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.

Death Ride Tour Stage 2

Death Ride Tour V

Stage Two - Telluride To Durango (111 miles)

Well, I survived the first day, so what could go wrong on the second?

Time to find out.

I’ve never ridden more than 74 miles in a single day before.  On Stage One, I had ridden exactly 75 miles before stopping for the day.  To say I was intimidated by today’s ride would be an understatement.

But, surviving the first day had given me some confidence to push forward, especially knowing that there was so much descending to do.  In 2012, during the USA Pro Cycling Tour, Tyler Farrar rode this route backwards, uphill, in 4 hours and 42 minutes.  Yeah, I had no intention of beating that time, even downhill.

The morning began with my feeble attempt to stand up and drag myself to breakfast at the B&B Char had booked for our one night stay in Telluride.  There were several other riders there, also completely kitted out like I was.  Today we were to leave Telluride along with the Ride the Rockies riders, so we were all sporting our Death Ride Jerseys.

Bundled up for the cold.

In order to avoid as much traffic as possible, most of us were taking off at 6:30am to beat the opening ceremony of the Ride the Rockies.

Hoping to beat the crowds from the Ride the Rockies.

Apparently, the RTR folks had the same idea.  There were literally about 2,000 other riders already out on the road and the highway out of Telluride and up to Lizard Head Pass was full of them.

Let’s just say that they made things interesting.

There were riders with toys (dinosaurs, little orange cones, etc) glued to their helmets, riders on tandem bikes, riders on mountain bikes and old road bikes wearing tennis shoes (no clips).  Some of them rode like semi-pro racers, some rode like this was the first bike they had ridden in 10 years.  Somehow, all 3,000 of these riders were going to be with us all the way to Dolores before turning off the highway to Cortez. 

Yeah, they definitely made the ride interesting.

I saw one woman on the climb up the mountain, standing on the side of the road, covered in dirt, getting the once over from a paramedic.  Along the descent, there was one gentlemen carrying his bike up a short hill.  Apparently, he’d dropped a chain and didn’t know how to get it back onto his front chainring (hint, use your finger and pull it back on).  I actually watched another rider get a flat right in front of me.  We were descending down a steeper slope, about 27 mph, when he hit a rock (or something).  I heard the pop, then the loud hiss of escaping air, and started yelling over to him that he had a flat.  He looked at me like I was crazy.

 

The climb up to Lizard Head Pass was a combination of steep climbs and occasional downhill segments just long enough to recover the legs.  The scenery was beautiful, with tall pines, green valleys, little lakes of mountain run-off and old log cabins.  I found a solid group of riders (mostly other Death Riders) and stuck onto their wheels to keep a solid pace.  I was determined to take my time and save as much energy as possible for the 96 miles still to go.

Elevation on the pass, 10,222 feet.

The top of the pass was quite the party, with music, pancake and smoothie booths, and tons of people everywhere.  I filled up on snacks and water, hit the johns, and took off.

 

The view of Lizard Head Peak from the water point.

The descent off Lizard Head was not nearly as steep as I had hoped, and I was glad to have taken my time climbing as the descent took a lot of work.  I watched as fast pacelines of riders raced past me, but I took my time and soon ended up in the town of Dolores where most of those other riders were recovering from their efforts.  This was where we would split off from the Ride The Rockies group and continue on the next 50 miles to Durango.  I loaded up on snacks, water, gatorade and pulled off my arm warmers and vest (learned my lesson from yesterday).  A couple Death Riders were putting together a small paceline group to leave town and I jumped in with them.

It was a lot of fun, riding out of town in a paceline with everyone in full Death Ride kit.  I felt, briefly, like I was one of those team riders in the Tour de France, or Giro d’Italia.  We were moving along, too.  After the climb out of Dolores, we averaged about 22+ mph for almost 10 miles until everything fell apart.

First, the guy that had pulled us out of Dolores fell off the back end when he rotated out of the lead.  We hadn’t sped up, but he just couldn’t keep up with a pace he’d started.  Then, the kid that had put this train together and bragged about his skill level, bonked out and joined another group that we had just passed.  Pretty soon I was alone trying to keep a 20+ mph pace after already having rode for 70+ miles. 

That’s when the two guys from yesterday (the tall and short pair) came spinning along.  I wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity, so I jumped on the short guy’s wheel as they passed.

These two guys saved my day and my legs.  They pulled me along for over 20 miles until we reached the last water point at mile 95.  They kept me motivated with conversation and a fast pace (averaging around 20+).  They were really surprised that I had chosen the middle of the Death Ride for my first century ride.  Coming from Denver, they said that the San Juan Mountains were some of the hardest riding in Colorado.  Definitely made me feel better about struggling so much.

I let them take off from the water point after thanking them for the pull, took my time rehydrating and filling up on snacks.

At this point I was faced with a poignant reminder of something very important that I had forgotten to take care of before leaving Telluride.

