by Paul Howard
Then the man-made scars of active mineral exploitation came once more to the fore. To our right was a huge earth dam straight from a Hollywood disaster movie. As we climbed higher it became clear that it contained a noxious mass of mine sediment. The nearby slopes, in stark contrast to those visible further afield, were conspicuously denuded of trees; those that did remain were mostly dead or dying. It was almost sad to admire the magnificence of the snow-clad peaks across the far side of the valley.
A fast, paved descent took us down the far side of the pass and onto a 13-mile stretch of main road to the large town of Silverthorne. On a road bike it would have been good riding. The fat tyres of a mountain bike merely added to the frustration of riding such an inefficient means of transport, however. In fact, the hotter it became – it was now late morning – and the longer I had to spend in the company of the vast trucks thundering past, the more I was inclined to revert to old prejudices about mountain bikes in general.
‘They’re no good. You can’t really use them to get into the mountains and explore,’ I moaned contentedly to myself, ignoring all the evidence to the contrary provided by the past three weeks. ‘And then you get to some smooth road and they’re just so mechanically inefficient they’re a parody of what a good road bike should be,’ I added, warming to my theme.
For once, my cantankerousness was not inflicted on the others. Surprisingly, Stephen was struggling. Trevor was at the front, setting a relentless pace, while Per and I ploughed our own lonely furrows in between.
On the outskirts of town we passed two more cyclists. They turned out to be a sexagenarian English couple from Nottingham who were partway through riding the Trans-America Cycle Trail. Running more than 4,000 miles from Astoria on the Oregon coast to Yorktown in Virginia, this was the granddaddy of all US bicycle trips.
‘We’re nearly halfway through. We’re hoping to do it in two months,’ said the wife in a pronounced East Midlands accent; it came as something of a surprise that she didn’t conclude with ‘me duck’. She asked what we were doing.
‘Oh, that sounds fun. My husband would enjoy that,’ she said, pointing up the road towards a fast-moving, silver-haired dot.
Perversely, this unintentional diminution of our endeavours cheered me no end; it invoked a long-overdue sense of perspective. I arrived in Silverthorne in fine spirits, which was just as well given the exasperating difficulties encountered when trying to call home from a gas station pay phone. It cost two phone cards and ten dollars to discover that the phone didn’t work. It was clear much more immediately that the gas station manager was not interested in this malfunction.
‘I can’t give you a refund as it will mess up the till,’ he explained with an insincere smile.
I pointed out that I’d just had my phone calls messed up and had paid for the privilege, but it fell on deaf ears. In fact, it was one of the most impressive and shameless defences of a completely untenable position that I’d ever had the misfortune to come across. In the end I almost felt like congratulating him. He was certainly wasted as a gas station manager – he should have been a politician.
From Silverthorne we climbed up to the impressive dam containing the waters of Dillon Reservoir. Although on the west side of the Continental Divide, it provided drinking water for Denver, on the east side. This odd arrangement succeeded through the creation of a 20-mile tunnel under the surrounding mountains. ‘Go figure,’ as the locals might have said.
In fact, the locals seemed disinclined to say anything. The next 20 miles were along a car-free bike path. Unsurprisingly, the good citizens of Silverthorne, Frisco, through which we passed, and Breckenridge, at the end of the trail, made good use of this fine resource. More surprisingly, they seemed intent on ignoring the cycling fraternity around them. Preoccupied by heart rate monitors or iPods, or their own importance, we could count on one hand those who returned the conventional greeting extended by those on two wheels.
‘Some people take themselves way too seriously,’ said Trevor.
In the midst of all this simmering animosity, Per demonstrated just how un-seriously he was taking things by nearly contriving to fall off his bike on the smoothest piece of tarmac experienced in the past three weeks. To be fair, we had provoked each other into something of a race through a winding, switchback section of the path. Also, keeping up with Stephen and Trevor was a significant challenge. What’s more, Per’s 6.5-foot frame meant he was disadvantaged by a centre of gravity somewhere near our heads. Yet how he managed to career perilously all over the trail until he finally succeeded in unclipping a foot and steadying himself was unclear.
‘Don’t quite know how I did that,’ he said mildly.
It wasn’t obvious whether he meant losing control or managing to regain it.
We arrived in Breckenridge in time for a late lunch. It was a place the like of which we had not previously encountered on the route. Even the guidebook saw fit to point out its somewhat plastic charms.
‘Beware of getting splashed with cappuccino as you roll along the buffed and boutiqued Main Street.’
An Italian restaurant deigned to let us join the tourist throng. Cyclists at a neighbouring table ignored us. It was to be expected – their clothes were much cleaner than ours.
We ordered a combination of pizza and pasta dishes. I plumped for lasagne. Feeling strangely demob happy, I also ordered a bottle of beer. I hoped it would induce the siesta I planned to take.
The food was satisfactory, but not as voluminous as might have been desired. There was no option but to order dessert. Even then, the alcohol had its work cut out to induce anything more than a fitful sleep; there remained a nagging feeling that insufficient food had been consumed. Of course, it could have been that the bench I was reclining on was exceptionally uncomfortable.
