Since moving to the cottage in Emerald City a half dozen years ago, I’ve made a tradition of celebrating my Birthday by riding my age on the glorious gravel of the Eastern Colorado High Plains. This year I turned 63, so I had to find a fun ride that was at least 63 miles long. Normally by this time I’ve logged hundreds of spring miles but not this year.
The weather has been cold and windy and not very conducive to bicycling. I might have a hundred miles under my belt on the gravel with the longest ride being about 30 miles. I picked today for the Dirt-day ride because the wind was supposed to be in the single digits for the first time in weeks and according to the forecast the future doesn’t look very promising either, so this was the window of opportunity; time to get ‘er done.
The Point of Beginning for the ride’s on Big Sandy Creek at a ghost town about 45 minutes from Emerald City. Aroya, Colorado started life as a railroad camp for track-layers in 1870 and was a booming little burg during the homestead years but not much remains today. There’s a neat old one room schoolhouse just west of town that was actually used until 1960. It’s one of the best examples of a one room schoolhouse on the Colorado High Plains, there’s another one a half dozen miles away in Wild Horse.
It was still in the forties when I got underway, so I kept the wind pants, hoodie and stocking cap on, as I headed upstream along the Big Sandy. The route of the old Butterfield Overland Despatch before the railroad came to be. The road was smooth with gentle rollers, giving me a chance to get all the old man muscles limbered up a bit before any serious climbing got underway.
I chased a pair of coyotes off the water hole, as I crossed Schoolhouse Gulch and they ran off to the east, looking back at me over their shoulder as they skipped and danced away, probably a little irritated that I’d interfered with their morning ritual. Then I came into the community of Boyero. Not much of a community really but I suspect if you asked the folks who live here, they’d say it’s just the right size.
On the north edge of town I rode right up on a yearling Antelope that was meandering down the middle of the road. I got within a couple dozen yards before she realized I was there and bolted. I was hoping she wouldn’t get tangled in the barb wire fence at the edge of the road in her panic. I didn’t need to worry, she went low, like a limbo dancer and gracefully shot under the fence and headed off across the prairie.
The breeze was coming from the west and was a bit stiffer than what the forecast had suggested but I’ve learned over the years that I can’t really trust the forecast especially anywhere around “The Ridge.” I’m not talking about any old ridge here. “The Ridge” is the physical boundary of the High Plains and higher than Denver, Colorado. On this ride I’ll cross the ridge at an elevation of 5280′, drop down below 5000′ on the east side and then back across at about 5200′.
As I climb away from Big Sandy Creek and onto the alluvial plains and badlands below “The Ridge,” I stop and take off all the warm layers of clothing and eat a power bar. I’ve climbed this ridge at a half dozen locations along the length of it and know I’ll be sweating my ass off soon enough; cussing and crying out in pain. I’m close to a third of the way into the ride and feeling as strong as 36 year old instead of 63 but that’s about to change.
“It`s not how old you are, it`s how you are old.” ― Jules Renard
At least there’s plenty of downhill to go with the uphill as I work my way across the badlands below, “The Ridge.” Granny gear up the steeps and then throw Double Cross into the tallest gear and rip down the other side of the hill; a human powered roller-coaster. There are herds of Antelope everywhere, on both sides of the road. They don’t see many bicycles out here either, so their curiosity is piqued and instead of running away, they gallop over to see what I’m up to.
They make me feel a little sluggish though as they pace me up the road, all sleek and slender, trotting along at 30 mph, while I’m in granny gear, spinning my butt off to achieve 11 miles per hour. It feels for a moment like I’m on the African Savannah or something; a big blue sky with puffy white clouds, Meadowlarks and Lark Buntings laying down a beautiful soundtrack, the turbo goats dancing across the tan hillside. I awaken from my reverie pretty quickly though, as I realize the higher I go up the side of “The Ridge,” the steeper it gets.
“It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them.” ― Ernest Hemingway
I’m in the lowest gear I have and it’s not low enough. I try spinning faster but it hurts. I get off and walk for a short distance but it’s worse, cycling shoes aren’t very good for walking. So I get back on and pedal and pedal and finally I’m over the top and I’m ripping down the other side, faster and faster. I shift up to the tallest gear and pedal a little bit, if I want but mostly I just let the breeze and gravity carry me down the backside of “The Ridge” for miles and miles. A few steep ups, out of the creek bottoms but mostly just sailing across the High Plains.
I was a little over three hours into my adventure and found a spot to take a shoes off break. No shade but there were some nice soft rocks to sit on as I munched a couple energy bars and refilled the bike frame water bottles from the extra tank I had in the rack bag. I sent Vickie a text message, that I was over halfway, no flats and it was all downhill and down wind the rest of the way. Isn’t that the way life works, just when you think you have it all figured out; it steps up and punches you in the face.
“Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face.” — Mike Tyson
I head south down the road and for the first time, the road is sandy and soft; real soft. I look for a hard packed line but I can’t find one. My rational mind says, at least you’re going down hill. “Screw you, rational mind; soft and sandy sucks.” 4 miles later I have the first flat. I fix it and head on. 3 miles later I have another flat. I fix it and take a drink of the hot plastic tasting water and check the phone GPS and realized I missed my turn three miles back.
Only one thing to do. Retrace three miles of soft sand to the turn. The whole time kicking myself for not checking the GPS when I had the first flat. I missed the message from on high, as usual, because I had my head up my ass, feeling sorry for myself, and because of that, spent twice as long, struggling through the soft sand. You’d think after 63 years, I’d have learned to pay attention to my surroundings!
“If, then, I were asked for the most important advice I could give, that which I considered to be the most useful to the men of our century, I should simply say: in the name of God, stop a moment, cease your work, look around you.” ― Leo Tolstoy
The road was firm and there was a tailwind at the crossroads and I made good time until I crossed a cattle guard onto the Briscoe Ranch. The road turned to big cobbled rocks, that felt like boulders. I was wishing for the mountain bike with it’s suspension system and ultra low gears, but a wish wasn’t going to get me down the road so I slogged on, until my foot started hurting again. It was time for another shoes off break; some shade too. The temperature had eclipsed 80 degrees and I needed to recover a bit after the soft sand, double flat debacle. I came to a wind turbine that was close to the road and figured that was the only shade I was going to find, so I rode down to the pad and laid out the hoodie and wind pants, took off the shoes and laid down for a power nap, in the shade.
The turbines are big and throw some nice shade but not the best place for a nap. The tips of the blades were whipping around, at close to 120 miles per hour. I should have looked for one that wasn’t spinning. It was like trying to take a nap along an Interstate Highway, with big trucks coming by every few seconds. I massaged the foot, drank some water and checked the phone. It looked like about 16 miles to go. I watched the blades spin. They were pointing the same general direction I was headed. They need an 8 mph wind just to get started and they were moving, so the wind was definitely in the 12-15 mph range.
Sixteen miles with a 15 mph headwind, damn. “At least it’s all down hill.” I checked the water supply; maybe a bit over a cup left. I sat there for awhile pondering my options. The beauty of it was that there was only one option, get on the bike and ride 16 miles into a brutal headwind, sipping on a cup or so of 80 degree water that tasted like plastic. “At least it’s all down hill.” I mounted up and pointed Double Cross down the hill. I tried to relax into it; gravity and the stiff breeze battling for dominance as I dropped off the ridge towards the Big Sandy.
The road smoothed out and there was a good firm line to ride. A rancher stopped and had a chat while I was checking the GPS.
"Where ya' headed?" "Aroya" "Where ya' from?" "Emerald City" "How're things over there?" "Dry, like here." "Yeah, some rain would be nice." "Yep." "Well, Good Luck." "Thanks."
I made it another 4 miles or so and had a flat. I flipped the bike, took the tire off and sat there in the road and patched it. A couple of yearling Antelope were eyeing me from the burnt prairie and moseyed right up close, within 30 yards or so. I tried talking them in closer but their curiosity was waning and they headed for greener pastures. I was mounting the tire when a pretty, rancher lady stopped in her Cadillac SUV to make sure I was OK. I didn’t tell her I was a tired, thrashed, old man that had ridden 53 miles on a bicycle and had a cup or so of warm water left to get back to my car that was an hour away, against a 15 mph headwind. I just smiled and said thanks for stopping, I’m good.
As I dropped off “The Ridge” I could see forever, out beyond the edge of the High Plains. The wind roared in my ears as it increased speed up the face of “The Ridge.” I made it another half hour before I had to get off the bike and rest. The water was gone. No extra clothes came out of the bag to lay on this time. I just laid in the dirt, the wind caking dust onto my sweating old body. I stretched my muscles, massaged my foot and steeled my will for last half hour. As I made my way over the last, little hill; I could see the old schoolhouse and the car tucked in along the Big Sandy. The hill steepened and gravity was winning the battle with the wind.
Then I was there, the ride complete. I stopped the Garmin. It said 65.1 miles, 6 hours, 4000 calories and 2300′ vertical. As I sat smiling in the little truck seat, drinking the water I’d left there, the breeze actually felt good. I was trying to remember if last years ride was this difficult but I couldn’t remember. I probably won’t remember how tough this one was either, next year. I wondered how long I will take to ride 83 miles, a couple decades from now. Then I fired up the Subie and headed for home, I knew Vickie would have an ice cold beer waiting.
