The Madness on Frazer Mountain:

Prolouge:

Traffic in Old Town Taos is nothing short of horrendous. Driving one single mile in approximately 20 minutes almost kills the excitement of the weekend before it even starts. Fortunately for the weary and disillusioned bike racer, the final 8 miles into the Taos Ski Valley are superb. The road winds up the narrow, lush alpine valley along the Rio Hondo—the air is cool and the traffic is light.

Taos Ski Valley is a pretty cool, unique place. The valley is “steep and deep.” This is just like ski valleys in the Alps. As such, the village has adopted a German theme. Unfortunately, some lame people with money have neglected the theme when constructing some of the newer buildings. I am told that Taos has some of the best skiing in the region and one of the best ski schools in the country. So, if skiing is your boat than check it out.

Ascending NM HWY 150 in the valley, I began looking for a place to camp. All the awesome campsites were taken (all the campsites looked awesome). I reached Taos Ski Valley a little before 7:00. I found the less than 10 campsites already nabbed. All well, I had better things with which to concern myself. I changed clothes and hopped on my bike. I pre-rode the first 1 ½ miles of Saturday’s hill climb. The air was moist and thin. The yellow evening light struck the surrounding peaks. I was filled with the idea that Saturday’s race wasn’t going to be that bad. I cruised around the village and finished priming my legs for racing.

After returning to my car, I moved things around so I could sleep in my back seat, which turned out to be a satisfying experience. I read some C.S. Lewis and drifted off to sleep at the late hour of 10 PM.

Day 1: The Hill Climb

Saturday dawned like any other race day, expect I was already at the race site (no driving), I slept in a car, and I was at 9,200 feet. I warmed up for the 5.5 mile double track hill climb. The finish was just shy of 12,200 feet. The average grade was 9% with a max of 23%.

The promoters got the things going with a bang by firing a shotgun. The start was moderately intense, but no one was interested in blowing themselves up too early. I wasted no time in jumping to the lead group. However, by the time I caught the lead group, 2 of the 3 pros were off the front. They looked like they were pretty determined to demoralize the rest of us. After only 2 swithbacks, the road really kicked up. We were still among the cabins and people were out to cheer us on. The first steep section saw a lot of folks drop into their small chain ring, I middle ringed it and passed a few guys as the group split into smaller groups. I pushed for a little longer and passed a solid handful of guys, including the pro that didn’t make the first split. I settled into a group with 2 other guys. We took turns pushing each other and made quick work of the tough sections. About 3 miles in attacks started coming from my two compatriots. I sat on as the first few moves were brought back together pretty quickly. Finally, the youngster of the group attacked and I went to chasing. I dropped our other companion and started closing the gap.

Sadly, it was all for not. We hit a flat break just before timber line and I was too throttled to accelerate as fast as the other two racers. I was passed and watch the two put real estate between me and them. Right at timber line, I started losing power. Overall winner of the day, Damian Calvert, said it best. I was having a “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore” moment. I rounded the next bend and was able to get it together and made chase. I was closing the gap. I saw the kick to the line and then bobbled. I quickly recovered, but it was too late. I guess next year I will know to shift into a harder gear and sprint. However, I had no ground to complain. I finished 8th overall, 5th in the overall expert rankings, and 2nd in expert 19-29.

I stuck around the top and chatted for a little while. Mt. Wheeler was just a little farther away and I wanted to hike to the top. I convinced myself that was a bad idea pretty quickly. I found the alternate way down the mountain and decided that would be a good idea. The alternate way down included some fast, open single track and some technical single track with the remainder being double track. I had to go slow because of hikers. So, I played around on the rocks. The alternate route was definitely a good decision.

After returning to the parking lot, I cleaned up, took an ice bath in the Rio Hondo, and loaded up the car. I ventured over to the awards ceremony where racers were enjoying free music, Santa Fe Brewing beverages, and a wicked awesome raffle. I spent the rest of the evening moseying around the village, reading, and enjoying the fresh, crisp smell of rainy alpine air.

Day 2: The XC

It rained on and off for the entire night which brought back unpleasant memories of Syllamo’s Revenge bike destruction. I convinced myself that it wouldn’t be muddy—just really slick. I awoke around 6:00 and ate breakfast in my car. It stopped raining around 6:20 and I proceeded with the usual pre-race preparations.

