Divided Together, part II

In past years, the Tour Divide race has been just that, a race, for me. I was always concerned about staying ahead of whoever was behind me and gaining ground on anyone who was ahead of me. It was readily apparently by the end of the first week this year that things were different. We simply struggled to maintain our own pace, whatever that was. Staying ahead of whoever was behind us was more out of our control than I had expected. We could not push any harder than we were, even for short periods, without digging ourselves into a hole that would have been tough to get out of. This was an unexpected reality that took a while to really solidify itself in my head. And what exactly was responsible for this remains uncertain, but it most likely had a lot to do with Caroline’s health.

Only a day or two after Caroline and I really began to fall into a rhythm, we found ourselves hammering up the long, paved climb into the Pioneer Mountains late at night. We both felt strong and hammered relentlessly until after midnight under a starry sky, but this particular night may have been our undoing. Deer and elk darted about in the woods just beyond the throw of our lights, and only a handful of cars passed on the remote road after nightfall. We snagged a few hours of up high in a freezing little picnic shelter. Caroline struggled to stay warm that night, and by morning, her lungs felt irritated. Periodically, she experienced brief coughing fits, some severe enough to trigger her gag reflex and cause her to vomit a bit. Rarely was it more than an hour’s worth of food that came up, but she was losing calories nonetheless. And following one of these episodes, it was a challenge for her to eat. This went on for the remainder of the race, and at times notably reduced her energy levels. It was quite concerning to me, but she had no other symptoms, never really got any worse, and she just wanted to push on. And so push on we did.

Crossing into Idaho over Red Rocks Pass is always a milestone for Divide riders. The long, challenging state of Montana is left behind. The roads ahead are faster and generally less muddy. The weather improves, and there is not much grizzly bear territory remaining. And Divide statistics also show that if you make it to Idaho, you’ll most likely make it to Mexico. Caroline and I were in pleasant moods that morning. We had slept along the edge of the forest in Centennial Valley and slept well. We even had enjoyed a quick campfire to warm up when we stopped, a first for me on the Divide. The following morning, we paused at the Idaho border to take a few photos and eat a snack before pushing on.

 

Except instead of improving, the weather only got cloudier and colder. And we soon had to contend with miles and miles of brutal washboards on a rail trail. The climb over the northern end of the Tetons was far longer and more tiring than I remembered. And the mosquitoes were far worse than I had experienced in years! This was not Idaho like I had remembered it. Caroline again struggled to keep her energy levels up that evening, but we eventually made it to Flagg Ranch, resupplied, and pushed on. Only at that point, her legs died, and I was forced to do most of the work for the last half hour of our ride. On a tandem, when one person bonks, you might as well just stop, because to continue moving forward, the other person has to exert him/herself so much that only a few additional miles can really be covered. By the time we stopped to camp, I was utterly exhausted, and Caroline was nearly asleep. It was a frustrating evening that really strained both of us physically and emotionally.

The following day carried us deeper into Wyoming and over Togwatee and Union Passes. The sun shone brightly, the temperature was mild, bears were out in force, and once again, the climbing got the better of our legs. More often than ever before, I was forced to simply stop, sit on the ground, and eat as much as I could get down. We both struggled a bit to eat on the bike. For me, this was because it took more muscle to control the bike and riding without hands was impossible. Caroline was afraid to let go of the bars for too long since she couldn’t tell when rough terrain, or even a single unexpected bump, was coming.

 

 

In the afternoon, we ran into some friends who were touring the route northbound, and it was great to see them enjoying their journey. The following day we ran into two other friends doing the same, as well as Fixie Dave and another northbound racer. It was great to run into all these folks and share stories and route information for a few minutes.

A night in Pinedale provided us with much-needed showers, a huge pizza, more food than we could carry for the next section of the route, clean clothes, and a comfortable bed. My legs were absolutely exhausted after another tough day. We were both looking forward to getting out into the barren Great Divide Basin the next day, but the forecast for 40 mph winds had us a bit nervous. It turned out that this wind would push us toward Rawlins at an alarming rate, allowing us to cover 180 miles that day, our biggest single push of the ride.

