Naturally, after a week of perfect weather, the forecast for the second Friday of June for Banff was for rain. And it certainly rained during the night, but the morning greeted the Tour Divide field with clearing skies and optimism that the clouds might be kept at bay, at least for a little while. In any case the tracks around Banff itself were way drier than in 17, so things were looking up.
Crazy Larry marshalled the field, photos were taken, and old acquaintances reacquainted (Peter Kraft Jr and I wished each other well and I finally bumped into Nic Brown and family). Finally, after all the preparation and planning, the simplicity of pedalling, eating and sleeping would commence. Rather than start at the back of the conga line, as in 17, I and a few other riders made our way to the trailhead a few minutes early to avoid being caught up in the chaos that would shortly come from the Y. We sat there counting down the clock. All of a sudden I realised that 8 am had already ticked over. A few others and I were off, shortly followed by the rush of the main field, the more eager ones filtering through swiftly.
The track was in great condition, the sky still clear, and I was thrilled at the realization that once again, I was on the Tour Divide. Narrow corridors lined by dark dense coniferous walls funnelled us through a maze of straights and corners, revealing glimpses of the bombastic surrounding peaks. Magical stuff.
Kim Raeymaekers
Once the Spray Lake Reservoir was attained, unlike in 17, when we turned right, we turned left and worked our way round the eastern side of the lake, initially on pleasant single track, then gravel road, with the splendor of neighboring peaks and valleys more easily appreciated.
Nic Brown
Dylan Morton and Lael Wilcox
A major section of muscular but groomed single track followed, again not present in 17. After about 10 km of this we finally hit the short sealed section leading to the Boulton Trading Post, which I skipped, believing that I was carrying sufficient water for the day.
The boggy powerline climb up Elk Pass was next. The views descending the other side are simply stunning, and I was keen to get a few snaps on the fly. Unfortunately, the heavy and slimy nature of the track caught me out whilst taking pictures; the front wheel squirrelled then stuck, and before I knew it I was high-sided over the bars. Foolish foolish foolish! Fortunately, the landing was pretty soft, but it was a valuable lesson early in the piece.
What I hadn’t counted on was just how hot the day would be. We’d had the odd very light shower and some cloud cover, but the day had predominantly been warm. Once on the Bull Valley logging trail a nearby rider, Tony Laseur (from NZ), stopped to filter water. This was myself and Kim’s cue to do likewise with a further 70 km to cover. I collected 2 litres, added a double dose of purification tablets for good measure, gave the bag a shake, and noted the time, giving it 40 min over the 30 recommended before drinking heavily to satiate what had become a serious thirst as light faded. The climb out of the Bull valley was harder than I recalled (probably as in 17 I’d tackled it in the morning), but soon I was descending under lights into Fernie, getting there just on 10 pm. I had to be happy with that, although McDonalds had just closed as I rolled by.
I got a room at the local chapter of the Best Western, then trundled next door to Boston Pizza. Unfamiliar with the menu I gazed at the confusing options for some minutes (haven’t they heard of a Napoli with anchovies and olives?) before realising another rider was stacking his bike next to mine at the entrance. I motioned for him to join me. Chris Seistrup sat opposite and without hesitation relayed his order to the waitress. He explained that he meant to do the race last year but wasn’t able to in the end, thus had his plan well entrenched, including what he was ordering at various establishments. He also divulged that he had a medical condition (haemophilia) involving being unable to make platelets used in blood clotting. Wow! Still confused by the menu I let the waitress basically order for me and listened in on Chris’s conversation with his wife. Everything was going to plan. He’d restrained himself such that his heart rate never achieved a certain threshold, unlike many of the riders around him. I raised my hand in guilty confirmation and he shot me a knowing smile. We ended up splitting the room I’d just booked. Rather than share the other half of the king bed he flopped onto the lounge, limbs going everywhere and set his alarm for 3 am, just a few hours away. In case you’ve been living under a rock, he would end up winning this thing. In contrast to Chris who was all chipper and sparkle, I really had over-exerted myself that first day. The pizza choice was not really the salt extravaganza I was after and I battled cramps in a fitful sleep. Not so great a start after all.
