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| If only the Tour Divide was that easy! |
The crazy idea...
The Tour Divide is an epic 4418km journey along the American
Continental Divide. Beginning in the snowy climes of Banff, Alberta and ending
in the saliva sapping desert of New Mexico at Antelope Wells, the journey is
punctuated by 31not in-substantial crossings of the divide. As a self supported mountainbike race, riders
carry all their gear and spare parts along the route, resupplying with food and
drink where possible and camping wherever they care. After six years of the
event, it has come to be known as the pinnacle of the strange but addictive
discipline of bikepacking.
I’d first learnt of this epic journey from the experiences
of New Zealand mountainbike legend Simon Kennett, who had ridden the event’s precursor,
the Great Divide in 2008. He recorded a respectable time despite sickness and oppressive
heat and I was in awe of his accomplishment. I didn’t even consider that I’d be
capable of such a feat till I dabbled in Brevet riding (which coincidentally
Simon instigated) several years later.
Lining up in Blenheim for a 1100km jaunt along scenic back
roads around the top of the south is a world away from the Tour Divide, but the
combination of adventure, joy, suffering and elation I experienced in the Kiwi
Brevet served to spark a passion for bikepacking, that could only be truly
satiated by an assault on the Tour Divide. After viewing ‘Ride the Divide’ a
documentary film of the 2008 race, I was convinced to make the Tour Divide a
priority, and more than a year out I began preparations in earnest.
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| My Tour Divide rig in its early development stages |
The preparation...
Spreadsheet after spreadsheet, counting grams, thermal
ratings and volumes I narrowed down a list of gear and tested it at every
opportunity. Bike wise I was pretty sorted, a Ventana El Commandante Hardtail
29er which had served me dutifully in 12 hour races and Brevets, with a Rohloff
14 speed internal geared hub providing transmission. The latter has proven to be practically
indestructible under the legs of bearded world ultra-tourers named Hans, and
would provide unmatched reliability for the very long ride.
Another unique part of my setup was the Gates Carbon Drive,
replacing the chain with a lube-less toothed rubber belt akin to your car’s cam
belt. I’d ridden the system for a few years on a singlespeed with great
success, and it lent itself well to the long days in potentially adverse
conditions such as derailleur chewing, well clogging mud.
An ultra lightweight tent, mat and sleeping bag meant I
could rest and recover even in adverse weather, and some bags from Revelate in
addition to a custom made handlebar bag kept all the stuff off my back and on
the bike, saving my butt from any excess pressure.
While it is usual for mountainbikers to obsess over gear,
and I won’t deny this is one aspect of mountainbiking I relish, a bigger focus I
was aware of was the need for mental preparation to keep happy and motivated
for the long days of suffering that potentially lay in store. For this I had two final hit outs during the
summer. First up the Great Southern Brevet which threw up all kind of issues
with my bag designs, as well as some snow trudges, epic climbs and long solo
days to test will power. Secondly was the 2012 clockwise Kiwi Brevet which was a
breeze compared to the gruelling Great Southern. With gear carrying sorted I
dabbled for the first time in riding an event with only my own wandering
thoughts for company. Turned out it wasn’t too bad and I finished up knowing
I’d have the mental fortitude to ride at least some of the Tour Divide alone.
Final preparation consisted of a few weeks at altitude in
the smug bubble of Boulder, Colorado. Hosted by some incredibly hospitable
friends, this town served as an excellent base for final training and testing,
not to mention packing on the few pounds I’d be expecting to lose over the
course of the Tour Divide.
Oh Canada...
Lining up outside the YWCA in Banff on a chilly morning, it
was a fantastic to be at the start line and ready to start what had been such a
long time in the making. I rolled out towards the singletrack in such nervous
haste that I didn’t even get a chance to give my partner Heidi a farewell hug!
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| Kiwi's looking staunch pre-race |
Straight away the
pace was hot, with rookies and veterans alike surging ahead to make their mark
and split up the record 100 strong field. By the time we’d hit the first gravel
road section, a small lead group had formed, and pressing on this thinned
further to leave a multinational trio, Craig a friendly cabinet maker and ITT
veteran from Calgary, Adam a dentist and
rookie from Missoula and myself, a
rookie and civil engineer from New Zealand.