Whatever the cause of my difficulties, I persisted with admirable stubbornness, aided by a pair of earplugs. Over an hour after I had unilaterally imposed a moratorium on leaving town, Stephen, Per and Trevor had exhausted all other forms of entertainment – fiddling with bikes, shopping – and were ready to leave. I woke with a start, even though I could have sworn I had not been asleep. A further delay was incurred as I still had to replenish my supplies. At the supermarket, I was unable to resist the siren charms of fast food. I hastily indulged in the unlikely combination of coffee and cake followed by ice cream and Pepsi. I knew it was likely to be a mistake, but I couldn’t resist. The mistake was confirmed immediately. The 10-mile climb to lofty Boreas Pass began as soon as we left town. So did my discomfort. I was in need of the kind of intestinal fortitude recommended by the homesteader in Lima. It was not forthcoming. I was racked with stomach cramps and nausea. My sloth in Breckenridge had initially been motivated by fear of tackling such a major climb in the heat of the day. Any concerns about the heat were now nothing more than a vague memory.
Trevor, unassailed by such gourmandise, steamed ahead; Stephen, in spite of his customary pause to answer a call of nature, rode out of sight; even Per, still effectively riding on only one leg, disappeared from view. Given the nature of my afflictions, it was probably best for all concerned that I was left to suffer on my own. Boreas Pass was fast becoming Laborious Pass.
After about an hour my intestinal discomfort began to fade. Shortly after, the slope began to ease near the summit. It had, on reflection, been a delightful climb. The gradient was constant and bearable, thanks to the road following the course of an erstwhile railway. The views from the top were breathtaking. We had ridden above the timber line and could see for miles to both north and south. Peaks above 13,000 feet abounded on all sides.
We stopped to don extra layers. A wooden house and a railway carriage provided in-situ evidence of the area’s railway heritage. The Denver, South Park and Pacific Railroad had arrived at Boreas Pass in 1881, en route from Denver to the then mining boom town of Leadville. It was some feat, and it had functioned effectively in spite of the exposure of its route for more than 50 years. At one point, 150
people lived on top of the pass itself, justifying the installation of the US’s highest post office for ten years from 1896.
Now it was blissfully peaceful after the hustle and bustle of Breckenridge. On a slope high to our left a snowboarder amused himself on a large, remnant snow patch. It was hard to know whether he or his dog was having more fun.
The fun, freewheeling descent from the summit rekindled my love affair with the mountain bike. I felt moved to apologise for my earlier expressions of disloyalty. The huge panorama ahead was captivating. This was what mountain biking was all about. I was hooked again. For now at least.
We stopped once more in ‘historic’ Como. The ‘historic’ tag seemed to allude to its significance in the early days of the railway. It had been named by Italian labourers after Lake Como, though any resemblance between the two must have seemed somewhat far-fetched even 130 years ago. Now it was another tiny collection of houses and a ‘Mercantile’. Its only other distinguishing feature was a fine stone road house that could have come straight from the Highlands of Scotland, though the vastness of the landscape was beyond anything in the British Isles.
The Mercantile was closed, so I cycled to the road house to see if I could find some water as we planned to camp rough for the night. It, too, was closed, but a carpenter was busy restoring the reception.
‘Are you looking for the other cyclist?’
I must have looked surprised.
‘A woman on a bike.’
‘You mean Cricket?’
‘Yeah, that’s her name. She’s upstairs asleep.’
It turned out that she had arrived earlier in the afternoon in a state of considerable exhaustion. Although not yet officially reopened, the carpenter had kindly let her stay in one of the roadhouse guest rooms. I was torn between letting her know we were here and letting her sleep.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t wake her, she seemed pretty worn out,’ advised the carpenter.
I settled for leaving a note on her saddle. We intended to ride until dusk – another couple of hours – then camp. We would stop for breakfast tomorrow morning in the small town of Hartsel. It was less than 30 miles away, and she could probably catch us there if she had an early start.
We rode off under the setting sun. This was South Park, a 1,000-square-mile grassland basin with an average height of 10,000 feet. Its scale left us transfixed and, not for the first time on the trip, slightly unsettled. For the first few miles we headed straight towards a huge thunderstorm raging on the basin’s side. Just as it had begun to appear inescapable, we turned sharply right and rode once again into the twilight.
We rode silently between grazing cattle and more pronghorn antelope. The sky between the high clouds and the horizon assumed the colour of whiskey. Our reverie was interrupted first by the arrival of a pick-up truck, then by the fact that it stopped. The driver wound down her window to speak to us.
‘Are you guys planning on camping for the night?’ she asked.
It was not something we could convincingly deny.
‘You do know that this is all private land?’
She didn’t ask in an unfriendly way, but it was still a difficult question.
‘Well, ma’am, we were just planning on finding a quiet spot and bedding down for the night,’ said Stephen.
‘We’ll be off at daybreak,’ I added.
It was not a winning hand, but our new inquisitor wasn’t intent on exploiting our weakness.
‘My cousins live a few miles down the road. They won’t mind if you pitch your tents on their land. Just go and knock on the door and tell them Kirsten sent you. They’re called Theresa, Dennis and Owen.’
