JOY RIDE

The Durango streets were empty on Labor Day morning while we paced outside a bike shop drinking coffee, waiting for our tour guide and a few other adventurous souls to arrive.

The commotion of yesterday’s holiday crowds had faded and this moment of isolation provided more opportunity than needed to stimulate my growing anxiety. If we could get on the bikes and pedal, all of this tension would drain away. My boyfriend Ryan and I were expecting six other people and a guide. It was going to be my longest ride yet and my nerves were raw.

This self-guided tour from Durango to Moab offered the service of carrying our bag and cooler from one camp to the next in a van while we pedaled our bikes. We were embarking on a journey that would carry us 220 miles in six days. During that time, we would gain approximately 24,000 feet in elevation while climbing and then descending through the San Juan and La Sal Mountains of Colorado and Utah. The magnitude of the trip would require mental and physical strength that I had never before called upon in my 41 years. That is why I was nervous; I not only wanted to make it all the way on my own two wheels, I wanted to enjoy my vacation! These two simple things would not be easy to achieve while grinding away uphill for hours at a time. It would be important for me to remember that I “like” to ride my bike.

At 7:30, a van rolled in the driveway, and our guide stepped out to greet us. Glen was surprised to find that we were the only people ready to go, and as it turned out, we would be the only ones on the trip. Ryan and I could not believe our good fortune. We would get to be alone for six days on this epic ride! No other cyclist, no sharing the cooking space at camp, and no obligation to share stories around the campfire. Yes, we were delighted with this turn of events, and I could feel the tension fading away.

A year ago, Ryan rode the legendary Kokopelli mountain bike trail with a group. He mentioned to his guide that I would like to complete the ride from Durango to Moab; the guide commented “I hope your girlfriend is really, and I mean really in shape!” I did not hear those words firsthand, but they were enough to shake my confidence about doing this
trip at all.

I am not exactly a mountain bike veteran; in fact I have spent a mere three summers riding as an adult. However, during those summers I discovered that I have an affinity for packing my bike and riding dirt routes that are off the beaten path and scenic. In preparation for this trip I worked on increasing the mileage and difficulty level of my rides around home. In that, I discovered that long stretches of dirt road are where I find my happy place; they are where I spent most of my time training for the ride from Durango to Moab.

Four months before Durango, Ryan and I went on my first bicycle touring adventure. We planned, packed, and headed for Moab’s White Rim Road. We have driven the is 100-mile stretch of harsh and beautiful desert a couple of times, and I knew that for me it would be an ambitious challenge. All winter and spring leading up to May, we trained most weekends on our local gravel roads. They are full of long slow climbs and steep descents that helped to prepare me mentally and physically for what lay ahead. Eventually I could handle a 50 mile day with my bike pretty well packed up. Our first day on the White Rim would be 77 miles and I was ready! At the end of that first 77 miles, we would get to camp with friends at the White Crack Campground–only 1.4 miles extra to rest and eat.

We broke the trip into two days and it was a total success! I had to walk my bike up a few steep pitches, and had one mental meltdown (a little crying and whining), but all in all it was awesome! I was elated to have reached my goal!

Following the White Rim trip, our local bike shop invited us on a weekend bike—camping ride. Upon receiving the invitation, I was apprehensive, not grateful or excited; even so, I agreed to go. The fear of embarrassment loomed heavy, knowing that unlike me, those in attendance would be strong and talented riders.

On Saturday morning, we met the group for our journey along the Colorado Trail, bound for Wellington Lake. It was a perfect day in May as we rode across the Platte River Bridge. Soon we started a steep climb that switched back repeatedly. The gravel was of the crushed granite variety that the front range of Colorado is famous for; it can be like riding over tiny marbles. Nic, from the bike shop, rode up behind me while I pushed my bike and I moved to the edge to let him pass. Instead, he just got off his bike and walked behind me all the way to the top. And that’s how we spent the day; Nic showing infinite patience and encouraging me to be my best.

 

I made it to the lake that day and I enjoyed the ride while swooping through the easy hills of the old Hayman Fire burn area. On the way I not only lost my gloves along the trail, I also crashed on a rock pile, bloodying my hands (due to no gloves). Even so, I was grateful for the company that I was in; skilled and talented mountain bike bad asses, who cared enough about me to be patient and kind. When we made it to camp in about 7 hours I was not only relieved I was also proud of myself. The return trip was much better! My attitude had improved greatly, and the decline in elevation created an uplift in spirit!

