Bucket List Item #273: Circumnavigate the Franklin Mountains

It was a ride that I'd been dreaming of since I bought my first road bike over three years ago.  It was also a ride that I'd been terrified of trying for just as long.

What's funny about that, is that I'd ridden almost every part of the route at some time in the last 3 years.  In fact, there was only about two miles that would be "undiscovered country" for me.

So, for one of the last items on my El Paso bucket list, I decided that I would circumnavigate the Franklin Mountains.
 

El Paso is roughly horseshoe shaped, with the Franklin Mountains sitting in the center of the city.  There are three passes over the mountains, Scenic Drive on the south end, Transmountain Road in the middle, and Anthony Gap to the north.  To do the mountains justice, I decided to skip the middle, and use the north and south passes when crossing over.


I rolled out just before sunrise with the air a crisp 43 degrees.  The wind would stay fairly consistent, about 10 mph from the north, for my entire ride.  I made sure to wear my heart rate monitor to help maintain a low heart rate and level of exertion.  Although the route was only 72 miles, I wasn't sure what unknown obstacles I might face, surprise detours, etc., and wanted to conserve enough energy to overcome anything.

The climb over Scenic Drive was uneventful, I stayed light in the saddle and wasted nothing summiting and coasting down the backside.  Almost immediately, the temperature dropped 5 degrees and I was incredibly grateful for the layers I'd almost left behind.

On the west side of the mountains, I zig-zagged through side streets, making my way to Mesa Street, for the crossing into the Rio Grande valley.  This was my first time on the major street and the reason I'd taken off so early.  Turning onto the road, I spied two other riders in front of me, just close enough that I could bridge the gap and jump onto their tail.

I was suddenly faced with an unexpected opportunity and decision.  Did I bridge the gap and join them along Mesa, save myself about 10 miles overall, and feel safer with a group for security?

I asked myself what a half-crazed, masochistic sasquatch would do.

I turned left on Executive and crossed I-10 into the river valley.

The temperature dropped another 5 degrees in the valley and I soon found myself along familiar roads.  My fingers were numb but traffic was still fairly light, with the first church goers of the day the only other cars on the streets.

Par for the course, another flat tire.

My first stop was the Johhny Lolitas coffee shop in La Union, NM, about 27 miles into the ride.  I pulled into their gravel lot and coasted up to the shop.  And that's when I noticed the goathead embedded deep into my front tire.

Perfect.

It was what I was most afraid of on a ride this long and so far from help.  Flat tires.  Well, that, and getting run over.  That's also not fun.

I ingnored it and went inside to thaw out and get some coffee and sugar into my system.  The proprietors are fantastic local bicycle advocates and a standard breakstop or start/finish point for rides on the west side.

Warmed up, I got to work patching the front tire.  That's when the massage therapist showed up.

Oh, the people you'll meet.

She offered me a ride, gave me her card, offered me a massage, offered another ride, then made me promise to give her a phone call if I ran into any trouble.  And that's when I realized that I had left my wedding ring at home, gloves were off, and sleeves rolled back.  Maybe she was drawn to my animal magnetism or the pheromones of athletic effort.  I like to think that I look real good in my cycling kit.

Specializing in relaxation, deep tissue, myofacial release
and scar tissue release.

I can dream, can't I?

The ride up the valley and then east to Anthony Gap was peaceful, quiet and scenic.  I found myself mostly alone on the road with only the occasional cyclist heading opposite to wave to.  It was at this point in the ride, while pedaling through barren, winter slumbering pecan orchards,  that I realized I was truly committed to finishing this ride as planned.

There's always that moment in longer rides, especially so in this one, that you realize that you are totally committed to finishing what you started.  It may be that you have gone too far to turn around, that it's easier to just finish the route, or maybe you've already reached the halfway point in an out-and-back course and you have no choice but to finish.  Either way, there's no quitting and you start counting down the miles, instead of counting up. 

