Night Riding

The single track disappeared into the trees, fading into the night like a trail that Hansel and Gretel might have followed and regretted. The sun had long since slipped behind the mountain behind me, and even in the open grasses light was fading. This was the point I’d promised myself I would turn around and go home. Just a quick out and back before dark.

But I had never ridden this trail before, and so far it snaked its way gently up the mountain where it looked like it might connect with a trail that I did know. I wanted to see where the two met up. And the air was cool but not sharp; it felt good to be outside, breathing hard.

I unwound the headlamp I’d wrapped around my wrist when I left the house and slipped it over my bike helmet. The thin, feeble light cast a pale glow into the trees–just enough light to see that the trail dipped down and then back up. I could do that, even in the dark.

The higher I climbed, the darker it got. I could see only a few feet in front of me, but instead of getting harder to ride, it got easier. When I stood up on my pedals to crest the top of a hill, the bike felt light like a feather. When I eased down the other side, the bike followed the trail with ease.

There was nothing but the sound of my breath and the wind through the trees, my bike tires scattering the leaves on the trail. In clearings, the sillouettes of mountains framed the sky, and a half-moon shined through wispy clouds.

I slipped through the trees, wove along the bends and slipped down drops in the trail. Not once was I afraid. Not once did I think about the next obstacle or how long a hill was, I just did whatever I needed to do to get through the trail right in front of me.

With the dark went my vision, but with my vision went my censor–that little voice that tells me a hill is too long or a drop in the trail too steep. The one that makes me stop before a jumble of rocks, or a root in the middle of a long downhill.

I rode fast and I rode smooth. It felt good to get out of my own way. It felt good to feel so free.

Saying yes to the Monarch Crest

I could think of several reasons to say no: I had a cold; I had never ridden that far before; I was nervous about all the uphill.

“Let’s leave my car at the beginning,” I said. “In case I get two miles in and have to bail.”

My limbs felt disconnected from my body when I started pedaling, like the blood flowing through my veins didn’t have enough oxygen. My right ear stayed plugged all 30-plus miles of the ride. By the end, my hands hurt from curling around the handlebars on all the downhills and I was out of energy.

But I learned that I could take pretty much everything that trail threw at me. I made it up the hills. I negotiated loose skree on the downhills and didn’t hesitate on a steep downward pitch, rutted out from all the riders before me.

I saw aspen leaves scattered across the trail. Rocks so white they looked like patches of snow. A ridge the color of charcoal grey and streaked like marble.

I ate peanut butter and jelly on a mountain ridge. Listened to electric thunder rumble across the sky above me; it felt close, more like a ceiling than sky. Afterward, rain beat the roof of my car and the windows fogged while I changed into dry clothes. I was tired and stiff and happy and proud all at the same time, and it seemed so simple: just say yes more often.

Today, I saw Lance Armstrong

But that’s not what I’ll remember most about today.

This morning, I rode out to Pittsburg, a private township nine miles up the Slate River Valley. I clipped into my bike shoes before 6:00 a.m. so I could volunteer for the Alpine Odyssey, a qualifier race for the Leadville 100. I was a tad grumpy about getting up so early but excited to be out biking before the sun had even broken the mountains.

Nine miles took longer than I expected, and I swore as I crested the top of the last hill, wondering just how much further I had to go. At Pittsburg, the sun lit the top of the ridge to my right, but I stood in shadows at the bottom of a hill. My toes were chilled and falling asleep, and when I sipped my coffee my breath rose in faint, wispy clouds. I pulled my hood up over my head and slipped jeans over my bike shorts and waited. My presence was mostly about appeasing landowners nervous to have 200 riders pass by their horse corral.

The lead Moto arrived shortly after 7:00, and not long after that the lead rider: Lance Armstrong (sighting one of three for the day). Two hundred yards behind lance, a pack of riders descended the hill in V formation. Dust rose up from their wheels so that it looked as if they were emerging from a cloud. Adrenaline surged up out of my throat.

“Holy shit,” I said. And I smiled.

It was the most striking moment, and I can’t stop reliving it. It feels surreal and beautiful and a lot like a reason for living.