Trip Report: Tour de Steamboat
Steven Wartik
Genesis
This story starts back in 1996 on our winter ski vacation. Blocked by a snowstorm from landing at the Hayden airport near Steamboat Springs, Colorado, our plane flew to Denver where the airline arranged a bus to take us to our destination. The bus had a half-crazy driver and a passenger with a rag standing in for its broken defroster. Several passengers told the driver we really wouldn’t mind stopping at a motel for the night. We slipped and skidded our way up and down the snow-covered roads of Rabbit Ears Pass in absolute blackness. Few people spoke, and nothing more than nervous talk.
I want to ride up that pass some day, I thought.
Planning
In the winter of 2007, a friend from Steamboat Springs told me about the Tour de Steamboat, a century-length route that includes Rabbit Ears Pass. What better excuse did I need? I didn’t get organized that year, but in 2008 I had both the time and the frequent flyer miles.
I investigated. The tag line on the web site reads “One day, two tires, three passes.” First is my friend Rabbit Ears, an eight-mile climb followed by a very brief descent, followed by another four miles to the continental divide. Dropping from Rabbit Ears, you ride in the Colorado high country to Gore Pass – another eight miles up. After that it’s a quick loss of 1,000 feet, then back up for another three miles. From there it’s almost all downhill back to the start.
At 6,500-odd feet of ascent, it isn’t an exceptionally mountainous century. Mountains of Misery, Mountain Momma, and the Blue Ridge Extreme all have higher numbers if that’s what you’re after. But the climbs are long, longer than anything on this side of the Appalachians.
And, of course, there’s 20% less oxygen at Steamboat Springs than at sea level. There’s 30% less oxygen at the top of the passes. Most of the ride is over 7,500 feet. A little oxygen deprivation can add to the challenge, especially for us flatlanders.
My parents visited in May. My mother immediately began worrying. “Isn’t that a long ride for someone your age?” Don’t worry Mom, I’m training. “How will you get your bike out there?” Mom, they make special-purpose containers. “What about the altitude?” I lost my temper. “Mom, I’m more worried about grizzly bears.” One thing you can say for my mother, she recognizes sarcasm.
Travel
My wife and I were scheduled to fly to Hayden, CO on Thursday, July 24, two days before the event. Wednesday evening I checked my email. United had sent a message informing me next day’s flight was canceled. We were rebooked on a flight that left three hours, and arrived six hours, after our originally scheduled times. There goes an afternoon of acclimatization. And we had a 5-hour layover in Denver. Ugh. I called the airline and managed to get a later flight out of Dulles, reducing our layover to 2½ hours.
We arrived at the airport later than I’d intended – optimism on my part, plus traffic on I-66. Fortunately my bike box let us proceed directly to the special oversized baggage handling area, skipping the long check-in lines. The check-in agent took the opportunity to scold us for leaving so little time. I mentioned, in as even a tone as I could manage, how United Airlines had already rearranged our schedule, and wasn’t that unfortunate? We went through security – for once in my life I picked the shortest line – and arrived at the gate with 5 minutes to spare. At which point we were told our flight was delayed for an hour.
Are you getting the idea of how our day went? By this time my wife and I were mad at each other, for no reason except that we had no one else to be mad at. We landed in Hayden on time, even despite a delayed departure in Denver. We rented our car, an embarrassingly large SUV, and drove to the house of some very kind friends, who did not mind waiting up for us well past their bedtime.
Friday was my acclimatization day. We hiked from 8,500 to 9,500 feet and back. I could feel the altitude.
The Ride
On Saturday I hop out of bed just before 5:00 AM. I grab a bagel, throw on my clothes, and drive into town. I’d been told the trip would take 45 minutes, but I only need 30 – perhaps our friends are accustomed to driving in winter, which was very long this year.
The ride starts and ends in Little Toots Park. The name derives from the nearby hot springs. The locals call it Fart Park, giving you some idea of the aroma. Fortunately it is not overwhelming. Across the street is Kent Ericksen Cycles. No coincidence: the ride’s full name is “Kent Ericksen Tour de Steamboat”. The location certainly simplifies pre-ride access to tools and supplies.