 

 

The following day, however, the route turned southward, the wind shifted slightly, and we found ourselves being battered and beaten as we struggled to make our way through the rolling hills of southernmost Wyoming. Caroline and I were both anxious to get into Colorado, but the wind seemed to have other plans for us. We were glad to have the company of fellow racers Dylan Taylor and Josh Schifferly during all this suffering. On one climb in particular, the wind was so strong that it forced us all off our bikes, and simply pushing into the wind while walking was a serious undertaking. Dylan nearly lost his bike to one incredibly strong gust. Eventually, distant trees came into view, providing shelter from the wind, but it took an agonizing three hours to reach them. Caroline threw up several more times during the afternoon, requiring that we stopped so she could cautiously eat on several occasions. I was also on the verge of bonking for much of the afternoon and evening, and our goal of reaching Brush Mountain Lodge seemed out of reach at times.

But we did eventually make it, and Matthew and Katie Lee were there to greet us. Matthew is the race organizer and a good friend of mine, and he and Katie were temporarily acting as lodge caretakers. Another friend, Scott Morris, as well as photographer Eddie Clark, were there, and Dylan and Josh had arrived an hour or so ahead of us. Just like last year, it was a festive atmosphere and lifted our spirits after an absolutely crushing day.

The subsequent days saw us riding deep into familiar Colorado territory. The scenery was spectacular, the climbs long, and nights short. Each evening, we struggled to make it anywhere close to our goal for the day. Caroline continued to battle with coughing fits, my calves more often began to protest on long climbs, and finding food that sounded good to eat became more difficult. We were both already tired of eating nearly continuously it seemed, and we often missed open hours at ideal resupply points. Conversely, I really enjoyed the sunrises and sunsets, we were having fun comparing stories from our rides in 2011, and we still were managing to average around 140 miles per day. That being said, by the time we reached Del Norte, Caroline’s cough was worsening, and we nearly decided to spend a day there so she could rest.

We arrived in town after a brief but challenging struggle against a 30+ mph headwind in the San Luis Valley. The gas station and Subway provided shelter and lunch, and we sat,ate, and debated what to do. After a good meal, Caroline decided that we should push on rather than resting. She seemed to be in the mood to simply get the ride over with. With our timing for resupplying in Platoro or Horca looking bad, we wandered through the gas station and picked out enough food to get us all the way to Abiqiui, well into New Mexico. A bit of extra food was added to the pile to replace whatever Caroline might vomit back up. The cashier, familiar with the race, asked us about life on the tandem as he scanned the items. Then his computer beeped, signaling that he had reached the maximum number of items allowable in a single transaction, something he had never seen before. $108 later, our bags and pockets were bursting at the seams, and we headed off into that awful headwind.

The steep, relentless grades of the 4000’ climb up to Grayback Mountain and Summitville provided far more of a challenge than remembered from years past. Our lowest gear didn’t seem low enough, there wasn’t enough traction to stand on the pedals and use some slightly different muscles, and all the extra food weight we carried was clearly noticeable. Eventually, though, the grades slackened, the forests grew thicker, the air cooler and calmer, and we neared the high point on the route. As the sunset, we popped above treeline and were treated to a beautiful panorama of the easternmost San Juan Mountains. After nearly six hours of slogging uphill, we dismounted, put on some warmer clothes, snapped a few photos, and enjoyed a small feast. Platoro, our destination for the night, still seemed far away, but we managed to make it there by midnight. We slept in the trees at the edge of town and were gone in the morning before anyone else was stirring.

 

 

By mid-morning, we hit the rough, rocky jeep trail that leads into New Mexico. We stopped at the Carson National Forest boundary sign, which sits at the New Mexico-Colorado border, to celebrate. Northern New Mexico is a fabulous part of the route, though quite challenging. But it was also the beginning of the final state we had to traverse. Brazos Ridge and its beautiful meadows came and went. Only the aspen stands, normally a vibrant green, had been completely defoliated by tent caterpillars. Saddened by this, we pedaled on into the afternoon heat. Our legs tired as we climbed over the low ridges along the southeastern edge of the Colorado Plateau. Sweat dripped off our bodies under the intense sun. Our water ran low, but we were luckily able to supplement it from a nearly dried up creek bed, and later restock at a campground.

