I had about 2 hours before the weather was predicted to become SEVERE. These storms had been occurring for the past week since the seasonal “monsoon” began in Flagstaff. A similar storm had caught me at the end of a big training ride 7 days ago. Not particularly concerned, I threw a lightweight layer in my hip pack in case I got caught again. I also wore mismatched shoes and kneepads, as this would be the ride that sorted out what kit I would wear for the Colorado Trail Race (CTR) Grand Depart (GD) in 3 days time. I felt strong on the climb and was delighted to see that all the rain was filling up Schultz Tank, a seasonal pond at the top of the pass. At that moment there was rolling thunder and tall dark clouds in all directions. I continued to climb up a forested ridge. I didn't think much of the rain as it began to fall in fat, heavy drops. You can't be sad about rain when you live in the high desert during a 30+ yearlong drought.
I paused at a trail junction on the ridge to make sure that I wanted to turn left down what I thought was Sunset trail. As I was confirming on my phone's navigation app ... KA-CRACK-BOOM!!!! An earth-shaking explosion occurred about 30 yards to my left. White, electric lightning shot from the tree to the sky with a bright orange fireball at the base.
I paused at a trail junction on the ridge to make sure that I wanted to turn left down what I thought was Sunset trail. As I was confirming on my phone's navigation app ... KA-CRACK-BOOM!!!! An earth-shaking explosion occurred about 30 yards to my left. White, electric lightning shot from the tree to the sky with a bright orange fireball at the base.
*REWIND* I have a memory of myself as a small child in the car next to my mother driving through town in a storm. My mom has always had phobias of thunder and fireworks. We were driving in a violent Midwestern thunderstorm and she suddenly swerved when a loud crack and flash occurred simultaneously. I recall being more concerned about my mom/the driver's fear than with the thunder and lightning. I've never really been afraid of storms. I tend to be very cerebral about these sort of threats and I pride myself on reacting to danger and surprises in a thoughtful, rational way.
My heart rate was instantly elevated. My vision narrowed as I was mounted on my bike and peddling down the ridge with an animalistic fear that was motivating me without much input from my frontal lobe. I enduro'd down Sunset trail in a heavy downpour, slowly becoming aware of the situation and the fact that I was alright and that the biggest threat was actually my chaotic and fearful riding in the saturated trail conditions. A doe crossed the trail in front of me, zigzagging erratically and I felt like I was looking in the mirror. Eventually, I rolled home into the garage and watched the storm from the safety of the house, snuggling and comforting Tucker and Sucia as they trembled and buried their furry little heads in the crook of my elbow with each new strike. I tried my best not to startle with every flash of lightning, but I couldn't keep my heart from racing. This fear and anxiety was a foreign and unwelcome feeling.
Four days later, it was about 6pm on Sunday, day one of the CTR. The thunder had been gradually increasing in volume and frequency for the past hour, ever since we'd crested Blackhawk Pass. Katie and the rest of the ladies were somewhere, not far behind me. Alexandera was doing her thing, marching alongside her bike, a few hundred yards ahead. In between Alexandera and I, there were 3 or 4 guys, following the brisk pace she was setting. This small group eventually crested a ridge and gathered in a flat spot beside the trail where we had a nice view of the violent skies to our east. There seemed to be some divergence in the previous consensus of continuing on. I felt the need to share with the small group my experience 4 days earlier with the lightning strike back in Flagstaff. For the past few days I had been researching about lightning and strike victims and I was quite nervous. Alexandera acknowledged the early hour and said there was no sense in camping so soon and carried on in her usual manner. I followed suit. Contrary to the typical, evidence-based logic that I like to abide by, I thought to myself, Safety in numbers?
The storm seemed to be focused on the next ridge over, which happened to be in the direction we were headed, toward Molas Pass. I elected to camp and had a soggy few hours of rest, but sleep proved elusive. This is typical for the first night of a big race. Too much excitement and not enough exhaustion to fall asleep in the dirt.
