Cloudride Prologue 2022

 

Cloudride Prologue 2022

 

(PS:  Yes, posted more than a year after the fact, but here it is...)

 

I really enjoyed the 2021 Cloudride Proloque, so was keen for another edition on a different course, taking in more of the amazing country that one can explore only a day’s ride from Canberra.  This year the proposed route was reputedly a fairly serious anticlockwise loop taking in Cobargo, kissing the coast at Bermagui and Narooma, before some rough and tumble climbing back inland to Braidwood then home to Canberra. However, the weather during the few months leading in, which has oscillated between monsoonal and biblical for the coastal strip, coupled with a potentially conflicting work date, had me resigned to giving this year a miss (pondered over many days observing gloomy conditions through the train window, rather than riding to work).  These are tough events with a big mental component, and I just didn’t fancy trying to convince myself I was having fun if drenched most of whole time on terrible roads – not to mention the thrashing the bike would receive.

 

A week out Steve Watson (the organiser) posted that the combination of washed-out roads and potentially high river crossings necessitated a re-route. Steve quickly devised an alternative “lightning-fast” inland course with only 8000 mV – testament to his encyclopaedic-knowledge of the Monaro region.  Despite being unsure of my fitness I signed up – anything to get me out of my garage where the tires on various bikes were literally growing mould.

 

Arriving at the start we parked directly behind the intimidating athletic silhouette of Matt Warner-Smith (the mystery gun whose emergent SPOT startled dot-watchers partway through the race) as he was putting his extremely minimalist kit together including skinny 40 mm slicks.  Anita commented that he looked like he was only out for a few hours – compared to my more kitchen-sink approach.  I thought he must be a local with inside knowledge.  He took off like a champagne cork, gapping the field immediately.  I started mid-pack but gradually inched forward in the company of another rider – Wes Hart (another former climber who instantly recognised Anita at the start, so introduced himself - we were both riding OPENs shod with 50 mm tyres).  Having not seen any of the course I was very nervous about resupply options – particularly what time we’d make Nimmitabel (180 km), then Berridale (230km), which I’d figured were the only realistic resupply points given my predicted schedule. But time and distance seemed to pass quickly whilst shooting the breeze with Wes as we discussed climbing and cycling connections, other gravel adventures, the difficulty sourcing bike parts, and assorted minutiae. For a while there we were joined by Heath Wade (fellow Tour Divide alumni) and Mike Brennan and a few others. All were enjoying the vibe of great roads through lovely country on a spectacular day. After the beautiful but steep Tinderry climb it was just Wes and I again, tapping out a rhythm we were both reasonably comfortable with, cruising on roads not nearly as gunked-up as feared.

 

We were relieved to hit Nimmitabel (180 km, and > 3000 m vert) and its famous bakery at approx. 3:30 pm.  I considered not stopping, but was glad we did (pie and coke).  The segment between Nimmitabel and Berridale was simply stunning – hardpack rollers gradually descending velvet folds of an expansive valley on a perfect day – it honestly doesn’t get much better! At 5:30 pm we hit Berridale (230 km) and the realisation that the pie cabinet at the Mobil servo was completely bare. We ducked off-route to the pizza van at the Jindy-end of town only to receive news that despite having just opened for the eve, the wait time was already over an hour!  Onwards.  

 

As luck would have it, Wes and I hit the Snow Goose Hotel in Adaminaby (295 km) at 9 pm, and whilst the kitchen was long-closed they put some frozen pizzas in the oven for us - once the oven heated up that is, which took about half an hour.  Heath joined us just as the pizzas were served - great timing!  All 3 of us rolled out at 10, and were glad to be out of there before any of the extremely pissed locals hit the roads.  Before long we were back on the dirt for what was a very difficult last 150 km, including some diabolically loose, rutted and bone rattling descents. With 130 km to go, and having had to walk some steep sections towards the 1500 m high point, I bid Wes farewell and watched him gradually vanish into the darkness of the Long Plain road.  Too strong!  Definitely well past the transition from racing to survival. A particularly rutted descent led to the technical Goodradigbee river crossing at 400 km, access to which was complicated by waist-high strappy grass tangling all through my drive train.  My bare feet and sore body struggled with the stony bottom whilst keeping the bike aloft, so I ended up just pushing the rig with submerged axles through the bulk of the flow to the other side (sorry bearings!). A brutal climb up the Brindabellas commenced (600 m over 10 km – also requiring some walking), which was followed by the long bone-rattling Two Sticks descent.  Meredith Quinlan later suggested the trail should be re-named “Hell Rocks”.  How I didn’t puncture about 10 times I’ll never understand.  Definitely 20 km designed for the MTB.  Heath (astride a 29er hard tail) had already proved much faster than me on earlier descents, so I expected him to pick me up again at some point. I finally hit the sealed road and after the Uriarra Crossing over a very swollen Murrumbidgee began the slow grind out.  Near the top I stopped to oil the chain and was crest fallen to see not one but two bike headlights, side by side, coming from the bottom of the hill in the morning light.  I had contented myself with likely coming home 3rd, but the rate I was crawling I quickly accepted these guys (Heath, and presumably one of the Mikes – Brennan or Israel) were too good and that it would be 5^th (which I was totally fine with – one makes peace very quickly when spent).  A few min later I had to laugh out loud as a pair of road cyclists cruised passed me!  When I finally got to the end, I had no idea that Wes was actually first home, and that Matt had succumbed to multiple punctures, and a navigational hiccup, which is why I never saw him.

 

Big thanks to Steve for organising such a great event.  I know he devotes a tremendous amount of time, effort, not to mention petrol dollars researching these courses and being on top of various contingencies.  Congrats to Matt, Wes, Heath, and all the other riders who toed the start and together make this such an iconic and friendly event.  And to Anita for being so supportive of me wanting to dabble in the odd “not-normal” adventure.

 

Thanks to Wes for some terrific pics

 

 

 

 

Cloudride Prologue 500 (2021)

When I heard that this years Cloudride Prologue comprised a northerly route out of Canberra, passing through Taralga and some of the country I’ve enjoyed touring in the past, I mentally committed to having a crack.  I’ve never seriously been tempted by the full blown Cloudride1000 or the Hunt1000, both with reputations for an overly generous helping of rough trails and hike-a-bike, requiring the best part of a week to complete - after which my hands might be damaged for months.  I’m just not tough enough for that stuff.  When distilled, for me the joy of riding and touring is to have the country sliding past at a meditatively satisfying pace, with achilles intact and hands that still work afterwards.  

 

The Prologue, by contrast is half the distance and fashioned to be more user friendly.  However, 500 km on mostly dirt tracks is still a bloody long way, so the bike will be loaded, and heavy, and a sleep might be required.  Services on this year’s route comprised three main towns - Crookwell at 160 km, Taralga at 210, and Marulan at 342.  Whilst most of the route looked to be farm tracks, the exception was the section between 200 and 300 km, which snaked through some dark wrinkly terrain on the toppo.  Confoundingly, even though I thought I had a grasp of the Taralga area, the route navigated back-roads to the back-roads, some barely identifiable on googlemaps.  

 

Anita was relieved to have me doing something relatively close to home that would only take a weekend, and was also keen to do some longer gravel rides as well as an overnighter at the Taralga pub to check out the northern loop.   The crux of the course turned out to be the rutted loose descent of the Guineacor Fire Trail, which drops 350 m in only a few km, before an equally steep and technical push up the other side.  Anita and I walked extended sections, down as well as up.  Loose and rutted for the best part of 10 km! 

