Toes Before Hoes

The burning sensation is so strong in my toes that I am amazed I cannot smell it.  The botched ski mountaineering line offers no relief to the pain as we continue the miserable slog back to civilization.  This is one of those trips that leaves too much to ponder.  One thing is clear, as I re-adjust my ski carry system for the hundredth time, I desperately need a new pack.  The only thing comparable to my toes are my shoulders as my ancient pack is taking it's toll.  The long 13 mile slug back to the truck leaves too much time to ponder all the issues back in civilization.  The failed relationships, underemployment, lack of an exact fortitude to figure out exactly what one wants to do for the rest of their life; all these things slowly creeping into my frontal lobe and exacerbating my physical ailments.  Would a successful attempt at climbing and skiing Grizzly Peak have made any difference?  The learning experience with failed attempts oftentimes outweighs the gratitude of success.

A Grizzley Ski Mountaineering Experience

The stomping of rain becomes a ballet of footsteps as it turns to snow. Grizzly Creek and it's tributaries roar with an explosion of snow melt. Spring in the mountains. A good day to be alive.

Crash-a-holic

The acrid smell of burning flesh penetrates the haze and floods my nostrils. The realization of what is taking place seems to take forever. Not until I have cleared the asphalt and the gravel side do I realize I have crashed. My hands float upwards, as I am still sliding, to my collar bones. There is a giant bulge on my right shoulder but that is luckily a predisposition from an earlier clash with gravity. I cannot control the smile of shock that erupts across my face nor the urge to almost whoop for joy. Have I come out of the gnarliest crash I have ever encountered unscathed? Back to the burning flesh, back to reality. My adrenal glands are merely secreting a whimsical delay for the inevitable pains I will experience. No matter. I am on top of the world. 45 miles per hour, a blowout, a reintroduction to being alive. I haven't felt this alive in months. Pushing the limit always has a regression back to the realities of your human existence at one point or the other. Whether skiing a slope greater than 45 degrees, going so fast on a mountain bike that your eyes are watering through your sunglasses or sliding across warm pavement on a hill in the middle of no where, your sense of self is heightened with every movement and breath. As I care for my wounds I am reduced to infancy in the pains manifested by roadrash. I grit my teeth through the pain and cannot help but think about my next adventure, my next challenge, my next painful experience that will help shape my mind for the right protocol to enact the next time. Maybe some time off the bike and in the mountains will achieve the clarity that I desire with my mind and my saddle sores. Never stop pushing the limits, and never stop moving. Death to stagnation.

~Get out there and ride that thing~

Little Bears and Big Mountains: The Story of Conquest and Rescue in the Sangre de Cristos Part 1

I slowly peel myself away from the wall and refix my gaze above me.  The rock had sailed passed my left shoulder much too close for comfort.  Breathing comes back under control, back to that meditative flow that I have worked on so long.  The section known as the Hourglass, the crux of the mountain is behind us.  It consists of maybe 30 vertical feet perpetuated by a slowly dripping spring that makes every hold a tentative fight for friction.  Onwards and upwards until you find there is no more, nothing but a beautiful view and the temporary silence of all those internal demons.

We are in the immaculate Sangre de Cristo Mountains in South Central Colorado.  From 12 thousand feet abd above you can make out the small town of Alamosa to the West as the land spreads out in an incredible instance of expansion.  The view makes you feel even more isolated as you compile that with the knowledge of the long bumpy drive and the painfully long hike into the basin.  That forty pound pack feels like it weighs one hundred by the time you sling it off at beautiful Lake Como.  Tents up, feet up, eyes closed.  An adventure is on the horizon.

The alarm shakes me awake from a dreamless sleep.  The cold helps aid in the wake up process, but my body is not used to doing "complex" things like tying boots and zipping zippers before 4am.  Strapped and ready and rocking headlamps we begin our quest to the top of our small new world.  A beautiful moon shines upon the path making the small light on my forehead almost perfectly superfluous.  Even in the dark I can sense and the the immensity of the rock surrounding us as the basin narrows and narrows.  Finally the trail begins it's steady ascent up the wall to the first of our three objectives.

Mt. Blanca, the second tallest peak in the great state of Colorado looms above us to the South.  Behind us to the North is Mt. Ellingwood, where one can gain an incredibly vantage point of the Great Sand Dunes.  Sharing the same ridge to the Southwest of Blanca is the smaller yet most formidable Little Bear.  The hardest standard route of any mountain in Colorado.  Class IV out of a scale of VI.  Lots of exposure, lots of pressure, lots of fun right?

We crest the class III ridge of Blanca/Ellingwood and continue our ascent.  The wold to the East is night and day different from the West.  Rather than an expansive plain you see peak after peak and ridge after ridge.  All of this is highlighted by the pink and red hues of the rising sun.  Breathtaking, stunning, amazing.  Words cannot begin to describe the sensation in my heart when I see these wonderful, almost magical, natural things.  Watching a sunrise at 14 thousand feet is one of the most epic things I have ever done, and I do not use that word frivolously.  Snap some photos and get on with our objective.  The ridge line to Ellingwood would be my favorite portion of the trip.  I was strong, loving the exposure and riding a high that I had not felt in years. We topped out on Ellingwood at 7:30 am and paused long enough to stretch our legs, take in the Crestones and the Great Sand Dunes and then begin our descent back into the basin of Lake Como.  The real journey begins after lunch.

