Two Wheels on my Wagon (25 page)

Cooled and refreshed, we eventually managed to respond to Kirsten's hospitality. We discovered that Matthew Lee was within a day of the finish.

‘That's all right, we're in Colorado now so we can say we were within one state of him,' I pointed out.

There was also a message from my sister-in-law and her family.

‘We have no idea what the Tour Divide Basin is but think it's great that you've crossed it! Hope the weather has improved, but not too much because you wouldn't want to be cycling in the temperatures we're having in Sussex today (36 degrees!).'

What we wouldn't have given for only 36°.

Of most immediate import, though, was the fact that Cricket had been through earlier in the day.

‘She said she'd spend the night in Steamboat. She's desperate for you boys to catch her up.'

Per's ears pricked up.

‘Do you think we could get all the way to Steamboat tonight?'

‘Sure, it's about 50 miles, but it's all downhill and most of it on paved roads once you get to the top of the pass.'

The pass itself was another 15 miles away. We had planned to camp at the top and roll into town in the morning to visit the bike shop before continuing. Now there was a more appealing option. If we carried on riding to Steamboat, we could have a lie-in until the bike shop opened. This was the clincher. Even a long day and some night riding would be comfortably paid for by such a prize.

Per, certainly, was a changed man. He set off again with renewed determination. It was 5 p.m. and the temperature had dropped appreciably. The countryside was also becoming more and more attractive. Trees grew taller. In between were lush meadows.

I was bitten by Per's bug and began to race along. The revivifying effect of Kirsten's fruit salad was palpable. I could not help but succumb to the temptation to ride as if there were no tomorrow; or at least no riding to be done tomorrow. It was liberating, if somewhat shortlived.

By the foot of the last, steep climb up to the pass I was spent. Fortunately the trail was by now far too rocky to ride so I could use my bike as a wheeled zimmer frame. Mosquitoes needed no second invitation to take advantage of such a slow-moving feast.

I found Stephen and Trevor waiting at the top, having a snack of dried biscuits. I tried and failed not to tell them of my earlier good fortune. Per arrived not long afterwards. We had a quorum. A council was called. The new plan was proposed, considered and approved.

The wisdom of our strategy was immediately called into question, however, by the first few miles of descent. They were as rocky as anything we had yet encountered. Stephen bounced his way down them like an escaped pingpong ball. I was still using my zimmer frame, metaphorically at least.

After 5 miles the trail levelled. Eight miles more and we were back on tarmac. Night was about to overtake us, so we rummaged in luggage for lights. Between us we had four front lights, of which only Stephen's was truly effective, and two poor rear lights that would have failed to impress a police officer. There was no way we were stopping now, though. The road was not heavily used at that time on a Sunday night. Yet street lights were noticeable only by their absence. At least we could discern the road ahead of us. Then we turned onto gravel, and even that crumb of comfort was removed.

We felt our way through the dark until we came at last to the outskirts of town. It was nearing 10 p.m. Kirsten had said Cricket was aiming for the Rabbit Ears Motel, which in other circumstances might have sounded surprising. We did likewise. The receptionist recognised us as fellow travellers, but Cricket's room was dark. We decided not to disturb her. We could hook up in the morning.

Back in our room we took stock. It had not been easy, but we had covered 135 miles in just under 16 hours. Trevor, Stephen and I joined Per in setting another record. None of us had ever cycled further on a mountain bike. Our satisfaction was complete when Stephen had a moment of genius.

‘Let's order takeaway pizza.'

E
ven though the rationale behind pushing on to Steamboat the previous night had been to enjoy a long sleep and a lie-in, things didn't quite go to plan. Or not to my plan, anyway. The pizzas had been delivered promptly, and their consumption was as rapid as might be imagined, but the television was not finally extinguished until after midnight. Shows featured in the flurry of channel-hopping even extended to a recording of proceedings in the House of Lords, which at least had the merit of providing an air of tranquillity. For five minutes, that is, until the novelty wore off.

Then, in the morning, a mobile phone vibrated violently on a bedside table at 7.30 a.m. Lest anyone doubt the significance of this noisy disturbance, the television immediately resumed its pre-eminence. Quite why it had been deemed necessary to return to the conscious world so early I didn't understand. The bike shop that was the sole motivation for prolonging our stay in Steamboat didn't open until 9 a.m. Practised as I was in the early morning rush – try getting four children aged six and under out of the house on time and you'll see what I mean – an hour and a half preparation time seemed like unwarranted luxury, especially when sleep was the biggest luxury of all. The growing disparity in the ratio of my cranial hair to facial wrinkles served to emphasise the point.

I consoled myself by eating breakfast in bed, secure in the knowledge I would not be afflicted by crumb-induced discomfort for long. As I did so, I read an article in the
Steamboat Pilot
about Eric Lobeck, one of the two Steamboat residents who was participating in the Tour Divide (the other was Leighton White, who had already ridden the race last year and who had been a mine of information and reassurance in Banff). It was hardly a surprise to have it confirmed that he was significantly further down the trail than us – he had passed through on Wednesday; it was now Monday morning. Yet to find that there had been time to interview him, write the story and print it in a newspaper was something of an eye-opener.

