Colorado Trail Race- A Beautiful Sufferfest

I was sitting with my head on my knees, trying not to throw up the small amount of food I'd managed to eat. I expected the race to be hard, but I wasn't even mountain biking, instead I was walking much of the trail, sleeping too long, and not able to eat because I felt nauseous most of the time. I still had so far to go and was feeling way in over my head. This race was full of super human badass athletes who set records and have skills, and then there was me, stubborn and overconfident. "You have to keep going, "I told myself, "forward progress is still progress," and dragged myself up along Jarosa Mesa, a flat stretch of trail at 12,000 feet. The trail was studded with jagged rocks making it impossible for me to pedal. So I pushed, I sat down, I wheezed, I almost threw up, and then pushed some more. The trail started to look ridable so I climbed on my bike, pedaled 10 feet, then crashed hard onto my side, feet still clipped into my pedals. "Normal people sit on a beach for their vacation" I thought while I tenderly tried to flex my elbow. 

I decided to ride the Colorado Trail Race in the middle of the winter when summer is a long ways away and it seemed like a reasonable, yet challenging objective. After all, its just a bikepacking trip, only faster. Right. The race has no registration, no support, no prize, just the simple objective to ride your bike as fast as you can from Durango to Denver with no outside assistance. In 2022, the fastest woman, Alexandera Houchin, rode it in 6 days, 2 hours, and 33 minutes. 

The night before I flew to Durango, a bee with a bad attitude stung me in the face. My eyes swelled shut and I didn't know how I would drive to the airport. Once there, I thought my identity would get questioned, I didn't even recognize myself, but all they cared about were my electrolyte gummies. Not the most ideal way to start this endeavor, but I figured this would be the first time I looked better at the end of the race than the beginning.

At 4:00am, 76 riders nervously lined up and we all just rode off towards the trailhead in the dark. Looking up the dusty trail, all I could see was a line of lights snaking up the switchbacks for mile after mile. The first day was a blur of adrenaline and wheezy pleasant conversation with the incredibly entertaining "Rashhole." 46 miles and 8,800' of climbing later, a fairly cheery group of us camped just below Blackhawk Pass. I was surprised at the support and comradery between all the other riders, already, this was a race like no other. Unfortunately I brought pepperoni and cheese bites for dinner. I was choking them down, burping them up, and smelling them next to me all night. I no longer eat pepperoni.

4am alarm, bleary eyes, and tired legs found half of our group already departed. Adrenaline had kept me tossing and turning while altitude left me nauseous. Time to pack up, try to eat (nope) and bike some amazing single track in the dark. As the sun came up, I was filled with such gratitude that I got to ride my bike in such beautiful landscape and disbelief that I was making it happen. 

A thrilling 3k descent into Silverton meant cheeseburgers. I caught up to a group of riders and we all ate together and talked about the race. Mechanical issues and altitude sickness were causing people to drop out. After stuffing as many candy bars and frozen burritos as I could fit into my bike bags five of us decided to continue together in the pouring rain. Riding and pushing our bikes while telling every joke we could think of, we all made it over Stoney Pass. As dusk fell, the surroundings were stunning. Snow capped peaks and high alpine meadows for miles. The rain stopped and I pitched my tent next to Dan and Ellen, the two riders I rode closest to throughout the race. 

I was discouraged that I only made it 44 miles but I was freezing, soaking wet, and the pull of settling into my warm, dry sleeping bag was too much to resist. 

In the early morning, just the faintest outlines of the mountains started to show, I was struck with what an incredible privilege it was to be able to do this. Throughout the race, each morning I would alternate between feeling incredibly sorry for myself and such joy of moving through the mountains. There wasn't much middle ground.  

 The day wore on, it was hot, it was hard, but the high point of the entire trail was just ahead. Stopping for a quick photo, I was thrilled that I made it this far. "I'm doing ok, I can do this!" I thought, and then I burst into tears. 

Descending from 13k, things started to fall apart. Each bump of the trail made me feel like I was going to throw up, my bike seat post kept falling down making my seat post bag rub against my back tire, the lever for my back brakes pulled all the way into my handle bar without stopping me, and then I hit Jarosa Mesa.

I laid on the ground, tangled up with the rocks and my bike thinking I just don't want to do this anymore. More tears. Slowly picking myself up, I pushed my bike forward. A couple hikers asked me with slight alarm in  their voice, if I needed help. Thankfully the trail smoothed out and I found myself on much needed section of dreamy single track. A mile later a group of through hikers stopped and cheered for me, "You're amazing!!" I of course, burst into tears, "it's so hard... but good" I assured them through my tears. Good grief, I thought, you've got to pull yourself together. And then I started my period. 

I descended for miles and miles from Slumgullion Pass and finally limped my way to Cathedral Cabins after biking 57 miles and 8600' that day. Dan and Ellen both met me as I pulled up. "We rented a cabin," Ellen said in a tired voice, "do you want to share it?" I felt so relieved. Food and a shower made me feel a little less zombie-like. I crawled into my sleeping bag on the cabin floor. "I don't know about this," I said to Dan, "I could just slow down and turn this into just a ride." "I feel the same way," said Dan, "So what time are you setting your alarm?" 

