I chatted with my fellow riders on the way up the hill. “Nice day, isn’t it?” and “Don’t you wish this hill was a little longer and steeper?” Everyone glared at me.

Although I wasn’t going terribly fast, I managed to get up the hill in decent time and then at the final crest, a quick downhill to Royal Gorge Bridge. Andy was waiting for me there, and we took a few photos. I found the whole experience somewhat disorienting – we had just spent five days in a relatively-non touristy environment, and suddenly we were smack dab in the middle of one of the biggest tourist traps in Colorado. There were kids dripping ice cream everywhere, robust ladies with fanny packs fanning themselves with petting zoo brochures, and there was even an army marching band playing Sousa compositions at one end of the bridge. I also wanted to -ride- across the bridge no matter what, because I was pretty fascinated by the idea of riding across the 1,000 18-foot-wide wooden planks of the tallest suspension bridge in the world. And I did actually ride most of the way across the bridge, until who I’d swear was the same yahoo that was yelling out his window at his wife a few days before stopped his car right in the middle of the bridge and almost opened his door into me.

After the bridge, a quick downhill to Canon City and the ride was over. Gwen, Debbie, and Seth all came out the night before so that they could greet us at the finish line and take photos. I’ll post some of them in Andy’s on-line library – please note that the “finish line” photos are staged because there was simply too much confusion at the finish line when we actually finished.

I’m writing this last entry almost a month after we finished the ride, and I’ve been telling all sorts of people that they should come and do the ride sometime. It was fun with two people – but I think it would be a hoot with, say, six of us. I don’t have any real lingering physical problems, although for the first few days I had Klingon-like tan lines on my head from wearing my helmet day after day in the hot sun. And, my big toe on my left foot remains slightly numb, although that could also have something to do with an unrelated toenail injury.

I brought many things I didn’t use on the trip. For example, I toted a heavy pair of jeans that I never wore (it was too hot) and a hardback copy of “The World is Flat” which I was too tired to read. I brought some dishes and cookware to use with Andy’s backpacking stove, and to be honest, there wasn’t much time or motivation to cook our own meals. I brought a spare 27″ tire because the Cannondale actually still has the original 27″ wheels (never trued!) on it and I figured if I blew a tire, I’d have trouble getting another one. It sat in the bottom of my duffle bag all week.

Packing all of the bulky stuff I toted along was a chore every morning: sleeping bag, tent, groundcloth, thermarest, camp chair, and then all of my clothes in my father’s military-issue duffle bag was suboptimal. Next time, I’d buy a trashcan with wheels and use that as my luggage – many others that had obviously been on the ride more than once had done this and they certainly weren’t lacking for space. It was pretty critical that I had clean shorts and jerseys every day, because you haven’t lived until you’ve smelled a jersey that someone has perspired in for 90 miles in the blazing Colorado heat.

The Cannondale was fully outfitted with three waterbottle cages – I ended up using the one mounted under the downtube as a minature trashcan for things like sticky Powergel wrappers that I didn’t want to put in my jersey. But two waterbottles at all times was key, as I had one filled with diluted Gatorade and one with just water. By the fourth rest stop every day, most of us had had our fill of Gatorade and the lines for the water jugs were actually longer; the inverse of what the first few rest stops were like.

Even though I finished the ride with no problems (no soreness anywhere) I believe I could have ridden a little faster had I trained properly and had I chosen a lighter weight, more modern bike. But the tradeoffs were worth it, I am now a full believer in Brooks leather saddles for long-distance rides, and the more upright position of a touring bike and the subsequent lack of back/neck/shoulder pain allowed me to sleep well every night, then bounce out of my tent (relatively) and do it all over again. Plus, the bike was bomb-proof. No problems with shifting, no flats, the wheels stayed true, not even a creak or a noisy chain.

I’m off to do some final photo editing and then I will come back and post the link to some of my ride photos. Thanks for reading along with Andy and I – your comments and support made the whole experience more enjoyable than it already was!

To see my photos, click here: http://www.jacobsspot.com/coppermine/thumbnails.php?album=16

Would I do it again? Sure I would. The ride organization, route, and general atmosphere were uniformly excellent. I’d want a few more challenging hills, and I’d consider making reservations for dinner in a few of the towns, but otherwise, I’d change nothing.

It was great to experience this with my fairly-new brother-in-law. He’s really a calm, gentle soul that finds the good in everything, and always makes you feel welcome. He also climbs hills like a banshee, which we found out on the last day from Salida to Canon City.

You see, we didn’t really experience good hill climbs on this route. Yes, there were three mountain passes, but the approach to them was so gradual that you knew you were climbing and that was about it. That all changed with the approach to Royal Gorge bridge on the southern side.

