Justin Simoni | The Long Ranger

Training: May 6th - May 12th

2013-05-09T05:41:20Z

A fun week riding and running, mostly in Boulder!

Next week, I'm off starting Monday, schlepping along all the gear I'll need to make it from Denver, to Salida by Saturday, where the Dirty Double Fondo race will take place - 200km of Gravel Grinding, with some nice elevation gain/loss built-in. My kind of race!

The course follows half of the GDMBR, so I'll already be intimately familiar with Part #1, and I'll be pre-riding Part #2, just to make sure there aren't any surprises. Wind will pay a BIG factor in this race - if it's windy, we'll be at a standstill in the middle of South Park, all going 4mph. Hopefully. My race strategy, as always, will be to destroy the hills, and not stop for a resupply, although there'll be TWO towns in the course. Unheard of. My guess is that I'll be a lot less than fresh for the race, but I'll grit it out and after being basically fully loaded for the first part of the week, the race will feel absolutely heavenly.

I'll also be bringing along some winter climbing gear, as there's about a dozen 14er's between here and Salida, and I aim to get up to the top of at least a few of them, before the race, and then afterwards, before I need to get back home for - of all things, band practice. The day after the race, there's plans to go mountain biking in the Gunnison area, as my teammate is thankfully, bringing my Kona with her, when she meets up with me to do the Dirty Double. Killer week, no?

I'll even be bringing along my laptop, so when I'm not cycling, or climbing, I'll be working! We'll see how well this works out, because it if works out well, this'll be me for the next couple of months.

Rough Draft of my plan is to take a late start on Monday, and take dinner in Georgetown, find a place to tuck in for the night, right before the Loveland Pass climb and climb up that in the wee hours of the early morning. Stop at the top and... hike the ridgeline that makes up the Continental Divide to Torreys, then Grays (if I have time) and make it back to the pass, and fly down to Summit County - regroup and figure out the next move. The next move may be to tuck into Frisco and get up early to do another climb - maybe Peak 1/2/3, or ride to the base of Decalbron and do that the next day. Then, get to Harstel, and do Part #2 of the Dirty Double, to Salida and find a place to spend the night and have a nice off day, waiting for my teammate and eating all the food. We'll see how it goes - the weather may finally start cooperating.
]]> Monday - rest, as the weekend kicked my ass from performing. I lost my voice screaming along with the kids at the underground music venue thing I'm not allowed to talk too much about. Our show on Saturday was also a success.

Tuesday - Had one hell of a fun time, where I,

First rode the bike to Chautauqua, in Boulder,

traded my bike shoes, for trail running shoes, and ran up Green Mountain - the GPS flipped out, so I have no idea of my pace - and it looks like it cut out before even the summit - love you, technology!

Blew up early, as my pace was insane at the steepest part and my goal was to run the whole thing at all costs, which I did not accomplish. Did not lose consciousness either going completely anaerobic for a few minutes, so that's a plus. Smart people simple power hike this part, but I am not smart, and it's an insane challenge to attempt to run all of this route. Maybe one day. And perhaps it's, in the end, good for me. Eh, probably not.

After the run up Green Mountain, I ran down to the trailhead and,

hiked right back up, munching on a peanut butter-filled tortilla to the base of the Second Flatiron. I exchanged my trail running shoes for my rock shoes (an ancient, ancient pair of La Sportiva Mythos, vintage 1997), and tried my luck on-sighting the Freeway route up the Second Flatiron!

I've been sort of working up to this sort of, Cycle to Trail Run to Scramble/Climb routine, and this was truly the first time everything came together, with all the work I've put into being able to run after riding a bike, and all the time I've been climbing the bouldering projects indoors, on plastic walls, with plastic holes (which itself gets pretty boring).

Hell if I know what the actual Freeway route is, so I just sort of felt it out - I'm guessing I got fairly close and the route is pretty casual on what the path is - basically straight up the rock, and then to the right, once you get to the Pullman Car rock. It'd be nice to do this with someone else, to see their interpretation. Quite a thrilling few hundred feet. To be honest, I was about 75% on my way to being past my comfort level and into my, "Want to dry heave and freeze up" zone. But, I held it together, because, hey - it ain't that hard of a route, especially when compared to the much more technical, overhanging, intermediate bouldering routes I've been working on. But, you know, it's also few hundred feet between you and the ground, rather than 5, which is itself a skill to learn how to manage. Intermittent rain did threaten to cut short the climb, or possibly make it less than ideal to even find a bailout point, but the precip. kept it's presence to a minimum, and I was able to finish up.

Took the trail between the First and Second Flatiron back down, after changing back into my running shoes, and back to the bike. Can't wait to do something like this again, as I've just opened up a million new possibilities (personally), I can now do and trail running has now transformed into something much more interesting - Boulder is a unique place to allow this sort of misbehavior. The First - Fifth Flatiron all have potential routes I can free solo, with/without a rope/hardness to rappel off with, I'm not entirely sure. Would be hell of a help to find a partner to work with on this all. The Third Flatiron seems to be a possible next target, followed by the First, if I can figure out the proper route to take.

Hell of a collection of shoes to schlep for the day, I'll tell you what.

After the run/climb, I rode to Boulder Sports Recyclery, to see what sort of bike gear I could kvetch for not so much money, but they had closed a few hours early. It'd be nice to get some downtube shifters with indexing and a rear derailer, to reap technology developed 50 years ago, but I guess that shall wait. It was my turn to cook tonight, so I bused it home. My bus route still leaves about 8 miles to ride from the busstop to the house, on a crap rode for riding. Got accosted on the road by a driver who didn't know what to do with a cyclist in the right side of the right lane (or two lanes to travel in), and started honking at me. They then try to pass really slowly, still in the lane I was riding in. And close. Close enough for me to put out my left hand, grab their side mirror and skitch for a bit, before they got the message that perhaps they could use the passing lane to pass. Crap road or no, it's the only direct way back to my house (the bus stop and the house are this same street) and cycling amongst cars, even with a severely small minority of those drivers who don't know what to do with bicycles on the road rates significantly low on the, "dangerous things I've done, today", list. "I'm covered in chalk, I've got running and climbing shoes lashed to my pack with carabiners - what exactly you take me fo?!", was sort of the monologue running in my head. Next time, I'll bring an ice axe, just for visual appearance.

Wednesday - Tues. totally kicked my ass and my legs were pretty dead, so I just stayed indoors, as it rained yet more outside, working to make a little money for larger projects in the months ahead. Also surprised at how sore my arms were, especially my triceps. A lot of the arm work was simply holding my body against the rock, and sort of walking my hands up the route, rather than too much pulling my body up.

Happy for the precip - it still takes me by surprise we're getting so much. It's going to be a killer summer season this year, I'm guessing.

Thursday - Ass still kicked from Wed. - lots of soreness in the IT Band area, but nothing to really be worried about. Took the bike for a spin downtown and felt some good sensations in the legs, as the Euros say. Decided to devote the day to work anyways. Rain was threatening yet again and I - of course, forget a raincoat. Missed the storm by a few minutes. Still wish I could have gotten out.

Friday - spun up to Boulder again, with the idea to redo Tuesday again, but instead of riding to Chautauqua, I was going to ride Baseline all the way to, "The Mailboxes" on Flaggstaff Road, and then descend to Chautauqua and start my run, and my climb. The ride up Flaggstaff was fun, and manageable until the turnoff to the summit (which I also took). The rest of the climb was pretty stout, especially spinning a 38 x 21 fixed gear setup. Got 'er done, but the Garmin failed to record the progress. You'll have to take my word for it. Hopefully the Garmin is fine, and just needs some fresh batteries. If not, I'll be angry.

Wanted to stop by the Boulder Sports Recycler to pick up some bibs and bobs, and noting the time was getting late, I decided to bail on the run/climb for the time being and go to North Boulder to do that. Found some gear, which is good, and had the entire rest of the day to get back to Chautauqua, so I did just that.

Run was OK - tired from the climb, which was to be expected and I took the steep sections of the trail easy, hiking most of it, instead of going anaerobic like I usually do. According to the time, I was only a minute slower than my fastest time, giving me some confidence that power-hiking the steep stuff is the way to go, as it allows you to run the easier stuff faster (but what's the best way to train?) and my body is really taking doing something like the Super Flaggstaff climb well, and recovering enough that my, "performance" trail running up Green isn't incredibly impacted. Cramps again were killing me, making me go a lot slower up, especially as the breathing got heavy. Surprised it also hurt going down - I had to literally stop and let them subside before continuing. Maybe something I ate - feeling almost an onset of a cold, to be honest. Would not be happy with that. Anyways, no worries with a slower pace - good time to focus on technique - noticing that it's much better to smooth out your "line" going down, using your legs as shocks, rather that bouncing/jumping up and over each obstacle, like you're offroading on a bike, with tires pumped up w/too much air pressure. Easier on the body, too.

And - not that I wasn't tired or sore, because after 50 miles in the saddle and then running up Green, I was done for the day. Rain was threatening the Flatirons, so I bailed on my climb. Didn't feel too sharp mentally and rain + fatigue + lost IQ points in the forest doesn't seem to be a good recipe for success. Another time - I may start doing climbs beforehand - before my runs, just to give myself some insurance on time/weather - I can run in the rain and in the dark if needed - climbing... not so much. The goal is to start linking up climbs with runs, but I don't have the confidence or experience do the harder climbs the Flatirons offer, even though my technical climbing ability is leaps higher than say, 5.6. I just don't know how the random ratings at the gym correspond to the ratings outside - and a Flatiron climb is not 50 easy bouldering problems stacked on top of each other. I'm singing praises to my old gym in Connecticut, that had an entire section devoted to friction climbing - all that experience is slowly being mentally recovered and dusted off.

Boulder itself was a madhouse - it must have be graduation weekend. It seems way too early for that - but things should quiet down a bit for the summer, until Fall semester. Not many people on the trail - think Ben from Mountainbike Radio passed me going up the trail, as I was going down. That you, Ben?

38 x 21 is good enough.

That's a lotta footwear for a bike ride.

Storm shuttin' me out.

Saturday - joined a Happy Coffee CX teammate for something completely out of character for me: riding with someone else! Wasn't going to get on the bike alone, and probably was just going to feel the ill effects of DOMS if I didn't get out, so we did a quick spin up Lookout Mountain from the house, and back. We're both signed up to do the Dirty Double Fondo next weekend, so for her, it was somewhat of a training ride, and for me, it was somewhat of a recovery ride, as we've did kid about. To be honest, my specific training for this race is basically nill, and my week at least on paper is going to be filled with FAR too many fun things outside to fully recover for a proper race, but I guess that's how much these types of races really bear down on my psyche.

Training: April 29 - May 5th

2013-05-06T18:00:00Z

A fairly boring week of running/jumping/playing, as the weather didn't want to work with me, and anyways, I had a music show this weekend.
]]> Monday - legs finally protested with acute soreness, but not so much worrying fatigue (which is good!), so time to rest them - just commuting by bike, today... which you can call, "recovery riding", if you want, I won't stop you. I call it, "getting coffee downtown and nicking the café's internet connection for far too long" (tip well, people)

Gym time: easy on the shoulder, so no dips (bench press completely out of the question for me), but plenty of pullups, seated rows, grip work, rotator cuff PT, leg PT, and, uh, handstands. Who doesn't like handstands? That sort of isometric work seems to be OK with my current weak shoulder and I need something to balance out all that back work.