While it was early days, it was clear that there were two
distinct approaches already, the 'ride fast and rest more' approach we’d
adopted, or the 'ride slower and rest less' philosophy of those behind.
Craig and I were both from an XC racing background, and
ended up distancing others over the proceeding day’s passes, many of which were
snow bound due to high snowfalls and some of the worst conditions in the race’s
history. Using a combination of sliding, CX remounts and skiing we gapped other
contenders into Eureka, the 2 horse town that served as the start of the Montana
section.
Snowy, cold, Montana
Shivering in the Eureka Subway, we wolfed down toasted meatball
subs and contemplated our options. It was early, 4PM, too early to stop riding
for the day, but the weather was abysmal and the prospect of several more high
passes and a damp camp deep in bear country tempered our enthusiasm. Eric and
Adam arrived and were clearly intimidated, opting for hot showers and soft beds
in a nearby motel. Craig and I weren’t phased and set off into the bellowing
storm fuelled by the bravado of our daring move. As the race played out, this
proved to be the crucial break and we wouldn’t see any other riders again. It
was here that I was most thankful for my tent and warm gear, as despite the
deluge outside I got a good night’s sleep, if a little jumpy at the rustling of
unidentified wildlife in nearby bushes.
Waking early we were off, riding muddy roads in the dark,
till we gradually climbed to altitudes where the rain turned to sleet and then
snow, and our measured cadences were reduced to stumbling through snow fields.
The Red Meadow Pass was particularly snow stricken, and it wasn’t so much the
climb as the descent which took almost 5km of tiresome pushing before the soft
snow became thin enough to be rideable.
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| Rain gear was well used in Montana |
The resort town of Whitefish proved to be warm oasis in the
stormy sea, and the gigantic syrup and bacon laden breakfast I’d promised
myself at 3AM that morning proved to be a great reward.
The state of Montana made up a disproportionate amount of
the Tour Divide course, whether it was the snow or just the newness of Divide
routines, I felt as if the long days in this state made those in southern
territories seem like a breeze. Just as well then that the roads and trails
here were some of the best of the route. Rolling climbs which flattered and
sweeping descents that teased you to ride sans brakes, not to mention the
technical treats of the Lava Mountain Trail outside Helena, which came just as
interest in the gravel roads began to wane.
Dropping into Helena, my front brake had developed an
alarming disposition towards not-functioning, and when faced with 1500m
descents over some of the higher passes, the lonely rear stopper began to howl
with heat build-up, and would occasionally stage a stop work protest of its
own.
It took several days of riding like this, the latter with
the rear swapped to front to ease the braking burden till I made it to the
famed Outdoorsman bike shop in Butte Montana, where we were treated to snacks
and free service from Levi Leipheimer’s brother Rob. With brakes bled and a
fresh set of pads, we could shred the downhill again. Whether through luck or
sheer pace, we seemed to time our
crossing of crucial bottlenecks in the course to perfection. The insanely steep
Fleecer descent was delightfully tacky, the Banack back road which had
historically been an 18 hour mud slathered slog was a dry 6 hour tailwind
assisted blast, and out of Lima we were treated to a ferocious tailwind which
meant our speed didn’t drop below 35km/h for close to 5 hours. Surely the
omnipotent weather being was viewing our Divide journey with favour.
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| Post breakfast stoke at the Montana High Country Lodge |
Idaho & Wyoming
Resupply was starting to become an issue however, with long distances
between towns and precious little space on our bikes for food, Craig faded one
evening as we crested the last Divide crossing before Idaho. Pulling up at a
motel around midnight the proprietors couldn’t be roused so we bivyed in the car
park, only a pulverised muffin for sustenance.
Waking early we were determined to get to food, and after
the spirit crushingly sandy slog along a converted rail trail Craig faded badly
and left the course for a proper feed. Digging into reserves I pushed on, and
riding for the first time in the race alone, I convinced myself that I was
fully capable of maintaining the gap all the way to Antelope Wells 3000km away.
Unfortunately I didn’t get the chance to test this resolve, as on entering the
Teton National Park a road closure on the route due to an auto accident forced
a rest at the roadside for almost 4 hours. By the time it was open again Craig
and I were back together and agreed to reform the ‘dream team’ for the long
ride ahead.
