Mt. Evans Ride

Rex Bartley

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Out the left side window of the plane it comes into view. My stomach tightens just a bit. This is what I'd been preparing for the last 10 months and now it's show time. The "it" is Mt Evans, Colorado’s 14th highest  peak, sitting 40 miles west of downtown Denver. Up to the summit, 14,264 feet above sea level, winds the highest paved road in North America. Someone decided a few decades ago that it would be a good idea to have an annual bicycle race up that road, all the way to the top. Being part of that bike race is why I've flown, with my wife Debbie, out to Denver International from our home in Central Kentucky. The big question in my mind is whether a 55 year old, middle of the pack flat lander can pull this off.

The idea of riding my bike up the mountain first came to me last fall during a visit to Denver. As soon as I got back home from that trip I began to pile up the training miles and read everything I could find on the internet about the mountain. I read anything by anyone who had written about their experience of riding up it, which is how I first found out about the race. I learned that during the 2004 race, Tom Danielson, who now  rides for Team Discovery, had set the current record of 1 hour, 41 minutes and 20 seconds, for the 28 mile route in less than ideal conditions. I would also learn, this very day, what a super human feat that really is.

Shortly after I spotted the mountain out the plane window our pilot came on the intercom with the usual pre-landing announcements, and noted that the local temperature in Denver was 94 degrees and it was just 9:20 in the morning. Oh boy! No oxygen and 100 degree heat. It just doesn't get any better than this. Fortunately, I'd been riding in some 90 degree temperatures at home for the last several weeks - at 800 feet above sea level. 

The idea of building a road to the top of Mt. Evans was first proposed in 1915 by Denver's Mayor Speer. The road to the summit  was completed in 1927. In 1991, the road was designated a Colorado State Scenic and Historic Byway, and 1993 was named a National Forest Scenic Byway.  The road is plowed of snow  just before Memorial day and the last 14 miles from the Ranger Station to the peak is usually closed by mid to late September because of, you guessed it, snow. Amazingly, in those few months, the mountain literally comes to life. There are more than a dozen varieties of flowers that spring to life in this incredibly harsh climate as if they were growing in someone's backyard in the Carolinas. Bristlecone Pines, some that had been on the mountain for over a 1,200 years before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, greet you as you approach timber line. Most are knarled, twisted, and bent low from 1,600  winters with winds that sometimes reach 200 mph, and temperature that can plunge past 50 below zero.

We gather our luggage, head to the rental car company, secure the keys for a Toyota Highlander, (how appropriate!) and head west to Idaho Springs, the gateway town to Mt. Evans. Founded during the gold rush that began on January 7, 1859 when George Andrew Jackson discovered gold in a gravel bar near the junction of Clear Creek and Chicago Creek, Idaho Springs is a quiet little town of 1,893 residents. It is also the largest town in Clear Creek County. Established as Idahoe City in 1873, it was renamed Idaho Springs three years later. Main street ,(which is actually named Miner Street), looks a lot like it did when the road up Mt. Evans was completed. Like the flowers on the mountain, Idaho Springs comes to life with the arrival of spring and tourists. Mt. Evans  is a favorite weekend getaway for many people in the Denver area, especially when the temperature soars. Today it will indeed soar, to 104 degrees in Denver, which will mean about 95 in Idaho Springs, thanks to the higher elevation there and about 70 at the top of the mountain.

We arrive at our hotel and discover, to our great dismay, that there is no air conditioning in our room, or any of the rooms. Ok, I think, we'll deal with this later. Right now I'm only interested in unpacking my Serotta and hitting the  road. I plan to ride today, (Saturday), Monday, Wednesday, and then do the race next Saturday.

I fill both my water bottles, put another 20 oz bottle of water in my jersey pocket and head out the door. My wife will wait at the hotel for a couple hours for her sister and her sister's husband, who live just south of Denver, to pick her up. They will then head up the mountain, to either meet me at the summit or pick me up somewhere along the way, if I can't make the entire trip.

