Le Tour

Le Tour started today. They started with a time trial. Our Tour de Fort started with a day in the mountains.

Guy was bent on riding up Rist Canyon. Rist is “The Ride” in the Fort Collins area. I wasn’t feeling quite so spunky. But then, I rarely do. So we finally got our bikes together and got ready to ride. The clouds were building and I was almost hoping for rain as we rode out. I was dragging even going over Bingham Hill. This did not bode well for Rist.

The Rist Canyon ride is over 12 miles for a 2200-3000 ft altitude gain depending on who you believe. Near the top, it’s rumored to be a 12% grade. Regardless, it’s a puker of a ride. I say that only because of what I was doing on the way up. Guy, on the other hand, was riding up and looping back to see how I was doing.

It’s a lovely ride. Penstemon and Indian blankets flank the road. The grass is green from the recent rains and the pine beetle hasn’t affected the trees. Birches are 1 ½ feet in diameter. There isn’t much of a shoulder but there were almost more bikes than cars. We had purposely opted not to ride around the Res since there would be lots of traffic there on July 4. We guessed correctly.

Riding up, we came upon a few riders heading up the canyon. None of them sounded especially jazzed about riding to the top once they were into the climb. Perhaps that is the tone that breathlessness gives to everyone’s voice. I was pleased that I didn’t get passed by anyone (except Guy looping around) except while we were stopped to take a call on the pager. No doubt that rider would have passed me in motion but I am sticking to my story anyway.

About 2/3 of the way up, there is a huge meadow where things level out. It was a nice break and a chance to gawk at houses we wouldn’t mind having if we ever hit the lotto. Then the climbing started again. The clouds were looking particularly ominous and I couldn’t help but think if it started raining I might have an excuse to turn around. I was already contemplating doing so because I was pretty sure I had been out of pager range for longer than was appropriate. But I did not turn around and it did not start raining… until I reached the top.
When we hit the top, Guy and I stopped briefly. It was beginning to sprinkle but we had earned a quick look at the view. By the time we got to the second turn (less than 200 yards) it was really starting to rain. And as we descended, so did the raindrops. My saddle has an indentation so the girly bits don’t get sore or numb. It became a puddle of cold rainwater that was flowing over my backside. With each pedal stroke a river of cold rainwater followed the calf of my straightening leg down into my shoe, a tiny cold blast on each stroke.

I am normally a chicken on a steep downhill, giving a new meaning to the term “screaming downhill.” This long downhill on wet pavement had the distinct chance of becoming treacherous if not lethal. Nonetheless, we picked up speed, even around the curves. I’m pretty sure we exceeded the 35 mph speed limit more than once. When I did look at my bike computer I remember seeing 33 mph several times. No doubt I wasn’t necessarily checking it during the fastest bits. The ride down took just over ¼ the time it took to ride up. Rain continued to pour on us as we made our way through the towns of Bellevue and La Porte. I learned quickly not to get too close to Guy’s back wheel lest I become a human mud flap. Not that it mattered since I was riding for all I was worth to get to a hot shower anyway.

More later….