Hot Off The Press!

The second volume of the Cordillera is out and is available for purchase right now!  Editor and all-around great dude Eric Bruntjen heard your thirsty cries for a second dose of ultra-human kickassery and has delivered yet again.  This sophmore edition features MORE action!  MORE mystery!  MORE tales of true adventure!  SAME awesomeness!  Or so I assume with 100% confidence, as I have not gotten my grubby hands on it yet.  (Godspeed men and women of the postal service!)  Hey, the clicky was 8 sentences ago…what are you still doing here?!  You want this book….you need this book!  And best of all, the proceeds from your purchase will go towards the college fund of Linnaea Blumenthal, daughter of our bikepacking brother, Dave Blumenthal, who lost his life on the Divide last year.  A noble cause, a magnificent collection….do you need another reason?  Get yours today! 

The End?

Sigh.  Here it goes.

With just over a month until it’s time to leave for Banff, my Tour Divide bid is unraveling before my eyes. 

In my piece “Epic Evolution” in The Cordillera vol I, I coined a term that describes the ungodly number of things that must “go right” in order for a Tour Divide hopeful to even make it to the start line.  That term is “The Unshackling.”  It represents the sometimes monumental struggle of finding LOTS of time away from work, family, finances, societal responsibilities, and the “gotchas” of everyday life which, collectively, define the reality that you’ve built for yourself over years and years and years.  You are woven into the fabric of your own life, and it’s only when you try to leave it for a little while that you realize just how strongly embedded you are. 

Over the last couple of weeks, I have realized that I forgot to include injuries and physical ailments under the umbrella of The Unshackling.   If you want to endure for 2700+ miles, your bones/joints/muscles/digestive system, etc, had better be healthy.  Pre-existing conditions must be dealt with, and bodily injuries must be treated and eradicated long before race time. 

Well, two such conditions have “blessed” me in recent weeks.  I won’t go into them here…I’m not going to be the guy who bores you into oblivion with a detailed battery of all his hurts and afflictions.  Let’s just say that they are both of a nature that (barring some sort of miracle) I’m not going to beat anytime soon.  Racing the TD with either of them still hanging around would be painful and, potentially, even perilous. 

I’m not counting myself out yet.  I do have a chance.  Slim, but a chance.  As hard as I’ve been working and training for this race, I want to afford myself every opportunity to make a miraculous recovery.  I will continue to prepare for the TD, see a lot of doctors, control what I can, and hope for the best.  If, in a couple weeks or so, I have not dramatically improved, I’ll withdraw my name from the Start List and go into fan mode.  Lots of good Texans to cheer for this year. 

Until I make that decision, the blog will most likely be pretty silent.  Fellow TD’ers, I hope you are getting in your long multi-days, nailing down your route research, and configuring your final final final gear lists!  I still hope to see you there!

In Memory of Dave Blumenthal

Tour Divide racer Dave Blumenthal, 37, passed away yesterday from injuries sustained in a collision with an oncoming pickup truck on a narrow mountain road near Steamboat Springs, CO.  I had  met Dave twice in the days before the race, once at The Ski Stop after he’d been riding the race course, and again at the cookout the night before the race.  I didn’t know him well, but the impression I took from him was that he was a confident and highly experienced rider.  Reading this link, I see that he was much more than that. 

In my upcoming race blog entries, you are going to see that one of the reasons I quit the race was because of fear.  Being inexperienced in mountain/elevation riding (I mean, I am from Houston, after all), I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect from these mountain roads and passes.  Now, having had a taste of them, I can tell you they are potentially very dangerous.  They are narrow, steep, sometimes rough, with sharp turns and often with downed trees in your way.  Sometimes the side of the road is a cliff falling away into nothingness.  Coming down the very rough Galton Pass in Canada, I reached speeds of over 40 mph as I plummeted into switchbacks.  Although it was exhilirating, I caught myself thinking things like, “What if I round this blind corner and plow straight into a bear?  A car?  A downed tree?  I could die…”  I made it safely down the pass, only to look back and see my riding partner Bob Moczynski crash violently as he rounded one of those sharp turns.  He was lucky.  He only broke his collar bone.

Seeing Bob go down was a giant slap in the face for me.  It was an up close and personal reminder that this race could be deadly, especially for an inexperienced mountain rider.  I thought back to last year, when Pete Basinger also collided with a truck on one of these roads and broke his collar bone.  Pete was as experienced as they come.  It could have been much, much worse for him, and for Bob.  What about a guy like me?  From that point on I was questioning myself and imagining my involvement in undesirable, fateful scenarios.  I was mentally just not the same rider after Bob’s crash. 

Dave Blumenthal was also highly experienced, and I suspect his accident was more flukish than anything.  But it serves to remind us that this can happen to anyone out there.  We are all human, and none of us, not even the experts, are immune to catastrophe. 

My heart goes out to Dave’s family and friends back in Vermont.  This is a tragedy that should never happen to a fellow like him.  He’s one of those guys who I could tell, if I’d known him more personally, my life would have been better for it.  And although this rings a bit hollow for me, I will still say that at least he died doing what he loved.   Dave’s family has asked that, instead of flowers, etc, please donate to the Green Mountain Club in his memory.

To all current and future Tour Dividers, please take it easy out there.    Don’t take unneccessary risks.  I’m not speculating that Dave was taking chances…I rather think he was not.  But if that little voice in your head is telling you to slow down, or to pull over because you’re so sleepy, or to not ride this technical section in the dark, listen to it.  No need to be a hero…you’ll have plenty of time to get your race on without tempting fate. 

Rest well, Dave, and thanks for being you.

Huston, We Have Liftoff!

This is it.  The time has come.  The long, brutal hours of training, the endless research, the perpetual agonizing over gear…it is all finished.  My singular, two year grind towards this moment in time has come to an end, and finally, I stand on the precipice of the most extraordinary adventure of my life.  At long last, it is time to carve my own amazing saga into the pages of history.

The toughest mountain bike race on Earth begins in 7 days, and I’ll be all up in it.  Here are the two important links for tracking racers:

The Tour Divide online leaderboard:  http://tourdivide.org/leaderboard

MTBCast, where racers call in and leave recorded messages during the race:  http://mtbcast.com/

Also, I am still gratefully accepting your generous donations, as the costs of this behemoth of a race continue to mount.  Click here to donate. 

I’m having a little trouble sorting through my emotions right now.  Obviously, I am ultra excited to have finally arrived at this point, but a plethora of mixed feelings are swirling around inside me as well.  Nervousness, anxiety, jubilation, fear…they all have their moments in the forefront.  I expected as much as “The Riding Hour” drew near. 

However, one feeling I didn’t count on was disbelief.  I just can’t believe that I am about to become one of those guys that I’ve always wished I could be.  A guy who I’d only ever read about before while longing from afar to be in his shoes.  A guy who waved goodbye to normalcy and went off to accomplish something great, something magical, something impossible.  You always wonder what it would be like to be that guy.  You hang on that guy’s every word, his every story, because he has experienced something that you yearn to experience as well, but probably will never.   Your soul lives through that guy while your body sits in a cubicle.

I left my cubicle.  I am about to become that guy. 

It’s just so surreal.  Getting to this point has been my goal for so very long that it feels weird to finally stand on the threshold.  I still feel like I should be training next week, going over gear, researching the route, things like that.  I mean, that has been my life’s focus for almost two years.  Now, that ever-present pursuit is gone, and it will never return.  To be sure, it is about to be replaced by something greater, but it feels like I just gave birth, and now I miss the baby that was growing inside my body!  Sorry to get all amniotic on you, but its an accurate way to describe what it feels like.  

I have been asked by many people if I feel “ready.”  This is a difficult question to answer.  How could anyone ever be truly ready for an extreme undertaking of this epic magnitude?  Veteran riders say the only way you can truly be “ready” for the Tour Divide is by actually racing the Tour Divide.  When your body stops fighting you and realizes you are just going to keep pushing it harder every single day… when your mind finally relents and clears itself of cumbersome, worldly thoughts in favor of just one simple precept: “ride, ride, ride”… when your bones, your muscles, your brain, and your spirit are forced to succumb to the shocking rigors that you have thrust upon them, and everything that is you slowly harmonizes to become one big, efficient  pedaling machine…only then can a person be truly ready for this race.  Hopefully that will happen with me!  Until it does, I can say only that I have trained hard, mentally and physically, and now I can but saddle up, clip myself in, and hope for the best as I ride into the dawn of adventure.