 

The race dawned amid perfect conditions - dry with min of 8, max of 22 C.  I’m rubbish in heat and humidity, so this suited me perfectly.  It was nice catching a few friendly faces at the start - Paul Lester, Mike Israel and Meredith Quinlan, then at 6 am we were off. I struggled keeping pace early on in the single track dust, with my new K-lite lights intermittently switching from full blast to a faint showing (wtf?).  I trouble-shot this later in the day (phew!) and had nothing but brilliant lights once the skies darkened again. [The trick with the ‘pass-through’ bar switch (USB always on, regardless of lights on/off) is to disengage the cache battery at night if this is being drawn down by the navigation devices, prompting the cache battery to periodically steal power from the lights to top itself up] 

 

With the sun finally up I was on my own, getting comfortable along Mulligans Flat, and starting to see the odd rider in the distance.  I guessed there were probably 10-15 (of 60) up the road, including, no doubt, a 7-time 24 hr world champion (Jason English), and a bunch of NRS-caliber young-guns. I picked up a few riders then, after more chasing, closed on a bunch of about 5 including Mr English in Pivot kit, so I figured I must now be near the pointy end.  According to Jason there were another two up the road.  Half the group got the memo about this being a no-drafting event.  The other half drafted shamelessly!  In any case I figured if I was riding in the company of JE I was probably running a bit hot so deliberately let these guys ride away.  Back by my lonesome.  But not for long.  Gradually a rider would once again become visible, perhaps sit on for a bit, then get dumped on a pinch.  I passed another stopped by the track in fluorescent kit I’d not seen before - presumably one of the front-runners.  After about 130 km, incredibly, I figured there might only be Jason out in front given evidence writ into the track before me, which now started to climb, and continued doing so for the best part of 10 km up quite a spectacular ridge.  I gave it some gas to consolidate whatever position I had.  Topping out onto a section of sealed road I got a great surprise to be greeted by another rider holding up two fingers (indicating second); former Tour Divide alumni Heath Wade, who’d come out from his home town of Yass to give myself and Paul Lester a shout.  We had a nice catch-up on a short bit of tarmac linking to the next gravel sector.  Fears that I’d been pushing a bit too hard were realized a few Ks later, 15 km shy of Crookwell, where I noticed the first twinges of cramp.  I was going to have to be very careful and measured from this point onwards.  Once cramp gets you properly you’re on the back seat for the rest of the day.

 

Crookwell to the rescue (160 km, 25 km/hr average thus far).  I kept my stop brief, refilling bottles, going to the loo, oiling the chain, and trying to wolf down a sandwich before rolling off approx 15 min later (~1:03 pm).  A few km up the road another rider came into view.  Surely not JE?  Nope, it was one of the other riders I’d passed earlier on, aboard a 29er hard tail, who evidently pitted way faster, only picking up a coffee milk and a sausage roll.  This guy turned out to be Jonny Harrison, who, as one of JE’s antagonists of recent years, is well acquainted with being at the pointy end of affairs, and measuring effort.  We had a nice chat as we wound our way through lovely quiet country backroads on a stunning day.  Jonny’s intent was to pit at Taralga (210 km).  I was hopeful I had sufficient on board (fingers crossed) to get me all the way to from Crookwell to Marulan (a 180 km stretch).  I knew I didn't have the horsepower of JE or JH (at least on paper), so for me “just-keep-moving” was the order of the day.  At least I’d seen what was in store, which makes negotiation of tough stretches much more bearable.

 

A minute of two after 3 pm we hit Taralga (23.3 km/hr average to this point).  I turned left, Jonny turned right.  There was now the slightest of possibilities, if JE had also pitted, that I might actually be leading a race!  This was confirmed once bitumen transitioned back to gravel - a surface lacking tracks appeared before me.  So this is what it feels like!  With the rest of the field chasing it certainly motivates you to keep moving.  According to Jonny, Jason asked how far David was up the track.  “Five minutes”, he replied, and bang, Jason switched gear and was off!

 

If the kms kept ticking by there was a good chance I might be able to negotiate the Guineacor horror show in the light - definitely something to keep pressing for.  But I was starting to feel the fatigue in the legs, and wasn’t handling the uphill pinches anywhere near as well as when Anita and I did a practice loop of this sector a few weeks prior.  I was expecting JE to pass at any time, but it wasn’t until some 60 km after Taralga (after 2.5 hours in the sun), that JE finally corrected the balance of the universe and caught me, slamming his poor bike with skinny tyres past me down a chute of tennis balls and baby heads.  “Lucky these wheels are loaners” he quipped.  In a minute he was gone, accentuating the chasm of talent that separates the elite guys from the rest.  Whilst I walked the bottom half of the descent, Jason later confirmed he rode the entire thing, “but probably shouldn’t have”.

 

I filled a bidon at the river, popped in some tablets, sloshed across, then began the very slow plod out.  There was still enough heat in the air to generate some sweat, but at least the sun was largely out of play.  Once the steepness eased I was still having trouble cleaning the rubble-loaded pinches (walking many of them) before eventually hitting good dirt with the sun now officially down.  I hit the Banaby road at 8:15  (~290 km) and did a wardrobe change, donning thermal top, beanie, gloves and knee warmers for the long night ahead. 

 

I’d been drinking heavily from the treated water I’d taken at the creek, so checked the tank water status at the Banaby church (= empty), so took more water at the bottom of Swallow Tail, just to be safe.   The main challenge now was to keep eating even though that time of the race had come where forcing anything down was a chore.  I was surprised not to have been caught by Jonny by now and was enjoying moving again at speed, and those new lights are just superb!  Spotted five wombats and two echidnas, dozens of rabbits and hares, and even chased a kangaroo at full tilt doing about 30 km/hr for the best part of a minute - it just didn't seem interested in leaving the road.  It was something leaping out from the side I was always on the lookout for.

 

Jonny had given me a tipoff about a good quality toilet block just at the entrance of Marulan (340 km), and sure enough, there it was.  I tried to shed some weight, but sometimes the body is just not ready.  As I was exiting Jonny finally arrived.  Like Jason he’d also ridden the entire Guineacor descent, but paid for it by coming off - not a pleasant thought.  I crossed the Hume Hwy to the southbound servo at about 11:20 - a palace of lights, and interesting smells!  The kitchen was still open.  I ordered a burger and chips, even though I was unsure whether I'd be able to consume much.  I just wanted to taste something different, and experience some normality by sitting on something that wasn't a saddle.  Jonny came in a few minutes later, purchased some lollies, two drinks and a coffee and was keen to keep pushing.   I was impressed he was fresh enough to want to move on so quickly, wished him luck, and that I’d see him at the end.  I knew I’d pay for it if I didn't give my body just a little break.

 

The burger and chips seemed to be taking their sweet time.  Sitting there doing nothing, the approaching names on MAProgress were starting to make me nervous, particularly when positions updated and two names were bearing down - fast.  If they were as similarly inclined as Jonny, I was in trouble.  What if they arrived with me still there, and sniffed weakness… Not worth the risk.  I’d prepared well and worked hard to be in this position, so didn’t want to squander it.  The burger and chips finally arrived.  I ate half the chips (which in itself was a chore), squashed the rest into my feedbag, took one half-committed bite of the burger, and reluctantly dumped the rest.  I’m not a fan of wasting food, but the race got the better of me.  Out the door and moving again at about 11:55.  On paper this was a long stop (about 35-40 min), but in the moment, when the body is super sore and just moving around the store in a haze takes effort and concentration, it was all too brief.  That's the thing about races where the clock never stops.

 

As far as standings in the race were concerned I was now running blind again.  I knew I was in third, with 160 km to go, but not a comfortable third by any measure.  Most important was to keep the wheels turning, only stop to pee if I really had to (despite frequent urgings from the 50 year old bladder), and maintain the drip feed of soggy chips, sugary water and coffee milk.  I’d tick the kms off in blocks of 5, and rejoice at every step, be workmanlike on the ups, and enjoy a rest on the downs.  Just keep moving, and avoid the marsupials.  If I got caught, well, whomever it turned out to be was simply too good.  That I could accept.  