(Day 1, 254 km and 3430 m vert)
True to his word, Chris was out super early whilst I stuck to my plan of hitting Tim Horton’s when it opened at 5 am for bagels and breakfast, followed by the 7/11 gas station for resupply then out of there.
On the climb out of Fernie I hooked up with a couple of other riders, including Les Brown, from England, whose rig was an unusual combination of steel Surley frame and Cannondale lefty fork. I’d be intermittently crossing paths with Les for several days to come.
Les Brown
The rest of the day unfolded largely as planned, with the emphasis being on not overly stressing the tendons. I passed the point on Cabin Pass where my left achilles blew in 17. I’d started the race with my achilles tendons strapped with KT tape, as a precaution. Although I’d felt some strain in both on Koko the day prior, everything seemed to be settling down. Just pedal gently, I kept reminding myself. Before I knew it I was at The Wall, which was far drier than in 17. I was through it in about 20 min, then onto the slopes of Galton Pass, which was far harder than I remembered - possibly (once again) as I tackled it in the morning in 17.
The super fast gravel descent off Galton spat me onto bitumen and I crossed the border into the US at approx 4:30pm, 18 hrs earlier than in 2017. It had been another hot day so I immediately retreated to the First and Last Chance Bar opposite the border crossing and loaded up on coke and chips before heading into Eureka where I got a sit down meal before resupplying at the servo opposite. I was aiming for a drop-toilet “Montana Hilton” deep in the scary wilderness of the Glacier National Park so kicked on, crawling over Whitefish Pass in the twilight, and then descended under lights into the blackness. My original plan was to make it as far as the Wurtz Cabin area, but upon arriving at Kuchuck campground, 20 km short, I was starting to feel quite weary so decided to check out the options.
No vehicles/campers were present as I rolled around until I found the obligatory Hilton. I was surprised to discover this one was locked, already occupied by a racer who got there before me, Janie Hayes from Colorado. She offered to share it but I suggested I’d keep looking to see if there was a second one in the campground vicinity - there was! Super clean, and all to myself. Within 20 min i was comfy in my sleeping bag with the alarm set for 4 am.
(Day 2, 243 km and 3654 m vert)
The alarm chimed, I kitted up, packed my horse and was off at 4:30, following the blue line in the inky blackness. About 10 km later I thought I spied a flickering tail light ahead - another rider! I increased the tempo, starting to reel the rider in when suddenly I heard the disconcerting periodic beat of my rear wheel hissing gas. Dammit! A side-wall puncture. I plugged the hole with a finger on one hand whilst extracting my plug kit with the other, eventually inserting the plug and confirming that it was holding air. I pumped the tire up again and was off on the hunt for the rider ahead as the sky lightened.
The rider, whom I eventually caught on the lower slopes of Red Meadow Pass, turned out to be Janie, the other Hilton occupant at the Kuchuck campground. Turns out that after I knocked on her door another rider showed, whom she shared the box with, resulting in a fairly uncomfortable night’s sleep. Janie and I got chatting about life, how lucky we were to be doing the race and our approximate schedules, which were similar. Janie was an exceptionally fit woman aiming to beat Lael Wilcox’s TDR record of approx 17 days. The way she was riding I had no doubt in my mind she could do it. Whilst chatting we rounded a corner; is that a bear? I think it is! An enormous dark bear was ambling along the trail 100 m ahead of us. I fumbled with my camera whilst Janie activated the external speakers for her music device and the bear soon caught sense of our presence, taking off into jungle. Awesome!
Janie Hayes
(Day 3, 285 km and 2857 m vert)
I was up at 4, as was Janie, but unlike me she was not ready to roll. At Red Meadow Lake she’d felt regret at racing the route rather than having time to share the experience with her partner. She’d slept on it and decided she was going to take a breather and wait for her husband, also competing in the race, before cruising the route at a more touring pace, much as I’d done with Anita and Ham the previous year. Unless
you’ve committed to the masochistic mindset required to race the route
this is definitely a more pleasant way to experience such magnificent
country. I was sad to hear this as we were on a similar wavelength and i was looking forward to intermittently riding with her in coming days. That said, I was also feeling the tug of just wanting to tour the route a little so understood, wishing her the best.