My bike is boxed, and my gear is packed.  I have a few loose ends to wrap up over the weekend, and then on Monday, my wife and I blast off for Canada.  In all likelihood, this will be my last post until after the race.  I’d like to say that I’ll post from Canada, but I suspect I will be too busy.  And I just don’t see myself posting from towns during the race.  I know how I feel after riding 120+ miles in a day, and it ain’t “typey!”

And so, friends, family, and fans of the race, I hope you have enjoyed my unlikley story up to  this point, and I hope you have a great time watching the action!  Fate willing, I will have a monumental tale of triumph to regale you with in a months time.  Thanks for reading, and thanks to everyone who has offered me support and encouragment.  I couldn’t have made it here without you.

This is Tony Huston,  Tour Divide 2010 racer, signing off.

A Massacre For The Ages!

That’s me just before the Texas Chainring Massacre….my wife decided to take this picture as I was trying to inconspicuously lube the gooch.  She says it’s the perfect advertisement for Chamois Butt’r.  I say that “Lube the Gooch” would be a great name for a rock band (thanks to Dave Barry for that joke…second post in a row that I’ve stolen it).

I had a great time at the Massacre!  It was only my second real race experience, and my first real completion of such.  The race was a 112 mile off road romp (115 miles by my computer) northwest of Dallas, TX in a small town called Roanoke.  It had originally been scheduled for 3/21, but a veritable blizzard just happened to roll in on that day, bringing snow and an 18 degree wind chill with it.  The promoter mercifully postponed the race, thanks in some part to me and Pat Smith Facebooking him into submission with our wussified pleadings.  Hey, we are from torrid southeast Texas.  We don’t do blizzards. 

The course was basically a big loop running northwest out to Greenwood before coming back around to the starting point at DFW Adventure Park.   I’d guesstimate that it was about 70% off road with the rest being pavement.  Typical of the area, the whole thing was mainly a constant series of rollers….a never-ending up down up down up down up down.  It may as well have been Paris Hilton’s head in a moving vehicle.  Level riding was sparse, and the downhills were torturously fleeting.  Throw in a 30 mph headwind which magically aligned itself with MY face at all times no matter which direction I traveled, and we had ourselves one hellacious race course! 

There were somewhere north of 50 riders, some of whom were opting only to do the 60(?) mile “short route.”   I’m honestly not sure how many of us were riding the long route, as we were not required to declare as much during registration.  We just kind of loosely proclaimed our intentions before the race.  All riders followed the same course up until the oddly named the city of Krum, after which the short route turned left and looped back to the park.  Those of us seeking more punishment turned right. 

But, like a doctor might say to a woman giving birth, I’m getting ahead.  Let me get back to the start of the race.  (Yeah, I know…that was bad) 

As we listened to the race promoter, Kevin Lee, explain the rules, I observed the other riders.  In very noticeable attendance was a group of Big Pig Racing team members.  Most of them were large dudes with ample girth, leaving me to wonder if this is how their club name came into being, and if I should go ask to join them.  But there were some “standard” cycling bodies among them as well, both guys and gals, as well as a giant costume pig head which they took turns wearing.  My wife spoke to one of the female Pigs and found out that she was still drunk from the previous night’s tequila binge.  Not hung over, mind you.  DRUNK.  Apparently the Pigs like to party hard the night before a race.  Yeah, I definitely think I should ask about joining. 

The other most noticeable thing was that most people were on cyclocross bikes, and there were even some road bikes mixed in.  I’d known that this would be the case beforehand, since Kevin Lee had stated that the course had become hardpacked enough over the last few weeks that it had become doable on these pansy rigs.  (I call them pansy rigs because I can’t afford to buy one anytime soon)  This pretty much killed the far-fetched fantasy I had of winning the race on my meaty 29er. 

There was no official “GO!”  As Kevin Lee began winding down the rules, guys just started taking off.  I couldn’t fathom how this was fair, seeing as how there was a $750 winner take all prize at stake.  Had I believed I had a shot at winning, I think I’d have been pretty hot about the lack of organization and allowing these guys to get a head start. 

Pulling out of DFW Adventure Park, we immediately hit the roughest dirt road of the entire race, and just like that, distances began widening out.  I am not ashamed to admit that I fell into that “balls out” crowd and started pushing way too hard out of the gate.  I knew I was doing it, and I knew I couldn’t sustain it, but I couldn’t stop myself.  I was amped.  “I promise I won’t do this in the Tour Divide…I promise I won’t do this in the Tour Divide.”  I comfortably chalked it up to being a rookie.

As I dutifully kept pace with the CX’ers, I was complimented on my setup for the 3^rd time by another rider.  I was very surprised by these compliments, as I had fully expected to receive nothing but weird looks.  I had my Epic frame bag with tools, food and water in it (no Camelbak). I was the only rider with a frame bag.  Also as far as I could see, I was the only fella with clip-on aerobars and a GPS attached to the handlebars.  In addition, I was testing my brand new SPOT messenger, compliments of Pat Smith.  I had it affixed to the back of my frame bag.  I felt like an oddball, but people were calling my setup “smart.” 

It was pretty apparent right away that the wind had decided to be a gigantic bastard today.  As I stubbornly labored against it’s brutal onslaught, I cursed my thick upper body for its inability to slice through wind gusts like the smaller guys out in front of me.  Somewhere between 12 and 15 miles in, I gave up the blistering pace and watched the CX’ers ever so gradually disappear from view.  Now, I was alone, somewhere in between the fastest guys and everyone else.  I felt pretty good about the position…”At least I am the leader out of all the mountain bikers!” I proudly told myself. 

That was about to change, though, as the Big Pigs came rumbling up behind me.  About half their contingent, anyway.  I reckoned that the biggest of the Pigs were suffering mightily a mile or three behind.  This group chatted casually among themselves as they gained ground, then just as casually fell into drafting position behind me.  For those who may not know, drafting is a technique where one or more cyclists line up directly behind a lead cyclist and let him bear the brunt of the wind resistance, thereby allowing the trailing rider(s) to expend less energy.

Although no longer a distance rookie, I am still a race rookie.  I’d never been drafted before, if that’s even how you say that, and for some reason I never even thought about the possibility of it happening to me.  It was somewhat of a shock to see this dude right on my back tire with a line of Pigs behind him.  For a moment I nervously wondered what I should do.  I mean, I wasn’t on this guy’s team and had not been asked to ease his load, and I was certainly not offered a turn behind him later on.  Should I speed up?  Slow down?  Should I pull one of those movie car chase deals where I slam on my brakes and let them shoot past me?  Hey, if I hocked a loogie right now….

I decided I’d just kept riding at the same pace, figuring they’d eventually slingshot past me, and they did.  Even the slight little blonde girl on her niner.  Ouch.  I’d been “chicked.” 

Well two can play at this game, I thought.  I picked up my pace to match theirs and fell in behind one of their large Pig rumps.  Now, I was drafting.   First time I’d ever done it.  It was nice, I guess, but for some reason, I felt like I was cheating.  I dunno…it just felt dirty to me.  Perhaps because he farted on me.  Drafting is not allowed in the TD, which is what I’m really training up for anyway, so I didn’t see a good reason to continue doing it here.  I fell out from behind the big farting fellow and let them move a little ways ahead, figuring to keep them within attack distance, for no other reason than I feel extremely cool and sexy saying “I figured I’d keep them within attack distance.”

The course continued to alternate between rock strewn dirt roads and pavement, and it was marked at every turn with either fluorescent arrows that had been spray painted into the ground or by little arrow placards tacked to trees.  However, at a handful of juntures, there was nothing.  Either the placard had gone missing or the organizers had forgotten to mark the turn.   At one unmarked junction, the Pigs, who seemingly refused to split up, all stopped and began looking around, wondering which way to go.  From behind them, I saw their confusion, took a quick glance at my Dakota for the correct direction, and hammered down.  I rocketed past them, giving them a courteous “this way” as I cranked it out, determined to use their indecision to distance myself from them.  That plan was ruined, however, at the next junction, where I had to wait for a very busy road to clear.  The Pigs caught up to me there, and we all chatted as we waited for traffic to die off.

