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Bicycle Tour Colorado
From a fat guys perspective

We left on a Friday morning and after a leisurely 20 hour trip with a night of sleep we arrived in Durango CO Saturday Afternoon to sign in for the Bicycle Tour of Colorado. I have done two other weeklong bike tours and figured this would be about like those. Yeah, I knew there would be mountains, but everyone assured me the grades aren’t that steep, all I would have to do is take my time, ride at my own pace and I would conquer the mountains. Well, everyone was right I guess if you call crawling up the mountains at the pace of a slug conquering.

We embarked on the first day, JC and I, on high spirits. The first several miles offered little challenge and the scenery for a flat lander like me was breathtaking. Of course I had no idea what was in store for me, I call these first few miles my innocent childhood when everything was beautiful and green.

The road started up, but everyone was right the grade was a piece of cake, anyone could climb it. “On your left I confidently stated as I passed another rider, this one an old man on a older bike, with chrome fenders. This rider stood out, his dress shirt and slacks making him look properly dressed for a day of drinking coffee in the office not climbing mountains. His bike was from another era, leather seat, fenders, lugged steel, beach cruiser handlebar and 5 speed rear cassette included. I left this gentleman and his touring bike behind and continued my upward journey.

The road continued up, and my breathing was coming faster, I felt myself slowing down. JC was easing ahead of me. I know what that means now to move backward on the hill, but I wouldn’t learn it at this time, I was still moving up the road at a decent pace. I look up and see that I have arrived at aid station 1. Wow, I climbed my first mountain, yea for me.

I’m climbing, I’ve been climbing for what seems like forever, this hill can’t go on, can it? I consult my gauges, altimeter, speed, distance, all confirm I should be at the top soon. I round a corner and see a sign, “COAL BANK SUMMIT, 4 MILES” Its as if some guy just come out of the bushes and punched me square in the nuts. Four miles, but my gauges? I should be there by now. I consult my gauges again, I’m running a smooth 4 miles per hour. Great, I’ll hit the top of this pass in an hour. I settle in for the long haul and try to find some comfort on my saddle. I try to find more air, I can’t get enough. My breathing becomes fast, like a dog, I can’t catch up. My legs slow down, 3 mph. A steady stream of riders begin over taking me. There are two lanes on this road, everyone else’s and mine. I now understand that if a casual observer focused on me it would appear as if I was moving backward and everyone else was moving forward. Phil Liggett’s voice starts booming through my head. “Gholson appears to be in a spot of bother, his form is horrible today. It appears as if Gholson is pedaling squares out there, stick a fork in him folks he’s done.”

I have to stop, I don’t want to stop, stopping is for wimps. But I have to or I am going to fall over, I can’t maintain 2 mph my balance just isn’t good enough. I stop, rest, remount, repeat. Over and over and over again. Skinny people ride by, legs churning out a smooth 70 rpm, while I struggle to keep mine moving. I wonder how this would be if I could attach my hundred pounds of body fat to that guy with the Litespeed, or that girl with the Pink Trek. Would they slow down and I speed up. I start planning an escape. The ride ends in Durango in a week, I could turn around and go back, maybe find a job making tie dye shirts for the local counter culture enthusiasts, find a good commune that needs a potter to make rice urns. I could fall over and lay there until someone picks me up and puts me on a truck.

Wait, I could stop and roll my bike off this gorge down a half mile, that would destroy it, and get me out of this ride. No, I like my bike. I wonder how you get picked up by the sag wagon? Do the drivers know how much pain I am in. can they see it in my eyes? Probably not, I’ll really emphasize the pain. Here comes one, nope, they don’t care. Oh and they are full. Those people couldn’t make the climb. They are weak, I am… who am I fooling, LET ME ON!

It is snowing, its late June and cold, and sleeting. This is my reward, thanks Molas pass, just what I wanted, an epic Hampstein like descent where my legs freeze up, or I skid on some ice and go head first over a guard rail. There is nothing I can do but soldier on, trusty rain jacket and all. When I get to the bottom it stops and its June again, the weather here is weird.

I’m going down, I’ve climbed my last mountain, I’m going down. The switchbacks unfold underneath me as I deftly maneuver from one side of the road to the other. I am a rocket ship down hill. That 100 pounds of fat, my solid fuel propellant. A skinny girl appears, “On your left” I yell, my battle cry, as I slide by. A friend used to argue with me when we rode together. I can hear him now, “You can’t go faster down hill, the laws of physics say all things fall at the same rate regardless of mass. We will go down the hill, huff puff, at the, huff puff, same rate,” he would say.

“Hmm, that’s interesting, why are you pedaling so hard to keep up with me then?” I would ask.

“I don’t know, ask Albert Einstein or something” he would answer.

I don’t care, I just know that this is fun, this is what I live for. Was it worth the work, hmm, 8 or 9 hours going up for thirty minutes of down. I can’t believe I am saying this, YES it was worth it.

Well to make a long story short the tour was like that, days going up sucked, days going down ruled. I am still not sure how I feel about the whole thing, while I swore that I would never do anything like that again, I now want to loose about 50 pounds and try it in a year or two. I wouldn’t mind trading my speed downhill for less pain uphill. We’ll see.