At 4:30 I pressed forth in the company of Nico Deportago-Cabrera (from Chicago) and Jason Kiefer (from Colorado) who both immediately took off up the trail. I was just happy to tap out my own rhythm on what was a very chilly morning, prompting many wardrobe changes as penetrant fingers of sun would temporarily cook you, only to be plunged back into arctic conditions round the next shadowed corner.
The Richmond Peak traverse was mercifully free of snow and I really enjoyed the single track round the back of the mountain before eventually gaining rural farm roads and the welcoming town of Ovando. Kathy Schoendoerfer was waiting to welcome me and take my photo. She recognised me from two years ago, sporting the same scrappy sideburns, cultivated for sun protection, and dubbed me “David of the Mutton Chops” in a Facebook post, much to the amusement of friends back home.
At the Stray Bullet Cafe I enjoyed a huge breakfast consisting of an omelette and pancakes, coke and coffee in the presence of Jason Kiefer. Finally my appetite had turned up for the show! I kicked on down the trail towards Huckleberry Pass and Lincoln, which I gained at 3:30 in the afternoon. In my original plan, after three huge days of 250 km, I was to have a short day and take a hotel in Lincoln, but the day was so young and conditions so clear that I decided to push for Helena. This would involve knocking off a trifecta of passes, the first two being very steep and tough (Poormans, and an unnamed pass) followed by Priest Pass, that I hoped my tendons would be OK with. Once again, these proved far harder than I remember, having tackled them first thing in the morning in 17. There’s a theme there!
I was joined at the top of Priest Pass by Aaron Denberg (from Wyoming). I couldn’t quite believe how little kit he was carrying, more confirmation that my rig was probably too heavy. We descended into Helena. Aaron wasn’t interested in a room, but I certainly was. After a bit of pfaffing, striking out on the first two hotels, I eventually settled into the Best Western and had a pizza, garlic bread and large soda delivered. Everything should have been rosy, right? For some reason I had sunk into a bit of a funk, and it was only the end of the 4th day. The room was massive, with two king beds, which was ridiculous given that I was only going to be there for 5 hrs max and wouldn’t be able to get value out of even one of them. As I showered I registered the sensation of whole body soreness, and this was hardly going to let up for the next two weeks. My right hand was developing numbness and tingles (although I could still do the Vulcan salute), my face was puffy, I had welts all over my back and left shoulder, presumably from some insect that had become enmeshed in my jersey. My legs were swollen and holding fluid, ballooning dramatically out from the edge of my socks. My backside was already adorned with an assortment of tender saddle sores I’d have to monitor carefully, and one of my two cache batteries seemed to have given up functioning, so I binned it. In short I was pretty beat up. Was I really capable of continuing or would my fragility eventually sink me? How much further could I descend down this trajectory? How would I hold up mentally if things got worse? Thoughts of scratching entered my mind for the first time. Fortunately I had lots of positive vibes filtering through from back home (thanks guys), and sleep got the better of me before I could let this train of thought fester.
(Day 4, 260 km and 3770 m vert)
My mood was much improved as I rolled out early the next morning and ticked over the first pass of the day. The morning highlight was a badger that bounded across the track in front of me. Next was the nasty Lava Mountain singletrack, chunks of which I couldn’t ride, but I was mentally prepared for it so it wasn’t so bad. Unfortunately, on some of the bits I was muscling through, the contortions of the rear tyre over rocks and roots were disrupting the integrity of the plug in the rear tyre which gradually hemorrhaged air. I stopped at the top, initially suspecting I had another puncture before realising what the issue was and inserting another two plugs adjacent the initial one. Hopefully this would now hold. I pumped up the tire then descended into Basin, thus commencing a slow headwind slog towards Butte on a very heavy gravel surface, not helped by a thunderstorm that passed overhead which dumped a bunch of rain and hail on both me and the trail. The temperature drop during this episode was striking, and I was glad I was equipped with ample warm and wet weather gear, although my waterproof home-fabricated lower leggings would barely fit up over my swollen calves.