 

Pedaling uphill away from Durango towards Moab on Labor Day morning, I started with the mantra I had learned from Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, “Eat, Pray, Love: Om Namah Shivaya—I honor the divinity that resides within me.

At that time, it was not for the sake of divinity that I chose these words as my focus. While listening to the book I realized that a mantra could help me through the tough times on a ride. As I pedal uphill for miles at a time, gaining elevation and not much ground I tend to become discouraged. So over the summer on my training rides I had started to count—one, two, one, two, one, as suggested by Ryan. Counting did not hold my attention, and soon I would be cursing the bike and the process of pedaling uphill once again. For lack of a better solution, I decided to try the mantra from the book. I felt so silly riding along saying words that meant nothing to me, but then something happened! I was up the hill, and I didn’t hate every pedal stroke or my bike! Possibly, I meditated my way up the hill! Gilbert wrote in her book “A mantra gives the mind something to do.” Instead of letting my mind wander and telling myself all of the reasons that I could not ride my bike uphill, and how I would never reach the top, I gave my brain a project. It worked!

On our first day from Durango to Moab, we went uphill a lot! And I said Om Namah Shivaya the whole way. I was resoundingly grateful for my new trick: I never would have made it through that day without quieting my mind. At the height of our day, literally and figuratively, we sat at approximately 12,500 feet and took in the majesty of the San Juan Mountains. Our view was of Mt Wilson, Wilson Peak, and El Diente–all Colorado 14,000 plus foot peaks. We ate our lunch–tuna from a foil packet with a tortilla–and I felt true joy while viewing the splendor that was before us. It was a special feeling that comes when you truly earn something. As we pedaled away from the height of day one, I knew that we were lucky for the opportunity and adventure that lay ahead.

Day two dawned cold and frosty in a campground that lacked morning sun. The best way to combat the chill was to get going. We bade Glen good day and he said that he would see us along the road in a couple of hours. True to his word, he found us on a curve in the road and was quite surprised at our progress. It turns out that we made pretty short work of our days in comparison to most other tour groups. Climbing through high alpine territory we saw many hunters preparing their fall camps. The air was cool and crisp, but pedaling kept us warm. Descents were quite cold, but still the day was perfect. I enjoyed the beauty of the high mountain passes as the aspen trees started to think about their seasonal transformation. In the highest elevations, golden leaves were peeking through in timid displays of color. I knew that in one to two weeks, the hillsides would be splashed in brilliant shades of gold.

By early afternoon, we rode down into a high valley where the temperatures had climbed considerably, and we were shedding layers of clothing. Our destination for night two was Miramont Reservoir. We arrived hot, sweaty, and crusted with grit from two days of hard cycling. Glen was napping under a tree, so we quietly slipped off to the lake for a swim bath. Because jumping in is not my style, I eased off of the rock ledge slowly, trying to find the bottom. There was no bottom, it was a sheer drop off, and just inches below the sun warmed surface the water was surely less than 32 degrees. My cleansing swim was cut very short. Instead of gritty and hot, I was now wet and cold. I laid down on the flagstone shore and tried to soak up some heat from the rock. Lying there warming in the sun, I could see the faint outline of the road where we had come down the pass from the mountains that day.

With the San Juan’s behind us, we headed out for a couple of days in the desert. The riding would be different; climbs would not be long and arduous, they would be short and punchy, requiring a different kind of mental strength. On long climbs I tend to settle into the bike seat and pedal; on short, steep climbs it helps to stand up and pedal hard, reaching the top winded, with muscles quivering. These days would be hot and dusty, but I didn’t mind. I love the heat and the desert! On day three we rode through pinion pines, juniper, yucca flats, and sand. Comparatively, it was an easy day that we relished.

Rolling into camp at about 2:00 that afternoon, we changed from bike chamois (padded bike shorts) to our cleanest—dirty clothes and set out for a hike. Our camp was at the base of a rock bluff that was begging to be climbed. Going to the right side of the monolith, we wound our way through the rocks and we kept our eyes peeled for pottery pieces from an ancient past, but we had no such luck that day. However, near the top we found remnants from a more recent past: Old mining equipment and camp remains. There were newer artifacts as well, though in our modern day we would refer to them as trash. Perhaps a thousand years from now, an intact beer bottle may be as valuable as an ancient Puebloan sandal is today.