I've read so much about the negative effects of exercising at altitude, (nausea, dizziness, headaches, fainting, lightheadedness, shortness of breath, disorientation, fatigue) that I'm halfway expecting my head to explode before I get to the top. I keep telling myself that I've done everything I could have done, including 4,092 mile on the bike in the last year, to get ready for this. The truth is, I really don't know  what to expect, so I start out fairly easy to gauge how  I'm feeling. The climb starts in Idaho Springs at about 7,500 feet above sea level (that’s only about 1,000 feet less than the HIGHEST point in the Tour De France.) The first few miles are not very steep, so aside from the heat I'm feeling pretty good. The temperature typically drops 3 to 5 degrees for every 1,000 feet of elevation gain so I get a little more comfortable as the miles tick by. I also begin to realize that I'm not going to be able to replace the liquids I'm losing as fast as I need to. The air here is extremely dry. Denver is the 6th driest large city in America, in measurable rainfall. You lose a lot of moisture simply by breathing and I'm beginning to breath very deeply, not to the point of gasping, but labored to be sure. If you've never been at higher elevations, it is difficult to describe how it feels trying to breathe in oxygen that just isn't there. "Thin air",they call it. Hold a  handkerchief over your nose and mouth and try to inhale. It feels kinda like that. Try to hammer these hills, I found out, and they hammer back, hard. Oxygen debt almost immediately becomes oxygen bankruptcy. I think of my dear friend Judy, who died of lung cancer last fall, and how I remember watching her labor to simply get her breath. This must be how she felt, all the time. I continue to climb for about a hour and a half until I round a long left hander and view a welcome site, Echo Lake. I've put nearly half the climb behind me - the easy half.

Sitting at 10,600 feet above sea level, surrounded by a subalpine forest of fir, lodgepole pine and spruce, Echo Lake greets visitors with spectacular beauty, including an incredible reflection of Mt. Evans in it's crystal blue waters. There is a picnic area and ample parking that allows visitors to stop and take advantage of  miles of hiking trails. One such trail leads up the valley, toward Mt. Evans, to the Chicago Lakes Wilderness Area. Those choosing to make the moderately difficult four mile hike are rewarded with scenery and solitude found few other places on earth. One of the things I love about being in the Rocky Mountains is the fact that they make you realize just how small you truly are in the overall scheme of things. The sheer beauty and enormous vastness of these mountains is overwhelming. "Exhausting the English language" was the way Teddy Roosevelt put it. Ask anyone who has ever been there to describe it and they simply cannot find the words to do it justice. Spectacular, incredible, awesome all fall terribly short. Indescribable is the most accurate description. "You just have to see it for yourself" is the way the attempted description usually ends. About a quarter mile past Echo Lake, on the right, is Echo Lake Lodge. Built in 1926, it once offered food and overnight accommodations to visitors. Today the restaurant and gift shop are still open but lodging is no longer available. We will stop in for a meal here on Sunday and be entertained, while waiting for our food, by dozens of hummingbirds raiding the feeders outside the windows. I wondered, outloud, where all those little guys go during the winter to escape the cold and the 400 plus inches of annual snowfall. (Don't reach for the calculator, that's over 33 feet.) Most of that snowfall occurs during spring storms.

I turn right just past the lodge onto Colorado 5, the road that winds the last 14 miles to the summit. Stopping at the Ranger Station, I pay the $3.00 fee for bicycles and proceed on my way. Within the next three miles the trees, (and the oxygen),become increasingly more scarce as I approach timberline. I enter the Mount Goliath Natural Area at 11,540 feet and make my way past dozens of ancient bristlecone pines. Rounding a steep lefthander I am treated to a fabulous view of dozens of mountains, both near and distant, most still wearing last winters snow on their peaks. To my right, about 1,100 feet below, is Echo Lake, looking much smaller than it did a while ago. I am tired but exhilarated by the view, or I'm lightheaded from lack of oxygen. Either way, I'm extremely happy to be here. I begin to think that I might actually be able to do this. The wind is stronger here than it's been all day. There are no trees anymore to block it and this portion of the road is completely exposed to the wind coming up from the valley below, but within the next mile the road turns back across the mountain and the wind dies down a bit. I've now settled into a breathing pattern that can best be described as double time deep breaths. Each time I take a drink I have to hyperventilate for about 5  seconds to get caught up. But so far so good. No headache, dizziness, fainting, or exploding head. I do notice though, that my upper body is starting to get tired. I've never done this much climbing before and I'm surprised by the fact that it doesn't fatigue just the legs like I thought it would. The best I could do to practice for this back home was a 2 mile climb with a elevation gain of about 500 or 600 feet. We just don't have mountains like this in Central Kentucky, so the best you can do is attack the climb, hurry back down to the bottom and do it all again. About 8 miles from the peak I come around a right hander and see it for the first time. THE SUMMIT!