Four days later, it was about 6pm on Sunday, day one of the CTR. The thunder had been gradually increasing in volume and frequency for the past hour, ever since we'd crested Blackhawk Pass. Katie and the rest of the ladies were somewhere, not far behind me. Alexandera was doing her thing, marching alongside her bike, a few hundred yards ahead. In between Alexandera and I, there were 3 or 4 guys, following the brisk pace she was setting. This small group eventually crested a ridge and gathered in a flat spot beside the trail where we had a nice view of the violent skies to our east. There seemed to be some divergence in the previous consensus of continuing on. I felt the need to share with the small group my experience 4 days earlier with the lightning strike back in Flagstaff. For the past few days I had been researching about lightning and strike victims and I was quite nervous. Alexandera acknowledged the early hour and said there was no sense in camping so soon and carried on in her usual manner. I followed suit. Contrary to the typical, evidence-based logic that I like to abide by, I thought to myself, Safety in numbers?
The storm seemed to be focused on the next ridge over, which happened to be in the direction we were headed, toward Molas Pass. I elected to camp and had a soggy few hours of rest, but sleep proved elusive. This is typical for the first night of a big race. Too much excitement and not enough exhaustion to fall asleep in the dirt.
The next day found me cruising quickly through Silverton (I carried more than enough to not need to resupply), stopping only for a banana and a can of espresso to have as a treat later in the day. I mashed on my granny gear up Stony Pass, stubbornly pedaling as much as I could. This was the Cataract Lakes segment of the Colorado Trail and it would lead up and over Coney Summit, the high point at 13,271 feet elevation). I would be above treeline and exposed to the elements for the next 8+ hours. Luck was on my side: despite the fact that it rained off and on all day long, there was no electricity in the air and the rare thunder rumble was far off in the distance. My sleep system was still soggy from the night before and when I laid down in a dewy meadow, I proceeded to shiver for several hours, with only brief, elusive lapses in consciousness before dawn.
Following in the footsteps of a great lady. The following day I realized that I needed a proper night's sleep when I discovered that I had left my water purification tablets in the grass next to Spring Creek, some 30 miles behind me. I had also dropped about 1,000 calories worth of Wheat Thins somewhere on the trail. Self-care would need to be prioritized if I were to have any chance of finishing in one piece. This was day 3 and it would be the only day that didn't rain on me. That night I slept well for about 3 hours just below Marshall Pass. I think that was the closest I got to catching Alexandera. At this point, I had burned into my mind the image of her shoe tread and I was riding/hiking in her footprints. I had imaginary conversations with her and others. It had been days since I had seen any other racers in more than a passing way.
*REWIND* CTR2018- I had been riding with my 3 new friends, Alexandera, Artec and Jim for the past few days. Somehow, our paces were very well matched and it felt like we were pushing one another to be faster and more efficient. We made it up and over the High Point under threatening skies and were about to begin the Cataract section when Jim whipped out a can of Coca Cola that he was happy to share. Moments later, I had crashed and torn open my right knee. I went from feeling surrounded by happiness, friends and success to feeling very alone and broken. Nevertheless, these new friends helped bandage my knee and stayed near while I struggled through the next 30 miles.
I know a lot of folks sign up for the CTR looking for solitude. That was never my intention. I'm a social creature and I gain a lot of strength and mental fortitude from being around others. I lined up at the GD, expecting that soon I would have collected a new friend or two. The who of my new friend(s) would be determined by how fast and efficient I was this year.
I know a lot of folks sign up for the CTR looking for solitude. That was never my intention. I'm a social creature and I gain a lot of strength and mental fortitude from being around others. I lined up at the GD, expecting that soon I would have collected a new friend or two. The who of my new friend(s) would be determined by how fast and efficient I was this year.
Solitude at Camp Hale.
The first day out of Durango, I yo-yo'd with Mark, a financial guru from the front range. Later in the day, I was riding a bit with Cristina and Felipe and Alexandera and Katie. The next morning I leap-frogged with Corie on the way into Silverton. Everything seemed to be sorting itself out nicely.