The climb up Anthony Gap is a solid 5 miles with a few grades that peak over 10%.  Once I crossed the summit, most of the remaining mileage would be slightly downhill, albeit, some of it with a challenging crosswind.  It was on this climb and descent that I encountered my first traffic issues.  Drivers in El Paso don't seem to be mindful of anything around them, and even exhibit erratic and homicidal tendencies.  I found myself fighting to maintain a safe bubble around me while cars passed well within 3 feet.  More than once oncoming traffic decided I was not an obstacle to their passing slower cars.  I finally had to push the image out of my head of colliding head on with little more than carbon fiber and styrofoam between me and 1,000 lbs of speeding aluminum.

One more reason I'm glad to be leaving El Paso behind.

Turning south onto War Highway (connects El Paso to White Sands Missile Range) I finally found my first bit of clean shoulder to ride on.  I try to measure how safe a shoulder is by how much broken glass, twisted metal and shredded particle board is waiting to kill me.  In a 72 mile ride, this was the only 4 mile section I felt comfortable riding.

Go figure.

I left the War Highway behind and headed east, only stopping to find a quiet, inconspicuous bush and eat some delicious peanut butter bars.  (Mom's recipe with Charla's twist)  The rest of the ride was familiar turf, and once I turned south I could ride the tailwind the 18 miles to home. 

When I pulled into my driveway, Charla was waiting for me.  My legs were shaking, my arms were tired, and I was short of breath.  I definitely didn't eat enough on the ride, and probably should have drank more water.  But I was finished, with only one flat out on the route to slow me down.  (later that afternoon, I would check on my bike to find both tires had slow leaks and were completely flat)


I've ridden longer rides and I've ridden harder rides.  But this ride will always be singular in my memory for what it signified in how far I've come as a cyclist.  Three years ago, a ride this long, covering so many different areas around town and so far away from my support base was beyond intimidating.

Only in perspective does it now seem hardly terrifying at all. 

 My biggest rides of the last year have all led me to this final test of my commitment and development as a cyclist.  The Death Ride was over 230 miles in 3 days (111 miles on the longest day), the Chile Pepper Challenge was a fast 100 mile bike ride, and the climb up Haleakala Volcano started at sea level and climbed straight up to 10,000 feet.  All have given me the perspective to recognize that nothing is impossible once you have committed to achieving it and put in the preparation to do so.

Circumnavigate the Franklin Mountains, check!

Oryx Challenged

A week ago Char and I completed the Oryx Challenge Bike Tour.

The Challenge you think you will face is not always what you think it will be.

I think this time I learned a little patience and more about what it means to be a part of a team.

The Oryx Challenge is an annual non-competitive bicycle ride in El Paso with a maximum route that covers almost a full 100km (62 miles).  I've ridden it for the past 2 years and this would be my third and final opportunity.

It was also the main event for which our little bicycle club had been training for over 3 months.  (That would be the "Imperial Bicycle Club", aka "Biking with the Brigade Commander", aka "I don't wanna do regular PT and I own a bike")

The Imperial Biking Team ready to go!

When I came back from the Death Ride in June, this was the next adventure in cycling.  It's what our group had been focused on during our multiple weekly rides.  We'd been cycling together, practising our pace lines and talking about nutrition on the bike trying to prepare ourselves for a 60 mile, out and back, scorcher of a ride.  Some of us were new to cycling, some were very experienced and some were right in the middle.

The Oryx Challenge course is one of my favorites.  There's not much room to get lost on the 100km route.  Ride off the installation, go east until you hit the turn around, then ride back to the start.  Sherriffs are stationed at every intersection to try and keep you alive, water and peanut butter await you on top of the hill that marks the turn around point, and even the climb up to the turn around really isn't that daunting if you've been in the mountains before.  It might be a Cat 4 climb near the top. 

Maybe.


Ok, so it's a 10 mile long climb to the turnaround point.