From there we played leap frog up until the bailout option for the short route.  Half of them took that route, and it suddenly made sense to me why those big old boys had been pushing harder than they should have, at least in my non-expert opinion.  It was because they didn’t have as far to go. 

From that point, the remaining Pigs pretty much left me behind.  I reckoned now that their slower riders were no longer in the group, they could throttle down a little more, and they did.  Soon, I was alone, and I didn’t mind a bit.  After so many weeks of training in solitude for the TD, it was like putting on a comfortable pair of house shoes.  I gave up the single-minded focus of keeping up with the Pigs.  Now, 40-some-odd miles into the route, I suddenly had a mind to enjoy my surroundings.  As if I’d just been teleported there, I became aware of the rolling green farmlands, the yellow fields of daisies, the glassy stares of pasture animals, and the fresh, unspoiled air, and it all brought a smile to my face.  The wind fought valiantly to erase it, but it could not.  Now, I was riding MY race.

By the by I passed up two Pigs changing out a tube on one of their CX bikes.  I was a bit surprised the others had gone ahead, seeing as how they seemed to all stick together.  A little later, the two fellows I had passed caught back up and were in the process of passing me again when one of them had another mechanical.  As they both stopped yet again, I kept on truckin,’ content with the slightly slower pace on a more reliable bike.   

About 50 miles into the route, I came to the “halfway point” of the 115 mile course, a tiny little unincorporated commuinty called Greenwood.  We were required to check in at a little general store there and pick up an orange zip tie.  When I pulled up, the Pigs that had dusted me were all there hanging out and milling around the store.  I retrieved my zip tie, stretched out a little bit, and bought some supplies, chatting with the other racers.

Now, I had been fueling on junk food throughout my ride, taking in 300-500 calories an hour, as I had been carrying Little Debbies and other goodies in my frame bag.  These guys hadn’t eaten anything, or at least I had not witnessed it.  Surely they were more depleted and fatigued than I was.  When the two Pigs I had left behind with the mechanical pulled up and they all reunited, I sensed an opportunity.  They were going to eat, talk, and rest, and I wagered that the time was going to get away from them as they socialized.  I heard one of them talk about ordering hamburgers.

I rapidly packed my shit and saddled up.  I was going to beat these fuckers.

I mean “fuckers” in the best sense of the word, of course.  Every Pig I talked to was a cool cat.  But I wanted to be able to say that this little old niner-riding rookie beat a bunch of race team guys on cross bikes. 

I left that store and hammered down as much as I dared.  I did not want to hear another spinning wheel coming up on my rear the whole rest of the race. 

It was after 12:00 now, and the day was heating up.  The headwind had not eased a whit, and in fact,  seemed even stronger now.  And the rollers just got steeper and steeper.  I had to resort to full granny gear regularly, and I was forced to dismount a few times as well.  I grinded and grinded for the next few hours, checking my backside every so often to see if there were any pigs back there riding me.  In this way, perhaps I was like Paris Hilton.  

Soon, the brownies I’d been baking were done….they were done in a very insistent and powerful way.  They wanted out of the oven….NOW.  Of course, I was on a farm road lined by fences and thick foliage on both sides, meaning that if I so dared, the deed would have to be done in plain view.  Cars were sparse…if I was quick about it, maybe…but no, I had no TP with me.  I just had to press on until I saw a convenience store, whenever that might be.  I resolved to keep struggling with the oven door, trying mightily to keep it closed.  No sooner had I done so that I spied a blue hand towel lying in the dirt.  My fingers toyed with the brakes….dare I?  Surely I could clean it off enough just for one good swipe…??  I thought of what my wife might say if she knew what I was thinking….I moved on.

It was a good hour or more before I came to a small patch of civilization with a convenience store.  My customary dread about leaving my bike outside unattended was nowhere to be found as I roared into the doors like a tidal wave and crushed a path to the sweet white porcelain throne.   On the way out , I snagged a chocolate milk and a readymade order of chicken fingers and fries.  They were not delicious, but I savaged them hastily and saddled back up.  Still no Pigs.

Regaining the course, of which I figured there was about 30 miles left, I turned south back on to a rocky dirt road and was met with this giant orange message that had been painted into the ground:  Hammer Time.  I assumed that it was not painted by an MC Hammer fan.  However, I could not hammer any more than I’d already been hammering.    The promise of rumbling Pigs in my rear had kept me hammering for many a mile now. 

I cranked out the remaining stretch until I got to within 7 miles of the finish, and I just had to stop for a few minutes.  The legs had been groaning at me for the shocking lack of rest I’d afforded them during this race.  On my long TD training rides, my custom was to get off the bike every 15 or 20 miles, have something to eat, take pictures, etc.  Now, for the first time ever, it was balls out all day.  Time enough for rest later on.  But I could resist no more.  The legs just hurt, and I had to give them a quick break. 

No sooner had I stopped and turned up my water bottle than a sonofabitchin’ Pig zoomed past me.  Scared the shit out of me too.  Where had he come from?  I’d been checking my back for miles and never saw anyone.  My attention had obviously slipped.  I tried to catch back up to him, but he was in sprint mode, and I couldn’t match him.  Well done Pig, well done. 

I pulled back into DFW Adventure Park with a finishing time of 9 hours, 55 minutes.  My computer had clocked just over 115 miles.  There was no official check in or recording of my time…just a congratulations and a Guiness from Kevin Lee, and that was that.  The winner, Chris Powers, had come in at 5 hours and 57 minutes.  Holy Shit.  He definitely deserved the $750 with a time like that.

All in all, I was quite happy with my first real race performance.  Most of all, I’d had fun.  Secondly, I’d beaten several Pigs, who came in at various times after me, as well as many other riders who came in with times of more than 12 hours.  I’d also successfully tested some new gear, that being my SPOT Messenger and my new WTB Rocket V SLT saddle.  The SPOT worked beautifully, as I had some “fans” following my progress the whole way.  The saddle feels pretty good, and will feel even better, I think, with a little more break-in time. It should be a “go” for the Tour Divide.   

Thanks to my long time buddy Joe Kennedy and his wife Kat for being gracious hosts.  In an amazingly fortunate weaving of fate, they had recently moved from New Jersey to an apartment literally five minutes away from the race site.  We didn’t have to waste money on a hotel, and we had great company.  Thanks also to Pat Smith for the donation of the awesome SPOT messenger.  He was supposed to race the Massacre with me, but he was sent to Trinidad on business.  Apparently he feels that a “JOB” is more important than riding bikes.  Pffft. 

So, next up, a 200 mile, fully loaded ride in Hunstville this weekend!  After that, I’m going to begin my tapering process, gradually decreasing my riding distances to give the legs some rest before the TD.  It has recently come to my attention that there are a few TD’ers who are riding their bikes up to Banff and are going to turn right around and begin the TD.  Damn…those guys are hardcore. 

Here’s the whole picture set…thanks for reading!

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A Vicious Itch

I’m sick of you, Tour Divide.  You’re a demanding, high maintenance bitch.  There, I said it. 

Wait!  I’m sorry, Tour Divide!  I didn’t mean that….please don’t break up with me!  It’s just that, well, for almost two years now…two looooong years…. I’ve practically dedicated my entire life to you.  I get up at 4:30 AM and train in muddy, freezing conditions for you before work.  I leave my family on weekends so I can drive to Hellandback, Texas and simulate you.  I pour my hard earned wages into buying shiny new gear and bike components to please you.  I write about you all the time, I talk about you incessantly, and I’ve risked and sacrificed so very much as I struggle to meet up with you on June 11th, 2010.  And you just sit up there, in Canada, doing nothing.  You haven’t bothered to call me ONCE.