 

Negotiating the Covan Creek paddock was interesting in the pitch black, to say the least, and towns I might have resupplied at - Collector and Gundaroo - were in a deep slumber. The 24 hr mark ticked by at Gundaroo with 40 odd km to go.  A heavy fog blanketed some of the fields; accentuating that at 6 C maybe I should add another layer.  Come on sun!  The sky finally lightened revealing patches of fog.  Finally the suburbia of Bonner and Gungahlin, and an obstacle course of curving bike paths and connections, accentuating squirm in my rear tyre, which was dangerously lacking pressure.  Worried that I might not even have time to put some air into it, or check the tracker, I pushed for the end, finally confident that third was in the bag with only Northbourne Avenue to complete.  I passed Anita who gave me a wave and cheer outside our hotel 2 km from the finish.  And so at approx. 7:35, an hour and 24 behind Jason (who only just missed going under 24 hrs!), and 33 minutes behind Jonny, it was done (~19.3 km/hr elapsed average).  

 

Anita and I could barely believe it, not just coming third in such an iconic event, from what many viewed as a solid field, but having the lead for some of it.  I acknowledge I was only there because of pitting strategy, and Jason was always going to reel me in, but it was a thrill nonetheless. Once caught, the puff went out of my sails to some extent, but I can’t blame this all on Jason; the Guineacor sector was similarly responsible.  Jonny also clearly had my measure, and deserved his second step.  In the end my chasers were just as knackered as I was, so I could have eased off a little, but I wasn't to know.  We chatted to Steve Watson, the organizer for a bit then joined him, Jason and Jonny at the adjacent café for a burger I wasn't going to be throwing in the trash.  Thanks Steve, for a course that combined some great fast tracks, open fields, beautiful forests, stunning views, and mixed bag of challenges as well.  Big thanks to Anita, training partner extraordinaire, always up for an adventure, and responsible for giving me the thrashing on the bike I needed the weekend before, and for doing all the driving going home.  If she decides she wants to strap on a tracker, watch out!

Link for viewing the race as it unfolded shown here;

https://cloudrideprologue21.maprogress.com

 

Tour Divide 19 - The final push.

I’d arrived at the fabled Pie Town, but being approx 6:30 pm, presumably after the Pie shops on the main strip had closed.  Hence I went straight to the Toaster House to see what options for resupply were available.  Unlike in 2017, the pantries seemed comparatively bare.  But I at least confirmed that the shower was working.  I donned my pack and helmet and cruised back to the main street (slightly off route), just to see if anything was in fact open.  The few shops all had ‘Closed’ signs in their windows but as I turned to head off, the owner of the Pie Town Cafe, Brad, ran out and suggested he could still fix me something in the form of a pulled pork sandwich and as many sodas and fries as I could handle.  I was so grateful! According to Brad, Beau Troesch, one of the riders I’d been shadowing for days, had left about an hour prior to my arrival.  The sandwich was saucy, spicy and delightful, and the garlic chips top notch - I ordered a second batch for the road. Whilst enjoying my meal I realised that the cafe had wifi on tap.  Messages crackled onto my Whatsapp page.  It was here that Greg back home alerted me to the fact that I was two and a half days ahead of my 2017 schedule - bang on for the mid 18-day finish I’d targeted. This can’t have been right.  By my calculation it was 1.5 days, with a 19-day finish more likely, but the number crunchers back home confirmed the extra day advantage.  My dozy brain had evidently done some miscalculations.

This realisation changed my thinking somewhat. I’d been stressing about having Anita, my partner, having to wait days for me at the finish - I’d been mentally preparing myself for a non-stop 500 km run to the border. Having the extra day meant I could navigate to the end with far less pressure, suffering, and be better able to manage dangerous episodes of “the nods” that would no doubt ensue. Although internally I would have loved a sub-18 finish, I was happy to let that go. To some extent this was already squandered courtesy of sickness, niggles, heavy weather through The Basin, and assorted sleep-ins. My position on the leaderboard seemed safe, with a 6 hr gap back to Alexandera, but you cannot underestimate the determination of Alexandera, whose resolve impressed me more than any of the other riders I’d ridden with. So I had some breathing space, but only a little.

I thanked Brad for looking after me, settled the ridiculously tiny bill and headed back to the Toaster House where a shower was in order. I was happy to take some time as I knew what was coming up. The shower was delightful. I dressed in my thermals, washed out my knicks, hung them out to dry, then settled into a lounge on the “porch of shoes” for a nap in the lovely afternoon warmth, setting my alarm for 90 minutes.  I awoke with a start as darkness was setting in, packed my kit, then at approx 9 pm headed off into the descending blackness wearing the spare set of knicks I’d not donned till this point.  On the run into Pie Town I’d been experiencing some new undercarriage issues so was hoping the fresh knicks with different tread pattern might help.  The plan was to ride till 2 or 3 in the morning, knocking off a chunk of the approach to the demanding Gila section.  Fat chance! The desire for sleep was wearing heavily.  I was crawling through a lovely pine forest with lots of great spots for throwing down the bivvy.  I’d had enough of riding past great camps, so pulled up early, just after midnight, with not even 50 km for the eve, crawled into my bivvy and marvelled at the constellations above as I slipped into a deep sleep. The alarm woke me at 4, but I stubbornly refused to move till 4:30, packed my kit, rolling again just on 5.

The forested area spilled me into an expansive rural valley that I’d follow for many hours before entering the shallow canyon leading to the Beaverhead Work Station, a fire-fighting headquarter servicing the upcoming Gila wilderness, with water and it’s fabled drink machine.  Naturally, it wasn’t working but one of the workers kindly opened it for me, presenting me with one of its two remaining cans.  

Photo Spencer Harding

That morning I’d occasionally ridden in the proximity of Lael Wilcox and crew (Rue and Spencer) who were now touring the route and collecting footage for their film.  We chatted over lunch at the picnic table. In contrast to me, and despite covering the same terrain, Lael looked fresh as a daisy. Very classy rider! In contrast I was on my proverbial knees, creaking and groaning.  Lael headed off for the Gila section as I attended to my nether regions, then sat out a brief downpour before leaving.  Seemed like the monsoon period was happening, with storm clouds brewing and dumping across the expansive horizon, which was also punctuated with smoke plumes from numerous wildfires.

 
The Gila section is not to be underestimated, especially in the heat, traversing everything from gravelly to sandy to rocky roads.  Multiple short steep climbs and descents had to be negotiated - exhausting stuff, and the opposite of my much preferred tempo climb terrain.  Just like the Pondersosa Mesa section, the Gila is relentlessly winding and disorientating - real torture on the mind as you don’t feel like you know where you’re going or if progress is being achieved despite intense exertions.  To run salt into the wound, upon finally cresting the last substantial climb, the descent is so shallow and paved in heavy gravel that you’ve got to pedal to achieve any sort of speed downhill. That’s just not fair!

 Photo Spencer Harding

In fading light I finally gained the short road segment to the last major obstacle of the route, the CDT walking track.  Entry required some steep hike-a-bike onto a ridgeline before traversing gradually uphill.  The sun was setting as I pushed my bike onto the ridge, with the combination of smoke and storms providing a spectacular backdrop of red and orange hues. Much of the singletrack was then rideable, although one had to be wary of the slope, prickly thorns, and cryptic rocks hiding amongst the tall grass. That said, it seemed far more rideable, and dare I say enjoyable than two years ago, when I did it in the heat of the day.

The concentration required for navigating singletrack in the dark made time pass swiftly. I got the sense of being near the end of the sector when suddenly I felt the full force of my chest impacting a hard surface.  My front wheel had stalled against a rock concealed by grass resulting in body and bike rotating around it.  I lay still for a while, registering the drizzle and wondering if I’d broken anything. I pushed the bike off me.  I’d actually cracked a rib, but didn’t realise it at the time. The other point of major contact, my right elbow, was weeping blood through my sunsleeve. I was hoping it wouldn’t need a stitch, and decided not to remove the stocking, which was effectively holding everything together. No alternative but to keep going.  Only a km later I gained double track and then a dirt road which, after another climb and descent (there is always another climb) had me on blessed tarmac, grinding out the climb to Pinos Altos, from which a fast descent led to Silver City. 