Moving through another block of upper-body work to get a little bit farther toward my goal of a 15-pullup set (best effort this year: 13), and general fitness for climbing on things like cliffs and plastic cliffs you may find inside, which I'll start up again, soon enough. No lower body, as I'd like to be somewhat fresh tomorrow for a ride or a run.

Tuesday - road run - 11 miles. Raining, would rather ride bikes. Not sure what the pace was (GPS technical problems), but it felt good. Ran a new route (for me) from Arvada to the Highlands Neighborhood in Denver, which was sort of wild to think about. Better route reversing the direction, as the steeper climb is on Tennyson, not Lowell. Started the run at around 11:30 pm - sometimes I get a little antsy, after a long day working. Would like to find more climbs on my road runs, as running on pavement isn't the most exciting thing to do, and the grade of road hill climbs is somewhat laughable to my now fairly mild, as I've been running trails of 25% grade (which, you know, I also die on). Getting 1,000 feet of elevation gain running from my house/to my house would be kind of awesome. I guess I'll have to digress into hill repeats, but that would almost feel like I'm exercising.

Wednesday - neighborhood run 8 miles. Not what I wanted to do, but more work to do and more rain falling, making me not want to ride bikes.

Thursday - cycled 46 mostly flat miles. Time on the bike! Not the route I wanted to take, but I had band practice in the afternoon, and wanted to hit the gym, and this route gets me downtown at the end, so I'll take it. Happy the pace wasn't too off of what I'm usually capable of, despite the 2 runs this week. I feel a little lame to say this, but I'm at basically the fastest pace I can go, using this bike - I'm just at the limit of efficiency you can pedal a 42 x 17 gear ratio for this sort of course 20-ish mph is a fine speed at any ratio. I'm curious myself what I'd do with a steeper 48 x 16 ratio. And maybe I'm just fooling myself, as I go about 1 mph faster on my road bike, which sounds crazy! Crazy. Spin to win!

After the ride, I did some time in the gym, but was running out of time and wanted again to be nice to my shoulder, so I cut it short after back work - and a little grip work - and there's just so much grip work you can do at a regular gym and think it's going to benefit your climbing. Happy to do 5 sets of 8 pullups - basically where I'm at before Arizona. Wanted to do some weighted pullups, as I'll just plateau doing pullups with body weight, but the harness thing that allows you to do this was mysteriously missing or I just had no idea how to use the equipment that looks almost like the harness I needed. Alas.

And that, was basically my week. Not the week I had planned - my hope was to take an overnighter on Tue/Wed and do some alpine routes, but the weather in the mountains put a dent in that plan, having my instead run in rain, as it snowed higher up. Wanted a Big Something, as the rest of the week was given up to a very different life of being part of a music project; Thursday had band practice and Saturday was our show; Sunday had me going to see one of my favorite groups play a different show. Still funny, I rode about 50 miles on Saturday/Sunday, just going to and from downtown from my house a couple of times.

Adventures in Sensory Deprivation

2013-04-30T07:27:30Z

4/5/13 - 4/6/13, 292 miles

I'm on mile #162 of - on paper at least, a 150 mile race. In other words, pretty near to the end of the ordeal. The clock is ticking off hour number 11 on riding these long forgotten gravel roads south of Denver - and when I say, "South", I mean, a good 60 miles south. Better sounding then, "20 miles North of Colorado Springs", I guess - because who knows really where Colorado Springs is, relative to anything, except Pikes Peak?

I'm staring down a small, one-lane slot that makes up the overpass below I-25. Bleary-eyed, a little sunburned. My crotch is something akin to being on fire, as my pair of bibs are very well over their guaranteed freshness date, having seen thousands upon thousands of ill-cared for miles in the (only) 9 months I've had them: the stitches in extremely important places are now only memories, stripped out like the fillings in my teeth from today's ride, the only evidence of both being the holes left behind. My bottles are empty - I've been eating roadside snow for the better part of 3 hours. stomach is full of nothing but rocks as well.

I've picked up quite a bit of speed, as the last few miles have been downhill - the last 75 miles before that have been achingly undulating - but the direction has been mostly up - 7,000 feet of, "up?" Much to my chagrin and complete blubbering of basic chart reading. At present, I'm going about 25 mph, racing directly towards this hole in the wall. On the other side, going a little faster, but a little farther off, is a giant, F-250 red pickup truck. We're both approaching this slot, not wide enough for both of us - barely wide enough for the truck at a reasonable speed! - and one of us is going to have to give way.

"Christ", I think, "I'm playing a game of Chicken with a local in a 3-ton full-cab.".

Surely, the truck will give way to the bike. A head-on in the center would render the cyclist (ME), dead and the truck - well, a quick sweep of the wipers and I'm just a little bump in the road. "Perhaps like last week" (I imagine the driver thinking out loud) "when that errant alpaca got loose on S. Spring Valley Road - and, well the speed limit is 50 mph and those undulations of the grade can be gradual - but they can also be pretty abrupt! biff. Unfortunate - and worthy of some 'plainin', but certainly the fault of the lesser object in the way."

I do my best impression of this sometimes stubborn, vicugna pacos, opening my eyes just a little more than seems normal and careening my neck to center in with the slot.

I do a cost/benefit analysis.

Squeezing my tiny little brakes weighed in grams with the force of forearms cross-trained at the bouldering crags, little nibblets of rear tire tear off and join in the surface texture, joined by the sound of the skitching tires. The truck continues hauling through. I give them a thumbs up as dust kicks up around me. "Good job!", I yell. The driver neglects to give a second glance.

Welcome to the end of the 2013 AntiEpic Gravel Grinder. You have just earned 6th place. Now, go home.

Photo by Ben Welnak

]]> en vogue, maintenent, so what the hell. 150 miles seems a good distance for this little diesel engine that could. My cyclocross season was filled with more costumes and beer handouts at every lap than any real, well: results on the podium. When you don't have a top-end, a 45 minute race is enough time to simply get warmed up to go about the same speed (maybe a little slower) for, well, all day, and that's what I'm highly specialized to do: blunder around literally all day on a bike. To test this theory - well, you do these types of races - but oh - just doing 150 miles ain't enough:

I'm without car, and I still needed to get to the start of the race, and then get back home. A good 75 miles each direction. Let's ride it. With the challenge completely drawn up, and the work week finished, it was time to take the current rig to the starting line and start the 300 miles, for this evening's little leg stretch.

The current rig, as its stands, is basically what I was riding for cross season: a Surly Crosscheck, single speed. Simple as can be. Tough as nails. I'll be racing the 150 mile race with the same gear ratio as I did for <10 mile races: 42 x 19, because that's what I got. Pack up the rig with some overnight gear and head on out. Test this, "GPS" contraption I'll need later in the month for a bit longer of a race (say, the entire length of Arizona).

Deciding to take a new route through Parker (*shutter*), instead of a route that'll take me through off-limits construction on Sante Fe Dr, with no detour for the finer modes of transportation, I found myself in suburban sprawl within hours of starting out, just as the sun was dipping down. It's always a shock to experience the drop off in bikes-on-roads education from drivers. "What keeps me in the city", I'm always asked, and usually, by my brain. Well, city dwellers kinda understand bikes. And pedestrians. And all that - and work with them, instead of against them, or around them, or sometimes straight through them. There's just so many ridiculous comments I can stand while stopping for food, or horn honks of disapproval of blocking real traffic I can take while riding along the extreme right hand side of a 3 lane-per-side road. Sigh.

After getting a bit lost (lossy GPS is useless without whatever extra expensive add-on I need to make their maps useful) and figuring out... about where the start is (or, near enough), I roll up after 7 hours of riding to a mostly desolate parking lot, save for one camper in a truck w/a top over the bed. Someone's sleeping in the bed. Another racer, I of course assume. I set up the sleep kit and lull myself to sleep. I have 5 hours until the start. I make with the making of the anti-hay.

Which should have been easy, but we're about 100 meters from the Sante Fe freight rail line and shit! is it prime time for shipment time. I've been camped closer to busy rails before, but it was a manageable commuter line, not half of Denver's daily coal consumption being tugged sluggishly towards the Queen City of the Plains. Sparks from each rail car's metal wheels are both audible - and visible. It's a special state we live in.

5:30 am can't come early enough and my truck-buddy and I wake up at about the same time. Light shined in my snoozing buddy's face as he walks towards me. "JUSTIN! is that.. YOU?!" Of course, it's Skinny Aaron - haven't seen him, since his parents dropped me off at the wonderful Salida Backpackers Hostel last July, as I gained an unlikely hitch back to the Centennial State, after both Skinny-A and I finished up our little ride from Banff, Alberta Canada at about the same time, starting 23 days prior. The day before the pickup in Mexico, he had frightened the ever living [explitive] out of me around the same time of day, as he soldiered into my camping area to fill his bottles somewhere in the Gila National Forest at some bizarre work center, filled with burly and very over-worked firefighters doing basically all they could to keep the entire state not going up in flames (which, sadly is sometimes not much they actually can do). Paid back the favor. The light-shining in the wee hours - not the ride back. I still owe 'em some beers. Big hug from Aaron though, it's nice to see a comrade.

We saunter to the actual start, which is just over the train tracks, ie: really close from my night riding got me. I'm pleased. I stash my gear in the race coordinator's car, with the promise that it'll be available whenever I myself get back, and do the roll-in start with everyone else, after a little final bathroom break. The sun has yet to come up, but we're going due East. I ask out loud, "Who starts a race, that begins by going east into the sun, and ends, going west...into the sun?" The promoter is riding just abreast of me. Some small chuckles.

My plan is, well, I have no plan, except to ride the bike at a steady clip. Being of only one-speed and having already hit 75 miles in the last 12 hours, I have no idea what my legs have in store for me. The beginning neutral roll-out seems fine, fine. Racing your own race seems like a legit choice.

Brought enough food for the entire day, enough water, too. I think. There's a gas station at about the halfway point if the stores needs adding to. Most of what I have are these gel things. We'll be living off of mostly pure sugar for the next half day. A small roast beef sandwich, too. No mustard or mayo on it, though. You always forget something.

The course is fine - wide gravel roads going here and there. I get used to following the Line on the GPS electronic tele-promoter display thing, showing me where to go, without having to think about distances, times, landmarks and whatever. A few less things to be in charge of, I guess. The problem is, there's not much else to keep your mind occupied with. The landscape in this part of the Colorado stretches out WIDE and all just about the same thing: Kansas. This proves to be the most difficult part of the race: the extreme lack of diversity in surroundings. But not quite yet. As the sun comes up slowly, we're first assaulted by the abrupt change from night to sunrise, to trying to make out exactly where we're going, as we had straight into the sun's stinging rays. I'm relieved, every time the track turns north for a few minutes, before continuing again in an easterly direction.

