To Hell And Bike

But it was nothing but blue skies and birdsong on the late September morning we set off. The road out of Telluride was flat and comforting, a paved mile of pleasant riding that I now think of as the garden path to the gates of hell. We were like the Von Trapp kids on an outing, laughing and waving and weaving. Then we turned right onto a monster incline and conversation pretty much ended for the next seven days.

That first day was 17 miles. Really, only the last 16 were painful. We were still acclimating, you see. That's the process by which sea-level yuppies who probably shouldn't have ordered that fifth pitcher of beer the night before adjust to high altitude by muttering oxygen-starved profanities under their so-called breath.

On the steepest pitches, I could barely pedal fast enough to keep steerageway. Hitting a pebble felt like riding the bike over a picnic table. Granted, my pencil thighs weren't the most powerful in the group (Gumby on a Bike, they called me). But even the hard-core riders were suffering.

"This is [now rendered a less-than-ideal situation]," croaked Chris Ferrara, a buff Honolulu charter pilot, as we crept toward the 11,000-foot line where we'd find our first cabin.

Yes, but it was beautiful. As we pedaled oh-so-slowly uphill in our highest granny gears, we could appreciate how lovely was the scene of our torment. The valley walls above Telluride were steep and amber. In forest groves, the golden aspen leaves fell on us like the flower petals they throw at Bombay weddings. Or is it funerals?

Even when we finally reached the hut, limp and winded, no one was too exhausted to miss a sunset that spread scarlet across the big mountain sky -- and (cue ominous music) the clouds moving in from the west.

Chillin' on the Trail

The snow was four inches deep on the seat of my bicycle the next morning. According to the maps, the day was long, 26 miles, but easy. Much of it was a long descent and the rest nearly flat. Nothing like the butt-kicking climb of Day 1.

Ha! Half an hour into that lovely downhill glide, the snow and sleet moved back in. The dirt road grew greasy and slick, which was actually fun on the curves, and a wet barbed-wire wind began raking my face. Ten minutes later, momentum died and I found myself pedaling hard down hill. I stopped and looked down at a pumpkin-size wad of mud around my rear-wheel gears.

Within minutes of stopping, I was chilled. By the time I'd cleared the sprockets of peanut butter, using stiff fingers and broken twigs, it was a bona-fide winter storm and I was downright shivering. The group was spread out over miles, mostly behind me. I pedaled three more hours through increasing cold and misery, stopping to clear the mud every mile or so. At the first paved road, Highway 62, I waited for the group. Things had clearly gone from discomfort to danger.

"The fun meter is now at zero," said Linda Ferrara when she pulled up. She's a museum administrator in Honolulu, where surprise blizzards hardly ever affect her daily rounds. "I'm done," she declared.

Not everyone had caught up, but there were enough spouses with proxy votes to reach an instant consensus. Five people would turn right on the highway and ride about 14 downhill miles to the town of Ridgway and, hopefully, a lift back to Telluride. The group was sundered. Four of us would go on: me, George, Les Harunaga, a dentist, and Sarah Rogers, a triathlete, the last three from Hawaii.

You probably think the bailout group had it best, don't you? Eventually they did (by nightfall they were uncoiling in a hot tub), but not at first. Turns out a 14-mile downhill ride in 35-degree freezing rain is a recipe for serious hypothermia -- no work and all wind. They finally stopped for shelter at an abandoned building where Loretta Siniff, an airline pilot, bottomed out. "I just could not go on," she said later. "All I could focus on was getting warm. Your thinking slows down."