For whatever reason, maybe because I was about to get married and seemed to find endless distraction to keep me from being any real help to the planning effort, I decided I would do my first century in true Crested Butte style – extended suffering. So, with minimal training and a couple friends, I decided to take on the Crested Butte Classic.
On Saturday July 16, 2005 the Crested Butte Classic bike race made its second running. The race is 103 off-road miles, climbing more than 13,000 feet in elevation via the sinuous singletrack and jeep roads surrounding Crested Butte. There are no registration fees, no prizes, no t-shirts, no hype, just riders trying to match the ruggedness of the geography.
There was a tent set up off the deck of The Brick Oven pizzeria where riders signed up and volunteers recorded times after each lap. The race left town at 7 am en masse with fifty riders or so. It was clear from the minute the knobbies hit dirt that there were going to be some very fast times. Lycra-clad endurance beasts tore into the mountains before the dew had evaporated from the night before.
With snow still clinging to the mountainsides, fields of wildflowers blowing in the tall grass, and dirt still tacky from rain showers the day before, Benjamin Madson, John Chandler and I set our deliberate pace. Slow and steady gets ‘er done. The first loop, Strand Hill to Deer Creek Trail, two amazing trails seldom done in tandem, represented four big climbs and several creek crossings before most people would be finished with their morning coffee.
Before we had completed the first trail, Strand Hill, both Benjamin and I had gone down hard. I was tailing Benjamin through a lovely ribbon of singletrack when, ‘next thing I know, his front wheel is in a muddy hole, twisted sideways and he is being pivoted into the air, still attached to the bike. These bails are heinous because before being pummeled into the ground the rider has a second to survey the scene, much like it must feel to be a pro wrestler on the loosing end of a mean body slam. Benjamin hit hard and rolled off the trail. He came to his feet and looked up wide-eyed, checked himself and the bike, then jumped right back into it. I had ridden past him and was approaching a 2 to 3 foot deep irrigation channel, a section I have navigated successfully a zillion times, but this time slid into a blunt rock that catapulted me over the bars and into a slim line of mud in a garden of rocks. Sweet.
Staring up the long climb to Deer Creek Trail we could see the last of the main group of riders switchbacking way above us. They disappeared over the grassy ridge into the forested slopes, the last we would see of many of the riders. Slog on, pedaling smoothly, applying as much power as it takes not to get fried and still get up the switchbacks. The sun grew intense as we ascended over the first of the climbs on Deer Creek, sweat already pouring. The downhills seem pathetically short compared to the climbing. Is that it? No time to debate, just keep pedaling. Up. And Up…
Through forests of Aspen and fields of Lupine we trudged. There were a couple riders making passes or being passed, everyone uttering encouragement. Little whoops of stoke streamed between us as we wound the long loop around Mt. Crested Butte and into the Gothic town site. I stopped for a stretch above the East River to ease the creeping pain in my low back, my friends used the opportunity to eat and soak in the views. A three mile climb to Mt Crested Butte, then a few glorious miles of paved downhill back to “The Deck.”
During the minutes before the Classic started I circulated through the crowd of riders to say hello to a lot of the familiar faces. There were a lot of heads from my days in Gunnison; Jason Stubby, Adam Smith, Jay Prentiss, and Missy Fowle among them. As well there were a lot of friends I have pedaled with or been involved with one way or another throughout my time in this valley: John Jasper, Dave Flannigan, RB Bathje, Allison Gannet, Ben Preston, and more. Familiarity, mutual respect, and a hyper-good vibe radiated. This feeling would be emulated during each of the peaks in energy, attitude, and power.
Conversely, when the proverbial valleys came and all became bleak and dismal, the ride was agony. The first loop was devoid of any deep pits in performance. On the second loop, however, we were headed for 804, local’s slang for linking trails 403 and 401 from town, with the added burden of Le Alp Duez – a sickening squiggle of steep switchbacks heading toward Paradise Divide via the Slate River valley. It’s a ten-mile gradual climb to the beginning of the first climb. A few more miles of steeper climbing got us to the base of the “real” climb. The sun was at its hottest during the shadeless climb up the switchbacks. John started to feel the muscular tightening as the switchbacks began. Benjamin’s skin glowed red with exertion and he slowed. I thought I was doing pretty well, but the relentless pitch and powerful sun hit me hard. All three of us ended up pushing our bikes.
We passed a rider who had broken the bolt that attached his seat to seat-post, mechanical that would end the race for him. We plodded along exposed to the sun, dust, and head wind. Our first encounter with shade was so sweet. We stood in the shelter of a lodge pole pine and drank water and sport drink, ate power bars and tried not to think about the dizzying altitude and remaining climb.