Did I even eat? I inhaled my pasta so fast I almost could not even recall.  I am fighting the urge to lie down and take a nap.  I lace back up for the hike up Little Bear.  I am having some mental fatigue at this point.  That horrible, nagging voice that tells you to turn around is louder on the inside of your skull than an Argentine football match.  Luckily he is an old friend and I know how to drown him out.  Cross a creak and begin boulder hopping through a scree field.  We approach an incredibly steep and loose slope and begin our climb to the ridge.  Traction is God awful and the voice gets louder.  I ditch my poles and begin a four point dance to the top.

I catch up with my climbing partner Jeff and we begin our traverse of the ridge to the aforementioned Hourglass and after that the summit.  The ridge is a gnarly hodgepodge of a path that could spell disaster with a missed step.  Luckily we had none and made it to the base of the Hourglass to take a quick pause and do some reconnaissance.  As we were surveying a group of three passed us offering salutations and key insight into the stability of the anchor on the fixed rope someone had put up.  We prepare our mental armor and begin our climb to the top of the world again.  The crux of the mountain begins to slip slowly away with every calculated move.  Not even the rocks could deter my pursuit of conquest, and we top out to sail down once again.

The downside is always the downside.  Going down is so much harder than going up.  You are tired, less aware of your impact.  We make it without any hitches and find ourselves on semi solid ground again.  At the very least the sensation of falling is gone.  You know that feeling that you get when you are hanging on a wall and your whole body minus fingers and toes wants to fall into the abyss.  The realization of our accomplishment begins to set in as we traverse back to the point of descent off the ridge.  Just when our guard drops and allows for a tired smile we come upon a scene that would change our perceptions of this adventure forever.

Spring Into Motion

It is that time of year again. Dusting off those stiff carbon soled shoes that have laid dormant all winter and getting those hairy legs under control so one can be a respectably lycra clad member of society. The grind of the road begins to play through my head, and it seems to be a constant battle. Wind, dogs, flat tires, angry motorists all of the amazing attributes that come with riding on the road. But as Ernest Hemingway famously said "it is by riding a bicycle you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them." No other invention has come close to offering such simplistic yet amazing experience transportation wise. Bicycles range from something collecting dust in a garage, a sleek racing machine meticulously maintained, a cornerstone in the developing world to serve as a transport for goods and people, or something people collect and neglect. One cannot deny the impact a bicycle has on everyone. Those of us who ride every single day and those who ride once a year have the same primordial glee when coasting down a hill. Respect the gravity of this simple machine and get out there and ride that thing.

Winter Sun May Someday Rise

I see its shadow before I hear its scream. A hawk is circling methodically overhead, but surely not after me.My 180-pound frame and 20 pound Ridley cyclocross bike may be a bit of an indulgence for the hawk. The abundance of snow still dampens the vibrations in the air and there is an eerie silence to the world that is only disrupted by the occasional passing car. Two weeks of indoor solitude gets broken by one amazing day with the sun in my face and the wind in my hair. I am on such a high I fail to notice the burning pain in my legs as I conquer hill after hill. Not even lactic acid can ruin my ride nor make my smile disappear. A close buzzing by a truck does a little to dampen by mood. It will not ruin my ride but the hair on the back of my neck is standing up to remind me of my mortality. The conversation sways toward the psychological precursor that allows for people behind the wheel to get so upset as to act out their frustration in such an aggressive manner. I have been spit at, yelled at, swerved at, thrown at and even shot at in one crazy circumstance. Is lycra that offensive? Am I doing something wrong by enjoying this beautiful day just propelled by nothing more than my own grit and determination? There must be an open dialogue between the two groups because many people cross over into each category. The vast majority of people in each are good people and could care less about cars on the road, or bikes on the road. But there are bad eggs that unfortunately carry with them the weight of the entire population on their backs. A driver fails to signal a turn, a courier flies through a red light, and both are stereotyped by the other. Let us end this mockery. Create some bike lanes, some awareness, some education on both sides of the aisle. The next time you are out on that beautiful day, feeling high on life and you get that sickening feeling after being buzzed by a fast moving diesel pickup try to just wave your hand and not your finger. One act of maturity, or kindness really does go a long way. Besides what do we want to do, ride on trainers the rest of our lives?

I begin to wonder if the pressure on my head is coming from my helmut or the strain of squinting my eyes. My senses are hyper aware as I attempt to navigate the trail by moon, stars and cheap forty dollar headlight. The rush of riding at night has inundated my mind with a feeling I can never let go. The trails are bustling with activity as the nocturnal nature of most creatures is interfered by my presence. After dusting myself off for the third time in a row after a crash I am determined to keep myself upright the remainder of the ride. This will be a hard mantra to follow due to my predilection for speed and the fact that I can barely see ten feet in front of me. As my time on the saddle increases so does my level of confidence. I have ridden this trail thousands of times and I know every rock, root and hole on it. Yet, why does it feel so unmistakably different? My thoughts are sliced in half by the shocking realization of an event taking place out of my immediate control that will be with me forever. Rounding a bend in the trail I have picked up an abundance of speed, something like 7 miles an hour (see forty dollar headlight). Rather than singletrack and the noticeable darkness that has accompanied me for the duration of the ride there lies before me two sets of hooves and a hulking body positioned perfectly in the middle of the trail. A split second lasts an eternity when you are riddled with this much adrenaline. I begin thinking of the hamburger I had for dinner, the weight limit of my front fork and the reason I am out all alone riding by Lake McMurtry on this starlit night. The next thing I know I am in the middle of a mini stampede. Luckily for me, and the cow, I have meticulously laid my bike down on its side to avoid a direct impact. As the dust and my heart rate begin to settle I dust myself off for a fourth time. A little shaken, a little uneasy but forever hooked on the concept of hammering down the trail with a light strapped to my head or handlebars. Turns out that pressure on my head had been coming from the giant smile on my face.