A few hours pass, and I'm in the understanding I'm in a small, chasing group, with the leaders going a bit faster up front. It's a long, long race, I tell myself, and anything can happen. I'm not going for first, but I'd like to make a good showing of it. I decide to stay with it, but ultimately my gearing deficit sees me in familiar circumstances: I climb faster than most everyone else - because I have to, and I spin out on the downhills, as I run out of gear inches. Climbing hills with a high-ish gear is going to get tiresome and the loss of ground on the downhills is going to get somewhat old, compared to my geared counterparts. But, whatever. Soldiering on! From my electronic recon, the first half the race looks as if it has the most elevation gain, with the second half losing all the thousands of feet won. Hopefully that means the doable-ness I'm experiencing now, should keep being doable, as my body and mind tires at the big turn half way.

The "about" half-way point comes into view, as the gas station next to the highway is first spotted. I make the decision to just keep going, instead of stopping. Experience tells me that time gets eaten up with such stops. I'm looking forward to this downhill part, relaxing a bit and takin' 'er in easy.

A small hill comes into view. I climb it, descend down a little less. Another hills comes to view. I repeat the process. Another hill... the hell is going on...

I realize at this moment, that I've reversed the elevation plot, somewhere in my retched head, when doing my prep. The first half is where you LOSE all the elevation, the second half is where you GAIN it all back. And that makes sense - you know? Away from the Rocky Mountains, we'll eventually hit the Atlantic; 40 miles away it reaches up of 14,000+ feet, on top of Pikes.

So, time to deal with this little situation. My somewhat high-for-150-miles gear ratio is really going to get old, quick. I have the option to gear down, as I have some fancy dingle-cog/double ring thing, but... naw - the hell with it. Stick to the guns. This is definitely not uncharted territory for me. In fact, this is quite a bit like a slice of a Tour Divide pie. The most boring, featureless parts of the Tour Divide, but still - anyone set on that race, should do something like this race. The non-technical features and mind-numbing boredom one can experience is good practice for the last half of Montana. All of Idaho. The Great Divide Basin in Utah. South Park in Colorado. The long stretches of straight pavement in New Mexico. And the other long stretch of pavement in New Mexico, after the first one. What I want would be a honest-to-goodness hill to melt a little of my boredom away,

And I get it, as a 1.3 mile nubbin to get over. It feels good to not be able to see MILES ahead of me, and focus on what's right ahead and oh! behind a corner. Such luxury. But in small time, it's summited. I look at the infernal GPS. A big straight line. I zoom out: a big straight line. I zoom out:

A big straight line.

I'm thinking I'm not going to like this GPS, on anything but what I'm learning to use it for: unseen singletrack that stretches for over 700 miles, into desolate terrain with little fudge room for water resupply. But here? It's a little overkill. I can't even make myself look at the mileage left, as it's certain my internal guesstimate is way over actual position. I focus on just riding the bike and mentally noting things I need to do, once back home. I haven't actually seen anybody for a couple of hours now. It doesn't really take long for someone to come, pass you (or you pass them) and then: you're all alone again. A few trucks everyone now and then - far more than other races. It's a quiet time, really. Pick a good line in the gravel, and look for something interesting to look at. Many times failing at both, as you hit a deep patch of sand, or see another un-worked plot of land. Even the cows seem to be on vacation.

I'm down to that roast beef sandwich, and it's a bit difficult to eat, as it's fairly dry. Water's about out, too. There's snow on some of the sides of the road, where the shade works to keep it for a few more days. Not one to pass up the offer, I stop periodically to scrap a little snow and make a unflavored Italian Ice. The ice feels amazing trickling down my throat and I repeat this exercise more than really necessary.

I miss the turn, like every damn person, to the, "B" road, which proves a little too slow for my gearing and give up on a hill, scrape some snow and walk up the crest, eating the ice in my hand. No one ahead, no one behind. It takes a lot less time than I fear to traverse the B road and it's back to gravel. The sun still seems high in the sky. What time is it, I wonder?

I finally see someone ahead, stopped, at the side of the road, changing into warmer clothing. I've been in nothing but my kit, since around 7:00am. It's a little chilly, and a little windy, but I certainly function better riding a little cold, than a little warm. I meet up with them, and we chat a bit, until the next undulation, where I have to speed up a bit to maintain the health of my knees. Sometime is happening, though. The hills are starting to point more down than up. I'm worried that this is the end of the race, or more specifically NOT the end, but thinking it may be anyways. I fiddle with the GPS. The line from the beginning to indeed converge with the line I'm following, meaning I only have a few miles left.

Amazingly, there's life left in my legs, so I just open 'er all the way up, and barrel down to the finish, save for a truck directly in my way that won't give way. I'm happy it's over - the people who live in the area seem to live here, because they don't like the presence of others. When you're a visitor to an area, it's always prudent to be courteous to the locals, but it's a little different when the locals aren't too afraid to run you over. Good riddance.

I check in, almost 11 hours exact with the race coordinator's wife and baby. The race coordinator isn't around, nor are his keys - so my gear is trapped in his car. It's no big deal, but my day isn't over quite yet: I need now to ride it home. As I wait, I get things organized for the ride home, and put on some warmer layers. The sun's losing it's strength. My lights are all dying.

The organizer makes his way, trailing him, another racer. Funnily enough, the coordinator made a wrong turn on his own race and got momentarily lost. His companion broke a spoke on some fancy wheels, where spokes shouldn't break. I heard they stumbled upon a ranch that had live lions in cages. The things you find out here.

Re-adjusted for the ride home, bags packed and lashed on the rig, I take her home, with a quick stop to the soon closing pizza place for a grinder, some batteries and whatever junk food I want. And coffee. I scrap the idea of going back to Parker, and just take North Perry Park to Sedalia and that to Santa Fe Dr., and well, I figure out what to do, after that. The ride is pleasant enough, and I reflect on how it's now normal that I ride so late into the night and how these few calm-enough roads provide access to further reaches of the Front Range. This is the same road I've taken to the Barr trail head (and up Pikes), and thankfully, the way I'm going is losing elevation fast. Almost 2,000 feet before I hit Sedalia.

Once in Sedalia, I take the side road parallel to Santa Fe Dr. as far as I can, which leads me directly to where the construction begins, in earnest. Damn. It's a one-lane road, busy, with no shoulder, and I'm not interested in it much to get me through safely. I poke up around. Look at the other Map GPS Phone thing in my pocket. It shows a road that side steps over all this, and delivers me to the entrance of Chatfield State Park. Blessed be.

Unfortunately, the track dead-ends at a barbed wire fence, locked tight. Spooky. I weigh the idea of hoping the fence, but thought better: the barbed wire fence is usually higher on the other side, whatever side you're on! Waste of a good Tetanus booster, for sure. I can't help wonder, though, what's behind the fence. The whole area has this eery feeling - it's a former (or current?) military/science research station. They could have tested/developed nuclear warheads/missiles here, for all I know. (Doing research, it was a dynamite plant!)

I high-tale it back to Santa Fe Dr., defeated. I ride on the dirt track besides the one-lane, no-shoulder areas. Good enough. In short time, I'm on the bike path - the safe, predictable bike path, back home - getting close to 200 miles for the day. Now I'm downtown - 15th and Platte, I cross over the Platte and off the bike path and -

a cyclist makes a too-sharp turn onto the bridge, as I'm turning off. I've seen him for 10 seconds at least, but he hadn't even looked up. It's Saturday, I'm sure his experience is being enhanced. I'm getting to the point that if I don't keep going, I'm not going to make it home. His almost-collision into me, does make me perform evasive maneuvers to keep both upright and not on top of him. "HOLY SHIT!" is his response. He pedals away. Much fresher, I could have made a kerfuffle about it, but Pick Your Battles. I'm not fatigued enough to see how that would be look like in his shoes: some weird, dirty dude is yelling at him. Way to hash a mellow, dude.

I limp the last 7 miles home, with fantasies of a I can faintly remember why I signed up, but it was imperative that I sign up MONTHS in advance, lest the race roster fills up to dizzying amounts of names. Gravel Grinders seem to be en vogue, maintenent, so what the hell. 150 miles seems a good distance for this little diesel engine that could. My cyclocross season was filled with more costumes and beer handouts at every lap than any real, well: results on the podium. When you don't have a top-end, a 45 minute race is enough time to get warmed up to go about the same speed (maybe a little slower) for, well, ALL DAY, and that's what I'm highly specialized to do: blunder around literally all day on a bike. To test this theory - well, you do these types of races - but oh - just doing 150 miles ain't enough.

Since I'm without car, I needed to get to the start of the race, and then get back home. A good 75 miles each direction. So, with the challenge completely drawn up, and the work week finished, it was time to take the current rig to the starting line and start the 300 miles, in today's little leg stretch.

The current rig, as its stands, is basically what I was riding for cross season: a Surly Crosscheck, single speed. I'll be racing the 150 mile race, with the same gear ratio as I did for <10 mile races: 42 x 19, because, eh, why not? Pack up the rig with some overnight gear and head on out. Test this, "GPS" contraption I'll need later in the month for a bit longer of a race (say, the entire length of Arizona).

Deciding to take a new route through Parker (*shutter*), instead of a route that'll take me through off-limits construction on Sante Fe Dr, with no detour for the finer modes of transportation, I found myself in suburban sprawl within hours of starting out, just as the sun was dipping down. It's always a shock to experience the drop off in bikes-on-roads education from drivers. "What keeps me in the city", I'm always asked, and usually, by my brain. Well, city dwellers kinda understand bikes. And pedestrians. And all that - and work with them, instead of against them, or around them, or sometimes straight through them. There's just so many ridiculous comments I can stand while stopping for food, or horn honks of disapproval of blocking real traffic I can take while riding along the extreme right hand side of a 3 lane-per-side road. Sigh.

After getting a bit lost (lossy GPS is useless without whatever extra expensive add-on I need to make their maps useful) and figuring out... about where the start is (or, near enough), I roll up after 7 hours of riding to a mostly desolate parking lot, save for one camper in a truck w/a top over the bed. Someone's sleeping in the bed. Another racer, I of course assume. I set up the sleep kit and lull myself to sleep. I have 5 hours until the start. I make with the making of the anti-hay.

Which should have been easy, but we're about 100 meters from the Sante Fe freight rail line and shit! is it prime time for shipment time. I've been camped closer to busy rails before, but it was a manageable commuter line, not half of Denver's daily coal consumption being tugged sluggishly towards the Queen City of the Plains. Sparks from each rail car's metal wheels are both audible - and visible. It's a special state we live in.

5:30 am can't come early enough and my truck-buddy and I wake up at about the same time. Light shined in my snoozing buddy's face as he walks towards me. "JUSTIN! is that.. YOU?!" Of course, it's Skinny Aaron - haven't seen him, since his parents dropped me off at the wonderful Salida Backpackers Hostel last July, as I gained an unlikely hitch back to the Centennial State, after both Skinny-A and I finished up our little ride from Banff, Alberta Canada at about the same time, starting 23 days prior. The day before the pickup in Mexico, he had frightened the ever living [explitive] out of me around the same time of day, as he soldiered into my camping area to fill his bottles somewhere in the Gila National Forest at some bizarre work center, filled with burly and very over-worked firefighters doing basically all they could to keep the entire state not going up in flames (which, sadly is sometimes not much they actually can do). Paid back the favor. The light-shining in the wee hours - not the ride back. I still owe 'em some beers. Big hug from Aaron though, it's nice to see a comrade.