Trail 811 connected us to the top of the Washington Gulch road with a much gentler jeep road and occasional canopy cover. The peak of the jeep road was the beginning of yet another climb to the top of Trail 403. Benjamin was running short on water and feeling light-headed and suggested I try to reach Katie on my cell phone to get a meeting on the trail for a refill. It was rather miraculous that I got reception, but there were three bars and Katie picked up after a couple rings. She had taken the day off and volunteered to run support for us. She agreed to meet us at the campground at the bottom of 403.
Good thing. I dropped first and focused hard on the white-knuckle descent. Steep, dusty, rutted singletrack switch backed off the high mountain meadows into a pine forest. Before we had dropped too far I had just started to pat myself on the back for making a technical section when I came over the back of my seat and smacked my package on the saddle. D’oh! We dropped through the forest enjoying the shade and occasional splash from a stream crossing. I lost my bike once more while trying to negotiate a muddy section. Found myself hanging on to the bike with one hand while sprinting down the hill trying to stay on my feet. The trail ends with a series of switchbacks through tall grass. There were a few hikers making their way up who courteously made trail. Just before spilling into the campground I heard a loud bang above me on the trail. It was either or a gunshot or a horribly blown tire.
Katie had a backseat full of water and Gatoraid and was involved in giving directions to a couple looking to get after 401. The cool sport drink never tasted so good flowing down my throat, John came in next verifying that Benjamin had a blow out. He took to a bottle of sweetness and we watched as Benjamin walked the final switchbacks rolling his bike on the back wheel. His sidewall had an eight-inch tear in it, an act of God that would keep him from carrying on. Ben was hurting at the top of 403, but realizing he couldn’t go on was devastating. He took it well, but it was clear that he was sad he could not continue the epic.
When we preparing to leave for 401, Missy Fowle came charging down the trail. She was in great spirits and looked super strong. I offered her up some of the refreshments. John and I hit the road. I felt so good - right up until I started to pedal up the dirt road towards the top of Schoefield Pass and the beginning of the climb to 401. John was climbing strong. I set my mind and cadence to the task, put my head down, and tried to stay with him.
We clambered over a massive pile of snow that had slid over the road during the winter, and looked to be staying put until the next winter, then resumed the climb past Emerald Lake. We summited Schoefield Pass at 10,407 feet – or something ungodly like that – and stopped to eat a little more before the steep climb to the top of 401. Missy passed us without stopping and we exchanged cheers. Badass.
I regained some power and energy during the climb and ended up topping out the climb feeling good. I waited at the top with the couple Katie had given directions to and watched John climb to us. He said his knee was in a lot of pain. The dude I had been waiting with offered up some Ibuprofin which I stashed for later and John eagerly ate up.
This was an awkward moment because I was feeling good and ready to charge the downhill, but my partner was hurting. He insisted I went ahead. I tried to justify staying together, but ended up agreeing to try and catch Missy. We exchanged stoke on the mission to that point and then split.
Riding the high, I let gravity have its way with me. Any opportunity to be pulled down was a gift I gratefully accepted. Through the tall fields of wildflower and skunk cabbage, Aspen and Pine groves, and rolling contours I surfed the pulsing energy gravity-fed ride. Rain started to fall as I entered the forested mid-section of the downhill. Cool drops of rain refreshed my burning skin and heated core.
From Rustlers Gulch, through Gothic, and back up to the pavement on Mt Crested Butte, I found good rhythm and pounded out some more miles. Approaching the top of the climb, the rain had stopped, but hail started to fall in stinging fits. I kept pushing through until I got to the Mt CB firehouse and decided I better cover myself in case this followed me to town. I got back on the bike and forced big ring to crank me downhill. I got about 200 yards and the sleet stopped and it was sunny again. Right. Off with the rain gear and back on the big ring. There was no traffic around me so I opened it up to frightening speed on the downhill. The hiss of wind cutting across my body and tension humming from the knobby tires through my heart and soul stirred and satiated me.
As I came to the flats by the cemetery I let gravity go and started pedaling again. The sky west of town over the Dyke Trail looked clear. Afternoon heat was easing into cooler evening temperatures. I felt really, really good as I turned onto Elk and negotiated the summertime traffic. At the tent John Jasper, Brad (former manager at Elk Mtn Lodge), and Rob (Snowboard instructor) cheered loud and offered up massive encouragement – it felt so very good.
