The power was back
on by the time I awoke. If only the body could be magically reawakened. For
days now I'd been a complete wreck, especially late at night and in the
mornings. Even
shuffling round the room with my dodgy ankle was an effort. Let alone getting
the rig back down the stairs. That
said I found a great place for breakfast and filled up with an omelette, hash
browns, and a stack of pancakes washed down with lots of coffee, an OJ and a milkshake. The
bike had been increasingly prone to chain suck over the last few days, despite
repeated efforts to clean it. The
bike shop didn't open till 9 so I wondered if it would survive one more leg
then have it serviced at Breckenridge instead. I
got my answer barely a few hundred meters out of town when it jammed up again. A
local roadie pointed me in the direction of the "Orange Peel" bike
shop. Brock,
the owner, turned up soon after and began the process of opening the store
(i.e., emptying it of bikes). Bryan turned up too, followed by Craig, as well
as a few of the shop mechanics. They
had their work cut out for them.
I love bike shops
and Orange Peel had some real character. The
circular building housing the workshop was once a timber yard. Three
curved mechanic alcoves arced around the central cavity. The
shop was also the original home of Moots, a boutique titanium brand now located
elsewhere in town. Brock
had his hands full dealing with an endless stream of customers as well as
servicing the bike, but kept his cool. I
wasn't overly worried about time - an hour or two weren't going to make much of
a difference in the long run, but having the drive train eat itself out on the
trail certainly would. We
decided not to change the chain, but the whole drive train was removed for an
industrial clean. Jockey
wheels were replaced, and in went the spare press fit bearings I'd lugged all
this way. Oh,
and the rear brake got an oil topup - the lever had been down the bar since
before The Basin. I
got out of there about midday, stopped just down the road for another sandwich,
then got moving. Steamboat
seemed a nice place. I
wish I'd been able to stay longer.
As was often the
case, my getting moving somehow coincided with the similar intentions of
another rider. In this case Bryan. It
was hot and windy and the trail gradually started to climb. According
to the route profile Lynx pass and its following "plateau" was a
lumpy one, with numerous tops and troughs to negotiate. It
was also possibly going to be a stormy affair with some ominous clouds blowing
in. I
was feeling good today, consequently setting a tempo a little too hot for
Brian. A
little higher up the climb I passed Craig who'd stopped by a stream to fill his
bottles. Craig
and I yo-yo'd a bit before he stopped again to do something and I suggested I'd
soft pedal to let him catch up.
The wind was
whipping the trees violently now as I went over one of the Cols. Thirty
seconds later I scythed round a corner to the sound of a large crack. I
could see what was about to happen but was powerless to do anything about it. The
trunk of a dead aspen had been cast down from the high side of the road,
impacting just meters in front on me and shattering as it bounced off the
surface. I
had no where to go but straight into it and was unable to keep the bike
upright. I slid on my right side long enough to register the pain, and the fact
that my tour was probably over. Craig
arrived shortly after to help scrape me off the deck. I'd
done a good job of skinning my right thumb, palm (yes, I know I should be
wearing gloves) elbow, shoulder, but especially hip. I
was a bloody mess, but remarkably didn't appear to have broken anything. My
body seemed to have taken the brunt of it as even the bike seemed undamaged,
wheels, rear derailleur and all.
A km later I washed
my wounds of grit as best i could and applied some woefully inadequate
bandages on my hip. When
I packed my first aid kit I just didn't figure I'd need anything that large. Needless
to say I was now sore in places I hadn't been previously. But
there was not much else I could do apart from get back on and keep pedalling. Craig
was now soft pedalling for me, if for no other reason than to make sure I
got off the mountain in one piece. Getting
down was quite technical in places, with a handful of steep abrupt corners you
certainly didn't want to miss.
The next pass was a
gentler affair, eventually dumping us on pavement where a tailwind whipped us
down the other side. I
hit over 80 km/hr before squeezing the brakes on a corner I couldn't see
through. Whether
I liked it or not, as the light faded there wasn't a town with acommodation
within cooee, so despite my state we were going to have to bivvy somewhere. The
industrial wasteland of Kremmling came into view, we turned right, and headed
up a swampy valley looking for somewhere off the trail. We
found a fisherman's day park area with access to the river. At
the very least Craig needed water. Any
thoughts of staying, however, were immediately quashed by the most intense mosquito
experience of my life. They
were everywhere. Dozens
could be killed just by wiping down arms or legs, only to be replaced
immediately. Long
sleeve shells and rain pants were hurriedly donned amidst frantic swatting. Once Craig was done with
his water we got the hell out of there, searching for a little more altitude
and a darker hour when mozzies are less active. We
eventually found a good spot adjacent a toilet block, also by a lake - fortunately the
mozzies had largely turned in by this point. I
felt pretty wretched that night, barely able to move and sticking repeatedly to my
thermals and sleeping bag. At
least it wasn't raining.
(142 km, 2200 m)
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