I had been doubtful at first when Char told me that she wanted to ride the whole 100km.  I wasn't sure she could really keep up with the group we'd put together.  But over three months of riding, she'd become quite the beast on a bike.  She could hold a paceline at 16mph in equal headwinds, pull her fair share on the flats and not cry about the hills, and had just completed a 62 mile ride the previous weekend without too much complaining. 

60 miles in and things got out of control.

Good enough for me.

But what we hadn't taken into account was just how much another decision was going to affect her ability to ride.

Yom Kippur is the Jewish holiday of atonement.  It involves a 24 hour period of fasting.  And it was the day before the Oryx Challenge this year.  We'd talked about skipping one of the two, for safety reasons, but Char was feeling strong and decided she would be fine if we made sure to plan good meals, get lots of rest and focus on our pre- and mid-ride nutrition. 

And I'm just insane enough to agree with her.

We gorged Friday evening, just prior to sunset.  Then we prepared what we thought was an extremely nutritious and sensible meal after sunset on Saturday.  Baked chicken, quinoa and a fresh veggie salad.  We did splurge on a brownie and ice cream dessert.  But then, you don't want to accidentally die one ice cream short, now do you?

Sunday morning I fixed a simple power breakfast.  Leftover rice and hamburger, scrambled with eggs and some fruit on the side.  We had our pre-ride snacks and drinks at the course.  When the "gun" went off, I felt pretty confident in our group's fortunes for the ride.

For the first 10 miles, we managed a solid 18mph pace.  It was a little tricky with all the wheel suckers trying to break into our pace group, but we managed to stick together enough to keep our newer riders sheltered on the lee side and out of traffic.

At about 15 miles in, the machine started to break down.  That's about where you notice the definite rise in grade as the hill draws near.  Then it's a solid 10 miles of climbing with about a 1,000 foot gain.

First off the back was Chelsey, next was Char.  I decided not to leave them behind to fend for themselves, afterall, this was a group effort and we'd spent too many hours working together not to finish together.  Joe, the ride leader, came back to check and I asked him to take the lead group and I'd stick back with these two. 

I will admit, it was painful to make that 10 mile climb at a fraction of the pace I could have.  I've really learned to enjoy the struggle and pain involved in a solid climb like that.  Watching the other riders, many that I recognized,  descending while we were still plugging along was both a little humbling and frustrating.

10 miles of straight climbing definitely took its toll on the whole group.

We stuck it out all the way to the turn around where I took a much needed latrine break and grabbed a snack.  The girls recharged and we headed back down the hill together.  There were two fun-sized riders coming into the turn around point as we pulled out.  There was nobody behind them.  In fact, there was nobody left coming up the hill.  That's when I realized how close to last place we were.  I know it wasn't a competitive event, but I still feel the competitive edge that drives me to try and push myself faster than the riders around me.  And this was a sharp lesson in humility for me.

On the return trip, at first we were flying, and I was a little worried about dropping them on the descent, but they stuck right on my wheel the whole time.  I was impressed with the time we were making together, but as soon as we hit a few spots with a slight gradient, or the headwind picked up, I felt Char falling off the back end again.  I tried to keep her tucked into my draft, to keep them both out of the wind and spinning comfortably.  It became obviously painful for them just to keep moving.  Even I was becoming weary, struggling to keep them both moving, to keep the three of us together enough to draft and save energy. 

After 4 hours of riding we crossed the finish line together.  By then the raffle prizes were all handed out, there was no beer to be found and most riders had already taken off.  But we were still together.  We finished the same way we'd started that morning and that was my most important lesson of the day.  That no matter how fast I want to go,  it's more rewarding to stay with my team.

I had to ask myself, what if I'd been the one struggling to keep up with the group?  Who would have come back to pull me along?  Although it was a lot slower than I'd wanted to ride that day, I was happier for staying with my teammates (especially 'cause I'm married to one) and seeing the whole ordeal overcome with them.

Next up is the Iron Soldier Sprint Triathlon followed the very next day by the 100 mile Chile Pepper Challenge.  This time I might be the one falling off the back. 

