Skinny-tire salvation

Climbing Engineer. Riding Hermosa Creek. Boating the Upper Animas. These are all summer pursuits that any self-respecting Durangoan worth his or her weight in Power Bars and Nalgene bottles must knock off in the unspoken quest for “local” status. (Knock off all three in one summer, and we’re talking the triple crown of super localdom, for which I believe they give you the titanium key to the city.) Of course, no triple crown would be complete without the crowning jewel of local summer athletic endeavors: The Iron Horse Bicycle Classic.

The grueling (for mere mortals with average lungs and quads, such as myself), 50-mile grunt to Silverton has become an annual rite of passage, separating the boys from the men, the baggie shorted from the shorn legged, the gapers from the game-faced. In fact, I’m pretty sure that failure to complete the Iron Horse before death results in the instant revocation of one’s Durango passport as well as assured placement in the Weenie Hall of Shame (right next to the tubers and fruit booters, I’m told).

Which is why, in an effort to save my family and ancestors from eternal humiliation, I have decided to ride the Iron Horse.

Just not this year.

And probably not next year, either.

See, with so much at stake, I need to approach such an endeavor with careful planning, preparation and mental perseverance. After all, the reputation of my kids’ kids could depend in this. I can’t mess up – or throw up, which is a distinct possibility at the top of Coal Bank, from what I hear.

I know, people do it off the couch all the time, on cruiser bikes in flop flops with helatious hangovers and tequila in their water bottles. But I’ll tell you one thing – if and when I do decide to ride, I refuse to be passed by a unicycling midget in a tutu with a poodle stuffed under one arm. We gapers have our dignity, too, you know.

Perhaps I also am a little nervous about the whole prospect of riding my bike for 12 hours (which is about how long I estimate it will take me, on a good day with favorable head winds and a steady supply of Red Bull and trucker’s speed.) Somehow, I can’t imagine doing anything for that long that doesn’t involve sleep, or a blackjack table, free cocktails and an all-night buffet.

Which highlights another of my problems. See, while some writers are rugged, chiseled, adventurous studs a la the Outside magazine set, for the most part, us wordslingers are slothful desk jockeys who tend toward doughy, near-sighted and sunlight deprived. (Hey, there’s a reason we went – or in some cases were forced – into writing.) For some of us, just getting up from our chairs is difficult, let alone getting up Shalona Hill.

Plus, I’m not gonna lie – skinny tires scare me. I mean, how can something the width of my big toe purportedly carry me down a harrowing, high-speed, mountainous descent. They’ll hear my brakes squealing all the way from Junction.

Then again, the whole “it’s like learning to ride a bike” saying doesn’t help much either. If it’s so easy, why do we have to wear helmets and those special shoes that never seem to come out when you want them to, especially at stop signs and busy intersections? Add to this the prospect of a goopy food substitute akin to flavored rubber cement and my Fergaliciousness in black spandex, and we’re talking something straight out of a sci-fi horror flick, or at least worthy of a black bar over my face on the “fashion don’ts” page.

I know – road riding is not about fashion – or lack thereof. And for the majority of riders out there without their own support crews, it’s not about pain, suffering or torture, either. It’s about the freedom of the open road, even if you are just spinning your wheels, so to speak. It’s not the destination but the journey. It’s a zen thing.

I know this because, in fact, I have done the road ride thing. Fresh out of college and an ACL surgery, I rode my mountain bike (with slicks and bar ends – the horror!) across the state of Minnesota (the short way, thank god.) Anyway, after five days of nothing but cornfields, it was more of a “zoning,” than a zenning, but I got the gist, as well as an introduction to the importance of a comfy seat and something called Bag Balm.

Several years later, after I had regained use of my legs, I actually went out and got myself a real road bike. Unfortunately, my quest for zen was usually foiled by the addition of a Burley trailer, which in a good head wind is akin to dragging an ocean schooner across dryland. Needless to say, it’s hard to find Nirvana when you’ve got a mutiny on your hands and are forced to shanghai the Pirate’s Booty to avoid an ugly blood sugar crash (your own).

Nevertheless, I know it’s there. Somewhere high in the San Juans, on a hairpin turn overhanging Silverton, my road-riding enlightenment awaits.

And in the meantime, next time someone asks, “Are you riding the Iron Horse?” technically, I can say, “Yes.”

– Missy Votel