Most humiliating, though, are the looks and the whispers of coworkers and acquaintances who don’t understand my love for you.  Oh, I hear them behind my back…they think I don’t hear them, but I hear them:

“There’s that nut whose gonna race a bicycle across the whole country in the mud, and there’s not even a prize for it.  What does he see it that race?  It’s totally taking advantage of him.  No, I’m not gonna tell him, YOU tell him.”

I don’t know if I can do this anymore, Tour Divide.   I’m tired.  I’m tired of all the riding and the dieting and the buying of all the fancy new XTR cassettes and Nanoraptors for you.  What do I get in return, huh?  More waiting, that’s what!  I used to be happy with the physical rewards I was getting from training, but they have been empty and hollow as the weeks go by without you.  I’m only getting older, Tour Divide.  I can’t keep doing this…I’m sick of it.  I need to know where this is going. 

Look, I WANT you.  I want you badly!  I have a vicious itch that only you can scratch, Tour Divide.  But you have to scratch soon, and HARD, and you have to use both hands.  Or feet.  Or bear claws.  Or whatever the hell you scratch a fella with.  Because all of this waiting around is driving me fucking crazy.  And to borrow a staple from the great Dave Barry, “Vicious Itch” would be a great name for a rock band.  Ha ha, Tour Divide.  Ha ha. 

Hold on a second….I think I know what this is about.  You’re jealous, aren’t you?  You’re jealous that on 5/8 I’m going to compete in the Texas Chainring Massacre, which was postponed from its original date of 3/21.  You think that I’ve been training all this time just for the little old Massacre??  No, Tour Divide, no!  Look, the Massacre means nothing to me!  I mean, I’m going to do her, and I’m gonna ride all 116 miles of her as hard as I can, but I wouldn’t even be doing it if not for you and the inspiration you’ve given me!   Seriously, how could I ever love that little bitty race more than you?  You’re much longer and curvier, and your scenery is infinitely more beautiful.  (grrrooowwwlll!)  The Massacre is just a one time deal, I promise. 

So, what do you think?  Can we make this work?  How about we meet each other halfway?  You make time go by faster somehow, perhaps by inventing galactic wormholes, and I’ll catch the next plane to Canada.   What do you say? 

Bikepacking Big Bend National Park

  This past weekend I made the 12 hour drive to Big Bend National Park in west Texas, where I spent about two and quarter days soaking in my first “true” bikepacking adventure, and it was an unforgettable experience!  The Big Bend area is a mountainous desert region of great beauty and (potentially) even greater danger.  The rugged terrain, extreme climate, and geopolitical concerns of this national park (its southern boundary also serves as the international border between the United States and Mexico) could make life perilous for any lone bikepacker who left  his or her wits at home!  However, for all its unforgiving beauty, Big Bend’s biggest claim to fame is that the majority of Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote cartoons were filmed there.

With the Tour Divide less than two months away, I knew I needed to take my training up another notch.  I’d been spending my previous weekends traveling from my home in southeast Houston to different points in hilly central Texas where I could ride more challenging and less traveled roads.  The weekend before Big Bend, I did a 137 mile loop between Lake Somerville and Bastrop with full TD gear, which was my farthest ever in one day.  My mind, though, was already on greater conquests!  I needed elevation, long climbs, terrific scenery, and complete solitude to really give myself a test.  Big Bend was the only place that fit the bill, since it was the closest place I could drive to without taking off too many days of vacation (I need every bit of vacation time for the TD!).  However, going there alone was not by choice.  A continual sequence of star crossed circumstances has left me partnerless on my training rides for many weeks now, and this trip was no exception.  I was Hall without Oates.  Cookies without cream.  Kim Kardashian without a jungle rump (note to self: find out who Kim Kardashian is) (second note to self: meh, who cares)  Training for the TD has been lonely business indeed, but such is its very nature.  I suppose its best I just get used to it!

The loooooooooong drive there was uneventful except for the fact that I was stopped at a border security checkpoint just west of Sanderson, TX.  In fact, the further west I got, the more border patrol vehicles I saw scouring the roads.  It hit home the stark reality of this excerpt that I’d read on the Big Bend web site:

Visitors should be aware that drug smuggling routes pass through the park. If you see any activity which looks illegal, suspicious, or out of place, please do not intervene. Note your location. Call 911 or report it to a ranger as quickly as possible.

Each year hundreds of people travel north through the park seeking to enter the United States. It is possible you could encounter an individual or small group trying to walk through the park with little or no water

The drug smuggling thing did make me just a tad uneasy, knowing that I was going to be traveling alone on my bike along primitive roads where these guys might decide to show up.  I was frustrated with the lack of detail on the web site.  Were these smugglers typically armed?  Had there been any previous encounters with tourists?  What places should I avoid?  I determined that I’d press the park officials for more detail when I got there.

I also mentally placed myself in morbid situations, like what would I do if I encountered a group of immigrants out in the desolate region north of the Rio Grande, and they had no water, and they were withering in the 100 degree heat, reaching out to me as I rode by?  ”Agua, por favor, agua,” they would beg, but I’d only have just enough to get myself out of there alive.  I’d have no cell reception, no way of getting help for them or for myself.  Would I leave them there?  If I stopped and produced my water, they’d all want some…they’d all want as much as they could get.  It may even turn violent.  They’d endanger my life, but if I just ignored them, they could die. 

Ugh.  I drove myself crazy for a while thinking about it to no avail, and eventually just banished all such thoughts from my brain.  If shit happened out on the trail, I reckoned I’d find out real quick what I would do.

DAY ONE – 20 miles

OK, enough with the unintentionally tasteless appetizer!  On to the juicy meat!  I had hit the road at 4:00 AM Thursday morning and arrived at Big Bend at about 4:00 PM.  I entered through the north entrance and drove 67 miles directly into Panther Junction, and as I stared in wonder at the rocky desert landscape and the Chisos Mountains looming overhead, I had to consciously spur myself onwards.  I was itching to knock the molasses of that 12 hour drive out of my body by getting into the saddle and exploring my new playground. 

First, though, I had to visit headquarters and obtain my backcountry permits.  I’d already planned my itinerary, and figured I shouldn’t have trouble getting the campsites I wanted since I arrived before the weekend crowds.  At the desk, I gave the nice lady my itinerary, made a small change due to one site already being booked, and asked where I could leave my truck for a few days, as I was going to be riding my bike to all my backcountry sites.  This question set off a firestorm.

The lady was very concerned with the distances between my chosen camps and the fact that I wanted to cover those distances on a bicycle (gasp!).  Seeing about 51 miles between my first and second nights camps, she asked “Do you know how far that is by car?!”  I reckoned it was precisely the same distance by any other mode of transportation, including bike, but I took her drift.  I assured her that I routinely cover that kind of mileage before she eats lunch, and did not tell her that I had side excursions planned that would extend that day’s trip to nearly 100 miles.  When she saw that I would be riding the hot and desolate River Road all the way from west to east on days two and three, she called John over.  In an “I don’t want to take responsibility for this” type of tone, she informed John about what the crazy guy on the other side of the counter wanted to do.  John viewed me over the rim of his glasses, scanned my itinerary, and gravely asked, “Do you know how far this is?”

“Dear sir,” I replied, “six days ago, I rode 137 miles on my bike in one day with full gear.  Seriously, 50 miles is not a big deal for me.”  This didn’t assure John, and John proceeded to interrogate me on my inventory, how much water I was carrying, did I have spare tubes, had I filled out my Census form, did I have any cavities that need filling, etc.  I decided to cut to the chase by pulling down my britches and shoving a flashlight in my hind end.  Finally, John reluctantly blessed my itinerary and turned me back over to the original lady, who then said “I have other things to do,” and called over a young fellow by the name of Tim, I think?  I looked at the clock…30 minutes had gone by.  Sheesh.

Tim reviewed my plan, and guess what he asked me right off the bat?  All together now: “DO YOU KNOW HOW FAR THIS IS?”  I ran outside and chucked a rock at a cactus, then came back in and assured Sir Timothy that I knew exactly how far it was and can he please get on with the bloody task at hand.  Tim informed me that a black bear lived in the area of my first backcountry site at Paint Gap, and he asked how I planned on securing my food at night.  “What,” I asked, “there’s no bear box at that site?”  No, he said.  Hm, a bear is known to inhabit that area, but there’s no bear box.  OK.  So I told him I’d hang my bag from a tree some distance from camp.  “This is a desert,” he said, “we don’t have trees here.”  Uh, I’m pretty certain that I saw quite a few trees along the road to this building.  Gnarled and fit for the haunted woods, for sure, but they were trees.  Whatever, I said, no bear box, no trees.  I will come up with something.  Remember this conversation….there’s a doozy coming later. 