Caroline’s energy level dropped by early evening, and I was not feeling too strong, either. We both became grumpy and frustrated, resulting in several hours of silence. The long descent off the plateau toward El Rito began soon, raising our spirits slightly. But we were running low on food, and prospect of having to ride the rest of the way to Abiqiui in the morning without anything left to eat did not sound good. We pushed a bit to reach the Snack Shack, a tiny shed in an equally tiny town.
“Honk for assistance,” the sign read. In the dimming twilight, I could just make out someone beside the house set back a ways from the road. Caroline laughed as she tried to find our horn. Then the person waved at us and eventually came over on an ATV. The jolly woman opened up the shed, and we grabbed $20 worth of food off the shelves stocked with chips, soda, candy, crackers, cereal, and tins of sardines. We immediately ate the ice cream and drank much of the soda before going back for more soda to take with. We took some sardines and crackers for dinner, and thanked the woman before getting back on the bike. She chuckled and wished us well.

Our moods were much improved, but with it already dark, the sleep monster wasted no time in returning to do battle with Caroline. The stretch of pavement disappeared quickly, and we rode through the infamous Dog Alley of Vallecitos without incident. (Between the two of us, we have now ridden through there four times without being chased by a single dog, so I do not understand why the place has become so notoriously dangerous.) I navigated the rutted roads beyond with care, but as the ruts deepened at one point, we clipped a pedal and slid against the side of the rut before toppling over. Our speed had been quite low, and I managed to stay upright, but Caroline was sent to the ground. I pulled the bike off her and helped her up.

She was fine, but I felt awful. The part of riding a tandem that makes me the most nervous is crashing and injuring the stoker. Caroline put so much trust in my judgment, letting me descend at speeds that seemed recklessly fast to her. We never went down at speed, but we did fall over a few times, usually while dismounting unexpectedly in snow. This time the ground was a bit harder to land on, so I was relieved she was uninjured. We decided that since it was already near midnight, we should just sleep right there and ride the last few miles of ruts into El Rito in the morning. We hiked back off the road far enough to be out of sight, set up camp, and managed to choke down our sardine-and-cracker dinner without too much difficulty before falling asleep to the chorus of dogs down the hill in El Rito.

Divided Together, part I

It’s not often that I find myself even remotely frightened in the days leading up to a big race. A few butterflies? Sure. But serious nervousness? That’s pretty rare for me to feel. But in the week before the Tour Divide, I had butterflies the size of dragons jumping around in my gut.

In a way, it felt like I had just finished the 2011 Tour Divide. So much had happened since then, but the memories were still so clear and the sensations of strained tendons and overworked muscles so real that it did not seem like a year could have already elapsed. I had no intentions on racing the Divide again any time soon, but my normally sane girlfriend Caroline threw a wrench in my summer plans and suggested in March that we race the Tour Divide on a tandem this year. As if this race isn’t tough enough to begin with!

To make a long story short, the awesome people at Salsa Cycles provided us a with prototype tandem frame and built it up with primo parts, White Brothers sent us a plush tandem-specific LOOP suspension fork, and Revelate Designs set us up with some beautiful and lightweight bags.

 

It wasn’t until early May that all this started coming together, so we felt lucky to have had a few combined years of Divide racing experience on which to fall back for planning purposes. We had just enough time to sort of learn how to ride the tandem, determine what sort of communication is important while riding, and figure out how to condense two bikepacking kits into one. Unfortunately, we also had just enough time for me to realize how tough 2,700 miles with a boatload of climbing was going to be on our oversized bike.

On the flight to Banff, I had ample time to stare out the little airplane window, marvel at how large the continent is, and ponder what was to come. I was afraid of the climbs. I was afraid of all the snowy passes in Canada and northern Montana that we’d be trudging over. I was afraid of the sticky, clay-rich, drivetrain-eating, soul-destroying mud that’s so common farther south on the Divide route, and I was afraid of mechanical problems more than ever, given the nature of tandems.

That being said, I couldn’t wait to get back out there, immersed in the spectacular scenery, sharing the adventure with Caroline, and enjoying the simplicity of life on the trail. I also had complete confidence in Caroline’s strength and stubborn optimism and wasn’t too worried about sitting inches apart from one another for nearly 3 weeks. 