As I approached Butte the state of my rear tyre was weighing on my mind. Although the additional plugs seemed to be holding, would this be OK for another 3000 km? Upon entering town I decided to replace it, so made a B-line for the Derailed Bike Shop. Although they didn’t have any 29er IKONs in stock, Austin, the manager, recommended a Vittoria Mezzcal, which I’d heard was a good tyre, so opted for this instead. The guys pointed me in the direction of a lunch spot a few blocks away, whilst they swapped out the tyre. I got a couple of delicious wraps and a large Coke from the Pita Pit then trotted back to the shop to discover that the new tire was proving a real bear to mount - it took Austin and two assistants to muscle it onto the wide Nextie rim. I hoped it would loosen up over time or I’d have issues putting in a tube if required. In any case, I was most grateful to have fresh rubber and sealant for the next chapter of the journey. The shop was out of dry lube so I picked some up at the nearby Bad Beaver Bikes, then retraced my steps back to the race route and continued onto Safeway for resupply, where I once again bumped into Les Brown who was just about to head out again.
Back on the trail I realised I’d forgotten to swap the chain out for a new one I was carrying at the bike shop, so stopped and did it trailside. The new one meshed perfectly, indicating I hadn't left the change too late. I hoped to at least make the Beaver Creek Campground and associated Hiltons but, as the evening was perfectly clear and still, a plan formed in my head to keep going and get over Fleecer Ridge and hit a Hilton on the other side. At least tackling the Fleecer ridge descent in the dark would eliminate any heroics associated with riding the chute.
The Hilton I had in mind I’d spied from satellite images; located next to a boat launch by the bridge before the sealed road to Wise River. I arrived at 12:30 am to find it empty and beautifully clean. Perfect! I bedded down and set the alarm for 3:30, with an aim of clawing up the 50 km climb along the sealed scenic byway in the morning to breakfast at High Mountain Lodge in the Grasshopper Valley.
(Day 5, 208 km and 3763 m vert)
In 17 I didn’t stop at High Mountain Lodge, and when touring the sector in 18 found it closed, so I was very keen to finally see what all the fuss was about. Russ Kip was fantastically welcoming and sat me down next to Nico, then Dylan Morton (who’d spooked me near the top of the climb, emerging from his bivvy). Both were very impressive riders with relaxed demeanours. Nico was a bike messenger by trade, sported braids, had a few trans-continental races on his books, and was smashing the route on a SS rig. Dylan (yet another rider from Colorado) had perhaps the smoothest pedalling style of any of the riders I’d seen on course, and his rig was conspicuous by its absence of rooster-tail, but with dry bags on the fork stanchions. We tucked into Russ’s signature breakfast #9, consisting of 3 fried meat patties, three pancakes, and three hash browns, (or was it omelettes?) washed down with orange juice and coffee. The mind was starting to get rusty with the details. In any case, it was a great stop and Nico and I were soon on our way, slipping further down into the expansive Grasshopper Valley, past Polaris, with a gentle tailwind at our backs, before hitting the Bannack road. Having gears allowed me to gain a bit of a gap on Nico, but he caught me back up, as did Dylan, on the gradual rolling, wind-all-over-the-place climb up to the Medicine Lodge Divide. Once again, the stunning views of the range marking the Montana-Idaho border were a highlight for me, along with the impressive Big Sheep Canyon that eventually dumps one on the frontage road to Lima. Hello tailwind!
With a continuing tailwind on offer past Lima I kept my resupply snappy, metaphorically hoisted spinnaker, and milked the breeze along the vast treeless valley ahead. This worked splendidly until the sun finally set, dropping the wind to nought, and doing similar things to the temperature. It was now seriously cold, and late, and disconcertingly my left knee was starting to complain. It was clear I wasn’t going to make Lakeview, let along the Montana-Idaho border, so threw down camp just off the track.
(Day 6, 287 km and 2560 m for the day)
As I packed my horse in the pre-dawn, my Garmin told me it was -5 C. No wonder I’d been reluctant to exit my bivvy. Once on the track I shortly passed Nico starting to stir from his far more minimalist bivvy, who also made comment re the cold. Shortly after passing the Upper Lakeview campground (my bivvy spot in 17), I saw another rider in the distance I’d not seen for many days - Alexandera Houchin, who was battling Nico for SS honours.