I register, receiving my wrist band. There are no cue sheets. That surprises me. I figure, or at least hope, the route is well marked. It’s 6:30, and riders are welcome to leave any time, but there’s a mass start at 7:00. I decide to wait for it. A volunteer is scurrying around getting things ready. I ask if there’s anything I can do. She looks as if I’ve just offered to donate a kidney, and says “That’s so sweet!” I explain that I’ve been in her shoes, and help set up a tent.
We roll out just after 7:00, about 150 strong. We have cars and police escorting us out of town, ahead and behind. It’s not really necessary at this hour, but it’s a nice touch. The route follows the Yampa River for three miles, then turns onto US 40 – the same road that runs through Maryland, but in a vastly different milieu. It’s two lanes with western visibility. We can see the mountain ahead in the distance.
I start talking to the rider next to me. “Have you ridden Gore Pass?” he asks. I explain that I’m from Virginia and that this route is entirely new to me. “Have you acclimatized?” is his response. He’s a local but not a native. We discuss high-altitude training and the merits of riding in our respective locations.
The road has a slight upgrade, about 1% according to my cyclometer. I’m near the front of a small group. There’s a larger group about 50 yards ahead and I decide to bridge the gap. I pass a couple of riders and catch up, drawing five riders with me. Now I’m drafting, and happy to sit in for a bit. The rider next to me has a Trek. So do I. We start talking about our bikes. “Have you ridden Gore Pass?” he eventually asks. Again I say I’m from Virginia. “Have you acclimatized?”
We are approaching Rabbit Ears Pass. It’s obvious: the road dips slightly, then climbs in a mountainside cut in a line of sight that’s visible from miles away. In the dip I gain what speed I can and shift down to what I hope is an appropriate gear. It’s a 6% grade.
POW! We’re not 100 yards up the pass when we hear the obvious sound of a flat. The rider turns out to be none other than Kent Ericksen himself. Naturally he’s on a Kent Ericksen bike, and is wearing a Kent Ericksen kit. He looks smart and sleek, but even the best of us get flats from time to time. Somehow I don’t think we need to worry about him. Everyone else, locals included, passes him without stopping.
Colorado has suffered from a beetle infestation. All the lodgepole pines on Rabbit Ears Pass are dead. My riding companion and I are keeping our minds off the climb by talking about it. He’s from Golden (where they brew Coors) and quite knowledgeable. He blames fire control efforts, but says that at least the dead trees won’t produce crown fires – the hottest kind, and the most erosion-inducing – any more.
I’m conserving energy by keeping my heart rate low, between 140 and 150. The grade is never more than 7%, so it’s not too difficult. Still, I can see the rate creeping up as I gain altitude. At 8,500 feet – 1,000 feet to go – I switch to my triple's small chainring. My recent companion, better adjusted than I, forges ahead.
The road is not crowded by cyclists. I later learn that 234 registered for the century. Many started before 7:00, and I’m starting to pass them. On any climb this long the riders get strung out. Everyone’s going at their own pace. Some faster than me, some slower. I catch up to a woman and strike up a conversation with her. “Have you ridden Gore Pass?” she asks. And once again, this is soon followed by: “Are you acclimatized?”
She lives in Steamboat, is mainly a mountain biker, and is doing this ride as training for a 12-hour endurance race in two weeks. We chat merrily about mountain and road biking. She’s ridden Rabbit Ears Pass plenty of times, and informs me that the guardrail up ahead signals the approach of the first top. I’m glad enough. I’m not in my very lowest gear, but we’ve been climbing for 45 minutes. We crest, have a quick descent, then begin the final climb to the continental divide. I pull ahead slightly and arrive at the first rest stop, right atop the divide.
The supplies are quite adequate for restocking. There’s nothing unusual – bananas, orange slices, watermelon, pretzels, fig newtons, M&M’s – plus GU gel and GU20. Each rest stop, I will observe, has a different gel flavor. I stock up and refill my water bottle. I only like GU20’s taste if I’ve been riding very hard. These first sips don’t taste good.