The view from the top of that rock was magnificent. As we looked off to the west we could see the La Sal Mountains in the distance. They looked so far away and so high that for a moment I was disheartened. How would I ever make that distance? Then I remembered that it was day three of this six day adventure, and I felt stronger than ever. Of course I would make it! At that very moment, I had a tremendous amount to be grateful for: a healthy body, a strong mind, great equipment, and an incredible partner! I was truly overjoyed to have made it this far in our journey, and I had no intention of letting demoralizing thoughts interfere. With spirits up, we descended to camp. It was time for a celebration beverage, and some mid-trip maintenance on the bikes.

We started day four comfortable, confident and ready. The sky was clear, the morning was warm, and we were right on schedule. Waving to Glen, we started down the dirt road, but if ever there was an ill-fated day on a bike, day four was it for us. Recent heavy rains had rutted the roads, but most of the puddles were dried up. The ruts had to be navigated carefully to avoid a bumpy ride, but did not pose too much of a hazard. Ryan had ridden ahead as usual and I was trailing at a nice pace when my front tire washed out from underneath me and I was suddenly lying on the ground. It happened that fast. I was ok though; I had a few scrapes and was a little rattled, but unhurt.

Awhile down the road, conditions had improved and we were covering ground quickly. Ryan was not too far in front of me. I was headed down a hill, and at the bottom there was a curve and a cattle guard. I could not see Ryan cross the cattle guard, but I heard his bike tires rattle across. About that time, my front tire washed out from under me, yet again! I was going at a pretty good clip down the hill; I don’t know if I yelled out mid-crash, or after I landed, but the sound brought Ryan quickly back across the cattle guard and up the hill to me. I was lying on the gravel road with my whole left side hurting.

He helped me to my feet as I wiped away tears and gravel. I fell against him shaking and he encouraged me to put weight on my left leg. It didn’t feel good, but it supported me. Sometimes the best thing to do is just keep riding—so I did. My alternative would be to call Glen and ride in the van. Not a chance, I wasn’t doing that until something was broken. We rode on and my tears dried. I smiled because I was ok, it was a pretty day, and this was a beautiful place to ride.

We descended to the Dolores River and Highway 141 where we would turn left and travel on the pavement for a few miles. Our GPS directions indicated that we would turn left again and cross an old bridge then continue our route on another county dirt road.

We came upon a Gothic old bridge with steel girders arcing over the top. Surely this was the bridge in our directions. It was closed to vehicle traffic by large boulders placed at either end but there weren’t signs indicating no entry. The beams looked to be worn and splintered and we were concerned for our bike tires, so we hoisted our bikes and carried them across. Here we found a nice county dirt road that dropped back down to the River we had pedaled away from. Ryan had been using his iPhone to navigate with the GPS file provided by the tour company, but because the paved road we had been riding was in a canyon, he had lost GPS signal. As we descended deeper into the canyon, there was no hope of having enough service to run the program.

I noticed while riding that road next to the river an ever-growing feeling of unease. I told Ryan that I was having some anxiety about this stretch of road, and he said it was probably the bears that had me worried.

Excuse me–Bears?

He noted that there had been a lot of bear scat (although him term was much more colorful!), and he was sure that one had crashed through the brush when it heard him coming. He then added, in a very matter of fact way, that he was pretty sure we were on the wrong road. Following his lead, I managed to keep from freaking out, and tried to be calm and helpful.

With bears temporarily ignored we discussed our options. Being a couple miles down this road we hated to turn around and go back, but Ryan didn’t remember specifics in the directions about following the river for so long. We could see a clearing ahead, and reasoned that there would be service if we went on, but by the time we were six miles in, the service had not improved. We were certain that it was time to turn around. Now, we had to go back through the Bear Zone! Clouds were starting to build, and a light rain was falling in the river canyon. Six miles on a bicycle packed with gear is a long way, and of course, it was uphill all the way.

Arriving at the bridge I was agitated that we made such a costly mistake, and I was getting hungry—never a good idea on a long bike day. I was trying to remember all the good things about this trip, but really couldn’t. Ryan found a place to feed me and bring me back around.

With calories restored, my outlook was better. The GPS had come back, and we now knew where to go. As we continued down the Highway to the “correct” bridge, a rock fall nearly took Ryan out. Luckily, the softball sized rock fell directly beside him and not on his head.