The unmistakable landmark you first see sitting at the summit is the dome of the University of Denver observatory. Situated near the parking lot at the peak, it was the highest observatory in the world until 2000. NASA sponsored the installation of the first telescope there in 1972 to promote detailed studies of the heavens. A new, state-of-the-art telescope is now housed in the observatory. Unfortunately, the observatory is not open to the public, but on a clear night, anyone sitting at the peak with a telescope is treated to a view of the heavens unsurpassed by few places on earth. Once the road is opened in the spring it stays open 24 hours a day until the first significant snowfall, so access for star gazers is unlimited. The summer sky yields such treasures as Scorpius, Sagittarius, Polaris, Pegasus, and Cassiopeia, along with shooting stars. The star group Andromeda can be seen toward the northern end of the Milky Way. Our neighboring galaxy is visible, sitting there a mere two million light years away.

As the crow  flies, I'm only about 3 miles from the peak, but I'm not a crow, so as the road winds, I still have a long away to go. The highest and steepest part of the course is yet to come. Another mile up the road brings me to the first of only two downhill sections on the entire course. This one is about 3/4 mile long, the other a couple hundred yards. I'm delighted to see the road turn down for a change. Which is about the time I notice a sign beside the road that reads "Road Damage". Said damage consists of some humps and holes in the pavement that will nearly throw you off the bike unless you're up on the pedals with both knees bent. I have never encountered a section of road like this. Anywhere. Ever. I guess blacktop doesn't respond well to 50 below  zero.

Sitting at the bottom of this short descent is Summit Lake. Located 12,830 feet above sea level, this magnificent alpine lake’s waters remain frigid even in the warmest summer months. The lake is surrounded on 3 sides with cliffs that rise more than a 1,000 feet above it’s surface. There is a large parking area from which you can embark on hikes in several directions. One of the shortest of these hikes treats you to a phenomenal view of the Chicago Lakes Valley 1,000 feet below. Turn 180 degrees from that view and you see the summit of Mt. Evans 1,400 feet above. (Did I mention that this place is incredible?) One of the features you will find around the Summit Lake area is permafrost, which is underground  pockets of permanently frozen soil and rock. Alpine tundra is also found here, one of the few places below the Arctic circle where it can be seen. You begin to realize that you are in a truly unique, almost timeless place. Aside from the road and trails, you’re looking at an area that has not changed in thousands of years.

Just past the Summit Lake parking area the road turns sharply left and up. This is one of the steepest sections on the entire climb, where you pay back the long descent you just enjoyed. I’m beginning to really tire by the time I reach the first of a dozen switchback that lead to the peak. But I only have about four and a half miles to go to the finish. About this time my wife and in-laws show up and I stop to replenish my water supply. They ask how I’m doing and I lie that I’m feeling ok. They go on ahead to explore the summit while I labor on. By now I’ve been on the bike for over 3 hours and the altitude and relentless climbing are beginning to take their toll. In my mind I keep repeating a quote from Lance, “pain is temporary, quitting lasts forever.” I’ve been this tired riding centuries before but I could always coast a bit as needed. Not here. You earn every single foot of this road. So I grind out the last few miles glancing up now and then to the summit, using the observatory as my benchmark. At long last I make the final right turn and climb the last couple hundred yards to the parking lot. By now I’m chilled, exhausted, dehydrated, and absolutely ecstatic. I now know that, come race day next Saturday, I’ll be able to do this. I load my bike in the back of the Highlander and climb in for the long ride back to Idaho Springs. I’m shivering and semi-nauseous from being so dehydrated. I drain the 3 bottles of water in the car as we talk about the climb. I admit to them that it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, all the while quietly enjoying the satisfaction of having achieved a goal that, at times, I had doubts about being able to meet.

We arrive back at our non-air conditioned hotel, I take a quick shower, and we check out. Our immediate goals are to get something to eat and find a new hotel with air conditioning. We drive downtown and get a table at Buffalo Resturant and Bar. This is one of the coolest eating spots in Idaho Springs, and features, as the name implies, all sorts of Buffalo burgers and steaks. The building is over 100 years old and woodwork and bar are all original as is nearly all of the rest of the building. On one wall is a large painting of a herd of bison running toward you. I study the painting as we wait for our food, and notice a really odd looking bison at the left of the herd. My sister in law tells me it is the owner’s dog, and was put there as a joke. Ha, good one!