A rider came in to the water point, completely decked out in a purple and yellow kit with the Chamois Butt’r advertisement.  There were small samples of Chamois Butt’r in our race packets that I had meant to use before taking off.  By now, I had ridden over 170 miles in less than two days and had to admit  that my Man-Bike-Interface was suffering.  For more info on just what that means, here’s a link to a favorite blogger of mine and her friend’s lesson learned. 

 

Never leave home without it.

Sore and sad, but without much choice, I took off for the last 5 mile climb and the descent into Durango.

Of course, once I hit the Wildcat Canyon area, there was a headwind and I had to fight to ride downhill.  My luck, there’s always a headwind when you need it most.

I was surprised to find how much strength remained in my legs.  I had hit the 100 mile mark just before starting the descent but hadn’t expected to be able to fight the headwind, or to speed into Durango as fast as I did.  Coming around the last turn and over the railroad tracks, I almost missed Char waiting with the camera.

 

111 miles done, rolling into downtown Durango.

Fist pumping at the finish.

I felt much better after finishing today than I had yesterday, even after riding for a solid 111 miles.  I even had enough energy to walk around downtown Durango and watch other riders finish by the Strater Hotel.  We celebrated with an awesome hot dog feast followed by a trip to the Irish Embassy.

The Tasmanian Devilish Dog from the Original Durango Dawg House.

The Irishman's Cure: rashers, sausage, grilled tomato, eggs, potatoes in cream sauce and black & white pudding at the Irish Embassy.

So, there you go, 111 miles completed and one seriously chafed and sore butt.

 

Stick a fork in me, I'm done.

Lessons learned from Stage Two:

1.     When someone tells you that you’re tire is flat, you should probably stop and look yourself before your rear tire bottoms out and starts fish tailing behind you.

2.     Not all amateur riders are dangerous, and not all “pro” riders are safe or dependable.  Use your best judgment and don’t be the one other riders are watching out for.

3.     Chamois Butt’r is not just a suggestion.  Do Not leave it at home.

4.     If you can’t handle the pace, don’t set it.  Likewise, don’t brag about having mad skills if you can’t keep up with your own paceline.

5.     Never underestimate the benefits of having a good paceline/group to ride with.  Sometimes it’s not about drafting, but about having someone else to keep you motivated when you’re beyond tired and sore.

Death Ride Tour Stage 1

Death Ride Tour V

Stage One – Silveton to Telluride (73 miles)

6 months of training, preparation and worrying to be put to the test.

Day one of the Death Ride started out fairly casual.  I, of course, was freezing my tuchus off and was really nervous.  The town of Silverton, Colorado, sits at 9,339 feet.  My highest training altitude was at 9,341 feet.  Safe to say, I was already pushing my limits before we even began.

Yeah, I'm a desert weenie.

It was still fun to see so many other riders together in the mountains for one purpose.  The variety of bikes and gear was staggering.  I don’t think a single rider had the same rig as another.  There were fancy carbon bikes, simple aluminum frames, and even a couple steel frames with tube shifters (very classy).  Some folks were bundled up like me; others were already stripped down to short sleeves and bare legs. 

Almost 300 riders from across the country, from different backgrounds and with different gear ready to go in Silverton, Colorado.

Barry Sopinsky, event coordinator, decided to forego the phased start and so all 300 riders took off down the main street (and only paved road) of Silverton.  I was unsure of how fast I would ride compared to the other riders so I held back to the rear of the main pack. 

 

One street, 300 cyclists, you do the math.

Shouldn’t have bothered.  Although I was breathing heavily and my legs were already tired, I was easily spinning past a majority of the pack.  As we passed the sign for Red Creek Pass (our most significant and first climb of the day) I found that I’d caught up to the front 30 or so riders and was easily keeping pace with them. 

Then came the first turn and serious climb. 

The steepness of the climb was staggering.  In only a few seconds I was staring down from the switchback at other riders below us that were quickly shrinking away.  I tried to enjoy the view, but had to be careful.  The edge of the road didn’t always have any rails, there was no shoulder to ride on and the drop off was easily hundreds of feet straight down into the canyon.

Red Creek Pass was at the 10.5 mile marker, the serious climb started at about 5.5 miles, so we had a solid 5 mile ascent up into the mountains.  At mile 10 something snapped inside of me, I looked around at the beauty of the steep mountains, the trees, the clear and crisp air.  I was forcing air in and out of my burning lungs while thinking about the people that I was supposed to be riding for.  My legs were rubbery from the 10 miles of climbing and burning with lactic acid. 

I cried.

Summiting at 11,000 feet was a transcendental experience.  It was the highest I’ve ever cycled and the steepest 10 miles I’ve ever faced.  I also began to feel confident about the whole tour as I’d passed people on the climb that looked much stronger than me, and never got passed myself. 

