap in the meadow. Then I sat up and felt like I could ride out.

Unlike Wasatch, my faculties returned quickly. Mid-descent the love was back, and I was dancing all about the road, thoroughly shocked by how fun this seemingly mundane road could be.

Lynda, smiling on CB singletrack…. imagine that….

Lynda found us a bunch more singletrack to ride on the way back in. At first I was concerned about having to climb extra, but my mindset changed to hoping it would climb more!

“Scott, I think your power is back,” she says as I ground out the climb back Upper Upper. I was so happy to be back alive (and not tired) that I couldn’t resist standing to mash up things 3-4 gears higher than normal. Yes, I’m in Crested Butte!

I ended up with 40 miles and almost 6 hours moving time. Sorry again, Lynda, for screwing up the ride!

A giant burrito at Teocali’s was what Dr. Morris prescribed himself. The speakers vibrated the soothing guitar of the Grateful Dead. Beautiful girls and little kids rode by, seemingly in greater numbers than cars. The sun would shine and warm things up and just as it approached ‘hot’, the clouds would cover things up. Bikes were parked everywhere. People were smiling. Live music spread itself from the park into the streets of downtown. The mountains surrounding promised adventure and discovery, beauty and wonder.

Crested Butte seemed a utopia, the perfect place. I knew in the back of my head that this was not true. But I let myself believe and enjoy the lie. I was here, this was now, why not buy into a myth, temporarily, and one that leads to happiness?

The next day it was Dave’s turn to pummel me. We rode out and hit Snodgrass, climbing steeply at first. Dave set the tone for the ride, and that tone was fast.

The man was carrying near his full CTR kit, and I was having trouble staying with him. One good thing — Snod is a brilliant trail to hit at speed, aspen trees flying by like blurry white walls.

It’s impossible to slow down from an attack like that, so I kept the power on as we flew up Washington Gulch. I made Dave hurt a little here, much to my surprise. Little did I know that trail 403 was going to punish us further with more steepness.

No worry, the trail is above treeline and magnifico! Dave actually stopped here, then proceeded to rip the descent.

I could only catch glimpses through my lens as we made our way down to Gothic Road. Where did we go once we got there? Why up, of course!

Dave kept the gas on steady, and I fell behind. I’ve never seen him climb like this at elevation. He was looking good for CTR.

As we hit the descent/contour/beautiful/amazing/super section of trail 401 I heard a voice in my head, “slow down!” “stop!”

Dave was head down flying through the descent, and that just felt wrong to me. When I caught up to him I told him I was going to take photos and slow down. “Don’t blame ya, I’ll see you at the Homestead.” Guy was ready to go fast at CTR, and then some.

I rode the next day with Derrick Nehrenberg of Juicy Fruita. He took me for a ‘recovery ride’ of sorts, on some new trails near town. Interesting conversation about building community and his ambitious goals for mountain biking and trails in Fruita. He bought me a big sandwich at Mike’s in town, and again I bought into the (useful) myth of CB.

It was really fun to be hanging around Dave as he was knee deep in prep and obsession for the Colorado Trail Race. I’ve ridden with Dave a bunch and know his dedication, but it was nice to see that I’m not the only one that gets so deeply involved in this stuff. The fact that I was completely removed from the situation, as a non-participant, let me really view it from the outside and gain some insights not only on Dave, but myself. Just being in Colorado and crossing/riding the route a bunch left me pretty obsessed with CTR and wishing I were “in.” That longing feeling faded as I drove through Silverton, en route to Durango. The rain was absolutely pounding, and I had to wait in one lane construction — on the CTR route. I was either driving through a storm or barreling down on one, pretty much all the way back to Tucson.

a bit of singletrack around Vallecito Lake

I made a last stop in Durango, where I took an easy ride around Vallecito Lake with Krista Park. It was fun to catch up with her and hear about her upcoming big race, the Marathon World MTB Championships, where she’s one of two team USA members. She’s now in Germany with her husband, Todd, and the race is this Sunday (the 8th). Good luck Krista!

I kept the Corsica pointed south, running through all too many memories of good rides and good friends as the miles rolled by. Beyond all the great rides and adventures, I really enjoyed spending time with so many good folks and learning something different from each of them. In the end I was glad to be home, having been gone for a month and a half. I was so happy to be back with my best friend again. Tucson granted me a gentle re-introduction, with heavy monsoonal moisture keeping temperatures in the 80’s for the weekend. I rode past noon the first day, going way too long for my fatigue level. Noon and comfortable temps, clouds, in August? I couldn’t resist.