Upon entering town major roadworks forced a trial-and-error wiggle, just to get to the McDonalds, which I hoped was of the 24hr variety as it was approx 12:30 am. It was! I parked my bike outside then ordered a burger, fries and their largest vessel of Cola.  You’ve no idea how long I’d been looking forward to this moment.  I switched on wifi and much to my amazement noticed that Ryan Simon and Beau were still in town just a few blocks away.  I’d assumed they would already be headed to the border to eke out a 17-day finish, achieved if they got there before 8am that morning.  According to trackleaders they’d been idle for 3 hrs.  What was going on? I ordered a second round of burger and chips, got myself bathroomed, guzzled more coke and planned my next move.  I had to assume they knew I was in town.  Moving to a gas station for resupply might provoke action.  Regardless, I was definitely going to push through to finish this thing.  Literally across the road from the gas station/Denny’s where they were holed up was a Snappy Mart.  Not quite knowing how the next 200 km would play out I just collected my usual resupply items, including sandwiches, then just before leaving noted that Beau had already departed - 10 minutes ago.  The drag race to the line was on!  Ryan was an exceptionally gifted athlete, evident by being so damn fast on a single speed, but the relatively flat run to the line was unlikely to suit him if not for a headwind.  It was Beau I was worried about. He was riding a very distinctive Salsa Cutthroat I’d spied at many gas stations - a more road-style machine than mine, and running slightly faster (narrower) tyres.  After a 25km sealed climb out of town we would hit the dirt for a 50km sector, before reverting to tarmac for the last 125 km.  As Beau was a tall athletic chap I figured that once we hit final tarmac I’d struggle to match his pace.  Any move would have to come on the 50 km of sand preceding it.

My knees and ankles had been surprisingly well behaved in previous days, with all the objections now coming from the nether regions.  If only I could keep complaints from the backside to a minimum the legs could perhaps shine.

I immediately settled into a solid tempo on the long pavement climb up to White Signal, with the breeze coming across my right shoulder.  It’s always hard to tell the true direction of wind as it swirls around hills and knolls, but if this breeze were true it would mean a taily was in the offing once I turned south onto the dirt.  Sure enough, a tailwind! What’s more, the surface of this sandy track was perfect, with a light dry crust courtesy of recent rain that had just dried out.  This meant I could ride hard with confidence in the aero position.

After only a few km on the sand I thought I saw something red flicker far ahead in the inky blackness.  I pushed a little harder.  More red flashes associated with a pale white hue, and not fixed but definitely moving.  That’s got to be a bike!  A few km pass and I’m slowly closing in. Suddenly a flash of white light blinks in the distance, presumably a helmet light swivelling to scan the terrain behind.  Now he knows I’m coming! I close fast up a long uphill drag then realise that Beau has stopped and is waiting for me at the crest of the hill.  In hindsight, Beau was probably expecting Ryan, but got me instead.  I pulled up next to him and we had a brief chat.  I mentioned my over-the-bars adventures on the CDT, and Beau mentioned how shattered he and Ryan had been after passage through the Gila.  Beau also mentioned the possibility of rain.  Enough procrastinating.  We’ll rolled off together and I gradually picked up the pace, noticing Beau’s more cautious approach to the fast downhill straights and corners.  That was my cue.  I wound it up a little more, then a little more, just wanting to break the elastic.  Fast as I dared on the downs, and putting out solid power on the ups of each roller. Eventually I felt a gap form.  All I had to do was maintain it for another 150 km! The course at this point consisted of long straights with the occasional corner or adjustment of line.  The gap was growing, evident by being able to complete a straight with no evidence of chasing lights.  I wanted to keep the pace high for two reasons - I’d need a good gap once we hit bitumen, and there was the odd drop of rain falling.  If the heavens opened then it would become a lottery as to who got through and in what order.  Just like in 17, a dog at full gallop accompanied me for several kilometres through Thorn Ranch (albeit brown, and not black), dancing just ahead of my front wheel, and flicking an intermittent stream of sand and grit into my face.  It eventually tired and I suggested it take a break then pester the guy chasing me.

The sky started to lighten, and a distant light on a stalk indicated the approach of Separ, the intersection with the freeway, and the start of the last 125 km of bitumen. The sun cracked the horizon as I exited the last of the rubble and onto the sealed.  I had no idea how far back Beau was, but in all of my previous encounters with him he’d been very efficient and eager to press forward, so I had to assume the chase was on.  I made a brief concession to stop, take some pics, take a pee, and get some music organised.

So commenced the last 125 km, settled into my aero position, trying to maintain 30 km an hour, all on a diet of snickers bars and Gatorade from my backpack bladder.  I still had 3 L of water in the frame bag but with the finish only hours away I probably wouldn't be needing it. The shadows shortened, coincident with the elevating temperature, and the minutes ticked by. I’d occasionally break position to scan the road behind, which was mostly clear, apart from imaginary shapes in the heat shimmer giving me a gee-up.  With 50 km to go I came to the conclusion that Beau was probably just riding it in, rather than chasing in earnest, but I couldn’t be sure, so kept the gas on till almost the end.

The kms ticked down, 40, 30, 20... Geez Anita was cutting it fine.  The thing about the Antelope Wells border crossing, which I know as I’ve done this thing before, is that there is only the one road in or out.  In the last hours only a few trucks and the odd passenger vehicle had passed - I’m sure Anita would have slowed and at least given me a wave.  10 km, 5 km, 1 mile, I can see the damn thing now!  I’d welled up with tears a few times over the last few km, knowing the odyssey was almost over, but now here it was.  I approached with two guys cheering me in, neither of which were Anita!  I came to a stop and was embraced by Bobby, then Seth, blubbering a little over each of them.  Both TD vets, they understood what it means to finish this thing.  Bobby and Seth were from Oklahoma, and were there to pick up Ryan.  I couldn’t believe the coincidence as I’d been listening to the Oklahoma soundtrack (Surrey with a Fringe on Top, of all tracks) as I rolled to the finish! How crazy is that?  We instantly shared some sort of affinity as we chatted about the race and the impending arrival of Beau and Ryan, whom I’d been stalking for half the race until sneaking through at the end.

Next to arrive, 10 minutes later, was a very sheepish Anita.  The ranch she’d stayed at had power problems that morning so she couldn’t check on progress, but she did have a text alert from a friend, which she finally noted (s*#%!), jumped in the car and hoofed it. In her defence, in 2017 it took me 10 hrs 30 min to ride the 200 km from Silver City to the end.  This time I made the leap in 8 hrs 10 min. According to Strava records (which not everyone logs, it should be noted), my 6 hr 29 min 170 km run from White Signal to the end is second to Josh Kato on his winning ride in 2015. It’s amazing what you can do on two snickers bars, 2 litres of Gatorade, an annoying haemorrhoid to keep you honest, coupled with a tailwind and the fear of being run down.

Beau, then Ryan eventually finished.  “You sneaky bastard” was Ryan’s immediate comment upon arrival.  Yep.  My opportunistic run jumped me two places up the leader board behind Peter Kraft Jn, with whom I crossed paths many times in 2017.  Peter had a terrific ride this year finishing 12th. Sorry guys, I couldn’t help myself, but that’s racing. My time of 18:02:09 was close to being a 17 and change finish, which I think I could have achieved had I not had the giardia issue to deal with, but in this style of event that’s also racing.  If not giardia something else might have eventuated.

Antelope Wells photos Bobby Wintle

It was nice to be able to share some moments with everyone; riders, partners, followers, at the finish. I think everyone is tremendously satisfied just making the end, regardless of the fine details.  Both Ryan and Beau were rookies, which in my opinion is a considerable handicap compared to knowing the course.  Ryan was the fastest on SS to finish this year’s race. The concept of doing the TD on SS still blows my mind. Chapeau to you both!
 