We made it to Calgary trouble-free and sought out a quiet corner in which to unpack our two big cardboard boxes (one for the frame, one for the wheels) and get the big bike reassembled. Then we pedaled away from the airport, a good omen for any trip. Calgary’s impressive bike path system, combined with some directions from Google’s beta bike map, took us directly across town to a gracious host we found on WarmShowers.org. If you haven’t checked out the site, do so!

The following morning, we awoke to steady rain, and the forecast for the first few days of the race was looking chilly and wet (or snowy!). Reluctantly, we packed up the bike, donned our rain gear, and pointed Big Blue west toward the mountains. It proceeded to rain for almost the entire 100-mile ride, twice the distance of our previous longest ride we had put on the bike with infinitely more rain. I had been fighting a cold for the previous few days, so I was a bit low on energy during the ride, but even with that in mind and the fact that we followed pavement the entire way, I was struck at how much more effort it took to pedal a loaded tandem. The dragon-sized butterflies grew a little bigger…

Our travel schedule gave us a single day in Banff prior to the start. The weather was downright cold, but at least the sun was out. The forecast continued to deteriorate, and I started to worry that we did not have sufficient warm clothing to deal with three days of wet riding, snowy passes, and cold nights. We scavenged through all the rather laughable outdoor gear stores in town, finding very little that was appropriate or affordable, but the last shop we knew of had a huge rack of winter clothing marked down by 40%. I scored a light down jacket, Caroline a light fleece jacket, and we both grabbed another pair of warm gloves. We didn’t really have room for this stuff anywhere in our bags, but as it turned out, it would not be warm enough until central Montana for this to be a problem!

 

I was also feeling quite under the weather the day before the race. The cold, wet ride to Banff had seemingly set me back a bit, allowing my fever to spike and lungs to become congested. The prospect of several more long days of riding in similar or worse conditions worried me, and we actually discussed spending a few more days in Banff and beginning when the weather improved and I would hopefully be healthier. But the forecast also called for considerable snow accumulation on some of the passes we were to traverse, so in the end, we decided to start with the big group and hope for the best. In the end, this gamble paid off.

The morning of the race start came after a restless night’s sleep for me. My fever was gone in the morning, and my coughing had diminished, both encouraging signs. Racers gathered in front of the YWCA, forming a colorful crowd of anxious individuals milling about. The early miles of the race, always ridden at a regrettably high pace by many individuals, was a fun time to chat with old friends, meet new riders, and leave all nervousness behind. The ride had begun, so there was nothing left to worry about, nothing remaining to obsess over, and no reason to do anything but pedal and enjoy. 

 
Photo by Georg Deck (I think...)

Caroline was in a good mood, chipper and talkative. We were both particularly amused by how fast we’d pass people on the descents, only to be rapidly overtaken by the same riders on the next steep climb. It made it nearly impossible to have conversations that lasted more than a minute or two. And that was the pattern of our socializing with other riders for the remainder of the race. The rhythm of a tandem rarely matches that of a solo rider, and we spent very little time pedaling with others.

The first miles of Canada passed quickly and easily. The sun periodically shone between heavy grey clouds, but by early afternoon, rain and snow showers moved in, and during the muddy slog over Elk Pass, snow began to fall in earnest.  At the same time, some apparent food poisoning struck Caroline, forcing us to stop every hour so she could run off into the woods at the whim of her uncomfortable stomach. At lower elevations, the snow turned to rain, and the track turned to sloppy mud. Farther south, the rain showers became more widely dispersed, and we were treated to beautiful evening and sunset as we rolled into Sparwood. We opted to stay in a motel there in hopes that it might help my recovery a bit, and having a toilet close at hand ended up being convenient for poor Caroline.

The headwaters of the Flathead River was the challenge for the following day. It is a rough, remote section of the course, supposedly crawling with mountain lions and grizzly bears. This year, it also offered three snowy passes, a few bank-full streams, and abundant rain and snow. Caroline and I both were a bit tired from the start. Garret and Eric, with whom we had shared the motel room, caught us on the climb up to Flathead Pass. We chatted briefly, and then they quickly disappeared. Soon we were pushing our big bike through snow, thankful for the tracks left by the 15 or so riders in front of us. The second pass of the day offered more of the same, and it was then that storms rolled in, pelting our faces with sharp, stinging snowflakes as we again pushed the bike. By the third pass, fresh snow had accumulated to a depth of 6-8 inches and continued to fall. Somewhere behind the clouds, the sun set as we crossed the high point. We paused to put on the rest of our warm clothing and trudged down and into the coming darkness.