Now properly in Wyoming, our next big obstacle was the Great
Basin, which proved to be challenging only by its sheer mind numbingness rather
than any physical demand. At one point
midway through this empty desert Craig and I became so disinterested that we
agreed to attack the course. While this less than sustainable strategy kept
boredom at bay and took us to the route midpoint of Rawlins in haste, we paid the price with physical suffering
rather than mental angusish.
My body had held up surprisingly well thus far, but I’m
thankful to Craig for his experience with Achilles tendon injuries, as without
the remarkably efficacious taping he’d prescribed I’m certain I’d still be
lying on the road in agony back in Elkhorn Hot Springs (day 5). By limiting the motion of this most infamous of tendons I was able to pedal in
comfort, and after some adjustment to cleats and pedals I’d also managed to
dodge the knee pain which had arisen as I compensated for less dip in my pedal
stroke. We’d also both discovered to wondrous apparent healing powers of
Ibuprofen, which when taken at night at the end of a long day of pedalling,
would melt away aches and pains from ass, quads and hands, leaving us both
feeling like we were back on day one and pedalling with vim and vigour. Rest
assured I’ve not found the magic pills to be as effective in everyday life and
have discontinued their use, thus
quashing any fear of addiction.
Pulling into Rawlins for a quick refuel of pizza and endless
fountain Pepsi, we skipped town with the aim of making Colorado that evening.
Alas our efforts were foiled by sleep monsters, a phenomenon usually reserved
for the sleep deprivation junkies known as adventure racers. Often it would hit
mid morning, but never with such lead eyed persuasion as late at night, and
often on a fast pedal free descent I’d find myself physically straining to keep
eyelids ajar for fear of free riding off course and off a cliff. While caffeine
pills proved effective during the day, I was reluctant to use them late at
night, lest the buzz eat into precious sleeping time. Craig seemed to be
plagued by the monsters worse than I did, and this night close to Colorado we
peeled off the road and set up camp before they could win the battle for his
consciousness.
Colorado
That morning after pedalling through the famed tunnel of
trees that is Aspen Alley, we descended then climbed into the centennial state,
stopping for breakfast at the Brush Mountain Lodge. A Tour Divide institution, this year the infamously hospitable Kristy
was replaced by Matt Lee and his wife Katie. To be able to join this legend of
the route for a delicious breakfast of pancakes, burritos and watermelon was a great
treat, and we took the chance to compare notes on strategy and course
conditions at this midpoint of the race. It shows a true passion for the route
that it wasn’t enough for Matt to ride it seven times, he also choose to return
with his family to support the racers on his family’s holiday.
Since the Banff depart, I’d been looking forward to
Colorado, and it didn’t disappoint. From the hip but quaint ski town of
Steamboat, to the epic mountain passes that followed. One pass offered up a wildlife
highlight when we encountered a showboating beaver tending to his high
altitiude dam. Only that morning I’d been telling Matt how it was the one
critter which I longed to see but had escaped my gaze thus far.
Pushing on we made it to Silverthorne, and a string of
resort towns with bustling economies that made a stark contrast with the slower
placed settlements we’d toured through thus far. We took all the opportunities offered by the multitude of services, stopping at every
convenience store along the way for drink and food, as well as at a bike shop
to swap front tire with back and tend to other minor mechanical concerns.
Breckenridge signalled the end of the developed stretch and
with the flattering climb of Boreas Pass we were hurtling down the Gold Dust
Trail, an exceptional piece of flowing singletrack that kept us stoked for the
rest of the long day, including through an exceedingly long headwind drag to
Salida.
Arriving at close to midnight, we checked into a motel and showered
away the days of accumulated grime and sweat from our weary limbs.
The next morning, we ascended the gradual slope of Marshall
Pass, like much of the route its forgiving grade was due to its history as a
railroad route. The section following
this consisted of long rolling climbs and oppressive heat as we gained
elevation and crested a few more passes. Fortunately for us, the route was rarely
trafficked, but when a vehicle did pass I was thankful for my buff to shield
lungs from clouds of dust.