The woman I’ve been riding with seems to know everyone working at the rest stop, and many of the riders too. I overhear them calling her Jody. I set off with her and two others. It’s a 5 ½ -mile descent, and we spread out. It’s pretty straight and not too steep. My speed averages 30 mph. I’m not pushing myself. I’m glad I’m wearing arm warmers, because at this altitude it’s about 50º. The sun is shining brightly, but on this descent I’m far from warm.
We’re still on US 40, now riding in high country. Up here everything’s a ranch or national forest, mainly ranch. There aren’t many trees nearby, just open pasture. When the descent ends, the road turns into long, gentle uphills and downhills. There aren’t stream-carved gullies up here. Just lots of grass, punctuated by the occasional ranch house or building. Critters, most domesticated, some not, graze in herds or alone. I have an unobstructed view of a mountain range that must be 50 miles ahead. My visibility of the road is usually a mile. It’s trending downhill. The next rest stop is 1,700 feet below the continental divide, but we lost most of that in the first descent. In fact I soon cross the divide again, bringing myself back onto the west side.
I am passed by two riders, Kent Ericksen and someone who could be Rudi Riet’s brother. At least, he’s got Rudi’s build, he’s got a ponytail, and he’s very strong. I don’t bother chasing. Someone passes me and tries, briefly, but he soon falls back to me. We don’t talk, we just pull each other for a few miles. Eventually he spurts ahead.
I reach the second rest stop. I’ve been making an effort to drink, so my bottle is empty and my bladder is full. I take care of both, and as I down some munchies I talk to three cross-country riders who have spotted our rest stop and dropped in. They started in Hampton Roads, VA and are doing a charity ride for an organization whose web site I quickly forget – something to do with veterans. They have amusing tales to tell about cycling in the Midwest. One thing for sure, they are happy to be out of the humidity. As am I.
There’s a group leaving. Jody’s in it. I figure she’s riding at my pace, so I decide to join it. I pull out a few seconds behind them. I remember that I wanted to remove my arm warmers. I do so while riding, and by the time I finish the group is far ahead. I’m pretty sure I can catch them on the hills, but I’m a lousy time trialist. They’ve got 7 people and aren’t waiting for anyone. I know I’d exhaust myself on a downhill or on flats if I tried to bridge that gap. And Gore Pass is only eight miles away. I plan to catch up then.
I ride alone for a while. I reach a right-turn sign. It crosses my mind that it’s the first opportunity to turn right since leaving Steamboat Springs. I can see the group I’m chasing about half a mile ahead.
I make the turn off US 40. The road, CO 134, is noticeably more rural. US 40 had shoulders; this road doesn’t. But it’s also less trafficked. US 40 went through wide-open spaces. CO 134 threads its way between small hills. It’s still ranchland, but is heading toward a mountain. From up and down, the pitch starts to favor up.
Eight miles past the rest stop, the downs disappear. We are starting Gore Pass. There are still a few small descents, but once again the pitch is consistently around 7%. Gore Pass is not as long as Rabbit Ears, but it starts 1,000 feet higher, and I’m no longer fresh. And the sun is well up in an almost cloudless sky. I unzip my jersey and shift into my small chainring.
There isn’t much out here, but there are some homes that don’t look like ranches. Apparently some vacationers build summer cottages up in these parts. You wouldn’t live here in the winter, unless you like digging out of 10-foot snowdrifts. And where would you go for supplies? The nearest town is 12 miles away, over Gore Pass, not high on Colorado Department of Transportation’s list of roads to plow. This, I suddenly realize, is why no one has ridden Gore Pass. If you tried a self-supported ride, you’ld have no supplies – water or food – for 70 miles once you left Steamboat Springs. No wonder people only ride Gore Pass on organized rides like this.
I catch up to a rider. Being tired, the first thing I look at is her bike, a Moots. Hmm, probably a local. Before I raise my head, she says “Steve? It’s Emily.”