Alexandera is one tough cookie, running SS, flats (pedals), work boots, canvas shorts, and, like Nico, minimal kit. It blew my mind that day after day I was unable to get significantly ahead of her. She was clearly able to operate on less sleep than I was, and doing it all on a single speed. Of all the riders I encountered for the entire event, she was perhaps the most impressive, certainly when it came to mental resolve. And mental toughness is a huge part of what this event is all about.
Next obstacle on the menu was the relatively short climb to the Montana-Idaho border, a bit of a milestone for anyone doing the Tour Divide. An hour or so later I was at the Subway at Island Park, licking my wounds (sore knee), oiling my chain, then resupplying some more at the gas station over the road before tacking the energy sapping monotony of the rail trail. Dylan, Nico and Alexandera were content to let me ride on as they coalesced at the gas station. The rail trail is hard enough as it is, but there was also an unusually strong headwind adding to the difficulty. Dylan soon caught me as I gained the railway tunnels above the Warm River campground.
The block headwind was in full play, sapping one of energy just trying to gain the open fields above the campground. The Yellowstone and Teton massifs were finally visible although their peaks were shrouded in a grey cloud mass that didn’t look pleasant. That’s exactly where the blue GPX line was leading us. I stopped in at Squirrel Creek Ranch if only to enjoy a reprieve from the wind, but the cokes and chocolate brownies were seriously worth it!
Back on track, at least now I was in the trees where the wind was tempered, but as the day grew long, so the cold set in, along with rain, then snow in the final push towards the lodgings of Flagg Ranch in the twilight. I enjoyed riding with Dylan, a bike mechanic by trade, who found humor in my comment that no one does science for the money, but I was doing it for the money because at least it paid more than my stint as a bike mechanic. Dylan and I pulled into Flagg Ranch together and immediately gravitated towards the warmth of the restaurant, where we gained a table in the bar and ordered a double serve of mega nachos. I mentioned to Dylan that I recognized the waiter from last time as being a bit of a character. Dylan relayed this to the guy. “Was I an asshole?” he retorted, all in good nature.
At 4:30 I pressed forth in the company of Nico Deportago-Cabrera (from Chicago) and Jason Kiefer (from Colorado) who both immediately took off up the trail. I was just happy to tap out my own rhythm on what was a very chilly morning, prompting many wardrobe changes as penetrant fingers of sun would temporarily cook you, only to be plunged back into arctic conditions round the next shadowed corner.
The Richmond Peak traverse was mercifully free of snow and I really enjoyed the single track round the back of the mountain before eventually gaining rural farm roads and the welcoming town of Ovando. Kathy Schoendoerfer was waiting to welcome me and take my photo. She recognised me from two years ago, sporting the same scrappy sideburns, cultivated for sun protection, and dubbed me “David of the Mutton Chops” in a Facebook post, much to the amusement of friends back home.
At the Stray Bullet Cafe I enjoyed a huge breakfast consisting of an omelette and pancakes, coke and coffee in the presence of Jason Kiefer. Finally my appetite had turned up for the show! I kicked on down the trail towards Huckleberry Pass and Lincoln, which I gained at 3:30 in the afternoon. In my original plan, after three huge days of 250 km, I was to have a short day and take a hotel in Lincoln, but the day was so young and conditions so clear that I decided to push for Helena. This would involve knocking off a trifecta of passes, the first two being very steep and tough (Poormans, and an unnamed pass) followed by Priest Pass, that I hoped my tendons would be OK with. Once again, these proved far harder than I remember, having tackled them first thing in the morning in 17. There’s a theme there!
Lovely meadows en route to Priest Pass
Aaron Denberg
Rig comparison; Aaron vs Dave (minus the backpack!)
