Ride of a lifetime

I guess I probably should have just said no.

But that’s the hindsight that undoubtedly accompanies all good adventures. And should we live our lives only through the foresight of hindsight then the world would be robbed of some fine accounts of exploits that inspire us all to remain steadfast in our commitment to stay on our couches.

Predictably, my brother got me into this mess, asking months ago if I was interested in participating in the Tour Divide mountain bike race. The race is a mostly unknown 2,700-mile journey that traces the continental divide from Banff, Canada, to the U.S.-Mexico border. The route crosses numerous mountain passes, climbing some 200,000 feet on its sinuous route to Mexico. The winners manage to tackle this feat in a little over two weeks, so based on the consistent mediocrity of my past performances in just about everything, I mentally anticipated that this exploit would take about a month.

There is no real race organization, or prizes, or any real recognition for finishing, but that does not seem to slow the growth of the race down as about 150 people had signed up for the 2013 running. Most seemed to be lured to the absurd challenge by a documentary about the race called “Ride the Divide” that chronicles the journey of a handful of riders as they make their way toward Mexico.

Our training rides were plagued by a winter that was reluctant to release Alaska from its grip, and after numerous horrific days of riding through wind and snow and rain, we decided that it would be ridiculous and stupid to ride 2,700 miles. We settled on the slightly less ridiculous and stupid distance of 1,100 miles, from Banff to Jackson, Wyo. We figured this distance would give us the flavor of the race and should we yearn for more, there was nothing stopping us from continuing south. With this more realistic goal in mind and hundreds of miles of training under our belt, we double-checked our gear and flew off to Banff.

Banff is a delightful town, tucked nicely into the Canadian Rockies and surrounded by massive stacks of tilted sedimentary rock. The day before the grand depart, the town was overrun with people in Spandex nervously pedaling their loaded bikes around town, fidgeting with their setups and making sure that their rides had recovered from the shock of transport. An interesting side note: most of the riders hauled their gear in bags designed and made by the Anchorage company Revelate Designs. It was nice to see a bit of Alaska strapped to bikes from across the world.

Like everything about the race, the grand depart was informal and loosely organized, and we were soon tracing our way through the Canada wilderness on a combination of trails, logging roads and the occasional paved surface. The scenery was stunning, and although the group spread out quickly, during the first few days we had the opportunity to meet and chat with a number of the other riders, confirming our suspicions that ultra-challenges of this nature seem to attract friendly weirdos.

We rode about a 110 miles on the first day, ending our day anticlimactically in a motel in a small and tired Canada town. My body had had enough and even though it was only day one, the thought of getting on the bike and doing it all over again the following day was daunting. We rose early and hit the road before the coffee pots were turned on in the town’s diner. The chill of the morning was quickly replaced with the sweaty exhaustion brought about by the massive climb out of town. The weariness had been beaten out of my body and I surprisingly felt good. I knew, however, that this feeling wasn’t going to last and by the end of the day and the top of the third pass my legs were shaking with fatigue. We camped near the summit, our restless sleep plagued with thoughts of bears.

The next nine days challenged me more than I have ever been challenged physically. My body was brought to the edge of breaking and by the time we reached Jackson, Wyo., the thought of continuing on for another 1,500 miles seemed thoroughly absurd. We averaged a little more than 100 miles a day on our mountain bikes, tackling massive climbs and sometimes terrible trail conditions and, while I am proud of this accomplishment, the race winner averaged almost 200 miles a day and finished the entire course in a little more than 14 days.

There have been times in my life when the days just slip by and weeks sink into the past holding up no memories that stand out, nothing for my mind to latch on to, or with no massive challenges emerging to shake up my body or my mind. I go to work, generally enjoy life and slide into a state of comfort and routine as the weeks plow by and grey hairs creep out.

I would never want to do this race again. It was brutal. Paradoxically though, I would never replace the experience of doing it nor the lessons that I took from it for anything. It removed me from my comfort zone and pushed and challenged me in novel ways that expanded my understanding of the world and of myself.

I can recount minutia from the ride; the taste of the food when we managed a hot meal, the comfort of my sleeping bag on a simple inflatable pad, the pain of a particularly long climb, the dry itch of dust in the back of my mouth. I had to earn these days, and the experiences were rich in pain and pleasure; a richness that I too often ignore in my regular life. So while I probably should have just said no when my brother asked me to take part in the Tour Divide, I know I will be thankful for the rest of my life that I did not.

Pete LaFrance grew up in Palmer and has moved back to the area after a number of years living abroad.