Emily! I’m delighted. A longtime resident of Steamboat Springs, she’s the expert ski instructor under whose tutelage I achieved a rhythm that let me understand the thrill and beauty of skate skiing. Not that I’m in her league. She’s an artist, a study in grace. How many people do you know who can telemark on skate skis? She’s about 6 feet tall. 5’10” of that is legs, I think. I love to listen to her tales of racing. She’s fitter than you are.
She isn’t all that surprised to see me. After all, it was she who told me about the Tour de Steamboat. And she knows how I love riding. We go through a bit of introductory chatter. How are you? How’s the spouse? What are you up to? When did you get to town?
“Thursday.”
“Have you acclimatized?”
At least she has ridden Gore Pass before, though from the other side.
We talk for some time as we ride up the grade. She is waiting for her husband, so eventually I ride ahead. We agree to meet at the rest stop, or failing that, at the post-ride celebration.
Gore isn’t like Rabbit Ears. Rabbit Ears is, by and large, a gradual ascent of a single, long mountain. Gore twists and turns through crevasses. On Rabbit Ears you have a sense of your destination. On Gore you never know if the next turn will reveal the top or another turn.
My legs are getting tired. With more than 50 miles to go, I’m still trying to save energy, so I drop to my lowest gear and concentrate on maintaining a smooth cadence. My heart rate creeps up. The GU20 is tasting okay.
I pass two women and struggle on for another fifteen minutes. Just as I catch up to a small group, one of the two women passes me – no, she surges past me. One member of the group asks how far it is to the top. “About a mile,” says the woman. At that moment we round a bend, and there’s the rest stop. We arrive. I tell the woman I’m glad she’s a lousy estimator, then congratulate her on her burst of energy. “Are you a racer?” I ask. Yes, she is. Then she tells me that I’ve scared her riding partner. Huh? It’s my Poison Spider Bike Shop jersey. I figured Coloradans would recognize something from (relatively) nearby Moab, Utah. But it turns out I’ve passed someone who is terrified of spiders, even ones sublimated on lycra. Could I turn that into a racing tactic?
This rest stop has PB&J sandwiches. Or, for the connoisseur, PB&J plus banana. I grab two of the latter, trying and failing to chew thoroughly before swallowing. I’m hungrier than I thought. And GU20 is tasting good. I fill my bottle, chug half, then top it off again.
There’s talk about the rest of the route. We’re about to descend the other side of Gore Pass. After a few miles of rollers, we’ll climb again, then drop down into Topanos. From there it’s 40 miles of rollers to the end, with a net elevation loss of 1,600 feet.
Four riders are leaving. Jody’s one of them. This time I’m not going to going to ride alone. I hop on my bike and take off after them. The top is still a few hundred yards ahead, so I push hard and close the gap while they’re still warming up. There’s an altitude marker at the top, and I’m pleased to see my computer’s off by less than 10 feet. I crest the summit, shift into higher gears, and drop into a tuck.
So begins one of the most enjoyable descents I’ve ever made. The first stretch is just shy of two miles. It’s not ultra-steep. At the by-now-expected 7% grade, my maximum speed isn't much over 40. But it’s got enough turns to keep me alert, the turns all have excellent visibility (no thick deciduous forests up here!), and they’re angled so I’m just at my edge of cornering comfort. I swoop down and through, using my brakes exactly once, and feel thoroughly re-energized by the time the descent ends. And that’s okay, because after a very short and easy climb, we descend for another two miles of perfect road. Now it’s into the rollers.
Uh, what rollers? What I see looks pretty flat. Slight downhills and slighter uphills. No sign of stream-carved valleys through which we might pass. Sure enough, I observe a maximum grade of 3% over the next few miles. Apparently one’s definition of “roller” depends on one’s accustomed terrain. No matter. I’m glad it’s not an eastern roller, because five of us – three men, two women – are forming an effective paceline. This is much better.
We come to the last climb, about 1½ miles long and minor compared to what we’ve done. My climber’s physique – a completely undeveloped upper body – seems to give me an advantage over the others. I’m happy to moderate my pace. Upon doing so I discover that maybe I wasn’t climbing quite so strongly as I thought. I struggle a little and stay with the group.