The Maiden Voyage of the (Fill in the Blank)

I did it, finally.  I upgraded my bike to a beautiful, carbon, Cannondale Synapse.  And it was everything I hoped it would be.

Quick backstory:

Char and I bought our road bikes three years ago.  We weren't sure about riding bikes so we purchased low end entry level bikes from Trek.  I loved mine, but rode the hell out of it and have started riding in groups where the poor gearing and heavy frame are slowing me down, plus I realized that I needed a slightly larger frame size.  Char's bike was a men's bike, and gave her problems with posture and made riding painful.  We decided to upgrade this summer.  A new women's specific Felt for her and a Cannondale for me.

I struggled with the decision for a while.  Some friends tried to get me into a Cannondale SuperSix, and even a dealer almost had me walking out with one early on.  But I hesitated, thankfully, and came to the conclusion that I'm just not a sprinter or racer.  The more upright and comfort oriented posture of the Synapse was really my style.  

I made the decision to upgrade in June, after I'd finished the Death Ride Tour, and also after the year's bike sales season.  Most companies had stopped producing the 2013 models and were selling through their stock.  By the time I'd picked out what I wanted, my size was no longer available from the manufacturer.

So I did the next best thing and pre-ordered a 2014 Cannondale Carbon Synapse 105.  Which means I got one of the first bikes off the production line before their even released to the regular public.  Go me!

I took it out for its maiden voyage last Sunday, on a 40 mile trip to the Edge of Texas and back.  Beforehand, I cruised through a 15 mile warm up to see how the bike fit, figuring out if I needed to adjust the seat, etc.  It was wonderful.  The carbon lay up reduces a huge percentage of the road vibrations and takes the sting out of most of the more serious bumps in the road.  The light frame and 105 gearing were very responsive and smooth.  The best part?  This bike really fits me.  It's a full 58cm frame, which on a Cannondale is really big, and I feel like I've been riding a little kid's bike for the last three years.  I can really stretch out on this bike, and riding in the drops requires a much less aggressive posture.  

Already, I've taken it out twice more for almost 100 miles this week.  And now comes the hardest part.

What do I name her?

That which we call a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet?

This is serious business.  Naming a bike identifies the personality of the bike and the rider.  It will define and help express my riding/racing style, and help keep me motivated in the darkest, most painful moments of some longer rides.

Is my new bike a fun bike?  Does it playfully embark on joy rides through the mountains and along the roads, careless of the headwinds and crosswinds, lithely bounding across potholes and asphalt patches with an abundance of extra sex appeal?  Black Rose, Black Beauty, Black Betty, Betty Boop, Blackberry Cobbler.  (Haven't eaten much today)

Is it perhaps a more serious character that doesn't give herself over to levity but determines to crush her enemies and see them driven before her, to hear the lamentation of the women? The Barbarian, the Thunderclap, The Storm Breaker, Breaking Wind.

Perhaps she's a determined machine that robotically counts off the miles that pass methodically beneath her precisely spinning tires and coldly calculates angles through harrowing turns without so much as a twinge of emotion yet always ready with a snarky comment? The Knight Rider, The Thyme Machine, Synaptic Revolutions.  (ok, the last one is a bad pun on her model, sue me)

Maybe she's an angry beast, a voracious animal that tears across the asphalt and leaves other riders heart broken and despairing in her wake.  She's a crazy Honey Badger, El Chupacabra, La Cucaracha.

Lookin' fierce!

No, she's none of these, because she's just a bike.  Without a rider, a bike is nothing, it has no purpose, no meaning.

Her name comes from what she means when I'm riding her.  It's what the act of cycling has brought me and continues to help me realize.

She's Serenity.

Welcome to the family, Serenity.

Fellowship of the Diaphoresis. Huh?

I've almost always trained alone.

Running, swimming (sort of) and cycling are really individual events.  You can't depend on another runner to physically carry you along the course.  No other swimmer is going to drag you through the water.  No cyclist is going to push you along the road (not in a race anyways).