I’ve taken a frustrated tone in the story above, but honestly, I don’t begrudge the employees for the hour I lost in that headquarters getting my agenda squared away.  They were merely concerned with my safety, and I appreciate that.  But now it was 5:00 PM, and I was dying to ride!  I figured I could squeeze in 30 miles or so and be at my campsite by dusk.  However, as I always do, I underestimated how long it would take me to transfer all my gear from my truck to my bike, organize everything, and run down all my mental checklists.  Another hour had passed by the time I placed ass to seat.  With the 12 hour drive and the aforementioned itinerary hassle, it had been an excruciating 14 hours.  Now, finally, I could RIDE!

From Panther Junction, which contained approximately zero panthers, I took the paved road west with no particular destination in mind other than my campsite sometime later on.  Maintaining a leisurely pace and soaking in the view of the magnificent Chisos Mountains, I could feel myself decompressing with each turn of the crank.  The air was crisp and the temperature was cool as the sun had begun its steady descent towards the horizon.  The lengthening shadows cast an eye-teasing display upon the rugged faces of the rocky slopes.  I marveled at the reddish brown landscape and the hardy looking foliage, and imagined that I was cycling on the surface of Mars as it may have existed some eons ago.   I kept my eyes out for wildlife, but saw nothing save for birds. 

After I’d spent a couple hours meandering around and learning to use my new camera on the fly, I rode to my campsite for the night, Paint Gap, some 13 miles north of the Chisos Basin.  The dirt road into camp was rough and wash boarded, but it didn’t bother me much.  I was thrilled at just being there.  When I rode into camp just as dusk was beginning to settle in, I could but shake my head and chuckle.  There, in the southern corner of the site, was a bear box.  And just to the right of it…..A TREE.  Oh Tim, you rascally desert scallywag.  I should return to your station tomorrow with a picture of what you say does not exist.  Perhaps then, you can tell me that sand has no home in the desert. 

An SUV pulled into the camp adjacent to mine, but I never saw the people get out of it.  They seemed to be happy sitting in their car seats and gazing at the emerging stars through their windows.  “Way to suck the very marrow out of life,” I thought.  I laid out my sleeping kit (REI Minimalist bivy + North Face Beeline sleeping bag + inflatable Thermarest Sleeping Pad), took care of my particulars, and secured my food in the mystical Bear Box That Wasn’t There.  Then, I waited.  I had learned that dusk is when the desert “comes to life,” as the heat of the day recedes and the animals begin venturing into the night to dance in the circle of life.  I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye, and a kangaroo rat (?) darted off as I turned to look.  “It begins!” I thought.  But after that…nothing!  I waited for some time, listening, expecting.  The full darkness of the night fell  over the land, but I never saw or heard anything the entire rest of the evening.  So much for my fantasy of seeing a black bear and a mountain lion squaring off while my infrared video recorded the whole thing, to be sold for millions of dollars to the Discovery Channel. 

DAY TWO – 87 Miles

When I awoke, it was cold.  Though quite toasty in my sleeping bag, a quick fingertip test to the outside world told me it was in the low 40’s.  I checked the time…5:30 AM.  Dang…I’d wanted to be riding by then.  But I was tired.  I’d only slept a few hours the night before, so I allowed myself to drift back off and await the dawn. 

At 6:30 I emerged from my cocoon, checked my shoes for critters, and geared up.  My plan for the day was to backtrack and make the brutal ride up into the Chisos Basin, eat breakfast there at the only restaurant in the park, then double back again and take the Ross Maxwell Scenic Drive down to Costolon, where I would resupply before taking a detour out to Elena Canyon.  Then I’d backtrack and ride River Road West to my second night campsite at Johnson Ranch. 

Everything was going swimmingly until I got about halfway up the steep and curvy road into Chisos Basin.  It was only a 6.3 mile road, but it gained more than 3500 feet of elevation from Basin Junction to the highest point near Casa Grande before screaming back down to 5400 feet over the last mile into the Basin.  This lowlander’s lungs could not do enough with the oxygen they were taking in.  I’d had almost no acclimatization time, and so I found myself engaging in my first hike a bike of the trip.  It would not be my last!

It was not frustrating though.  The beauty surrounding me demanded attention, and I was very happy to be gazing on it, even as I labored up the wicked slope.  With craggy towers of red rock reaching heavenward and throngs of green trees lining the road (yes, Tim…treeees), I did not mind taking my time with a nice walk here and there.  When I reached the highest point of the slope, I saddled back up and rode my brakes for the mile long, treacherously curved descent into the Basin.   Later, an old fella on a Trek who said he was out here all the time told me that I was the first person he’d ever seen ride up into the Chisos Basin, let alone with all the gear.  Yep, I said, I’m the only idiot dumb enough to attempt such tomfoolery!

I followed my nose to the restaurant, having worked up a downright murderous appetite, and tried to enter, only to be promptly told that the restaurant closes at 10:00 AM and reopens for lunch at 11:00 AM.  I glanced up at the clock.  It was 10:01 AM. 

Have you ever seen “What About Bob?” starring Bill Murray and Richard Dreyfuss?  Or “Captain Ron” starring Kurt Russell and Martin Short?  Or as I call it, “What About Bob on Water?”  At that precise moment, Tim was my Bob.  Tim was my Captain Ron.  For I had asked him yesterday “So the restaurant opens at 7:00 AM, right?” He said “Yes.”  That’s ALL he said.   You read me?  That’s ALL he said. 

Oooh, Tim, you gremlin of the sandy wastes.  How I’d love to stand behind you and force you to ride a fixie up that slope.  I shall work that jelly roll off you, Timothy, and I shall smile a black toothed grin while doing so.  I don’t know why my teeth will be black, Tim, but worry you not over that.  Just pedal, you imp!

It had taken me longer than I’d planned to awaken and get into the Basin, and now I was going to be delayed another hour.  I had a feeling I was going to have to nix my side trip to Elena Canyon later.  I used the unexpected time to take pictures, write notes about my experiences thus far, and fiddle with my GPS settings.  I have a Garmin Dakota 20, which I hadn’t used since I arrived.  There hadn’t been a need yet.  It would turn out to be unnecessary for navigation.  I just checked it here and there for assurance and for elevation readings. 

When the restaurant opened back up, I said a prayer wishing for Tim to receive a wart on his nose and then demolished a double cheeseburger and a double order of fries.   Then, as I made my way back to the bike, I was stopped a few times by people interested in my rig and what I was doing.  After chatting a bit, I rode (and walked) up the single steep mile out of the Basin before hitting the exhilarating 5.3 mile descent.  Fear and elation coursed through my veins as I shot down out of the Chisos, reaching speeds of over 40 mph several times.  I recalled that scene in the first X-Men movie where Wolverine took Cyclops’ motorcycle and grinned in wicked delight as he scorched the pavement.  That was me!  But without the power of bodily regeneration should I crash!  Eh, that thought had me riding the brake a little bit more. 

Many cars passed me on the way up that climb.  None passed me on the way down it.  When I reached the bottom, I turned west and hit the road to Costolon via the Ross Maxwell scenic drive.  This was the most pleasant ride of my entire trip.  A cloudy overcast kept the heat of the desert at bay, and a gentle breeze kept me nice and cool.  The road was paved the entire way, and after a long scenic climb, I was rewarded with a long, scenic descent.  I was extra careful to work the brakes on that descent, because a bit of carelessness on some of the turns could have seen me rockin’ an unintentional Thelma and Louise off the cliffside.  The Sotol Vista Overlook and the Mule Ears Viewpoint yielded wonderful views, but every bit of the road was chocked full of magnificent views.  The “Scenic Drive” moniker was well-earned indeed. 

