Still overcast, misty, even little bouts of spitting rain. Breakfast was simple, but good stoking food; whole grain cereal with milk, lots of fruit. We were slow getting ready for the ride, which is something I notice we've done each time we're about to take our first ride on a new trail. I can only suspect its a mental wrestling match with ourselves, some sort of internal conversation about whether we're up to the challenge ahead. Will the legs hold out on the climb? Will altitude sickness show up? Will a fall on the descent leave you with a broken collar bone...or worse? You should see the expressions on our faces in the pictures from the day we first rode in Downieville. The Flume Trail in Lake Tahoe. Hole in the Ground in Truckee. (These aren't my videos.)
We drove a few miles north to Gothic, which is really nothing more than a collection of cabins and mobile homes full of University students. Glacier study, mating rituals of marmots, that kinda thing. Parked directly across the valley from Mt. Gothic, we divvied up the shots, gels and energy bars, and stuffed our rain jackets into the CamelBaks.
Just a few revolutions down the road, Eric rather matter-of-factlly said “I'm scared”.
“Me too.”
The dirt road to the real climb at Schofield Pass was well maintained, and while the climb was fairly steep and winding, it wasn't as narrow as past climbs. It was great to have space on each side.
Once again there were several dozen yards between Eric and I, and once again I didn't mind. But it hurt. My legs nagged hard the whole way. With the steep grade, my breathing never really relaxed, I was on the verge of hyperventilation for about 45 minutes. At one point I could feel a little bit of a heave developing, which I took as an excuse to stop. The high point of our climb on this road was 10,707 feet. I knew it was right around 11k that we had some issues in the middle of Deer Creek last time, so I finally caved and took a rest. As it turns out, Emerald Lake was a great place to stop and take some pictures. And this foreboding video.
When I caught up to Eric at the 401 trailhead, a young woman from Newark joined up with us. Dena was a teacher, squeezing every bit of life she could out of summer vacation and trying desperately to relocate somewhere within a few hours drive of the Rockies. She had already made the climb but got spooked at first site of 401.
It was bad enough that the first switchback felt like it was straight up after the 50 minutes we had just spent grinding our way here, but add to the misery a trail still wet from the previous night's storms.
I must have spun out my rear wheel half a dozen times on the first switchback, and that was before the rocks and exposed roots at the turn. To quote my man Tom, “slicker'n deer guts on a door knob”. Plus, the new cadence for the steeper climb had me breathing so hard, my kidneys were starting to hurt. Suffice to say, I walked a good portion of that section. Dena and I were equal, as far as aerobic ability goes, so I had someone to commiserate with. She was hiking it just as much as I was, with the occasional burst of energy that sent her shooting by only to be caught by my tortoise pace when her legs gave out. It had to have been another 40 minutes on that little patch of torture.
When Dena and I finally caught up with Eric, we thought it was a rest stop. Turns out, we were at the top, and the descent was just 20 yards away. Eric knew this because another new member of our party told him so. Alex...had ridden up...the trail we were just about to ride down.
He rode UP...the grade that for the next half hour...would find me hitting 25 or 30 mph, with drops that made my stomach go up into my chest, and chest high fireweed blazing by in a red neon blur. I would've stopped to take pictures, but I didn't want to interrupt a second of this descent.
I fell only once, in the turn of a rocky switchback. I thought I could go high on the rock and miss the jagged spot that looked like it would shred a tire. Apparently I couldn't go high, because I ended up going off the back of my bike trying to tap dance across wet slate without letting go of the handlebars. Choosing to be daring at this particular point wasn't all that smart...since I was focused on the trail, I hadn't paid any attention on what was to my right: a V-shaped trough that went clear down to the valley floor. It widened out the further it went, and had nothing to stop a fall but low brush and slate rock. Once again, I took this as sign to stop and catch my breath, to relax and savor the trail so far.
After the rest of the group caught up, Alex took my wheel as we started back down again. The middle third of the trail was the stand-out. So fast...lots of half-buried rocks, and of course exposed roots sprinkled in once we got back down into the tree line. There were points where the bike was shaking so much the only thing I could hear was the rattle of my chain, pinging tires, and debris bouncing off spokes. And it was glorious.
This trail was perfect. Ideal for me. The training I have been doing plus a little natural ability made the descent something I will remember for the rest of my life, and so what if I walked a large part of the second climb? I still made it. I saw the top. And any face I may have lost on the climbs I gained back on the descents, and then some with the obstacles.