Oh, folks can cheer you on, and that provides quite the motivational boost.  But, in the end, success or failure is completely dependent upon your ability to finish under your own power.

For most of the significant challenges I've undertaken in the last couple of years, I've trained mostly alone.

I really enjoy my time out on a road or in the pool.  I can quiet my brain and just relax into the steady rhythms of whichever endurance activity I'm enjoying.  It's a time of reflection, of calmness and introspection.  Some of my greatest ideas (and my worst) come when I'm running or cycling out on a lonely road by myself.

Alone on a mountain, there's no one else to depend on.  You're free from any obligations to anyone but yourself.

Occasionally, I have trained with a partner(s).

In the early days of my new swimming career (last summer), I had my wife nearby (who swims like a fish) to make sure I didn't drown and to point out how horribly I was doing.  I also have friends that I cycle with when there's time.  And, of course, when you're doing PT in the Army, you're never alone.

But mostly it's just me, by my lonesome, out on some desolate road or trail, mile after mile, sweating and running or cycling.

What's really ironic is that my love for these activities really came from experiences when I wasn't alone.

I loved the hours long group runs in high school cross country when we'd all stick together and tell stories and jokes the entire run.  Later on, I ran several road races and it was awesome just to be around other people that shared my passion for running.

Learning to swim (or drown gracefully) with Char was a special time for us to be together in our hectic schedules without distractions.  I rarely wanted to swim alone in the beginning; I needed her presence to calm me down and give me the confidence to make it to the other side of the pool without panicking.

So not drowning, really.

Then Char and I bought bikes so that we'd have another hobby to share together while getting fit.  My first long ride was a 50-miler with some friends (thanks Larry and Alanna) and was the crucial ride that sold me on becoming more serious about cycling.  It also coincided with the summer that I first watched the Tour de France, something that I'm sure Char wishes had never happened.

Le Tour de France?  How about, Le Getoutofmyface!

Over the past year I've learned just how important it can be to have someone else there beside you.  Not just for the race itself, but during training events, too.  They can push you to keep your pace steady or pull you back from overexerting.  Their conversation can help the miles pass by easier on a rough day, or enhance the satisfaction of a really good one.

While I was on my extended vacation overseas, I had two really great runners to train with.  My boss and his boss are both accomplished distance runners and provided me with great training runs before the big half marathon in March.

When I kicked off the last two months of training before the Death Ride Tour, I was invited to join another friend for a couple rides.  My cycling guru, Joe, took me out into the mountains and was probably one the other reasons I was able to complete the Death Ride without actually dying and while retaining some dignity (not much dignity, just enough to sleep at night).

No shame, whatsoever.

What I have learned is that sharing your passion with others, not just suffering out on some lonely road alone, can make you stronger in both your sport and your life.  Although we may race or compete alone, training together really can be the difference between igniting a passionate enthusiasm for your sport and just enduring suffering until the end of the ride/race.

I definitely pushed my body to its limits in May and in June.  Now it's time to relax a little and enjoy my activities not just as another training session building towards some penultimate goal, but also as a time to be with other people that share my passions.  I can still push my body, but I'll try to feed my soul a little, too.

Taking on the 9,000 ft plus mountains of Cloudcroft, NM, with a group was more rewarding than tackling it alone.

So, here's looking forward to more really great group rides with the Team Army Fort Bliss crew, the Imperial Cycling Club, some El Paso Bicycle Club and some special (although painful) training rides with Char.

Hopefully, they can help me stay in shape, get stronger and faster, and stay motivated right up until my legs turn to jelly, my lungs start burning and the tears mix with the sweat running down my face.

The Junedoggle

I rode over 1,000 km in June.

I keep all my running and cycling activities recorded on my phone's Strava app so I can look back later on and use the lessons learned to improve my performance, brag about the workout and remember cool routes that I want to run or bike later.  

Every month Strava offers a variety of challenges to work towards.  In June, the Jundedoggle challenge was to ride as far as possible over the course of the month.  I rode 1,000 km in June.

My highest per month mileage ever.

