Durango Death Ride One-Day
Sitting down to type this ride report, I’m tempted to leave it summarized in just one word; tired. But after 225 road miles with over 16,500′ climbing; after five mountain passes and in a time of 18 hours 25 minutes, one word does not do the Durango Death Ride justice. How about two words, very tired?
Sunday afternoon, Reilly, Aaron, Ryan and myself drove to Ridgeway, CO; home-base for the next 36 hours. At 2am, I was awake and making coffee for the posse. By 2:30, Ryan finally got his Squirrel-ass out of bed. With our bikes ready the night before, we had only to eat, get dressed and begin what would be the longest one-day road ride of my life. 3:04am, wheels were hot.
The road to Ouray is nine miles long with just a slight grade, maybe 1%. Despite a near full moon just partially covered by clouds, it was dark on those empty mountain roads, very dark. Not a vehicle passed as we reached the start of our first mountain pass. Everything was quiet, just gears, rubber and breathing. “It’s like dreaming about riding, but really riding” quipped Aaron. Freakin’ poetry. These moments are rare and magical, these are the moments we live for.
Alone as we climbed towards the 11,018′ Red Mountain Pass, we used the whole road to enjoy each corner, one switch-back at a time. Soon enough, the moment came and Reilly announced what I was thinking: “this is your corner, Bowling.” From the opposite direction we were coming up on the spot where my riding–and living–careers nearly ended. The laughs were timid as I briefly recounted the hairy details of that infamous moment. A year ago that corner nearly killed me. On this ride, it’s just another piece of pavement.
At the summit we put on all our clothing for the descent into Silverton, the sun barely a pink sliver on the horizon. As we ripped down that steep guard-rail-free hill I had a rather scary moment. Reilly pointed out the one large stone in the middle of the lane but I didn’t notice the second just a hundred yards later. I rode over it, making a terrible sound and slightly damaging my rim. For just an instant, I thought I was going down, sure that calamity was mine. “Not again” I thought. Crashing there and then would have been bad, very bad. But no, I just kept on rolling. Wow, dodged a bullet there.
It was cold, damn cold. By the time we reached town the sun was just breaking over the mountains but I was freezing. We shivered our way to a gas station where we hoped to get water and, I, a coffee. It was 5:50am and a surly lady announce tersely announced “we’re not open yet!” We asked if there was a spigot or water faucet we could use. “Around the back, but don’t splash water on the truck” she barked. Wow, someone doesn’t want to be at work this morning.
Knocking back a cup of high-priced yet low-quality coffee, it was time for our second and third mountain pass of the day; Molas Pass(elevation 10,910′) and Coal Bank Pass(elevation 10,060′), but losing only about 5-600′ between the two. Three of five summits completed, feeling strong and happy, we enjoyed the descent and flats into Durango.
Breakfast. Ohhhhh breakfast. We ate at the Carver Brewery–which apparently used to be a bakery–sitting at the bar, watching the final miles of that day’s Tour de France stage. “Food, oh food, I love you” I mumbled with my mouth full of feta and spinach scrambled eggs. The guy next to me nodded in agreement. The chow was fantastic. The dude at the bar, a cyclist who quickly offered to fill all our bottles with ice-water while he re-filled my coffee mug, again. An ideal end to part one of our journey, a perfect beginning to part two.
Heading west out of Durango we climbed then descended our way to Mancos. There we turned right onto route #164 for the mostly flat 18 mile ride to Dolores. While uneventful the sun was now out in full force and we knew the next 50 miles would be tough. They were….
In Dolores we stopped at the gas station on the far edge of town. Filling bottles, drinking Cokes and Gatorade, eating all sorts of crappy gas station available food, we lounged about the concrete patio outside the doors, trying not to obstruct–or scare away–those peculiar customers not wearing salt-stained lycra, helmets or funny shoes. From here it was 50 miles to the summit of our next mountain pass, Lizard Head, elevation 10,222′. Never a steep climb, its 1-2% fools riders into thinking it will be an easy climb. Let me assure you, dear reader, riding in the heat of the day under the blazing sun for 50 miles along a faux plat is anything but easy. In fact, it’s a slow torturous burn; like sitting in a pot of water slowly coming to the boil. You never quite notice the pain until the summit where you are totally spent, shattered from being beaten over those 50 miles, one pedal stroke at a time. Tired and wanting a break, I joined the others sitting at road-side. So tired from that climb, in fact, that I slowly began to sink towards the ground, just wanting to lay down and enjoy a little nap. “Don’t do it, don’t do it, you’ll never get up if you do!” my compatriots yelled at me. Knowing it to be true, I rose, begrudgingly, and we all got back on the bikes for the ride to Telluride.
Enjoying the descent to just outside one of Colorado’s most coveted zip codes, we stopped one last time for water and food. From there we flowed down-hill for many miles following the San Miguel River. The red rocks of the canyon and the lush green vegetation created a sublime wonderland for us to coast through, a spectacular corridor of cycling bliss.
As soon as it started, it ended. In Placerville we turned right onto a rough chip-and-seal road for our last climb of the day. While the poor quality road lasted just 5 miles, the suffering continued for another 7. At long last the four of us regrouped at the summit of Dallas Pass, our final ascent of the day, elevation 8,983.
It was 9pm and the sun gasped its last breath behind us. Turning our lights back on and pocketing our sunglasses, we threw a leg over the saddle for our final hurrah. Nine miles of empty roads, Reilly and I leading the charge down hill, all smiles, squinting in the vain attempt of keeping the bugs from smashing into my eyes. We yelled and cheered and congratulated ourselves as the lights of Ridgeway finally came into view.
After 18 hours and 25 minutes, we rolled back into the parking lot where we had left the vans, oh so long ago. It was over, we had conquered the Durango Death Ride in just one day and well within our 18-20 hour estimate. We were elated, hugs and high-fives all around.
While I am pleased with completing my longest ever one-day road ride (both in distance and time), any sense of achievement was trumped by a feeling of immense encouragement.
Sure, buy the end of the ride I was feeling tired as hell, but you know what, my body wasn’t shattered. There were no bad pains (there is always pain), the aches were not debilitating and I could still form full sentences, even if the words were mono-syllabic. And of course, road-riding is not near as punishing on the body as mountain-biking. But still, seven weeks out from the Vapor Trail 125 (holy crap, seven weeks?!) I had just spent the same amount of time on the bike(hopefully a bit more) than I will during September’s race. Feeling this good afterwards–or rather, not feeling horrendous–is a very reassuring feeling. It tells me that I’m on the right track, I’m doing well and getting stronger. Recognizing this fact, my tired smile grew that much more.
While nothing in cycling, nor in life, is assured, we all like a bit of encouragement. And Monday’s ride delivered that and so much more.
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