We were especially relieved when entering the last stretch
before La Garita we saw a bright yellow grader leaving, his handy blade work
removing some of the fierce corrugations that were less than appealing on my
rigid fork. After a long dry stretch that included a number of dips in roadside
streams to cool down roasting cores, we pulled into La Garita with no water or
food to spare. Only a restaurant icon on my GPS gave us hope, symbolising a
resupply point which we hoped had cold
drinks and ice cream and had been dreaming of for the past eight hours.
At first glance we were heartbroken. The store was locked
and not a soul in sight, and so I sheepishly knocked on the door of an
adjoining house to plead my case. The first response (a barrage of barking from
a guard dog) didn’t bode well, but shortly after Jill the friendly proprietor
popped through to open the shop, and the sandwiches, ice cream sandwiches and
sodas she dished up were heaven for our parched lips and shrinking stomachs.
Turns out we weren’t the first emaciated biker’s she had come across. She was
clearly thankful for our business to supplement her core clientele of local
ranchers. While we were drained by the oppressive heat, she seemed entirely
unfazed only ruing the fact her trees were dying. Turns out the water being
trucked in couldn’t stretch to keeping her garden alive. Their wells were dry after
the almost decade long drought the region had been experiencing.
Following a theme that was becoming more familiar and less
diffuclt, we rose from our sun baked stupor like phoenixes spurred on by the
sugar coursing through our digestive systems. With light fading we joined the
back road to Del Notre, shredding an awesome natural dual slalom track that had
formed with the combined erosive effects of nature and 4x4s. Riding side by
side with Craig we duelled through the sand berms, recalling our snow riding
balance once the sand became too loose to float over. Del Norte allowed a final
chance for resupply, and we headed up to the base of Indiana Pass to begin the
largest climb of the tour at first light.
With a climb to 11,910 feet, I wasn’t expecting an easy
start to the day, but like many other climbs I was surprised at how much I
enjoyed the epic ascent.
Rare footage of Craig and Ollie riding.
Pinning it to the top of Indiana Pass
What made this pass surreal was the environmental
destruction that had been wrought by gold miners on the top of this mountain.
Their Summitville mine seemed to have removed half of the picturesque mountain
top, replacing it with deep earthen scars and a legacy of toxic chemicals that
required intervention from the federal government’s Superfund. While the
equally epic descent to Platoro quickly erased my disgust at the sight, the
distaste has stuck with me and led to change in personal outlook regarding
mining. We really are very fortunate that so little of our pristine New Zealand
wilderness has been pillaged as Summitville has.
After only a pop tart and other small snacks for the entire
morning’s climb, I reached Platoro with a monstrous hunger, and just as well
the river lodge at the end was offering the Bigfoot breakfast challenge.
Consisting of a stack of 5 huge pancakes, three sausage patties and two eggs,
the challenge had never been completed and success would mean a free breakfast,
a T shirt, and the respect (or disgust) of my fellow diners. While the waiter
almost didn’t take my order, refusing to believe I could stomach the sheer
quantity of food, I finished with 6 minutes to spare, and spent the feast to
settle coaching some Texan diners there for a fishing holiday on how to approach
the challenge. Key to success was ample use of syrup (almost two jugs worth),
but unfortunately they couldn’t replicate my success. But with a hundred Divide
riders hot on our heels, I was sure that the feat would be repeated. So
accommodating were the staff that they agreed to send my T shirt back to New
Zealand, as while the heft of the starchy breakfast was easy to stomach, a
souvenir T shirt of my conquest of the Bigfoot challenge was just dead weight
for this weenie.
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| Post breakfast and full of pancake! |
With such a great start to the day, I rolled down the hill
from Platoro motivated for a big day, just the attitude required with the next
obstacle in front of us. It began with a climb up a steep paved highway which
had taken on a feeling of an oven with the immense mid day heat reflecting into
our faces from the blacktop. Unlike previously there were no handy pools to
cool off in so when the gradient turned downwards and the road became gravel
and then rough 4wd track we could breathe a sigh of relief.
The traversing of Boreas Ridge which was highlighted by loose
rocky section where the surface consisted of fist sized cobbles which scattered
as my rear tire grasped for traction. It was still baking hot but we’d the
shelter of some trees for shade, and as we entered New Mexico these thinned out
to become the desolate sage clad plains that would become all too familiar in
the final stretch of the Divide.