I've never ridden that much in my entire life and was proud to see that number on my home dashboard.

Riding that much has left me retrospective about my cycling experiences.

This is the point where I could get all sentimental and over-analytical about my riding experiences and how much better of a person I am because of my personal accomplishment.

But really, I just want to find something soft to sit on and brag about how much more I can eat because I cycle so much.

(Seriously, I ate a lot in June.  Everyday during the Death Ride Tour, I burned almost 4,000 calories and spent the rest of the day with food in my face. It was awesome!)

I've discovered that I truly and emphatically enjoy being on the bike.  And that I really enjoy eating, too.

Like that was a surprise.

But I do realize that this little hobby that Charla and I picked up almost 3 years ago has become a huge part of my life.

Between the Death Ride Tour, obsessing over the Tour de France and all the group rides I've been in lately, you would think I'd have my fill of riding.  But instead, I'm already looking for more challenging future rides and planning my strategy for the upcoming fall rides around El Paso.

I thought I would start with another Strava challenge for July.  The Take on the Tour Challenge sounded almost possible after June's accomplishments.  But I realize that my real life just doesn't allow me the freedom to knock out 230 miles a week.  Though, to say I rode a 1,000 miles in a single month would be pretty cool.

Still gotta put food on the table somehow.

Instead I'll look forward to the cycling events coming up in the fall (Oryx Challenge, Chili Pepper Challenge, Tour de Tolerance) along with the Iron Soldier Sprint Triathlon.

And I'll keep focused on helping Charla with her own progression through the world of cycling, which reached a huge milestone yesterday when she rode her first 50-miler.

Only 20 more to go until the finish, and she's still smiling.

Guess the cycling bug is contagious.

Aquaman

I'm an aquathlete!

Everyone knows that I'm not a strong swimmer.  I have struggled so much in the last year to improve my dismal performance in the triathlon last year.  This time a year ago, I couldn't even finish a 400m swim without stopping to breathe or switching to a sidestroke.

The decision to participate in the Fort Bliss Team Aquathlon was easy, but that was when I was pretty sure that I could find someone else to do the swim portion.

What's an aquathlon?  It's just like a duathlon, but with the bike portion replaced by a swim event.

What's a duathlon?  It's a relay or individual event consisting of a run event, bike event, and concluding with a final run event.

Any other questions?

Turns out, that even as bad as I am, I was the best choice for the swimmer on our team.  Great.  Really.

So, not even a full week after I finished the Death Ride Tour, I'm in the pool prepping for 400m of pure suffering.

Here's a sight that used to terrify me.

My first couple training sessions had me exhausted and not feeling at all confident about being able to complete all 400m without stopping for breaks.  It had been almost a month since I was in the pool and I wasn't sure if I could regain the confidence and ability I'd developed over the last six months in such a short amount of time.  At first I could only swim a single strong lap before heaving and choking along the side of the pool with a death grip on the edge.

Not a good sign at all.

My final training session in the pool changed all that.  I jumped in, started my stopwatch and took off for a warm up lap.  I was finally feeling very relaxed and took my time.  At the end, I checked my watch, 2:45, and realized that I was feeling quite strong.  I made the decision to keep going and see if I couldn't go ahead and finish up a 400m right then.  I ended up with a 12:26, a decent time for me, and knocked out a few more laps to round out a 1000m workout.

The morning of the Aquathlon arrived and I did my best to stay calm.

Warming up before the safety brief.

I waited near the transition area, watching for a sign of the lead runner coming in.  Our lead runner was admittedly out of shape and very slow, so there was no pressure to win anything or place anywhere near the top.  We were just competing against ourselves and to show our unit pride.  After 29 minutes he came stumbling into the transition area trying to unpin his bib.  We slapped hands and I trotted into the pool to begin.

Here comes the lead runner for our team.

Tagged, now time to swim.

I had expected the rush of cool water to cause me to seize up and panic.  Instead, I slid into the water, kicked off the wall and immediately relaxed into a steady stroke.