With a morning of dirt roads, the miles thankfully racked up quickly, until the climb to Sargent's Mesa. An absolutely miserable stretch of biking/ hiking. The trail becomes a steep gully filled with baby heads. With herculean effort, I had to push my 65lb bike up a "trail" that slid you back with every step alternating with chunky step ups that tired legs and tired brains cannot ride. With the only water up and over the Mesa, there was no option but to continue. In the dark, I bumped along single track, dodging large dark cows that would startle when I biked near. Their bright white faces lit up like floating cow ghouls in my bike lights. Finally, I crossed Tank 7 Creek, my goal for the night. From over in the bushes came a "Wahoo!" from Ellen's tent, 67 miles.

The next morning I felt horrible but eventually drug myself out of bed after letting myself sleep in until 5. At the top of Marshall Pass a group of bikers cheered me on, told me I was crazy, and offered me an orange. My stomach was still not cooperating so I thanked them and proceeded to slide my way down Fooses Creek with some of the ugliest, sloppiest riding I've done to date. I camped after only 48 miles.

 At the trailhead closest to Buena Vista, someone left a cooler with "Keep pedaling!" written on the top. Inside I found packets of trail mix, snicker bars, and cans of Dr Pepper still on ice. At 6:30am I shot-gunned a can of soda in a way that would impress any college party goer. It was the first thing my stomach had been happy about in days. Rolling into town in desperate need of new brake pads, I first stopped for breakfast and devoured a massive breakfast burrito, coffee, and two scones in a most unladylike way. I left Buena Vista feeling refueled and riding what felt like a brand new bike with the goal of making it to Leadville in time for a hot meal. Fortunately, I made it with just a half hour to spare before the last restaurant closed for the night. Too tired to bike farther, I found a great place to camp in the bushes at the north end of town. 74 miles. 

At 4am, the sound a gunshot followed by the roar of a cheering crown woke me. I had accidently camped right next to the starting line of the Leadville 100. No snoozing through that alarm, I biked onward to Kokomo Pass. A hard, rough ride down to Copper Mountain ski area left me unmotivated to climb the Ten Mile Range. I sat in my own stink and slowly ate my french fries while trying to convince myself it wasn't going to be that bad.

Head down, pushing up the side of the mountain, I passed a young camper who said there was plenty of room if I wanted to stay. I told him I wish I could, but I needed to push on. "I'm so proud of you!" He called after me. Along the summit ridge, the wind was fierce and lightning was flashing on the next ridge over. "I'm ok, this is ok, everything is ok" I repeated over and over as the weather got worse and worse. I just had to make it down to tree line without doing anything dumb. Down in a sheltered meadow overlooking the lights of Breckenridge, I pitched my tent feeling relief that I made it off the ridge. Dan soon biked past and we had a quick exchange about how rattled the last climb left us and how our bodies were starting to fall apart.  Sometimes telling someone they can do it, helps convince yourself that you can do the same. 42m.

Another bleary eyed morning and another unmarked trail junction, I stood there not sure of which way to go. Tired of having to check my map and wondering why this had to be so hard, an older man stood and watched my composure start to crumble. He asked if I was on the Colorado trail, then pointed to the right. "This is really hard." I softly said, close to tears. He simply and kindly replied, "I know." 

Each stop turned into a task of filtering water, eating, putting sunscreen on, letting my butt air out, and staring vacantly into the distance. One poor hiker came around the corner while I was eating string cheese with my shorts around my knees and slapping salve onto my angry, red butt cheeks. He was so uncomfortable that he turned around and started hiking back in the opposite direction. This is not a glamorous sport. 

 Towards the evening, Dan caught up to me with a hoot and a high five. We biked together until it was dusk, then dark, then really dark, then my bike light ran out of battery, should have recharged it, but was too tired to deal with it when I had the opportunity. I was falling apart. I cheered for Dan as he pushed on in the dark, "I'm finishing this thing tomorrow, no matter what!" he said. I coasted alone with my failing headlamp until I found a spot on the side of the road to throw myself down. 66m.

Wake up in the dark, drag myself onto my bike, constantly feel like crap. I knew the drill now. I stopped at Wellington and bought a soda and ice cream sandwich, finishing both before I made it to the checkstand. It was getting so close now. Every time I saw myself making it to the end, just the thought would bring me to tears.  I was passing day hikers and after work bikers. I asked a few hikers how far ahead Dan was. 10 minutes, 5 minutes, then a lady with a twinkling smile said, "2 minutes, go get him!" 

Then there he was. Holy crap, we were actually going to finish this thing! We stopped at the top of a high point, "My girlfriend is bringing me a ice cold sprite, what do you want?" He asked. Beer sounded like pure heaven. We biked onward, riding down to Denver but still somehow going up. I popped out from the woods and started to pedal faster down the never ending Watertown Canyon road. 88 miles from the start of the day, I saw a paved parking lot.

 Cheering erupted from a small crowd. Dan's friends were hooting, clapping, and holding a sign that said, "Yay Liz!"  I thought I would end the CTR alone without anyone to share the accomplishment. Instead I found myself supported and surrounded by people I'd never met who had been rooting for me all along the way. Overwhelmed and touched, I did what I had been practicing for the last eight days, I cried.

And then got very drunk off one beer. 

Colorado Trail Race- 527 miles, 72,500 feet of elevation gain. In 2023, 76 riders started and 36 finished. I was a very happy #30.

Thank you so much to the new friends I made who picked me up post race and let me recover at their house, to the riders who made me feel part of an incredibly welcoming and encouraging community, and to everyone I passed on the trail who cheered me on. The experience still makes me want to cry.