After the meal we call a few  hotels and finally find one with our two most important requirements, air conditioning and vacancy. By now we’ve been awake for about 20 hours so we collapse into bed and fall asleep almost  immediately. After we watch Sunday’s Tour De France stage on OLN, we head back up the mountain, this time by car, along with hundreds of others trying to escape the oppressive heat. We spend the day exploring and taking pictures. 

I’ll ride the mountain twice more before race day. On Monday’s ride I came upon a young man in a specially prepared wheel chair, hand cranking his way up the mountain. We rode together and chatted for a few minutes. He told me he lived in Vail and had been training at altitude, but this was his first attempt to ride up Mt. Evans. I rode on ahead after a few minutes, humbled by his effort and ashamed of myself for thinking that what I was doing was tough. This guy was truly an inspiration. I later would pass him about 2 miles from the top, still on his way up, as I was descending from the summit back to Idaho Springs. He looked extremely tired, but something tells me he didn’t give up. I throughly enjoyed the ride down. Sometimes exceeding 50 mph on the steep down hills, I had the unusual experience of passing 3 cars on the way to the bottom because they couldn‘t  take the hairpins as fast as someone on a bike. That was very cool! And just to give you an idea of how amazing Danielson’s record time is, it took me 1 hour and 8 minutes to ride down the mountain. He rode UP in 1 hour and 41 minutes!

The race is officially called the Bob Cook Memorial Mt. Evans Hill Climb. It has been run annually since it was first conceived by a group of bike racers in 1962, and has only been cancelled three times, two of those due to snow. The race is named for Bob Cook, who dominated the race from 1975 through 1980. (It was not held in 1979 due to snow in July.) Bob demonstrated a remarkable ability to win races at a young age, similar in many ways to Lance Armstrong. Like Armstrong, Bob was diagnosed with cancer as a young man. Sadly though, unlike Armstrong, Bob was not to survive his illness, passing from this life in 1981 at the young age of 23. We are left to speculate what he could have accomplished in his cycling career had cancer not cut his life short. Cook was a dominate hillclimber like no one before or since. Bob was a member of the U.S. National Cycling team as well as being a member of the 1980 Olympic Cycling Team. Unfortunately, the 1980 Summer Olympic Games were boycotted by the U.S., so he never got a chance to show the world his enormous talent. Testing at the Colorado Springs Olympic Training Center found Bob Cook to possess the highest Vo2 max of any athlete ever tested to that point in time, which would help explain his ability to conquer a climb while other racers were overcome by the pain and lack of oxygen. Bob also had the capacity to push through the pain of a tough climb as few others could. Along with his incredible cycling ability, Bob exuded a quiet gentleness that endeared him to those who knew him. He set his best time up the mountain in 1978, pushing through the 28 miles in 1:54:27. 

Race day dawned clear and cool. I didn’t get to sleep the night before until about 11:15, but awoke race morning at 5:00 A.M. Not the best race prep. I was so concerned about oversleeping that I set the bedside clock and my watch alarm, along with requesting a wake up call from the front desk. I still woke up several times during the night to check the time. I wanted to arrive at the race start early enough to get one of the few parking spots at the Clear Creek Middle School, where the starting line is. Those arriving later would have to park about a mile away and ride to the start. I needed every ounce of energy I had for the race, and even an easy mile ride was more than I wanted to do before hand. That, coupled with the fact that we had to ride down from the summit after the race, meant those parking at the school had a mile less to go after the race. The racers had the option of having someone meet them at Echo Lake for pickup, but parking was very limited.  You had to make a best guess at what time to have your ride arrive to pick you up. Those lingering at the parking area too long would be asked to leave. Therefore, I thought it would be easier to just ride all the way back down to the start, and avoid any problems of trying to figure out what time to have my wife pick me up at Echo Lake. The race organizers had arranged to take a bag for each racer to the parking lot at the peak. This allowed us to have a change of warm clothes to put on before the long descent.