After leaving Silverton, I spent the next 5 ½ days riding largely by myself. There are a lot of people out on the Colorado Trail this year; mostly thru-hikers and bikepack tourers. I did occasionally have brief conversations with these fine folks, but it usually consisted of chat about superficial topics such as weather and water sources. I didn't get to bare my soul or make any meaningful connections. I was my own companion. I listened to a lot of music and podcasts and I tried my hardest to internally motivate myself. If you had told me beforehand about how much alone time I was about to endure during the 2021 CTR, I would have been anxious and afraid.
After leaving Silverton, I spent the next 5 ½ days riding largely by myself. There are a lot of people out on the Colorado Trail this year; mostly thru-hikers and bikepack tourers. I did occasionally have brief conversations with these fine folks, but it usually consisted of chat about superficial topics such as weather and water sources. I didn't get to bare my soul or make any meaningful connections. I was my own companion. I listened to a lot of music and podcasts and I tried my hardest to internally motivate myself. If you had told me beforehand about how much alone time I was about to endure during the 2021 CTR, I would have been anxious and afraid.
The last "day" of my CTR2021 race began just below treeline on the Breckenridge side of Georgia Pass at about midnight. I had pitched my bivouac in a relatively flat spot in a driving thunderstorm a few hours earlier. I slept for 2-3 hours, before dragging myself out of my nest and packing everything away, praying that I wouldn't have to take the soggy sleep system out again before I finished. I crested Georgia Pass in the dark, but the storm had finally abated and I could see the glow of Denver to my east. The moon was also beginning to glow orange through the scattered remnants of the clouds. I had a beautiful moment, basking in my isolation on the pass, before cruising down the delightfully tacky singletrack. I felt a kind of strength from knowing how alone and self-sufficient I was in that alluring and inhospitable place.
The next 20 hours went by fairly fast, likely due to the altered perception of time that transpires during these kind of undertakings. Around 8pm, the sun was fading fast and I was calculating whether or not to drink the can of Red Bull I had been carrying in my hip pack. I thought there were about 20 downhill miles of trail left. (In reality it was more like 40 miles with 3K of climbing mixed in for good measure). I had meant to charge the battery for my headlamp, but somehow had not completed this task. I had accidentally left it on for several hours that morning after sunrise, so I wasn't sure how much charge I had left on the disposable batteries. I went to click the light on and my heart sunk when it refused to ignite. I dug out my emergency headlamp and strapped it around my helmet and turned it on. It emitted the most pathetic glow, that would be useless for riding. Right around this time, Brad came along behind me. In my sleep deprived state, I wasn't sure if he was real or not. Whether hallucinatory or of this world, I was grateful for the company and had fun riding the last 40 miles with a friendly, fellow bikepacker. I may have tricked Brad into pushing through the night when I DRASTICALLY underestimated the length and difficulty of the trail ahead of us. Sorry Brad.
I squinted and rode with extreme caution until it was good and proper dark out, meanwhile trying to charge the battery to my headlamp with my near-dead battery bank. Somehow, miraculously, when I put the rechargeable battery into my light, it turned on and lasted for the next 7 hours.
A short time later, the monsoon decided to unleash its fury and completely drench myself, imaginary Brad and anything else unsensible enough to be out at Buffalo Creek on that dark night. I noticed a pair of eyes glowing out of a small cave in a building-sized pile of boulders. I shined my light directly at the eyes and they stared right back at me in a predatory way. I had seen plenty of deer bedded down in grassy areas, but I couldn't imagine a deer trying to navigate a pile of boulders ... I rode on.
The next 20 hours went by fairly fast, likely due to the altered perception of time that transpires during these kind of undertakings. Around 8pm, the sun was fading fast and I was calculating whether or not to drink the can of Red Bull I had been carrying in my hip pack. I thought there were about 20 downhill miles of trail left. (In reality it was more like 40 miles with 3K of climbing mixed in for good measure). I had meant to charge the battery for my headlamp, but somehow had not completed this task. I had accidentally left it on for several hours that morning after sunrise, so I wasn't sure how much charge I had left on the disposable batteries. I went to click the light on and my heart sunk when it refused to ignite. I dug out my emergency headlamp and strapped it around my helmet and turned it on. It emitted the most pathetic glow, that would be useless for riding. Right around this time, Brad came along behind me. In my sleep deprived state, I wasn't sure if he was real or not. Whether hallucinatory or of this world, I was grateful for the company and had fun riding the last 40 miles with a friendly, fellow bikepacker. I may have tricked Brad into pushing through the night when I DRASTICALLY underestimated the length and difficulty of the trail ahead of us. Sorry Brad.