I was joined at the top of Priest Pass by Aaron Denberg (from Wyoming). I couldn’t quite believe how little kit he was carrying, more confirmation that my rig was probably too heavy. We descended into Helena. Aaron wasn’t interested in a room, but I certainly was. After a bit of pfaffing, striking out on the first two hotels, I eventually settled into the Best Western and had a pizza, garlic bread and large soda delivered. Everything should have been rosy, right? For some reason I had sunk into a bit of a funk, and it was only the end of the 4th day. The room was massive, with two king beds, which was ridiculous given that I was only going to be there for 5 hrs max and wouldn’t be able to get value out of even one of them. As I showered I registered the sensation of whole body soreness, and this was hardly going to let up for the next two weeks. My right hand was developing numbness and tingles (although I could still do the Vulcan salute), my face was puffy, I had welts all over my back and left shoulder, presumably from some insect that had become enmeshed in my jersey. My legs were swollen and holding fluid, ballooning dramatically out from the edge of my socks. My backside was already adorned with an assortment of tender saddle sores I’d have to monitor carefully, and one of my two cache batteries seemed to have given up functioning, so I binned it. In short I was pretty beat up. Was I really capable of continuing or would my fragility eventually sink me? How much further could I descend down this trajectory? How would I hold up mentally if things got worse? Thoughts of scratching entered my mind for the first time. Fortunately I had lots of positive vibes filtering through from back home (thanks guys), and sleep got the better of me before I could let this train of thought fester.
(Day 4, 260 km and 3770 m vert)
My mood was much improved as I rolled out early the next morning and ticked over the first pass of the day. The morning highlight was a badger that bounded across the track in front of me. Next was the nasty Lava Mountain singletrack, chunks of which I couldn’t ride, but I was mentally prepared for it so it wasn’t so bad. Unfortunately, on some of the bits I was muscling through, the contortions of the rear tyre over rocks and roots were disrupting the integrity of the plug in the rear tyre which gradually hemorrhaged air. I stopped at the top, initially suspecting I had another puncture before realising what the issue was and inserting another two plugs adjacent the initial one. Hopefully this would now hold. I pumped up the tire then descended into Basin, thus commencing a slow headwind slog towards Butte on a very heavy gravel surface, not helped by a thunderstorm that passed overhead which dumped a bunch of rain and hail on both me and the trail. The temperature drop during this episode was striking, and I was glad I was equipped with ample warm and wet weather gear, although my waterproof home-fabricated lower leggings would barely fit up over my swollen calves.
As I approached Butte the state of my rear tyre was weighing on my mind. Although the additional plugs seemed to be holding, would this be OK for another 3000 km? Upon entering town I decided to replace it, so made a B-line for the Derailed Bike Shop. Although they didn’t have any 29er IKONs in stock, Austin, the manager, recommended a Vittoria Mezzcal, which I’d heard was a good tyre, so opted for this instead. The guys pointed me in the direction of a lunch spot a few blocks away, whilst they swapped out the tyre. I got a couple of delicious wraps and a large Coke from the Pita Pit then trotted back to the shop to discover that the new tire was proving a real bear to mount - it took Austin and two assistants to muscle it onto the wide Nextie rim. I hoped it would loosen up over time or I’d have issues putting in a tube if required. In any case, I was most grateful to have fresh rubber and sealant for the next chapter of the journey. The shop was out of dry lube so I picked some up at the nearby Bad Beaver Bikes, then retraced my steps back to the race route and continued onto Safeway for resupply, where I once again bumped into Les Brown who was just about to head out again.
Back on the trail I realised I’d forgotten to swap the chain out for a new one I was carrying at the bike shop, so stopped and did it trailside. The new one meshed perfectly, indicating I hadn't left the change too late. I hoped to at least make the Beaver Creek Campground and associated Hiltons but, as the evening was perfectly clear and still, a plan formed in my head to keep going and get over Fleecer Ridge and hit a Hilton on the other side. At least tackling the Fleecer ridge descent in the dark would eliminate any heroics associated with riding the chute.
The Hilton I had in mind I’d spied from satellite images; located next to a boat launch by the bridge before the sealed road to Wise River. I arrived at 12:30 am to find it empty and beautifully clean. Perfect! I bedded down and set the alarm for 3:30, with an aim of clawing up the 50 km climb along the sealed scenic byway in the morning to breakfast at High Mountain Lodge in the Grasshopper Valley.