Now we’re at the last descent, a three mile long drop. This one is straighter, not so steep – quite relaxing. We take it together, occasionally passing each other, but mainly staying in the same order, leaving enough distance to feel safe. No one’s racing. The hill gradually levels out, and we fall into another pace line. We turn right onto CO 131. This is the first opportunity to turn right since the last right turn. It dawns on me why there aren’t cue sheets: the only cue has been “once outside of town, turn right at the next paved road.” With two exceptions, this will hold for the entire route. There aren’t many roads out here.
We pull into the next rest stop, a rather decrepit-looking storefront in Toponas. Two of our group ride on almost immediately. The remaining members, including me, top off our water – no, GU20, it’s tasting really good now – and eat the usual foodstuffs. I’ve had a banana at each rest stop, and am rather liking the watermelon slices.
Jody and I finally introduce ourselves, and I introduce myself to the other rider, Paul. We set off for the penultimate leg. It’s 20 miles, during which we drop 1,000 feet. And the final leg is 18 miles with another loss of 600 feet. What a great way to end a century! No slogging up awful hills on one’s last remaining strength: we get to power along the flats. I’m suspecting the “rollers” will be as mild as before, and I’m right. The three of us settle in and grind out 22–25 MPH, our pace depending on whether it’s flat, 1%, or -1%. In fact I’m having difficulty with perspective. What looks flat or uphill to me is often downhill, according to my computer. It doesn’t really matter. I just keep my cadence even and take my turns.
We pass a rider on a Pinarello who’s
struggling a little.
He climbs onto the rear and sits there. He shows no interest in taking
a pull.
In fact, Jody asks him and he declines. Well, I’ve felt that way too.
Each time one of us drops off the front, he makes room and we slip in
ahead.
The miles roll away easily. We pass through Phippsburg and do another right turn. Just out of Phippsburg there are two actual rollers. We’ve all been keeping a steady cadence for fourteen miles, and the switch causes Paul’s leg to cramp on the second roller. Jody and I stop; Mr. Pinarello keeps going. Jody’s assessment of his behavior is concise and mildly profane. A large group passes us. I yearn to leap in as they approach but do the right thing. Paul recovers soon enough, and we resume.
We turn right, onto the top of Yellow Jacket Pass. How did it get that name? It’s not much of a pass, and (no regrets) there aren’t any insects. We’ve now got a headwind, and it’s so slight that descending is a challenge. Mr. Pinarello catches us. He missed the last turn. Justice triumphs! He’s in a pissy mood and goes ahead, but then falls back. We don’t wait, and he doesn’t join us again.
We reach the last rest stop at the bottom of the pass. Jody is pleased to find that her husband, Ian, has ridden from town, only 16 miles away, and plans to pull us on the remaining stretch. Now how often do you get that kind of service? The road out of the rest stop is by a lake and climbs steeply but briefly in two segments. From there it’s a flat, straight shot back to town. On one stretch we are treated for several miles to a panorama of the road climbing up to Rabbit Ears Pass. What better way to celebrate the morning’s accomplishments than to stare in awe at that stretch of highway arcing up the mountain? I get slightly ahead of everyone else and debate making a break for the town. Dream on, sucker. Ian is far too strong for that. The group catches me, only partly with my acquiescence, and I fall back into the line.
We make the final turn, left (!) onto US 40. The road is just slightly downhill, and Ian lifts our pace to something over 20. That’s not as easy as it sounds, given the increasing traffic as we near town. But who could drop off now? Just on the outskirts, everyone else turns off. As locals, they see no need to ride to the finish just now. They’ll head home, shower, then hop back on their bikes and ride over to the barbeque – which won’t start for another half hour anyway. This sort of freethinking would flummox my bureaucratic mind if I weren’t so tired. I have no goal but to reach where I started. I determine to give a strong finish, so I put my hands in the drops and do my best imitation of a time trialist. Fate is with me: I make most of the lights. A quick jog through some side streets – a relief to leave the main drag – takes me to the finish, where I am warmly welcomed. Time to celebrate!
