by Paul Howard
Some of those who didn’t make it expressed an immediate desire to return to the race, including Stephen Huddle and Cadet. Steve McGuire said he would complete the route one way or another, maybe taking a bit more time to appreciate the scenery and surroundings in the process. Even Trevor and Per – both successful in my book – said they would consider returning to ride it. Quicker.
Racing faster – or maybe just racing – was certainly a seductive notion. I told myself I could probably go faster. Matthew Lee took 30 days to ride from border to border in 2004 before returning the following year to win in 19 days. Greater speed would, in itself, certainly increase the level of adventurousness, if that was the motive. To ride as fast as Matthew Lee or the other front-runners did exposed them so much more to the risks inherent in the ride: bad weather; untimely mechanicals; running out of food and water; running out of energy. It was the cycling equivalent of scaling a higher mountain. I was in the Rockies. They were in the Himalayas.
Yet one of the most appealing aspects of the whole event was the element of the unknown. I now knew the route, which removed much of the novelty factor. I could also no longer claim to be a mountain bike novice, even though I had still only ridden one race.
The result was to conclude that once was probably enough. I toyed with the idea of passing this off as the result of the Tour Divide being a form of immersion therapy; or possibly aversion therapy. Making it to Antelope Wells, I conjectured, meant that I was now so at ease with my phobia of actually completing tasks (just ask my wife) that I could henceforth avoid undertaking anything more challenging than getting up in the morning. Or perhaps I could explain my future abstinence as the consequence of day after day of endless pedalling having cured me of the desire to ride long distances off-road for a month.
Neither really carried much weight. Laziness and the desire to protect my 100 per cent success rate were probably more significant factors. As was the view of the four children and wife I had left behind for over a month for the sake of a bike race, for whom once was also enough. Unless they could come too, though the bike hasn’t yet been built that could allow us to do it together (if any enterprising designer wants to organise a road test – make that an off-road test – drop me a line).
Nevertheless, even one day of ‘normality’ was sufficient to have me yearning once again for the existential simplicity of life on the Tour Divide. Eat. Sleep. Ride. Great Divide. That was the motto devised by the route’s creators at the Adventure Cycling Association. It would make a fine philosophy.
But for now, at least, that was it. The adventure was over. Trevor flew home to Montreal on Saturday morning. Per caught his flight that evening. I had to wait until Sunday, but I was home in time for school sports day. I entered the fathers’ race. I couldn’t find a way of coming last in that either.