Riding the Rockies
It’s 4.30pm. Although we’ve now had the benefit of hot food and somewhere warm and sheltered to dry out for two hours after nine hours of cycling through torrential, icy rain, the prospect of returning to the fray is an unpleasant one. It’s decision time. Do we stick or twist?
In normal circumstances, sticking – staying in the comfort of the Wise River Club hotel and restaurant in a one-horse town in the middle of Montana – would seem eminently sensible. Ahead lie 48 kilometres of climbing up to nearly 2,500 metres, the high point of our ride down the spine of the Rockies so far. The country between us and our intended destination is very exposed; should we run out of energy or become benighted, we’re unlikely to be able to find shelter.
These aren’t normal circumstances, however. This is a race. My temporary companion Steve and I might not be at the sharp end of the competition – that’s already nearly 1,000 kilometres and two states farther south – but we’re intent on finishing as quickly as we can. A more powerful motive is the fear that if we succumb to temptation to stop now, we may never start out again.
This, it turns out, is the clincher. It’s time to twist. We don our waterproofs and head out for another frigid soaking.
Weight on your mind
Every kit decision made before and during the Tour Divide is predicated on the assumption that the option that weighs least is the best one. After all, weight is a cyclist’s greatest enemy, and this applies nowhere more powerfully than when racing.
Yet there are inevitably compromises that have to be made, and these compromises have to be decided on by each individual rider. This comes down, in part, to individual preference, but the requirement to think things through for yourself is mostly a result of the fact that point-to-point mountain-bike racing of such length is a relatively new phenomenon. The Tour Divide itself is only two years old; the Great Divide Race, which covers the US section of the same route, began life in 2004. Even the seed for both of these events – John Stamstad’s individual time trial along the route – only took place in 1999. There is, therefore, only a limited amount of ‘kit lore’ for racing in such an exposed and sustained way.
Consider waterproofs, for example. The lightest, most state-of-the-art jacket and trousers weigh more than not taking either, or even dispensing with the trousers and making do with only a jacket. My trousers contributed another 440 grams to my already considerable burden (compared to some other competitors). But riding off-road through hundreds of kilometres of wilderness in a mountain range as imposing as the Rockies requires you to balance the need for speed with the need for self-preservation.
It soon became clear to me that the decision to carry an Altura waterproof jacket and waterproof trousers was the right one. Mine were compact and light and they offered sufficient protection – even in the foulest of weather – to make taking them worthwhile (my core was still warm and dry even after nine hours of rain).
This much was proven the very next morning, when Steve decided to call it a day. I was now back to being on my own – not a terribly appealing prospect, given that I had already been driven to the verge of insanity while cycling through Montana’s endless forests for five days in complete solitude. But fortunately, the previous day’s extra mileage meant that by lunchtime, I had caught up with a group of three other racers, with whom I would be able to share the adventure for most of the rest of the way to Mexico.
The potential reduction in speed brought about by the extra weight of my Altura kit had been more than offset by my ability to keep going when conditions had forced other cyclists to sit it out. The three riders I encountered hadn’t ridden at all the previous afternoon for want of being able to stay dry enough and warm enough.
There were other plus points, too. The psychological benefit of feeling protected made disappearing into the unknown less daunting. Those who had raced before and knew they could sustain greater speeds might not have needed such a comfort blanket, but I did.
Shelter and sustenance
This desire for kit that inspired confidence coloured my decision to take a tent rather than a bivvy bag. The extra effort required to carry a few hundred supplementary grams would, I reckoned, be more than made up for by removing the anxiety of sleeping – or not sleeping – in quite such an exposed fashion in a land of snakes, scorpions and tarantulas.
Nevertheless, I made sure to carry the lightest shelter I could find. My Terra Nova tent ended up weighing little more than some bivvy bags and could easily be carried strapped to my handlebars, making it readily accessible. I could also pitch it in five minutes. Even when subjected to the brutal gusts of a passing storm in the middle of Wyoming’s vast, exposed Great Divide Basin, it provided a welcome oasis of tranquillity and a semblance of security at the end of a 16-hour cycling day.
That was the extent of my home luxuries, however. I had briefly entertained the idea of carrying a small stove, as a cup of tea is the answer to a million different ailments, both physical and mental. Yet advice from previous participants suggested that hot food and drinks would be available from petrol stations and towns on the route. These outlets also provided the chance, even when racing, to appreciate the very genuine hospitality of the locals who, in spite of their apparent reliance on 4x4s and pickups, were intrigued and enthused by the cyclists passing through.
