We begin stage three in a little over five hours. I'm tossing and turning in bed; occasionally falling short of breath with a resting heart rate now double the norm. Fifteen month-old Amelia woke everyone around midnight, and I've been restless since. She was up long enough to shake the figurative cage, and now she's back to sawing logs.
Ryanne's parents are in the next room over. They've been a great help; caring for the little one through the Colorado nights. As if we absolutely need the support- Ryanne's in a class with no other riders, and I'm drinking beer at every aid station.
I think about the upcoming day. I wrote in Part I that my recollections of Breck 2012 were mixed up and jumbled together, more or less. One of the most vivid memories I retained, though, was the descent coming off the other side of French Pass, over the Continental Divide and away from Mount Guyot.
Over the course of the entire week, it's not the best downhill the Breck Epic has to offer. But for a few reasons, it was my favorite. It notched a little space in my heart and found a home there for five years. Yes, it was the first time I felt a good connection with my month-old Naked frame. And even more-so, it's where I gained a new level of confidence in descending that I hadn't been able to reach before.
But there was more to it. And I'm afraid that after living it a second time, the magic will be gone.
Even though I can't adequately describe the feeling.
I lift the beanie covering the green glow of the clock. 3:04AM.
...
"What's your favorite song?"
It's early in the morning. I'm at work.
I stop suddenly in a corridor. A young kid who works in the warehouse is standing in front of me. We're still under night lights; every other fluorescent cool since last evening. I'm normally the only person in the building at this time, so I'm a bit startled to see someone else.
"Well? What do you think?" He sounds congested.
His look reflects mine, though his mouth hangs open a little. And through the tiny vacancy, the smell of Butterfinger and blueberry vape smoke slowly escape. The aroma attacks me. And like dozens of plastic Green Army Men melted to a mailbox, it begins to overwhelm me. He starts to tap his finger against a can of Red Bull that hangs at his side. It looks big; a 20 ouncer that can't be more than half-full based on the tinny ticking that's now penetrating my ear.
I seem to be in one of those hazy chrome dream states where you don't know if you're actually dreaming or just recollecting a real-life moment.
I resume my blank stare. I can't seem to answer him, so I must be dreaming.
Although the Butterfinger really does smell like Butterfinger. I'm confused.
We play music in our house on an almost constant basis; near any style. I have fond memories of going to Hills with my brother and buying blank VHS tapes by the ten-pack to record Alternative Nation most nights. I loved Kennedy and her grungy angsty attitude in both real life and dreams. No confusion there.
From anger to love, music's an accelerant. It can make a good moment great and regrettably, do just the opposite; even more-so when it comes in the form of a coincidental accessory. You know, your sensibility at the moment you tune the radio to something that perfectly fits your current circumstances.
I shouldn't say a person can't have a favorite song. For a person sitting next to their sedentary friend on a hospital bed as they take their last gaze and Let It Be emanates through a staticky mono speaker?
I can't relate.
As it may be, we all have songs that crash a chord in life's specific moments; the ones that elicit the emotions deep-seated in our guts. It can be Lee Ranaldo ripping a ten minute mind bender on his Jazzmaster or randomly popping on Tears for Fears; 'tis no matter who you are or what you like. They don't have to be good songs.
You can listen to them over and over and over again, and they'll do nothing for you.
But when they materialize at the perfect moment to meet the matters in our lives?
That feel-good feeling you get?
That's how I felt when I last saw Mount Guyot.
Mount Guyot - 41 Miles / 8,100'
I'm knee-deep in the lifestyle single speed class. My father in-law picked up a twelve pack of PBRs for me. And the timing couldn't be any better. We have three aid stations today. So, three beers. I pack a vest in two of my bags. We're going up to 11,900 this morning, so I'll be sure to grab the windbreaker at aid one and haul it to the top in case of a quick change in weather.
Dicky and I line up at the start. Kenny from Canton shows signs of wanting to join the party.
We enter the loose double track climb. The grade isn't super aggressive, but it has its moments. The ground is hard. And it's littered with billions of bits of gravel or stones or tailings or whatever you want to call them.
Pebbles, I guess.
You remember the scene at the end of The Last Crusade when Indy walks across that invisible platform then throws all the sand and shit on it to remind him where it was all along? It's kind of like riding on that thing only going uphill.
Yeah, that's actually pretty accurate.
It's a prolonged climb. We funnel into some single track and continue our ascent. The three of us regroup at the top. We continue along a ridge and arrive at the top of Little French.
It's a really fast and loose downhill. We hiked up it at the end of the first day. You have to be pretty tight on the line, or you'll end up in some shaley sections that can really suck time.
I did get loose on a section, but I felt like I hit it pretty hard. For anyone into Strava, I ended up with a 3:52 on the segment. Jeremiah Bishop got the top spot at 2:51. Someone would later say at one of the rider meetings that the pros are fast not just because they climb well. I guess I'm just saying that again.
I pull into the aid station. The volunteer already has my beer out. He pulls the tab and presents my reward. I offer him first swig, though he declines. He states that he would love to indulge but needs to stay on top of his game. I appreciate this, as I know he'll be retrieving beers for me at future aid stations.
Dicky arrives and skids some gravel into the woods. Dust wafts into the trees. He remarks the oddity of seeing zero riders with flats along the side of Little French. The gray dust cloud still slightly visible as it creeps away, and his Coors is already half gone.
Kenny arrives and pounds the last few ounces of my PBR. He smashes the can with all his might, while at that moment realizing he just swallowed a bunch of Larabar backwash. Or maybe he's just learning of this now.
From the aid station, we deploy as warriors wearing Lycra. There is slight trepidation.