(Day 5, 208 km and 3763 m vert)
Nico, Russ and I
In 17 I didn’t stop at High Mountain Lodge, and when touring the sector in 18 found it closed, so I was very keen to finally see what all the fuss was about. Russ Kip was fantastically welcoming and sat me down next to Nico, then Dylan Morton (who’d spooked me near the top of the climb, emerging from his bivvy). Both were very impressive riders with relaxed demeanours. Nico was a bike messenger by trade, sported braids, had a few trans-continental races on his books, and was smashing the route on a SS rig. Dylan (yet another rider from Colorado) had perhaps the smoothest pedalling style of any of the riders I’d seen on course, and his rig was conspicuous by its absence of rooster-tail, but with dry bags on the fork stanchions. We tucked into Russ’s signature breakfast #9, consisting of 3 fried meat patties, three pancakes, and three hash browns, (or was it omelettes?) washed down with orange juice and coffee. The mind was starting to get rusty with the details. In any case, it was a great stop and Nico and I were soon on our way, slipping further down into the expansive Grasshopper Valley, past Polaris, with a gentle tailwind at our backs, before hitting the Bannack road. Having gears allowed me to gain a bit of a gap on Nico, but he caught me back up, as did Dylan, on the gradual rolling, wind-all-over-the-place climb up to the Medicine Lodge Divide. Once again, the stunning views of the range marking the Montana-Idaho border were a highlight for me, along with the impressive Big Sheep Canyon that eventually dumps one on the frontage road to Lima. Hello tailwind!
The Bannack Bench
Nico (above), and with Dylan (below)
Medicine Lodge Divide
With a continuing tailwind on offer past Lima I kept my resupply snappy, metaphorically hoisted spinnaker, and milked the breeze along the vast treeless valley ahead. This worked splendidly until the sun finally set, dropping the wind to nought, and doing similar things to the temperature. It was now seriously cold, and late, and disconcertingly my left knee was starting to complain. It was clear I wasn’t going to make Lakeview, let along the Montana-Idaho border, so threw down camp just off the track.
(Day 6, 287 km and 2560 m for the day)
As I packed my horse in the pre-dawn, my Garmin told me it was -5 C. No wonder I’d been reluctant to exit my bivvy. Once on the track I shortly passed Nico starting to stir from his far more minimalist bivvy, who also made comment re the cold. Shortly after passing the Upper Lakeview campground (my bivvy spot in 17), I saw another rider in the distance I’d not seen for many days - Alexandera Houchin, who was battling Nico for SS honours.
Alexandera
Alexandera is one tough cookie, running SS, flats (pedals), work boots, canvas shorts, and, like Nico, minimal kit. It blew my mind that day after day I was unable to get significantly ahead of her. She was clearly able to operate on less sleep than I was, and doing it all on a single speed. Of all the riders I encountered for the entire event, she was perhaps the most impressive, certainly when it came to mental resolve. And mental toughness is a huge part of what this event is all about.
Next obstacle on the menu was the relatively short climb to the Montana-Idaho border, a bit of a milestone for anyone doing the Tour Divide. An hour or so later I was at the Subway at Island Park, licking my wounds (sore knee), oiling my chain, then resupplying some more at the gas station over the road before tacking the energy sapping monotony of the rail trail. Dylan, Nico and Alexandera were content to let me ride on as they coalesced at the gas station. The rail trail is hard enough as it is, but there was also an unusually strong headwind adding to the difficulty. Dylan soon caught me as I gained the railway tunnels above the Warm River campground.
The block headwind was in full play, sapping one of energy just trying to gain the open fields above the campground. The Yellowstone and Teton massifs were finally visible although their peaks were shrouded in a grey cloud mass that didn’t look pleasant. That’s exactly where the blue GPX line was leading us. I stopped in at Squirrel Creek Ranch if only to enjoy a reprieve from the wind, but the cokes and chocolate brownies were seriously worth it!
Back on track, at least now I was in the trees where the wind was tempered, but as the day grew long, so the cold set in, along with rain, then snow in the final push towards the lodgings of Flagg Ranch in the twilight. I enjoyed riding with Dylan, a bike mechanic by trade, who found humor in my comment that no one does science for the money, but I was doing it for the money because at least it paid more than my stint as a bike mechanic. Dylan and I pulled into Flagg Ranch together and immediately gravitated towards the warmth of the restaurant, where we gained a table in the bar and ordered a double serve of mega nachos. I mentioned to Dylan that I recognized the waiter from last time as being a bit of a character. Dylan relayed this to the guy. “Was I an asshole?” he retorted, all in good nature.