This TD was more satisfying for me than my 17 run for several reasons.  On reflection, in 17 I really had no idea what I was in for, where I was going, or how to proceed in such a quest.  Consequently I gravitated towards other riders, particularly at the end of a day, surfing off their collective experience, and allowing decisions to be made for me. Part of that was the deep-rooted fear of the unknown, of camping out in a foreign country that contained mythical beasts like bears and mountain lions. Hence, the survival instinct was front and foremost, but I’ve no regrets how it played out, and I got to know some great people along the way.  In 19 however, I wanted to be more the master of my own destiny, and actually enjoyed being on my own for days at a time, just dancing my own steps and being in tune with how my body was feeling, rather than having to hurry to match a different agenda.  Consequently I generally rode at a more sedate pace, rode longer into the nights, and didn’t trash myself as much. I was also far more prepared to walk steep pinches than strain legs unnecessarily.  Overall this allowed me to cover more ground in a less ragged state.  I still had issues with ankles, knees and backside, but I was better able to troubleshoot on the fly and keep the pedals turning, mostly.  

A few thank yous.  Firstly to Anita for being so supportive of me having another crack.  It means so much to me that you not only said yes, but were so proactive in helping me be as prepared as possible. It was so lovely seeing you at the end - the big carrot on the end of the stick, even if this was fractionally mis-timed.  It was lovely hobbling ‘round watching hummingbirds in the aftermath. Secondly to the rest of the gang back home focusing an eye on my dot and keeping intermittent correspondence humorous and upbeat - and for the great poetry! It made me feel you were part of the journey too - I hope this was also reciprocated to some extent from your perspective.  And lastly, to the other riders, especially the rookies, who inspired me on many occasions.  In moments of hardship, uncertainty or doubt I’d reflect on them and marvel at their grit and resolve, and remind myself that I was that person once before, and could be so again if I put my mind to it.

I’m very happy with my TD19 result, to the extent that maybe I’m now cured, although I know full well how this event gets its hooks into you, sometimes without you even realising. After all, for anyone with a masochistic bent who’s into bicycles, it’s one of the grandest adventures there is.  Time will tell.

On the mend at Squaw Valley, CA.

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Tour Divide 19 - Stuck in the middle

I slept in that morning in Pinedale with a complete lack of urgency.  My whole race mindset was unravelling. What the heck I was going to do now?  I nibbled on a bagel at the hotel buffet breakfast but felt particularly out of place - the crippled dirtbag in a sea of clean functional people - so gave up and crossed the street to a drug store and bought two rolls of KT tape as well as a clunky pair of scissors. I spent 45 min fashioning knee support for both knees, repeating one knee a few times to get the tension right (or what I thought was right).  Nothing else to do but go back to the gas station where I gazed mindlessly at the huge variety of items available and marvelled at the efficiency of other riders dealing with breakfast and resupply at the adjoining Subway.  These guys had experienced a far less comfortable night than I, somewhere up on Union Pass.  Mentally I was stalled. I eventually managed to find the usual resupply items and forced more breakfast down. It was close to 9:30 by the time I eventually headed out of Pinedale into a disappointing headwind. What a shocker!

At least the combination of rest, Advil, raised saddle and taping seemed to be easing the left knee discomfort.  Maybe I’d be OK after all.  I missed the turn at Boulder, but realised fairly quickly and only botched a few minutes.  My perception that I was dealing with unfavourable winds was confirmed on a stretch that when touring, in 18, had us cruising at 50 km/hr without pedaling.  In contrast I had to pedal to do 30 km/hr.  However the headwind wasn’t my only problem that morning. A few hours in I had the rumbling in my guts indicating that I’d consumed something that disagreed with me.  I couldn’t think of what it could be, but was certain of the necessity to get rid of it, so pulled over.  A couple of hours later I had a repeat performance.  Usually one or two ‘sittings’ would be sufficient to get back to normal, but not this time.  I needed to go again.  Surely that was done with, but alas no.  I held on till South Pass then Atlantic City.  Three bikes were parked outside the Mercantile (belonging to Les, Beau Troesch (Colorado) and Ryan Simons (Oklahoma)) but it looked super busy so I went round the corner to the Miner’s Grubsteak, where I was immediately greeted by Laurel who took my order whilst I shuffled off to the bathroom.  I ate next to a walker whose name I forget (trail name Pack Rat).  We discussed the various speeds of walking and riding the route, finding water in the Basin, and of sickness on the trail.  Pack Rat had experienced the vomiting and diarrhoea associated with giardia, and I started to wonder whether my trips to the bathroom might be more than having consumed a bad peach, so to speak. Might they relate to the water I took on that first day in Canada?  The gestation period was about right. Bugger! I made another deposit before settling the bill, thanking Laurel, and heading out to find Les had just set off up the hill.

 

The climb out of Atlantic City is a steep one. I caught Les just as the plateau was gained, and we marvelled at a thunderhead sliding across the landscape in front of us. For a while it looked like we’d thread the needle between storm systems. But as darkness fell, and I had to stop yet again, light rain, then snow started falling.  It was going to be a chilly uncomfortable trudge through The Basin. Whilst The Basin is largely gentle undulations, there are also dramatic creases in the landscape involving a pinch climb to regain the plateau. These folds also tend to hold more moisture and it was on one of these that the wheels suddenly locked to a halt, jammed up with the infamous peanut butter mud. I cleaned the clay off wheels, drivetrain and cleats (by banging shoes together with extreme violence) as best as I could, then just managed to get going again before the whole thing repeated a few km down the track, and again a little while further.  Energy sapping stuff, not to mention swallowing precious time.  My previous dream runs through The Basin (cross-tailwinds in dry conditions) were experiencing a correction.

Given that rain had the potential to ruin the track further, I decided that if I could push on through the night while the track was still mostly rideable it would be worth the stretch.  The rain might stop, or persist the following day. This would mean tackling the Wamsutter alternate double track in the dark which at times barely registers as a track at all, but I’d done it before so was confident I’d be OK.  Light drizzle was falling as I passed a tent I assumed to belong to Les, on the rocky entrance to the double track.  The ground was getting increasingly sticky but the stony and vegetated nature of the trail at this point prevented the tires from picking up too much junk, although my cleats would repeatedly get clagged when dealing with nature breaks. Traversing this old layer of strata in the middle of The Basin is one of the highlights of the entire route, and I was sorry not to be experiencing the amazing views, but grateful to be making progress in deteriorating conditions.

I finally exited the double track section onto the main road and enjoyed being able to make the tires hum, maintaining enough speed to escape boggy sectors.  I was starting to make good time again and get the sense that my persistence had paid off when all of a sudden the tires were picking up particulate and spraying it off the front wheel in front of me like a Catherine Wheel, the spray getting heavier and heavier as I pushed harder and harder till eventually momentum slowed to an inevitable stop. The shine of my head light indicated I was stuck in a sea of morass, of similar texture for and aft as far as I could make out.  I got off the bike and tried in vain to shift it, my shoes each now with a brick of cement attached under foot. I wasnt going anywhere as the drizzle intensified.  I was literally stuck in the mud. I could see that conditions off the track were softer and even worse.  No amount of cleaning was going to remedy the situation.  It was about 2:30 am, I pulled my bivvy from the handlebar roll and dropped it right there in the middle of the sludge. At least I could be confident that no other bike nor vehicle could possibly reach me.

(Day 9, 219 km and 2018 m vert)

I’d set my alarm for 4:30 and awoke to more drizzle, then drifted off again.  I awoke a few hours later to a cold overcast morning and assessed the situation. About 300 m ahead I could see the track subtly changed colour. With all of my strength I hauled my rig and, over three 100 m efforts, gained the different colour track, which mercifully was of harder texture.  I spent another 30 min retrieving my kit and packing it, carving off the mud, oiling the chain, de-gunking my shoes and cleats and getting everything ready for takeoff.  I whooped with delight as I finally got rolling again. YES!