The night before, Paul B asked us “has anyone here done the ride to Ward?” Maybe 40 of us front-rangers raised their hands. “Does anyone here live in Ward…” he continued. “Does anyone here have six toes? That’s the same question, by the way.” (Ward, CO is a strange, strange place that you reach by riding all the way up Left Hand Canyon, and then something like a 11% grade the last mile and a half to Ward.) “Well, the hill tomorrow’s gonna be like Ward, but longer.”

For 390 miles, I was wondering if I had brought the wrong bike for the tour. A 1985 original Cannondale tourer, with most of its original parts. Comfortable, yes. Sturdy, yes. Reliiable, yes (no problems, not even a flat.) Heavy, YES. The bicycle equivalent of a Winnebago. On the moderate hills, and on the flats, I suffered with the excess weight and truck-like handling characteristics. And even though it has mtn bike-like gearing (32 in back, 24 granny up front) I didn’t use the granny until the hill to the bridge.

For the first 40 miles, we rode downhill with no shoulder and followed the Arkansas river. Police escorts were out in force because of the heavy traffic and narrow, twisty roads. At Parkdale, we made a hard left and headed towards Royal Gorge. The road went from well-paved two-lane to very poorly paved one-and-a-half lanes, rolling through the countryside. It started to look a lot like the Pyrenees mountains, actually. The road made a huge bend around to the right and then went what appeared to be straight up the side of the mountain. Seven out of ten of us were suddenly walking our bikes, and the rest of us were huffing and puffing to get up the hill. I reached down, calmly shifted my front derailleur into the granny gear, and kept pedaling, maintaining the blistering speed of 4.5 miles an hour. But I wasn’t huffing, and I wasn’t puffing. In fact, it was downright pleasant.

 …to be continued…

Meanwhile, I have posted photos and a couple of videos in the Jacobsspot online album. Here’s the link:

http://www.jacobsspot.com/coppermine/thumbnails.php?album=15

Note that there are a couple of pages. The videos are best viewed with Internet Explorer. Enjoy!

Andy and James on Royal Gorge Bridge

It was last night and we were camped outside the Alamosa Rec Center. Fifty yards from our tents Larry Greene was getting ready to broadcast the News4 weather. It was a beautiful and cool evening. We headed around the corner and observed the bright stadium lighting 150 yards away and the periodic clouds of dust erupting then drifting over an all but empty grandstand.

As we got closer we could hear a woman announcing this evening’s event. “7.8 seconds, clean,” she calmly stated into the PA. “George, you’re up then Kenny. Jerry, you’re in the hole.”. We made it up to the fence in time to see a calf charge out of a gate at the opposite side of the arena, followed by two horsemen- one to rope the horns and the other whose target was the hind legs.

Each Wednesday evening this time of year a group of San Luis Valley ranchers gathers at this dusty rodeo arena for a friendly competition. They each throw some money into a pot and compete in a number of rounds. If a contestant does not rope at least one leg, he does not progress to the next round. It’s a little like the Weds night poker game us city slickers might play but with livestock.

It was a bit like stepping into a Norman Rockwell painting. 150 yards away 2000 riders were getting ready to call it a day. James and I stood with perhaps 10 other riders and cheered our lungs out (at the contestants’ encouragement) each time a calf was cleanly roped. Sure beats the Stock Show.

Today was a tedious ride up the Valley- long and straight. Getting a flat didn’t help. We also learned more about the perils of those pace lines I described yesterday. At one point, when James and I were a little ways apart I was overtaken by a pace line with 12 or so riders in it. I briefly stepped in behind the leader and enjoyed the respite from the wind. I then began to question if this was a good idea. I dropped out. James nicely explains why it was good that I did.

Tomorrow is the final ride taking us through the Arkansas Valley and over the Royal Gorge Bridge and on into Canon City. Now that will be a kick!

We thought today’s ride might be a difficult one, and in many ways it was. Until we crossed the pass and headed into Salida, the scenery was bland, as Colorado vistas go. There was a considerable amount of traffic on the road, very little shoulder in most places, and the road itself was sun damaged, causing our bikes and our butts to go “thwunk, thwunk” every 20 yards or so.

To pass the time and miles, Andy and I used some of our newly minted pacelining skills from the cycling seminar the night before to draft one another. When you trust your riding partners, control your bike, and use signals often, drafting is a blast and makes you much more efficient. Where we were managing maybe 16 mph without it, once in a paceline, we easily averaged 22 mph. In fact, today was my fastest average speed day at around 17.6 mph. And like the day before, we suddenly found ourselves leading pacelines of 8-9 other riders who latched onto our tails.