I arrived at the start area about 6:00 A.M. I would be part of  the Citizens Fun Ride ( FUN Ride-who came up with that name?! ), which included anyone who did not hold a valid bike racing licence. The categories were Men’s and Women’s ages 19-29, 30-39, 40-49, 50-59, 60-69, 70+. The citizens field was limited to 300. Our group would start first, at 7:30 A.M. followed by various categories of Pro racers, beginning at 8:30 A.M. There would be a total of 1,060 starters, with 942 finishers. The weather was absolutely perfect, cool and sunny. I got a cup of coffee, ate a couple of oatmeal bars and picked up my race packet. Inside were my number, and a race jersey, which featured a  mountain logo and two of the ugliest mountain goats I’ve ever seen. I had time to stroll around and talk to some of the others who were riding the race. Everyone I talked to lived in Colorado, and many trained at altitude, which would help explain why most of them left me in the dust when the race started. I made a point of starting near the back of the pack, so I wouldn’t get caught up in the fast pace that always occurs at the start of a race. We headed out promptly at 7:30. About a mile into the race I passed a guy on a unicycle, and wondered if he could possibly ride that thing all the way to the top. The pack spread out quickly over the first several miles. Everyone climbs at their own pace so there were very few groups riding together as you would see in a century ride. I settled into a comfortable pace, keeping an eye on my heart rate monitor to make sure I stayed below 90% of my maximum. I found on the previous rides that 90% was, for me anyway, a sustainable threshold without getting into severe oxygen debt. As the miles clicked by I concentrated on relaxing my upper body to avoid the knotting up of my neck and shoulders I had experienced on the previous climbs. I also made sure to drink often and eat a packet of energy gel every 45 minutes or so. The last thing you want to do on a long climb like this is bonk. Upon arriving at Echo Lake I looked up the mountain and could see numerous cyclists ascending the road, about 1,000 feet above me, just past timberline. They were mere specks in the distance, barely visible on the side of the mountain.

As I was on that same section of road a few minutes later, I heard an announcement behind me. “Move to the right, single file please”. I had no trouble complying, since I was pretty much alone by now anyway. The announcement came from the police car leading the pro riders up the mountain. They had started an hour after we had, and I had only ridden 16 miles before they caught me. Two riders went past me at an very impressive pace, having separated themselves from the rest of the pack by about 100 yards at that point. I would later learn that the two were Scott Moninger, age 39 and Ned Overend, age 50. They would battle all the way up the mountain, with Scott taking the win by only 5 seconds. Let’s hear it for the old guys! Moninger’s victory made him the race’s only 6 time winner.

Riders, from the various pro classes, continued to pass me as I labored up the mountain, getting more tired by the mile. By this time, those who had finished the Citizens Ride were now descending the mountain, so I had to pay a little bit more attention at the corners and switchbacks to avoid a collision.  When you’re going this slow there is plenty of time to look at the incredible scenery, but you’re too pooped to enjoy it. The descent before Summit Lake came as a welcome relief, but I had to ride over some big bumps to keep from hitting oncoming riders. I struggled through the last few miles, envying those who had already finished and are passing me on their way down. Finally the finish line lay just ahead. I thought about a last pathetic sprint, but the old body said “-fergitaboutit”! Riding on up to the parking lot, I found a nice large, warm rock and laid down on it. About 10 minutes later a guy, who I suppose was a race volunteer, tapped me on the leg and asked, “Are you alright?” (Boy did I look that bad?!) I replied “Yeah, I’m great, just resting”. And I was great. Even though I had finished  37th out of 43 riders  in my age group, in 3 hours, 34 minutes, and 50 seconds. I had never been on the bike, nonstop, for close to that long before. I made this trip up the mountain 20 minutes faster than the first ride up a week ago. Yeah, I was great. And, I suspect, so were all the other riders who that day made the trip up the highest paved road in North America. We hadn’t set any records, or done anything spectacular, but we did learn a little more about ourselves. About our limits and our ability to push those limits just a little further than we ever had in the past, or ever though we could. You learn a thing or two about yourself when your body is screaming “stop!" and your mind is screaming back, “no way!” You can’t explain that battle to someone who has never experienced it. But it’s just part of the lure of the bike, or in one rider’s case, the unicycle. Yes, he made it. I saw him at the summit, just before I started down. He was holding his single wheeler over his head as someone snapped his photo.

After about a half hour on the rock, I got up and found my bag of warm clothes that the race support van had brought to the top. I bundled up for the long ride down, made a trip to the bathroom, and started down. Now I was one of those being envied by the riders still making the trip up. I felt bad for them, but was glad that my struggle of this day was behind me. I stopped just before the last turn on the road from which you can look back and see the peak. I stood there for a few minutes as riders zoomed by on their way down, and a few went slowly by, still on their way up. I admired the view and thought of my dear friend Judy and offered a prayer of thanks for good health. I also decided, right there, that I’d be back to do it again next year.