She then concluded the encounter with a further surprise, conversing briefly in Swedish with Per.
‘She said she was originally from Norway,’ he explained after she had driven off.
The house Kirsten had described to us was not difficult to find; there were few to choose from. Yet there was nobody at home. We considered pitching our tents anyway and waiting for the owners’ return, but this seemed an imposition too far. Instead we reverted to Plan A.
A mile further on, with both sun and temperature now plummeting, we discovered the abandoned baseball diamond and children’s playground that had been marked on the map. The whole area had seemingly been pencilled in for housing development. The plans had been discarded, but the playground remained.
We hurriedly pitched camp. Stephen and Per struggled to decide which was the lesser of two evils: leaving their heads exposed to potential storms; or contending with the smell and disconcerting animal noises in the dilapidated toilet block with its cold, concrete floor. Stephen chose the latter, Per the former.
Secure in my tent, and once again ravenous, I delved into my goody bag. As an appetiser I had two packets of cheese biscuits and some mini Baby-Bel cheeses. Then came the main course: four waffles, remarkably still intact, smothered in mashed bananas and drizzled with honey. Dessert was two packets of chocolate chip cookies. It was all accompanied by a locally produced sweet wine known as Gatorade. This was the highest of haute cuisine.
Short of reading material, I totted up my calorific intake from the information plastered over the back of every food packet. With an estimate for the bananas, it worked out at just under 2,000 calories, or four-fifths of my recommended daily intake. Not bad for a light supper. I fell asleep before I could extend my calculations to include all that had already been consumed earlier in the day.
CHAPTER 23
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I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD
DAY 20
We broke our fasts as planned in Hartsel. It was another tiny place, though this time without the ‘historic’ tag. The presence of US Highway 24, which passed straight through it, probably precluded such a prestigious label.
It was just after 7 a.m. when we arrived. There seemed to be only one place open, which at least made choosing easy. The HOB café and saloon was small town America writ large, though without the antique façade of the Atlantic City Mercantile. It had the same old-time wallpaper, however, and a magnificent copper ceiling. It also had a nice line in snappy aphorisms, of which the best was embroidered on the waitress’s ample T-shirt: Never Trust a Skinny Cook.
Fortunately, skinny customers seemed to be OK, although the regulars were all of distinctly heavier build. They also seemed to share a political persuasion that could best be described as Palin-esque (as in Sarah, not Michael).
‘Did you hear about that cap ’n’ trade deal?’ one of them asked his companions.
It was a rhetorical question.
‘The Democrats added 300 extra pages at 3 a.m. When the Republicans got hold of it they found it was a load of rubbish. We’re gonna pay billions of dollars to other countries to buy carbon credits, but I don’t know how many other countries plant trees in the US.’ Murmurs of approval reverberated from the copper ceiling. Then it was someone else’s turn.
‘I heard one senator say he’d vote for the healthcare reform bill if all government officials were put on the state scheme.’
‘That would be a good deal.’
Cue general guffaws. There followed an intense discussion about public finances that was partly obscured by the arrival of my blueberry pancakes and grapefruit juice. Tranquillity returned in time to catch the clinching argument.
‘The government’s not got any money and it’s not designed to have any money,’ said the first speaker definitively.
Then he contradicted himself with equal authority.
‘There’s only three ways it can get money. It can tax you, it can print money, or it can sell bombs to China.’
After the arrival of coffee, conversation shifted to Barack Obama himself. The opening gambit proved popular.
‘He’s gonna need to get a big chequebook.’
It was immediately trumped, however.
‘He’s gonna need to get in touch with reality.’
This was a real crowd-pleaser. In fact,
it almost broke the ice sufficiently for the four of us to be engaged in the conversation, but we were saved by the unlikely arrival of another cyclist. It was not Cricket. Instead, it was the leader of a supported Trans-America Cycle Trail group ride organised by the Adventure Cycling Association. He was not actually riding his bike, but driving the support vehicle. His ‘team’ were expected through Hartsel in late morning. We explained that he might meet Cricket.
‘Be sure to tell her we’re just up the road,’ said Stephen.
He offered us the use of the tools and provisions in the back of the van. Oranges were the only fruit, but we didn’t complain about the lack of diversity, unlike some of the riders he was chaperoning.
‘I prefer the self-guided tours where people are a bit more self-sufficient. These guys really need some nannying, and they get a bit arsey if there aren’t the right kind of oranges at the right time or if it gets too hot or things we can do nothing about.’
I felt my by-now semi-permanent state of disgruntlement had slightly greater justification. We cycled out of town past the self-proclaimed ‘Hartsel Jail and Sheriff’s Office’, which was in fact no more than a dilapidated, whitewashed former gas station with broken windows and hand-painted signs. Had we known of it 12 hours earlier we might have become the first people to knowingly break in to spend the night there. Then came a sign for a special service to be held that Sunday at the Gateway Church. ‘Join us at the Boomerang Express. 3yrs to 6th Grade.’
‘It’s for repentant sinners who’ve now seen the error of their Godless ways. They just can’t help coming back,’ explained Trevor.
‘Youthful, repentant sinners,’ corrected Stephen.