I reached the Costolon visitor center just before 6:00 PM.  The little store there didn’t have much (I was looking forward to some chocolate milk and hot food….denied!) but they did have the essentials (read: beer).   I chugged a cold one, refilled all my water stores, and added a lemonade to my pack.  I knew my fluid supply at this juncture needed critical consideration, because I was about to enter the desolate River Road West, and I would spend the next morning and part of the afternoon in hot desert solitude along the Rio Grande as I made my way up to River Road East to Rio Grande Village.  Due to the described road conditions, I reckoned that the whole trip along the combined river roads would be a crawling, 46 mile journey with possible temperatures at or near 100 degrees.  No time to skimp on water. 

Now is a good time to mention that I had little or no cell phone reception during the entire trip thus far.  However, I could send and receive text messages in some areas.  Costolon was one of those areas.  Good thing too, because the pay phone there was not working.

As I was having a text conversation with my wife, a truck with Alaskan plates pulled in (and I thought MY drive was a long one!). I couldn’t help but notice the Moots in the truck bed.  I spoke with the couple that emerged, and they were pretty disappointed at the park’s lack of available singletrack.  Bikes were not allowed on the hiking trails in and around the Chisos.  I’d already known this from reading the web site, and I agreed that we were gettin’ robbed.  I’d read somewhere that the IMBA was working with the national park service on a plan to build new singletrack in Big Bend, but for now we restricted to the roads only.

Satisfied that I had enough water to make it until Rio Grande Village tomorrow afternoon, I saddled up and headed back up to River Road West, trying to cover the 15 miles to my campsite before dark.  I had my bright Black Diamond head lamp, but still, riding a washboard road in the pitch black of the desert night did not appeal to me. 

At the entrance to the road, there was a sign reading “Prevent theft.  Lock your valuables in your car. This area rarely patrolled.”  At that moment, I began to get a little nervous, and I realized I’d forgotten to ask the park officials for more details about the drug smugglers and their routes through this area.  I was alone, I was unarmed, I had no way of locking up anything, and I was loaded with “valuables.”  If anything was to go down out here, it’s very possible I wouldn’t be found for many days.  Ooh Tim, you precocious rapscallion.  Your hatred of sharing accurate information is screwing me yet again.  You saw my route, Tim, and you said nothing.  If my blood should spill, Tim, it will be on your hands! 

I sat there for several moments, looking at the sign and calculating my risks.  I considered turning back and finding an unoccupied backcountry site for the night.  Was I worrying about nothing?  I mean, if it was as bad as my imagination was making it out to be, they’d close down this road, wouldn’t they?  Yes, I decided.  There’s no way they’d keep this road open if unfortunate encounters were frequent back here.  I pressed on.

The road was just as I’d read.  Rough, washboarded, sandy in places, and very rocky.  If I let myself get going too fast on the descents, various gear would start ejecting itself from my rig.  One such fatality was one of the water bottles affixed to my forks.  At some point unbeknownst to me, it committed suicide, launching itself from the cage and busting open on a rock. By the time I realized it was gone and backtracked to find it laying in the dirt, most of the precious water had spilled into the ground.  DAMN IT, TIM!  This is somehow your fault!

The scenery was up close and terrific as I continued onward, though I could only look at it for split seconds at a time on rare spots of smooth(ish) road.  Much to my surprise, I was rounding a long bend when I came face to face with a pack of wild horses!  During my initial shock, I thought I’d stumbled upon a band of horse riding drug smugglers, and my heart jumped into my throat.  I mean, in all the material I’d read before coming here, nothing had mentioned that wild horses inhabited the area.  But these horses had no riders, and there was a colt among them as well.  It was legit…my first real “wildlife” sighting!  I snapped a few pictures, then shooed them off down the trail, though one of them retaliated with a heap of fresh leavings in my path. 

As I followed the road, I would sometimes catch a glimpse of the Rio Grande river down below to the south.  Each time I saw it, I was unnerved to see that it was nothing more than a wide trickle.  People could easily traverse it.  People with drugs and guns.  I knew that my camp site at Johnson Ranch was right by the river, and I become more and more nervous every time I saw the “mighty” Rio Grande.  As I was passing the road to the Buenos Aries campsite, I saw a cairn about 50 feet off the roadside.  Why was it there?  It unsettled me even more.  I got off the bike, walked over there, and kicked it over.  Then I hauled ass as if I’d just pissed someone off. 

Pressing onwards, I soon came upon a coyote in the road.  He ran off before I could snap a picture.  Eventually I came to Johnson Ranch, which was little more than a few bricks and half a shell of a rusted old car.  I followed the road down into my campsite as darkness crept into the sky, and loe and behold, I saw a truck parked in the campsite next to mine, with a tent popped up beside it.  People!  It was a fine discovery, indeed, as I’d seen no one else on the River Road that day, and I was convinced that I’d be alone through the night, at the mercy of whoever may have walked from Mexico right into my camp.  I rode over to say hello, but no one was about, and I heard no voices or sounds from inside the tent.  Were they already asleep?  Even if they were, I felt better about not being alone. 

I rode 60 yards away to my own campsite, which was sort of hidden in a copse of trees (Tim). I turned on my headlamp and began my evening ritual as the night settled fully over the valley.  I was somewhat disturbed to find a trail leading from my site right down to the river.  It seemed to be more of an animal trail than a heavily traversed human trail, but it still made me nervous.  I considered going and rousing the other camp occupants and asking if they’d mind if I crashed at their site.  However, a heavy wind had been blowing into the valley for some time now, and I smelled rain in the air.  I liked that.  People wouldn’t cross the river in the dead of night in a rainstorm, would they?  I felt somewhat reassured. 

Some minutes later, I heard male voices from the other camp.  I couldn’t see over there directly from within my tree lined camp, and I couldn’t make out what the voices were saying, but I detected an alarmed tone.  Having been on edge for hours, this alarmed me as well.  I determined to wrap up what I was doing and walk over there to see what was going on.  Next thing I knew, their truck was hauling ass out the campsite.  Within seconds, they were gone.  It took me a few moments to realize that it was because of me….I had spooked them.  I wagered they saw my headlamp bobbing around in the darkness, and they hadn’t heard a vehicle pull up.  They were probably just as nervous as I was about this area.  Maybe they pegged me as some shadowy figure up to no good, and so they split.

SHIT!!  So much for the small feeling of safety I had from their presence.  I cursed myself for not calling out to them when I first heard their voices.  Tim, you jackal!! 

I tried to sleep, but laid there for two hours without success.  Critters were scuttling around, and thoughts of banditos were running through my brain.  I considered packing back up and riding while I had the coolness of the night, but I’d have made terrible time on that road in the dark.  Eventually, I nodded off.

DAY 3 – 60 Miles

Another night, another morning where I just could not get out of my bag by 5:00 AM.  For the Tour Divide, I really want to get up early and get moving, number one so I can be sure to get to a town before its restaurants close down that night, and number two so I can stay out in front of whoever is behind me.  So I have been trying to train my body to wake up and get crackin’ at or before 5:00 AM.  FAIL.  The human body is just not meant to see the world before sunrise.  However, I was thankful to have been unmolested during the night, except by the many bugs crawling around in my bivy sack.

I hit the road sometime after 7:00, and made slow time thanks to the rough and rocky condition of the road.  As the sun crept higher and higher into the cloudless sky, I took care not to suck down water too fast, and not to overly exert myself.  I walked most of the steep climbs.  Although it didn’t feel scorchingly hot, I knew the desert heat could be deceptive.  I found out later it was 100 degrees that day. 

The scenery was fantastic.  I’d never been amid anything like it before.  I’d stop once in a while to stare at something and take pictures, but never for too long, as I didn’t want to just sit there and bake in the sun.  Looking about during one of those stops, it kind of just hit me.  I am out here in the middle of this big, beautiful, dangerous vastness, and I am completely alone.  I’d seen no one that day.  I have no cell reception, no contact whatsoever with the rest of the world.  For a national park, it felt incredibly desolate.  It was amazingly surreal….I was riding in a dream.   I shouldn’t be here in this dream.  It wasn’t meant for humans. 