Before us lies French Pass. The traverse is nearly 1,400' of ascending over four miles. While not the steepest of grades, it carries its own set of challenges. And at this moment, it's time to become reacquainted with those demands. We don't hesitate. We begin our assault.
The mount is footed with a rocky roadbed. It winds between trees; the overgrowth masking the upper-body of the beast. Concentration is needed. Some lines are smooth, though most everything else is not. A momentary mind lapse is paid for with valuable energy needed to navigate the rocky terrain on the backside.
Dicky charges ahead and pushes the pace out front. He's soon off and hiking several hundred yards ahead. Kenny valiantly follows, though falls back with me in due time. This was preferred. He's good company.
The surrounding crop of trees dissolves behind us, and we're left facing the long pass ahead. The narrow path is dynamic. It's a deceiver, a charlatan and a phony. It's a three-mile-long chameleon. It's never fully rough, though it's never fully groomed. Off path, it's semi-tall grass strewn with chunky rock.
It never flattens out and though not a significant pitch overall, there is one steep section. Other than that, the grade changes, and it changes frequently; pretty-well comparable to Alicia Silverstone's style changes in Clueless. And it does so through and through. All the way to the end when French Pass makes a conscious effort to not be such a scatterbrain and starts sleeping with Paul Rudd.
In 2012, most riders hiked this section. Specifically, the riders who were alongside me. However, there are a couple differences this year. The first being that we had a staggered start. Pros/Cat 1/Single Speed categories all went off twenty minutes before the Cat 2/3 riders. Second difference? The SRAM Eagle groupset.
Many riders who I did not expect to see riding sections were riding sections that I did not expect to see ridden.
You know, the Eagle thing. Or maybe another thing I can blame on the single speed thing.
Kenny and I make it to the top. Dicky's descending in the distance. For the last hour, every time I looked at him his small body became smaller.
You'd be remiss to not appreciate the landscape. I take a moment to look around. Mountain sides to the left and right; more hiking for those who hadn't enough. Behind me, the valley from where we came. And emerging from it, a snake of riders; each of whom is waging their own campaign along the fickle path. The air is thinner, though few are taking breaths at this moment.
It truly is wonderful.
And last among the beauty- the person dressed and dancing in the GU rabbit/creature/whatever costume. Their effort and enthusiasm, impeccable. I can only imagine what they could sell if given a good sign and a well-trafficked intersection.
I breathe whatever oxygen my lungs can locate. Dicky slinks over the horizon. I step over the top tube; a position I hadn't felt in three miles. I turn to Kenny and remind him to revel in the midday victory. I wish him luck. I turn to the GU creature and flash it a peace sign. It reciprocates.
I'm outta here.
The beginning of the descent is a slim and precarious path which winds away in the distance. It's trench-like and shallow; as though it was mindlessly scraped into the grassy mountainside in such a way a kid carves a finger in the sand.
It's mostly gritty dirt and occasionally some loose rock, obstacles which create their own modulation; a vibrato of sorts. You remember all that stuff I wrote about a good song fitting a great moment?
Though there are better downhills, I really do love this one.
And yeah, the magic was still there.
It was during the end of the descent I noticed my rear brake was fading out. I realized the section was long, but I definitely wasn't using it so much to cause it to heat up enough to fail. I figured something was going wrong at that point, but after pumping it several times it started to build up pressure again.
I wasn't doing much of any bike maintenance. I'd end up going the entire week without tightening my chain or attaching a pump to my tires. Because, lifestyle class. I wouldn't bother to look into my brake issue until a couple stages later when I found a puddle of hydraulic fluid on the garage floor.
Out of the second aid station, we have another 1,000' climb ahead of us. Like the long hiker yesterday, I spent a lot of energy today trying to keep pace with Dicky on foot. I felt drained, though not terribly awful; pretty much just overcome with a shite aura.
Kenny's surging. He's pushing pretty hard, and from my vantage point it looks like he's keeping up with Dicky.
We begin descending a portion of the Colorado Trail that is very reminiscent of the East Coast. Much larger rocks than the norm litter the trail on its second half. They're a little slimey in spots from the overnight rain, but most sections of the segment aren't too much trouble. It helps that the grade is about 3-5% downhill the whole way through.
I ride through the stream into the third aid station, choosing not to ride the dilapidated railroad tie that was once part of a much larger bridge.
Dicky's sitting in the grass with his bacon and Coors. I start on my PBR and join him. We watch one of the riders from Spain try to ride the railroad tie. He goes down.
No sign of Kenny yet. I put some time on him on the descent. It was a warning of sorts to pull back on the last couple climbs of the day; like a gorilla that punches another gorilla in the jungle. He really is pushing it hard, and Dicky doesn't need the encouragement to go any harder himself. I don't mind riding alone, but I don't want anyone waiting on me either. And I don't want to feel wasted tomorrow.
Kenny arrives.
More chunky roadbed climbing. More washed out steeps.
Dicky's barely within eyesight on the last section. I don't see Kenny. There's no way he got in front of Dicky. Oh well. Who cares. He's not behind me.
We'd cross the finish line together, though I know Dicky was waiting at the end for a few minutes. He rode really well. And I was surprised by Kenny. In my mind, it was Dicky's strongest performance of the first three stages. And as it would be, likely the best stage of the series for him; aside from the celebratory day on Gold Dust.
I would come away from the day feeling satisfied. Though I felt tuckered on the last couple of roadbed climbs, I never felt wasted out of my skull. The next day would bring Aqueduct, the stage I probably struggled with most in 2012. But, I knew I was climbing much better this time around. There is a shorter hiker in Vomit Hill, though I felt confident to be able to dispose of the seven mile monster chunk climb out of aid station two that zapped me five years ago.
I grab a Coke and some chips then sit on a giant pile of river rock to wait for Ryanne to come in.