We saunter to the actual start, which is just over the train tracks, ie: really close from my night riding got me. I'm pleased. I stash my gear in the race coordinator's car, with the promise that it'll be available whenever I myself get back, and do the roll-in start with everyone else, after a little final bathroom break. The sun has yet to come up, but we're going due East. I ask out loud, "Who starts a race, that begins by going east into the sun, and ends, going west...into the sun?" The promoter is riding just abreast of me. Some small chuckles.

My plan is, well, I have no plan, except to ride the bike at a steady clip. Being of only one-speed and having already hit 75 miles in the last 12 hours, I have no idea what my legs have in store for me. The beginning neutral roll-out seems fine, fine. Racing your own race seems like a legit choice.

Brought enough food for the entire day, enough water, too. I think. There's a gas station at about the halfway point if the stores needs adding to. Most of what I have are these gel things. We'll be living off of mostly pure sugar for the next half day. A small roast beef sandwich, too. No mustard or mayo on it, though. You always forget something.

The course is fine - wide gravel roads going here and there. I get used to following the Line on the GPS electronic tele-promoter display thing, showing me where to go, without having to think about distances, times, landmarks and whatever. A few less things to be in charge of, I guess. The problem is, there's not much else to keep your mind occupied with. The landscape in this part of the Colorado stretches out WIDE and all just about the same thing: Kansas. This proves to be the most difficult part of the race: the extreme lack of diversity in surroundings. But not quite yet. As the sun comes up slowly, we're first assaulted by the abrupt change from night to sunrise, to trying to make out exactly where we're going, as we had straight into the sun's stinging rays. I'm relieved, every time the track turns north for a few minutes, before continuing again in an easterly direction.

A few hours pass, and I'm in the understanding I'm in a small, chasing group, with the leaders going a bit faster up front. It's a long, long race, I tell myself, and anything can happen. I'm not going for first, but I'd like to make a good showing of it. I decide to stay with it, but ultimately my gearing deficit sees me in familiar circumstances: I climb faster than most everyone else - because I have to, and I spin out on the downhills, as I run out of gear inches. Climbing hills with a high-ish gear is going to get tiresome and the loss of ground on the downhills is going to get somewhat old, compared to my geared counterparts. But, whatever. Soldiering on! From my electronic recon, the first half the race looks as if it has the most elevation gain, with the second half losing all the thousands of feet won. Hopefully that means the doable-ness I'm experiencing now, should keep being doable, as my body and mind tires at the big turn half way.

The "about" half-way point comes into view, as the gas station next to the highway is first spotted. I make the decision to just keep going, instead of stopping. Experience tells me that time gets eaten up with such stops. I'm looking forward to this downhill part, relaxing a bit and takin' 'er in easy.

A small hill comes into view. I climb it, descend down a little less. Another hills comes to view. I repeat the process. Another hill... the hell is going on...

I realize at this moment, that I've reversed the elevation plot, somewhere in my retched head, when doing my prep. The first half is where you LOSE all the elevation, the second half is where you GAIN it all back. And that makes sense - you know? Away from the Rocky Mountains, we'll eventually hit the Atlantic; 40 miles away it reaches up of 14,000+ feet, on top of Pikes.

So, time to deal with this little situation. My somewhat high-for-150-miles gear ratio is really going to get old, quick. I have the option to gear down, as I have some fancy dingle-cog/double ring thing, but... naw - the hell with it. Stick to the guns. This is definitely not uncharted territory for me. In fact, this is quite a bit like a slice of a Tour Divide pie. The most boring, featureless parts of the Tour Divide, but still - anyone set on that race, should do something like this race. The non-technical features and mind-numbing boredom one can experience is good practice for the last half of Montana. All of Idaho. The Great Divide Basin in Utah. South Park in Colorado. The long stretches of straight pavement in New Mexico. And the other long stretch of pavement in New Mexico, after the first one. What I want would be a honest-to-goodness hill to melt a little of my boredom away,

And I get it, as a 1.3 mile nubbin to get over. It feels good to not be able to see MILES ahead of me, and focus on what's right ahead and oh! behind a corner. Such luxury. But in small time, it's summited. I look at the infernal GPS. A big straight line. I zoom out: a big straight line. I zoom out:

A big straight line.

I'm thinking I'm not going to like this GPS, on anything but what I'm learning to use it for: unseen singletrack that stretches for over 700 miles, into desolate terrain with little fudge room for water resupply. But here? It's a little overkill. I can't even make myself look at the mileage left, as it's certain my internal guesstimate is way over actual position. I focus on just riding the bike and mentally noting things I need to do, once back home. I haven't actually seen anybody for a couple of hours now. It doesn't really take long for someone to come, pass you (or you pass them) and then: you're all alone again. A few trucks everyone now and then - far more than other races. It's a quiet time, really. Pick a good line in the gravel, and look for something interesting to look at. Many times failing at both, as you hit a deep patch of sand, or see another un-worked plot of land. Even the cows seem to be on vacation.

I'm down to that roast beef sandwich, and it's a bit difficult to eat, as it's fairly dry. Water's about out, too. There's snow on some of the sides of the road, where the shade works to keep it for a few more days. Not one to pass up the offer, I stop periodically to scrap a little snow and make a unflavored Italian Ice. The ice feels amazing trickling down my throat and I repeat this exercise more than really necessary.

I miss the turn, like every damn person, to the, "B" road, which proves a little too slow for my gearing and give up on a hill, scrape some snow and walk up the crest, eating the ice in my hand. No one ahead, no one behind. It takes a lot less time than I fear to traverse the B road and it's back to gravel. The sun still seems high in the sky. What time is it, I wonder?

I finally see someone ahead, stopped, at the side of the road, changing into warmer clothing. I've been in nothing but my kit, since around 7:00am. It's a little chilly, and a little windy, but I certainly function better riding a little cold, than a little warm. I meet up with them, and we chat a bit, until the next undulation, where I have to speed up a bit to maintain the health of my knees. Sometime is happening, though. The hills are starting to point more down than up. I'm worried that this is the end of the race, or more specifically NOT the end, but thinking it may be anyways. I fiddle with the GPS. The line from the beginning to indeed converge with the line I'm following, meaning I only have a few miles left.

Amazingly, there's life left in my legs, so I just open 'er all the way up, and barrel down to the finish, save for a truck directly in my way that won't give way. I'm happy it's over - the people who live in the area seem to live here, because they don't like the presence of others. When you're a visitor to an area, it's always prudent to be courteous to the locals, but it's a little different when the locals aren't too afraid to run you over. Good riddance.

I check in, almost 11 hours exact with the race coordinator's wife and baby. The race coordinator isn't around, nor are his keys - so my gear is trapped in his car. It's no big deal, but my day isn't over quite yet: I need now to ride it home. As I wait, I get things organized for the ride home, and put on some warmer layers. The sun's losing it's strength. My lights are all dying.

The organizer makes his way, trailing him, another racer. Funnily enough, the coordinator made a wrong turn on his own race and got momentarily lost. His companion broke a spoke on some fancy wheels, where spokes shouldn't break. I heard they stumbled upon a ranch that had live lions in cages. The things you find out here.

Re-adjusted for the ride home, bags packed and lashed on the rig, I take her home, with a quick stop to the soon closing pizza place for a grinder, some batteries and whatever junk food I want. And coffee. I scrap the idea of going back to Parker, and just take North Perry Park to Sedalia and that to Santa Fe Dr., and well, I figure out what to do, after that. The ride is pleasant enough, and I reflect on how it's now normal that I ride so late into the night and how these few calm-enough roads provide access to further reaches of the Front Range. This is the same road I've taken to the Barr trail head (and up Pikes), and thankfully, the way I'm going is losing elevation fast. Almost 2,000 feet before I hit Sedalia.

Once in Sedalia, I take the side road parallel to Santa Fe Dr. as far as I can, which leads me directly to where the construction begins, in earnest. Damn. It's a one-lane road, busy, with no shoulder, and I'm not interested in it much to get me through safely. I poke up around. Look at the other Map GPS Phone thing in my pocket. It shows a road that side steps over all this, and delivers me to the entrance of Chatfield State Park. Blessed be.

Unfortunately, the track dead-ends at a barbed wire fence, locked tight. Spooky. I weigh the idea of hoping the fence, but thought better: the barbed wire fence is usually higher on the other side, whatever side you're on! Waste of a good Tetanus booster, for sure. I can't help wonder, though, what's behind the fence. The whole area has this eery feeling - it's a former (or current?) military/science research station. They could have tested/developed nuclear warheads/missiles here, for all I know. (Doing research, it was a dynamite plant!)

I high-tale it back to Santa Fe Dr., defeated. I ride on the dirt track besides the one-lane, no-shoulder areas. Good enough. In short time, I'm on the bike path - the safe, predictable bike path, back home - getting close to 200 miles for the day. Now I'm downtown - 15th and Platte, I cross over the Platte and off the bike path and -

a cyclist makes a too-sharp turn onto the bridge, as I'm turning off. I've seen him for 10 seconds at least, but he hadn't even looked up. It's Saturday, I'm sure his experience is being enhanced. I'm getting to the point that if I don't keep going, I'm not going to make it home. His almost-collision into me, does make me perform evasive maneuvers to keep both upright and not on top of him. "HOLY SHIT!" is his response. He pedals away. Much fresher, I could have made a kerfuffle about it, but Pick Your Battles. I'm not fatigued enough to see how that would be look like in his shoes: some weird, dirty dude is yelling at him. Way to hash a mellow, dude.

I limp the last 7 miles home, with fantasies of a hot-enough shower, clean-enough bed. It is a nice hot shower, and the bed didn't have to be any cleaner.

Training: April 21st - Aprile 28th

2013-04-29T19:49:40Z

I realize that if I don't write anything here, it looks like I'm not doing anything! Which is hardly the case - I'm just not doing anything overly exciting. To me. But, bikes get ridden, trails get run. I guess I'll try to list my non-epic errands I do, to get ready for (mis)-adventure: ]]>
Monday - nothing. It was snowing or something. Still had some GI issues. Was busy. Whatever my excuse was.

Tuesday - still snowing, took a run - 10 miles, 8:01 pace, around the 'hood. VERY surprised at my pace, I don't run much faster, on road courses, being a beginner in running. Made me believe the bug I had is on its way out.

Wednesday - Run again - 7.4 miles, 8:30 pace, around the 'hood. Happy to link up multiple days of moving. A little sore, but the pace wasn't too bad.

Thursday - nothing except a bike commute ~ 20 miles? I don't tend to keep track of that stuff.