Rusty Thompson was also waiting at the tent, straddling his bike, dressed to ride, and full of encouragement. As I rode to our support vehicles I explained where John was and hoped that he would be along shortly. Katie jumped for joy when she saw me coming in. Benjamin, showered up and back on for the support role, also had a warm welcome and more encouragement. I started to top off water, stuff my face, and clean the drive train, all while trying to contain myself.
John came in five minutes behind me. His knee was still sore, but he looked pretty good and was set to ride. We got dialed in on fluids and food, bathroom breaks, and back patting, then let Rusty pace us out of town. Having Rusty there was a bonus we did not truly believe until we were set on his tire and pushing towards Lake Irwin. The high of finishing the second loop faded very quickly and the mild grade, seven mile climb to the “Y” (the intersection where you either go to Irwin or Kebler) was agonizing. I set to the tire in front of me, sometimes Rusty, sometimes John, and kept pedaling. Ben and Katie met us at the “Y” where we drank some more and ate some more. Rusty informed us that we had averaged about 8.5 mph on the last stretch. Solid. The climb got steeper to Lake Irwin, but we had a slight energy surge and pounded it out quickly. Ben and Katie met us where the Dyke Trail began, this time we rode past them and stopped only momentarily for more food before dropping into the singletrack. Again, I accepted the gift of gravity and let loose.
The smallest uphills at this point were very challenging obstacles. We pushed our bikes over roots and mild climbs. The thought of any more Clif Bar made me nauseous. I had a couple fruit leather strips and some Gu that were palatable, but I could feel the chemistry in my body changing. I was getting gassy, which helped lighten the mood as John and I volleyed.
Two major climbs, one to the top of the final leg of the Dyke Trail, then the climb to the summit of Kebler Pass. This trail would ordinarily be a moderately difficult climb, but one that I have cleaned many times. On this day, however, the final climb on the singletrack was ominous. John and I tried to stay with Rusty, but were struggling to get our bikes up the inclines. We poured Gu into our mouths and tried to drink as much of the recovery drinks in our bottles as we could. Each step was hard work, but we kept moving, and the summit finally manifested itself. We didn’t stop to enjoy the view.
Gravity sweet gravity swallowed us. I loved being on the bike winding through the Aspen forest, charging technical sections, whooping at the thrill of it all. The last climb loomed, but the fact that we were going to make it exploded against my brain. I had to surpress my absolute excitement – that would be wasting energy. So we rode with gravity, humming through the forest, ignacious ring Dyke above us, Horse Ranch Park below, and it was all good.
Katie heard us coming and let out a cheer before we dumped out of the singletrack, past Dark Canyon Trail, and into the well-populated Horse Ranch Park. Ben and his dog, Gretta, were waiting at the Land Cruiser. We drank down as much replenishing fluid as palatable, some more fruit leather, a pathetic bite of Clif Bar, and then we were off to the final climb of the day. The final climb of the day. Five miles of consistently challenging dirt road climbing. Five miles. We started out in mid-ring and did pretty well for a couple miles. John was on my tail and I heard him drop to granny gear. I was so thankful. I had lost touch with our prime goal – finish. We were in no way close to the top finishers who had logged in at eight hours, twenty minutes. So we set our cadence in granny and climbed. I found good rhythm and Rusty paced me. Once he saw I was good to go he dropped back and helped John find his rhythm.
I saw Ben and Gretta at the top of the pass, a young buck with a rack still covered in velvet twitched undecidedly between us before shooting off the road. Energy welled up from deep down. I switched to mid ring and stood up. Next thing I know I am passing the Land Cruiser. Ben and Katie are cheering. I switch to big ring. Ten miles of downhill and its done. Where the strength came from I will never know, but it came and we were flying. I kept looking over my shoulder and throwing fists in the air. Rusty and John were reeling me in despite me hammering in the big ring.
Rusty passed and I tucked into his draft. Incredible. Now I was going faster without having to pedal. John was right in the draft as well. We passed a huge buck with a gigantic velvet covered rack feeding in the lush meadow with a little doe. Hammer down. Clouds took on the shades of evening, softening with shades of orange and red. Cool air streaming around us. Almost there. We let Rusty pull away – strong, fresh legs hammering out the miles. I had to get greedy and be the first to pass from dirt to pavement, our official race ender – but not the end of the mission. Too many good days of Tour watching to pass up the opportunity to push my bike across the line and raise my arms to the sky. Everyone laughed. John was sneaking up on my left while I was sneaking past Rusty on my right.
We found more strength and charged out the final road miles in no time. The hill that dips down from the bench into town was a thrilling descent. Blow through the stop sign and cut left onto second. Carve through some tourists on their way to dinner, right onto Elk, and left into the parking lot and the tent.
“Are you John?” asked the dude at the computer. “Yes I am.”