I was off again, enjoying the morning despite it being overcast, cold, and having to stop for another couple of tedious nature breaks.  At one point I looked back and was surprised to see Les cruising towards me.  I asked him if he’d had any mud issues. Nope.  I couldn’t believe it.  How was this possible? Surface conditions were obviously very fickle and in constant flux, preventing passage at one moment in time only to permit it 30 minutes later.  The sun finally came out, and a few wardrobe changes later I was feeling good despite having to share the track with a periodic passage of trucks, forcing one onto the softer shoulders.  Most of the drivers were pretty courteous and exchanged waves.
 

I finally arrived at the Loves gas station at Wamsutter and disgorged the muddy contents of my front roll and rooster tail, decorating a wall of bug cleaner with my soggy bivvy and sleeping kit - basking in the sun.  Strangely enough I could account for everything apart from my gortex overpants.  I couldn’t believe I’d been so careless as to leave them somewhere in The Basin during one of my wardrobe changes.  Dammit again!  Those 3/4 pants were invaluable in keeping me warm on night-time pushes.  Bugger!  I’d have to pick up something similar in Steamboat to compensate.  Les, then Beau and Ryan also arrived, having had a seemingly kinder passage through the Basin than I had.  None had seen a set of overpants lying on the trail.

In any case I refuelled, went to the loo a few times, loaded up on food and headed out, only to have to make a another pit stop shortly after leaving.  This constant stopping was getting increasingly frustrating and wasn’t pleasant, to say the least. What a mess.  At least I wasn’t experiencing any nausea which is sometime also associated with giardia, or whatever intestinal parasite I was dealing with.  I really had no choice but to keep going and seek medical help in Steamboat, a day and half away.  First I had to get out of The Basin.

Les, Ryan, Beau and I all sort of coalesced on the final steeper pinches of The Basin near the Colorado foothills, the surface of which was becoming increasingly heavy. Before we knew it the track was once again unrideable.  It took us an hour or so to cover the final couple of Km before the track levelled out, before descending to the massive rollers that immediately precede Savery.  The descent itself was also a mess, as though the track had been drowned by the contents of the Dillon reservoir then pulverised by 1000 cattle marching up and down for good measure. Much of this we negotiated by weaving our way through the thick shrubs off the side of the trench.  I finally made it to Savery in the late afternoon, absolutely exhausted from the efforts and my state of dysentery.  It was a great surprise to see Kirra Dyer here, who’d unfortunately had to scratch but was now touring the route in a van, catching up with and encouraging riders. Such a positive thing to do amidst what must have been very disappointing TD experience.  Class act!

I needed a bit of cheering up as I wasn’t in very good shape. Whilst my left knee had improved markedly in response to taping and raising the saddle, my right achilles was now protesting loudly. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. I just couldn’t seem to keep everyone (my joints and guts) happy, and this was affecting my mental state.

After chatting with Kirra for 10 min or so I was most surprised to see Peter Kraft Jn cruise up to us, looking fresh as a daisy.  He’d jumped across from Atlantic City all in the one day, apparently able to ride most of what we’d just pushed through, such were the vagaries of the track.  I sat on the curb to re-tape my ankles and knee before commencing the slow grind up Kirsten’s driveway to Brush Mountain Lodge.  Of the five of us who basically left Savery together, I was the last to pull into Brush Mountain Lodge, an hour later than the others, around midnight, courtesy of another three nature breaks.  To say I wasn’t having a good time is an understatement.

Kirsten was a bit preoccupied when I arrived, but there was pizza on tap, and a few of us sat round the table discussing the day’s events.  Sleeping bodies were scattered all over the floor. The weather we’d caught in the Basin was associated with a cold front that had dumped a huge amount of snow and then rain in northern Colorado, to the extent that Sand Mountain, the pass just south of Brush Mountain Lodge was essentially cut off.  Only four of the front runners got through in heavy conditions, whilst following rain and associated mud repelled further passage, resulting in a bit of a log jam in the lodge, which now housed about 20 riders and two film crews. We were hopeful to make it over the pass the next day, but there was an air of uncertainty as to whether this would eventuate.  I relayed to Anita I was having massive gastric issues, to which she was actually relieved. My progress had been so slow she’d concluded my knee was only deteriorating.  She’d prepared to have the “Dave, I think you should scratch”, conversation.  I found a place on the floor and swiftly fell asleep without setting an alarm.

(Day 10, 208 km and 1653 m vert)

I was accustomed to wake at around 4 am, and this time was no exception, but there was no urgency either, so I drifted back to sleep.  I eventually got up a few hours later and enjoyed a typical Brush Mountain Lodge breakfast chatting with other riders.  Some of the early front runners were still present, including the Euros Kim and Kai, Josh Ibbett, Evan Deutsch, Lael Wilcox and Sofiane Sehili himself. Sofiane had been on track to perhaps beat Mike Hall’s record up until he was turned back by snow. He had decided to scratch, but did so with the confidence of knowing that besting the record was indeed possible, and vowed to come back next year and give it another shake.  A few of the riders were unsure as to what capacity they’d continue racing once they got over the pass, given the time they’d lost.

Nico and I having a rare bad hair morning (Photo Spencer Harding)

As you can imagine my clothes were in a dreadful state, especially my knicks, so I got them laundered. I was one of the last riders to leave, kicking off about 11am and carrying the biggest toilet roll I could muster.  Steamboat would be as far as I was going that day.  What I hadn’t appreciated though, was just how long it would take to trudge through several Km of snow down the other side of the Sand Mountain Divide, coupled with lots of nature breaks en route.  At about 5 pm I finally dragged my sorry arse into the Orange Peel bikeshop and asked about where to seek medical help.  They pointed me towards the other end of town where I  signed a bunch of forms, and eventually got seen by a GP.  The doc explained that i may have giardia, or it might be some other parasite, but taking anti-giardia medication would complicate diagnosis further down the track, should the medication not work. The doc was happy to write me a prescription and I agreed to provide a stool sample - like that was going to be a problem - the only hitch being that the medical centre’s courier had finished for the day. Fortunately I could transport the sample up the road to the Hospital and deliver it to the lab directly, ensuring that the time sensitive test wasn’t compromised.  So I did my business in the container provided, jumped on the bike and rode it up the hill to the local hospital lab.  All good.

I returned to the nearby Safeway where the prescription was processed, and had a nice chat to the friendly chap behind the counter who had guessed I was a TD rider given my attire.  I picked up a few other items and rode back to Orange Peel for overpants/legwarmers and dry lube, only to discover that it had just closed.  Major bummer!  Now I’d have to wait for it to open in the morning.  If only I’d left Brush Mountain Lodge an hour earlier.

I got a room at the Nordic Hotel, and jumped in the bath - my second of the trip.  So good!  My mood soured though when I realised I’d mislaid the giardia medication. Was it possible I hadn’t actually bagged it at the Safeway?  I grabbed my phone and found the number for the pharmacy.  The fellow who served me confirmed that yes, I’d walked off without the drugs. But he’d already worked out where I was staying courtesy of the spot tracker, and would drop them by in 15 minutes as his shift had just finished.  Wow!  I’d had more than I bargained for already over the last few days, and it was lovely for a little magic to break in my direction.  I thanked him profusely when he dropped them round, popped a tablet down and wandered to the local bar for a steak, chips and a beer.  Boy did that meal go down well!  Maybe the Tour Divide wanted me to continue after all.

(Day 11, a pitiful 89 km with only 75 en route, and 1077 m vert)

I slept well and was ready at 6 for the hotel breakfast, popped another pill and was feeling much better. Even the left knee was feeling rejuvenated. In order to lessen strain on the right achilles I fashioned an insert out of cardboard and tape to raise my heel (thanks Wendy!).  I then counted down the minutes till Wheels Bike Shop on Yampa Avenue opened at 8:30.  I picked up dry lube and the last set of knee warmers they had and was rolling by 8:45.