In between, I decided to subsist on whatever cold foods could be found quickly and cheaply, and would fit in my handlebar bag and jersey pockets. Four weeks of chocolate bars, peanuts and salami-filled tortillas became a drag, but salads and fruit were surprisingly widely available in burger bars, providing a moderate supply of nutrients and vitamins.
Similarly, I decided against taking a water filter. Advice for tourers on this route is that a filter is essential. This is based on the assumption that they aren’t riding sufficiently quickly to cover the distance between clean resupply points without running out. It also assumes that a tourer will have the time and inclination to filter water carefully and methodically. A common reason for people to abandon the Tour Divide has been contracting waterborne diseases such as giardiasis – in spite of using a filter. It seemed that the only way to avoid the risk was to avoid the use of streams and springs entirely.
As a result, I chose to rely only on tap water in towns and carried more water than some to cover the ground in between, supplementing a three-litre Camelbak with four 0.6-litre water bottles fixed to my bike. I did also carry a packet of purifying tablets, however, for use in emergencies. I only used them once, on the penultimate day, when I took water from a standpipe fixed to a firehose. This was in the middle of the longest, hottest stretch without water – 260 kilometres through the Gila National Forest in New Mexico – but even then, I only drank one bottle of purified water before returning to ‘civilisation’ and several bottles of Coca-Cola (neither the firehose water nor the Coke had any ill effects).
Having erred on the side of caution when it came to waterproofs and tent, however, I endeavoured to ensure everything else I took was as light, or at least as reduced in quantity, as possible. Instead of panniers, I used two dry bags to carry my sleeping bag and synthetic down jacket on my pannier rack. In spite of frequent drenching and general abuse, these survived intact for the whole length of the trip.
Most of the rest of my kit was chosen to ensure a degree of comfort in the fewest number of grams. With no scope to carry a change of clothing, comfortable shorts and gloves padded with gel were essential. The shoes I chose were those that would allow me to walk some distance for help if I suffered an insurmountable mechanical failure.
To avoid such a problem, I took a homemade repair kit including a dozen spare Allen bolts of various sizes, a selection of cables, a chain link, brake pads, a multi-tool, two inner tubes and a set of patches. I only needed to use the tubes and patches, of course, but it seemed inconceivable to not take the rest. After all, as US poet Robert Frost said: ‘The best way out is always through.’ To complete a race such as the Tour Divide, that’s the best advice of all.
June 2010
In normal circumstances, sticking – staying in the comfort of the Wise River Club hotel and restaurant in a one-horse town in the middle of Montana – would seem eminently sensible. Ahead lie 48 kilometres of climbing up to nearly 2,500 metres, the high point of our ride down the spine of the Rockies so far. The country between us and our intended destination is very exposed; should we run out of energy or become benighted, we’re unlikely to be able to find shelter.
These aren’t normal circumstances, however. This is a race. My temporary companion Steve and I might not be at the sharp end of the competition – that’s already nearly 1,000 kilometres and two states farther south – but we’re intent on finishing as quickly as we can. A more powerful motive is the fear that if we succumb to temptation to stop now, we may never start out again.
This, it turns out, is the clincher. It’s time to twist. We don our waterproofs and head out for another frigid soaking.
Weight on your mind
Every kit decision made before and during the Tour Divide is predicated on the assumption that the option that weighs least is the best one. After all, weight is a cyclist’s greatest enemy, and this applies nowhere more powerfully than when racing.
Yet there are inevitably compromises that have to be made, and these compromises have to be decided on by each individual rider. This comes down, in part, to individual preference, but the requirement to think things through for yourself is mostly a result of the fact that point-to-point mountain-bike racing of such length is a relatively new phenomenon. The Tour Divide itself is only two years old; the Great Divide Race, which covers the US section of the same route, began life in 2004. Even the seed for both of these events – John Stamstad’s individual time trial along the route – only took place in 1999. There is, therefore, only a limited amount of ‘kit lore’ for racing in such an exposed and sustained way.
Consider waterproofs, for example. The lightest, most state-of-the-art jacket and trousers weigh more than not taking either, or even dispensing with the trousers and making do with only a jacket. My trousers contributed another 440 grams to my already considerable burden (compared to some other competitors). But riding off-road through hundreds of kilometres of wilderness in a mountain range as imposing as the Rockies requires you to balance the need for speed with the need for self-preservation.
It soon became clear to me that the decision to carry an Altura waterproof jacket and waterproof trousers was the right one. Mine were compact and light and they offered sufficient protection – even in the foulest of weather – to make taking them worthwhile (my core was still warm and dry even after nine hours of rain).
