I’m home again after spending 5 of the last 7 weeks in Colorado and Montana. Watching summer gallop into fall in the mountains is a little disheartening. At home in Gig Harbor, it’s often hard to tell the difference between June and January, except that June days are light(ish) for 17 hours, January for 9. But drippy drizzerable weather in the 50’s is possible almost any time of the year. New green leaves sprout in the middle of winter, and some remain unfallen well into November.
At 8400’, in Snowmass, the aspen trees were just budding out when I arrived on May 20th, and deserting the branches dead and orange-yellow, when I left on Oct 10th. Higher up on the mountain, the growing season is even shorter. Snow fell during the first week I was there in May, and again on October 6th before I left. I tried to cram as much biking and running there into this year as I could, but the snowy season does last sometimes from Columbus through Memorial days.
Nonetheless, I spent more time cycling than skiing in the high country this year. I have been determined to return at least my cycling and running fitness to the levels I’d achieved on Sept 18th, 2010, and I think I met my target. We triathletes have ways to measure this, in time, and watts, and pace, and distance. But mostly it’s just a feeling. A sense of power, an ability to keep plowing ahead for hours without losing speed or strength. I know it when it’s there, and I sure know when it’s not.
Having 8 other Endurance Nation folk with me for a week helped cement my progress. I’d given a blanket invitation for anyone to join me in Snowmass to bike themselves silly in the Roaring Fork valley. 4 men and 4 women, mostly training as I am for Ironman Arizona, in their 30‘s, 40’s, 50’s, took me up on the offer. We also had a spread of speed amongst us, and I found myself neither first nor last.
Having a rabbit in front to pull me forward, and others behind to keep me honest provided an extra 2% or so to my efforts. The best test of this is on the Maroon Creek road, heading out of Aspen to the Bells. My little time trial segment goes from 8000’ at the bridge over the creek, 7.65 miles to the end of the road, all uphill, always aiming for the three 14ers, Pyramid Peak for the first 2/3rds, then North and South Maroon Peaks the rest of the way.
I pulled a personal best on that TT in August at 42 minutes, then shaved 2 minutes more ending in 2nd place among the group in September. The trip back down this time was epically memorable. A wind started to pick up, and the crackling (not quaking) dried up aspen leaves were blowing right to left across our faces as we rode underneath the natural canopy heading into the T-Lazy 7.
The day before, I’d shared the satisfying ride and end-of-trail view up Castle Creek road to the ghost town of Ashcroft, and beyond. The Elk Mountains pile up at the southern end of the road, at 9900’. The final bridge, just before the gate at the end of the road, is my favorite stopping place among all the Aspen rides. The stream is pure and gives off a crumbling, tumbling sound as the ice cold water sluices down around the granite rocks strewn along the bed. A long pine tree leans into the water; if you want to see the mountain, you have to peer around it, but it provides a perfect framing for iPhone shots posted to Facebook.
The day following Maroon Creek, we headed downvalley, on Lower River Road, then up the Fryingpan. Seeing those two asphalt stashes through the fresh eyes of my campers reinforced the love I have for them. Lower River is an almost deserted stretch of magic downhill, neglected by riders who take the parallel Rio Grande trail, and by drivers who stick with the faster freeway snugged into the canyon wall on the other side of the river. But it’s gentle slope allows top speed while pedaling hard; you feel like a hero, banking into turns, powering up short climbs, and shussing down the 4.5 miles of what biking in heaven must be like.
That is, if it’s not like the 12.5 miles which follow, up the Fryingpan from the confluence with the Roaring Fork. The road makes every turn the river does, never more than 10 feet away. Usually, a tailwind up-canyon erases the effort of climbing the modest 1-2% grade. This stretch let us play accordian with each other. I pulled a gang of 3 others up to the lead cyclist, just in time to deposit us all together at the base of the final 1 mile 6-7% climb to the top of the dam holding back Ruedi reservoir.
That quickly sorted us out. One of the followers, after resting on my wheel for five miles, shot up to the lead, and I inched my way home in 3rd place this time. But my effort level, and ability to bridge the gap to a faster, stronger cyclist, proved to me I was knocking on the door of where I was before.
I confirmed my return to full strength two days later, when we did the big ride down to Glenwood Springs and back, 85 miles in 4.5 hours. The meat of the ride, the “work intervals), were the 34 miles sections from Woody Creek to the final stoplight in Glenwood, and back I averaged 21 mph (23 down, 19 back up, with the tailwind on the Rio Grande) and felt myself returned to the power, speed, strength, and endurance I’d known a year ago, just before I plunged myself into an abyss. I’ll never get back the trip to Hawaii to race I lost that day – if I do go back to Kona some time, I will feel different, older and a slower swimmer. But I have regained the inner feeling, at least when I’m in the saddle, or running on the road, I had when I thought I was on the top of my game, in September in Colorado a year ago, doing those same roads by myself. Sometimes, it takes a little village.