Friday - Bike Ride - 46.9 miles to and around Cherry Creek Reservoir - the easiest regular ride I do. Felt good! Pretty good average pace at 17mph, considering I'm on a 42 x 17t singlespeed w/35mm Small Block 8's and I'm carrying all my gear for working and the gym (I usually am loaded down in some way). Felt good. Went to the gym afterwards, but that was cut short, as I had a little pain in my shoulder while doing dips. Decided not to push it. Couldn't... really anyways.

Saturday - Bike Ride, Golden, up Lookout Mt., then home - another fast day (it felt), same bike - changed into a 38:19 gear ratio for the uphill. Made some great time up and down. Basically confirmed my form is pretty good right now! Guess that rest did some good and/or, I was well prepared for the AZTR 750. A lot of new cycling enthusiasts everywhere performing their, "0mph crash, while trying to click out of fancy new bike shoes" Been there, one that.

Sunday - Ride to Boulder (25 miles) , same 42x17t singlespeed to Chataqua, and then run/hike up Green Mountain (5.4 miles)

Ride was nice, a bit blustery, but still felt strong. The bus stop that serves the BV route to Boulder is ~ 7 miles away from the house and I sometimes take it, but it's actually faster just to ride there - especially on Sunday, when bus service isn't so regular.

Was going to take the, "easy" way up Green, but I said, "what the hell", and went up Gregory Canyon, as I love pain and I'm not the most enthusastic runner (and would rather hike-fast).

As I expected, I relented to hiking much earlier than I usually do (good effort in the past few days, plus I had just ridden 25 miles right beforehand), but finished up strong, despite the snow on the top.

Being Boulder, and being Sunday, it was circus at Chataqua and Boulder Mt. Parks. There was a dude splayed at the last, like, 4 feet of the Green Mountain Trail - right on the Summit Block - not on top of it, like in the middle of it. I literally hopped over him to make the peak, and then hopped over him going down. Amateur hour. Descending was beyond fun, as I'm getting used to pushing the speed when the gradient isn't too extreme and then literally jumping off each ledge rock to the next, when the grade gets steep. A bit too many, "look at that!" comments from the lovely tourists, but I was sort of impressed myself with the barely-in-control falling off the mountain. Actually surprised I made it up Green in ~41:00 - Strava says that's my best, but I question its bookkeeping. Would like to crack sub 40:00, which, with a bit of pacing, rather than dying trying to go as fast up while running at the beginning, should mean being faster at the top (A little less snow would be nice, too).

So, everything felt good - great, even! Like, leveling-up on my speed great, except the shoulder, which should just fix itself, if I give it rest. A good re-intro in moving the body - 3 good bike rides, 3 good runs, one day at the gym. Hoping for some overnight trips this week, but the weather and my schedule in my other lives doesn't look like it's going to allow that. I'll figure out something. Maybe try to sneak in a longer ride and some climbing of some sort outside.

Next, "race" is on the ~~26th~~ 18th in Salida - 125 mile gravel grinder, which has some undulating terrain, with a stout climb at the beginning/end. Plan is to destroy the first climb, hold steady for the next 100-odd miles, and destroy the final climb. I need some long days in the saddle in some time for acclimatization, but it should be a good showing, for me.

2013 AntiEpic Gravel Grinder Preflight

2013-04-03T07:29:32Z

Photog by Ben @ mountainbikeradio.com

I signed up to do a 150 mile Gravel Grinder months ago (it seemed soooo important to sign up, early!), and it's going down this Saturday. I'll be riding my Surly Crosscheck as a Single Speed to the starting line of the race the night before, racing the race, and then riding home - which is excellent training for what I'll be doing later this month. So I'm looking at a 200+ mile ride on Saturday, with a little prologue to a secret camping spot I hope to find.

I have no intentions of flat out winning this (as I, uh, never do), but I'd like to make a good showing and have some fun, as I myself have pigeonholed myself as Mr., "boy, those cyclocross races are just so short! I'm MUCH better at longer stuff!" and if I suck at longer stuff speed-wise, it's just sort of official I'm slow, which is probably the case. But dude, I'm still looking at almost 300 miles in 2 days, so there's that.

In reality, I could probably manage about 15-ish mph pace packing food and water and not much else. If I look at the previous results from 2012 and the easy math I've given myself (150 miles, divided by 15 miles an hour is... 10 hours!), puts me finishing in second place. Which, I think only goes to show how faulty my math is. First place was won last year by, you know: someone that actually competes in athletic trials and tribulations on a regular basis, so I don't think my time would be any faster, rather my 15 mph guess is (characteristically) unrealistically high.

The first single speeder (fixed gear, no doubt - chapeau) finished last year in ~13 hours, or 11.5 mph. Aaron Weinsheimer, whom finished the 2012 Tour Divide a few hours before me (ahem destroyed my broke, single speed ass on the flats), finished the AntiEpic about the same time, too. Aaron's on the roster for this Saturday again, so it may be a good person to pace with, and shoot the sheet, as I'm guessing I'll see Aaron again at another Gravel Grinder later this spring at his hometown of Salida.

So that's my guess - I'll finish the course between 10 and 13 hours, probably more near 13 hours, after which I'll pass out, attempt to find food, water, and make my way slowly home.

Double Dare

2013-03-21T07:01:35Z

Waking up at 2:00am on the Sunday of the weekend St. Patrick's Day festivities in a drinkin' city seemed a strange way to begin a trip. I needed to go from the North side of Denver, through the South side, without incident. And then far beyond.

Plan: ride the bicycle from the back door to the Barr Trailhead ~90 miles away in Manitou Springs, CO and immediately begin the 13 miles hike up to the summit of Pikes Peak, for a winter ascent of a Colorado 14er, before it ain't winter no more (mere days away). And of course carry all the gear that's probably going to be needed. Which is really unrealistic, so just take what's absolutely necessary. Which probably means, a different pair of shoes.

Then, take a few winks and ride back home, in perhaps a bit more scenic (read: more difficult, mountainous, less boring) route.

Out of the door by 3:00 am and traffic seems to be surprisingly tame. ...not sure what I expected. (CHAOS!). I am tired. Sleep was a nice idea, but the alarm, sorry: alarms went off about the same time I finally dropped off to slumber land.

A ride through Denver without incidient, and onto Sedalia, to pick up CO 105, which should take me to Palmer Lake and from there, Monument, CO to pick up a bike path? Trail? Something - through the Airforce Academy and - wait. Can you actually do that? Aren't there security checkpoints? Too late to check that out.... (details) And into Colorado Springs to pick up supplies (FOOD, large amounts of FOOD) and to the trailhead.

CO 105 turns into one of those picturesque lazy roads, filled with faux ranches that don't ranch nothin', and rolling hills, with a nice ever-changing front-row seat to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Well, it would, if I could see anything. The sun won't make an appearance until past 7:00am, and by 7:00am, I'm at Monument - finally for the first time seeing the object of today's energetic excursion: the summit of Pikes Peak, the summit itself glistening with a billion ice crystals, just peaking through the nearby foothills. Hmm, a little more snow than I had anticipated. I anticipated actually: none. I can see Pikes Peak from the house, and it looked more green than white. Damn atmospheric perspective...

It doesn't take long for Pikes to once again become hidden behind (much) lesser peaks, and I pick up the Santa Fe Trail, and I roll closer to the range. It's a dirt track, which will work. Work better than the Interstate, which is illegal, but not below me.

I switch off my lights and there's runners milling about the trail. I pass a sign that says something about the air force academy, but I'm trying to make time, so ignore it. What could it possibly say?

The trail gets a little to exuberant in its changing of directions. I make the decision to exit, as I have no idea where I'm going (first time down here), and I see a road, and maybe that road takes me to the frontage road that parallels the interstate. It's gonna be a long day, and "Conservation of energy" is the word of the day. Days.

The road turns out to be the main entrance to the academy and I pass the checkpoint entrance going the wrong way, and then straight into an exit onto the Interstate and well, that won't work. I backtrack a bit, but don't want to deal with going through the gate, or backtracking too much, or checking... I dunno: a map, or talking to the guard - whatever it is, I gotta do.

I spot a random two track that goes south - my direction, so I take it. For a few miles. It dead ends into a barbed wire fence and a sound barrier between the interstate and a random neighborhood, on the outskirts of Colorado Springs. I retrace just a few and hop the fence, directly into someone's back yard, which is a no-no - especially here, where people are apt to be a little more gun-lovin' The fence has a sign I read once over the fence. "No tresspassing, airforce property, penalty of-", blah blah blah. I gotta get out of this yard and back on a road, before a neighborhood dog sounds the alarm.

And I do.

Grab some grub at an Albertsons. Horrible selection, what was I thinking going to an Albertsons?! I pass some more familiar grocery stores - three, in fact, on the way to Manitou Springs, which is just up the road. It's now 10:00 am. The trailhead is buzzing with people - trail runners, mostly in their trail running groups talking trail running things, with their garish, trail running outfits on. This sport seems to be in its "Loud and ugly" fashion phase, I don't know what to think about it. It's such a simple activity (put on shoes, run - preferably not on pavment), and Minimal is the Mantra, but there's a million ways to Personalize the Experience(tm).

And so then I put on my own trail runners (a modest pair of Montrails), some running tights, a pair of running shorts, a long undewear top, and a light, wool hat - all black: as I just look goofy overly accessorizing. I look goofy by default, so its hard for me to pull off anything too loud looking. There's trail runners around me that are workin' it. I admit. All kinds.

I change out of the bike gear outside and behind of the bathroom area, as the queue of people requiring it is an always evolving mass that doesn't quite reach a critical level. It's like being in France at a grocery store. For already being up for 7 hours - most of it in the sensory deprivation state of pitch black and below freezing, it's just too much information to take. Funnily Colorado Springs - a fairly major metropolitan center.... for the Front Range of Colorado is spitting distance and trail heads do tend to be a little whacky close to population.

I begin to go up the trail.

The trail starts out as a never-ending set of switchbacks for miles. I've hiked 14ers that have far less total mileage than these switchbacks to the top. It's completely mobbed with trail runners. And all of them are going down. Like racing down. Bounding down. Young ones, old ones, portly and svelte. I either missed the time where it's allowed to run up this trail, or there's a secret trail everyone else is taking up that must be many times more important to run up, that you would never, ever run down. My entire time to the summit, I'll pass three other people going up, and no one that goes all the way to the top. This is madness, to me.

The Barr trail, once up the switchbacks (pray), is what you may call, "casual". "Why didn't I bring the bike?", was the question I kept asking myself. I stripped off my top and became the Shirtless Man, for all the trail runners. A few hours from the start of the hike, and I'm at Barr Cabin, mile #6.5 ish. I start drinking my energy replenishment drink (a 20 oz Coke) and mill about the outside of the cabin. I peek in for a touch, and try to make small talk to the two cabin-watchers and a guest. I am not quite at 100%, but not completely gone, as I at least know I'm not making much sense, every time I talk. "I better just keep going..." I think to myself. So I say, "so long!", and they reply back with, "Have fun trail running back down", and I don't turn around to correct them, as I'm still planning on going up. Not many people today decide to keep going up.

From the cabin to the A frame shelter at treeline, I pass one guy (of the three). He's complaining about lack of fitness, so he's stopping at treeline. "Bah", I think. Mental fatigue has already set in. I know I'll be hallucinating, soon.

