According to my adventure log, Saturday was my fifth time riding the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic, and once again I had a blast. But lately, my times are going in the wrong direction.
I blame it on aging legs, a propensity for lackadaisical “training” rides and this new full-time job. But I’m also sad to admit, it could be bad karma for losing some of my old-school cred.
There has always been an unspoken competition between me and some friends over who has the most vintage, patched-up outdoor gear and how much of it was found at a thrift store or garage sale. Bikes are no exception.
For the first three Iron Horse competitions – a 50-mile citizens’ race from Durango to Silverton – I piloted a 1988 Trek that I picked up from the back storage of Kokopelli Bikes for $70.
The old road bike drew beloved comments like “Classic ride, Man!” and “They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
The 18-speed steel frame could get up and go, too. My times steadily improved, going from 4:30 to 4:20 and finally the 4-hour mark, a half hour shy of beating the Durango & Silverton locomotive, the premise of the race.
But then I tripped up and got myself a new steed, a Specialized Sirrus Comp, lightweight and wicked quick. Riding it was effortless. The 2X10 drive-train looked professional, the carbon-fiber fork super modern. At least it doesn’t have disc brakes.
“It’ll be old school in 20 years,” I told myself.
Last year, riders were buffeted by 40 MPH gusts, and the sky was drearily full of dust. Amazingly, it was a tailwind all the way to Silverton, but my new ride and push from Mother Nature proved futile. I dropped to the 4:30 mark.
This year, the weather was perfect, sunny and warm with no wind. And again, despite feeling like a million bucks astride a modern bike, I was back to my beginning time.
I drafted to Hermosa in 25 minutes, a technique where a line of bikers use the slipstream from the riders in front of them. Then it is on to Shalona Hill, the insidious and underrated crux of the Iron Horse before Coal Bank and Molas passes.
Shalona’s sneaky grade is not too steep, and not too flat, a suspended void in the fabric of space and time, where you feel simultaneously strong and groggy, happy and bored. The 15 miles are a vacuum of minutes that reveal themselves only when it is too late - right around the resort formally known as Tamarron.
Tricked again.
No stretch lycra, no clipless pedals, wearing river shorts, running shoes, and a Hawaiian shirt still elicited commentary. “Best Dressed!” said one gal, and “No tights, no drop bars, way to go,” said another, and he gave me a running push on the climb up to 11,000-foot Molas Pass.
In front of me is a sea of billboards on the backs of bike jerseys. Grolsch Beer, Red Bull, Avery Brewery, John Deere. These are not paid sponsorships, mind you, just sheer capitalism.
A woman with clipless pedals, which mechanically attach to specialized bike shoes, founders in front of me trying to release her foot to stop, but she can’t and falls over hard onto the gravel, unable to brace herself. Oof! I’ll pass on that “technology”.
Passing the shiny slicksters is a satisfying, albeit immature, and now slightly hypocritical feeling. It is also humbling when little kids (like 10!) and old-timers zip past me. But the thrilling decent into Silverton on a closed highway is pure adrenaline.
My customary kick at the end to see if anyone is game for a sprint finish had no takers this year, but paid off with an enthusiastic cheer from a crowd lining the street. The distinct “Go Jim!” from my wife was especially nice.
But once again the train idling at the finish is mocking me, belching its black, snickering smoke.
What is the point of this, you ponder? So did the Colorado State Patrol officer puffing a cigar, bemusedly watching the bedraggled cyclists creak up Molas Pass. The race is generously closed to traffic for one; a chance to beat a hulking locomotive using your legs is another. I personally do it for the $100 T-shirt.
Quaffing a post-ride beer, I thought of my trusty Trek 400 sitting idle in the backyard weeds. It’s as if it was calling to me, “Come back traitor, we were on a roll!”
jmimiaga@cortezjournal.com