The race start was about the same as the day before, minus the shotgun. I latched onto the back of the lead group. The pros seemed content to not ride off directly. However, after 2 or 4 switchbacks, I realized that my legs lacked the edge they had the previous day. The pack started splitting up, and I settled into my own rhythm. I caught up to the same Taos Fit and Sports Systems riders that I spent yesterday riding with and we worked our way up the climb. We turned onto the single track and Lewis from Fit Taos decided it was time to go faster. Jason, the Sports Systems racer, responded, but it was a futile effort. I hopped onto Jason’s wheel. We hit the first section of ultra tacky, fresh, narrow single track. I bobble on a steep turn—lame. I chased back to Jason until the top of the climb (several miles into the race). We hit a rocky double track descent and Jason decided to go faster than I could go. I was caught by two riders and managed to keep them in the cross hairs with the help of a few rollers and some twisty single track (Midwest stuff). Still the lead rider managed to ride off. I managed to pass the other racer shortly after.

On the second loop, I climbed stronger and rode cleaner. Each loop being slightly different for the pros and experts, I also suffered like an old arthritis afflicted hound in the heat of a Louisiana summer on a steep, nasty, rocky climb that took racers above timber line. Fortunately, that was offset with some added fresh, narrow bench cut. There was no change in placement for me. With the start of lap 3, I started to hurt badly. I managed to pass one rider on the first part of the climb. Then it came again—the left turn that took me up the steep, nasty, rocky climb. Upon being told to turn, I shot the course marshal a nasty look. She asked if I wanted water. I said “no,” but really, I meant “where do you get off?” (Or something like that). Cresting the top of the climb, I switched to finish mode—nothing to do now but descend clean and fast. All the little rollers made my legs scream. Everything that I could pedal on, I did. I flew by some Frisbee golfers, cruised under the ski lift and crossed the line in 2:30:00. That was definitely the toughest 20.3 miles I had ever raced. Another solid finish: 9th overall, 6th overall in the expert field, and 3rd in the expert 19-29 class.

Epilogue:

At this point, I thank the reader who actually read to the bottom of this lengthy post. I must apologize for the excessive the length and my lack of effort to sculpt the words into something that would be at least mildly enjoyable. Please understand that I had much to write about and am tardy at making this post anyway. Also understand that this is one of the best races I have ever attended. The course was excellent, well marked, and superbly staffed with quality volunteers. The promoters took the time and effort to put together an excellent awards ceremony with some of the best SWAG, great atmosphere, and an excellent beverage sponsor. The weekend ran smoothly. I left thinking “that is how a mountain bike race is supposed to be.” Only complaints: 1) All 4 pros got great payouts; experts got no payouts. 2) One section of new trail was fall line trail more or less in a creek bed. It was fun but not sustainable. Bottom Line: Taos knows how to put on a good mountain bike race!

Taos Ski Valley:


Frazer Mountain (the knob on the far right):

Sandia Peak Challenge

As I write this only a few hours after leaving the race, I am already sore and just re-hydrated enough to enjoy a Milk Stout by Left Hand Brewery in Colorado. This means that today was a doozy—just as predicted. I decided to do this race on a fully rigid single speed. Last night was spent prepping the bike for its inaugural cross country race. I decided to run a 34x16. The course consisted of an 8.3 mile climb with an average grade of 6%. This was closely followed by a 7.2 mile descent. There were about 150 yards of flat at the top and bottom (combined) with about 160 switchbacks per lap. I thought “6% that’s not too steep; I can run 34x16.” Race day would show me I was wrong.

Having already picked up my race packet, I arrived at the race about 50 minutes before the 10:30 start. I quickly got my bike together and changed. Already, guys were riding all over the place. I rode the first around a bit and then rode the first few switchbacks of the climb to warm-up. I coasted into the start-finish just as the racers’ meeting was starting. The field size was solid. There were even about 5 pros. The meeting concluded and the race started—experts and pros first.