Then, we noticed a plethora of ambulances and state trooper motorcycles speeding north and south along the route – and we saw this at least three times before 10:30. At the first aid station, we saw an experienced cyclist who had taken a fall in a paceline and gashed open her shoulder and knee. We also noticed a few other women wearing the same jerseys (probably a cycling club) who had bandages on their knees and hips.

By the fourth aid station at 11:30 this morning, we heard rumblings through the spandex throngs that “people were being a-holes out there” and “the huge pacelines of 12 people were too dangerous.” Almost as if on cue, Paul Balaguer, our tour director, stood up on a log and addressed the crowd. He was visibly angry, and told us he had personally been witness to 9 paceline accidents today, four of them requiring hospitlization. He urged us to not draft if we didn’t know our partners, not draft with more than five people, and above all, be alert and signal your intentions when passing verbally. In retrospect, although I’m sure it made some people at that station think twice, I hope a similar speech was delivered at the earlier aid stations – because by station four the route was starting to go uphill and wasn’t as ripe for pacelining as the pancake-flat valley floor.

Also, I wonder if the tech tips on pacelining given the night before didn’t have something to do with people going out and trying the skills before they were ready, especially on the fifth day, a second consecutive 80+ mile day, and the day where people were most likely to be tired and hot-tempered.

Regardless, we arrived in Salida no worse for the wear, even after some trials and tribulations with keeping air in Andy’s front tire. We went to the 4:30 cycling seminar, half because we wanted to hear Paul’s comments on tomorrows ride, and half because we wanted to hear about some of the paceline carnage. But nothing could prepare us for what we heard.

Paul, visibly upset, took the Salida High School auditorium stage and calmly informed us that the ride had suffered a fatality. A Boulder woman who was an RTR veteran was clipped on the shoulder by a motor home as it was pulling away from a stoplight in Poncha Springs, fell underneath, and was killed instantly. Her daughter is also on the ride (but thankfully was not there when this happened.)

All of the air went out of the room. Paul shared a few more details, which I won’t mention here as it appears the story hasn’t gone public with any detail yet. A few had tears in their eyes, and we all observed a moment of silence as a community who had truly lost one of its own.

Is what we’re doing dangerous? You bet, but we all do our best to make the sport as safe as possible. The level of police and volunteer support on this ride has been exemplary, and at no point have I personally felt that I was in a compromised position. My helmet goes off to Paul and his staff for bringing us through a difficult day and still building us back up to enjoy the ride’s conclusion tomorrow. And my heart goes out to the family of this Boulder cyclist, who died doing what she loved to do.

We started at about 7800 feet in Chama and topped out at over 10,000 feet on La Manga Pass. The ascent up the two passes on today’s route was relatively gradual and I felt comfortable the whole way. The real fun began on the steep descent. This is where the first skill comes in- know how to work the brakes and descend in control. It involves feathering them and trusting the front brake where more of your breaking power comes from. James hit 42 mph while I max’ed in the upper 30’s which was just fast enough for me, thank you.

After leaving the mountains and heading East for a stretch, we veered North up the heart of the San Luis Valley toward Alamosa. This terrain is quite flat but presents a challenge many cyclists dread more than a long grinding climb- wind.

So, you ask, what does one use to counter this insidious force of nature? Simple- use your fellow cyclists. If you’ve ever watched the Tour de France you’ll know waht I’m talking about. Cyclists often work together by forming pace lines which create a pocket of reduced air resistance behind the leader. It is an exhilerating feeling to sit within one of these lines and almost feel pulled along. The poor guy (or gal) up front may be cranking hard while you follow with much less effort.

Now, there is a lot of technique involved in participating in a pace line and many cyclists are uncomfortable in them. You are typically inches away from the rider in front of you moving at a high rate of speed. If you are up front “pulling” you need to maintain a steady pace and move predictably. You also need to point out road hazards like glass or potholes for those following, who don’t have as good a view of the road. If you are within the line, you need to focus on the guy in front of you. Follow too close, and you could collide. Drop back too far and you will lose the benefit of being in the line.

There is also an ettiquette to pace lines. It is expected that you will do you turns at the front. I was quite annoyed at a rider who twice drafted off of me and never returned the favor.

So, how do pace lines form? My answer is: a little bit like the Conga Line at your 2nd cousin’s wedding. They often form spontaneously with people just hopping on the back. At one point today, James and I were going back and forth with our little two-man pace line. Next thing we know, three others joined. We kept with this social group through the next two rest stops. Then we grew to nine! Too big. At a certain point, I think it becomes unwieldy with too many riders. Eventually, the line fragmented and folks finished the last few miles into Alamosa sans line.

If we face a strong headwind tomorrow as we continue to head up the Valley, it will be back in line for James and me.

I’m starting to wonder how there were so many fresh boxes of Krispy Kremes in Chama this morning. Chama didn’t seem to have a stoplight, much less a Krispy Kreme. Or maybe the Chamans were holding out on us and keeping their secret Krispy Kreme all to themselves?