After a flying first week, during the mid section of the race I’d accrued a series of mis-steps, bad luck and unnecessary delays; knee issues, late start in Pinedale, mud in the Basin, achilles issues, three days of Giardia, late start in Brush Mountain Lodge, losing half a day in Steamboat, and now another delayed start. Mentally I’d given up on the 18 day finish as a possibility.  All that good work whittled away.  I was now going to have to work hard just to get a 19 day finish, and this was an uncertain outcome given the fragility of my joints and unknown state of my guts going forward. I was now back to only hours ahead of my 2017 schedule (21 days), or so I figured (I was still actually a day ahead, but I’d seemingly lost so much time my muddled mind couldn’t see it).

 

Despite the late start this turned out to be one of my best days, thankfully with only a couple of nature breaks to interrupt the flow.  What a relief!  Seemed like the anti-giardia drugs were doing the trick.  I got over Lynx Pass, the three rough and tumble minor passes that follow it, the two big semi-sealed rollers out of Radium in the heat of the day, Ute Pass into Silverthorne at dusk, and the gradual climb up to Breckenridge where I crawled into after midnight. I thought of pushing on over Boreas Pass but didn’t want to tackle what was sure to be more snow and a soggy Gold Dust Trail in the dark, so i pulled up stumps and stealth bivvied by a park bench outside what turned out to be the local correctional centre, which amused followers back home.

(Day 12, 246 km and 3401 m vert)

I was back onto the Boreas Climb Pass only  a few hours later and tackled the Gold Dust Trail in the early light, sections of which were more like a swamp.  I picked up a stick in my drivetrain which I could only extract by removing the rear derailleur, but otherwise got through without incident.  I cruised past Como to hit headwinds all the way to Hartsel, with the few freeway kms leading into town being the most nerve wracking traffic-wise of the route thus far.  I enjoyed a terrific breakfast in Hartsel, joined midway by Les, Mr Efficiency, who was in and out before I finished.  Rob Goldie (another from England) turned up as I rolled out.  The sector from Hartsel to Salida, across the open grassed fields of South Park into a block headwind, was one of the most dispiriting transitions of the entire route. I deliberately didn’t push too hard but was still pretty shattered when I descended into Salida.  I bypassed the town and headed straight to Poncha Springs where I feasted on an ice cream sandwich, Coke, chips and coffee milk, legs outstretched on the pavement, before stocking up for the next leg over Marshall Pass.

In 17 the Marshall Pass road was a little rough, to the extent I picked up a sidewalk puncture.  None of that this time though, it was beautifully groomed from bottom to top, and on the descent as well. I was able to get into a nice rhythm, all my joints were miraculously happy, and I set a nice pace up and over.  I slopped my way through the cutting at the top and descended under the lights to Sargents, then along the sealed road where I got pulled over by a highway policeman, informing me that I had no rear light.  It was working fine on the Marshall Pass descent but I guess had simply run out of juice.  I thanked him, he wished me well, and I soon turned back onto dirt and the gradual climb towards Cochetopa Pass.  I didn’t quite make the reservoir or ride as late as I’d planned, but it was a good day, none the less, despite the South Park headwind.

(Day 13, 257km and 2892m vert)

Photo credit Eddie Clarke

Another early start in chilly conditions soon had me on the lower slopes of the lovely Cochetopa Pass, which, along with Marshall Pass, were my favourites of the entire route. There is a beautiful little campsite, shrouded in mid size Aspens at the top, where I’d love to camp one day.  Damn this race!  The pass also marks an interesting transition between rolling green hills on one side, and drier cliff-lined rock-scape on the other. Very pretty.  Next pass on the list was Carnero.  I wasn’t on the lower slopes long when I turned a corner into a cacophony of noise, cow pats, odours, crawling vehicles and mosquitoes.  About 6 men on horseback marshalled the tail end of a cattle drive. There was no way I was getting through.  I sidled up to the truck pulling a horse float and had a conversation with the boss.  “I guess there’s no chance of me jumping through any time soon”.  She was very friendly and suggested I cruise along next to the forestry truck just ahead, and if the cattle deviated off the track when the gorge opened up in a few miles, then I’d be welcome to go through with the truck.  The horsemen at the back were constantly breaking line and jumping into thick scrub to correct wayward beasts.  I was amazed by the steep terrain a horse could punch up and down. I reminded myself that whilst I was theoretically on holidays, these guys and gals were all working for their living.   The forestry worker and I enjoyed a chat, which helped pass the time as I swatted mosquitoes.  He had spent time in Darwin, of all places. True enough, after about 30 minutes the steepness of the track eased into a wide corner, and the lead cattle meandered off the road with the rest following for a section of pasture.  The forestry vehicle and I slipped past and were on our way again.

 

The gorge that follows Carnero Pass, with its tall cliff lined walls, is one of the most picturesque of the TD route and was cruised with tailwind assist, although I knew I’d eventually have to do a U-turn and head back into the wind through open landscape to Del Norte.  I made the short detour to El Rito, hopeful of a Coke, but the store was no more. A solar well and spigot shortly afterwards also proved to be dry.  It was a long hot headwind grind into the majesty of the Rio Grande wilderness with its impressive bluffs and features.  Double track then led through sandy then rocky terrain where I was careful to avoid sidewall cuts before descending towards Del Norte, wending round the airport on some awful gravel, and hitting the corner gas station for resupply.  Alexandera arrived as I was headed out.  As I’ve said before, she is one tough lady and I knew if I relaxed she’d be leaving me behind again.  I was hoping to gain Platoro come the end of the day, but deep down knew this wouldn’t be a given, with Indiana Pass to contend with.  In 17 I did Indiana in the heat of the day.  This time it was late afternoon when I started, and although considerably cooler, it didn’t detract from the fact that this pass is steep and nasty for a very long time. The hardest rideable pass of the route, in my opinion. 

Evening fell and I still wasn’t at the top. I finally gained what seemed the summit, marked by cuttings through some impressive snow drifts.  There is quite an undulating plateau that follows, punctuated at many points by slabs of snow I’d have to trudge through. It became clear I wasn’t going to make Platoro before well after midnight when everything was sure to be closed, but I knew there was a Hilton in the Stunner Valley camp ground, just short of Platoro, so aimed for that, threw down my bag down inside it and set my alarm.  Lights out.

(Day 14, 215km and 3082 m vert)

Another morning broke as I climbed over the small pass leading to Platoro.  As I rolled into town I was met with a very strange sight, another rider waiting for me with arms outstretched, but I couldn’t figure out who on earth it was.  Then the penny dropped - it was Miro, whom I’d finished the last days of TD17 with, and with whom I’d struck up a rather instantaneous connection despite our very different backgrounds; Miro originating from Slovakia before settling in Alabama, and more recently Albuquerque in New Mexico, and myself from Australia.  What on earth was he doing here?  Turns out he’d learnt of my participation in this years race and wanted to catch up and ride with me for a few days as he toured some of the route, with his eye set on racing again in 2020 as a 64 year old.

The irrepressible Miro

 
Whilst it was a lovely surprise seeing him again, the rules concerning visitation during the Tour Divide are quite strict (it is a firm no no) as exemplified by the internet sh*tstorm that surrounded Lael Wilcox’s participation this year and plans to film her record attempt. I’m not sure Miro, with his classic european/bohemian perspective appreciated this.  I explained that he wasn’t allowed to help me in any way, and that even riding with me would be frowned upon.  Visitation issues were not something I’d even contemplated, coming from Australia.  I’d worked too hard in the lead up, not to mention suffered so much thus far to be DQ’d over something I’d played no part in planning. But I could also appreciate that Miro had ridden for two days on his loaded bike to meet me. We chatted descending to Horca where I resupplied at the little shop on the left, and he explained that he’d ride with me to the top of the upcoming sealed La Manga Pass.  But where I’d turn left onto the dirt and the approach to the Brazos Ridge sector, he’d continue on the sealed road, and maybe we’d meet again in Abiquiu on his touring loop home. Seemed like a reasonable compromise.  At the junction we wished each other well and I ventured into what turned out to be a particularly tough day.  Although the Brazos terrain with its sparse stunted trees, rocky trails and brown grass hues and undulations increasingly reminded me of country NSW back home, the heat and the headwinds gradually wore me down, forcing a few stops just to down sandwiches.  My water situation was also of concern, especially as the section via Hopewell Lake would be new to me, having skipped this section due to fires in 17. The reroute on that occasion included the fabulous Chilli Line Depot for resupply.  The climb up to the Hopewell Lake was a killer in the afternoon heat, although a thunderstorm was brewing. Having made the campground none of the water spigots were functioning. I figured I’d just have enough to tide me over without having to drop down to the lake itself so pushed on, only to later take water from a steam on the run into Canon Plaza, which I passed through in fading light, hitting Vallecitos and it’s wolfpack of miniature hounds in the dark. Woof, woof, yap yap yap!