By the time we had to switch on our lights, we hit snow that was thin enough to ride, and thus began the steep, sloppy, excruciatingly cold descent to the US border. Caroline struggled to stay awake while shivering as I tried to keep the bike upright in the slimy mud. Lights of traffic on the highway far below finally came into view, a welcome sight after a long day in such remote country in dismal weather. I couldn’t help but worry about all the riders behind us who would be forced to bivy out there in the Flathead. But shivering soon overtook me, and I focused my mind on the last few Canadian miles. The border agents quickly got us through to the U.S. while giving us mugs of coffee and tea to drink while they checked our passports sometime shortly before midnight. Across the street, several other riders had gathered in the bar for a welcomed hot meal. The owner had stuck around a couple hours late just to help out us pitiful cold cyclists. We were more grateful than she could probably comprehend, and I think most of us probably tipped her nearly the cost of our meals.

After a warm night in a motel room in Eureka, Caroline and I refueled at a gas station and headed south. I was still nervous about my health, but thankfully, it had not deteriorated any after two cold, wet days of riding. However, after only couple miles on the third morning, we had to stop so I could tape up one of my Achilles tendons. This wasn’t at all unanticipated, given the challenges these tendons have given me in past long races. What was unexpected, however, was that a couple days later, I removed the tape, and the tendon cooperated for the remainder of our ride. Caroline’s stomach seemed to have recovered, and we spent the day hammering. We felt great on the climb over Whitefish Divide, and again on the climb up Red Meadow Pass. We cruised through the 5 miles of snow over the top, having mastered the 2-person pushing technique the previous day. It turned out that putting Caroline in front so I could push with a full-length stride was the most efficient hike-a-bike method for us.

Midway through the day, my right wrist began to swell and hurt considerably. The Rohloff twist shifter had become very difficult to turn, and this apparently had quickly led to a tendonitis flare-up. Once in Whitefish, Caroline set about ordering dinner at a BBQ/pub joint, and I pulled out our tool kit and tore into the shifter and the shift cable attachment box at the hub. A number of drunk Calgarians who were vacationing in Whitefish gathered around and marveled at the bike and our ambitious ride. I tried to be friendly, but I was frustrated by how sore my wrist had become. A thoroughly cleaning and lubricating of the shifter and cables seemed to help a bit, and some big pork sandwiches arrived just as I finished.

After dinner, Caroline and I attacked a long stretch of pavement, hoping to cover big ground before midnight. A brisk headwind soon kicked up, seeing to it that we didn’t move as quickly as we had wished. But it looked like the wind was blowing the stormy clouds off to the east, signaling an end to three days of foul weather. By 11:30, Caroline was struggling to stay awake, and as we neared a tiny crossroads of a town, we decided to stop and sleep under the eaves of a little white church. We laid out our sleeping pads and bags, washed up with some wet wipes, and ate as much as we could. Caroline was asleep and snoring as soon as her head hit the pillow. I, on the other hand, remained awake, listening to howling coyotes and barking dogs. Once I dozed off, it seemed like I was awakened by something every 15 minutes. When the alarm beeped obnoxiously a few hours later, I felt as if I hadn’t slept at all, not a good way to start another long day.

Our primary challenge for the next day was making it through the Mission Mountains. The route traverses the east side of the range, crossing innumerable small drainages and a few larger ones, along a path that never seems to end. I recalled struggling through this section in past years, so I was a bit nervous heading into it. Within half an hour of getting the wheels spinning, it was just getting light, and drops of rain began to fall. More rain!? We had thought we were through with this! By the time we reached the top of the first big climb, it was pouring, and on the following steep descent, we both began shivering uncontrollably. Somewhat fortuitously, a brown bear in the trail ahead of us created a bit of excitement and a boost of adrenaline to distract us from the cold, and soon we were again climbing and overheating in our rain gear. An hour later we had to stop to replace the rear brake pads, and by lunchtime, we were finally nearing the end of the Mission Range. It had been an arduous morning, but it felt good to make some solid headway.