The start was unlike any other XC start I have ever done. By that I mean, it was mellow. No one was in a hurry to blow themselves (or others) up. Despite the mellow-ness of the start, I still was one of the last guys into the singletrack. The person in front of me thought it would be a good idea to drift back and forth and fumble with his pedal while the person next me felt there was no need to get a good start. It did not take me long to run into my first singlespeed-related problem. As soon as everyone in front of me saw the hill get steeper, they shifted to about 3 gears easier and spun. This meant I would be standing and pedaling really slow. I started working my way up the field, passing 1 to 3 guys here and there. I was finally setting my own tempo and in hot pursuit of the racer right up the trail when I ran into more issues. The switchbacks went from steep or technical to steep and technical. Being on a singlespeed that was intentionally geared a little tall, this was exactly what my legs and lungs wanted—more pain. To make matters worse, I was running 45 psi in my rear, non-tubeless tire to prevent pinch flats. I went from riding a steady tempo that was a little faster in steep sections to having to dismount on some of the steep sections.

The gap to the racer in front of me opened up faster than the gap between a tweaked meth head and a doughnut loving cop. Bummer. I was passed by 3-5 few more guys. Bummer. I chased onto the wheel of one of those guys. I stuck on his wheel. With a few miles to the top, the switchbacks once again became manageable. I opened up the throttle and dropped my company. I was cruising. My heart rate went back up; things were good. I cleared the last, steep, loose section, bringing me to 10,350 feet above the ocean. I took on some hammer gel and perpetuem and started going down. The top of the descent was more or less smooth and fast. I spun my legs as fast as they would allow. About half way down, I was caught and passed by my previous company. I tried to keep his wheel but fully-rigid single speeds do not go downhill so fast. I am not used to long descents; it was getting difficult to focus. I hit the rocky sections 2/3 of the way down. Ouch. My arms hurt. I was having trouble opening up my hands to reach the brake and slow down before the next steep, rocky switchback. My lines grew sloppier. Fortunately, the trail opened up to a gravel road and I saw the start-finish. Just one more 1 hour 40 minute lap. No biggie, right?

Reaching down to grab my perpetuem, I realized that my bottle rattled free on the descent. I started the final lap all the same. I quickly caught and passed one rider. I convinced myself to push it to open up a solid gap. I got to the steep and technical section again and experienced cramping on almost every switchback. I was not discouraged; short-lived cramps are nothing after racing a 12 hour race solo. I caught sight of a Sports Systems racer (I think half the racers out here are sponsored by these guys). I slowly worked my way up to him. With less than one mile left in the climb, I passed him. Riding the last steep pitch, I was determined not to slow down, lest I be caught on the descent. Everything cramped. Legs, arms, hands, etc. Forcing my hand open, I grabbed my flask and took on my last bit of hammer gel.

I descended as fast as I could. My second descent was much cleaner, more consistent, and faster. Still, I looked back up the hill and thought I would be caught by the Sports System guy on his geared dually for sure. I told myself to keep up the effort and not look back. I did just that. I made it down that mountain and was completely thrashed. I crossed the line in 3:20 surprised that I had not been passed and had not pinch flatted over the entire 33.2 mile race. It turns out that I actually grew the gap to the racer behind me. Whoa!

After finishing, I talked to several people who were shocked that I raced a fully-rigid singlespeed in the expert class. I gloated for lots of folks in the Midwest and explained that singlespeeds in the expert class in MO are not so uncommon. I changed and headed back to the start finish to watch the kids’ race. Someone walked up to me and said, “Hey Missouri, how’d it go?” It was the person I had talked to on the start line. “Okay, those switchbacks were brutal. I haven’t seen the results. How’d you do?” It turns out I got 4th in my age group and somewhere just better than the middle overall. This basically means that about half the experts got a dose of Midwest-inflicted pain (or maybe it was Sandia-Peak-inflicted pain—probably the latter).

Independence Day

I find myself in the midst of “Bobke II” by Bob Roll and “Roughing It” by Mark Twain. Acting alone, both of these books sufficiently induces a sense of wanderlust. Needless to say, both books working together swelled my wanderlust like a kid over-inflating a balloon. Eventually, that balloon is going to pop right in the kid’s face. Likewise, my wanderlusty balloon exploded in my face this weekend. Unlike a startled, teary-eyed kid, I couldn’t be happier. The trip came together at the last minute with help from my friend Misty (thanks Misty).