There is nothing but euphoria at the end of a ride like this. Physically drained, but alert and impish. Its as though there is nothing you can't do, and to celebrate you want a big glass of Rodeo oatmeal stout with some chips and salsa. We invited Dena and Alex to Maxwell's to bullshit over a couple pints. Dena joined us almost immediately, and the three of us sat there trading 'so what do you do' stories while watching people cruise up and down the last day of the art fair in the street. Dena talked about teaching middle school and trying to find a teaching gig in Boulder. She had been driving from state park to state park, camping in between stops at rooms she had rented through people on Meetup.com. She suggested I try it after I told her about my situation. Eric's current line of study isn't one that is easy to explain, at least not in 25 words or less. In the past I've seen people nod along as the details of the paper unfolded, yet still have a “so...what now?” look on their face at the end. I think Eric was surprised when Dena caught on to it right away.
Alex said he thought he would join us, along with his mother, but after 2 pints he still hadn't showed. We were thinking of checking out and heading back to camp for dinner when Alex strolled up. A few minutes later his mother joined us, and we told the waitress to keep the tab open when she strolled up to give us the check.
It was a sublime end to an already perfect day. We had finished a major trail on every mountain biker's checklist (without injury, I might add), and simultaneously became fast friends with two riders along the way. And Alex's mom was gem too, a short Hungarian-American woman that was telling stories and swearing along with the rest of us after a pint or two of beer.
Sleep came fast in the tent that night. Enough with the rain, already.
Journal entry for the day:
Day 4 – 10:10pm
For once it didn't rain all afternoon.
Rode the 401 today, a
completely brilliant trail
best descent ever!
I led the charge downhill
Alex (a new friend we met
on the trail) actually thought
I was fast!
Tomorrow Teocalli, then home.
Since the last day in town was a low-key one for me, I figured I would go ahead and write about it here. This series has gone on long enough, I think.
I can tell you it was another slow morning in camp. Of every morning we'd spent in town, this one was the stormiest. It felt like it might rain at any moment, and nippy too. The only reason I have for being so sluggish is...perhaps riding my legs off the past four days. The day before was the most physically demanding, plus I had 5 or 6 pints...so I guess I should've planned on a poor recovery. I only have four pairs of riding shorts, which forced me to climb into my kit from the previous day too. So there I was, worn out, wearing a sweat-soaked outfit that had been in a bag in the back of a car all night, rain clouds threatening all around...I just couldn't go. I stayed behind. Took a shower and did a load of laundry at the hostel, then went for coffee. Crested Butte is a town of bikes, 
lots of cruisers in front of just about every business on Elk Ave. I tooled around and took about two dozen pictures of bikes I saw. Mainly old, rusted out ones and the really, really shiny ones.
I also needed a souvenir of the vacation, so I popped into the Alpineer for a new water bottle. The weather came up in casual conversation with the cashier, and he gestured to the bottle and asked if I was going out. I said no, it was a surprise rest day. He just said “I wouldn't”. The forecast was for heavy rains coming through all afternoon, waves of storms. It looked like Eric was going to get caught in a downpour.
When he got back in, he looked like he had been under a couch for a while; a little pale, covered in grit...breathing like he'd just stepped back from the top ledge of a 50 story building.
“I don't think that climb was meant to be ridden...” he said, looking at the map. He only saw one other person all day, a fisherman that hiked in. He made it to the top only 15 or so minutes slower than it took Eric to ride. It must have been a little sweeter for him, riding up a trail that might not have meant to be ridden. Another notch on the seat post; another grand reward for the price of exertion.
That night, we went out for our traditional end-of-trip sushi dinner. Whenever we go on one of these trips, its a chance for us to reconnect in detail on everything going on in one another's lives since the distance keeps us out of the day-to-day happenings. Each night we'd end up bullshitting for a few hours, either by a campfire, over a pint or in the dark standing in pouring rain, and I felt like I had run into the old me again.
Plus, I learned that when it comes to art, Eric and I actually share the same aesthetic, its our mediums that are different. While he is trying to finish his book on Romantic agri-literature and the rising voices of peasant poets responding to the situation, I'm trying to put into words what Beethoven might've been thinking when he wrote his piano sonata no. 8. He approaches with with words, me with notes. Maybe even external and internal. What was even cooler was when we started connecting the dots between Wordsworth and Beethoven.
Journal entry for the night:
Last night – 10:30pm
Didn't ride Teocali today.
Spent. No matches left.
Eric agreed and we decided to take
an easy ride to Green lake.
Storm clouds gathered at the lot
I had no enthusiasm. Eric called
from the lake (amazed that he had a signal)
said it was the hardest climb on the trip.
Better I lazed around town.
Great dinner, better conversation.
I feel connected.
To the land
to the bike.
to my friend.
This was good...now I go back to my real
life. My 'normal'.
But it'll be easier to cope with now.
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