Dylan with one of the two mega plates of nachos
The last few hours had been particularly worrying for me. I now had tingles in both hands, and my left knee was getting more and more painful, to the extent I was starting to have trouble putting pressure on it. I’d never suffered knee pain like this before, so it was a definite concern. Anita chimed in from Australia, suggesting a taping strategy I might experiment with. I definitely wasn’t going any further that night, nor was Dylan, given the freezing conditions, so we booked a campsite, the same one Anita, Ham and I used when touring in 18. As we headed off Alexandera arrived, and we passed on the excess Nachos we’d ordered, in part, as we worried she wouldn’t arrive before the kitchen closed. Much to my astonishment she declined the nachos and was pushing on, into the mountains and the bleakness. Grit!
(Day 7, 203 km and 1518 m vert)
Although I wasn’t sure how far I’d get, or whether the bleak weather conditions were set to persist, i needed to at least give it a crack. I did my best to tape my left knee then gingerly packed a soggy camp. Dylan did a lot of stirring but never quite emerged from his bivvy, so I left him there. The pre-dawn light grew revealing an eerie frost-dominated landscape. At least the precipitation had stopped. I descended into the magnificent Teton-backed amphitheater of Jackson Lake and passed the entrance to Coulter Bay, just a few hours shy of two full days ahead of 17 when I rolled out from the same Coulter Bay campground. But at what cost? On the menu was Union Pass, which was sure to thoroughly test all my joints and weaknesses.
First stop was the Buffalo Valley Cafe, which along with Ovando’s Stray Bullet I reckon delivered the best breakfasts en route. I love that place! The sky was a moody overcast, with grey squalls dotting the horizon. Without realizing it I was headed towards one of these, with large snowflakes suddenly falling on the climb up to Togwotee Lodge. The sun briefly cut through at the lodge before more squalls blocked it out as the main pass was gained. A heavy drift guarded the entrance to Brooks Lake road, with similar amounts of snow and mud as I remember in 17.
On to the main show - Union Pass. I was expecting the worst, but the snow-pack wasn’t as significant as in 17, however my knee was in terrible shape. Despite my attempts at taping the left knee it was very hard graft basically doing Union with the one leg. At this stage I’d caught Alexandera again and we swapped the lead several times as we traversed the plateau before the big descent down to the sealed road as the sun sunk behind the horizon and the temperature plummeted - as if it hadn’t been cold enough. I put the blinkers on and aimed for Pinedale, as hard as my one leg would take me into the headwind. I had to stop several times to add layers of clothing, including my long sleeve thermal top and bottom, generally reserved for sleeping, as the temperature dropped below freezing. In the end I was wearing everything I owned apart from my sleeping bag, and I was still cold.
Time (and kilometers) seemed to stand still on that long freezing grind. After an eternity I rolled into town and could barely disengage from the bike at the 24 hr gas station. I got a few things to tide me over that night, but was in a thoroughly despondent mood when Alexandera rolled in. She asked if I’d split the room at the Best Western I was about to book, but I had to decline and apologized. I was hurting all over. I couldn’t even mount the bike to roll back to the hotel. I craved a bit of space where I could crawl around naked on my knees and sort myself out. Part of me was fearful I wouldn’t be going anywhere the next morning. It was definitely a low point, and the second time when the possibility of scratching seemed very real. The flying start was definitely over and the wheels were showing signs of falling off.
Once holed up I had a bath, a beer and a pack of chips, put my feet up the wall, and exchanged a few texts back home. More instruction was obtained on how to tape a knee, although I’d used the last of the KT tape so would have to procure more in the morning. At least with clean knees I might get it to stick! It also occurred to me that knee pain was one of the symptoms of a saddle being too low. I’ve always run my mtb saddle approx 1 cm below that of my road bike, allowing extra body movement in rough terrain, so I figured I had a cm to play with. Another thing I’d have to sort in the morning, although I figured I wouldn't be going anywhere fast, so didn't bother setting an alarm.
(Day 8, 245 km and 2859 m vert)
No comments:
Post a Comment