New Mexico
Our long day again pushed us to the limits of food and
water, a bag of banana chips serving as lunch and dinner as well as breakfast
next morning. We were lucky to find one remaining water well at a campground
which hadn’t dried up. Arriving at Bode’s store in Abiqui the next morning we
were ranevnous, and for the second day in a row I indulged in a massive
breakfast, this time four delicious breakfast burritos and the same number of
cans of coke. Stocking up again with as much food as I could carry we were off
again with a proper epic 40 mile climb
through the high New Mexican forest ahead.
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| Climbing out of Abiqui prior to the storm arriving |
Again it was hot but
as we climbed a curious change occurred with the weather appearing to turn on
itself. So immense was the heat that huge puffy clouds began to form, and as
they closed over we welcomed the shade they cast. In the space of ten minutes
huge dollops of rain began to fall, and this was again welcome. Donning my rain
gear for the first time since Montana I was dry and happy, but the arrival of
marble sized hailstones and the static fuelled rumble of distant thunder
planted a seed of concern. In one of the famed New Mexican thunderstorms, the
worst possible place to hang out is apparently a clearing on a ridge, which is
just where I happened to be riding. I hastily decided that three seconds would
be an acceptable delay between lighting flash and thunder clap, indicating a
deathly electrical surge was about 1km away. The closest they got was five
seconds, and as swiftly as the storm had come upon us it disappeared, my
anxiety passing with the dark purple clouds.
The descent that followed felt like it kept us occupied all
afternoon, taking in some loose rocky sections reminiscent of Boreas Ridge, a
swarm of butterflies that made me think I was in a fairytale, and a steep road
descent with sweeping corners that made me feel like I was on a motorbike. I
was only brave enough to ride on my aerobars for some of the high speed turns.
Spat out in Cuba with
not a cigar in site, we resorted to Subway, their meatball sandwiches were fast
becoming a staple of my Divide diet alongside Gatorade, breakfast burritos and
pop tarts.
The long road section which followed didn’t have too many
highlights beside a questionable bivy on an Indian reservation, and a fearsome
night pursuit by some horse riding Mexicans. They approached on their equine
steeds at high speed with cries of
‘Areeba’ and ‘Yee haaw’, and I wasn’t sure whether I was hallucinating or about
to be the subject of a robbery. Instinct took over and I pinned it, and am
happy to report that on a slight downhill grade I can out pedal an inebriated
Mexican on a horse. This would prove to be one of the more surreal and exciting
encounters of my Divide.
Only a few miles before Grants, disaster struck our riding ‘dream
team’, which some fellow competitors have likened to a bromance. Craig’s XTR
pedals (which one could argue are the benchmark for reliability), the very ones
I was also using, had developed a rumble which had worsened to an alarming
clunk. Stopping to investigate, he borrowed some tools from the owner of a roadside
bar and removed the spindle. Tiny ball bearings scattered like marbles and Craig’s
hopes of finishing in a record time melted away like the tar in the mid morning
sun.
After riding together for so long, I felt physically gutted
for Craig and as he urged me to push on alone I came to curse the misfortune
that had struck him. Even more powerful was that it could have happened to
either of us, and breaking the deep bond that can only come from riding epic
terrain together for 14 days, I was shell shocked as I pulled back onto the
highway. While the Divide is an individual race, I felt a responsibility for us
both to do our pairing proud, and push for the finish as fast as I could.
While the line was just in sight, the enormity of the
terrain ahead was not to be underestimated with the Gila National Forest having
a reputation amongst Dividers as the toughest part of the course.
Throwing caution to the growing headwind, I pushed on alone
through the 40 degree heat and seemingly endless trail of energy sapping sand
to Pie Town. The headwind did its best to keep me from reaching this famed pie haven,
so it was with relief I rolled in at 6PM in time for dinner on the only day
they served evening meals. While wind was a staunch opponent it was reassuring
to know that luck was at least on my side.
Rolling out from Pie Town my heart swelled with encouragement
from the locals, stomach brimming with steak of the chicken fried variety, I
pushed on over Mangas Pass and found a nice bivy on a desolate stretch of road,
happy to have knocked off a good portion of the Gila in the cool of the
evening.