Our new road immediately turned into a jeep trail going straight up a hill that even Ryan was not able to ride to the top of. I pushed from the bottom, but he made it ¾ of the way. As I watched him struggle to pedal, trying to make it to the top, I cheered and encouraged him on! He almost made it! That hill started a long stretch of sand road being worked on that very day by road graders turning the soil over making it soft and almost impassable. Most of the climbs were short and punchy; I would ride short sections, and then walk the areas that were too difficult. The miles ticked off slowly but I managed to stay in a good frame of mind. I had finally found my good nature, and realized that there was plenty to be grateful for that day! Ryan did not get hit by a rock, we were not lost for long, it stopped raining, I was not injured by the two crashes that morning, and we did not get eaten by bears. All in all, we were having a hell of day!
Once at the top, I stopped to re-apply sunscreen. When I looked up, looming right there above me were the La Sal’s; so close that I felt like I could reach out and touch them. We had covered a lot of miles that day, and it occurred to me that our adventure was nearing its end. I had only to climb up one side of those mountains, and descend the other. I was a little in awe that I had made it so far.

As we descended to that day’s camp in the bright sunshine, we were looking forward to a bath in the lake that we knew awaited us. Then we noticed that down turned into up, and then back to down. It was farther than we thought to camp. When we rolled in after 4:00, Glen was getting worried; he was about to start looking for us. He was sure that something was wrong, and he was right, sort of. At least all the wrong had sorted itself out along the way.

Once at camp, rainclouds were building and the deluge was impending. Ryan braved the cold and mud at the lake for a quick rinse, but I opted to stay grimy. It was a fitting end to the day that we planted our tent in a flood area and had to move it, luckily before it flooded. So many things that happened on day four could have been disastrous and ended our trip. I was so grateful that we were ok, and tomorrow was a new day.

In the morning, as I rousted my stiff and sore body out of the sleeping bag into the cold, wet morning air and I was a little slower to take on the day. We took our time drinking coffee and trying to dry stuff out before we packed up. The campground really was beautiful; in our state of exhaustion the night before, we hadn’t noticed. Tall pines surrounded us and Buckeye Lake was shimmering in the morning light. The place was quiet and serene, with few campers on the Friday after Labor Day.

That day we climbed up the back side of the La Sal’s, and I was back to Om Namah Shivaya as I found a use for every one of the gears on my bike. As we rode through tunnels of aspen trees I was able to appreciate the transition of their leaves from green to gold as I pedaled uphill, whispering my new mantra. Our trail left the county road for a two track through a cow pasture and more bike pushing followed up some very steep pitches, but I enjoyed every minute of that short fifth day. It took just over 3 ½ hours to ride this leg of the trip and I was shocked to see the van at 11:00 AM. We had reached our crest in the La Sal’s and tomorrow it would be all downhill to town.

Taking a walk away from camp, we found a view of the Moab valley far below. Settling into the tall grass of a meadow, I took time to contemplate what I had accomplished in five days. In that moment I was filled with Joy! I not only met my goals, I also made sense of Om Namah Shivaya—I honor the divinity that resides within me. The Divinity is Spirit and I honor it by practicing gratitude in all things. My reward is Joy! The Bible calls joy a “Fruit of the Spirit” and Swami Premodaya says that it is “the human experience of the divine itself.” Indeed, Joy is a gift from the Divine.

On day six, our descent into Moab wasn’t exactly all downhill and I whispered Om Namah Shivaya to climb hills that felt like mountains. My mantra was interrupted by the thought of prime rib, and pecan pie waiting for us at our favorite restaurant, and a hot shower later that night. Six days of riding with only one dip in the lake, eating foil packet tuna, and energy bars was wearing thin. It was time for real food and some soap! Nevertheless, rolling into Moab we were stricken by the culture shock of civilization, and immediately longed for the isolation of the trail. At once, our epic 220-mile ride had ended. Arriving in Moab was supposed to have been the Grand Finale of our trip, however it paled in comparison to the gift of joy bestowed upon us yesterday in a grassy meadow at the base of Haystack Mountain. Together we realized that the capstone of our journey had already been reached.

I appreciate your time, and I value your feedback. Please take a moment to rate or share this article below. Your comments are also welcome. All the best to you, until next time ~ Jennifer