All the more reason to press on, it seemed. Yet at the current rate of progress it was unlikely we would ever complete all the mandated tasks before lunchtime at the earliest. Just getting ready to go to the bike shop had become a logistical challenge of almost military scale.

At 8.30 a.m., with breakfast and newspaper devoured, I went to see if Cricket was awake. As if to emphasise our tardiness, she had already left. We seemed doomed to continue missing each other all the way to Mexico.

Trevor and I then rode to the bike shop to ensure our bikes could be serviced as promptly as possible. Orange Peel Bikes was every bit as welcoming and enthusiastic as we had been led to believe they would be.

‘Hey, man, you guys are doing a great race.'

It was a sign of my weakening mental state that I was prepared to agree, adopting the convenient North American-cum-reality television trait of overlooking the facts. Doing a great ride, maybe; doing a great race, clearly not. To underline the point, it was confirmed that Matthew Lee had been through a week earlier and was indeed on the last stretch to the finish, more than 1,000 miles away in Antelope Wells. More pertinently, though there were just 26 of the initial 42 riders still going, only 5 of them were behind us; 2 of those had disqualified themselves for unintentional navigational mistakes that they had decided not to rectify. The
Lanterne Rouge
was still within our grasp. Maybe this morning's delay could be passed off as a cunning plan?

The owner appeared.

‘How can I help you guys?'

Trevor recounted a carefully thought-out and observed list of ailments that needed tending. The mechanic nodded sagely, obviously recognising a kindred spirit in the accompanying detail. Then came my turn. I decided that the best way to conceal my comparative ignorance was to avoid direct comparison with Trevor's compendious knowledge and keep things straightforward.

‘So far I've had no problems and I'd like to keep it that way, but maybe it could use a clean . . .'

Suddenly I was conscious of the incongruity of trying to ride 2,800 miles in the muddiest conditions in the history of the race while asking for no greater mechanical assistance than a bit of a tidy up. I tried to compensate; I overcompensated.

‘Just do whatever's needed to keep her running smoothly until the Mexican border.'

The mechanic had the decency to smile encouragingly, though it could have been in anticipation of the blank cheque I appeared to have just signed. The bikes disappeared. There seemed nothing else to do, so Trevor and I went for a second breakfast.

Accidental tourists or not, we made a good fist of appreciating the holidaymaker appeal of Steamboat. It was better known as a winter resort, and owed its venerated status to the famous Howelsen Hill skiing area and ski jump, the longest continually running ski area in Colorado. The site, first developed in 1914, was named after Norwegian immigrant Carl Howelsen, a famed cross-country skier and ski-jumper. Howelsen himself built the ski jump.

Yet the town lost none of its charms on a sunny Monday morning in June. It was, like so many other US towns, laid out in a grid format, but it was softened by its location – on the banks of a fast-flowing river, in a valley between imposing peaks. There was also enough non-tourist-related activity along the main drag to give the town a sense of vigour and purpose, and sufficient watering holes to cater to the tastes of all visitors. Orange Peel Bikes had unanimously recommended the Creekside Café and Grill. We saw no reason to go against their advice.

Enjoying the temporary freedom of being bikeless we strolled to the café which, as its name suggested, was alongside a creek. We sat on the patio surrounded by fellow visitors and resident ladies-that-lunch (or brunch), listening to the babbling brook. All in all, Steamboat Springs was the perfect holiday location. It was just unfortunate we were not on holiday.

The menu was comprehensive and largely understandable, even if it did seem to consist of incongruous juxtapositions of everyday items. With some trepidation, I plumped for a croissant breakfast: sausages, eggs, cheese and fried potatoes, all with a croissant (the trepidation was caused by remembering the adverse reaction of a French friend on a visit to London when confronted with the admittedly unedifying spectacle of a ham-filled croissant: ‘Why are you murdering a perfectly good croissant?').

I need not have worried. It looked and tasted delightful, though the compulsive need to consume calories coloured every culinary critique. Trevor and I had almost finished when Per and Stephen arrived. They were still en route to the bike shop.

I went to collect my bike. They had done exactly what I would have asked them to do had I had the presence of mind to be able to articulate it. They had cleaned and re-greased all moving parts, and replaced the chain.

‘Yeah, it was pretty much about to wear through. You certainly wouldn't have got to Mexico without it snapping.'

They had also replaced the gear cables, which had become encased in gunk and had stopped moving freely.

‘We had a look at your forks as well but we couldn't find anything wrong with them,' the mechanic explained.

For some days now I had not been able to lock out my suspension fork at the front of the bike. It was a minor issue. When riding on paved roads it was more efficient to be able to lock them out; on some climbs, even off-road, it was also beneficial. But the vast majority of the time it was much more comfortable to have the full effect of the suspension to cushion the unevenness of the terrain. In the past, racers had been compelled to quit due to the hand-numbing impact of the millions of daily vibrations. Not content with a damaged knee and a home-made bike, Per, of course, had fully rigid forks.