The Gila itself began with benign climbs and possibly the
lamest crossing of the divide yet, the crest of the crossing barely
distinguishable from a flat road. Pushing onwards I plugged through a long
stretch of loose sandy road. This would have been nightmarish if it had been exposed
to any sort of precipitation, fortunately this was not the case and I battled
though to make the Beaverhead work station by mid day. As the only resupply location in this 260km
stretch, this forest fireman’s station was complete with a freshly stocked Coke
machine to which I gifted my spare quarters in exchange for cans of cool, sweet,
caffeinated bliss. I got chatting to the ranger stationed there and he like
many other people along the route weren’t surprised by me turning up. Turns out
he was enjoying a lull after some of the largest fires in recent history had
ravaged nearby forests. To make matters worse, his home town of Fort Collins
was being decimated by the flaming menace, with the threat to homes and lives
clearly weighing heavy on his mind.
He wished me on my way and I was back on the trail, exposed
to an inferno of a different kind with some of the steepest climbs I’d
experienced making the final half of the Gila a tough experience. Cresting the
final climb I was anticipating a fast flowing descent which I’d come to expect,
but the reality of a loose, corrugated false flat was the final punishment, and
my relief on hitting the highway was palpable. Rolling off course to Lake
Richards, I ignored the cafe closed sign and pleaded to the proprietor Frances
for cold drinks and food after the long stretch without. She was more than
hospitable, serving up slice after slice
of freshly made chocolate pie and ice cold sodas to accompany the conversation.
Turns out she had hiked the route I’d been biking some years back, a truly
mammoth test of endurance that I found hard to fathom. Clearly seeing my weak
state she offered up her lounge for a nap, an offer I duly accepted knowing the
next stretch of singletrack was not to be underestimated.
Refreshed and invigorated, I tacked the technical
singletrack with vim, lapping up the tight turns of this Sapillo alternate and
the short descents it offered. A final thrilling road descent then climb past
Pinos Altos, and I’d made Silver City, and headed straight to Subway to restock
with a personal record breaking three footlongs.
Along the way we’d occasionally crossed paths with Divde
followers that could only be described as super fans. The would appear in the
oddest places and times, like the top of Indiana Pass, close to midnight
outside Rawlins and on a rainy Sunday morning on the road to Whitefish. They
would yell a couple of encouraging words and we’d smile, but cruising past I’d
often feel bad for not stopping to talk, a fair reward given the effort they’d
spent to satiate their taste for putting dust stained faces to the blue dots they’d
been following from the comfort of their homes.
A crew of three Silver City locals who met me as I rolled
into town were clearly biking fans, helping run the annual Tour de Gila. They’d
just finished up a ride on the sweet trails in the hills surrounding the city.
I rode off into the night warmed by the fact that the simple act of riding a
bicycle could have such a worldwide appeal.
As daylight faded, my desire to reach the finish some 200km
away was strong, but unfortunately the string of bivys over recent nights had
meant my light was close to flat, finally deciding to sputter out just short of
Separ. While it would have been ideal to finish this section in the cool air of
the night, with no light this wasn’t an option and I bivyed again in the desert
to wait for first light, hoping I wasn’t too conspicuous to any gun toting drug
traffickers .
The final road stretch to Antelope Wells was arguably the
toughest of the Tour. While the smooth pavement and morning sun didn’t pose too
much of a physical challenge, the thought that this amazing journey would be
coming to an abrupt end left a part of me wanting to keep riding. While I was
looking forward to the comforts of modern life like hot showers, soft beds and padded
sofas, part of me didn’t want to let go of the visceral survival experience I’d
immersed myself in.
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| Tired but content, Ollie at Antelope Wells |
The highlights of my Tour Divide are too numerous to single
out. Whether the immensely hospitable characters I’d met along the way, or the
picturesque mountain terrain I’d traversed, or even the sheer self indulgent
joy of living day to day with the singular purpose of getting to Mexico by
mountainbike. Safe to say it will be some time before my memories of the 2012
Tour Divide fade.
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| Get that man to McDonalds! |
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| On the road to recovery |