Andy told me I was too hard on poor little Chama in my last post. So I will attempt to say honest and nice things in this paragraph. The chocolate cake I had for dessert in the First Baptist church was some of the best I’ve had. And I got my best night’s sleep of the tour so far, that is, after somebody finally stopped blowing the fushtunkenah (look it up. it’s yiddush) steam whistle in the adjoining trainyard at around 1030. Oops. That wasn’t nice. Ok, the Krispy Kreme this morning absolved Chama of any ill will in my book (blog?) Chama gets five stars!

The rest of todays ride was pretty easy, and we learned a thing or two about drafting, which I think Andy is covering. We also stopped in Manassa, CO – not to be confused with Manassas, the famous Civil War battleground, or Mensa, the society for people smarter than you. No, Manassa is the birthplace of Jack Dempsey, who, judging from the larger than life statue in Manassa, had an absolutely luscious set of abs. I took a photo of Andy next to the statue (and the abs) but unfortunately, my camera and all the photos on the memory card in it has gone either missing or stolen, so you’ll have to take my word for it.

Lastly, an amusing “luna girl” story. My good buddy Richard loves to tell this story about how he was humbled eight times over by the mountain biking prowess of eight women wearing Luna energy bar outfits while biking the same trails with them in Fruita. The way he tells it, these women hucked themselves off cliffs and seemed to float in midair for 20 minutes before gracefully floating to the ground. So I wasn’t surprised when one particular woman, wearing a full Luna outfit, blew past me several times so far over the course of the week. “Richard was right!” I thought to myself every time she road past. “I gotta get me some of them Luna bars.” (Yes, I know they are supposed to be for chicks. The key lime flavor is quite tasty, though.) Anyway, all is well and I have nothing to be ashamed of – this particular Luna girl happens to be none other than Alison Dunlap – 2001 Mtn. Bike world champion, who is riding this event “for fun” with her father! Very cool, and Richard, if you’re reading this, no wonder those Luna girls were so good!

The C&T is the longest and highest narrow gauge in the US and crosses the Colorado – New Mexico state line eleven times. It’s maintained and operated by a volunteer staff of over 2500 people. When parts wear out they turn to their own machine shop to create new ones. There’s no place to buy spares for engines that date to the early 1900s. I’ve been told by several sources that the scenery the C&T traverses exceeds in grandeur that of its more famous cousin to the North (Durango – Silverton). After the brief excursion we took today, I can see why.

Tomorrow we head to Alamosa with only 83 miles and two mountain passes over 10,000 in our way. I’m in the same boat as James- my Blackberry is running low on gas so tomorrow’s post will depend on the availability of one of those coveted receptacles.

Today was the only day that there was no decent alternate route for “private support vehicles” so we rode all the way to New Mexico in the shadows of RV’s with obnoxious midwestern spouses behind the wheel. A few of them had their heads out the window screeching “encouragements” to whoever it was they were supporting which is the most unnerving thing when you’re trying to descend a hill and going close to 40 mph. “Gosh dawrn, Kimmie! Yew shore are ridin’ fas t-day! Ah’ll hava beer waitin’ for yew in Chama! And six fer me! Yew kin do it! Woooooooohooooooo!!”

I thought Pagosa’s high school was somewhat overrun by all 2000 of us. The bike security area was maybe 1/3 of a mile from everything else down a dusty dirt path. The showers were crowded and every horizontal surface in the locker room seemed to have 1/2 an inch of water on it. And the tents were all crammed onto a dessicated soccer field, while the beautiful green grass of the adjoining football field was verboten.

The accomodations in Chama, unfortunately, aren’t any better. The townsfolk are more than gracious and happy to see us, but you know they were bracing for the worst when half of them are wearing “I survived Ride the Rockies, 2006, Chama, NM” t-shirts. The elementary school is small and the grounds surrounding it, where we are camped out and where all of the vendors set up, look like something out of the post-nuclear scenes in the movie “The Day After.” The ground is parched and cracked, and if you sit long enough, you can actually see the weeds growing out of it inch by inch, wrapping their greedy tendrils around your tent stakes.

There’s a country music karaoke dude entertaining us in the 100 degree heat, wearing all black long sleeves, jeans, and a cowboy hat. He does good renditions of Merle Haggard and Hank Williams tunes, and every once in a while he busts out one of his originals like “Nothin’ to do in Chama Til I Met You” and my favorite, “I Lost my Prized Llama in Western Chama.”

More tomorrow, assuming I can find a charger and an outlet for my Blackberry. Open electrical outlets are coveted, and those that get one guard it like little garden gnomes until they have a full charge.