The second stage of the Breck Epic is the Colorado Trail. In 2012, we had what Mike McCormack described as an anomaly.
From my limited experience, Breckenridge typically gets a tiny morsel of rain some time in the afternoon hours. And that's it. To experience a downpour like we see once a week in Pennsylvania? Well, that would be an anomaly.
Five years ago, we lined up at the start amidst a light sprinkle. It looked like the weather pattern was going to pass within a half hour, but it decided to stay put for about seven hours. Half of the field would go on to finish the day. The other half was pulled off course. Most suffered some degree of hypothermia. I came through the finish line and was immediately wrapped in a horse blanket. What came next? Hot tub.
The Colorado Trail - 43 Miles / 7,200'
I walk out to the garage. My Naked's leaning up against the well. No creaks in the bottom bracket yesterday, but a random dinging was noticed. I put a little grease on the seat rails knowing that won't do the trick, but I feel good about it any way. I give it the paper towel treatment to wipe off some dust from Pennsylvania Creek. The tires get a couple terse grabs, and I decide not to mess with them.
My chain? Feels extra slack. Just the way I like it.
I yank the purple bandana off the top tube that I rode with on stage one. It gets wrapped in a ziplock. I had written five names on five bandanas the day I got out to Breckenridge. My only criteria was it had to be a friend who wasn't out in Breck. My bandana for the Wheeler stage was left blank until the morning we left. I figured the Gods on Wheeler would tell me a name after I pushed my bike to 12,700'.
I slept well last night, and I'm yearning for the stage to begin. As long as it doesn't rain, I'll be better off than I was five years ago. There's a monster climb to the top of the Colorado Trail, but the payoff is just that- the Colorado Trail. It's a seven mile descent on pure and pristine singletrack. I'm beyond excited.
Ry, Ian and I ride down to the start. We confer with friends from Pittsburgh.
I find a spot in line and move a little further up in place. Dicky and I hadn't quite committed to riding the whole week together at this point, so I'm still not sure what he's expecting of me. It's like elementary school dating. Yeah, we're together, but when the couple skate comes around, I'm not sure if I'm supposed to go out with him or continue putting quarters in Galaga.
I think he wants to ride with me. But...I don't know. I still haven't seen him. I twiddle my thumbs a bit. I look at the ground a little, then give a few sheepish looks around. I see him off to the side talking to someone else. "Who is that?" I think. He catches my glance and gives me a modest look.
He walks over and stands next to me. He quietly says something about having tried to fix the groan in his bike. From his tone, I don't think he was successful.
We're off. We start the climb out of Breckenridge on the road. It's a short piece of pavement. The pros are already out of sight. Just gone. Stupid, stupid pace. All but a few of the single speeders are spinning on the flats. Dicky makes an analogy between bread once costing a quarter and remembering when he still used to be able to see the police car a few minutes after the start of the race.
Spin, spin, spin.
We turn left onto the dirt. It's semi-loose double track and 700' over 0.8 miles. Between breaths, what would become a week-long pattern started to emerge. When the ascents were under 8% or so, I didn't have too much trouble keeping up with Dicky. And even on the quick, steep punchy stuff I felt OK. But the prolonged steeper climbs...he just went faster. I'm 148 pounds, and I'd venture his "heavy" weight is ten pounds off that. That, and he's just a better rider going uphill.
But single speeds can move pretty quick on climbs, especially when the rider remains seated as often as they can, and notably on the loose grit. But on the line where I'd shift from sitting to standing, I'd find myself getting up with trepidation, while he'd remain down. Therein lies the difference.
We hit Heinous Hill. We're off and pushing. It's steep. It's long. And it's a washed out, bombed out, kick you in the face until you want to pass out kinda climb. Dicky's setting the pace out front. He's a fast hiker. You know, all that cross country running stuff helps. I look at the ground. But soon the sound of metallic clinks and clanks raises my head up and to the right. A mere mortal spins up beside me. He's huffing. Another clink and clank, and he's shifted into his Eagle. Though despite my body's short legs, he's no longer keeping up with our walking pace. It's too steep, and he inevitably spins himself to the ground.
We crest the top and rail the descent. I see the blue aid station tent ahead, though I still haven't committed to the lifestyle class at this point. You know, the whole couple skate / Galaga thing.
But Dicky still opens a cold can of Coors, and I help him with some of it. I munch on a few banana halves and make chit-chat with some of the volunteers.