Party
I go to my car, slip on my century t-shirt – and sandals! – and head back. I enter a raffle for a custom titanium Kent Ericksen frame that, sadly, I do not win. Food is not yet being served, but beverages are available, including beer. Should I have one? It sure would satisfy right about now. But I’ve got a long drive ahead of me, and I’m attending another party later, so … oh, screw it. I grab a local product, sit on the grass, and down it enthusiastically.
I decide that I want to commemorate the ride by buying a custom jersey. I spot Kent, thank him for a job well done (“My wife did it all!”) and ask if he’ll sell me one. He says to ask his wife. We go over to her but she is, ah, kind of busy right now, what with receiving tired riders, setting up the food, and generally coordinating all the other post-ride events. So Kent tells me to stop in the shop during business hours, at which time he’ll give me a tour. (On Tuesday I take him up on this offer. By the way, he’s looking for a welder.)
I sit with a group and chat. Part of me is eager to express the superior challenge eastern rollers offer. Unfortunately this is not possible, because all of them, though now living in Colorado, are transplanted from somewhere east of the Mississippi. Luckily I learn this before making a fool of myself. I content myself with listening and learning. I learn that there are indeed no important roads with a grade over 7%: snowplows can’t negotiate anything steeper, so 7% is the limit of what they can keep open all winter. I ponder the roads of Virginia and Maryland and how they often take the shortest path between two points, steepness be damned. That limit must challenge civil engineers. Then again, there isn’t much in the way of property right restrictions: there isn’t much private property.
I learn that the Tour de Steamboat first ran in 1975. It had 15 riders. Support consisted of a VW van that drove ahead, distributed supplies to passing riders, then drove ahead again. It operated this way for several years. It didn’t run continuously; Kent picked it up a few years ago. It now attracts riders from all over the state. He’s made the ride into the kind of event one envisions for a professionally run century. Its future looks solid.
Time passes quickly. Suddenly it’s after 4:30. I need to leave, but none of my friends have shown up. Ian and Jody arrive just as I’m tearing myself away. We wish each other well, and I depart, missing Emily and another skiing friend by 10 minutes, as I learn later. I drive off with hopes that I can do this wonderful ride again another year.
Dan Lehman
> Warning: when I don't have a word limit, I rival Tolstoy.
Kindle or printable format? Will it make the collegiate curriculum?
And movie rights ... ?
(-;
Reveal your inner athlete and share it with friends on Windows Live. Share now!
Mariette Vanderzon
Bill Brown
That was a great read! The Cliff Notes version definitely would not do
it justice. I admire the restraint you showed at the airport, and I have
only one question. At what point did you become acclimatized?
Actually, the real question is whether Tolstoy would rival you...on the
bike I mean. The guy was actually one of us, although he came to the
sport late in life as a means of coping with the death of his son. For
the literary inclined, here's a quote (replete with purple prose) from
James Starrs' "The Literary Cyclist":
>
> One month after Vanichka’s death, Leo Tolstoy, aged 67, took his first
> bicycle lesson. His brand-new machine was a present from the Moscow
> Society of Velocipede-Lovers. An instructor came to teach him, free of
> charge, how to keep his balance. What could Sonya be thinking, on
> March 28, 1895, as she watched her husband pedaling awkwardly along
> the snow-edged garden paths? She was probably shocked to see him
> enjoying a new sport so soon after their bereavement. Was it
> callousness, selfishness or the reaction of a prodigiously vital
> organism against the creeping fear of doom? She envied him for being
> so strong. That evening, Tolstoy’s entry in his diary consisted of the
> three ritual initials—“i.I.l.“ (if I live)—and nothing else.”
>
"Creeping fear of doom?" Maybe that was what that other rider felt when
you passed her in your Spidey jersey?
On a less existential note, Tolstoy once had the following to say about
riding his bike: “I feel that I am entitled to my share of
lightheartedness and there is nothing wrong with enjoying one’s self
simply, like a boy.”
Ride on, Leo. And write on, Steve.
Bill
Steven Wartik
As for when I acclimatized: I didn't. I just drank at paranoia level and
didn't push too hard at the highest elevations.
Steve