The wind is picking up. It begins even to lightly snow. Off and on - you know, how Colorado normally is above 7,000 feet, most of the time. The trail though, is largely lost through drifts caused by the winds. The summit is obvious enough and I'm dumb enough to just start going straight up, instead of taking the second stretch of endless switchbacks. The snow is in poor condition: just these windpacked areas, with a thin top coat of newly-fallen powder, a thick, almost icy crust and then corn crap underneath. It's classic, "you're going to start an avalanche" conditions, but there's some many boulders, that I tell myself that's not going to happen. Which... is how people die. (BAH!) And the snow isn't all that deep. It's actually pitifully scarce. This winter was bad for precip. and this summer is going to be a rerun of The Shit is on Fire, show, unless it starts dumping down and that show gets canceled.

500 feet from the summit and the days activities are starting to take a little hold of me. I am well over hour #14 of almost constant moving, knowing full well that the summit is close but isn't that close, and afterwards, I still have to get down. Then it really starts to snow.

I get to the top of my own route and summit. "Cripes, what am I wearing?", I think to myself. I have running tights and rain pants on, trail runners, and my top is two polypro undershirts, and a rain coat. And a hat. Not even gloves: little underglove things . It's winter, I'm over 14,000 feet and it's snowing.

I don't dilly dally long at the top. Tried to take a photo, but every time I stop for more than 30 seconds, anything wet (shoes, gloves, hat, etc) freezes, so I just bail at properly documenting the ascent, to the chagrin of my future-self, as I type this out. From the summit though, I know where the trail ends, so I can hopefully follow the true trail downwards and not get lost.

This plan works for about 30 meters and the trail has been erased. The wind and snow pick up and I realize that visibility is starting to lessen to now less than 30 meters. Sometimes class 1 hikes near cities can get a little fun. I modify the plan I use to summit (go straight UP) and start simply to go straight DOWN and do that thing that happens when you don't know where to really go: cliffed out. Cliffs to the left, to the right and directly below. The wind lulls and I'm treated to the beautiful rock cliff formations of pink Pikes Peak granite. I skirt gingerly over the rock bands and bound down where I think slipping on the snowy parts won't take my too many several hundred feet down, in a slightly over my comfort level speed. Of all the times to not bring an ice axe. I'm literally in a text-book example for saving yourself by self-arrest. I'm keeping that damn thing in my commuting bag. Just, everywhere from now on.

The cliffbands chill out. Finding myself on more alpine than cliff face, I breath a sigh of relieve, but two new problems present themselves. First, no trail and I, uh, I'm not quite sure what drainage to go down - there's TWO choices and if I pick the wrong choice, I'll end up in the wrong county (albeit with much hilarity to whomever picks me up, hitching), and also, I've got a half hour of daylight left to make the right decision. Dark is going to equal much lower temperatures and, well, that'll be some good times, right there. "What am I doing?" I incredulously think to myself. "Well, exactly what I wanted to do!", I audibly answer to myself.

And it's true. No one does a century bike ride, only to hike up a 14,000 foot peak thinking, "Hey, you know what, this should be 100% without incident!" And I go to the task of finding the right drainage down with aplomb. There's two strategies: find the trail and follow the trail, or find the A Frame shelter that's at treeline and go towards it, as the trail also skirts the shelter. And there's only two real ways to go: North or South. South looks like a general avalanche path, but north has a strange ridge I have to go up, and over to gain the other side of the drainage. Why anyone would put a shelter at the bottom of an avalanche path is beyond me, so I start climbing to the small gain. Small trees are starting to make an appearance in my path, and they trap snow and the postholing ensues. I turn around to see if I can spot any sort of remnant of trail. From the high vantage point though, I see clearly the A frame shelter, close to where I started out making my way to the South, well to the North. Or at least I think I do. I've been thinking I've been seeing the A frame shelter all over the place, but I've been hallucinating boulders to be buildings. I'm not tired enough to be scared of my own mental failings, but it's almost playfully fun to watch my visual cortex short out.

The A frame proves to be very real, and I find the trail at treeline and from here, it's three hours of slogging back. It feels like eternity. I pass no one. The last endless array of switchbacks come into focus and I contemplate running down them, like all the fresher people 8 hours ago. I try, but I'm also at hour 16 or so of Constant Movement and nothing in my body quite wants to give it a jolly go down. Especially in the dark, so I relegate myself to simply walking it.

Colorado Springs comes into view, with all its glimmery lights and then houses and structures of Manitou Springs, but nothing seems to get bigger - it just stay the same tiny, model-like size, even as I'm quickly losing altitude.

Everything in my vision is turning into something else. Rocks become injured animals in my path. Tree branches are elk antlers. Snow and ice patterns on top of the rocks become horrific, spider-like alien creatures. I'm waiting for figures in the shadows to come out, try to jump me, rob me, and then kill me. Aspen Tree groves become impenetrable wooden fortresses that have instantly sprung up out of nothing. It's all entirely incredible.

And it finally ends, as the trail finds its beginnings.

And luckily, I also find my bike, locked up to a somewhat hidden utility box of some sort, in fine shape. Of any 14er trailhead, I get the least good vibe on this one - CO Springs is just too close and kids here are too bored. I wagered that St. Patricks Day festivities would help keep these people inside, hungover, sleeping, and eating pizza. It's now 10:00pm and I make the decision that sleeping about 8 hours is what I now need to do.

Consuming far too little calories for what I need to be in the black on that front, I sort gear and fix up the sleep kit and pass out, fairly illegally, at the back end of a little picnic area, next to the public bathroom and the trailhead. I need to get up early enough to escape being found out by the local police authorities, who are inevitably going to be making a round to check up on suspicious activity in the trailhead parking lot (lots of car break ins), but not so early that when I get up, there's no where in my path to get some food.

I opt for six am and get up, highly refreshed. The police do come by at around 6:45, but don't even notice, as I'm about to roll out. I keep forgetting that sometimes when one isn't in a car, one is invisible. I don't fit the description of a car thief, or a ramble-rouser free camping anyways. Things I'm wearing match - and I don't smell of booze. I start on up the road towards Woodland Park.

And at Woodland Park, there's The Hungry Bear - a teddy-bear themed breakfast joint, that's also biker friendly, incidentally. Like, Motorcycle Enthusiast, friendly. In my travails, I've noticed that such establishments also don't mind catering smelly bicyclists and the people are usually nice, as well. The only weird looks I'll get are from the motorcycle enthusiasts themselves - however real or weekend-warrior they are. And usually it's the form of transportation I've picked, rather than my odor or savage looks. I guess once you take on a motor, you never go back. I digress.

I order $10 of food and barely am able to finish it. Target hit. I'm off, up HW 67 to some sort of connector, up near Pine, CO, that I'll figure out later. I'm not sure how it works out - but it's a goal for the day to uh, figure it out.

HW 67 is a picturesque and lazy scenic ride - I think it may be the best road in the Front Range to take a loaded bike on. Mountains you never knew existed poke out of the canyon's various phantasmagorical rock formations and then are hidden again once you turn a corner and the canyon's steep walls block the view. Fisherpeople playing hookey are dressed in their fisherpeople uniforms getting shit for bites. There's uphills and downhills and burn areas. Ice, and snow on top of the ice sit on top of the shallow river. You cross the Colorado Trail: singletrack that beacons you to Durango - about 500 miles away. The road turns to dirt and and the only vehicles that pass are 4wd. It gets a little coountry, as most permanent structures are in disrepair and everything else is a propped up RV or something.

I take a hard right and the key to my escape of this drainage area (and into the one to the north) and I'm climbing out of the canyon and over whatever it is I need to climb out of, to get onto, "Pleasant Park Road" (nice name, huh?) and home. The houses get massive again, as the income level dramatic rises to meet the road.

The final grunt up makes today's elevation gain over 6,000 feet, which is a tidy sum, for weary legs - and a little bit of surprise. I'm not one for exact planning. The wind today has been blustery and coming from the wrong direction (towards me), which doesn't make the climbing any easier, or funner. But, you get what you get and I'm happy to be outside.

Rocketing down Pleasant Park to High Grade wasn't as fun as I had hope, and I get this strange feeling that I'm not very high in elevation as I thought I'd be. Usually, when making a trip UP this hill, I feel quite lofty, once making it to the top. The perspective thing, again. A few more downhill turns, and I'm back on the plains, back on the bike path and closing the loop of my ride just yesterday. All that's left is to go from the Southern 'burbs of Denver, to the Northern 'burbs and to home.

Hitting the wall is a funny thing to do on the easiest part of the track, but that's exactly what's happening. Pedaling is slow and the landscape around is hyper familiar and nothing seems very eventful. I get acquainted with traffic and instantly hate it, with the burning fury of a thousands suns. Everyone in a motor vehicle seems overly aggressive. It's close to rush hour. Cycling is such a more civilized mode of transportation. Cars here just seem far larger than utility would find it reasonable and my mind begins it's usual loop of, "happy I live a car free lifestyle" and general prejudice for motorized travel. It's not exactly useful, or productive to think this way, but when tired, the mind does what it does. I'm just happy the hallucinations are over. I spend my time waiting for lights to change, announcing the names of the SUV's I'm stopped in back of, in an overly dramatic voice: "Chevy TaaaaaawHOOOOO!", "GMC YoooKON DINAWWWWWLEEE!"

My thoughts turn to food, as I have a caloric deficit to work on - part of why I've hit this wall. I make it home alright, and start my food intake - after a shower, with half a pie. Less the 48 hours from when I embark, I'm back home to overly familar settings, a little sad I guess, that I couldn't play outside just a little bit longer. Spring will come soon, and then summer, and this little trip will seem to be just like a warmup for some quite longer adventures, I'm sure.

Gettin' there.

Hikin' down and hallucinating, lost, snow and wind

Gettin' home. Climbing! Wind!

Switchback Magazine #10

2013-03-15T05:59:48Z

Part 1 of an 8,000 word essay by Bryan Schatz (with illustrations by Matthew Burton) on my riding/art/tom-foolery leading up to and through the Tour Divide can be found in the latest issue of Switchback Magazine #10:

Pitch black and frozen in the snow- choked Rockies north of the border, and all Justin Simoni could think of was making it to the cabin. He'd felt the frigid air trying to penetrate his clothes, watched puffs of his labored breathing illuminate and disappear in the night sky; he'd seen the Grizzly tracks stomped into the snow.

Bryan has also now made Part 1 available on his own site - I encourage you to check out the print/digital download from Switchback - I got my copies at the Tattered Cover, here in Denver.

Part 2 is now up on Switchback's site

As always, I want to thank the people involved, especially Bryan Schatz for his interest, curiosity, and in getting in touch with me for the sit down interviews, as well as taking on the Herculean effort of shifting through the hours of recordings we conjured up.

I also cannot (will never be able to) thank enough all the people who have helped me on my wanderings, races and (mis)adventures, for without their help, I'd never be able to take on these crazy zen-like experiments on the bike, on foot, or in my head.