We grabbed a quick lunch and a few provisions at a lodge just off route before climbing up Richmond Peak. This bear-infested area was covered by another few miles of snow over the top, and with the trail traversing a steep, snowy slope, riders are often nervous heading into this section. We were pleased, however, to have the sun finally back out and shining on us, and we had ample daylight remaining to make it over to the other side. The snow atop was indeed steep and slippery, and for some reason, I was able to manhandle the tandem alone through the tougher sections faster than Caroline was able to walk, so I did just that. By the end, my arms were exhausted and my wrist aching, but hopefully all the snow along the route was behind us.

We rode over mellower terrain for the remainder of the evening, enjoying the soft light of a fair-weathered evening before bivying under a pair of spruce trees next to the post office in the village of Ovando. Nothing was stirring when we arrived, and nothing was stirring when we departed early the next morning.

 

Another breakfast of gas station pastries and a Slim Jim, cold, damp air, sore bodies, and soaking wet bivies were what the first twenty minutes of the morning delivered. Mornings on the Divide are always very unpleasant for me, and this one was no exception. We were often both a bit grumpy after getting up, and the first hour or three were often quite quiet on the bike. This particular morning we were a bit more communicative as we together enjoyed the beautiful lighting and wisps of fog spread out upon the lush, green valley. I was looking forward to a good breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and hash browns in Lincoln, but we first had to get over Huckleberry Pass.

The climb is not particularly long or steep, but from the first switchback, my legs protested. My calves, in particular, seemed to lose all strength, barely able to hold my feet level as I pushed down on the pedals. We stopped several times so I could stretch and walk a bit, but nothing seemed to help. I downed 500 calories of sesame crackers and candy bars, but that made no difference. We just plodded along as I did the best I could to keep pedaling. Half way up the climb, a grouse blasted out of the bushes along the road, scaring us in the process. He landed just up the road, and after we passed him, he proceeded to run behind us, lagging by a 20 or 30 meters, for a good quarter mile. I’m not sure what he was doing, but he provided enough entertainment that I forgot about my aching calves. Soon we were over the pass and flying down toward breakfast. Unfortunately, it was not the last time my calves would behave so obstinately.

Photo by a TD fan in Whitefish

A big, salty breakfast hit the spot as we spent a bit of time in town taking care of a variety of chores. We picked up food, did a little bike cleaning, mailed our extra warm clothes home, and chatted with fellow racer Ryan Correy. His feet were taking a beating, and he seemed a frustrated but determined to push on. He was one of the few racers we saw for the next week! Ninety minutes after arriving, we rode out of town in shorts and short-sleeves, feeling strong and ready to take on the steep climbs before Helena. After a slow morning, we had a great afternoon, got a quick fast-food dinner, and continued on through the low mountains of central Montana. Scattered showers kept forcing us in and out of our rain gear, but eventually, the clouds moved on, leaving a beautiful, starry sky behind.

The first part of the climb up Lava Mountain presents an unrelentingly steep gravel road, and at the end of the day, this did both Caroline and me in. For the better part of half an hour, our lights darted around in the woods along the road, searching for a good place to sleep. I didn’t think it would rain any more, but we wanted to find something decent to sleep under just in case. Eventually my light struck the side of a little old cabin of sorts, and it had just enough of an overhang above the porch that we might stay dry should it rain. And rain it did! Within a few minutes of falling asleep, a steady rain began and lasted for most of the night!

 

Following these first days of the race, we began to fall into a rhythm. Hours passed by quickly, the events of days began to blur together, and we accepted the fact that we seemed doomed to a schedule of one decent-feeling day followed by one in which we struggled significantly. Days that we thought should be relatively easy, such as the relatively flat and fast roads from Wise River to Lima, were consistently tougher than expected. Days with numerous, long climbs, were even more tiring than we predicted. But the weather improved, allowing us to pass through potential show-stopping mud sections without difficulty. Our big blue bike continued to work flawlessly, and my wrist began to improve as the shifter action returned to normal.