I still figured I might make Abiquiu, up until commencement of the very soft and muddy ascent of the climb separating Vallecitos and El Rito, courtesy of the late afternoon storms that I’d somehow missed. Cursed mud!  It was late, I was super tired and didn’t want to go through more episodes of the whole wheel cleaning business in the dark, let alone having to bivvy on the track again. My nerves and muscles were fraying with the exhaustive effort to carry enough speed through sticky sectors so as not to have to stop, the climb going on and on.  I was on the verge of losing the fight. I cranked up the volume of the album I happened to be listening to, Let it Bleed, by the Stones, which kept me focussed - or was it distracted?  Somehow I attained the top of the climb, albeit at a snails pace, thoroughly empty, thanked the Stones and gave a “Whoop” of relief, knowing that I should at least make El Rito at around midnight where I had a bivvy spot in mind, the same one I used in 17.

(Day 15, 216 km and 3168 m vert)

Once again, up at 4, and rolling at 4:30 down the quiet sealed stretch to Abiquiu so as to be at the Bode’s store when it opened.  What I hadn’t realised was that, being a Saturday, the store didn’t open till 7, so I could have gained an extra hours sleep had I known.  Bode’s is one of the best resupply stores on the entire route, and I wasn’t the only one eagerly waiting for it to open.  Ryan, Beau and Miro had all arrived the previous night and were also ready and waiting.

Ryan and Beau efficiently grabbed what they needed and rolled out.  I’d had a torrid time the previous day so took my time, enjoying several freshly made breakfast burritos, well aware of the difficulty of the Pondevera Mesa segment linking Abiquiu and Cuba that awaited.  Miro was also intent on riding this section on his loop home although would turn off before Cuba on his route back to Albuquerque.

Another touring rider, Chris, also testing his kit in preparation for TD20, joined us over the top of the main climb of slabs and sand, just as the heavens opened, the temperature plummeted and the track deteriorated ever so closely to bogging wheels.  Fortunately the winding undulations moved us away from the weather system, and the track started to dry as we dealt with numerous rough downs and ups.  Classic New Mexican terrain.  Chris was riding all this with aplomb, and had an interesting light-weight solar electronics system keeping his cache battery charged - something to consider in the future.  We eventually hit the paved road.  Miro and I said our goodbyes. Miro went one way, Chris and I  went the other, descending the fast run into Cuba through a heavy rainstorm.  I’d been needing a shower for some time but that’s not what I had in mind.

Chris aimed for a hotel whilst I pulled into the gas station with adjoining Maccas, just as Beau was finishing up, suggesting he’d try to make Grants that night.  Smart move, knocking this long paved sector over in the cool of the evening when the prevailing winds, typically from the south in this part of the world, were subdued or silent.  I would aim to do likewise although wasn’t aiming to quite make Grants.  According to Trackleaders, Ryan was already well on his way on this sector.

I also finally managed to download some emails, including one from the doc back in Steamboat, who confirmed the test was positive for giardia, which I figured anyway as the pills seemed to be working their magic.  I’m still unsure how I contracted it in the first place - I’d been so careful taking water in Canada that first day, but the TD is hardly a clean endeavour, and there were many other situations where hygiene could be compromised.  In any case I was relieved that chapter of my race was done with.

I took my time, feeding well, loading up and headed out as the light dimmed, with storms behind me and ahead of me. Not so critical on a sealed road, but nice to get through dry regardless.  The stars eventually revealed themselves, punctuating the inky blackness above. 

The odd vehicle would pass, always at speed but well on the other side of the road, with plenty of forewarning - headlights flagging approach from miles away. All good until one particular vehicle sidled past at a much slower speed.  Much to my surprise it partially pulled off the road a kilometre ahead.  I wondered if there was a problem as I approached, then realised the occupants were making out as I quickly averted my gaze/headlamp, embarrassed to have been so intrusive.  Five minutes later the car passed again, and once more pulled over half a K up the road. I thought nothing of it as I rolled by until I heard a women yell “HELP ME”.  Not what I was expecting.  A few seconds later the horn started sounding erratically.  I pulled to a stop, maybe 50 m past the vehicle, under the intense glare of the headlights yet otherwise in a sea of blackness. I motioned to roll forward when the horn sounded again and I heard another yell come from the car.  I froze.  What was I to do?  There was clearly someone in trouble but I hardly felt I was in a position of power.  I sat astride my bike, confused and fearful of various scenarios.  I had no idea who was in the car, presumably at least two people, one being the woman in distress.  I felt a compulsion to at least try to help, but was acutely aware of my status as a tired man in lycra, on a bicycle, in the middle of nowhere, presumably without phone reception.  A stranger in a strange land. Were the occupants high or under the influence? Was there a gun in the car? All three? Would I get run down if I rode on or bore witness?  Would I get shot in the face if I approached? Damn all that television I’d watched, and where was the bear spray when I needed it? It was back in the hotel in Pinedale where I’d deliberately left it.  In almost two Tours Divide I’ve never felt so vulnerable. A paralysis gripped me for a few minutes under the intense headlights, my brain churning through scenarios. I finally turned my bars, clipped in, and gingerly rolled back towards the car, my dynamo finally kicking in to provide a blast of light to complement my headlight, if only briefly.  I approached the driver’s window where the woman was in tears. Leaning partially across her was an inebriated male of small build whose eyelids were so heavy he looked on the verge of passing out. A strong smell of alcohol wafted through the window.  He was extremely apologetic, as though pleading for forgiveness, perhaps confusing me with an officer of the law, which sounds ridiculous, but maybe it’s plausible given the swathes of reflective tape across my BBD frame bags, spokes, ankle bracelets, sleeves, back of my helmet, and red flashing tail-light that he might have been fixated on before I about-faced and approached the car. With my head torch glaring in their faces I used my sternest voice and instructed them to be kind to each other, go home and sleep it off. The male nodded profusely in agreement - seemingly unfazed by this instruction coming wrapped in an Australian accent. I didn’t know what else to say or do so gently clipped back into my cleats and slowly rode off into the darkness.  Five minutes later the car sidled past again, then 10 minutes later returned in the opposite direction, and that was the last I saw if it, or any vehicle for some time as I left the reservation and the nerve-wracking experience behind me and headed into land dominated by evidence of mines.  Emotionally drained I didn't get too much further that night and pulled off the road to throw down camp, but at least the bulk of the sealed sector was done with and I was blissfully alone again. 

 
(Day 16, 275 km and 2966 m vert)

I awoke in the pre-dawn, packed and got moving as the sun stretched its fingers across the landscape.  With the sun up the prevailing southerly wind kicked in almost immediately, leaving me regretful I hadn’t pushed a bit further the night prior before calling it.  In Milan I had some great breakfast burritos at Blake’s Lotaburger, then resupplied before pushing into hot headwinds with impressive rock walls on my left before the left hand turn back onto dirt for the long corrugated run into Pie Town on an otherwise, and thankfully, non-eventful day, headwinds aside.  Pie Town is significant for several reasons.  Firstly it marks 500 km to the finish.  Secondly, it is the last possibility for resupply for the following 300 km to Silver City.  But it’s a quirky little town, graced by a handful of little shops that serve food (and pie), but their hours are quite limited.  Naturally I got there in the late afternoon after the pie shops had closed. But at least the end was in sight.

(Day 17, 182 km and 1113 m vert)

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