Trying the Triangle
This
is what happens when you're in mediocre shape and start the Copper
Triangle at
the crack of dawn. Not that I'm the
first person on the course; no, I see hundreds of cyclists in bright
colored
rain jackets ahead of me on the first hill as we all try to warm up in
the 40
degree morning. 3,000 riders registered
for the 2010 event; I’m sporting number 2231 on my bike frame, my
helmet and on
the wristband that give me access to the five aid stations and lunch at
the
finish. The course is the same every
year: start in the Copper Mountain ski area, ride over Fremont Pass
(11,318
feet) to Leadville, make a sharp right to go over Tennessee Pass
(10,424 feet)
and some no-named pass into Minturn, make an even sharper right into
Vail and
cycle through that extremely elongated village until you find yourself
climbing
up to Vail Pass (10,666 feet) paralleling I-70 with a final 4 mile
sprint down
to Copper. That's it; 78 miles, 5,981
feet elevation gain and loss, and all of it over 7250 feet in elevation.
Thank
goodness it's not 6,000 feet elevation gain!
That additional 19 feet may have been too much.
Now
all of this probably leaves you with one question: why?
Why would a reasonably sane 43 year old
decide to do this? Well, I have a number
of answers, and none by itself gives the whole picture so I think you
need to
combine them together for completeness:
1) It gave me a good excuse to buy a new road bike that I really
wanted,
2) I had ridden 2/3's of the course the previous year (on my own, not
part of
the big ride) and wanted to see if I could finish it, 3) I'm having a
mid-life
crisis and I am too cheap to buy a Tesla Roadster, 4) It was a good
excuse to
get into shape over the entire summer, and 5) I think the whole
oxygenate-air
thing is overrated.
Whatever
the reason, I find myself at high altitude, cycling at 5:50 a.m. on
Saturday
morning on what's normally a quiet two-lane highway.
My strategy is to start slow and finish
slower, and in that I'm off to a great start.
I'm pedaling slowly but steadily while chewing on a Cliff bar
for
breakfast. I don't feel cold, and I'm
one of the lightest-dressed cyclists: just shorts, Keen sandals with
white
socks, my long sleeve jersey and my hip new cycling jacket. Many around me wear long cycling tights,
winter gloves and multiple jerseys, arm warmers and jackets; within the
hour
they're peeling off all those layers. I
quickly realize there are many advantages to being part of an organized
ride
like this, and first amongst them is this: by having many cyclists
around (and
the Colorado State Patrol) the cars have to take a back seat to the
bikes. On a normal day like the last time
I rode
here cars and trucks where brushing past my left arm, but not today. When the road is just two lanes the cyclists
are always using half a lane, and when the road steepens and there's a
passing
lane for several miles we take over the right lane entirely. It feels almost like being on a big bike
path. Most of the passing I'll do today
is on this first hill, and I think that makes sense because all of us
slow
riders want to start early to finish before the course closes and/or
before the
typical afternoon thundershowers build up.
If you ride faster, you can sleep in a little and still finish
before
the rest of us. Though the sun is up,
we're
in a shaded canyon so it's almost 30 minutes before I see the sun and
stop
briefly to change from my regular glasses to my sunglasses. But then it's truly beautiful.
I had been worried about the weather because
the ride goes on rain or shine, but it's perfect. There's
a little valley fog slowly
evaporating just off the highway, the air is 1280p clear, and I'm
feeling
comfortable with my pace. All is well.
Fremont
Pass is about 10 miles in, and that's where the aid station is set up. The pass is near a defunct open pit molybdenum
mine and there are a few other signs of civilization (like the
highway), but it's
pretty much the middle of nowhere and here we are at seven something in
the
morning and there are people in bright colors and clack clack clacky
shoes
everywhere! There are several tables heavy
with fruit, bagels, energy bars, and big coolers of water and
sports-drinks. But the strangest thing is
the bikes: there
aren't big bike racks or anything, so people lean their bikes against
fences,
boulders, cars, and when that space is gone they just lay them down on
the
ground (with the gears pointed up, of course, gotta protect the
components). And these are not cheap
bikes; there's enough
carbon fiber on display to knit together dozens of Boeing Dreamliners. Very few of these bikes can be had for under
1,000 dollars; I saw at least one that must have cost five figures. And they aren't locked up, they aren't vacuum
packed and surrounded by Styrofoam, they're lying on the ground. I add my humble flat-bar road bike from REI
(retail price $799) to the mix and get some water.