January Hill Walks

2013-01-31T21:32:41Z

Cross racing season ended for me around December with the State Championships, where I managed to do fairly OK, as I did for most of the races I entered. 45 minutes of racing is certainly not my sweet spot. I felt like a marathon runner, doing a 100 meter dash, which is somewhat close to reality. Some hilarious photos of "Bearded Man, in a Skinsuit" though, like this one:

Although, my teammate walks away with the best, "in a skinsuit, racing cyclocross photo", as well as winning the Big Air competition,

Cyclocross was tons of fun, but pricey and it's gotta be said: them Boulderites sure take their racin' seriously. Lots of things, learned though. I opted not to travel to Nationals, although I "won" transportation to it - I sorta felt like I'd just embarrass myself - there's some fast people I don't want to fall onto.

Since the beginning of the New Year, I've been working on some new outdoor regiments, adding some hill walking, trail running and bouldering to my usual mix of, "Ride all over the place". Been fun to re-re-revisit climbing and great to get back into the mountains. The problem is now, how to fit everything in, without going crazy. There's reasons I've started trail running and hill walking. And climbing - they have to do with future summer projects, which I'm not quite yet ready to announce. Lots of days of doubling or even tripling up "practices".

So, for example, run up and down a mountain, and then visit the rock gym (riding there, of course). Or, cycle to something, run up and down it, hit the rock gym. Or, ride the 20 miles with a heavy pack to the meetup spot - and oh: top out the hill 2,500 foot hill climb right before, grab a ride to the trailhead, walk up and down something, ride the 20 miles home, with a slightly lighter pack - You get the idea. Pretty killer for endurance, and hell if I want to be on a trainer at all this winter.

My running is getting better, fast, as I hoped it would. My cardiovascular system should be, how do you say, "well developed", and only my muscles need somewhat of a re-tune for the specific types of forces they're needed. I've never been a super strong runner, and I doubt I ever will. A half marathon is still scarier than taking on a 100 mile trail run. Not saying I'll ever do either, in any "official" race. Blech.

Climbing is also getting better, fast, but I'm assuming I'll hit some sort of plateau. I was a pretty ridiculous rock-jock half a lifetime and 35lbs lighter ago, so it's been a rediscovering of old ways of understanding problems, which is in of itself an interesting experience. But again, my interest is to simply become an adequate dude on the moderate route, rather than be something to excel towards - no multi-pitch big walls in my dreams. But there's a reason I'm going to the gym, and it's under wraps. For now.

Some photos of some hill climbs:

Solo on Greys/Torreys - cold day. Drove to the trail head. Shameful.

Group trip up Mt. Yale, having since shaved for the New Year:

Casual hike up Mt. Sherman, this is pocketing the little bonus side trip of Gemini Peak:

The next thing on the calendar looks to be a 150 mile gravel grinder in early April, so Feb/March may see my attempt to put in some long rides. I'd like to win something like that ride, although it's a little unclear to me how fast I can go for 150 miles. It was a surprise to see how fast I could go for 50 miles. I know a 150 mile distance is well within my abilities, it's just still a retune for me to do it fast, rather than be in the mindset that I need to do it fairly quickly, but still have legs to do the same thing the next day (and the next, and the next). Funny thing, this endurance thing.

Reasons to Love Denver

2012-12-04T01:40:59Z

I've lived in Colorado for almost 14 years straight; and Denver for most of those years. I could move anywhere, but for over a decade, I've been here. What keeps me around?

Happy to be able to help Randal Bellows III with this photo shoot, doing something I simply love to do: riding around on my bicycle, in the city.

Mile High Urban CX Chaos EXTREME!!!

2012-11-13T09:30:19Z

Denver finally hosted its own CX race, in my old neighborhood, even - I've lived on both 36th/Marion and 35/Brighton.

I got to the scene late - even though my race was at 1:20pm or something (1: I can't count, and 2: I sleep in), and found myself sprinting to the start line still in my jeans, with pockets filled with loose change, my phone and my keys, as well as a fixed-geared bike. Well, whatever - I rolled with it (just didn't, you know, COAST). The below video does a pretty nice job expressing the atmosphere of racing in the industrial side of town, next to the train depot. It also does a nice job making me look as if I'm competent at racing - you'll spot me with the blue/white/red jacket, black Surly Cross Check (fixed) - mostly running, and the big beard, poking out of my grey helmet.

Thanks for everyone that put the race together, and thanks to Icebreaker for sponsoring our team's table, which was set up at a hairpin turn, perfect for good faith-heckling and beer handouts - as well as the unofficial single speed skidding competition (it is an urban race, after all), which garnered me the new nickname, "Si-MONEY"

An Unlikely, "Win" at the Boulder Ultra Cross

2012-11-11T07:22:53Z

A dude named, Shane decided to map out, and put on a 50-odd mile, Ultra Cross race one Sunday, when the regular cyclocross races were far away in Fort Collins and more expensive than usual (they're always pretty expensive). His was free. So I, with most of the rest of the Happy Coffee team, decided to participate.

Well, it just so happens, I managed to win the damn thing. On a single speed Surly Crosscheck. FEEL MY LEGS!

Here's going up the 18% grade of Lick Skillet where I also somehow won the King of the Mountain:

Shane's take on putting on the Boulder Ultra Cross
Boulder Ultra Cross on Mountain Bike Radio (I call in, to yammer about a few things)
Levi's ride report

It was a nice scrimmage, and I was happy to put in a good showing after getting my ass handed to me, each and every weekend on each and every cyclocross race. Winning a 50 minute race against Cat 1/semi-pros hiding in the Single Speed category with the rest of us one-gear riff-raffs just ain't going to ever happen, but when the miles get longer and the terrain gets more varied, I certainly have the right experience to push against.

I also did my homework; pre-riding the course a few days before, and resting up, for a few days afterwards. It was luck that I didn't experience a mechanical and it was just pure adrenaline when it came to how I was able to somehow get up Lick Skillet's 18% grade with a 2:1 gear ratio. If Shane puts this on another race next year, I'll sure try to defend the "title".

I won a record, and a Mexican Coca-Cola in a koozie!

Mountain Playgrounds

2012-10-22T05:06:13Z

Mt Evans

Route + Elevation Profile (clockwise) - View on Strava

The idea was certainly simple enough:

The road that travels up to the summit of Colorado Springs' resident 14er, Pikes Peak (neé heey-otoyoo) @ 14,115 feet would be open to bicycle travel for the first time for an extended period: the entire month of September on an exploratory basis. In the recent past, the road has only been open for one day, for a bicycle race up to the top.

This road needed to be ridden to, from Denver and summited, before the end of September came; before the road was again closed to such noble of transportation options.

But of course, that wouldn't be enough. Riding to Pikes Peak and back is something I've done before - twice in fact - once to Barr trailhead in Manitou Springs, and then hiking the Barr Trail to summit, and then back to Denver; once to try to ride unsuccessfully ride around the mountain. It would be most adventurous to link it up with another road that goes to the summit of yet another 14er: Mt Evans @ 14,265 feet. Start in Denver, ride to Pikes Peak, ride to Mt. Evans, ride back to Denver. Had anyone tried this, before?

I couldn't confirm that anyone had. If the road to one isn't open in a flexible schedule for travel by bike, it makes things difficult. To have it open for 30 days, in September - where the weather in the high parts of the state starts to turn a bit nasty, why would anyone want to? I smelled a chance for some disaster-style riding.

The gear would be simple, no-frills, light weight, dependable.

The bike: Surly Crosscheck, which I've been using for racing the cyclocross season, somewhat non-seriously. I just can't take racing all that seriously.

But, it's a frame I've ridden through 9 countries in less years. No fancy drivetrain. Just two rings up front, a 38t and a 34t and a flip flop hub dingle-cog-duo out in back - one side with a freewheel; 19t/17t courtesy of White Industries and the other side, fixed: 17t/21t, courtesy of Surly. Any simpler, and I'd be going single-speed. Want to change gears? Time to flip the bike upside-down, take out a wrench, loosen things up, move over the chain, tighten everything up, and flip 'er back over. Surely that'll get me up two of the highest paved roads in the state. The country.

The sleep system: my modified Tour Divide setup. A 20 degree down bag to replace whatever random 45 degree bag I packed. Bivvy sac, instead of a tent. Bringing along the footprint of my tent, to use as a tarp, if the weather should turn wet.

Niceties: Jet Boil stove, latched to the right leg of my fork, care of Salsa's Anything Cage. A few warmer clothes for some colder nights.

And maybe, if there's something else in the way, I'll bring along my trail running shoes. To invite a little more spontaneity.

I decided to invite Elliot along - he's been traveling around Europe for the past 3 months climbing the famous passes in the Alps. I told him the idea, the travel philosophy (light and fast, but no so fast as to not take photos) and to see if he'd like to come. He did. On the very last week we could try before the road was closed again to bikes, we started out.

To make things easy, we could have taken lighter-weight road bikes, riding on more direct roads up, and down these mountains, while staying in motels at night. But, such a path would be busy with motor vehicle traffic, not so easy on the eyes and for lack of a better word: boring; We'd be often repeating the same route in reverse to get from Pikes, back to the Denver area, and then repeat the route up and down Mt. Evans. Not for this trip. We'd sleep wherever there was enough cover to do so without being found. We'd take quieter, more interesting routes.

Highlands neighborhood, Denver, Tuesday September 25th at ~ 4:30pm. We met up, talked some nervous energy out and starting our ride towards Waterton Canyon, and the start of the Colorado Trail: a singletrack route that can take you all the way to Durango, if you'd like to. Set up camp a few miles from the beginning at, "Lenny's Rest Bench", to give ourselves a good position for the next day, where we'd try to ride all the way to the tollbooth of the Pikes Peak Highway. Camping at the Bench is a simple affair - one of the closest places from Denver you can free camp. The glow of the city is still very much visible from the end of the canyon. A nice prologue to what could be a very difficult ride. A few miles on road, a few on an isolated bike path and a few miles in the dark and mist on single track.

Elliott, Colorado Trail

The next morning, we took the Colorado Trail to the end of Segment 1 and in reality: the furthest I've ever gone on the Colorado Trail, even though I've toyed with the idea of seeing the trail to its end. Another time. The trail is in great shape, but our bikes aren't really the best rigs for the route. Loaded down with gear and with skinny, cyclocross tires, rather than a mountain bike with suspension, the going was at times challenging.

West Pine Creek Road

A little before lunch time, we were done with segment 1 of the Colorado Trail, and bid it farewell, taking a series of connector roads (Platte River Road -> W Pine Creek Road -> HWY 67) to the start of Rampart Range Road, a dirt road route that takes you all the way to Woodland Park and a few miles to the tollbooth of the Pikes Peak Road. At this time of year, and in the middle of the work week, it's a fairly lonely road, with only moto bike enthusiasts riding about the local trails. Woodland Park was only 60 or so miles away, but the sun starts to dip down early this time of the year and the weather was threatening while we made our way in cloudy conditions, with scattered rain clouds we oft bumped into. It also started to be obvious that I was going much faster than Elliot. I waited up every time I lost sight of Elliot. Didn't mind, but I could sense Elliot's frustration.