I made sure to take a good rest at the water point, munching down some snacks and electrolyte drink.  By the time I took off, the pass was becoming crowded with other riders gaining the summit.

I sped off alone, speeding downhill towards the town of Ouray.  I like to think I’m pretty good at descending, and my heavy aluminum frame helps give me extra speed and momentum.  

Here I come.

There I go.

Waving for Char.

Halfway down the mountain, I ran into a strong headwind that reminded me of El Paso.  Other riders were slowing down to fight against it, but it was so natural to me that I just kept driving on through it, hardly aware of the inconvenience of it.  Farther down, there was road construction that had left gravel over much of the road.  I plowed through it with another rider that I had caught, both of us darting back and forth along the road looking for smooth areas free of loose rocks.

 

The winding road to Ouray.

At the far end of Ouray, I picked up a couple riders that I would meet again on Stage 2.  They were an interesting pair.  One was taller than me, thin as a bean pole, riding an aluminum bike with a single pannier hanging on the right side.  When we descended, he pedaled the whole time, never resting to coast downhill.  The other rider was as short as his partner was tall, riding a nice carbon Specialized bike.  Together we rolled towards Ridgway, picking up another rider along the way that gave us a nice 4-person paceline.

Pacelines are interesting and varied in their usefulness.  The purpose of a paceline is to give riders time to recover by riding in the draft of other riders until it’s their turn to take over the lead spot and “pull” everyone else along.  Throughout the Death Ride, I’ve seen pacelines that were both good and bad.  Some functioned only while downhill, some were composed of riders that obviously had been training together, some never lasted more than a couple miles before disbanding in a trail of broken hearts and tears.

We rolled along smoothly until reaching the Ridgway water/aid station.  By now it was starting to warm up and I followed up on my promise to Char, my coach, to take advantage of all the water points.

I left Ridgway alone to climb back out of the valley towards the Dallas Divide.  This was an unexpectedly difficult climb with plenty of headwind and seemingly never ending turns.  There was no idea how far or tall the climb would be until I turned a bend and found the red tent waiting about half a mile below the crest of the divide.

 

The road up to the 8,970 feet Dallas Divide summit.

In the heat I had pulled my arm warmers to expose my arms, rolled my vest up to cool off and half unzipped my jersey.  Not the coolest look, but at least it helped vent the heat.  I bundled back up for the descent down the backside, which, while not as steep as I had hoped, was cool and breezy.  My mistake came at the bottom when the climb to Telluride began again.  Instead of stopping to take my vest and warmers off completely, I assumed that it would be cool on the backside of the hill during the climb.  As a result, I quickly began to overheat, fatigue and altitude clouding my judgement and thinking.  Instead of realizing what was making my climb so much more difficult, I trudged onward, dreaming of cresting the hill for the short descent into Telluride.

Another lesson learned; I should have studied a map of the route to better understand where the climbs and descents were so that I would know how many miles to expect. 

I stopped at 68 miles just long enough to text Char before the batteries on my phone died (thus Strava only recorded 71 miles of that ride, missing the last couple into Telluride).

By the time I reached the top and could begin the descent, my legs were destroyed, I had been cramping on both sides since mile 50, I couldn’t breathe too deeply or laugh or talk out loud without a deep rumbling cough.  At mile 60 I had begun talking to myself (which is usually a sign of deep fatigue and dehydration), but by mile 70 I couldn’t find the energy to argue with myself anymore.

I had skipped the water point at Sawpoint, at the beginning of the climb, thinking that I had enough water and Gatorade (neither of which I had been drinking enough of) and that it was only a few miles to the end.  The result was a total degradation of my body beyond what should have happened in a 70 mile ride.

Coasting into Telluride on fumes.

 When I rolled into Telluride I barely had enough energy to smile for Char and then got lost downtown since I couldn’t remember where the finish was supposed to be, or the bag pick up, or the hotel we were staying at.

 

No idea where I'm going, but I'm making good time.

By a sheer stroke of luck, I followed a small group to the same hotel where Char had parked out Jeep and borrowed a cell phone to call her after I saw her ride by on her bike a block away, looking for me.

I was a physical mess, barely able to get out of my kit and into the shower. 

I had burned over 3,000 calories during the ride, and hadn’t done nearly enough to replenish those.  Char drug me downtown to stuff my face with whatever I could get into it.

Spanakopita, french fries and a protein smoothie = perfect post ride meal.

 Lessons learned from Stage One.

1.     Drink more than you think you need, finish at least a bottle before you reach the next water point, and use all the water points.

2.     It’s hotter than you think, and you’ll generate more heat while cycling than you plan for, so downgrade.  It’s much easier to recognize that you’re too cold, than too hot when you’re tired.

3.     Enjoy the descents, don’t push too hard on them unless you have the legs to carry you back up the other side.

4.     Riding in a group is easier than alone, don’t be afraid to slow down to keep a group together.  You’re not racing, and it can be more enjoyable to ride with others than alone.