During my long training rides I tended to get
dehydrated and I am determined not to let that happen today, so at
every aid
station I not only fill my water bottles, I drink one of sports-drink
and
refill it again before moving on.
Then
it's time for the first downhill segment.
It's 1300 feet down to Leadville, and boy is that a fun ride. Of course, it's a bit scary, too.
When I am in my tuck, I can catch people in
front of me (my extra mass is finally paying some dividends) so I'm
passing
everyone as I zip down the center of the lane... until some rider
forgets to
stay to the right. Someone is already
passing him on the left, so I go to the right of the road and scream,
"On
you RIGHT! On your RIGHT!"
while carefully rolling past. All's
great until I catch up to some slower
(e. g., saner) cyclists on the right side of the road.
I want to pass, but there's wave after wave
of faster riders already in the center of the lane, swooping past like
banshees. So I slow a bit and practice
applied self preservation while occasionally pedaling.
(I found I don't have any gears that make me
go faster than 30 miles per hour; that's something I wouldn't have
found out without
the Triangle.)
Did
I mention the Governor of Colorado road the Copper Triangle this year?
(I
didn't see him, but he and his semi-secret service sidekicks probably
passed
me, too.) Take that, Mr. Schwarzenegger!
After
the right at Leadville (where, interestingly enough, a left turn would
take you
more or less to Albuquerque) we climbed to the wimpiest pass, Tennessee. There's one surprise, though: the aid station
is a quarter mile off the main route. An
uphill quarter mile. If I wasn't low on
water and worried about dehydration, I would have passed that puppy by. After the aid station it's a long stretch of
downhill, a little level ground and then a climb up what I call No Name
Pass. It is a much steeper climb than to
Tennessee Pass and just as long, but for whatever reason it doesn't
rate a name
or mention in the course synopsis. I'm
glad I road this section last year or I would have been mightily
surprised. I'm pretty sure many were;
there were people registered to ride from all 50 states (plus points in
Europe
and Asia, maybe next year they'll get more interest from Africa,
Australia,
South America and Antarctica) and I heard occasional comments like,
"What's the course like from here?" and "How far is this ride,
anyhow?" at aid stations. Along
this stretch, I am passed many more times; do you know that a tandem
bike doing
25 mph sounds quite a lot like a car when it catches up to you? At one point, though, I catch up to someone
riding an Orbea bicycle (read: foreign, expensive, like a Maserati) and
pass
him. I probably enjoy that more than
I
should. I also am paid what I consider
some cycling complements: several riders pass me within what seems like
millimeters
of my left elbow. They wouldn't do that
unless they think I'm riding steadily enough to track straight, so I
appreciate
their confidence in me and recognize this as evidence that I really am getting good at being passed.
Or
maybe they just weren't paying much attention with their oxygen
deprived
brains, but I prefer the former explanation.
Then
we get to Vail. At the right-hand turn
(which is exceptionally sharp and onto a bike path, and so backed up at
least
20 riders deep when I arrive) is the lowest point on the course,
meaning the
climb to Vail Pass is by far the longest of the day.
And Vail is a long, long, looooong city,
stretching at least five miles along the Interstate and marginally
uphill the whole
way. Just after the aid station in West
Vail, as I pedal up the gentle incline past million dollar condos (hi,
Lindsey
Vonn!), and enjoy another feature of the organized ride (nice
volunteers
stopping traffic for me and the constant stream of riders passing me) I
notice
that I am feeling a little nauseous each time I drink my sports-drink. I switch to water, but feel nausea from that,
too. I had eaten 0.5 banana and a Cliff
bar at each aid station; my bathroom breaks tell me I'm staying
hydrated, but I
also may have eaten too much. In trying
to avoid "bonking" (cyclist speak for running out of energy), I get
nausea. Or maybe I'm just
overheating. It is nearly noon and the
sun feels unpleasantly like a waffle iron closed on my face (actual
temp: under
70 degrees). In any case, this nausea
thing isn't good. I decide to rest a
little extra at the next aid station before the last serious climb
begins.