That is, until I swam headlong into someone going the wrong way.  I pushed around her, coughed a little, then kept on.

And swam into another person going the wrong way.

Ok, so you're supposed to swim in a serpentine pattern.  You swim to the end of the 50 meter lane, duck under the lane line, and come back down the opposite direction.  Do this eight times and you've swam 400 meters.

Halfway through my second length I ran into another swimmer going the wrong direction.  Now I was fighting mad, ready to pop the next one in the face, until I heard the lifeguard blowing on a whistle.  Someone was finally paying attention and getting these dangerous and incompetent knuckleheads moving in the right direction.

As I finished the second length, one race coordinator even tried to stop me to explain how to swim in the right direction, even though I was obviously not the one swimming badly.

I continued on, after a slow restart, and although I continued to get more tired and out of breath as I swam, I was able to keep plodding along.  I even passed another swimmer!  (this one was swimming in the right direction, just slowly)

Last fall, in the Iron Soldier Sprint Triathlon, I had trouble passing anyone slower than myself.  I couldn't maintain a steady freestyle stroke and had to switch to a sidestroke which was slower and more awkward when negotiating around other swimmers.

Slowly gaining, very slowly.

This time, when my hands brushed against feet, I just swam off to the left and kept my steady pace.

Past the halfway point.

When I hit the turn of the final lap, I was ready to start celebrating and almost did a quick fist pump before kicking off the wall to sprint (sort of) to the finish.  I could hear people screaming and was sure some of it was for me.

Just the final stretch to go.

When I hit the finish and climbed onto the steps to clap hands with the anchor runner, I can honestly say I had given it all I had.  My head was throbbing, I was dizzy, my chest heaving.  Much more and I would have been vomiting into the pool.

Just tagged the anchor runner, and trying not to throw up.

 Our team finished somewhere in the bottom half of all teams that day.  Together, we clocked in at 1:00:44.  Most importantly, we each faced a challenge that day to overcome and did our best to push ourselves past our limits.

The Cobra Strike Aquathlon Team

And that's what it's all really about anyways.

Death Ride Tour Stage 3

Death Ride Tour V

Stage Three – Durango to Silverton (48 miles)

Today was the final day, the day we were to ride the IronHorse Bicycle Classic route in to Silverton.  Two incredible climbs to passes over the mountains followed by a 7-mile descent to town.

After almost 200 miles I was feeling much better than I had expected.  Sure, every muscle in my body was fatigued and sore, my legs were already rubbery and I had trouble walking out of the hotel room, I couldn’t laugh too loud for fear of a wracking cough I was getting, my ribs ached and were sore to touch, my Man-Bike-Interface was raw and I had some pretty good sunburns developing from the long miles in the sun. 

But really, I felt just fine and ready for the final ride of the Death Ride Tour.

Getting warmed up and settled in before the start.

Everything started outside the historic Strater Hotel in downtown Durango.  We waited for the first train of the day to roll by before taking off through town.  Our route would take us along highway 250 to Bakers Bridge (same ride Char and I had done the previous week).  From there we’d jump on highway 550 for a solid 20 mile climb to Coal Bank Pass.

 

Here comes the first Durango to Silverton train of the day.

The passing of the train.

Time to go.

I thought I should take it easy and took off with a slower group of riders today.  Big mistake.  They were just too slow for me and I spent the 16 mile ride to Bakers Bridge hopping from one group to another, before finally pulling a small group the last 3 miles in to the bridge.  I wasn’t even breaking a sweat and felt really confident about the upcoming climb.

After a decent break to load up on water, Gatorade and snacks, I tried jumping in with a more serious group as they left the bridge.  Soon they all fell apart and I was left climbing alone.  This was becoming very familiar territory.

Apparently, everyone else was just as fatigued as me, as all I did for the next 20 miles was leave a trail of broken hearts and tears as I slowly pulled in one rider after another.  I know it wasn’t a race, and most of the really good riders had taken off with faster groups right from the start, but it still felt great.

 

Another group falling off behind me.

