Day 5

The first crack of thunder came at noon.

It sounded like a bowling ball exploding the top of a mountain a few miles north. A quick glance in that direction revealed a swelling white wall surging up the valley like an angry tsunami. I was standing in a saddle between two of the many climbs on Cataract Ridge - about six miles, and at least a couple of hours, from the Stony Pass exit to this high hell.

I could see it was only a matter of minutes before the storm would overtake us. I hurriedly put on all my raingear, re-packed my bar-bag into a “lightning bag” (containing all the survival gear I’d need if I had to suddenly abandon my bike), crammed as much food and water in my face as I could choke down, and started walking.

Moments later the first wave of hail tore into my back. I could feel it pinging off my ears through my rain jacket but was otherwise layered well enough to avoid any damage. “At least it’s a tailwind,” I chuckled nervously as I pushed my bike 1 mph up the next rise.

Earlier that morning, I’d jolted upright from a two-hour nap at the low point between Slumgullion and Spring Creek passes.

“Stars!” The sky was full of them! This was the best weather news of my race thus far.

If I could make the 33.4 mile continuously high elevation crossing of the Coney and Cataract sections in less than nine hours, I should be back below tree line before end-times swept the ridgeline later that afternoon.

Nine hours… 33.5 miles… 4mph… life or death…

“Totally doable,” I thought.

As I pedaled up to the Spring Creek Pass Trailhead, I could see a handful of headlamps getting rolling around the same time. There were other racers still sleeping. I’d been off the back of this group for several days so it felt fantastic to be in the mix again. I was even moving faster than a few folks in my immediate vicinity – a novel occurrence for my race thus far.

Spring Creek Pass to Carson Saddle went slowly but smoothly. I ended up in a fluid group containing John, Marco, and David as we hiked and rolled that initial section. The mood was light, and we regrouped several times on the high points to refuel.

Everything changed on the first big climb out of Carson Saddle.

The puffballs in the sky had begun to rapidly grow and darken. It was no secret what that meant. The pace quickened and our periodic re-grouping ceased. I dropped off the back like an unhitched caboose.

For the next hour or so, I tried to rationalize my way out of the impending doom. “Maybe we still had a couple of hours before the storm would materialize? Maybe it would hit over there, but not over here? Maybe I’ll find a good place to wait it out? Maybe…?”

I finally settled on the correct assessment that I was fucked. Honestly, that made things better. It came with the calm sensibility that I must prepare to face my fear while there was still time to do it.

I can’t fully articulate how scary the next hours were once the storm hit.

Thankfully, it did not bring a lot of lightning, nor did lightning strike nearby. There was however the constant fear that my bike would be the perfect conduit to usher in its arrival.

The rain was steady, and the hail came in heavy waves. The area we were traversing is between 12,000 and 13,000 feet in elevation, thousands of feet above tree line and much further to civilization. There was no suitable escape or shelter from lightning. The only realistic escape route was forward along the trail which rolled from saddle to saddle along ridgelines and over several high points.

It was cold and wet, but I found the thermal aspects to be manageable… if I never stopped moving. This seemed a sustainable strategy for the distance I had to go.

I could occasionally see Marco in the distance. Those moments helped take my mind off the thought that Thor’s hammer could smite me at any moment.

Some three(?) hours after the storm began, I arrived at Stony Pass fully intact and with great relief. I was slightly chilled, but my rain gear had done its job; saved my life really.

The rain let up as I started the descent. The sun even poked out for a quick moment.

Unfortunately, I took a wrong turn towards the bottom of Cunningham Gulch. By pure luck, I stopped to give my brakes a rest only a couple hundred feet below the mistake. I noticed it then. I thought it might be a GPS error. That wasn’t good enough. I took the bonus grunt for the honor of my race.

As I finally rolled into Silverton it was pissing rain again. I gave zero shits. The terror-monkey had fallen off my back on the last descent. As the fear-fatigue began to fade, a post-traumatic tunnel vision came over me - that I would make it safely to Durango, “rolling, walking, crawling, or swimming. Whatever it takes”

This naïve aura of invincibility persisted for the next 10 days or so.

I found the ‘greasy spoon’ in the center of town.

John was there; and Connor! After several days of playing catch-up, Connor had danced his way through the storm and passed while I was fixing my Cunningham Gulch cluster. We chowed - recounting our near misses - and contemplating what lie ahead.

It was supposed to storm the rest of the afternoon, and the whole next day. Yet looking out the window we could plainly see the rain clearing out… a mercy none of us could ignore.

After a quick resupply, I rolled out of Silverton aiming to spend the night on the far side of Rolling Pass. The upper reaches of Rolling Pass have 4-5 miles of high elevation exposure that I hoped to put behind me while we still had good weather.

Connor caught me at Little Molas Lake. He was on a mission to ride through the night. I knew I’d not see him again, so we said our goodbyes. It was then that he slipped up and revealed his superhuman abilities. It was incredible to watch him hop, skip, and jump his loaded single-speed over the Molas ledges and out of sight. He’d go on to pass something like 10-people in the last few sections and finished sooooo far ahead of me. Next level talent that one!

John caught me shortly after. We staggered together in sleepless delirium, up-then-over Rolling Pass. Unable to proceed further without reset, we stopped at the first clump of Spruce trees on the descent. 

There was a resident weasel. Neither of us cared.

I climbed in my tent and John curled up inside his shower curtain liner. It was just before midnight. I said I was going to sleep for two hours. John asked me to wake him.

“In that setup? He’ll be here 30-minutes tops,” I thought.

Route & Elevation Profile

2022 Colorado Trail Race