On the heels of that thought was the stark reminder that my survival was in my own hands.  There was no one who could help me if I needed it.  I realized how much of an idiot I was for taking this road alone.  Fucking Tim. 

I forcibly banished those gloomy thoughts and pushed on, mindful of my food and water intake.  I was quite happy to reach River Road East and take the northeasterly turn towards the Rio Grande Village, where there would be people, food, and showers.  Only about 10 more miles to go until I reached pavement.  A couple miles in, I saw a lone horse trotting about.  Or something.  It wasn’t as big as a horse, and not as small as a mule, and its ears were a little longer than a typical horse.  It proclaimed its indignation for being disturbed as I ordered it out of my way.

By the time I made it to the paved road leading into the village, I was out of water and more than a little dehydrated, and I was thankful to have made it out in one piece.  The suddenly smooth ride made the after effects of the previous brain-flogging much more pronounced.  I felt around my mouth with my tongue….yep, still had all my teeth.  Later that day, I was supposed to ride my bike into Pine Canyon along the same kind of road, only much steeper.  Yeeeah, no.  I don’t think so, not anymore.  I’d had enough of that shit.

Stopping off at the visitor center to get some water, I could smell myself emitting aromatic crimes against humanity.  The layers upon layers of sweat, sun block, dirt, and raw manliness were killing off bugs and small plants as I strode by them.  I wondered what peoples’ faces would look like when they got near.

The opportunity to find out quickly arose as a clean cut dude walked out of the visitor center and eyeballed my rig.  He asked me something, and I was surprised by my own raspy voice when I answered.  We chatted for awhile, and he asked where I camped last night.  Johnson Ranch, I said, to which he replied that he and his partner had been at Johnson Ranch last night as well…

“Are you the guys I spooked off?!”

“Yep, that was us!”

We both started laughing, and he confirmed that my silent appearance and bobbing headlamp in the black night gave them quite a scare.  They’d been hiking by the river when I pulled into camp, and when they returned, they saw my mysterious shadow doing who knows what.  Was I a drug smuggler who had just traversed the river?  Best not to wait around and find out!  They drove six miles or so to the next available campsite to escape my devious intentions.  His buddy emerged from the restroom and we filled him in on the imbroglio.  We all had a good laugh, and they invited me to stay in their camp that night at Ernst Tinaja, promising as much beer as I cared for.

From there, I headed to the store and ate two microwave pizzas and two chili dogs, washing it down with chocolate milk and plenty of water.  I bought a bar of soap and took a coin operated shower ($1.50 for five minutes…drip dried!) and changed into my spare clothes.  I was human again. 

It was 100 degrees outside, and I just did not feel like getting back out in it.  I resolved to wait until 7:00 PM or so when it was beginning to cool down, and when I had sufficiently recovered from my bout with dehydration.  Then I’d ride back up to Panther Junction, load everything into my truck, and drive into Pine Canyon.  I would head home early the next morning.

While waiting around, I spoke to many people coming in and out of the store.  They had lots of questions for me, and I got numerous offers to come and camp with them that night if I didn’t feel like making the 21 mile climb to Panther Junction.  I was offered beer, whiskey, food, and spots in RV’s to crash in.  I felt like a celebrity.  I gave them all a firm “maybe.” 

At 7:00, I saddled up and headed out.  I could feel that I was still a little out of it from the day of hot toiling I’d had, so I took it as easy as I could while climbing the entire way back to my truck.  Darkness fell sometime during the long ride, and for the first time that trip, I experienced the magic of riding the desert at night.    The stars over the Chisos Mountains were brilliant, and I couldn’t believe how much they twinkled!  In Houston, star gazing is a pointless act thanks to light pollution, and the vibrancy of the few twinkling stars you may see is greatly diminished.  Out here, you could practically see the solar flares firing out into space.  I was awestruck.  For a while, I turned off my headlamp and rode in the pitch black, just looking around in wide-eyed astonishment. 

I got back to the truck, changed into my “civies,” and drove into Pine Canyon.  The road was horrible!  I was immensely glad I’d decided against riding it.  Regrettably, I never saw my Pine Canyon campsite in the light of day, as I left before sunup the next morning (oh, NOW I get up at 5:00 AM…figures!).   Looking around the site in the darkness, I could tell that it was a stunning place to be.  During the day, I wagered it was a prime spot for taking photos and soaking in the beauty of the desert.  Oh well.

DAY 4 – Conclusion

I was out of Big Bend and making the 12 hour trip home by 6:00 AM.  My total in my 2.25 days of riding was 167 miles, some of them being the most difficult miles of my life under that 100 degree sun.  It was great experience for the Tour Divide (Great Basin?), and a fine trip on its own merits.  One thing I’d like to mention is my continued slurring against poor Tim.  I’m just having a little fun with him, and I don’t truly bear him any malice, and I don’t blame him for anything.  I used (abused) him only for comedic relief.  Thanks, Tim!  This is for you:

tree  –noun  1.  a plant having a permanently woody main stem or trunk, ordinarily growing to a considerable height, and usually developing branches at some distance from the ground.

 And here’s the whole picture set:

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Just For Fun

That’s my pooch, Sienna.  She asked to be on my blog, so here she is. 

Today, I was supposed to take my wife down to Galveston, meet up with some friends, and ride our bikes in the annual “BarCycle,” a pre-St. Patricks Day celebration where people decorate their bikes in festive green crap and go bar hopping together on The Strand.  Basically, an excuse for gettin’ hammered, I think. However, I’ve had a n unexpected date with an ugly tramp named Bronchitis.  She didn’t want me to take her to Galveston.  She didn’t want me doing ANYTHING.  So I figured I’d use this miserable time to post about some fun things. 

Starting with:  my Letter of Intent!  I sent it in a couple weeks ago and had been meaning to post it here.  I tried to make it unique and humorous, but realize also that I have perhaps made myself look just a wee bit corny in the process.  Hey, I gotta be me.  Here it is:

‘Twas a sultry summer day two years ago when a rickety green Trek, slumbering beneath a blanket of cobwebs, was wrestled up from its rotting grave, where it had lain forgotten amid rusty lawnmower blades and mildewed Igloos for years untold.  This Trek’s master, a foolish dreamer whose belly betokened a great delight in the partakin’ of bacon, cursed as he hoisted his ancient steed from its tomb of rubbish and promptly bent its dirt caked derailleur.  

“No worries, my emerald stallion,” assured the master gently, “I shall repair you, and you will once again know the light of day.  For I have just heard tell of a wondrous race across the entirety of this glorious nation.  A race where high adventure awaits only the bravest of souls, where grizzly bears leave warm, steamy tidings in your path, and where the immensity of a man’s suffering is overpowered only by the immensity of the beauty surrounding him.  Once, long ago, we were weekend warriors, o’ faithful steed.  Let us hereby resurrect one another, and together shall we carve our own legend into the history of our lives!  Together, we shall RIDE!  That is, until I can afford a better bike, at which point your cumbersome, shambling arse can find another pile of crap to re-die in.”

That abusive bike owner was me, and that summer day marked the beginning of my quest to unshackle myself from the chains of tedium and achieve the very pinnacle of human studliness: the completion of the Tour Divide!

I fully intend to set a new course record…for “Number of Expletives Hurled at a Steep Climb.”  For I hail from the lowlands of southeast Texas, where the word “elevation” means “When you get’un idea while ridin’un elevator.”  I cannot say with certainty how I will fare on the formidable mountain passes of the Divide, but my heart is passionate, my will is strong, and my sacrifices have been great in pursuit of this lofty goal, and I will not welcome the Specter of Failure casually, lest it bedevil me unto the end of my days.  For me, this is not one race among many…it is the ONLY race!

Gods of the Tour Divide, please accept my bid, and let me forge my own grand tale of adversity and triumph, to forever hold dear in my soul, and with which to fill up the ears of future grandchildren, whether they like it or not.

Oh, and to those do-littles who call me an idiot for attempting such “nonsense”…come a bit closer.  I need to test my bear mace.

So far, its the most long winded LOI on the list.  Pretty funny, considering that in person, I’m not exactly known for wasting words!