I squinted and rode with extreme caution until it was good and proper dark out, meanwhile trying to charge the battery to my headlamp with my near-dead battery bank. Somehow, miraculously, when I put the rechargeable battery into my light, it turned on and lasted for the next 7 hours.
A short time later, the monsoon decided to unleash its fury and completely drench myself, imaginary Brad and anything else unsensible enough to be out at Buffalo Creek on that dark night. I noticed a pair of eyes glowing out of a small cave in a building-sized pile of boulders. I shined my light directly at the eyes and they stared right back at me in a predatory way. I had seen plenty of deer bedded down in grassy areas, but I couldn't imagine a deer trying to navigate a pile of boulders ... I rode on.
Segment 1 of the Colorado Trail, the final segment before arriving in Waterton Canyon is burly. Its even burlier at the end of a 30 hour effort, soaking wet and cold in the wee hours of the night. It felt like I was descending a long enduro stage through a creek bed in a Mexican jungle. The foliage was thick, green and heavy with rain. The flora created a tunnel that was just the right height for my front wheel to ride beneath. However, the saturated leaves and branches repeatedly pummeled my face and body. My headlamp finally surrendered at the bottom of the technical rock garden leaving me to negotiate the smoother singletrack and the road in the dark.
As I started cruising down the road, I was most excited to crawl into the van and give into the sleep that my brain and body were screaming for. The grade of the road was just steep enough that I didn't have to pedal. Without a proper light, it was dark and I felt lulled by the prospect of being done soon. I had frequent lapses in consciousness and each time I worried I might actually fall asleep and crash my bike. I had some battery left on my cell phone, so I blasted music as loud as it would go and held my cell phone up with the flashlight on to illuminate the dark road in front of me. I started to stand up and "dance" in the saddle to keep myself from falling asleep. When I eventually arrived at the trailhead, Matt was hooting and hollering in an empty parking lot where I crawled into the van and quickly collapsed into oblivion.
As I started cruising down the road, I was most excited to crawl into the van and give into the sleep that my brain and body were screaming for. The grade of the road was just steep enough that I didn't have to pedal. Without a proper light, it was dark and I felt lulled by the prospect of being done soon. I had frequent lapses in consciousness and each time I worried I might actually fall asleep and crash my bike. I had some battery left on my cell phone, so I blasted music as loud as it would go and held my cell phone up with the flashlight on to illuminate the dark road in front of me. I started to stand up and "dance" in the saddle to keep myself from falling asleep. When I eventually arrived at the trailhead, Matt was hooting and hollering in an empty parking lot where I crawled into the van and quickly collapsed into oblivion.
Six days earlier, as I was rolling through Silverton, I read a sign outside the town store:
"Fear does not stop death, its stops life.
Worrying does not take away tomorrow's troubles, it takes away today's peace."
This morning as I was cleaning my bike and making it ride-worthy again, I noticed the quote etched onto to the chainstay:
"If it scares you, it might be a good thing to try."
I went into the 2021 CTR with a lot of fears. Some that I was aware of and some that I hadn't realized that I was carrying. Looking back, I am pleased with how I dealt with my fears and the growth I experienced while on the trail. I look forward to next year and seeing what the CTR has in mind for me next time.
"Fear does not stop death, its stops life.
Worrying does not take away tomorrow's troubles, it takes away today's peace."
This morning as I was cleaning my bike and making it ride-worthy again, I noticed the quote etched onto to the chainstay:
"If it scares you, it might be a good thing to try."
I went into the 2021 CTR with a lot of fears. Some that I was aware of and some that I hadn't realized that I was carrying. Looking back, I am pleased with how I dealt with my fears and the growth I experienced while on the trail. I look forward to next year and seeing what the CTR has in mind for me next time.
Congratulations to all the racers, through-hikers and bike tourers that have tackled any amount of the CT this year- it was a doozy.