This much was proven the very next morning, when Steve decided to call it a day. I was now back to being on my own – not a terribly appealing prospect, given that I had already been driven to the verge of insanity while cycling through Montana’s endless forests for five days in complete solitude. But fortunately, the previous day’s extra mileage meant that by lunchtime, I had caught up with a group of three other racers, with whom I would be able to share the adventure for most of the rest of the way to Mexico.
The potential reduction in speed brought about by the extra weight of my Altura kit had been more than offset by my ability to keep going when conditions had forced other cyclists to sit it out. The three riders I encountered hadn’t ridden at all the previous afternoon for want of being able to stay dry enough and warm enough.
There were other plus points, too. The psychological benefit of feeling protected made disappearing into the unknown less daunting. Those who had raced before and knew they could sustain greater speeds might not have needed such a comfort blanket, but I did.
Shelter and sustenance
This desire for kit that inspired confidence coloured my decision to take a tent rather than a bivvy bag. The extra effort required to carry a few hundred supplementary grams would, I reckoned, be more than made up for by removing the anxiety of sleeping – or not sleeping – in quite such an exposed fashion in a land of snakes, scorpions and tarantulas.
Nevertheless, I made sure to carry the lightest shelter I could find. My Terra Nova tent ended up weighing little more than some bivvy bags and could easily be carried strapped to my handlebars, making it readily accessible. I could also pitch it in five minutes. Even when subjected to the brutal gusts of a passing storm in the middle of Wyoming’s vast, exposed Great Divide Basin, it provided a welcome oasis of tranquillity and a semblance of security at the end of a 16-hour cycling day.
That was the extent of my home luxuries, however. I had briefly entertained the idea of carrying a small stove, as a cup of tea is the answer to a million different ailments, both physical and mental. Yet advice from previous participants suggested that hot food and drinks would be available from petrol stations and towns on the route. These outlets also provided the chance, even when racing, to appreciate the very genuine hospitality of the locals who, in spite of their apparent reliance on 4x4s and pickups, were intrigued and enthused by the cyclists passing through.
In between, I decided to subsist on whatever cold foods could be found quickly and cheaply, and would fit in my handlebar bag and jersey pockets. Four weeks of chocolate bars, peanuts and salami-filled tortillas became a drag, but salads and fruit were surprisingly widely available in burger bars, providing a moderate supply of nutrients and vitamins.
Similarly, I decided against taking a water filter. Advice for tourers on this route is that a filter is essential. This is based on the assumption that they aren’t riding sufficiently quickly to cover the distance between clean resupply points without running out. It also assumes that a tourer will have the time and inclination to filter water carefully and methodically. A common reason for people to abandon the Tour Divide has been contracting waterborne diseases such as giardiasis – in spite of using a filter. It seemed that the only way to avoid the risk was to avoid the use of streams and springs entirely.
As a result, I chose to rely only on tap water in towns and carried more water than some to cover the ground in between, supplementing a three-litre Camelbak with four 0.6-litre water bottles fixed to my bike. I did also carry a packet of purifying tablets, however, for use in emergencies. I only used them once, on the penultimate day, when I took water from a standpipe fixed to a firehose. This was in the middle of the longest, hottest stretch without water – 260 kilometres through the Gila National Forest in New Mexico – but even then, I only drank one bottle of purified water before returning to ‘civilisation’ and several bottles of Coca-Cola (neither the firehose water nor the Coke had any ill effects).
Having erred on the side of caution when it came to waterproofs and tent, however, I endeavoured to ensure everything else I took was as light, or at least as reduced in quantity, as possible. Instead of panniers, I used two dry bags to carry my sleeping bag and synthetic down jacket on my pannier rack. In spite of frequent drenching and general abuse, these survived intact for the whole length of the trip.
Most of the rest of my kit was chosen to ensure a degree of comfort in the fewest number of grams. With no scope to carry a change of clothing, comfortable shorts and gloves padded with gel were essential. The shoes I chose were those that would allow me to walk some distance for help if I suffered an insurmountable mechanical failure.
To avoid such a problem, I took a homemade repair kit including a dozen spare Allen bolts of various sizes, a selection of cables, a chain link, brake pads, a multi-tool, two inner tubes and a set of patches. I only needed to use the tubes and patches, of course, but it seemed inconceivable to not take the rest. After all, as US poet Robert Frost said: ‘The best way out is always through.’ To complete a race such as the Tour Divide, that’s the best advice of all.
Start the slideshow (10 pictures)
June 2010
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