 The climb up to Coal Bank Pass was just as intense as I’d thought it would be.  I passed two riders, both of which had passed me earlier while they were trying to speed down some light descents, that were trying to figure out just how far it was to the top.

Not exactly smiling right now.

 I began to experience a sensation that had become familiar over that previous two days.  I thought I would be more afraid of climbing so far, or facing such steep grades and worried that the pain and fatigue in my legs and lungs would overwhelm me and cause me to fail.  I had planned for and expected to face those moments of doubt when you’re just not sure you can make it or keep going.  But something else happens in those moments.  Just when you should be afraid of failure, of feeling like you can’t quite keep going, instead, there is a moment when a door opens inside your mind.  Through that door is another world, another paradigm of thinking.  It’s a world of pain and suffering unlike and quite beyond what you are currently used to feeling.  And in that moment there is a choice, to go through the door, to step into a world of intensified agony and keep climbing, or to shy away and falter just long enough to fail.  There is no fear, only a choice between agony and relief.

It’s the moment when you learn that your body is capable of taking more than you ever thought possible of dishing out upon it.

Char calls me a masochist.  Oh well.

 

Totally faking that smile.

Rolling in to the water point.

I topped out at Coal Bank Pass with Charla waiting for me.  The view was nice, but the real joy was in knowing that the hardest and longest climb of the whole Death Ride was behind me.

 

Triumphant!

Peanut butter on oatmeal cookies?  Don't mind if I do.  Watermelon slices, too?  Why not?

I wolfed down some more carbs, reloaded my fluids and booked for the short descent and climb up to Molas Pass.  Charla actually followed me in the Jeep for part of the descent, watching as I got stuck behind a slow moving RV that waited until almost at the bottom of the valley before pulling over and letting me blow past.

 

Description of the San Juan Skyway, of which we were almost finished biking the entirety.

The climb up to Molas was challenging, but less emotional.  The views at the top breath-taking.  Most of the riders rode right past the water point, but I felt the need to stop and appreciate both the scenery and the fact that all my climbing was done.

 

View from Molas Pass.

Gorgeous weather for a nice ride through the mountains.

The ride down into Silverton was a welcome reward for all my efforts over the previous three days.  

Yes, I actually stopped and took this photo with my phone before continuing into town.

My Strava App may not have recorded the final few miles of the descent, but I will never forget flying downhill into town and the final ride up main street to the Death Ride finish.

 

Finally finished!

Exhausted, but still goofy.

Barry Sopinsky, the Death Ride event organizer, and Charla were waiting for me at the finish. 

 

Toasting the finish with a nice beer!

And the weirdest thing was…

After over 232 miles of some of the hardest riding the state of Colorado and the San Juan mountains could offer, I felt like I wanted to keep going.

 

Just a little cool down after 232 miles.

Yup, still smiling.

I had learned some important things about myself during the Death Ride.  Most are intangibles and hard to explain, but I could feel the sense of accomplishment and confidence that I had achieved.

This was a journey that I had begun last November, while downrange and looking for anything to take my mind off my situation.  Between the fundraising and training, I had definitely been pushed beyond my comfort zone, which I consider necessary for personal growth.

I enjoyed pushing my body beyond my perceived physical limits through depths of pain heretofore unknown to me.  The immediate sense of accomplishment that comes with reaching a summit or finishing a ride, provides rewards that are worth any effort in training or struggle.

I am no longer the same person that I was before I began this whole enterprise, but look forward to the challenges that the new me will find.

Lessons learned from Stage Three:

1.     Don’t be afraid to start a little faster than you think you should, you can always back off right away if it’s too much.  If you don’t dare greatly from the beginning, it will be too late in the end.

2.     Don’t spend all your energy flying downhill, if you’re going to be too exhausted to keep me from passing you on the climb.

3.     A fancy kit or jersey doesn’t mean you’re elite or pro, it just means you go shopping.  When I drop you on the climb, or in a wicked descent, you won’t look nearly as cool.