Rampart Range Road

Made it to the end of Rampart Range Road, as the sun finally went away, and the rain started in earnest. Eating dinner at what seemed to be the only restaurant open, we warmed ourselves, having dessert after dinner and, talked about camping options. Deciding to camp as close to the toll both as possible, we took on Highway 24 at night in the rain and made ourselves towards the toll both and, well, past it, making camp on top of a small rise right next to the toll both. Hoping it wasn't going to rain on us.

The next morning, we backtracked to the toll both, ditching gear nearby to save some weight and made breakfast nearby, waiting for the road to officially open. The tollboth operator offered us coffee and we all chatted. The road seemed to only be open to ~12,000 feet, which was somewhat of downer, as our first and main of two objectives might not even happen. Talking to Elliot, he was good to keep going, no matter how high we would get, so we paid our $10 and headed up.

Pikes Peak

It's a beautiful road, albeit steep. Steeper than most paved mountain routes you encounter in Colorado's mountains. My lowest, and really only gear while riding up was 34:21. Well, I guess it had to work for the next 19 miles...

About halfway up, Elliot told me it was time for me to go on ahead. The weather was obviously turning and he thought he was holding me up, going a bit slower than I, although I told him it was no big deal. But he was pretty insistent and he had a point: if the road wasn't closed to the top yet, it was going to be, pretty soon. So we made our farewells, and I wished him luck. Pedaling my little gear to the top.

The weather got bad at the last batch of switchbacks, but I didn't encounter any road closures (as if that would stop me). Just keep going, damn the weather, or the steep switchbacks, or however I was going to get down. And before I knew it, I was on top,

Summit, Pikes Peak

Pikes Peak has the slightly odd feature - for a 14,000+ foot mountain, of a gift shop/restaurant on the summit, and I took full advantage of their overpriced food and warm booths. As the weather got worse outside, I ate my share of cafeteria food, waiting for a break in the clouds to hurtle myself downwards. It kept snowing, as I finished my coffee. A park ranger stationed on top kept me abreast with the weather, telling me that a small system was leaving, but an even larger system was quickly advancing. The road was now closed to everyone after ~12,000 feet, I must have just made it through.

Death Switchbacks

Deciding to take my chances, in any break in between that would appear, I decided it was time to leave. The conditions were not very attractive to riding bikes down steep roads: the precipitation and cold would render rim brakes... not so useful. I changed my gearing to the highest, fixed gear I had and made my way down by carving off speed and skidding off the rest, just like being downtown, but I was definitely not downtown of anywhere. A slightly awkward affair, but no one else was on the road, it was fun, enough.

Smile.

Back near the toll both in one piece, I grabbed my cached gear, and Elliot left a note, saying he was going to bed up near Manitou Springs, to try again, later in the week. Made my way back to Woodland Park to wolf down dinner and figure out the route to the next destination: Guanella Pass. I could have gone from Woodland Park to Evergreen and from there, up to Squaw Pass, which would deliver me right to the start of the Mt Evans Highway and 13 or so miles to the top of Mt. Evans, but that'd be too easy, now, wouldn't it? Why not ride over Guanella Pass, and go around Mt. Evans from the West, continuing clockwise in a great spiral tour around the entire Evans massif, before reaching the top?

The weather cleared as I started on HW67. Perhaps six cars passed me, as I made myself to Deckers. A small tailwind, clear skies, a slight downhill route and an almost full moon accompanied me. Bidding farewell to the pavement, and turning onto Wigwam Creek Rd and back onto dirt. Bedded down for the night under one of the few remaining trees in a enormous burn area from the Hayman Fire.

The Castle, Lost Creek Wilderness

Woke up, rode for a few hours, before realizing I had made a wrong turn the night before, after ending up at a trailhead giving access to the Lost Creek Wilderness. A wonderful place to get lost. Incredible scenery, roads, terrain. Took notes from the small map of the area at the trail head, Wrote down the campsites I needed to pass, and which ones to avoid. Made it to Bailey/HWY 285 on the Colorado Trail Wilderness detour route (more Colorado Trail Race reconnoitering) alright. Ate another huge lunch and onto HW 285: busy, no shoulder and miserable. To be avoided on bike, at all costs.

Onto Guanella Pass. Aspen leaves were exploding and the traffic of photographers trying to save the event followed. A wonderful ride; starts as a gravel road, become a nearly paved part to the top and trailhead to Squaretop Mountain (elevation: 13,794 feet) and Mt. Bierstadt (elevation: 14,065 feet). I was starting to feel the effort of this trip and was excited to reach the top of the pass, as clouds and inevitably precipitation came creeping up from the valleys, to the top of the pass. Tonight was to be a honest to goodness full moon, and it seemed worth it to gamble with staying on top, wait out whatever weather was approaching, and see if the clouds would lift, to gain the summit of Bierstadt in the middle of the night.

Storm over Bierstadt

It didn't look likely. Clouds enveloped me and rain - then hail began to fall. Being above treeline, there wasn't much in terms of shelter. I tied one side of my tarp to the actual trail head sign for Squaretop Mountain, and the other side to my bicycle frame and made camp right there. I didn't expect much traffic in and out. Made my dinner and my tea; set the alarm for 'round midnight and gave myself an early bed-down, as soon as the sun also gave it up for the day.

Hail yeah

To my surprise, the midnight sky was clear enough, as the moon was bright enough to make getting up unavoidable with a proper shelter. I half expected groups of people to take on a midnight hike up the mountain, but as far as I knew, I had the mountain to myself, taking my own route up, no headlight on, and not saying a word. Summitted without fanfare, and then walked back down and went back to sleep, until sun up.

Midnight, full moon, on top of Bierstadt

Rocketed back down the north side of Guanella Pass and into Georgetown (trying not to freeze my hands off, or slip on the early-morning patches of ice), having breakfast at my favorite spot, Mountainbuzz Café and Pizzeria. They have never once reacted to my sorry, smelly, wind-burnt and/or rain-soaked state, any time I've collapsed into their restaurant to warm myself in front of their ovens and change out of my drenched clothing in their bathrooms. After breakfast and a costume change, I asked for a packed lunch and headed - well, not east towards Mt. Evans, but west, towards the Grays Peak Trailhead.

To me at least, it seemed silly to be so close to Grays and Torreys (elevation: 14,278 ft and 14,275 ft, respectively) and not take the quick ride up from the winter trailhead, to the summer trailhead and bag them, while I'm in the area. Make it three ascents for the day. My wonderful loneliness on Bierstadt, was harshly contrasted by the crowds on Grays/Torreys. I didn't want to do much, except hike the mountains, eat some lunch and get down to Idaho Springs for dinner, so I set myself a brisk pace and had a little walkabout up these peaks.

Looking down Dead Dog, Torreys

Thankfully, the frontage road from the trailhead, back to Idaho Springs and the start of the last leg of the trip - the final track of tremendous elevation gain and loss itself started with a gentle downhill of a few thousand feet. Ate dinner at a diner and got some supplies - batteries, candy, food for the morning, at a gas station and made my way - slowly, up the Mt. Evans Highway. My goal was to reach Echo Lake by the end of the night, and ride the last 13 miles up Mt. Evans in the morning. Slow going on exhausted legs. Every two miles - then every mile, I would stop at the mile marker itself to rest, stretch and breathe. The road is less than 5% grade, it's just that I'd been on so many grades like this in the past week and with my lack of gears and the weight of all my equipment - well, no reason to make excuses, I was just getting tired.

Made camp at the (closed) campsite right by the Mt. Evans tollbooth. The road itself was also officially closed, but no one's gonna stop someone on a bicycle. At around mile #5, I was greeted by three men in their 20's walking down; no backpacks, no water, no equipment - nothing. I couldn't explain it. Passed one man on a mountain bike wearing some sweats and got passed by a road cyclist that's much more serious than I was. Other than that, the mountain was all mine. From the summit parking lot, I carried the bike to the actual summit of the mountain, and took in a few views of Greys, Torreys, and Bierstadt.

Summit of Mt. Evans; Bierstadt to viewer's left, Grays/Torreys to viewers right, far in the distance

The only thing now was to take the momentous 10,000+ feet of elevation loss back to my starting point in the Highlands, and call it good. Amazingly, in less than a week, I was able to ride to, and gain the summit of all the Front Range 14ers, save Longs Peak, which would need a bit more thought, this time of season.

The question I then posed to myself: could you ride to, and then summit all the 54-odd Colorado 14ers in a single go, in a self-supported manner? It seemed likely you could, but I currently cannot find anyone that has. And if you could, could I?

Westword Cover Story

2012-08-01T21:16:33Z

If you're in Denver, find yourself a Westword and check out the cover story! It's also online for your reading pleasure.

We're packing up the short bus as we speak for the West Coast! Denver! I'll see you in a few weeks. West Coast, I'll see you tomorrow!

The list of people I have to thank to make my two Tour Divide's possible is longer than one can imagine, so here I thank everyone out there for your help, encouragement, support, and most importantly: patience. This wasn't something I could have done myself. I appreciate every last one of you - you're all the one's that inspire me.

A well-deserved break and a needed change of pace

2012-07-26T22:17:59Z

Twenty-Five days since finishing up the Tour Divide, I'm happy to report, I've done really nothing sensationally physical or demanding to my body. All too often, I - like many people who have an extra surplus of energy and stubbornly high pain tolerances, rush much too quickly right into another foolish test of strength, endurance and gas station junk food eating.

This year, I knew it'd be better to just lay low and allow my body to slowly and naturally replenish itself. It's much more than sore knees and abused muscles - so many systems take a major hit. Because of takin' er easy, I haven't gotten that lingering cold that seems to clash so eloquently with the balmy weather, and I haven't severely burned myself out on riding bikes. I almost now, miss riding bikes, but I can tell I have no top end yet and any long ride is just going to be miserable.

Not to say I haven't been on a bike - other than the day of travel from NM back to CO, I've been off the bike a total of... uh - one day. But, it's been nice to take off the, 16+ hours/120 miles hat and to simply become a commuter of 10 or so miles total from the 'burbs to downtown where the coffee shops live that I haunt.

I actually won't be on a bike for any appreciable amount of time, for another week or so - certainly nothing overnight - as I'm about to head out next week and join a highly cacophonic (made up word: cacophony + phonic ), noisy, experimental performance group to the West coast for a few weeks. Our dates are listed here and I hope to see you - if you plan to come, please drop me a line, as I'd love to meet you before/after the shows!

I'll most likely bring a pair of running shoes and do some cross-training in the wee hours before we start the bus to the next venue, to help out before cyclocross season happens. But, a little bit more rest sounds good to keep the burn-out at bay.

There's some interesting news that will drop in the next week as well, but I'll let that be a surprise to most.

Tour Divide Interview, whilst racing the Tour Divide

2012-07-09T20:41:17Z

Justin Simoni speaks of the challenges of riding the Tour Divide mountain bike race as he works on his bike at The Outdoorsman in Butte, MT.

Kelley Mattingly and I did a fairly casual interview about the Tour Divide, training, etc while I was at the Outdoorsman, outfitting my bike for some drier terrain, with less changes of resupply that I was to hit up in the coming days. Enjoy.