I also thought I’d share me and my wife’s best impersonation of Jay and Tracey Petervary.  This video is when we went to Galveston a few weekends ago and rented a banana colored dookie tandem (or as I coined it, “The Banookie”) from a bike shop on the seawall:

Hmm…I think Tracey actually helped Jay pedal their Love Shack, but my wife had other ideas, I reckon.  We actually had a lot of fun on that thing, and we’re considering purchasing a tandem once I get back from the TD.  Here a few more pics, including a couple showing the lingering effects of Hurricane Ike (which we hunkered down for and afterwards spent a week sweltering in the Texas heat without power!)

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Now, I’d like to reflect on one extremely important aspect of my Tour Divide training: music!  From what I’ve heard, one’s misery on the long grinding days on the divide can be remedied by an mp3 player loaded with one’s favorite music.  So it is absolutely vital that a racer figure out just who will be rockin’ his or her earholes for those 2,745 miles. 

When I first started training, I loaded a ton of metal and alternative music on my mp3 player, but quickly realized that that type of music only complimented a “balls-out” training effort, like when you’re killing 30 miles as fast as possible.  As my rides got longer and longer, my patience with metal grew thin, and I adjusted my playlists accordingly.  Think less System of a Down and more Into the Wild soundtrack.  Or less Metallica and more……JOHN DENVER!?!    Eh, hey, for whatever reason, it works better for me.   Also, any song about ramblin’ works pretty well.  “Ramble On” by Led Zepplin, “Ramblin’ Man” by the Allman Brothers, “Rambling Fever” by Merle Haggard….for whatever reason, dudes from the 70′s used to love ramblin’.  I’ll be ramblin’ a little bit myself come June, so I may as well listen to music concerning that topic.    

But I wager the best music will be my daughter’s original songs.  She’s 17 and has her own band, The Redgraves, and being able to hear her voice and her talent while doing something exceedingly nutty will go a long way torwards keeping me sane and happy. 

Lastly, before I got too sick to to do anything yesterday, I took my brother-in-law for his first ever mountain bike ride out at the Cypresswood trails in Spring, TX.  I used my Jamis 26er (I refuse to take my Orbea out for singletrack adventures…it would be just my luck I crack the frame and have to pull out of the TD) and I gave Gary the selfsame hunk of shambling bolts I spoke about in my Letter of Intent above.  AND IT DIDN’T DISAPPOINT!  Check out the carnage:

We couldn’t find the wayward bolt, so my lovely wife gave up her equally crappy Raleigh so that her brother Gary and I could continue riding.  I’ve taken a few first timers out to the trails  before, and Gary far surpassed all of them as far as stamina, and he had a natural “go for it” mentality where others would surely be timid.  It’s always great to hear a noob gushing about how much fun he or she is having while shredding trails for the first time.  I thought back to my first time, long long ago, in a galaxy far far away.  Its a great memory.

A few more pics and I’m out…back to my chicken noodle soup, crackers, and Halls.   

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To Shave or Not To Shave?

My leg hairs are THICK, friend.  They have the density of scrub brush, if not the texture, too.  When I put on cycling shorts, the elastic bands pull on my wookie mane and annoy me like the dickens.  Have a gander:

  You may ask why I am using words like “dickens” and “gander,” to which I say it’s because I am feeling rather “saucy” at the moment.  The point is, ever since I took up the quest of the Tour Divide, I have wrestled with the question:

To shave, or not to shave? 

It didn’t take me long to realize that every “real” cyclist I saw was as clean and bare as a freshly suckled teet.  Their quads and calves rippled and glistened in the sun, while my Mesozoic stump jungles captured dirt, insects, and looks of disgust from the womenfolk.  It certainly looks a mite strange having shag carpet “puff out” from just below your spandex line.  And yes, I just used the words “teet,” “womenfolk,” and “mite.”  I told you I was feeling saucy.

I assumed cyclists shaved in order to be more aerodynamic, but come on…how much faster can that possibly make you?  A billionth of a second?  I wasn’t buyin’ it.  I asked around a little bit, and heard many answers, such as “its easier to clean road rash wounds” among others, but the one that rang truest in my mind was simply – vanity.

Hey, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t knockin’ vanity.   Since I have been training, my legs have become sexier and sexier with each passing day, and I think more about showing them off.  You know those old movie posters where the hero is standing tall, and he has a woman at his feet, looking up at him adoringly and clinging to his muscular leg?  My wife begs me to let her do that to me all the time now.  My macho rockin’ leg muscles drive her nuts, and its thanks to all the TD training.

But she doesn’t want me shaving them!  She loves the manliness exuded by my leg-fauna.  I tell her, “But just think if you could actually caress my muscles without having to fight through a field of sea anemone to do it!”  She will not yield, though.  She feels that the hair is hunky, and that I should never have smoother legs than her.

And yet, the siren call of the razor grows ever stronger.  I can feel its pull.  It wants me…it beckons me.  I can’t help but look at it laying there by the sink and wonder about what could be.  As I get better and better in the saddle, the hair feels more and more ridiculous.  Methinks the time draws nigh.  That’s right, I said “methinks” and then “nigh.”  The sauciness again.

Should I do it!? 

Learn Bike Repair or FAIL!

When I first began reading about the Great Divide Race and the Tour Divide, it quickly became obvious  that if you’re gonna do this thing, you better know what’s what about bike repairs in the field.  You’ll be  75 miles from Everywhere more often than not, and if you smash your derailleur on a rock in the middle of grizzly country, it will be up to you and you alone to get your rig rolling again. 

I’ve never been a mechanical minded guy, and I never really picked up bike repair skills during my weekend warrior hay days.  If my bike needed attention, I just took it to a shop and never bothered to learn myself.  So when I decided to race the TD, I knew that I better attain a certain level of mechanical mastery…I can’t bear to think of the scenario where I’m racing, feeling great, getting in 120 miles a day, and then have to pull out because of some hardware mishap that I can’t fix because I don’t have the tools or the know-how.  I’d feel like the most dejected dunce on Earth if that happened.

To that end I’ve used several really good bike repair web sites to bone up my skills.  Namely:

BicycleTutor.com 
Sheldon Brown’s Bicycle Technical Info 
Jim Langley 

All these sites have helped me to learn about specialized bike tools and figure out how to repair some stuff, but it’s one thing to watch videos and read how-to’s.  I felt I needed some grimy, hands on experience, but I was afraid to really get in and experiment on my new big money Orbea without having a master bike mechanic on hand to keep me from permanently destroying my components. 

So I rounded up the future winner of the 2010 TD, Pat Smith, and we took an advanced bike mechanics class at REI!  It was a two night course, 3 hours per night, and it costs $80 if you’re an REI member.  We basically disassembled our bikes, cleaned everything up, and then reassembled and tuned it all to perfection.  We learned how to true our wheels, set limits on our derailleur, center our brakes, replace shifter cables, and a ton of other stuff, all very hands on.  Our instructor was Patrick, who was a very cool and patient dude.  We got to use professional tools and we learned a lot of valuable info.  I would definitely recommend this course to anyone looking to hone their skills. 

Check out an REI in your area…besides bike clinics they have lots of other events and presentations. 

Just want to mention one more thing that I am extremely grateful for.  When I was in my early twenties, I was an avid weekend warrior for several years, then I just kinda quit.  About 13 months ago, I hopped back on the bike and, near as I can figure, I’ve put in about 1800 total miles of riding on equal parts pavement, gravel, and technical trails over that time.   Last Saturday, I got my very first flat tire EVER.  I shit you not.  I can’t explain how I went so long without getting one…in order to get in some practice changing a tube, I had to just deflate, remove, and then put it right back in.  Well let me tell you, this is a big relief!  I was becoming quite certain that I would not get a flat for the next 8 months, and then get blasted with 10 flats a day when I started the Tour Divide.  Law of Averages, you see.  I seriously thought Fate was jacking with me, casuing me to confidently think I was flat-proof or something, only to unleash a vicious FlatFest upon me when I least wanted it.  When I saw my tire flattening against the gravel last Saturday, I gleefully exclaimed, “YEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!”  

Or hell, maybe I’m just THAT good at avoiding them!   

See you in the wilds!