First aid station-
The climb up to the Colorado Trail is next. It's 1,100' over two miles. A 10% average. We maintain a good pace on the beginning singletrack section. It switches back. Up, up, up. Another switchback. Up and up. The grade feels good and my tires are connecting. My legs still have some spring left, and I don't regret my gearing choice.
But even in Colorado, shit rolls uphill. The grade picks up a few points.
I groan.
We switchback again.
Dicky groans.
Then we navigate a rooty section.
Dicky's bike groans.
We're about halfway up. I'm feeling the effort put into the first climb and the subsequent hike up Heinous. Dicky's not talking to me, and I'm not talking to him. Even his bike knows this isn't a good time to say anything.
We're like a family who fought over which Christmas tree to get. And now that we've got it, we're staring at the road ahead with arms crossed, driving a van with three missing hubcaps and rusted out fenders; the Douglas Fir that neither of us wanted lies innocently in the back as its needles fall out by the hundreds every minute. I can't wait to see all the sap that gets stuck in the living room's shag carpet that he just had to have. Maybe I'll be allergic to it, too. Another 300' to go. Merry Christmas, we're in the thick of the Breck Epic.
So, it wasn't exactly like that. But as the grade picked up, my pace fell off Dicky's. There may have been a couple sections he rode that I hiked, but when we both hiked, he was more expeditious.
I can now say there were two moments in the entire week where I really felt it. Not bonking or slammed against the wall, just really gassed out. I was hiking too quick and recovery wasn't coming as fast as I needed it to. If I could have gotten on my bike to pedal it out, I would have been better, but it just wasn't happening at that point. You know, too steep and too rutted out. Anyway, this was the first of those two moments.
We make it to the top of the Colorado Trail. I'm pretty sure Dicky let me go down first. But, I don't remember. Either way, the descent is one of the many reasons to go out there and ride. We just don't have trails like it in Pennsylvania. It is so well-built and over seven miles in length. You swoop and sway and switchback for more. It really does go on and on and on and on.
I reach the bottom, and all I can think about is my satisfaction in being able to ride that downhill during the day's perfect weather conditions. As last time was not so warm and dry, it nearly made my week right then and there.
The second aid station is in sight. Another can of Coors is cracked. I push the two remaining climbs that lie between us and the finish out of my brain. Though they need conquered, at this moment in time they are not of importance. I start to ponder the remaining four stages. And I contemplate my future with Dicky. Stopping for a beer at every aid station isn't going to significantly impact my times. And what do I care any way? I'm riding well and having a blast. As it may be, Dicky is pushing the pace when we're riding. I'm faster with him.
I can't decide.
Galaga. Or couple skate?
I look up at the cloudless sky, and my mind starts to wander.
A hazy blur turns clear. My fantasy has brought me to Skate Castle in Butler. The glass screen in front of me carries a glaze of pizza grease and cigarette tar. Behind it, the flickering flashes of exploding aliens. It's Galaga! My hand bats the buttons below as the joystick recoils in perfect synchronicity. My ears are intruded by the din of hot dog machines and crane game failures. My eyes reflect the glints and glimmers of the glowing lights around me. A row of quarters are on the rail of the arcade cabinet, designating who from the fourth grade crowd will be next to take control. They surround me. And we're all drawn to the eruptions on screen.
The taste of Coors hits my lips, and a ray from the real world invades my daydream. And in a spark of comprehensible clarity, I am enlightened. I turn myself from the screen as my uncontrolled ship is blasted to smithereens. I grab my half eaten popcorn ball from the console and push through the crowd as the kid next in line witnesses a pixelated Game Over scrawled across the monitor. I snatch a root beer from a boy in a Billy Idol t-shirt and take a sip before throwing it in the garbage. I test my toe stops, then head toward the rink as Steve Perry belts out Open Arms over the sound system.
"Are you ready to get the fuck out of here?"
I'm rocked back to reality. Dicky steps on the Coors can and shoves it in his back pocket. He belches loudly.
Then continues, "We got two more climbs, then it's time for more beer and no bike maintenance."
I look toward the trail ahead. There's nowhere else to go, and I have nothing to lose. I guess I'm with him for the rest of the week. I slip my gloves back on and notice the shimmer of popcorn oil catching the gleam of the Colorado sun. It's a sign of good times ahead.
Your writing... It is awesome.
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