Friday found me frantically finalizing plans and packing just enough food and camping supplies to get me through the weekend. Leaving Albuquerque a little late, I decided to check things out in Santa Fe and pick up the rest of my food. This was a horrible idea. The traffic in Santa Fe on the 4th of July weekend is just as bad as the traffic outside of the mall in Peducah, KY the weekend before Christmas (an analogy to which few can relate). Finally out of Santa Fe, I blew past my campsite to sneak in a short hike in Taos. The small town was up to its gills in tourists. I wanted nothing to do that. Having MO plates, I didn’t want to take the risk of being associated with the weekenders. I turned back south and made for Pilar. In Pilar, I dropped into the Rio Grande Gorge and drove six miles into camp. Seeing the sunset starting to get good, I grabbed my water and camera and headed up the east wall of the gorge. I snapped a few pictures of the tail end of the sunset and hiked back down in the twilight. Back in camp, I enjoyed a Flashback, India-style Brown Ale from Boulder Brewing Co., took in the sounds of the Rio Grande as it perpetually passed by and awaited the arrival of my rafting guide, Cliff.

Saturday started at 6:20 a.m. under partly cloudy skies. Cliff and I leisurely prepared for the day to come and scouted the last rapid of the day before shuttling to our put-in location 15 miles upstream. Cliff brought a 10 foot-long ore raft. This means he would do all the work, leaving me to throw my weight around, enjoy the ride, and make conversation. Our five and a half hour trip down “the Box” included six named rapids (class 3 & 4) with a little patch of rain (much better than what was forecasted). This was definitely a fun trip and a good way to get a first exposure to rafting without being a tourist. As an added bonus, Cliff was a great guy. He is also a cyclist (with 30 years of racing experience) and an engineer. Conversation was not in short supply.

Cliff and I took out and broke down all the equipment. I passed on Cliff’s offer for a free 1554 (no easy pass) and made for the Pecos Wilderness on the north end of the Santa Fe National Forest. As I drove, the scenery became lusher and more alpine. I was stoked. I turned down FR 207 for the last eight miles to the trailhead. Heading up the valley, I was totally immersed in the misty alpine air, smell of campfires, breeze through the pines, and the beautiful dirt road in front of me. I arrived at 5:40 p.m. bound and determined to summit UN 12,900 just beyond the Tramas Lakes. Having looked at a poor quality topo the day before, I thought it would be an easy, 6.5 mile hike to the top. Too busy drooling over being in the mountains, I didn’t stop to realize how stupid I was being and started hiking. Stopping my brisk assault on the slopes only to photograph some flowers, I grew more and more excited. It wasn’t too long before I got a glimpse of the rocky peak that shadows the lakes. I thought, “I must be getting close.” After weaving through some switchbacks, I got another glimpse above timber line. At this point, I remembered how pointless it is to judge distances in the mountains. I remembered that when I hike up mountains I feel like nothing gets closer; it just gets bigger. I hiked on, and after a little while, I saw the switchbacks end and the valley level off. I knew I was close. The trail disappeared; so I followed the creek to the lake. It was beautiful. Pristine water reflected every detail of the mountain ridge and the blue of a cloudless sky. Changing the angle of my gaze, I could see clearly every rock on the bottom of the lake. I hiked around the lake, snapped some pictures, and walked through the snow. I could see the cascading outfall of the upper Tramas Lake, but with only 1 hour of daylight left, I decided to turn back. I was a little bummed; I had hoped to see more. All well; I live just over two hours from there. There will always be another chance.

After getting past some of slick, steep upper sections of the trail, I began to run. I ran until I was almost out of daylight. I made the final descent to my car in the dark—about 30 minutes. For those 30 minutes, I talked to myself to keep away animals that would be capable of mauling or eating scrawny, young cyclists. Upon arriving at my car, I felt wiped but relaxed. I drove home with the smell of horse feces in my nostrils. As it turns out, the worst part of hiking in the dark is being unable to see where you are stepping. I arrived home just before 1 a.m., showered, and passed out. It was an epic day for sure. This lived up to my three-fourteeners-in-one-weekend trip from ’08.

Sunset Behind the Rio Grande GorgeLower Tramas Lake

Lower Tramas Lake