The
best thing, the greatest thing about an organized ride: aid stations. I would have needed a little trailer or at
least panniers and a backpack to haul all the water, gator-ish-ade,
bananas and
Cliff bars I had during the ride. Thank
you volunteers. Vail Pass is more than a
thousand feet above (and 8 or so miles away from) me as I try to relax
and
drink and otherwise let myself denauseate.
It seems to work, so after a little while I'm ready to get back
on the
bike. The first half mile or so is fine,
I'm pedaling what I tell myself is a steady six (6.x miles per hour) in
my
easiest gear and all is well. But, when
I drink I feel the nausea come back, and vomiting from the saddle just
doesn't
sound like fun. My body temperature is
too high to take anything in as I pedal so I adopt a new technique:
whenever it
is time to drink, I just stop, rest, sip, and then get back on the bike. This works great on the lower part of the
mountain, where the trail is actually the old highway (a precursor to
I-70) as
there's plenty of room for people to pass when I dismount.
In this section I pass and am re-passed by
the same three guys at least four times.
But after the path cuts under the interstate it becomes a real
bike
path, meaning I have to get off the pavement to rest and then find a
big enough
break in the traffic to get back riding again.
It is not easy and I find it embarrassing to keep stopping - but
it
would be more embarrassing to throw up, so I keep on stopping.
Right
before going under the interstate, I pass my longest single day ride
ever (69
or so miles).
And,
right at 70 miles into the course is the steepest hill, followed within
the
next few miles by two more steep hills.
The Copper Triangle isn't difficult because it's steep; there's
nothing
on the course to compare with, say, Lombard Street in San Francisco. No, the challenge here is the unrelenting
climbing not the steepness, but that hill at 70 miles is quite
unfriendly. I keep turning the crank and
make it to the
next local maximum and then very soon am climbing again.
I'm not pedaling a steady six on the three
steep parts; it's more of a flailing four, but I don't have to get off
the bike
and push it up those three grades so that's a minor victory of some
sort. And I am glad I know this part of
the ride
very well, because for miles I'd been telling myself, "As soon as you
kick
the bum of that third steep section, you're home free!"
And that is only a mild exaggeration. I
really know I can make it when I top that
third "wall" even though there is about two more miles worth of
steady, not-too-steep climbing to go.
Vail
Pass has a rest area off I-70, and when I pass a small reservoir and
flail my
four mph up the last hill and into the rest area where the last aid
station is
set up, I am pretty happy. Pretty
nauseous,
yes, but still pretty happy. I sit down,
call Angela to tell her where I am, and sip some water.
My stomach settles a little, so I try a
little watermelon (it's mostly water, right?
that's what the name says) and that is not so good.
But not terrible. I eventually pick
up my bike from amongst all
the carbon fiber skeletons around it and slowly, steadily coast the
four-ish
miles to the village of Copper Mountain and the finish line. At the finish line is Angela, who takes my
picture for strictly documentary purposes.
We have lunch (though it doesn't sit perfectly well, it stays in
my
stomach), see some friends from a previous work assignment (hi, Jesse
&
Ingrid!), put the bikes on the back of the car and go back to our hotel
in
Frisco, a few miles closer to Denver. I
can't immediately imagine wanting to do that ride again, but who knows? A couple years ago I didn't think I'd want to
do it once.
The
end
My
stats, for the engineers in the audience:
Time:
6.5 hours of riding, about 7.75 hours start to finish.
Distance
(according to my bike computer, anyhow): 80 miles
Average
speed: 12.4 mph
Max
speed: 43 mph (really, I saw this speed in real time as well as it
being recorded
on my bike computer. I was zipping down
the hills in my tuck like a maniac. I
want to thank all the people at Navaro Bicycles for making such a
solid,
reliable bike. Incidentally, I developed
a good aero braking technique when I wanted to slow down a little
instead of a
lot: I sat up straight. It's not exactly
revolutionary, I know, but my oxygen-deprived brain was impressed at
the time.)
Cost:
Non-recurring costs (new bike, new gloves,
new spiffy jacket, etc) about $1,100.
Recurring costs (entrance fees, hotel for The Ride and training
rides,
Cliff bars) at least $700.
For more information about the part of Colorado where I was riding my bike, check out my free guide to cycling Vail Pass here.